[Illustration]
THE
PRINCESS ATHURA
_A ROMANCE OF IRAN_
BY
SAMUEL W. ODELL
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1913, by
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
_Published April, 1913_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE GREAT KING’S LAST BATTLE 1
II AN OATH 15
III PREXASPES 29
IV ATHURA 42
V CAMBYSES 58
VI PERSEPOLIS 76
VII “I AM CYRUS, THE KING, THE ACHÆMENIAN!” 92
VIII A ROYAL COUNCIL AND A ROYAL HUNT 101
IX THE DEEPER THINGS 121
X A FAREWELL FEAST 133
XI THE GREAT KING INTRODUCES A STRANGE CUSTOM 151
XII THE FORCE OF AN OATH 165
XIII A CLASH OF WILLS 179
XIV THE WAR AGAINST EGYPT 198
XV THE MADNESS OF CAMBYSES 219
XVI THE END OF OATH-KEEPING 235
XVII THE EARLESS KING 254
XVIII THE SPIDER’S WEB 266
XIX A GALLOPING TO AND FRO 280
XX THE OVERTHROW OF THE MAGI 297
XXI KING OF KINGS 305
THE PRINCESS ATHURA
A Romance of Iran
CHAPTER I
THE GREAT KING’S LAST BATTLE
It was morning on the plains of Asia. Long-legged herons stood in the
shallows of the yellow Jaxartes, bathing their feet in its sluggish
flood and warming their bodies in the first rays of the sun. They were
silently and uneasily watching a host of armed men drawn out in long
battle-lines across the lowlands bordering the southern margin of the
stream.
Where the armed host stood was a sandy plain, about two miles wide.
Beyond this was a low range of sand-hills, which trended away to the
southeast, enlarging the plain as they receded from the river. Cutting
through hills and plain to join the river-bed was a dry water-course,
where, in winters only, a torrent flowed. In it were some stunted trees
and scattered thickets of shrubs. To the north of the river was a
vast plain on which the dry, yellow grass had been withered by summer
sun and wind. Far in the east appeared dimly through a blue haze the
summits of high mountains. Westward the river had yet to flow half its
length to the Oxian swamps. Here it was wide and shallow and its banks
were low and marshy.
The rays of the sun sparkled on the brazen breastplates and shining
blades of battle-axes, on the spear-points and gilded helmets, of
two hundred thousand men, who here awaited the approach of a far more
numerous host coming down from the east along the river towards them.
The light rested softly upon the stern, bearded faces of veterans of
many wars and the softer cheeks of young men on this, their first
campaign. They were men of Iran for the most part, though some were
Assyrians, Babylonians, Arabs, Hebrews, or Greeks from the Ionian
cities. They were followers of Cyrus, the King of Kings, the Great
King, ever victorious Lord of the World.
Those about to attack them were Touranian horsemen, known to ancient
history as Scythians, Massagetæ, Sacæ, and to modern history as
Tartars, Turks, or Kalmuks. The hearts of the soldiers of Cyrus were
glad. For the long, dusty marches in pursuit of an ever retreating
enemy would now end in a riot of blood and slaughter, and perhaps they
might then set their faces homeward. No doubt of victory entered their
minds. They were led by Cyrus, the invincible. It mattered not if the
enemy outnumbered them three to one, as their scouts had reported.
There would be more killing and a greater victory.
Racial hatred, reaching back beyond history and tradition to the
distant age when the first family of man threw off branches to
different parts of the earth and the branches immediately claimed the
pleasant places and fought each other for them, animated both parties
to the coming conflict. The folklore of the early Aryans is largely
composed of tales concerning heroes who had saved their people from the
ravages of those fierce men of the North, the Touranians. Century after
century the wandering hordes of the great northern plains hovered, like
threatening clouds, along the boundaries of Iran, looking across the
mountains from their own arid and wind-swept abodes to the rich and
pleasant hills and valleys of the South. The children of those tribes,
in the days of Tamerlane and Mohammed, broke over all barriers, crushed
Eastern civilization, and put back the clock of progress a thousand
years.
Once even before the time of Cyrus, the wild Touranians had passed over
the mountains and pushed through into Mesopotamia, bearing woe to the
nations. Then, one day, their captains sat down to a banquet prepared
by the conquered ones and instead of meats were fed with sword-blows
and dagger-thrusts. Having thus been deprived of leaders, the Touranian
conquerors had suffered disaster; and all had been either killed,
enslaved, or driven back across the mountains. Stories of that invasion
were thereafter told at every fireside of the Bactrians, Medes,
Persians, and their kindred tribes; and the mothers in Iran frightened
their children into obedience by threatening to hand them over to the
dreaded monsters of Touran.
Having conquered all civilized Asia, Cyrus had thought to rest in
his palaces at Hamadan, or Susa, Babylon, or Pasargadæ; but there
had come word from ancient Balk, or Bactra, the mother city of all
Aryans, warning him that the Touranians were gathering for war in
numbers so immense that help must be sent. The great war-king had at
once responded. With half a million men he had marched into Bactra, to
the aid of King Hystaspis, who, under him, ruled there, and, passing
through the mountains on its northern border, he had driven back the
leading troops of the enemy. The Touranians had retreated, seeking to
draw him into the great plains, where they hoped that they might crush
him with overwhelming numbers. He had followed carefully, building
forts as he advanced, that his supply-line might be safe, and leaving
strong detachments to guard them. With less than half his army, though
its best part, he had arrived at the great river, Jaxartes, and had
waited there for the enemy to assemble and attack him. Now they were
coming and he was ready.
Cyrus had chosen the battle-ground. He had marched out of his camp,
situated a mile or so down the river, and had taken position where the
narrow plain enabled him to mass his forces, with the sand-hills to
protect his right, the river his left, and the dry water-course his
front. The enemy, coming down towards him, would be compressed into an
ever narrowing field where their immense superiority in numbers would
not give them undue advantage. Knowing that the Touranians were all
mounted and were accustomed to charge in mass at headlong speed, he
hoped to draw them into the great ditch at his front in such confusion
that the impetus of their assault would be broken. For this purpose
he threw out to the east of the ditch about one thousand paces a
curtain of light cavalry, which had orders to draw an assault, retreat
rapidly before it, and take refuge behind the infantry. The position
of the infantry was a line about halfway down the western slope of the
water-course, and it would not be perceived by the pursuers until they
should arrive at the upper margin of the eastern slope. Keeping five
thousand of his heavy cavalry, known as the Imperial Guard, in reserve
on the high ground at his extreme left near the river, he had stationed
the remainder, about fifteen thousand strong, behind the crests of the
sand-hills at his extreme right; and it would be their duty as soon
as the Touranians should join battle, to make a détour to the right,
descend from the hills upon their rear, and there attack. Thus, by the
grace of Ahura-Mazda, Cyrus hoped, the enemy would be placed between
his veteran infantry and his invincible cavalry, and so be ground to
pieces.
Near the margin of the river in front of the army was a group of men
whose dress and demeanor denoted them leaders. One of these, to whom
the others gave worshipful attention, was mounted on a noble Nisæan
stallion. He was watching the distant mass of enemies with searching
attention. He seemed indeed a king and worthy to be a King of Kings.
Historians and storytellers have surrounded him with heroic luster. His
countenance was eagle-like. His forehead was high, his nose sharp and
slightly bridged, and his chin firm. The piercing glance of his black
eyes never failed to read men nor to impress them with the necessity of
instant obedience to orders. His demeanor was humorous and kind toward
friends but fierce and terrible to evil-doers or to an enemy. Despite
his sixty years, forty of which had been spent in war, his body was
erect and soldierly. A helmet, glittering with gold, was on his head,
and from beneath it his straight gray hair fell to the collar of his
cloak. A white, silky beard covered the lower portion of his face and
lay upon the silver breast-scales of the flexible coat-of-mail which
covered his body and hips. Brazen greaves, fastened to soft leathern
breeches, protected his limbs. His only weapon was a short sword,
pendent from a belt around his waist. The trappings of his horse were
rich. Its chest and neck were also protected by link mail.
In the group of officers surrounding the Great King, there were two
of no less royal birth than he. One was Hystaspis, King of Iran, his
cousin, one of the Achæmenides, the family that had ruled in Iran
for ages. Cyrus had been King of Fars, or Persia, before he became
King of Kings. Hystaspis had ruled in Bactra, the ancient seat of the
Aryan race. Astyages was king of Medea and grandfather of Cyrus, whose
mother was a Medean princess. He claimed suzerainty over all Iran.
Cyrus had conquered his grandfather in war and, having dethroned him,
had stepped up into the exalted position of King of Kings. He had then
placed Persia under control of Hystaspis, who loyally supported him
and acknowledged him as the overlord of all Iran. Cyrus was a warrior.
Hystaspis was a student, a lover of peace and a mystic, though he ruled
his people well as a statesman and showed qualities of a great warrior
when necessity demanded. In his youthful days he had known the famous
Zoroaster, the seer of Iran, who had reduced to writing the ancient
songs and the ritual of religious worship of his race and had preached
new life into its creed. Hystaspis was milder, more benevolent, and
less alight with energy than Cyrus.
Prince Darius Hystaspis, son of the King of Iran, was the other royal
person in the group. He had dismounted from his war-horse and, with
folded arms, was standing at its head, also watching the enemy. Six
feet in height and well-proportioned, youthful and gallant, he was an
ideal soldier. A helmet of gold and silver leaves covered his black,
short-cropped hair save at the temples. A coat of leaf-mail protected
his chest and his limbs halfway to the knee and was confined at his
waist by a broad leather belt studded with gems set in golden buttons.
A bronze plate further protected his breast, and greaves of the same
metal were fastened to his leather riding-breeches as a protection to
his legs. High-laced leather shoes encased his feet. A short sword hung
at his belt, and a short-handled battle-ax swung from the saddle on his
horse. A soldier from boyhood and already a veteran, having served
in Cyrus’ last campaign against Babylon, yet he was, like his father,
a student, and had learned wisdom of the greatest seer of that age,
Belteshazzer, the Hebrew. His shaven cheeks were fair and glowing with
the health of right living. His eyes were blue and clear and were set
deeply beneath dark eyebrows and a lofty forehead. He was the idol of
all Aryans, and, next to Cyrus, the hero of the army. He was commander
of the Imperial Guard, and to him had been entrusted the duty of
leading the Guard in the flank movement by which Cyrus hoped to crush
the enemy.
Otanes, a giant in size, the noblest of Iran’s seven great nobles, was
another of the group. He was shield-bearer to Cyrus and commander of
his chosen body-guard. There was also Hydarnes, another of the seven
nobles, a short, heavy man whose long, upturned mustache and beetling
eyebrows were his most prominent features. He was commander of the
Persian infantry. Vomisces, one of the seven nobles and commander of
the allied infantry, the Babylonian, Assyrian, and Hebrew levies, and
Gobryas, another one of the seven, a young man, blood-brother and
closest friend of Prince Darius, were in the group. There was also
Prexaspes, a Medean noble, commander of the light-armed cavalry, a
brave, ambitious man, richly dressed in jeweled armor and having his
hair and whiskers curled and perfumed. He was a cynical, unscrupulous,
and pleasure-loving man, but energetic, resourceful, and brave. Of him
we shall hear much in this story. A number of orderlies waited near by
to receive and transmit the Great King’s commands.
The herons in the Jaxartes have become restless but have not yet flown.
While they wait and while Cyrus is watching the enemy, we may study
the private soldiers to whose blows he will owe his victory, if he
wins. They were not of the same quality as those effeminate men who,
in later years, were unable to withstand the Greeks under the great
Alexander. This was true at least of the Aryans who constituted the
bulk of the army.
Passing along the front of the light-armed cavalry, we observe the
dusky Arab, with his curved scimiter and long javelin, his bow and
arrows. He is clothed in turban, short tunic, loose cloak, brazen
breastplate, and leathern breeches. He is mounted on the beautiful,
swift horse of the desert which he loves as his own brother. Here
also we see famous bowmen from Edom and Canaan, slingers from the
Mediterranean isles, and Syrians from Mesopotamia, severally arrayed in
their national costumes. When we pass along the lines of infantry, we
note a distinctive army dress. Each soldier wears on his head a high,
round felt cap; on his body, a stout, leathern, tight-fitting jacket,
or tunic, with skirt extending halfway to the knee, and on his legs
linen trousers, confined at the ankles by the tops of the soft leathern
shoes with which his feet are shod. A bronze breastplate covers his
chest, and bars of the same metal are on his arms and shoulders. The
front rank, as it stands in position, is protected by wicker shields,
covered with heavy leather, braced with metal bands. These shields are
about seven feet long and are placed upright with the pointed lower
ends thrust into the earth. Behind them, as a wall, the spearmen are
comparatively safe from the enemy’s javelins and arrows. If the fight
comes to close quarters, the shields may be easily thrown down; then
for his further protection, the soldier must rely on a small, round
targe held in place by straps on his left forearm.
Each heavy-armed infantryman in the six front ranks carries a heavy
spear about seven feet long and a short sword somewhat like a long
dagger. A short-handled battle-ax with sharp, shearing blade and
pointed beak is hung by a strap over his shoulder. The soldiers in the
rear ranks, instead of the heavy spear and battle-ax, carry bundles of
light javelins, for casting at short range, and long bows with sheaths
of arrows, for fighting at long range. Protected by the wicker wall
and the hedge of spears in the fore, they will meet the assault with
showers of darts cast over the front ranks or, advancing behind the
charging spearmen, will gall the enemy thus before the shock of the
hand-to-hand fight comes.
At intervals along the lines stand the captains of hundreds and
commanders of thousands, distinguished from private soldiers only by
richer armor and plumes of horse-hair on their caps.
We next note the soldiers of the Imperial Guard. They are all large
men, none of them over forty years of age, every one of noble birth,
and all belong to the military class of Iran. They know but one
calling, that of arms. All had entered military service at the age of
sixteen, had been enrolled in the Guards at the age of twenty, and
will remain there until they shall reach their fortieth year, at which
time they will either be made civil officers or promoted and placed
in command of companies and divisions of the imperial armies. Their
armor consists of brazen helmets for their heads, chain-mail for their
bodies, and brazen greaves for their legs and arms. A round shield,
held on the left forearm in battle, will give further protection. A
long, sharp javelin, a sword, and a battle-ax are their weapons. Their
horses are protected by chain-mail on neck, forehead, and breast.
Cyrus, having satisfied himself that the Touranians were really coming
to battle, turned to his generals and said: “At last the Touranians
have decided to fight! We must not only repel this attack but must
utterly destroy them, so that hereafter the terror of our name shall
command peace! Take no prisoners! This day we shall avenge the wrongs
of Iran in the death of its ancient enemies! Should it happen that I
be slain in this battle, my cousin, the King of Iran, will command. In
case he also should fall, his son, our beloved Prince, will command.”
His piercing black eyes rested a moment upon the Prince’s countenance.
The latter flushed with pleasure at the honor done him, and bowed in
acknowledgment. The King continued: “The King of Iran will remain at
my side. I shall need his advice. There will be no change in the plans
announced last evening. With the help of Ahura-Mazda, this day we will
fill that torrent-bed with Touranian dead! You, Prince of Iran, have
the most important duty. Ride down upon their rear as soon as you see
their front ranks engaged with our infantry. Officers, go to your
places! Let the skirmishers advance farther into the plain!”
The group scattered, each officer riding to his place. Cyrus and the
King of Iran retired across the torrent-bed to the eminence at the rear
of the left wing of the army. The Prince of Iran mounted and hurried to
his command. Trumpets sounded. The light cavalry of the skirmish line
moved briskly out upon the plain. The Touranians came on, a vast throng
with but little semblance of order. Their leaders rode in advance at
intervals, and the front ranks only preserved an irregular alignment.
The two opposing forces slowly drew near each other. The shaggy coats
made of hairy skins, the tall, peaked caps, and the fierce, dark faces
of the Touranians soon became plainly visible to their opponents. The
former were surprised at the apparent weakness of the latter and began
to utter shouts of derision and defiance. These shouts presently
blended into a great roar as the soldiers demanded of their leaders the
right to charge.
But the Touranian leaders were wary. They thought that but a fraction
of the Persian army was here, possibly an advance guard sent out to
delay their progress. They were puzzled and hesitated. But when the
enemy halted at long bowshot distance and sent a flight of arrows into
their crowded battalions, they lost control of their men. Screams of
agony arose, and a roar of angry shouts. Another flight of arrows and
a third smote the Touranians. Their own bowmen sought to reply, but
their bows were weak and their arrows fell short. Then came a vast
forward movement of the mass. Leaders were swallowed up in the midst of
galloping squadrons. The skirmishers of Iran retreated, but turned in
their saddles and shot backwards with fatal effect. Eager to overtake
the flying archers, the Touranians threw caution to the winds and urged
their horses to full speed. The earth shook with the beat of a million
hoofs, and the air was rent by the terrific volume of savage war-cries.
No line of infantry ever formed could have withstood the impetus of
that charge if unprotected by ditch or wall.
The herons, affrighted, spread their broad wings, sprang out of the
yellow waters of the Jaxartes, and hastily flapped away. The conflict
had begun.
After pausing at the margin of the torrent-bed to send one last flight
of arrows into their pursuers, the skirmishers of Cyrus quickly
descended into and crossed it, passed through the ranks of the
infantry, which opened to permit their passage, and formed in line
on the ridge beyond. The Touranian leaders were surprised when the
fugitives disappeared from their view in the chasm as if the earth
had swallowed them up, and, guessing the reason, frantically screamed
orders for their men to halt. But the noise was so great that the
orders were unheard. The shaggy horses of the leading ranks came at
full speed to the margin of the torrent-bed and, unable to halt,
plunged headlong down into it. Many horses and riders went down and
were ridden over, crushed and mangled. Some retained their footing and
struggled across the bottom of the ditch and up the opposite slope
to assault the Aryan infantry. But the momentum of their rush was
lost. The gleaming hedge of spears, protruding from behind the wicker
shields, was terrible to horse and rider. The Touranians struck at
the spear-points with their curved scimiters and endeavored to force
ways between them. Masses of horsemen poured into the great ditch and
struggled forward. Pushed on from behind, those in front could not
avoid contact with the darting spears, which, in the hands of sinewy
and practiced veterans, gashed horse and rider and threw them down in
dying, struggling heaps.
The rear ranks of Cyrus’ army came into action. They hurled clouds
of javelins and arrows over the heads of the men in front upon the
confused mass of assailants. The slaughter was horrible. But the
Touranians in the front could not retreat had they desired. Those in
front were crowded on, over dead and dying, upon the darting spears and
against the wicker shields, overthrowing the shields and pushing back
the Aryan infantry by sheer weight. Especially at the extreme left,
where Cyrus was watching the struggle, did this backward movement of
his lines take place. Here the water-course was wider and shallower
than elsewhere and the advance was not so difficult. Here and there
the Touranians succeeded in getting between the Aryan spears and
with fierce strokes opened ways into the midst of the infantry. The
latter, dropping their spears, fought with battle-ax and sword. The
contest became a mad swirl of screaming, plunging horses, shouting
men, gleaming swords, and slashing axes. Heads were crushed, limbs
lopped off, bodies hurled to earth, horses brained and hamstrung. Ever
the stout veterans of Cyrus faced their enemy, unterrified, sweating,
grunting, and cursing, as they stabbed and hewed; but they were forced
back step by step.
Cyrus watched the struggle with anxiety. There seemed no end to the
on-pressing masses of the enemy. More and yet more poured down into the
vale of death and pushed across to the assault. Javelins and arrows
were becoming exhausted. The infantrymen were fighting furiously, but
were beginning to show weariness. Casting his eyes often to the distant
hills, he presently noted with satisfaction that the Prince of Iran
and his guards were passing down into the plain at the rear of the
enemy’s left. He then ordered the light-armed cavalry to the assistance
of the infantry at the center and right, and placing himself at the
head of that division of the Imperial Guard held in reserve, he led
it into the affray just as the infantry, pressed back by sheer weight
of numbers, seemed about to be overwhelmed. The heavy horsemen of the
Guard rode forward smartly and plunged into the battle. Prodigies of
valor were performed. The infantrymen, seeing their King in their midst
swinging his battle-ax with deadly effect, renewed their efforts. Huge
Otanes with mighty strokes and protecting shield endeavored to ward off
from Cyrus all blows aimed at him. King Hystaspis of Iran rode along
the battle-lines towards the right. Everywhere the battle was close,
fierce, and deadly.
Meanwhile the Prince of Iran with the Guard rode down into the plain,
and with javelins at rest charged the Touranians in flank and rear.
This soon relieved the pressure in front. Confusion and terror seized
the Touranians. Those who sought to resist went down before the shock
of the huge Persian horses and the thrust of the long javelins.
The contest became a slaughter. Thousands of the luckless Touranians
rode into the river, seeking to ford it and thus escape; but quicksands
and treacherous water-holes swallowed them up or mired them down,
so that they became easy prey to the pursuing archers. The Aryan
infantry assumed the offensive, crossed the torrent-bed, and drove the
Touranians back upon the lances of the Guard, who in turn hurled them
back upon the infantry. The larger part died. Some broke through and
fled. The noon sun looked down upon heaps of slain and wounded, upon
despairing squads flying over hill and plain, and upon a river whose
waters were red with blood and choked with bodies. The Aryan victory
was complete, overwhelming, and decisive.
But the victors also suffered. Their loss was heavy in men, but worst
of all they had lost their Great King. Cyrus at the head of the Guard
had ridden into the press and restored the battle. When the assault
on their rear caused the Touranians to give back, he had followed
furiously. Then an arrow struck him in the neck just above the collar
of his coat-of-mail, inflicting a deep wound. He reeled from the shock,
plucked out the weapon with his own hands, and then fell fainting from
his horse into the arms of Otanes, who carried him back out of the
battle.