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Authors: Richard Blake
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concentrate all their naval force in the Bay of Salamis. There, the crushing weight of Persian shipping had been taken completely by surprise. Once they’d lost control of the sea, their whole land force was cut off and could be destroyed at leisure.
‘The problem with Herodotus,’ Priscus had said to me before the storms sent him scurrying to his cabin like a monk to his cell, ‘is that he just wasn’t a soldier. He was fine at repeating the gossip he’d picked up from the lower class of those who lived long enough to be his sources. But he had no understanding of grand strategy. The Persian attack was a combined operation. Knock away either of its legs, and the whole mass would fall to the ground. Realise this, and the Spartan counter-attack at Plataea becomes little more than a side skirmish. For myself, I’d never have risked a battle. Instead, I’d have kept up the sea blockade, and waited for the Persians to make a dash back towards Byzantium. All the way back, I’d have followed them by sea – wearing them down without ever coming to a full battle.’
He’d gone from this into a lecture on the need to keep your forces in being, and never risking a battle unless forced, or unless sure of victory. Had he given this lecture to Heraclius outside Caesarea? Priscus had spent the better part of a year obeying his own advice. It had worked so well, the Emperor had come out in person to take the Persian surrender. Of course, the booby had no sooner arrived than he gave orders for a battle – a battle that ended in our own catastrophic defeat.
We leaned together in silence and looked out into the mist. As members of the Imperial Council, it should have been our duty to suggest mitigations for what Heraclius had brought on us – the loss of Cappadocia and the exposing of Syria to invasion. But Priscus hadn’t been in Constantinople since the defeat, and I’d left before its news could arrive. Did it now matter what we thought? Were we still members of the Council?
I thought instead of Salamis, over a thousand years before. That still mattered, and always would matter. This one battle had cleared the way for the flowering of Greek civilisation. Then, after another century and a half, Alexander had gone on the offensive and destroyed the Persian Empire, and spread the light of Greece over all the East. Before that could fade, the Romans had taken up the burden of defence. Their legions, half protective, half exploitative, had given the light of Greece another seven hundred years. Now, at last, the Empire established by Rome, and inherited by Constantinople, was falling, one province at a time, to a revived Persia. This time, the decisive battle would be on land, and probably deep within Syria. Athens and the cities of Achaean Greece could have no influence in this battle. So far as their few inhabitants were even aware of it, they would await the outcome of this conflict as passive spectators.
‘None of this really matters,’ I said, breaking the long silence. ‘The end of things is often far less important than what went before. A thousand years from now, I really doubt if anyone will be thinking of you or me or Heraclius. But they’ll surely still be thinking of Salamis and what it made possible.’ What I’d said made no sense in itself, and I didn’t feel up to explaining the train of thought that preceded it.
Leaning beside me on the rail, Priscus continued staring down at the dark, still waters.
Chapter 9
Somewhere in front of us, the sun must now be rising fully out of the sea. It might eventually burn off the mist. Or it might not. It hadn’t shown itself to us in days, and might never do so again. But the sense of a new day was taking some hold in both our minds.
Priscus sighed. He coughed and spat. He sighed again. ‘If only that bastard ship had missed us off Cyprus,’ he said, ‘we’d now be putting into the Senatorial Dock. We could hurry off to the palace and give our side of things
‘The problem with Herodotus,’ Priscus had said to me before the storms sent him scurrying to his cabin like a monk to his cell, ‘is that he just wasn’t a soldier. He was fine at repeating the gossip he’d picked up from the lower class of those who lived long enough to be his sources. But he had no understanding of grand strategy. The Persian attack was a combined operation. Knock away either of its legs, and the whole mass would fall to the ground. Realise this, and the Spartan counter-attack at Plataea becomes little more than a side skirmish. For myself, I’d never have risked a battle. Instead, I’d have kept up the sea blockade, and waited for the Persians to make a dash back towards Byzantium. All the way back, I’d have followed them by sea – wearing them down without ever coming to a full battle.’
He’d gone from this into a lecture on the need to keep your forces in being, and never risking a battle unless forced, or unless sure of victory. Had he given this lecture to Heraclius outside Caesarea? Priscus had spent the better part of a year obeying his own advice. It had worked so well, the Emperor had come out in person to take the Persian surrender. Of course, the booby had no sooner arrived than he gave orders for a battle – a battle that ended in our own catastrophic defeat.
We leaned together in silence and looked out into the mist. As members of the Imperial Council, it should have been our duty to suggest mitigations for what Heraclius had brought on us – the loss of Cappadocia and the exposing of Syria to invasion. But Priscus hadn’t been in Constantinople since the defeat, and I’d left before its news could arrive. Did it now matter what we thought? Were we still members of the Council?
I thought instead of Salamis, over a thousand years before. That still mattered, and always would matter. This one battle had cleared the way for the flowering of Greek civilisation. Then, after another century and a half, Alexander had gone on the offensive and destroyed the Persian Empire, and spread the light of Greece over all the East. Before that could fade, the Romans had taken up the burden of defence. Their legions, half protective, half exploitative, had given the light of Greece another seven hundred years. Now, at last, the Empire established by Rome, and inherited by Constantinople, was falling, one province at a time, to a revived Persia. This time, the decisive battle would be on land, and probably deep within Syria. Athens and the cities of Achaean Greece could have no influence in this battle. So far as their few inhabitants were even aware of it, they would await the outcome of this conflict as passive spectators.
‘None of this really matters,’ I said, breaking the long silence. ‘The end of things is often far less important than what went before. A thousand years from now, I really doubt if anyone will be thinking of you or me or Heraclius. But they’ll surely still be thinking of Salamis and what it made possible.’ What I’d said made no sense in itself, and I didn’t feel up to explaining the train of thought that preceded it.
Leaning beside me on the rail, Priscus continued staring down at the dark, still waters.
Chapter 9
Somewhere in front of us, the sun must now be rising fully out of the sea. It might eventually burn off the mist. Or it might not. It hadn’t shown itself to us in days, and might never do so again. But the sense of a new day was taking some hold in both our minds.
Priscus sighed. He coughed and spat. He sighed again. ‘If only that bastard ship had missed us off Cyprus,’ he said, ‘we’d now be putting into the Senatorial Dock. We could hurry off to the palace and give our side of things
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