Masistius’ Message to Zopyrus.
“But down on his threshold, down!
Sinks the warrior’s failing breath,
The tale of that mighty field
Is left to be told by Death.”
Letitia Elizabeth Landon.
Platæa lay on the northern slope of beautiful Mt. Cithæron at the foot
of which wound the picturesque river Asopus. On this day in midsummer,
four hundred and seventy-nine B. C., three hundred thousand Persians and
fifty thousand Greek allies were encamped on the north bank of the river
while the confederate Greek army which numbered one hundred and ten
thousand, waited for the Persian attack on the slopes of Cithæron.
Because of unfavorable advice from soothsayers, both sides hesitated to
commence the assault.
After several days of suspense, Mardonius summoned his soothsayer to his
tent, the same tent occupied by Xerxes before his return to Asia. The
general sat before a table gazing steadfastly at a parchment which was
spread before him. The soothsayer bowed and approached Mardonius.
“Did you send for me, my lord?” he asked.
Mardonius lifted a face that was strangely pale and haggard. “Aye,
Hegesistratus, I would know the latest signs.”
“It grieves me that the signs are all unfavorable, especially in the
case of an initiative on the Persian side,” replied the soothsayer.
Mardonius frowned. “Can you not tell us what it were best to do? If you
can not I shall find a man who can.”
“My lord,” replied Hegesistratus, “I have examined closely the entrails
of every sacrificial animal, and the signs are the same. Would you know
the truth? I am here to tell you, no matter what that truth may be.”
Mardonius leaned forward clutching the table until the knuckles of his
hands were white. “Tell me, Hegesistratus, am I in imminent danger?”
The seer turned his face slowly away and made no reply.
“Speak, dog, or your head will be forfeit!” cried the wrathful general.
“Then if you must needs know,” responded the reluctant prophet, “you are
in grave danger.”
“Is there no hope?” asked Mardonius turning very pale.
“All men pass through certain periods of danger and such a one is now
imminent for you, my lord, but the time of no man’s death is absolutely
fated and mayhap this crisis will pass!”
“Depart and send Masistius to me at once,” said the leader in great
agitation.
A few moment later the tent folds parted, admitting the gigantic form of
the cavalryman. The sight of the heroic figure seemed to cheer
Mardonius, for in place of his customary tones of peremptory command, he
spoke informally, even affectionately to the brave Persian.
“Masistius I have decided to delay no longer, for provisions are low. It
is my wish that you lead the Persian cavalry in an offensive. We number
three times the enemy, therefore why delay longer?”
“All that a true soldier wants to know is that he understands his
orders. Your slightest wish is a command, Mardonius. I shall go at
once.”
“You are a brave man, Masistius. Ask what you will after this encounter,
and it shall be granted you. I will show Hegesistratus what little faith
I put in his soothsaying!”
A few hours after this Masistius approached Zopyrus, calling him away
from a group of soldiers with whom he was conversing.
“Zopyrus, I go shortly to charge the enemy and if the gods will that I
do not return, read this and obey its instructions.” So saying he thrust
into his friend’s hand a bit of parchment. A few seconds fraught with
emotion and Masistius strode off to obey his superior’s orders.
When the Athenians observed the approach of the Persian cavalry they
descended to the plain below. Zopyrus stood, a tense figure, behind the
barracks. His bosom swelled with pride as he watched the manly form of
Masistius mounted on a black charger, likewise of huge proportions.
“Now if I but knew the secret power of the maiden’s prayer!” thought he.
Riding rapidly at the head of the Greek cavalry was the Athenian
Olympiodorus, a white steed bearing him to the scene of conflict. He was
not a man of large frame, but his attitude of calm self-reliance and his
military bearing gave promise to Masistius that here was an opponent
worthy of the utmost exertion of belligerent mettle. On came the two
principal antagonists, the distance between them steadily decreasing. At
last they met with a clash of weapons.
The Greek was successful in parrying the stroke of the Persian. With
exceptional agility he dodged now this way, now that, bringing to naught
the superior strength of his antagonist. At length Olympiodorus began
losing ground. His muscles were tiring under the continued strain of
warding off his opponent’s thrust. Just when it would seem that
Masistius could make the final stab, another horseman rode up to the
assistance of Olympiodorus. In this unequal conflict Masistius felt
himself a loser. He wondered why his friends did not come to his aid,
but was vaguely conscious that they were busily engaged in battle. Still
he labored on parrying each thrust till he relaxed in complete
exhaustion and a second later fell as the sword of Olympidiorus’ helper
pierced his vitals. So perished Masistius, one of the bravest of
Mardonius’ soldiers.
From his position behind the bulwarks, Zopyrus witnessed the death of
his dearest friend. He stood for a moment as one in a stupor. His
consciousness seemed gradually to weaken, flicker and die out, then a
new spirit appeared to take hold of him and slowly gain predominance.
After struggling for months with indecision which was gradually
destroying his willpower, the right course for him to take became
unquestionably apparent. He realized that since the defeat at Salamis,
Masistius had been the only bond that held him to the Persian despot
whose many acts of atrocity he had viewed with growing aversion. The
influence of his Greek mother had at last gained undeniable supremacy.
She had taught him while it is manly to love one’s country, it is
God-like to love the world.
It was a new Zopyrus who turned and with resolute steps sought the
seclusion of his tent. With deferential fingers he touched the note
which his departed friend had given him and perused it with eyes moist
with unshed tears. It ran as follows:
“To Zopyrus greetings—When you read this, my dear friend, you will know
that I am no longer among the living. My one regret is that I can not
carry out in the body that which I planned. Would it be asking too much
of you, my friend and comrade, to undertake that which death makes
impossible of accomplishment? Do you remember the eve of the Theban’s
banquet when you confessed to me that you loved a Greek maiden, whom you
returned unharmed to her people? I did not then tell you that a somewhat
similar experience has been mine. But to make this clear to you, I must
go back to that moment upon the Acropolis in Athens when Xerxes gave to
you the girl whom Artabazus had seized. If you were not too busy with
your own affairs you will remember that after granting this maid to you,
Xerxes then told Artabazus to take the other girl. I happened to be
standing beside Artabazus at the time, and never shall I forget the
agonized expression upon the Greek maid’s face as she felt herself
seized by the Persian. I understand and speak Greek but poorly, yet I
knew what she said. Observing that I did not enter into the course jests
of the other soldiers, she pled with me to save her from Artabazus, a
thing I would willingly have attempted had it been at all possible.
“The memory of her naturally fair face distorted in the agony of fear,
haunted me and I resolved to attempt a rescue. I knew she was confined
in a tent to the rear of that of Artabazus where a number of Persian
women were kept under guard of a eunuch. I passed by the tent often that
evening under pretext of official duty beyond. At last I was rewarded by
the sight of a piece of parchment slipped under a fold of the tent. I
placed my foot upon it while I looked about to be assured no one had
witnessed the passing of the note which read:
“‘I am a prisoner in the harem of Artabazus. Can you save me? Artabazus
has promised not to harm me till after the encounter between Greeks and
Persians. This promise was wrung from him principally through the
efforts of a jealous Persian woman who threatened my life. He and she
made a compromise, the result of which was that I should be forced to
surrender myself to him immediately after the next conflict regardless
of which side came through victorious. If you can rescue me before the
close of another battle, I will owe you a debt of gratitude which I can
never repay—Ladice.’
“As you are aware, Zopyrus, this occurred at Phalerum, and since then
Persians and Greeks have not met in conflict until now. I have had other
occasions during the ten months of our sojourn in Thessaly to secretly
communicate with Ladice, and in each of her messages she has assured me
of the strict manner in which his favorite mistress forces Artabazus to
abide by his word. During this time I felt my heart undergoing a change
from pity to love for this Greek girl who was so dependent upon my
mercy, and upon one occasion I grew bold enough to write in words my
adoration and hopes for the future. Her answer the next day contained
the happy news that my love was returned, and I planned on a rescue
during the next conflict, stating that I believed our communications had
better cease in order to decrease the possibility of further danger. She
told me that she believed Pædime, the jealous paramour of Artabazus, had
suspected the exchange of our notes, but realizing it to be to her
advantage to allow Ladice to escape, she had maintained a discreet
silence.
“This then is the situation that I leave and that I trust my friend
Zopyrus to take up where fate has forced me to leave it. May the
good-will of Ahura-Mazdâo follow you in all your efforts throughout
life—Masistius.”
The changed Zopyrus sat a moment buried in deepest thought. Without he
heard the noises which accompany preparation for battle. He hurried
forth into the open.
“What are Mardonius’ orders?” he asked of the first soldier he saw.
“Look for yourself,” cried the fellow excitedly, “and you will know what
his orders must be.”
Zopyrus turned his gaze to the slopes of Cithæron and saw that the
Greeks who had held back reservedly were now, emboldened by the death of
a prominent opponent, pouring down the verdant hillside. The well-aimed
arrows of the Persians, however, kept them at bay.
Zopyrus spied several of the Persian leaders in heated argument. As he
approached, the Theban, Timegenidas, was speaking.
“You know well, Mardonius, that their water supply from the Asopus river
is completely cut off. Where are they able to get water?”
“I have just been informed,” replied the leader, “that they are getting
water from a fountain called Gargaphia, yonder,” and he pointed to the
east. “Will you, Zopyrus, investigate this fountain? Take another man
with you this very night and see if it will be possible to fill the
fountain with dirt and stones. If we can do this we may well be sanguine
of success.”
The commander turned to Artabazus. “Does the plan meet with your
approval, Artabazus?” he asked.
“Entirely, Mardonius. I am weary of warfare and only too glad to try any
plan that may bring the quickest results.”
To Zopyrus only did this remark have any special significance. He knew
that Artabazus was thinking of the fair captive whom he was to possess
as soon as the battle was over.
“There,” cried Zopyrus, “the Greeks are retreating. Our arrows have held
them in check. At this time tomorrow there will be a surprise in store!”
It was true. The Greeks were fleeing from the open plain to the shady
recesses of the mountain, there to rally for a renewed defense on the
morrow.
* * * * * * * *
On the silken covers of a couch in a remote corner of the tent which was
occupied by the women of the harem of Artabazus, lay the grief-stricken
form of the Greek captive, Ladice. She had been informed of the death of
Masistius, and with that realization had come also the awful knowledge
that soon she would be the property of the Persian Artabazus, whose
lewdness was the common talk of the camp. Her brows were delicately
arched and her long lashes swept her cheeks meeting the flush of color
brought to her face as a result of hours of feverish weeping. Her hair,
brown with a gleam of copper, hung over her partially bare shoulders.
Hovering above her with contemptuous gaze, was the Persian girl,
Phædime, the reigning queen of Artabazus’ harem until the close of the
battle of Platæa. Her full lips were twisted into a sneer, and there was
a venomous light in the almond-shaped eyes of jet. Her blue-black hair
was parted above a low white brow and hung in long, thick, glossy braids
over her shoulders.
“So your lover is dead!” she said tauntingly. “You can not regret that
fact more than I, for I had hoped to see him take you away from
Artabazus, but Artabazus is mine, do you hear? Do you think I can bear
to see you in his arms? I have promised not to kill you, but I will try
to assist you to escape if you can do so without these others knowing
what I have done.” She indicated the other women in the tent.
“It is impossible,” sobbed Ladice. “The eyes of that hideous eunuch are
forever upon me and there are armed guards without.”
Phædime bent over the prostrate form in a more menacing attitude.
“I believe you do not want to go,” she said between closed teeth, “but I
will make it so unpleasant for you here that you will be glad to go even
if suicide offers the only hope for escape. Mark my words well, for I
make no idle threats!” With which words she left the unhappy Greek
prisoner.