War & Pumpkin Muffins

Deception 101...

War has striking similarities to a good pumpkin muffin recipe. Deception is paramount to victory in both. It may be true that I have never been to war, but I do possess a remarkable pumpkin muffin recipe—and I have gone to great lengths to keep it safe. After being wooed by my sensational muffins, people often ask me for my recipe. Although their intentions may be innocuous, releasing the invaluable recipe from my safekeeping is completely irresponsible. I cannot reveal my secrets or I am nothing. So, in order to both safeguard my recipe as well as satisfy their query, I provide them with a faulty recipe that produces muffins of a slightly lesser quality. This has two benefits: first, I don’t have to be a jerk and refuse their request outright; and second, their propagation of inferior muffins makes me appear to be a better baker than I truly am. This my friends, is the art of deception. However, I was not the first to master such an art; generals have employed deception for millennia, and today I will introduce you to two of its shining moments.

1. Chinese Flute Enthusiast Repels Siege, 240 AD

The vast majority of Chinese history consists of nonstop wars that are rather confusing and a step above my pay grade; however, this story is too spectacular to pass up—a true class act in the art of deception.

Back in old, old times, there were three rival kingdoms in China (this era is creatively dubbed the “Three Kingdoms Period”). It is in this time, at a city named Xicheng, where we will begin our story. Our protagonist, one Zhuge Liang, was the commander of a vast army in China’s northern provinces. His headquarters was in the city of Xicheng, where word reached him that a nearby enemy army was near collapse. Eager to defeat his enemy whilst they were in disarray, Zhuge Liang threw caution to the wind and ordered his subordinates to seek and destroy this allegedly crippled enemy. Woefully, while the majority of Zhuge’s army was many days away searching for this fabled soldiery, the city of Xicheng was approached by a host of 20,000 led by their dubious nemesis Sima Yi.

Sima Yi was a cautious, calculating, and somewhat jittery commander who thought very highly of himself and of Zhuge Liang. He believed that their rivalry was the forefront of war strategy and was expecting Zhuge Liang to attempt a never before seen ploy to deceive him—and oh boy did he really get it. Zhuge knew that his token force in Xicheng could never withstand a siege from Sima’s army, but he did have one advantage: Sima Yi was totally unaware that most of Zhuge’s forces were out on an expedition, as far as Yi was concerned the entirety of Zhuge’s army was still camped in Xicheng. Zhuge also knew that Yi held him in high regard and that he was expecting mischief, so Zhuge hatched an ingenious gambit…

Sima Yi awoke to the alarm of his advisors. Something downright ridiculous was taking place on the walls of Xicheng. The gates were flung wide, the walls were unmanned, the usual noise of the bustling city had been silenced. Only one sound could be heard, and only one man could be seen. Zhuge Liang perched himself (and his trusty flute) atop the highest tower on the wall, sitting calmly and playing an ominous melody.

Yi’s advisors urged an attack, but Sima Yi would have none of it. It was obviously a trap. Surely Zhuge Liang would not make such a tactical blunder, he wouldn’t so obviously expose his city to attack without a cunning plan to ultimately destroy him! Or so Yi thought... In his infinite wisdom, Yi ordered a retreat from the city—he marched back home triumphant that he had avoided a catastrophic trap. Little did he know, it was he who was getting played like a flute all along.

2. Byzantine Mail Inspection Topples Persian Empire, 610-ish AD

The Persian and Byzantine/Roman Empires had been beating each other silly for the past 500 years, mind you with literally zero territorial changes to show for it. This is what “productivity” was considered in ancient times. Anyhow, the Byzantine Empire was fighting for its life—please forgive me as I provide some context. There was this chill Byzantine emperor named Maurice and he was pretty good friends with the Persians; most regrettably, his throne was usurped by a wildly incompetent chap named Phocas. Khsorow of Persia used this treachery as a pretext to invade Byzantium—vowing to avenge his friend Maurice. Byzantium was now fighting a war on two fronts (Slavs in the West and Persians in the East) and it was simply to much for Phocas to handle. He quickly turned to extreme tyranny and was wildly unpopular with just about everyone. The Byzantine Empire was beginning to collapse as quickly as her western counterpart.

But Rome had one more trick up her sleeve. From her savory city of Carthage, which once served as a symbol of defiance to Rome’s dominion, a hero emerged. His name was Heraclius, and he wasn’t going to let Byzantium fall without a fight. So he did what Carthaginians do best: grabbed a sword, hopped in a boat, and sailed an epic odyssey to retake Constantinople. His grand odyssey, in truth, amounted to a quick boat ride and a smooth coup—because, again, no one liked Phocas.

Now that Maurice had been avenged, Heraclius wrote to the Persians and asked if they could pretty please be friends again because Phocas was dead—turns out Khosrow was actually more interested in conquering Byzantium than he was in avenging Maurice. War it was. Thankfully for the Romans, Heraclius was pretty good at the whole war thing. But the Persians were no pushovers, they were led by General Shahrbaraz who was competent in every sense of the word. Shahrbaraz had dealt defeat after defeat to the Byzantines for the better part of a decade, and Khosrow was certain that his victories would continue.

But, somehow, someway Heraclius defeated Shahrbaraz in a pitched battle—which really pissed Khosrow off; then Heraclius really sent Khosrow over the edge by defeating Shahrbaraz again shortly after. Khosrow was livid over these defeats and, in a fit of rage, ordered Shahrbaraz executed. A rider was dispatched from his capital in Ctesiphon to the field army in the Levant.

Lamentably for Khosrow, the rider was intercepted by Heraclius himself. Normally, you would assume Heraclius would see Shahrbaraz’s death as favorable—thus letting the rider go on his way. But Heraclius proved his genius, doing something truly extraordinary, something deception specialists like myself would study for millennium to come. Heraclius took it upon himself to slightly add one or two or four-hundred names to the proscription list, all of whom were high-ranking officers. But Heraclius’s goal wasn’t merely to have these officers executed, rather to have the whole army revolt against Khosrow—and it worked to perfection.

Shahrbaraz went to open his daily mail when he saw not only that he was to be executed, but also four-hundred of his closest friends. Shahrbaraz had loyally served Persia for decades, how were two defeats enough for Khosrow to purge his entire command? Shahrbaraz, rightfully angry, brought the orders before his army. The army was angrier than he was, how could Khosrow be so ungrateful for their efforts? So Shahrbaraz sent an envoy to Heraclius basically saying they could be friends while he went and killed Khosrow. Khosrow’s death led to a succession crisis that incapacitated Persia for many years, allowing Heraclius to rebuild Byzantium’s strength. After 500 years of war, peace was finally on the horizon—surely no random religion would come pouring out of the desert and cripple both empires in like a week or two…