Herodotus Meets James Ellroy

109 Reconstruction of Herodotus World Map (ca. 450 B.C.)

Herodotus is reading for today

To understand the world we live in now

Wars religion craziness hold sway

We are in the same boat stern to prow

1

The gods occupy Herodotus more than even wars and the naming of rulers and their various acquisitions or lack of same. This has enabled me, with the benefit of hindsight, to determine exactly what these gods represent and how they survive today.

They are consultants!

If you add up all the various experts who are paid to tell people and corporations and institutions and governments what to expect, how to achieve things and how best to proceed, you have the role of the gods in ancient times.

And the very same compensation was given. Gold in whatever form.

The Pythoness of Delphi was no different than the portly Mark Penn who offered advice to Hillary Clinton in 2008. Both were paid handsomely by Croesus and Hillary respectively. The only difference is that Croesus had the moxie to ask the Pythoness if she had not committed an error urging him to fight the Persians. As far as I know, in the wake of her defeat after following Mark Penn’s advice, Hillary paid Mark the millions due for his good offices.

The neo-cons were and remain formidable gods in our world. Instead of inhabiting shrines they are found in so-called think tanks. Their consultations have proved no less flawed than those of the Pythoness and their justifications of lives lost and billions down the drain are no less inventive than those of the ancient deity. Or deitess, as it were.

What has remained constant is the insatiable need of the ambitious for some sort of advantage. Such advantages are promised by old gods and today’s consultants. As nearly as I can see, the result of both checking with gods and hiring experts is to provide one with a fuller narrative than would exist if the high and mighty simply operated by the seat of their pants. Gods and consultants are part of the theatrics of existence.

All told I think I would rather deal with the Pythoness than Mark Penn.

2

No big deeds forgotten. Great stuff coming at you. Hellenes. Barbarians. War addicts all. With a little priming.

Phoenicians started it. Sailors. Hot for trade. Hot for women. Too hot. Take one. Rape one. It’s just the dawn of history.

Tit for tat. Take one back. Io gets raped. Medea gets taken. Memories harden. Lines are drawn.

A generation passes. Alexander enters the game. Helen becomes his captive. Enter a matter of concern regarding rape in the order of things. Is avenging rape worth lives of hardy male soldiers? After all, these women have minds of their own. Is it really rape if they were willing?

But doesn’t take long to overcome temptation. Blood is spilled. Plundering proceeds. History shifts from first to second. The course is set. If testosterone starts it adrenalin finishes it.

3

These Hera People are unbelievable. They find this hoary oracle. Hera Man and Slave Girl No Name lover spook everyone. Get government. Hera Decendants rule. Spook spell lasts 500+ years.

Cut to Candaules aka Candy Man and Trophy Wife No Name. Loosed-tongued asshole Candy Man trumpets her full monte. Spearman Gyges smells serious trouble. Hides turn on. Candy Man presses. Voyeur rights. Snatch. Whoa!

Trophy Wife No Name dreams of lofted spears. Sings to herself. Drowns out Candy Man. Fakes. Gets headaches.

She meets Spear Man on the terrace. He avoids gaze. Hears “me” and “kingdom”. Then “Do it”.

He demurs to himself. But he sees the choice. He nods. She scoops up her robe.

Darkness. Her perfect hand and wrist. He takes what she holds. Smaller than a spear. Same snuff capacity. Ouch.

He wonders if he will stop hearing Candy man’s terminal gurgle.

Light now. Dagger and Candy Man are buried away. No Name Trophy Wife will be Mrs. Gygas. Nouveau Royalty.

4

Ancient time passes. Loins join. Chips come off old block. Everyone makes war. War is history.

Candy Man daid. Doornail. Stabbed by wife’s Spear Man. Just desserts for Trophy Behavior. Enjoy but don’t advertise. Tacky spouse. What is monarchy coming to?

Oracle gets busy. Pythian prophetess. Back door woman thing. Who the hell controls what? Gyges scratches all over. Permanent brow furrows. Acne scars. Sex bad now.

War is good. Ardys their boy is strong. He goes into battle at puberty and slays well. Gyges has learned that Barbarians can do well at Delphi. War compensates for everything.

Ardys ascends to the throne. Covers serious ground. Bad news for Medes. Worse for Kimmerians.

He goes for the ripe crops. He has harpists. Flute players. Leaves houses standing. Destroys crops.

Leaves defeated to plant new crops so he can invade in like manner again and again.

5

Ardys boy Sadyattes has boy Alyattes and the war lasts and lasts. Sparks from burning corn turn temple of Athene into a cinder Alyattes is sufficiently stricken to need a consultation with Oracle at Delphi who says rebuild temple or die.

Here’s the deal. Pacify the gods and fight on. Impede the oracle and lose big time. Beautiful boys are left to rot on 1000 battle fields. History is oracles and despots.

Honor goes to those who deceive best. Fake famines are at a premium. Alyattes builds two temples to Athene at Assessos in place and gets well. Herodotus loses thread.

Cut to Arion of Methymna who rides a dolphin into Tainaronis. And thereby hangs a tale.

Meth plays harp. Meth is excitable. Frenzy ensues. He sings short and wild. Says it’s a dithyramb. Gives lessons in Corinth. Gets rich quick. Travels about. Inspires envy. Rides the seas. Inspires more envy. Rides a bit more. Inspires still more.

Man overboard!

But wait. One final song. Full dress. Lyre in hand. Sing and then leap. And that is just what he does.

Enter dolphin. Pleasant ride. Hits beach. Goodbye nice dolphin. Walks into Tainaronis which is at the southern tip of Greece.

Periander arrests him. Arion escapes. Appears. Miracle!

Whew.

All that’s left now is a bronze of a man on a dolphin.

But Herodotus has written several paragraphs with reference to cleverness, music and dolphins with no mention of war.

6

Alyattes had a boy named Croesus. Attacks cities. Ionian. Aiolian. Anywhere he chooses.

It’s a tribute thing. Mafia as government. He goes to sea. He makes peace when threatened. Otherwise he dominates almost anything that ends in ians.

Solon the Athenian cuts him no slack however. Solon singles out lesser power players as happier than our proto-Mafioso Croesus. Solon fills the second and third slots with other candidates. Croesus does a fast burn.

Solon is cool. He says no one can answer for another’s happiness until said person’s life is over. Besides wealthy folk are often miserable. And so forth.

Croesus dismisses Solon. Croesus is immediately beset by a dream, The dream is Job-like. His son, the one not deaf and dumb, is destined to be killed by a spear’s iron point.

Meanwhile Adrastos arrives with tales of royal woes and Croesus becomes his friend. All goes well until a big wild boar gets into the act. Slaying of said boar falls to Croesus. It’s a snap. He prepares to do the deed.

But.

Son of Croesus begs to join the slaying party. By now you know exactly what will happen. Son begs to be included. But Croesus wants to protect him from predictable spear death. Son concerned about image. Testosterone problem. Too early to meet Falstaff. Or read the Bard. Or schmooze with Stoics. The boy is totally unprepared to survive. He knows no Peirce. He has a large virtual hole in head. He scratches himself all over. Is distracted in sex, New bride cries when he is not looking.

Croesus figures friend Adrastos can protect his boy. He lifts the fighting ban.

Of course while surrounding the poor big boar, Adrastos launches an errant spear. The spear’s iron point offs Croesus’ offspring.

Adrastos is terminally penitent, But Croesus spares. But the right thing must be done. Adrastos takes his own life.

Honor as a value set in stone. Foundational Mafia procedure.

Herodotus is merely the messenger here of course. He makes no judgments. He is revered as an historian. Tells it like it is.

7

Two frigging years wasted. Croesus in mourning. Son gone. Croesus mainly mad. His anger builds. Persians are massing to the east. He can feel the pressure

Croesus has a purpose. He can feel it rising. Eviscerate the Persians. Humiliate them. Boss them. Get criminals to inform on them. Get ready to rumble. Hurry up.

But first the Oracles — yes, they are multiplying. He goes as far as to shrine of Ammon in Libya. But oracles are not always ecumenical. Once again the Pythian prophetess gains the inside track by guessing Croesus’ gastronomic proclivities. How did she know he liked tortoise? But she does. And that is only the beginning.

Thereupon ensues the most ostentatious display of idolatry ever recorded before or since. Gold beyond imagining in forms various and weighty. All directed to our Pythian Prophetess.

She at length suggests that Yes, Croesus can proceed against the Persians. Bring Cyrus to heel. Overrun the east.

Nonetheless her prognostications contain a hidden zinger. What if a mule should become the monarch of the Medes? Have you considered that? He does and concludes that this is an impossibility.

He has numerous other encounters with his neighbors. And enemies. And with the oracles. But Croesus remains set on doing Cyrus. All Persian will be mine. Finally!

Another prophet tries to discourage him. The enemy is threadbare and foodless, says he. Who needs them?

Notwithstanding, Croesis moves. He bears numerous grudges. March. March! Laggards!

He makes it to Pteria in Cappadocia and wreaks some havoc in Syria.

8

Cyrus smells victory. Cyrus tries to sweeten his military pot. He seeks more bodies. More camels. Smelly camels. Cyrus already has a substantial force. He tries ti win over some Ionians. No dice. Not one. Ionian. They stick with Croesus. But Cyrus has a serenity about him. Without effort he is a master of aplomb.

Cyrus sniffs the morning air. He listens to the music of his royal nostrils.He examines a product of same. He wipes said product off. He congratulates himself. His servants keep their distance.

Both sides continue to test the waters. Battles are costly. Every time a blade does its appointed work, a sorry subject falls. Such sorry subjects pile up on both sides. Pteria is filled with nameless corpses, Cyrus and Croesus called it even and retired with boasts of victory. The dead were soon eaten. Their bones dried by the sun.

It is now.

Croesus looks for reinforcements.He disbands his mercenaries.He seeks real allies this time. But his head is not right. He thinks sees serpents. Are they real? Are they portents? What’s this? Writhing things. Cyrus is following me. I need a proper portent-limner. Cyrus is getting closer. Croesus dreams of a funeral pyre surrounded by laughing serpents. He tries to remember what Solon told him. His head is wrong. He can hear Cyrus. The ground rumbles. He sniffs. He recoils. He has visions of his dead son.

And.

Cyrus is relentless. His weapon of choice is smelly camels. They make horses and their riders crazy. Their smell precedes them like a blanket of mung.

The whole thing is a fait accompli. Croesus finds himself trapped far from home. War by smell. Not until Nietzsche does smell attain such importance. The camels have won.

9

I must reveal the story of Croesus’ son, well cared for certainly, but mute. Croesus consulted the Pythian prophetess at Delphi who lost no time in declaring that it was not a good idea to restore the boy’s speech as that event would be fraught with peril.

And to prove it Croesus was soon surrounded by murderous Persians. They of the camels. The smell winners. The aromatic aggressors. Just when Croesus was ready to give up the ghost, his speechless boy emoted. The kid spoke. Get off my dad.

As a result Croesus was taken prisoner instead of being killed on the spot. The boy regained his speech from then on. And the Pythian prophetess notched another winner on her python belt.

Croesus considered that fourteen years of rule was hardly enough. But he resigned himself to his fate. Soon he was led in fetters before the Persian potentate Cyrus. Cyrus had already made a big pyre to roast the king on. There was some gambling on just how Croesus would deal with his incipient incineration.

But as Croesus ascended the twigs, branches and logs of the pyre, a strange thing happened. He was flooded with memories of Solon who, you’ll recall, dissed his kingly pretensions and pronounced him less than happy.

Cyrus strained to hear Croesus as he blurted out the name: Solon, Solon Solon.

After a lot of back and forth, Cyrus gathered that Croesus now felt he should have listened to Solon and perhaps opt for a less warlike career. This evident penitence moved Cyrus to call off the execution and accept Croesus as a fellow royal.