A Hero of Platæa.
“Here where the Persian clarion rung,
And where the Spartan sword flashed high,
And where the Pæan strains were sung,
From year to year swelled on by liberty!”
Felicia Hemans.
The market-place of Platæa was the scene of rejoicing over the victory
of the Spartans. Pausanias, the Spartan leader, nephew of the brave
Leonidas, conducted solemn sacrificial services.
Their victory had seemed almost a miracle, for the Athenians and
Spartans had begun a retreat to an island formed by two forks of the
river Oeroe. The Persians, when they saw that the Greeks were
retreating, pursued them. The Athenians were ahead, and the Spartans
being behind were overtaken by the disorderly Persian horde. The
Athenians learning of the encounter, decided to return to the assistance
of their allies, but were attacked by the Thebans before they could act
upon their decision. From behind the breastwork of shields the Persians
shot their arrows bravely, and for awhile the outcome was doubtful but
Pausanias and his brave Spartans succeeded in killing Mardonius. With
their leader dead, the Persians lost their fervor and fled in disorder.
In the meanwhile the encounter between the Athenians and Thebans became
more serious. When the battle had reached its crisis, both the Athenians
and the Thebans observed a tall figure in the garb of a Greek soldier
fighting amid the Thebans like a fiend, and what amazed the Greeks most
was that he fought with his left arm only, the other being supported by
a bandage which hung from his shoulder. He seemed to bear a charmed
life. Before his sword the Thebans fell, and the Athenians pressing
around him were able to work havoc in his wake.
Suddenly a Theban sprang in front of the one-armed fighting warrior and
cried as he crossed swords with him, “I swear you are the Persian with
whom I dined and exchanged confidences at the feast of Attaginus. You
shall pay for your treason with your life.”
The other smiled grimly but said not a word as he entered into the
encounter, and before long this antagonist like the others, lay with the
point of the Athenian’s sword at his throat.
“Now Thersander,” cried the victorious one, “do you surrender to Zopyrus
the Athenian, or do you meet death at his sword?”
The Theban surrendered as had many another of his countrymen on that
day, and history tells us that among the captives was Attaginus, the
only one of the number who succeeded later in making his escape. The
wicked Artabazus instead of coming to the aid of the Persians after
Mardonius fell, fled with his troops through Phocis to Thessaly,
Macedonia and the Hellespont, and the fair Parysatis accompanied him.
So it was no wonder that Platæa was the scene of much rejoicing upon
this occasion. Pausanias, though enthusiastically lauded by both
Spartans and Athenians, did not accept the great honor bestowed upon him
alone. He said that if he were the hero of the Spartans over the
Persians, so likewise was the stranger who fought with but one arm, the
hero of the Athenians over the Thebans. When asked who he was, Zopyrus
merely stated that he was a loyal Athenian who had been away from Athens
for a number of years, which statement he could make without distorting
the truth.
Pausanias stood surrounded by the booty acquired in the victory over
Mardonius. The vast cables of papyrus which had composed the bridge of
Xerxes when he first crossed the Hellespont, were here displayed;
likewise the silver-footed throne and the cimeter of Mardonius and the
sword and breastplate of Masistius.
Many beautiful women who had been in the harems of the Persian leaders
were either sold or given to those who had displayed exceptional
bravery. Of these Zopyrus was offered first choice, but to Pausanias’
surprise he politely declined. Stepping over to the pile where were
stacked the swords, breastplates, shields, helmets and smaller articles
of pillage, Zopyrus drew forth the sword of Masistius and made the
statement that this would be a most acceptable portion of the spoils to
him. The Greeks wondered at his choice, but no one made so bold as to
question him concerning it.
As Zopyrus was about to leave the market-place someone placed a
detaining hand upon his shoulder. Turning, the former looked into the
face of a young man of about his own height and physique but a few years
his senior, who smilingly offered his hand.
“I wish to commend you for your bravery in the recent battle and to
welcome you back to Athens, as I understand you have not been there for
some years past. I am Cimon, and this,” he indicated a slender man by
his side, “is Polygnotus, an artist of no mean reputation. We are both
residing in Athens and shall be glad to have you meet others of our
friends in the city.”
Zopyrus was greatly pleased. From the handsome countenance of Cimon he
turned to look at the artist, Polygnotus. Although in Greek military
dress, Polygnotus did not appear a soldier. His features were thin,
almost delicate, his nose aquiline and his mouth super-sensitive. His
hair of light brown, very smooth and straight, was dressed on the
prevailing style with the braids crossed at the back of the head and
fastened in front. His eyes were searching and possessed a mild lustre
indicative of a fine degree of intellectuality and a broad sympathetic
understanding of his fellow men. Zopyrus recognized in him at once a
kindred mind.
“As you no doubt know,” said the artist, “our homes are in ashes but we
are returning to rebuild them, determined to lose no time in mourning
our losses, but rejoicing that the enemy is forever expelled.”
Cimon had turned away and with another soldier sought the platform where
beautiful women, many of them Greeks, stood exposed to the rude gaze of
the soldiery. Zopyrus’ eyes followed the retreating form of Cimon and a
question arose to his lips which was anticipated by the quiet Polygnotus
who said: “You wonder at Cimon’s interest in the women and I can assure
you his motives are pure. He is searching for the girl he loves who was
taken captive by one of the Persian leaders and confined in his harem.”
“What was her name?” asked Zopyrus tensely.
“Ladice,” was the anticipated, but at the same time astounding reply.
“The maiden has been rescued from the harem of Artabazus,” said Zopyrus
quietly.
“Are you absolutely certain?” cried the artist incredulously.
At the other’s nod he cried, “Come with me, I must inform Cimon of
this.”
Cimon saw the two approaching and hastened forward to join them with the
words: “Ladice is not among the captive women, so it is reasonable to
believe that Icetes effected a rescue.”
“The stranger can confirm our hopes,” said Polygnotus. “He has told me
that Ladice was rescued from the harem of a certain Artabazus.”
Cimon turned to Zopyrus, his face white with the effort to conceal the
agony of suspense.
“Is she now on her way to Athens with her rescuer?” he asked tensely.
“I do not quite understand you,” replied Zopyrus. “I, myself rescued an
Athenian maiden by the name of Ladice from the tent of Artabazus. I
conducted her in safety across Oak Heads Pass. She then suggested that I
go to the Greek encampment on Mt. Cithæron, insisting she could make her
way alone to friends in safety since she was away from the Persians.”
“Zeus is merciful!” exclaimed the overwrought Cimon, “but tell me saw
you aught of a soldier while you were crossing Oak Heads Pass? You must
have met him a little this side of the summit. It was he whom I thought
had delivered Ladice from the hands of the Persian.”
The face of Zopyrus grew deathly pale at Cimon’s words.
“Alas!” he cried, “I did meet a soldier on Oak Heads Pass who took me
for an enemy without a chance for explanation. We fought together, and
in the dark we missed our footing and rolled down a steep embankment. I
sustained this broken arm,” he pointed to the sling which supported the
broken member, “but my unknown antagonist was killed.”
“Oh my poor Icetes!” cried Cimon greatly distraught. “To think that you
met your fate thus, and for me!”
Polygnotus touched his friend’s arm gently; “Icetes would probably have
lost his life in the battle, for he was very daring. His was a noble
though useless sacrifice, but let us rejoice that Ladice has been saved.
You owe much to our new friend.”
“I am truly grateful, Zopyrus,” said Cimon grasping the hand of the
other, “but how did you come to rescue the girl whom I love?”
There was a note of distrust in his voice though he strove to conceal
it.
“That is a long story that I will tell you at some other time,” replied
Zopyrus.
As the three walked away from the public square, Cimon placed an arm
across the shoulder of Zopyrus, for he was involuntarily drawn toward
this attractive stranger, in spite of his former suspicions. But Zopyrus
was pained by his own duplicity as he thought of how recently he had
been in Persian uniform. When he would tell his new friend “the long
story, some other time,” his conscience would be clear, but for the
present it hurt him to realize that Cimon’s arm had been laid in
brotherly affection upon that same uniform, when not he, but the dead
Icetes, had worn it.