A Victor of Salamis 17Book II · The Coming of Xerxes the God-King
18
Literature · Adventure
A Victor of Salamis 17
Book II · The Coming of Xerxes the God-King
DavisEnglish
At last the lotus-eating ended. Repeated messengers told how Xerxes was quitting Babylon, was holding a muster in Cappadocia, and now was crossing Asia Minor toward Sardis. Mardonius and his companions had returned to that capital. Daily the soldiery poured into Sardis by tens of thousands. Glaucon knew now it was not a vain boast that for ten years the East had been arming against Hellas, that the whole power of the twenty satrapies would be flung as one thunderbolt upon devoted Greece.
In the plain about Sardis a second city was rising, of wicker booths and gay pavilions. The host grew hourly. Now a band of ebony archers in leopard skins entered from far Ethiopia, now Bactrian battle-axemen, now yellow-faced Tartars from the northeast, now bright-turbaned Arabs upon their swaying camels,—Syrians, Cilicians, black-bearded Assyrians and Babylonians, thick-lipped Egyptians, came, and many a strange race more.
But the core of the army were the serried files of Aryan horse and foot,—blond-headed, blue-eyed men, Persians and Medes, veterans of twenty victories. Their muscles were tempered steel. Their unwearying feet had tramped many a long parasang. Some were light infantry with wicker shields and powerful bows, but as many more horsemen in gold-scaled armour and with desert steeds that flew like Pegasus.
“The finest cavalry in the world!” Mardonius vaunted, and his guest durst not answer nay.
Satrap after satrap came. When at last a foaming Arab galloping to the castle proclaimed, “Next morn the Lord of the World will enter Sardis,” Glaucon could scarce have looked for a greater, though he had expected Cronian Zeus himself.
Mardonius, as “bow-bearer to the king,” a semi-regal office, rode forth a stage to meet the sovran. The streets of Sardis were festooned with flowers. Thousands of spearmen held back the crowds. The Athenian stood beside Roxana and Artazostra at the upper window of a Lydian merchant prince, and his eyes missed nothing.
Never had the two women seemed lovelier than when their hearts ran out to their approaching king. He felt now the power of personal sovranty, how these children of the East awaited not Xerxes the Master, but Xerxes the Omnipotent, God-Manifest, whose decrees were as the decrees of Heaven. And their awe could not fail to awe the Athenian.
At noon the multitude caught the first token of the king. Down the road, through the gate, walked a man, bare-headed, bare-footed, alone,—Artaphernes, despot of all Lydia, going to pay his abject homage. Presently the eunuch priests of Cybele, perched above the gate, clashed their cymbals and raised their hymn of welcome. To the boom of drums the thousand chosen cavalry and as many picked footmen of the Life Guard entered, tall, magnificent soldiers,—caps and spear butts shining with gold. After these a gilded car drawn by the eight sacred horses, each milk-white, and on the car an altar bearing the eternal fire of Mazda. Then, each in his flashing chariot, moved the “Six Princes,” the heads of the great clans of the Achæmenians, then two hundred led desert horses, in splendid trappings, and then—after a long interval, that the host might 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?”
“I was too young to bear a spear at Marathon,” was the unflinching answer.
“Learn then to wield it in another army. Where is the archsecretary?”
That functionary was present instantly. Mardonius, taking the whispers of the king, dictated an order which the scribe stamped on his tablet of wet clay with a rapid stylus.
“Now the chief proclaimer,” was the king’s order, which brought a tall man in a bright scarlet caftan salaaming to the dais.
He took the tablet from the secretary and gave a resounding blow upon the brass gong dangling from his elbow. The clatter of wine cups ceased. The drinkers were silent on pain of death. The herald sent his proclamation in stentorian voice down the hall:—
“In the name of Xerxes the Achæmenian, king of kings, king of Persia, Media, Babylon, and Lydia; smiter of the Scythians, dominator of the Indians, terror of the Hellenes; to all peoples of the world his slaves,—hear ye!
“Says Xerxes the king, whose word changes not. Forasmuch as Glaucon the Athenian did save from death my servant and my sister, Mardonius and Artazostra, I do enroll him among the ‘Benefactors of the King,’ a sharer of my bounty forever. Let his name henceforth be not Glaucon, but Prexaspes. Let my purple cap be touched upon his head. Let him be given the robe of honour and the girdle of honour. Let the treasurer pay him a talent of gold. Let my servants honour him. Let those who mock at him be impaled. And this I proclaim as my decree.”
What followed Glaucon was too bewildered to recall clearly. He knew that the archchamberlain lifted the great jewel-crusted hat from the king’s head and set it on his own for an instant, that they brought him a flowing purple robe, and clasped about his waist a golden belt, every link set with a stone of price. The hall arose en masse to drink to the man whom the sovran delighted to honour.
“Hail! Thrice hail to the Lord Prexaspes! Justly rewarded by our gracious king!”
No man refused his plaudit, and Glaucon never knew how many envious courtiers cheered with their lips and in their hearts muttered dark things against “the manner in which his Majesty loved to play the god and promote this unknown Hellene above the heads of so many faithful subjects.”
Glaucon had made shift to speak some words of deprecation and gratitude to royalty; his bow was deeper when the supreme usher led him away from the throne than when he approached it. As he made his way out of the banqueting hall, a score of noblemen, captains of thousands, over-eunuchs, and more trailed at his heels, salaaming, fawning, congratulating, offering all manner of service. Not on the days following his victory at the Isthmia had his head been in such a whirl. He hardly heard the well-meant warning which Artabanus, the shrewd old vizier, gave as he passed the door of the great hall.
“Play the game well, my new Lord Prexaspes. The king can make you satrap or he can crucify you. Play the game well, the stakes are high.”
Neither did he hear the conversation betwixt Xerxes and the bow-bearer whilst he was being conducted away.
“Have I done well to honour this man, Mardonius?”
“Your Eternity was never more wise. Bear with his uncourtliness now, for he is truthful, upright, and noble in soul—qualities rare in a Hellene. Give me but time. I will make him a worthy Persian indeed.”
“Do not fail therein,” ordered the monarch, “for the youth has such beauty, both of body and mind, I am grieved he was born in Athens. Yet there is one short way to wean him from his doomed and miserable country.”
“Will Omnipotence but name it?”
“Search out for him a Persian wife, no, three or four wives—although I have heard the custom of these witless Greeks is to be content with only one. There is no surer way to turn his heart than that.”
“I thank your Eternity for your commandment. It shall not be forgotten.”
Mardonius bowed himself. Xerxes called for more wine. The feast lasted late and ended in an orgy.
