War is my only memory. It restores rays half-ruptured by forgetting as the ever-circling wind hovers above slowly perishing rhythms on the bruised surface of the sea. I was the greatest general, the earner of timeless admiration in Athens. But the spread of dishonor across careless lips threatened to forever blemish the memory of my victories. I was stripped of my reputation and exiled, after which followed a succession of authorial attempts aimed at erasing my name and my glory. I, a general in exile, wandered aimlessly about. History, it seemed, was no longer the chief participant of existence, but rather the chief observer of life unfolding according to its own potentialities. It seemed that all-weaving fate had retreated into a bruised corner, becoming as nameless as I. All my good fortune was a fugitive. I was the revolutionary, pulsating core of Athens, the one who dared to defy the advance of the Persians by increasing Athenian naval power. After being exiled, I sought refuge in the luxurious confines of king Artaxerxes' palace. The king welcomed me with caution as well as eager expectation for he had heard of my lofty name. He agreed to give me shelter, but on one condition: that I lead a Persian invasion of Athens. The mere thought of betrayal never entered my mind, for Athens was always my home. When Artaxerxes called upon me to lead the Persian army and invade Athens, I drank poison as I could never betray my country. In the end, my name arose from obscurity once more and reclaimed its loftiness on the lips of all Athenians. I, general Themistocles, now feel the relentless sweep of history's tide.