THE OVERTHROW OF THE MAGI
Athura slept little during the remainder of the night. She insisted on
watching a part of the time, while Gustasp slept stretched out on the
floor and the maids tried to rest. She watched while the stars paled
and the gray light of the dawn grew into rosy sunrise and cloudless
day. Her eyes eagerly scanned the horizon towards Nicæa. As soon as the
light was sufficient, she saw moving bodies of horsemen concentrating
in the plain near the base of the hill on which the castle stood. She
had often seen large bodies of troops, and she estimated that not less
than thirty thousand were there. Officers were busily riding hither and
thither placing them in line with their faces towards Nicæa.
When Gustasp awoke and observed the movements of the troopers, he gave
it as his opinion that an attack was expected. Nor was he mistaken. For
about mid-forenoon they observed two bodies of cavalry approaching from
the direction of Nicæa, one in advance moving rapidly and the other
more deliberately. The advance body was evidently a scouting party
sent out by Prexaspes, and it soon joined his array. The pursuers came
on in wide, extended order, their masses glittering with armor and
spear-points. At their head rode two men, conspicuous on white steeds.
“Look, Gustasp!” exclaimed Athura, while the pursuers were yet far
away. “Is it not the Prince--the one at the right? Is that not Gobryas
at his left?”
Gustasp shaded his eyes and looked closely at the distant figures. He
smiled and shook his head.
“My eyes are counted good, gracious lady, but I cannot see any
difference in those men,” he answered. “If I had eyes as young as
yours, I might distinguish them. But I know those are the Persians of
the Imperial Guard. The Prince must be with them. They are not half as
numerous as the false King’s men, but they are veterans and the best
soldiers in the world. It will be a short battle.”
The Persians came on until they were within a thousand paces of their
antagonists, when they halted. The two leaders rode forward to a slight
eminence two hundred paces in advance, from which they attentively
surveyed the field. It was well suited for battle between bodies of
cavalry. While somewhat rolling and uneven, there were no ditches or
swamps. The Medean line was more extended than the Persian and no less
massive and deep. The Persian leaders soon returned to their lines and
the watchers on the hills perceived a movement of the rear ranks to the
left, where presently a body of troops was massed three times as great
in depth as the general line.
“The Prince has made a hammer of his left,” said Gustasp. “Now look at
his right! It bends back so that the Medes may not overlap and attack
the Persian rear!”
It was even so. For when the Persians moved forward again there was a
perceptible bending back of their right wing until it moved forward _en
echelon_ to the remainder of the line.
Then came two men from the Persians who rode rapidly up to the Medes
and demanded a parley. Prexaspes and the King met them and received
a message from the Prince of Iran demanding the surrender of the
Princess Athura and of the false King, and promising pardon to all the
other Medes save Prexaspes. These demands were refused. The heralds
rode back to the Prince and reported, who then ordered his army to
advance.
The Persians came on at a smart trot until within five hundred yards.
Then the front ranks leveled their spears, bent their bodies forward,
and pressed their horses into a gallop. Prexaspes ordered his troops
forward to meet the onset. The earth shook with the thunder of hoofs.
A deep-toned roar went up from the Persians, their battle shout which
had terrified many a nation. The Medes answered with a medley of yells.
The lines came together with a terrific shock. Men were unhorsed.
Horses reared, plunged, and went down. Screams of agony mingled with
battle-shouts. The lines wavered and stood still, it seemed, for the
space of five minutes. Then was seen the power of discipline. The
Medes, while brave, were not inured to battle. After the first shock,
they became confused. They were overthrown, ridden down, and pushed
back. Struggling fruitlessly against the terrible spears of their
enemies, they receded. The Persians raised shouts of victory and
pressed their advantage. The Prince of Iran, leading the center, rode
over Prexaspes, broke through the Medean lines, and made directly for
the King. The latter turned his horse and fled towards his castle, with
the Prince and Gobryas close at his heels. So close was the pursuit
that Gaumata and his men had no time to close the brazen gates of
the castle, which were opened to receive them, before the Prince and
Gobryas with a company of Persians pressed through and attacked the
garrison fiercely. Demoralized by the fall of Prexaspes and the flight
of Gaumata, the Medean army scattered and fled from the field.
The Prince and Gobryas, swords in hand, pressed through the confused
rabble after Gaumata. They saw him leap from his horse and enter the
castle. Dismounting they pursued him into the chamber below that where
the Princess Athura had her retreat. Here the false King turned at bay,
unable to escape. The Prince himself attacked Gaumata, though Gobryas
begged the privilege of slaying him. The struggle was short. The Prince
was an athlete and swordsman; his opponent was neither. Gaumata’s
weapon was whirled from his hand at the first blow, and the Prince’s
blade passed through his heart, cutting short his cry for mercy.
Athura, trembling with excitement, had seen the battle and the flight
and pursuit of Gaumata, and, from behind Gustasp’s broad shoulders on
the stairs, had watched the short, sharp combat between the Prince and
the usurper. The Prince, flushed with victory as he stood above the
writhing form of Gaumata, heard her exclaim, “Ahura-Mazda be praised!”
He turned and their eyes met. He sprang towards Gustasp with dripping
sword, thinking the giant guard an enemy in charge of the royal
captive. But Athura pressed forward in front of Gustasp, exclaiming,
“He is a friend!”
The Prince dropped his sword and extended his arms, with the light of
great love in his eyes. Athura threw her arms about his mail-covered
shoulders. Gustasp and Gobryas drove back the crowd of Persian troopers
who were pressing in to aid their Prince.
But a chief commander must make an end of greetings, no matter how
entrancing. The Prince and Athura passed out into the courtyard, now
filled with shouting Persians, some of whom were pursuing the luckless
garrison and cutting them down. When the Persians saw the radiant
Athura standing by the side of their Prince, their shouts rent the
heavens. For every man who had taken part in the battle knew that their
leader was seeking to rescue his promised wife, the daughter of the
great Cyrus.
Prexaspes was among the prisoners. His horse had been killed and had
fallen upon him. The Persian cavalry had passed over him. But save
for a broken arm, he was not seriously injured. He was brought before
the Prince. His countenance showed signs of suffering, but the usual
calm, cynical smile rested upon it and he exhibited no fear. The Prince
looked upon him sternly.
“At last, Prexaspes,” he said, “you have come to a day of judgment!
What have you to say?”
“Nothing, great Prince,” he answered. “Fate has turned against me. I am
in your hands, a prisoner of war.”
“But how could you, a noble of Medea, conspire with that carrion,
Gaumata? And you even obeyed him as King!”
“I did not conspire. I was faithful to Cambyses till he died--even
though he did slay my son, as you know, in cruel jest. I did not
conspire against him. What could I do after his death? By the command
of Cambyses, I had slain Prince Bardya. For that crime I knew that I
would be slain by you. So I came and offered my sword to the false
King. He obeyed me, not I him!”
The Prince contemplated his prisoner gloomily. No man ever more admired
courage than he. Prexaspes smiled in the face of death. What punishment
should be meted out to such a man?
“For taking Bardya’s life, you have merited death,” said the Prince,
finally. “But you are a brave man. You shall die as such. Tell me,
Prexaspes, how did Bardya die?”
“I expect to die,” answered Prexaspes, and the pain and despair of
his soul snatched away the smile from his face, leaving his handsome
features haggard and drawn. “Remorse has been with me, since by this
hand the stout young Prince departed! I will tell you. Cambyses was
jealous of Bardya. His advisers, the Magian priests, who by their
wonder works had made much impression on the King’s mind, also hated
Bardya because he clung to the ancient religion of Iran and was an
enemy to their religion. They knew that with Bardya as King they would
never gain power in the state. They hinted to the King that Bardya
contemplated rebellion. They artfully brought stories of the young
man’s popularity. They advised his death. It was then that the King
laid his command upon me to slay his brother. The Magian priests sent
a body of their armed followers to lie in wait on the road to Rhages
that night when the feast in honor of the Prince’s departure was held;
and I rode with Bardya that night until, as prearranged, they attacked
us. Then, in the mêlée, I struck the Prince with my sword and he died.
Was not the Great King’s word law? I executed his word, without malice
towards the Prince. But I am weary of life! My wife is dead. Cambyses
slew my son. I have run the full course of power and wealth. I am your
prisoner, ready to die. But know this, great Prince, I have never
advised Cambyses against your interests!”
The Prince listened attentively and believed that Prexaspes spoke
truthfully. He turned to Athura, who had listened to the recital, and
asked, “What do you advise?”
Athura shook her head sadly.
“I cannot advise,” she said. “Last night when the drunken priests and
the false King attempted to break into the castle and do me harm, this
man interfered and compelled them to cease.”
“For that, Prexaspes, I would pardon you, had I the power,” said the
Prince, turning to the prisoner. “I could order you slain now, but I
cannot slay you. Prexaspes, you have deserved my gratitude. I grant you
life for the present. I am not the King. My father is King of Iran.
There is no King of Kings; until the nobles of Bactra, Persia, and
Medea shall select one of the Achæmenian line. You shall go to Hamadan
to be judged.”
“Rather would I be slain by you now,” responded Prexaspes, earnestly.
“Let me die a soldier’s death, not the death of a dog condemned for
murder!”
The Prince was troubled. He hesitated. Sympathy for a brave man moved
him.
“I promise you this, Prexaspes,” he said after a moment of
consideration. “If you will testify before the council of nobles and to
the people, that this Gaumata was a false traitor and not Bardya and
that Bardya was slain by your hand, I promise that you may choose the
manner of your death. The King and the nobles will heed my promise.
They will not deny me. If you make this confession and implicate the
Magian priest, they will pursue you with bitter vengeance. It is said
that their death penalties are tortures such as even fiends would not
inflict. We could not save you from them. It is the ancient law that
one who lifts his hand against one of the Achæmenian race must die. Is
it not so? And this law, not even the King may set aside.”
“It is so!” answered Prexaspes. “I will testify before the people
and the council, in order that your reign as King of Kings may not
be disturbed by other false Bardyas. I advise that you carry this
Gaumata’s head to Hamadan and exhibit it in the market that all may
see. I myself will ascend the criers’ tower and confess the death of
Bardya to the people. So be it. I will choose my own death.”
“Meanwhile,” said the Prince, “Gobryas shall be your keeper. He will
treat you as a brave soldier should treat a brave soldier unlucky
enough to be a captive. We shall rest here this night. On the morrow we
march to Hamadan.”