A Victor of Salamis
Then for the first time fear entered the heart of Mardonius, son of
Gobryas, and he called to the thousand picked horsemen, who rode beside
him,—not Tartars these, but Persians and Medes of lordly stock, men who
had gone forth conquering and to conquer.
“Now as your fathers followed Cyrus the Invincible and Darius the
Dauntless, follow you me. Since for the honour of Eran and the king I ride
this day.”
“We ride. For Eran and the king!” shouted the thousand. All the host
joined. Mardonius led straight against the Spartan right wing where
Pausanias’s life-guard marched.
* * * * * * *
Old soldiers of Lacedæmon fighting their battles in the after days, when a
warrior of Platæa was as a god to each youth in Hellas, would tell how the
Persian cavalrymen rode their phalanx down.
“And say never,” they always added, “the Barbarians know not how to fight
and how to die. Fools say it, not we of Platæa. For our first line seemed
broken in a twinkling. The Pitanate _mora_ was cut to pieces; Athena
Promachus and Ares the City-Waster alone turned back that charge when
Mardonius led the way.”
But turned it was. And the thousand horse, no thousand now, drifted to the
cover of their shield wall, raging, undaunted, yet beaten back.
Then at last the phalanx locked with the Persian footmen and their rampart
of wicker shields. At short spear length men grinned in each other’s
faces, while their veins were turned to fire. Many a soldier—Spartan,
Aryan—had seen his twenty fights, but never a fight like this. And the
Persians—those that knew Greek—heard words flung through their foemen’s
helmets that made each Hellene fight as ten.
“Remember Leonidas! Remember Thermopylæ!”
Orders there were none; the trumpets were drowned in the tumult. Each man
fought as he stood, knowing only he must slay the man before him, while
slowly, as though by a cord tighter and ever tighter drawn, the Persian
shield wall was bending back before the unrelenting thrusting of the
Spartans. Then as a cord snaps so broke the barrier. One instant down and
the Hellenes were sweeping the light-armed Asiatic footmen before them, as
the scythe sweeps down the standing grain. So with the Persian infantry,
for their scanty armour and short spears were at terrible disadvantage,
but the strength of the Barbarian was not spent. Many times Mardonius led
the cavalry in headlong charge, each repulse the prelude to a fiercer
shock.
“For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!”
The call of the Prince was a call that turned his wild horsemen into
demons, but demons who strove with gods. The phalanx was shaken, halted
even, broken never; and foot by foot, fathom by fathom, it brushed the
Barbarian horde back across the blood-bathed plain,—and to Mardonius’s
shout, a more terrible always answered:—
“Remember Leonidas! Remember Thermopylæ!”
The Prince seemed to bear a charmed life as he fought. He was in the
thickest fray. He sent the white Nisæan against the Laconian spears and
beat down a dozen lance-points with his sword. If one man’s valour could
have turned the tide, his would have wrought the miracle. And always
behind, almost in reach of the Grecian sling-stones, rode that other,—the
page in the silvered mail,—nor did any harm come to this rider. But after
the fight had raged so long that men sank unwounded,—gasping, stricken by
the heat and press,—the Prince drew back a little from the fray to a
rising in the plain, where close by a rural temple of Demeter he could
watch the drifting fight, and he saw the Aryans yielding ground finger by
finger, yet yielding, and the phalanx impregnable as ever. Then he sent an
aide with an urgent message.
“To Artabazus and the reserve. Bid him take from the camp all the guards,
every man, every eunuch that can lift a spear, and come with speed, or the
day is lost.”
The adjutant’s spurs grew red as he pricked away, while Mardonius wheeled
the Nisæan and plunged back into the thickest fight.
“For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!”
His battle-call pealed even above the hellish din. The Persian nobles who
had never ridden to aught save victory turned again. Their last charge was
their fiercest. They bent the phalanx back like an inverted bow. Their
footmen, reckless of self, plunged on the Greeks and snapped off the
spear-points with their naked hands. Mardonius was never prouder of his
host than in that hour. Proud—but the charge was vain. As the tide swept
back, as the files of the Spartans locked once more, he knew his men had
done their uttermost. They had fought since dawn. Their shield wall was
broken. Their quivers were empty. Was not Mazda turning against them? Had
not enough been dared for that king who lounged at ease in Sardis?
“For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!”
Mardonius’s shout had no answer. Here, there, he saw horsemen and footmen,
now singly, now in small companies, drifting backward across the plain to
the last refuge of the defeated, the stockaded camp by the Asopus. The
Prince called on his cavalry, so few about him now.
“Shall we die as scared dogs? Remember the Aryan glory. Another charge!”
His bravest seemed never to hear him. The onward thrust of the phalanx
quickened. It was gaining ground swiftly at last. Then the Spartans were
dashing forward like men possessed.
“The Athenians have vanquished the Thebans. They come to join us. On, men
of Lacedæmon, ours alone must be this victory!”
The shout of Pausanias was echoed by his captains. To the left and not far
off charged a second phalanx,—five thousand nodding crests and gleaming
points,—Aristeides bringing his whole array to his allies’ succour. But
his help was not needed. The sight of his coming dashed out the last
courage of the Barbarians. Before the redoubled shock of the Spartans the
Asiatics crumbled like sand. Even whilst these broke once more, the
adjutant drew rein beside Mardonius.
“Lord, Artabazus is coward or traitor. Believing the battle lost, he has
fled. There is no help to bring.”
The Prince bowed his head an instant, while the flight surged round him.
The Nisæan was covered with blood, but his rider spurred him across the
path of a squadron of flying Medians.
“Turn! Are you grown women!” Mardonius smote the nearest with his sword.
“If we cannot as Aryans conquer, let us at least as Aryans die!”
“_Ai! ai!_ Mithra deserts us. Artabazus is fled. Save who can!”
They swept past him. He flung himself before a band of Tartars. He had
better pleaded with the north wind to stay its course. Horse, foot,
Babylonians, Ethiopians, Persians, Medes, were huddled in fleeing rout.
“To the camp,” their cry, but Mardonius, looking on the onrushing
phalanxes knew there was no refuge there....
And now sing it, O mountains and rivers of Hellas. Sing it, Asopus, to
Spartan Eurotas, and you to hill-girt Alphæus. And let the maidens,
white-robed and poppy-crowned, sweep in thanksgiving up to the welcoming
temples,—honouring Zeus of the Thunders, Poseidon the Earth-Shaker, Athena
the Mighty in War. The Barbarian is vanquished. The ordeal is ended.
Thermopylæ was not in vain, nor Salamis. Hellas is saved, and with her
saved the world.
* * * * * * *
Again on the knoll by the temple, apart from the rushing fugitives,
Mardonius reined. His companion was once more beside him. He leaned that
she might hear him through the tumult.
“The battle is lost. The camp is defenceless. What shall we do?”
Artazostra flung back the gold-laced cap and let the sun play over her
face and hair.
“We are Aryans,” was all her answer.
He understood, but even whilst he was reaching out to catch her bridle
that their horses might run together, he saw her lithe form bend. The
arrow from a Laconian helot had smitten through the silvered mail. He saw
the red spring out over her breast. With a quick grasp he swung her before
him on the white horse. She smiled up in his face, never lovelier.
“Glaucon was right,” she said,—their lips were very close,—“Zeus and
Athena are greater than Mazda and Mithra. The future belongs to Hellas.
But we have naught for shame. We have fought as Aryans, as the children of
conquerors and kings. We shall be glad together in Garonmana the Blessed,
and what is left to dread?”
A quiver passed through her. The Spartan spear-line was close. Mardonius
looked once across the field. His men were fleeing like sheep. And so it
passed,—the dream of a satrapy of Hellas, of wider conquests, of an empire
of the world. He kissed the face of Artazostra and pressed her still form
against his breast.
“For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!” he shouted, and threw away his sword.
Then he turned the head of his wounded steed and rode on the Spartan
lances.
CHAPTER XL
THE SONG OF THE FURIES
Themistocles had started from Oropus with Simonides, a small guard of
mariners, and a fettered prisoner, as soon as the _Nausicaä’s_ people were
a little rested. Half the night they themselves were plodding on wearily.
At Tanagra the following afternoon a runner with a palm branch met them.
“Mardonius is slain. Artabazus with the rear-guard has fled northward. The
Athenians aided by the Spartans stormed the camp. Glory to Athena, who
gives us victory!”
“And the traitors?” Themistocles showed surprisingly little joy.
“Lycon’s body was found drifting in the Asopus. Democrates lies fettered
by Aristeides’s tents.”
Then the other Athenians broke forth into pæans, but Themistocles bowed
his head and was still, though the messenger told how Pausanias and his
allies had taken countless treasure, and now were making ready to attack
disloyal Thebes. So the admiral and his escort went at leisure across
Bœotia, till they reached the Hellenic host still camped near the
battle-field. There Themistocles was long in conference with Aristeides
and Pausanias. After midnight he left Aristeides’s tent.
“Where is the prisoner?” he asked of the sentinel before the headquarters.
“Your Excellency means the traitor?”
“I do.”
“I will guide you.” The soldier took a torch and led the way. The two went
down dark avenues of tents, and halted at one where five hoplites stood
guard with their spears ready, five more slept before the entrance.
“We watch him closely, _kyrie_,” explained the decarch, saluting.
“Naturally we fear suicide as well as escape. Two more are within the
tent.”
“Withdraw them. Do you all stand at distance. For what happens I will be
responsible.”
The two guards inside emerged yawning. Themistocles took the torch and
entered the squalid hair-cloth pavilion. The sentries noticed he had a
casket under his cloak.
“The prisoner sleeps,” said a hoplite, “in spite of his fetters.”
Themistocles set down the casket and carefully drew the tent-flap. With
silent tread he approached the slumberer. The face was upturned; white it
was, but it showed the same winsome features that had won the clappings a
hundred times in the Pnyx. The sleep seemed heavy, dreamless.
Themistocles’s own lips tightened as he stood in contemplation, then he
bent to touch the other’s shoulder.
“Democrates,”—no answer. “Democrates,”—still silence. “Democrates,”—a
stirring, a clanking of metal. The eyes opened,—for one instant a smile.
“_Ei_, Themistocles, it is you?” to be succeeded by a flash of unspeakable
horror. “O Zeus, the gyves! That I should come to this!”
The prisoner rose to a sitting posture upon his truss of straw. His
fettered hands seized his head.
“Peace,” ordered the admiral, gently. “Do not rave. I have sent the
sentries away. No one will hear us.”
Democrates grew calmer. “You are merciful. You do not know how I was
tempted. You will save me.”