Episode 03: The Chorus
Tonight the Chorus enters -
a group of Persian Elders, left behind in the capital city, Sousa.
PERSIANS | The Podcast
Europe’s oldest play - in Europe’s oldest language.
As part of Dublin Theatre Festival 2020, PERSIANS | The Podcast
explores a project with an ancient future.
Supported by The Arts Council - An Comhairle Ealaoin.
Chorus:
The Faithful counsellors, they call us
The Persian departed who have gone to the land of Greece
While we remain, guardians of the rich, golden palace.
Lord Xerxes, the King Himself,
Son of Darius the Great,
Chose us to oversea the empire
by virtue of our seniority.
My heart is troubled, it predicts disaster,
desperate for the King to return home
with his glittering golden army:
Every son of Asia has departed,
barking at how young this king is,
and here we wait for a sign,
a messenger, on horse or foot,
but none have come.
***
They left Sousa and Agbatana behind,
the ancient ramparts of Kissia at their backs
they went on horses, and in ships, and on foot,
making steady progress in their huge formations.
Great men they were, like Amistres and Artaphrenes,
Megabates and Aspates,
all leaders of the Persian horde,
all subject to their king and lord,
leaders of this massive army,
unbeatable archers on their horses,
shocking to look at, terrifying in battle,
indomitable spirits.
Atembares the charioteer,
Masistres, noble Imaios,
unbeatable with his bow,
and Pharnakes, and Sosthanes,
master of the horses.
The mighty, bountiful mother Nile sent others to the fight:
Sousiskanes, Pegastagon of Egypt,
and the king of holy Memphis, Arsames the Great,
and Ariomardos, ruler of the ancient city of Thebes,
skilled sailors who navigate marshes of the Nile.
An army beyond counting.
Next came the horde from Lydia,
roused from their lives of luxury
all along their continental coast,
spurred into action by Mithragathes
and noble Arkteus, king-like rulers both,
fuelled by the endless gold of Sardis,
mounted on chariots with four, or even six horses;
a terrifying wonder to behold.
And then the men of holy Tmolus,
hearts set on putting Greece under the yoke;
Mardon, and Tharybis, anvils to the lance,
and the Mysians, with their light, fire-hardened spears.
And golden Babylon exhaled a long trail,
a horde bristling with every kind of soldier:
sailors on their ships, and archers,
who trust their lives to their bows.
Every blade in Asia is drawn,
all answering the summons of the king.
This is the Persian army, the flower of Persia,
the flower of our young manhood, gone.
All of Asia, the mother that nurtured them,
grieves anxiously for them. Parents, wives,
counting the days and worrying
as the days add up.
***
They have crossed into the neighbouring land.
The king’s army, which destroys cities, crossed the Hellespont,
named after poor Athamas’ daughter,
crossing on a floating bridge of ships,
held fast with flaxen ropes.
They yoked the neck of the sea itself
with this ingenious roadway.
The raging fire of Xerxes, king of this Asian horde,
equal to the gods, son of the golden race,
he shepherds his flock into Europe,
trusting his commanders on land and on sea.
*
His gaze is dark, and deadly, like a snake,
and he whips his way across the land,
in his dazzling chariot of Syrian gold,
leading his soldiers and sailors
a harsher Ares, striking at Greeks.
No one could ever withstand
such a cataract of forces, rushing like that.
You cannot stop the ocean.
The Persian army is invincible,
our men are brave at heart.
***
But can any mortal avoid
being tricked by the gods?
Is any man quick-footed enough
to side-step their snares?
Ate, the mother of ruin, is friendly at first,
seductive as she weaves her web,
until it closes like a net
and no living thing can hope to flee.
***
Long ago, the Gods decreed
that it was Persia’s fate to wage our wars,
toppling the towers in the tumult
of our cavalries charging, destroying cities.
But now we have learned more,
and cast our sights on the seas,
the wide, watery way whipped by the winds,
our cables lashing a path across it for our men.
*
The black robes of my heart are torn,
the terror! What happens if our men all die,
and our great city is left to cry out
Aahh! Our Persian army!
And Kissia will answer this city’s lament,
Ahhh! she will cry, a city crowded
only with women, tearing their linen dresses.
*
All the soldiers, all the horsemen,
they have all gone, like a swarm of bees,
following their leader,
yoking the two continents
and crossing over to that other land.
Every bed is half-empty, soaked with the tears
of every gently-grieving Persian woman:
alone under the marriage yoke,
each aches with desire for her husband,
her raging, departed warrior.
***
But come now, Persians,
let us sit here in this ancient place
and think deeply, carefully
about what may befall.
How are things going
for Xerxes, son of Darius?
Has his arched bow won?
Has his sharpened spear
found victory?
Our Queen approaches,
like a ray of light
from the eyes of a god.
We prostrate ourselves,
we show our respect,
we greet her with words of
obedient salutation.
(English translation by Conor Hanratty)