A Victor of Salamis
cast no dust upon its lord, rode a single horseman on a jet-black steed,
Artabanus—the king’s uncle and vizier. He beckoned to the people.
“Have fear, Lydians, the giver of breath to all the world comes now
beneath your gates!”
The lines of soldiers flung down their spears and dropped upon their
knees. The multitude imitated. A chariot came running behind four of the
sacred steeds of Nisæa,—their coats were like new snow, their manes
braided with gold thread, bridle, bits, pole, baseboard, shone with gems
and the royal metal. The wheel was like the sun. A girl-like youth guided
the crimson reins, a second held the tall green parasol. Its shadow did
not hide the commanding figure upon the car. Glaucon looked hard. No
mistaking—Xerxes was here, the being who could say to millions “Die!” and
they perished like worms; in verity “God-Manifest.”
For in looks Xerxes, son of Darius, was surely the Great King. A figure of
august height was set off nobly by the flowing purple caftan and the
purple cap which crowned the curling black hair. The riches of satrapies
were in the rubies and topazes on sword sheath and baldric. The head was
raised. The face was not regular, but of a proud, aquiline beauty. The
skin was olive, the eyes dark, a little pensive. If there were weak lines
about the mouth, the curling beard covered them. The king looked straight
on, unmoved by the kneeling thousands, but as he came abreast of the
balcony, chance made him look upward. Perhaps the sight of the beautiful
Greek caused Xerxes to smile winsomely. The smile of a god can intoxicate.
Caught away from himself, Glaucon the Alcmæonid joined in the great salvo
of cheering.
“Victory to Xerxes! Let the king of kings reign forever!”
The chariot was gone almost instantly, a vast retinue—cooks, eunuchs,
grooms, hunters, and many closed litters bearing the royal
concubines—followed, but all these passed before Glaucon shook off the
spell the sight of royalty cast on him.
* * * * * * *
That night in the palace Xerxes gave a feast in honour of the new
campaign. The splendours of a royal banquet in the East need no retelling.
Silver lamps, carpets of Kerman rugs or of the petals of fresh roses, a
thousand lutes and dulcimers, precious Helbon wine flowing like water,
cups of Phœnician crystal, tables groaning with wild boars roasted whole,
dancing women none too modest,—these were but the incidentals of a
gorgeous confusion. To Glaucon, with the chaste loveliness of the
Panathenæa before his mind, the scene was one of vast wonderment but
scarcely of pleasure. The Persian did nothing by halves. In battle a hero,
at his cups he became a satyr. Many of the scenes before the guests
emptied the last of the tall silver tankards were indescribable.
* * * * * * *
On the high dais above the roaring hall sat Xerxes the king,—adored,
envied, pitiable.
When Spitames, the seneschal, brought him the cup, the bearer bowed his
face, not daring to look on his dread lord’s eyes.
When Artabanus, the vizier, approached with a message, he first kissed the
carpet below the dais.
When Hydarnes, commander of the Life Guard, drew near to receive the
watchword for the night, he held his mantle before his mouth, lest his
breath pollute the world monarch.
Yet of all forms of seeming prosperity wherewith Fate can curse a man, the
worst was the curse of Xerxes. To be called “god” when one is finite and
mortal; to have no friends, but only a hundred million slaves; to be
denied the joys of honest wish and desire because there were none left
unsatisfied; to have one’s hastiest word proclaimed as an edict of deity;
never to be suffered to confess a mistake, cost what the blunder might,
that the “king of kings” might seem lifted above all human error; in
short, to be the bondsman of one’s own deification,—this was the hard
captivity of the lord of the twenty satrapies.
For Xerxes the king was a man,—of average instincts, capacities, goodness,
wickedness. A god or a genius could have risen above his fearful
isolation. Xerxes was neither. The iron ceremonial of the Persian court
left him of genuine pleasures almost none. Something novel, a rare
sensation, an opportunity to vary the dreary monotony of splendour by an
astounding act of generosity or an act of frightful cruelty,—it mattered
little which,—was snatched at by the king with childlike eagerness. And
this night Xerxes was in an unwontedly gracious mood. At his elbow, as he
sat on the throne cased with lapis lazuli and onyx, waited the one man who
came nearest to being a friend and not a slave,—Mardonius, son of Gobryas,
the bow-bearer,—and therefore more entitled than any other prince of the
Persians to stand on terms of intimacy with his lord.
While Spitames passed the wine, the king hearkened with condescending and
approving nod to the report of the Prince as to his mad adventure in
Hellas. Xerxes even reproved his brother-in-law mildly for hazarding his
own life and that of his wife among those stiff-necked tribesmen who were
so soon to taste the Aryan might.
“It was in your service, Omnipotence,” the Prince was rejoining blandly;
“what if not I alone, but a thousand others of the noblest of the Persians
and the Medes may perish, if only the glory of their king is advanced?”
“Nobly said; you are a faithful slave, Mardonius. I will remember you when
I have burned Athens.”
He even reached forth and stroked the bow-bearer’s hand, a condescension
which made the footstool-bearer, parasol-bearer, quiver-bearer, and a
dozen great lords more gnaw their lips with envy. Hydarnes, the commander
who had waited an auspicious moment, now thought it safe to kneel on the
lowest step of the throne.
“Omnipotence, I am constrained to tell you that certain miserable Hellenes
have been seized in the camp to-night—spies sent to pry out your power. Do
you deign to have them impaled, crucified, or cast into the adders’ cage?”
The king smiled magnanimously.
“They shall not die. Show them the host, and all my power. Then send them
home to their fellow-rebels to tell the madness of dreaming to withstand
my might.”
The smile of Xerxes had spread, like the ripple from a pebble splashing in
a pool, over the face of every nobleman in hearing. Now their praises came
as a chant.
“O Ocean of Clemency and Wisdom! Happy Eran in thy sagacious yet merciful
king!”
Xerxes, not heeding, turned to Mardonius.
“Ah! yes,—you were telling how you corrupted one of the chief Athenians,
then had to flee. On the voyage you were shipwrecked?”
“So I wrote to Babylon, to your Eternity.”
“And a certain Athenian fugitive saved your lives? And you brought him to
Sardis?”
“I did so, Omnipotence.”
“Of course he is at the banquet.”
“The king speaks by the promptings of Mazda. I placed him with certain
friends and bade them see he did not lack good cheer.”
“Send,—I would talk with him.”
“Suffer me to warn your Majesty,” ventured Mardonius, “he is an Athenian
and glories in being of a stubborn, Persian-hating stock. I fear he will
not perform due obeisance to the Great King.”
“I can endure his rudeness,” spoke Xerxes, for once in excellent humour;
“let the ‘supreme usher’ bring him with full speed.”
The functionary thus commanded bowed himself to the ground and hastened on
his errand.
But well that Mardonius had deprecated the wrath of the monarch. Glaucon
came with his head high, his manner almost arrogant. The mere fact that
his boldness might cost him his life made him less bending than ever. He
trod firmly upon the particular square of golden carpet at the foot of the
dais which none, saving the king, the vizier, and the “Six Princes,” could
lawfully tread. He held his hands at his sides, firmly refusing to conceal
them in his cloak, as court etiquette demanded. As he stood on the steps
of the throne, he gave the glittering monarch the same familiar bow he
might have awarded a friend he met in the Agora. Mardonius was troubled.
The supreme usher was horrified. The master-of-punishments, ever near his
chief, gazed eagerly to see if Xerxes would not touch the audacious
Hellene’s girdle—a sign for prompt decapitation. Only the good nature of
the king prevented a catastrophe, and Xerxes was moved by two motives,
pleasure at meeting a fellow-mortal who could look him in the eye without
servility or fear, delight at the beautiful features and figure of the
Athenian. For an instant monarch and fugitive looked face to face, then
Xerxes stretched out, not his hand, but the gold tip of his ivory baton.
Glaucon had wisdom enough to touch it,—a token that he was admitted to
audience with the king.
“You are from Athens, beautiful Hellene,” spoke Xerxes, still admiring the
stranger. “I will question you. Let Mardonius interpret.”
“I have learned Persian, great sir,” interposed Glaucon, never waiting for
the bow-bearer.
“You have done well,” rejoined the smiling monarch; “yet better had you
learned our Aryan manners of courtliness. No matter—you will learn them
likewise in good time. Now tell me your name and parentage.”
“I am Glaucon, son of Conon, of the house of the Alcmæonidæ.”
“Great nobles, Omnipotence,” interposed Mardonius, “so far as nobility can
be reckoned among the Greeks.”
“I have yet to learn their genealogies,” remarked Xerxes, dryly; then he
turned back to Glaucon. “And do your parents yet live, and have you any
brethren?” The question was a natural one for an Oriental. Glaucon’s
answer came with increased pride.
“I am a child of my parent’s old age. My mother is dead. My father is
feeble. I have no brethren. Two older brothers I had. One fell here at
Sardis, when we Athenians sacked the city. One fell victorious at
Marathon, while he burned a Persian ship. Therefore I am not ashamed of
their fates.”
“Your tongue is bold, Hellene,” said the good-natured king; “you are but a
lame courtier. No matter. Tell me, nevertheless, why you churlishly refuse
to do me reverence. Do you set yourself above all these princes of the
Persians who bow before me?”
“Not so, great sir. But I was born at Athens, not at Susa. We Hellenes
pray standing even to Zeus, stretching forth our hands and looking upward.
Can I honour the lord of all the satrapies above the highest god?”
“A nimble tongue you have, Athenian, though an unbending neck.” Xerxes sat
and stroked his beard, pleased at the frank reply. “Mardonius has told how
you saved his and my sister’s lives, and that you are an outlaw from
Athens.”
“The last is all too true, great sir.”
“Which means you will not pray your gods too hard for my defeat? ha?”
Glaucon blushed, then looked up boldly.
“A Persian king, I know, loves truth-telling. I still love and pray for
Athens, even if unknown enemies conspired against me.”
“Humph! You can learn our other virtues later. Are you blind to my power?
If so, I pity more than I blame you.”
“The king is kind,” returned Glaucon, putting by a part of his hauteur. “I
would not anger him. I only know he would rather have men say, ‘Xerxes
conquered a proud nation, hard to subdue,’ than, ‘He conquered a feeble
race of whining slaves.’ ”
“Excellent! In all save your vain confidence of victory, you seem wise
beyond your youth. You are handsome. You are noble—”
“Very noble,” interposed Mardonius.
“And you saved the lives of Mardonius and Artazostra. Did you know their
nobility when you rescued them?”
“Not so. I would not let them drown like sheep.”
“The better, then. You acted without low motive of reward. Yet let the day
never come when Xerxes is called ‘ungrateful’ for benefits done his
servants. You shall come to love me by beholding my magnanimity. I will
make you a Persian, despite your will. Have you seen battle?”