04June
For a Bowl of Black Broth
For almost a year the Eastern host of the Great King Xerxes had marched from victory to victory. Granted, Xerxes’ loses had been embarrassing at times. Yet he was pretty sure that unfortunate incidents like the skirmish at Thermopylae or the gross incompetence of his naval officers in Artemisium would soon be forgotten and history would hardly bother to record them; and if all else failed he could always have certain nosy historians and scribes flayed.
He marched on to Thessaly taking its fertile plains by storm. He passed through Boeotia leaving only smoking ashes and wailing widows in his wake before finally entering Attica unchallenged to seize the abandoned city of Athens.
Xerxes was of the opinion that if you've seen one illustrious city burn, you’ve seen them all. So, with his lust for revenge on the insolent Greeks sated and confident that the triumphant outcome of his campaign was secure he left commander Mardonius, one of his fiercest generals with murder gleaming in his kohl-painted eyes, in charge of finishing off the Greeks.
Mardonius thought it wouldn’t be long before the allied Greek forces would recognize their inevitable defeat and offer to negotiate the terms of their surrender. He set up his camp near Plataea, in the flatlands of Boeotia, and waited. When summer came and the racket of cicadas grew into a deafening drone at noon he started to get impatient.
“Stubborn goat-fuckers”, Mardonius cursed. “For all their philosophy, can’t they tell when they’ve been conquered?”
Then, one day, a tremor raked the rugged field of Plataea. The ground shook under the sandaled feet of the allied Greek army advancing in battle formations: 50.000 hoplites clad in gleaming bronze from head to toe with brightly painted shields, emblazoned with all the mythological horrors the ancient Hellenic land had ever spawned, and tall crests flowing atop their helmets with manes of horse-hair. Athenians, Thespians, Tegeans, Megarans, Spartans; men at arms from every fee Greek city-state were there, spear in hand, led by the Spartan general Pausanias*, scion of the royal house of the Agiads and regent of Sparta.
Mardonius came out to meet them in full force. The Persian host numbered a massive 120.000: infantry, cavalry, archers and even battalions of Greek hoplites bought with Median gold. Their splendid banners billowed through the forest of their arrayed spears as the horns of war echoed keenly throughout Plataea. Nothing could go wrong that day for Mardonius on his gem-studded chariot of war.
Wave upon wave of Persian infantry crashed upon the solid wall of Greek shields, like so many waves washing ashore. Pausanias, at the head of his spears, was like a bronze statue come to life straight from the foundries of Hades. Striking as one the Greeks advanced impaling foe after foe spilling reeking entrails each time they retracted their spear. The terrible, steady thud of their sandals as they gained momentum was muffled by the dark crimson mud forming underfoot by the blood of the slain.
The battle soon turned into a massacre. The Persian forces were routed and the living trampled on the dead as they fled away, crazed terror glazing over their eyes.
At sun’s setting the killing ground of Plataea was strewn with mangled corpses. Mardonius lay cold and lifeless under his toppled chariot, his lower jaw missing in a gruesome mess of torn flesh and smashed teeth. Thick gore was splattered all over his once finely-embroidered garments and his scale armor, which sparkled at the beginning of the day, was now shredded and pummeled into his own flesh. The war ululation of the Greeks resounded like dry thunder across the plain:
“Alala! Alala!” cried tens of thousands of voices in unison.
General Pausanias took off his helmet and breathed in the cool afternoon air in relief. The smell of the battlefield reminded him of the earthen musk lingering about after a heavy summer’s rain. He wiped his blood-spattered beard and spat as he walked down the field accompanied by the rest of the Greek commanders, their flowing capes dragging over the glassy eyes of the slain. When they came to the tent of Mardonius himself the Greek generals could not help but marvel at its splendid gilding and the extravagant luxury of the Persian’s private possessions. Pausanias, like a true Spartan, was the only one to remain unimpressed. Instead, he called upon one of his body-servants.
“I will have my dinner now. Set a table right here.” he said.
The other generals looked at him perplexed, exchanging wry smiles between them. A Spartan wishing to dine amidst the supple luxuries of the East? That, they had to see.
Pausanias’ cooks set before him a simple wooden table and stool. They served him a bowl of black broth**, a quarter-loaf of barely bread and a ceramic cup of watered-down wine.
Pausanias then sent for the personal cooks of Mardonius. They were brought in quaking and quivering and fell to his feet vowing to serve him as if he were the Great King himself.
“Prepare me a dinner as you would for your master.” Pausanias commanded.
They set before him a soft-cushioned chair and an ornate table of polished silver and green marble. They laid it with golden plates and platters filled with mouth-watering delicacies: there were quail stuffed with walnuts and pomegranate, red and black fish eggs, smoked camel fillets, six different kinds of bread, roasted deer haunches, yoghurt with honey, melons and dates. From an ivory pitcher they poured him wine into a large goblet of gold studded with precious stones.
“You see now why the barbarian, Xerxes, is a fucking moron.” Pausanias said turning to the other generals. “He had this at home—” he pointed at the Persian table “and he came all the way here to take that from us!” he pointed at the Spartan table.
Pausanias pulled up the wooden stool and sat at the table his cooks had prepared for him. Then, keeping a stern Spartan face, he quietly started eating his dinner of black broth.
Gods! It tasted awful. As always.
----
Notes:
*Pausanias’ main gig was as a general. But after the death of king Leonidas in the midst of extreme badassery in Thermopylae he also served as regent of Sparta until Leonidas’ son, Pleistarchus, came of age.
**Black broth (melas zomos) was a staple soup of sorts made of boiled pigs’ legs, blood, salt and vinegar. Each Spartan citizen was given one bowl of black broth at each common meal supplied for free by the city-state. A Spartan king would be given two bowls and that was about the full extent of his royal privileges.
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