A Victor of Salamis
“Now, friend,” he spoke, “your business, and shortly; we’ve no time for
chaffering.”
“For Aristeides.”
“The fourth time he’s said it,—sheep!” cried Hippon, but as he spoke the
newcomer fell forward heavily, groaned once, and lay on the roadway silent
as the dead. The locharch drew forth the horn lantern he had masked under
his chalmys and leaned over the stranger. The light fell on the seal of
the packet gripped in the rigid fingers.
“Themistocles’s seal,” he cried, and hastily turned the fallen man’s face
upward to the light, when the lantern almost dropped from his own hand.
“Glaucon the Alcmæonid! Glaucon the Traitor who was dead! He or his shade
come back from Tartarus.”
The four soldiers stood quaking like aspen, but their leader was of
stouter stuff. Never had his native Attic shrewdness guided him to more
purpose.
“Ghost, traitor, what not, this man has run himself all but to death. Look
on his face. And Themistocles does not send a courier for nothing. This
packet is for Aristeides, and to Aristeides take it with speed.”
Hippon seized the papyrus. He thought it would fade out of his hands like
a spectre. It did not. The sentinel dropped his spear and ran breathless
toward Platæa, where he knew was his general.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE COUNCIL OF MARDONIUS
Never since Salamis had Persian hopes been higher than that night. What if
the Spartans were in the field at last, and the incessant skirmishing had
been partly to Pausanias’s advantage? Secure in his fortified camp by the
Asopus, Mardonius could confidently wait the turn of the tide. His light
Tartar cavalry had cut to pieces the convoys bringing provisions to the
Hellenes. Rumour told that Pausanias’s army was ill fed, and his captains
were at loggerheads. Time was fighting for Mardonius. A joyful letter he
had sent to Sardis the preceding morning: “Let the king have patience. In
forty days I shall be banqueting even in Sparta.”
In the evening the Prince sat at council with his commanders. Xerxes had
left behind his own war pavilion, and here the Persians met. Mardonius sat
on the high seat of the dais. Gold, purple, a hundred torches, made the
scene worthy of the monarch himself. Beside the general stood a young
page,—beautiful as Armaiti, fairest of the archangels. All looked on the
page, but discreetly kept their thoughts to whispers, though many had
guessed the secret of Mardonius’s companion.
The debate was long and vehement. Especially Artabazus, general of the
rear-guard, was loud in asserting no battle should be risked. He was a
crafty man, who, the Prince suspected, was his personal enemy, but his
opinion was worth respecting.
“I repeat what I said before. The Hellenes showed how they could fight at
Thermopylæ. Let us retire to Thebes.”
“Bravely said, valiant general,” sneered Mardonius, none too civilly.
“It is mine to speak, yours to follow my opinion as you list. I say we can
conquer these Hellenes with folded hands. Retreat to Thebes; money is
plentiful with us; we can melt our gold cups into coin. Sprinkle bribes
among the hostile chiefs. We know their weakness. Not steel but gold will
unlock the way to Sparta.”
The generalissimo stood up proudly.
“Bribes and stealth? Did Cyrus and Darius win us empire with these? No, by
the Fiend-Smiter, it was sharp steel and the song of the bow-string that
made Eran to prosper, and prosper to this day. But lest Artabazus think
that in putting on the lion I have forgotten the fox, let the strangers
now come to us stand forth, that he and every other may know how I have
done all things for the glory of my master and the Persian name.”
He smote with his commander’s mace upon the bronze ewer on the table.
Instantly there appeared two soldiers, between them two men, one of
slight, one of gigantic, stature, but both in Grecian dress. Artabazus
sprang to his feet.
“Who are these men—Thebans?”
“From greater cities than Thebes. You see two new servants of the king,
therefore friends of us all. Behold Lycon of Sparta and Democrates, friend
of Themistocles.”
His speech was Persian, but the newcomers both understood when he named
them. The tall Laconian straightened his bull neck, as in defiance. The
Athenian flushed. His head seemed sinking betwixt his shoulders. Much
wormwood had he drunk of late, but none bitterer than this,—to be welcomed
at the councils of the Barbarian. Artabazus salaamed to his superior half
mockingly.
“Verily, son of Gobryas, I was wrong. You are guileful as a Greek. There
can be no higher praise.”
The Prince’s nostrils twitched. Perhaps he was not saying all he felt.
“Let your praise await the issue,” he rejoined coldly. “Suffice it that
these friends were long convinced of the wisdom of aiding his Eternity,
and to-night come from the camp of the Hellenes to tell all that has
passed and why we should make ready for battle at the dawning.” He turned
to the Greeks, ordering in their own tongue, “Speak forth, I am
interpreter for the council.”
An awkward instant followed. Lycon looked on Democrates.
“You are an Athenian, your tongue is readiest,” he whispered.
“And you the first to Medize. Finish your handiwork,” the retort.
“We are waiting,” prompted Mardonius, and Lycon held up his great head and
began in short sentences which the general deftly turned into Persian.
“Your cavalry has made our position by the Asopus intolerable. All the
springs are exposed. We have to fight every time we try to draw water.
To-day was a meeting of the commanders, many opinions, much wrangling, but
all said we must retire. The town of Platæa is best. It is strong, with
plenty of water. You cannot attack it. To-night our camp has been struck.
The troops begin to retire, but in disorder. The contingent of each city
marches by itself. The Athenians, thanks to Democrates, delay retreating;
the Spartans I have delayed also. I have persuaded Amompharetus, my
cousin, who leads the Pitanate _mora_,(15) and who was not at the council,
that it is cowardly for a Spartan to retreat. He is a sheep-skulled fool
and has believed me. Consequently, he and his men are holding back. The
other Spartans wait for them. At dawn you will find the Athenians and
Spartans alone near their old camping ground, their allies straggling in
the rear. Attack boldly. When the onset joins, Democrates and I will order
our own divisions to retire. The phalanxes will be broken up. With your
cavalry you will have them at mercy, for once the spear-hedge is
shattered, they are lost. The battle will not cost you twenty men.”
Artabazus rose again and showed his teeth.
“A faithful servant of the king, Mardonius,—and so well is all provided,
do we brave Aryans need even to string our bows?”
The Prince winced at the sarcasm.
“I am serving the king, not my own pleasure,” he retorted stiffly. “The
son of Gobryas is too well known to have slurs cast on his courage. And
now what questions would my captains ask these Greeks? Promptly—they must
be again in their own lines, or they are missed.”
An officer here or there threw an interrogation. Lycon answered briefly.
Democrates kept sullen silence. He was clearly present more to prove the
good faith of his Medizing than for anything he might say. Mardonius smote
the ewer again. The soldiers escorted the two Hellenes forth. As the
curtains closed behind them, the curious saw that the features of the
beautiful page by the general’s side were contracted with disgust.
Mardonius himself spat violently.
“Dogs, and sons of dogs, let Angra-Mainyu wither them forever. Bear
witness, men of Persia, how, for the sake of our Lord the King, I hold
converse even with these vilest of the vile!”
Soon the council was broken up. The final commands were given. Every
officer knew his task. The cavalry was to be ready to charge across the
Asopus at gray dawn. With Lycon and Democrates playing their part the
issue was certain, too certain for many a grizzled captain who loved the
ring of steel. In his own tent Mardonius held in his arms the beautiful
page—Artazostra! Her wonderful face had never shone up at his more
brightly than on that night, as he drew back his lips from a long fond
kiss.
“To-morrow—the triumph. You will be conqueror of Hellas. Xerxes will make
you satrap. I wish we could conquer in fairer fight, but what wrong to
vanquish these Hellenes with their own sly weapons? Do you remember what
Glaucon said?”
“What thing?”
“That Zeus and Athena were greater than Mazda the Pure and glorious
Mithra? To-morrow will prove him wrong. I wonder whether he yet
lives,—whether he will ever confess that Persia is irresistible.”
“I do not know. From the evening we parted at Phaleron he has faded from
our world.”
“He was fair as the Amesha-Spentas, was he not? Poor Roxana—she is again
in Sardis now. I hope she has ceased to eat her heart out with vain
longing for her lover. He was noble minded and spoke the truth. How rare
in a Hellene. But what will you do with these two gold-bought traitors,
‘friends of the king’ indeed?”
Mardonius’s face grew stern.
“I have promised them the lordships of Athens and of Sparta. The pledge
shall be fulfilled, but after that,”—Artazostra understood his sinister
smile,—“there are many ways of removing an unwelcome vassal prince, if I
be the satrap of Hellas.”
“And you are that in the morning.”
“For your sake,” was his cry, as again he kissed her, “I would I were not
satrap of Hellas only, but lord of all the world, that I might give it to
you, O daughter of Darius and Atossa.”
“I am mistress of the world,” she answered, “for my world is Mardonius.
To-morrow the battle, the glory, and then what next—Sicily, Carthage,
Italy? For Mazda will give us all things.”
* * * * * * *
Otherwise talked Democrates and Lycon as they quitted the Persian pickets
and made their way across the black plain, back to the lines of the
Hellenes.
“You should be happy to-night,” said the Athenian.
“Assuredly. I draw up my net and find it very full of mullets quite to my
liking.”
“Take care it be not so full that it break.”
“Dear Democrates,”—Lycon slapped his paw on the other’s shoulder,—“why
always imagine evil? Hermes is a very safe guide. I only hope our victory
will be so complete Sparta will submit without fighting. It will be
awkward to rule a plundered city.”
“I shudder at the thought of being amongst even conquered Athenians; I
shall see a tyrannicide in every boy in the Agora.”
“A stout Persian garrison in your Acropolis is the surest physic against
that.”
“By the dog, Lycon, you speak like a Scythian. Hellene you surely are
not.”
“Hellene I am, and show my native wisdom in seeing that Persia must
conquer and trimming sail accordingly.”
“Persia is not irresistible. With a fair battle—”
“It will not be a fair battle. What can save Pausanias? Nothing—except a
miracle sent from Zeus.”
“Such as what?”
“As merciful Hiram’s relenting and releasing your dear Glaucon.” Lycon’s
chuckle was loud.
“Never, as you hope me to be anything save your mortal enemy, mention that
name again.”
“As you like it—it’s no very pretty tale, I grant, even amongst Medizers.
Yet it was most imprudent to let him live.”
“You have never heard the Furies, Lycon.” Democrates’s voice was so grave
as to dry up the Spartan’s banter. “But I shall never see him again, and I
shall possess Hermione.”
“A pretty consolation. _Eu!_ here are our outposts. We must pass for
officers reconnoitring the enemy. You know your part to-morrow. At the
first charge bid your division ‘wheel to rear.’ Three words, and the thing
is done.”
Lycon gave the watchword promptly to one of Pausanias’s outposts. The man