The Persian Empire invaded Greece in 480 B.C., and came to grief when the Greeks decisively defeated the Persians at the naval battle of Salamis and the land battle of Plataea. And just seven or eight years after that key moment from classical history, those dramatic events were brought to the Athenian stage by the playwright Aeschylus – in The Persians, the first Western play that has survived to the present day in its complete form.
Aeschylus (c. 525-455 B.C.) is conventionally spoken of as being the first of Athens’ triad of great tragic dramatists, with Sophocles and Euripides following after him and building upon his achievements. But making that kind of flat statement does not do justice to the magnitude of Aeschylus’ status as an innovator. Before Aeschylus, characters in classical Greek drama spoke only to the chorus – a holdover, no doubt, from the time when Greek plays served a strictly religious function. Aeschylus, by contrast, had characters in his plays speak to each other. In that regard, he can truly be called the Father of Drama.
And when Aeschylus wrote about the Greco-Persian Wars, he wrote not only as a concerned Athenian citizen and talented dramatist, but also as a military veteran who had risked his life to preserve the Athenian democracy. Aeschylus was about 35 years old when he fought the invading armies of the Persian emperor Darius I, at the Battle of Marathon in September of 490 B.C. Ten years later, Aeschylus took up arms again, when Darius’ son, the emperor Xerxes, launched his own invasion of Greece; and Aeschylus participated in the two Athenian victories that sent Xerxes’ soldiers reeling back in defeat: the naval battle of Salamis (September, 480 B.C.), and the land battle of Plataea (August, 479 B.C.).
Aeschylus’ experience of battle and victory certainly informed his writing of The Persians, and the play won the Dionysia dramatic competition in Athens in 472 B.C. As we consider the impact of The Persians, it behooves us to reflect that the events of the play were as recent, for Aeschylus and his audience, as the #MeToo movement or the Las Vegas mass shooting would be for people of today.
As the play begins, a chorus of Persia’s elder statesmen awaits word of the outcome of Xerxes’ invasion of Greece. Persia’s queen, Atossa – the wife of the deceased king, Darius, and mother of the current king, Xerxes – meets the elders in front of a government building in front of the Persian capital at Susa, and joins them in expressing concern regarding the outcome of the campaign, particularly as she has been having strange dreams of late. The Chorus Leader’s cautious hope that Atossa’s dream portends victory for Persia is dashed when a messenger arrives and reports the bad news for Persia: “O you cities throughout all Asian lands,/O realm of Persia, haven of vast wealth,/One blow has smashed your great prosperity –/The flower of Persia has been destroyed!/Our men have perished!” (pp. 13-14) The messenger describes the unfolding of the Persians’ disastrous defeat at Salamis, and adds that Xerxes, who “did not sense the Greek man’s cunning/Or the envy of the gods” (p. 19), had something of a front-row seat from which to watch the ruin of his army:
From high up
On a promontory right beside the sea
Xerxes watched. He had an excellent view
Of his entire army, and, as he looked
And witnessed the extent of his defeat,
He groaned, tore his robes, gave out a shrill cry,
And quickly issued orders to his troops,
Who ran away confused. (p. 22)
Xerxes’ mother, Atossa, offers a lament, even while scolding the chorus for not interpreting her dream harshly enough: “This overpowers me – the utter ruin/Of our entire force! Those visions last night –/the ones I saw so clearly in my dreams –/how plainly they revealed these blows to me./Your sense of them was far too trivial” (p. 24).
The Chorus meanwhile places the blame for the Persian disaster squarely at the feet of the Persian emperor, Xerxes:
Xerxes marched them off to war, alas!
Xerxes, to our sorrow, killed our men!
Xerxes, in his folly, took them all… (p. 25)
In one of the play’s most striking moments, the Chorus, acting in response to a plea from Atossa, calls upon the ghost of the late king Darius, hoping that he can provide further information regarding these sad events. Darius, it turns out, cannot see what is going on in the larger world, and must be informed of Xerxes’ defeat by the Persian elders. Once he has heard of the Persian disaster at Salamis, Darius sees in it evidence of divine will punishing fatal human pride:
[W]hen the man himself is in a hurry,
The god will take steps, too….It was my son
Who, knowing nothing of these matters,
With his youthful rashness brought them on. (p. 33)
Darius focuses on Xerxes’ building of a vast pontoon bridge across the Bosphorus, suggesting that doing so was an impious act that invited divine retribution: “Though a mortal man,/He sought to force his will on all the gods,/A foolish scheme” (p. 33). The dead Persian emperor foretells the even greater defeat that Persia will suffer in the land battle at Plataea, and remarks ironically that Xerxes, who had yearned so eagerly after glory, “has achieved his mighty deed,/The greatest of them all, truly immense,/Whose memory will never be erased –/He has removed from Susa all its citizens” (p. 34).
Eventually, Xerxes returns home. Alone, with his clothing dirty and torn, with nothing in his possession but a quiver empty of arrows, he is a wretched shadow of the richly equipped emperor who set forth in his finest battle array, with vast armies behind him, to crush those impudent Greeks. And his first words indicate to the reader or viewer the “all about me” mindset that has brought Xerxes to this overthrow:
O my situation now is desperate!
My luck has led me to a cruel fate
Which I did not foresee! How savagely
A demon trampled on the Persian race.
What must I still endure in this distress?
…O how I wish
A fatal doom from Zeus had buried me
With all those men who perished! (p. 40)
Xerxes’ self-pitying lament for his misfortune stands in stark contrast to what a Greek audience would have expected in terms of dignified behaviour in defeat. While Aeschylus was writing more than a century before Aristotle set down his ideas about tragedy in the Poetics, the basic ideas would already have been deep-seated within the Greek psyche: Hubris or fatal pride leads the tragic hero to hamartia, the fatal decision or act that leads to the hero’s fall from greatness. In the aftermath, the hero experiences anagnorisis – recognition that his own actions have led to his fall, and acceptance of responsibility for what has happened.
Xerxes has fatal pride aplenty, and his choice to invade is a classic example of hamartia. But there is no acceptance of responsibility for the consequences of his own policy decisions – no declaration that “the daric stops here.” Instead, it’s all the fault of a god or a demon; and for Xerxes, the main problem with this overwhelming Persian defeat that cost the lives of thousands of young soldiers and sailors is that it’s made things really tough for Xerxes.
Xerxes focuses at first on how he is “a sad/And useless wretch” (p. 40) who has been cursed by the gods. In fairness, however, I must acknowledge that Xerxes later laments “the pain of those poor wretches” from his army and navy who “lie gasping on the shore” (p. 41); and he closes by crying out for the thousands of his forces killed in the battle of Salamis: “Aaaiii! Alas, for those destroyed in the flat-bottomed boats – the force of those three-tiered galleys!” (p. 48) Is he on his way toward accepting responsibility for what he has done?
And, while we’re asking questions – Would the Athenians have seen this play as an end-zone dance over the prone and whining Xerxes? I think not. The ancient Greek religion emphasized patient endurance of the will of the gods, acceptance of one’s fate. Xerxes would stand as an example of what not to do; his determination to outdo his father Darius, to avenge the defeat at Marathon, caused him to impiously bridge the seas, and to wage a vain and selfish war that led to his army’s destruction. Such, I think, would have been the sentiments in the minds of the original audiences for The Persians, as they left the Theatre of Dionysus at the base of the Acropolis.
It is quite a thing to read the first Western play whose text has survived to the present day. The completeness of Aeschylus’ vision stands out to the reader’s mind at once. It was no doubt among the greatest of all the tragic dramas written up to its time; and its greatness endures today.