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Ruse of War: 6 Sneaky But Brilliant Strategies

Wikimedia Commons
Wikimedia Commons

War can be tricky—especially when done correctly. It's called Ruse of War, the act of clever tactic or deception on the battlefield. Think Trojan Horse, but less ridiculous. (“After a 10-year siege, the Greeks have given up and disappeared and look—they felt so bad they totally left us a present!”)

Here are six commanders who were dealt bad hands, but bluffed and ended up flush. Some of the more ancient accounts are, of course, tough to verify. But even if time has padded these stories into legends, it doesn’t make the tactical strategies any less astounding.

1. Persians Without Noses, a Threat Still Poses.

Around 500 years BC, Darius the Great was sweeping through Asia and Africa, conquering everything. He was spread thin, so revolts popped up everywhere. Darius and his armies were able to stamp them all down, except one: Babylon. Babylon was so well barricaded that Darius, though he sat outside with his armies for a year and a half, couldn’t get in. Enter Persian noble Zopyrus, and his brilliant, disgusting plan to take Babylon.

One morning the Babylonians rose to see the high ranking Persian at their gates, soaked in his own blood, whipped, with his ears and nose hacked off. He screamed that Darius had done this to him for failing to capture their city, and that now his rage was so great he wished to defect and help Babylon defeat the brutal Darius.

And … they totally bought it. Zopyrus had cut off his own nose and ears and arranged his own whipping, all with Darius’ knowledge. Zopyrus Rhinotmetus (no-nose) quickly rose in the ranks of the Babylonian army, and just as quickly weakened the city's defenses. Darius soon recaptured the city, and reportedly festooned Zopyrus with great titles and wealth.

2. The Most Awesome Tea-Partier Ever

In the 3rd century, China was a mess. There were three different kingdoms—the Shu, Wei, and Wu—fighting to gain control over all of China. Chu-ko Liang was a valuable, high ranking official of the Shu people. One of his many responsibilities was to protect the city of Hsi from the oncoming Wei invasion. But he didn’t have enough soldiers to match the Wei onslaught, nor was Hsi fortified enough to wait out a siege. So, Liang got clever.

He opened all the gates of his city. He sent his best soldiers high into the mountains, out of sight. He ordered the people of his town to carry on as normal. Then, as the scouts for the Wei army approached, he climbed to the ramparts of the wall, burned some incense, had tea and played his lute. The Wei knew Liang was no idiot, in fact he had a reputation for being quite slippery. They suspected a trap, and went around the city, leaving it unharmed. As they skirted the town, they walked into the ambush Liang had previously set in the mountains, and were defeated.

3. Cowards at Cowpens

Militia men of the American Revolution weren’t trained soldiers. They were farmers and family men called to take up arms against the British. They were renowned for, well … not knowing what they were doing and running away a lot. At the Battle of Cowpens, Colonel Dan Morgan used this inglorious reputation to kick some Redcoat pantaloons.

Morgan’s regiments weren’t made up only of hapless militia men. He also had trained soldiers and riflemen. Taking position on and around a small hill at the border of South and North Carolina, Morgan put a line of trained shooters in front of a ragtag line of militia men. The British began a front assault, and were driven back by the sharpshooters, who then got up and ran behind the hill. The British charged again, this time against the scraggly militia men. The militia men appeared extremely weak when they each only fired two rounds, turned and ran. Bolstered by the retreat of the ill-trained American cowards, the British charged. Their line lost its cohesion on the hill, and they ran straight into the waiting fire of all the rest of Morgan’s men, including the ones that had gone around the back of the British. The British premature belief that they were winning led to them being completely enveloped by enemy fire, with over 900 Redcoats killed or captured.

4. “A SWORD FOR THE LORD!”

To defend their homeland, Gideon the Israelite raised a volunteer army of 32,000 to battle the Midianites (interlopers who were trying to move into Israelite turf) according to the Biblical account. But he only needed 10,000. Actually, the most powerful part of his ruse required significantly less. Gideon had 300 of his soldiers surround the Midianite’s valley encampment on three sides, every side but the east (that’s where he put the other 9700, waiting in ambush). He equipped them with hundreds of horns (the kind individual armies sounded before charging), torches, and incendiary pots. Then late at night, all at once, he had the 300 blow the war trumpets, light the torches, hurl the pots into the encampment and scream, “'A sword for the Lord and for Gideon!” The Midianites had no idea how many violent religious zealots were descending on them, but if the horns were any indication, it was all of them. They panicked and ran to the only side of the valley without torches and terror, the east. There they were promptly slaughtered by soldiers, who were waiting with their swords for the Lord and Gideon. 

5. Bore Them to Death

Philip II of Macedon had conquered enough ground by 338 BC to establish the state of Macedonia. Many parts of the newly conquered kingdom didn’t like being conquered, particularly Athens and Thebes, which raised 50,000 rebels to fight off Philip’s 32,000 trained soldiers at the Battle of Chaeronea. Philip was outnumbered, but his men were professionals, and the rebels were angry countrymen spoiling for a fight.

The first thing Philip did was nothing. He took an interminable time to set up his lines for the battle as the rebels waited for him to make the first move. Meanwhile they stood, their bloodlust cooling as their skin baked in the sun. Then the battle began. The rebels had staked out a highly desirable position that Philip needed to remove them from. So he sent his men into battle, and then had them retreat almost immediately, as if unable to bear the rebel attack. The rebels chased them back to their “line,” not noticing that line was slowly moving, and so were they. Soon they were drawn completely away from the high ground they’d occupied. Philip kept doing this until the rebels were exhausted, bereft of spirit, and in open air. His trained soldiers then quickly stopped playing with their food and killed half the rebel army.

6. “P’ang Chuan Dies Under This Tree.”

Meanwhile in 4th century BC China,  the Han dynasty was under attack. The King of Ch’i sent an army westward to help the Han army resist the Wei. It wasn’t considered that much of a help. The Ch’i had a reputation for being total whiny pantywaists and for desertion, weakness, and all around lameness. When the commander of the Wei army, P’ang Chuang, heard they were coming, he went home for a vacation.

This unit of Ch’i was a little different, though. Marching with them as an advisor was Sun Pin, a descendant of Sun-Tzu. You might have heard of Sun-Tzu—he wrote a little book called The Art of War, the oldest, and arguably the most brilliant, military treatise in the world. Like Dan Morgan, Sun Pin knew that a bad reputation can be a good thing. The Wei believed the Ch’i army was full of weaklings who got sick or died or deserted. So Sun Pin gratified that belief. Each night the army marched, they lit fewer and fewer campfires. When the Wei saw that the Ch’i had lost half their pathetic army, they smugly settled on a quick direct attack, using only light infantry.

The legend goes, when the Ch’i set up their ambush, the spring for their trap was a message written on a tree: “P’ang Chuan Dies Under This Tree.” P’ang Chuan was called to the tree in the dark, and lit a torch to read it. This triggered a hailstorm of arrows from the Ch’i, an onslaught that the Wei were not prepared to handle. P’ang Chuan slit his own throat under the tree in his defeat. 

This article was sourced mainly from Duncan & Nofi's Book, Victory and Deceit.

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Marie Antoinette's Jewelry Is Up for Sale
Michael Bowles, Getty Images for Sotheby's
Michael Bowles, Getty Images for Sotheby's

Rare jewelry that once belonged to Marie Antoinette and hasn't been seen in public for 200 years will be heading to the auction block this fall, according to The Adventurine.

A diamond parure (jewelry set), three-strand pearl necklace, and other gems that once adorned the last queen of France will be sold on November 12 in Geneva, Switzerland, as part of Sotheby's "Royal Jewels from the Bourbon-Parma Family" auction. The family in question is related by blood to some of Europe's most important rulers, including former kings of France and Spain and emperors of Austria.

A diamond jewelry set
Courtesy of Sotheby's

Although Marie Antoinette was known for her opulent fashion choices, her jewels have scarcely been seen since the French Revolution, The Adventurine reports. The Smithsonian owns a pair of earrings that are believed to contain diamonds from the queen's collection, and a diamond necklace that appeared at a Christie's auction in 1971 "hasn't been seen since." The jewelry magazine notes that many of Marie Antoinette's jewels were dismantled, but a few—like the ones featured in this latest collection—managed to survive.

A pearl necklace
Courtesy of Sotheby's

According to Sotheby's, Marie Antoinette placed all her jewels in a wooden chest in March 1791 and shipped them off to her nephew, the Austrian Emperor, for safekeeping [PDF]. That following year, the royal family was imprisoned, and in 1793 Marie Antoinette and King Louis XVII were executed by guillotine. Their only surviving child, Marie Thérèse de France, retrieved the jewels and later passed them along to her niece, since she had no children of her own. They ultimately ended up with Robert I, the last ruling Duke of Parma in Italy.

The most valuable piece, a pearl pendant featuring a bow made of diamonds, is expected to fetch between $1 million and $2 million, according to the auction house's estimates. In the late 18th century, pearls were just as coveted as diamonds because of their rarity. Marie Antoinette, of course, wore them often.

A diamond and pearl pendant
Courtesy of Sotheby's

"It is one of the most important royal jewelry collections ever to appear on the market and each and every jewel is absolutely imbued with history," Daniela Mascetti, of Sotheby's European jewelry division, said in a statement.

[h/t The Adventurine]

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12 Facts About James Joyce
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June 16, 1904 is the day that James Joyce, the Irish author of Modernist masterpieces like Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and who was described as “a curious mixture of sinister genius and uncertain talent,” set his seminal work, Ulysses. It also thought to be the day that he had his first date with his future wife, Nora Barnacle.

He was as mythical as the myths he used as the foundations for his own work. So in honor of that June day in 1904—known to fans worldwide as “Bloomsday,” after one of the book’s protagonists, Leopold Bloom—here are 12 facts about James Joyce.

1. HE WAS ONLY 9 WHEN HIS FIRST PIECE OF WRITING WAS PUBLISHED.

In 1891, shortly after he had to leave Clongowes Wood College when his father lost his job, 9-year-old Joyce wrote a poem called “Et Tu Healy?” It was published by his father John and distributed to friends; the elder Joyce thought so highly of it, he allegedly sent copies to the Pope.

No known complete copies of the poem exist, but the precocious student’s verse allegedly denounced a politician named Tim Healy for abandoning 19th century Irish nationalist politician Charles Stewart Parnell after a sex scandal. Fragments of the ending of the poem, later remembered by James’s brother Stanislaus, showed Parnell looking down on Irish politicians:

His quaint-perched aerie on the crags of Time
Where the rude din of this century
Can trouble him no more

While the poem was seemingly quaint, young Joyce equating Healy as Brutus and Parnell as Caesar marked the first time he’d use old archetypes in a modern context, much in the same way Ulysses is a unique retelling of The Odyssey.

As an adult, Joyce would publish his first book, a collection of poems called Chamber Music, in 1907. It was followed by Dubliners, a collection of short stories, in 1914, and the semi-autobiographical A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (in which Clongowes Wood College is prominently featured) in 1916.

2. HE CAUSED A CONTROVERSY AT HIS COLLEGE’S PAPER.

While attending University College Dublin, Joyce attempted to publish a negative review—titled “The Day of the Rabblement”—of a new local playhouse called the Irish Literary Theatre in the school’s paper, St. Stephen’s. Joyce’s condemnation of the theater’s “parochialism” was allegedly so scathing that the paper’s editors, after seeking consultation from one of the school’s priests, refused to print it.

Incensed about possible censorship, Joyce appealed to the school’s president, who sided with the editors—which prompted Joyce to put up his own money to publish 85 copies to be distributed across campus.

The pamphlet, published alongside a friend’s essay to beef up the page-count, came with the preface: “These two essays were commissioned by the editor of St. Stephen’s for that paper, but were subsequently refused insertion by the censor.” It wouldn’t be the last time Joyce would fight censorship.

3. NORA BARNACLE GHOSTED HIM FOR THEIR PLANNED FIRST DATE.

By the time Nora Barnacle and Joyce finally married in 1931, they had lived together for 27 years, traveled the continent and had two children. The couple first met in Dublin in 1904 when Joyce struck up a conversation with her near the hotel where Nora worked as a chambermaid. She initially mistook him for a Swedish sailor because of his blue eyes and the yachting cap he wore that day, and he charmed her so much that they set a date for June 14—but she didn’t show.

He then wrote her a letter, saying, “I looked for a long time at a head of reddish-brown hair and decided it was not yours. I went home quite dejected. I would like to make an appointment but it might not suit you. I hope you will be kind enough to make one with me—if you have not forgotten me!” This led to their first date, which supposedly took place on June 16, 1904.

She would continue to be his muse throughout their life together in both his published work (the character Molly Bloom in Ulysses is based on her) and their fruitful personal correspondence. Their notably dirty love letters to each other—featuring him saying their love-making reminded him of “a hog riding a sow” and signing off one by saying “Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty littlef**kbird!"—have highlighted the NSFW nature of their relationship. In fact, one of Joyce’s signed erotic letters to Nora fetched a record £240,800 ($446,422) at a London auction in 2004.

4. HE HAD REALLY BAD EYES.

While Joyce’s persistent money problems caused him to lead a life of what could be categorized as creative discomfort, he had to deal with a near lifetime of medical discomfort as well. Joyce suffered from anterior uveitis, which led to a series of around 12 eye surgeries over his lifetime. (Due to the relatively unsophisticated state of ophthalmology at the time, and his decision not to listen to contemporary medical advice, scholars speculate that his iritis, glaucoma, and cataracts could have been caused by sarcoidosis, syphilis, tuberculosis, or any number of congenital problems.) His vision issues caused Joyce to wear an eye patch for years and forced him to do his writing on large white sheets of paper using only red crayon. The persistent eye struggles even inspired him to name his daughter Lucia, after St. Lucia, patron saint of the blind.

5. HE TAUGHT ENGLISH AT A BERLITZ LANGUAGE SCHOOL.

In 1904, Joyce—eager to get out of Ireland—responded to an ad for a teaching position in Europe. Evelyn Gilford, a job agent based in the British town of Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, notified Joyce that a job was reserved for him and, for two guineas, he would be told exactly where the position was. Joyce sent the money, and by the end of 1904, he and his future wife, Nora, had left Dublin for the job at a Berlitz language school in Zurich, Switzerland—but when they got there, the pair learned there was no open position. But they did hear a position was open at a Berlitz school in Trieste, Italy. The pair packed up and moved on to Italy only to find out they’d been swindled again.

Joyce eventually found a Berlitz teaching job in Pola in Austria-Hungary (now Pula, Croatia). English was one of 17 languages Joyce could speak; others included Arabic, Sanskrit, Greek, and Italian (which eventually became his preferred language, and one that he exclusively spoke at home with his family). He also loved playwright Henrik Ibsen so much that he learned Norwegian so that he could read Ibsen's works in their original form—and send the writer a fan letter in his native tongue.

6. HE INVESTED IN A MOVIE THEATER.

There are about 400 movie theaters in Ireland today, but they trace their history back to 1909, when Joyce helped open the Volta Cinematograph, which is considered “the first full-time, continuous, dedicated cinema” in Ireland.

More a money-making scheme than a product of a love of cinema, Joyce first got the idea when he was having trouble getting Dubliners published and noticed the abundance of cinemas while living in Trieste. When his sister, Eva, told him Ireland didn’t have any movie theaters, Joyce joined up with four Italian investors (he’d get 10 percent of the profits) to open up the Volta on Dublin’s Mary Street.

The venture fizzled as quickly as Joyce’s involvement. After not attracting audiences due to mostly showing only Italian and European movies unpopular with everyday Dubliners, Joyce cut his losses and pulled out of the venture after only seven months.

The cinema itself didn’t close until 1919, during the time Joyce was hard at work on Ulysses. (It reopened with a different name in 1921 and didn’t fully close until 1948.)

7. HE TURNED TO A COMPLETELY INEXPERIENCED PUBLISHER TO RELEASE HIS MOST WELL-KNOWN BOOK.

The publishing history of Ulysses is itself its own odyssey. Joyce began writing the work in 1914, and by 1918 he had begun serializing the novel in the American magazine Little Review with the help of poet Ezra Pound.

But by 1921, Little Review was in financial trouble. The published version of Episode 13 of Ulysses, “Nausicaa,” resulted in a costly obscenity lawsuit against its publishers, Margaret Anderson and Jane Heap, and the book was banned in the United States. Joyce appealed to different publishers for help—including Leonard and Virginia Woolf’s Hogarth Press—but none agreed to take on a project with such legal implications (and in Virginia Woolf’s case, length), no matter how supposedly groundbreaking it was.

Joyce, then based in Paris, made friends with Sylvia Beach, whose bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, was a gathering hub for the post-war expatriate creative community. In her autobiography, Beach wrote:

All hope of publication in the English-speaking countries, at least for a long time to come, was gone. And here in my little bookshop sat James Joyce, sighing deeply.

It occurred to me that something might be done, and I asked : “Would you let Shakespeare and Company have the honour of bringing out your Ulysses?”

He accepted my offer immediately and joyfully. I thought it rash of him to entrust his great Ulysses to such a funny little publisher. But he seemed delighted, and so was I. ... Undeterred by lack of capital, experience, and all the other requisites of a publisher, I went right ahead with Ulysses.

Beach planned a first edition of 1000 copies (with 100 signed by the author), while the book would continue to be banned in a number of countries throughout the 1920s and 1930s. Eventually it was allowed to be published in the United States in 1933 after the case United States v. One Book Called Ulysses deemed the book not obscene and allowed it in the United States.

8. ERNEST HEMINGWAY WAS HIS DRINKING BUDDY—AND SOMETIMES HIS BODYGUARD.

Ernest Hemingway—who was major champion of Ulysses—met Joyce at Shakespeare and Company, and was later a frequent companion among the bars of Paris with writers like Wyndham Lewis and Valery Larbaud.

Hemingway recalled the Irish writer would start to get into drunken fights and leave Hemingway to deal with the consequences. "Once, in one of those casual conversations you have when you're drinking," Hemingway said, "Joyce said to me he was afraid his writing was too suburban and that maybe he should get around a bit and see the world. He was afraid of some things, lightning and things, but a wonderful man. He was under great discipline—his wife, his work and his bad eyes. His wife was there and she said, yes, his work was too suburban--'Jim could do with a spot of that lion hunting.' We would go out to drink and Joyce would fall into a fight. He couldn't even see the man so he'd say, 'Deal with him, Hemingway! Deal with him!'"

9. HE MET ANOTHER MODERNIST TITAN—AND HAD A TERRIBLE TIME.

Marcel Proust’s gargantuan, seven-volume masterpiece, À la recherche du temps perdu, is perhaps the other most important Modernist work of the early 20th century besides Ulysses. In May 1922, the authors met at a party for composer Igor Stravinsky and ballet impresario Sergei Diaghilev in Paris. The Dubliners author arrived late, was drunk, and wasn’t wearing formal clothes because he was too poor to afford them. Proust arrived even later than Joyce, and though there are varying accounts of what was actually said between the two, every known version points to a very anticlimactic meeting of the minds.

According to author William Carlos Williams, Joyce said, “I’ve headaches every day. My eyes are terrible,” to which the ailing Proust replied, “My poor stomach. What am I going to do? It’s killing me. In fact, I must leave at once.”

Publisher Margaret Anderson claimed that Proust admitted, “I regret that I don’t know Mr. Joyce’s work,” while Joyce replied, “I have never read Mr. Proust.”

Art reviewer Arthur Power said both writers simply talked about liking truffles. Joyce later told painter Frank Budgen, “Our talk consisted solely of the word ‘No.’”

10. HE CREATED A 100-LETTER WORD TO DESCRIBE HIS FEAR OF THUNDER AND LIGHTNING.

Joyce had a childhood fear of thunder and lightning, which sprang from his Catholic governess’s pious warnings that such meteorological occurrences were actually God manifesting his anger at him. The fear haunted the writer all his life, though Joyce recognized the beginnings of his phobia. When asked by a friend why he was so afraid of rough weather, Joyce responded, “You were not brought up in Catholic Ireland.”

The fear also manifested itself in Joyce’s writing. In Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, the autobiographical protagonist Stephen Dedalus says he fears “dogs, horses, firearms, the sea, thunderstorms, [and] machinery.”

But the most fascinating manifestation of his astraphobia is in his stream of consciousness swan song, Finnegans Wake, where he created the 100-letter word Bababadalgharaghtaka-mminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk to represent a symbolic biblical thunderclap. The mouthful is actually made up of different words for “thunder” in French (tonnerre), Italian (tuono), Greek (bronte), and Japanese (kaminari).

11. HE’S THOUGHT OF AS A LITERARY GENIUS, BUT NOT EVERYONE WAS A FAN.

Fellow Modernist Virginia Woolf didn't much care for Joyce or his work. She compared his writing to "a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples," and said that "one hopes he’ll grow out of it; but as Joyce is 40 this scarcely seems likely."

She wasn't the only one. In a letter, D.H. Lawrence—who wrote such classics as Women in Love and Lady Chatterley’s Loversaid of Joyce: “My God, what a clumsy olla putrida James Joyce is! Nothing but old fags and cabbage stumps of quotations from the Bible and the rest stewed in the juice of deliberate, journalistic dirty-mindedness.”

“Do I get much pleasure from this work? No," author H.G. Wells wrote in his review of Finnegans Wake. “ ... Who the hell is this Joyce who demands so many waking hours of the few thousand I have still to live for a proper appreciation of his quirks and fancies and flashes of rendering?”

Even his partner Nora had a difficult time with his work, saying after the publication of Ulysses, “Why don’t you write sensible books that people can understand?”

12. HIS SUPPOSED FINAL WORDS WERE AS ABSTRACT AS HIS WRITING.

Joyce was admitted to a Zurich hospital in January 1941 for a perforated duodenal ulcer, but slipped into a coma after surgery and died on January 13. His last words were befitting his notoriously difficult works—they're said to have been, "Does nobody understand?"

Additional Source: James Joyce

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