A Victor of Salamis 39Book III · The Council of Mardonius
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Literature · Adventure
A Victor of Salamis 39
Book III · The Council of Mardonius
DavisEnglish
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 saluted his officers, and said that the Greeks of the lesser states had retreated far to the rear, that Amompharetus still refused to move his division, that the Spartans waited for him, and the Athenians for the Spartans.
“Noble tidings,” whispered the giant, as the two stood an instant, before each went to his own men. “Behold how Hermes helps us—a great deity.”
“Sometimes I think Nemesis is greater,” said Democrates, once again refusing Lycon’s proffered hand.
“By noon you’ll laugh at Nemesis, philotate, when we both drink Helbon wine in Xerxes’s tent!” and away went Lycon into the dark.
Democrates went his own way also. Soon he was in the fallow-field, where under the warm night the Athenians were stretched, each man in armour, his helmet for a pillow. A few torches were moving. From a distance came the hum from a group of officers in excited conversation. As the orator picked his way among the sleeping men, a locharch with a lantern accosted him suddenly.
“You are Democrates the strategus?”
“Certainly.”
“Aristeides summons you at once. Come.”
There was no reason for refusing. Democrates followed.
