THE COMMANDMENT OF XERXES
It is easy to praise the blessings of peace. Still easier to paint the
horrors of war,—and yet war will remain for all time the greatest game at
which human wits can play. For in it every form of courage, physical and
moral, and every talent are called into being. If war at once develops the
bestial, it also develops as promptly the heroic. Alone of human
activities it demands a brute’s strength, an iron will, a serpent’s
intellect, a lion’s courage—all in one. And of him who has these things in
justest measure, history writes, “He conquered.” It was because Mardonius
seemed to possess all these, to foresee everything, to surmount
everything, that Glaucon despaired for the fate of Hellas, even more than
when he beheld the crushing armaments of the Persian.
Yet for long it seemed as if the host would march even to Athens without
battle, without invoking Mardonius’s skill. The king crossed Thrace and
Macedonia, meeting only trembling hospitality from the cities along his
route. At Doriscus he had held a review of his army, and smiled when the
fawning scribes told how one million seven hundred thousand foot and
eighty thousand horse followed his banners.(8) Every fugitive and spy from
southern Hellas told how the hearts of the stanchest patriots were
sinking, how everywhere save in Athens and Sparta loud voices urged the
sending of “earth and water,”—tokens of submission to the irresistible
king. At the pass of Tempē covering Thessaly, Glaucon, who knew the hopes
of Themistocles, had been certain the Hellenes would make a stand. Rumour
had it that ten thousand Greek infantry were indeed there, and ready for
battle. But the outlaw’s expectations were utterly shattered. To the
disgust of the Persian lords, who dearly loved brisk fighting, it was soon
told how the cowardly Hellenes had fled by ship, leaving the rich plains
of Thessaly bare to the invader.
Thus was blasted Glaucon’s last hope. Hellas was doomed. He almost looked
to see Themistocles coming as ambassador to bring the homage of Athens.
Since his old life seemed closed to the outlaw, he allowed Mardonius to
have his will with him,—to teach him to act, speak, think, as an Oriental.
He even bowed himself low before the king, an act rewarded by being
commanded one evening to play at dice with majesty itself. Xerxes was
actually gracious enough to let his new subject win from him three
handsome Syrian slave-boys.
“You Hellenes are becoming wise,” announced the monarch one day, when the
Locrian envoys came with their earth and water. “If you can learn to speak
the truth, you will equal even the virtues of the Aryans.”
“Your Majesty has not found me a liar,” rejoined the Athenian, warmly.
“You gather our virtues apace. I must consider how I can reward you by
promotion.”
“The king is overwhelmingly generous. Already I fear many of his servants
mutter that I am promoted beyond all desert.”
“Mutter? mutter against you?” The king’s eyes flashed ominously. “By
Mazda, it is against me, then, who advanced you! Hearken, Otanes,”—he
addressed the general of the Persian footmen, who stood near by,—“who are
the disobedient slaves who question my advancement of Prexaspes?”
The general—he had been the loudest grumbler—bowed and kissed the carpet.
“None, your Eternity; on the contrary, there is not one Aryan in the host
who does not rejoice the king has found so noble an object for his godlike
bounty.”
“You hear, Prexaspes,” said Xerxes, mollified. “I am glad, for the man who
questions my wisdom touching your advancement must be impaled. To-morrow
is my birthday, you will not fail to sit with the other great lords at the
banquet.”
“The king overpowers me with his goodness.”
“Do not fail to deserve it. Mardonius is always praising you. Consider
also how much better it is to depend on a gracious king than on the
clamour of the fickle mob that rules in your helpless cities!”
* * * * * * *
The next morning was the royal birthday. The army, pitched in the fertile
plain by Thessalian Larissa, feasted on the abundance at hand. The king
distributed huge largesses of money. All day long he sat in his
palace-like tent, receiving congratulations from even the lowest of his
followers, and bound in turn not to reject any reasonable petition. The
Magi sacrificed blooded stallions and rare spices to Mithra the “Lord of
Wide Pastures,” to Vohu-Manu the “Holy Councillor,” and all their other
angels, desiring them to bless the arms of the king.
The “Perfect Banquet” of the birthday came in the evening. It hardly
differed from the feast at Sardis. The royal pavilion had its poles plated
with silver, the tapestries were green and purple, the couches were spread
with gorgeous coverlets. Only the drinking was more moderate, the
ceremonial less rigid. The fortunate guests devoured dainties reserved for
the special use of royalty: the flour of the bread was from Assos, the
wine from Helbon, the water to dilute the wine had come in silver flasks
from the Choaspes by Susa. The king even distributed the special unguent
of lion’s fat and palm wine which no subject, unpermitted, could use and
shun the death penalty.
Then at the end certain of the fairest of the women came and danced
unveiled before the king—this one night when they might show forth their
beauty. And last of all danced Roxana. She danced alone; a diaphanous
drapery of pink Egyptian cotton blew around her as an evening cloud. From
her black hair shone the diamond coronet. To the sensuous swing of the
music she wound in and out before the king and his admiring lords,
advancing, retreating, rising, swaying, a paragon of agility and grace,
feet, body, hands, weaving their charm together. When at the end she fell
on her knees before the king, demanding whether she had done well, the
applause shook the pavilion. The king looked down on her, smiling.
“Rise, sister of Mardonius. All Eran rejoices in you to-night. And on this
evening whose request can I fail to grant? Whose can I grant more gladly
than yours? Speak; you shall have it, though it be for half my kingdoms.”
The dancer arose, but hung down her flashing coronal. Her blush was
enchanting. She stood silent, while the good-humoured king smiled down on
her, till Artazostra came from her seat by Mardonius and whispered in her
ear. Every neck in the crowded pavilion was craned as Artazostra spoke to
Xerxes.
“May it please my royal brother, this is the word of Roxana. ‘I love my
brother Mardonius; nevertheless, contrary to the Persian custom, he keeps
me now to my nineteenth year unwedded. If now I have found favour in the
sight of the king, let him command Mardonius to give me to some noble
youth who shall do me honour by the valiant deeds and the true service he
shall render unto my Lord.’ ”
“A fair petition! Let the king grant it!” shouted twenty; while others
more wise whispered, “This was not done without foreknowledge by
Mardonius.”
Xerxes smiled benignantly and rubbed his nose with the lion’s fat while
deliberating.
“An evil precedent, lady, an evil precedent when women demand husbands and
do not wait for their fathers’ or brothers’ good pleasure. But I have
promised. The word of the king is not to be broken. Daughter of Gobryas,
your petition is granted. Come hither, Mardonius,”—the bow-bearer
approached the throne,—“you have heard the bold desire of your sister, and
my answer. I must command you to bestow on her a husband.”
The bow-bearer bowed obediently.
“I hear the word of the king, and all his mandates are good. This is no
meet time for marriage festivities, when the Lord of the World and all the
Aryan power goes forth to war. Yet as soon as the impious rebels amongst
the Hellenes shall be subdued, I will rejoice to bestow my sister upon
whatsoever fortunate servant the king may deign to honour.”
“You hear him, lady,”—the royal features assumed a grin, which was
reflected throughout the pavilion. “A husband you shall have, but
Mardonius shall be revenged. Your fate is in my hands. And shall not
I,—guardian of the households of my empire,—give a warning to all bold
maidens against lifting their wills too proudly, or presuming upon an
overindulgent king? What then shall be just punishment?” The king bent his
head, still rubbing his nose, and trying to persuade all about that he was
meditating.
“Bardas, satrap of Sogandia, is old; he has but one eye; they say he beats
his eleven wives daily with a whip of rhinoceros hide. It would be just if
I gave him this woman also in marriage. What think you, Hydarnes?”
“If your Eternity bestows this woman on Bardas, every husband and father
in all your kingdoms will applaud your act,” smiled the commander.
The threatened lady fell again on her knees, outstretching her hands and
beseeching mercy,—never a more charming picture of misery and contrition.
“You tremble, lady,” went on the sovran, “and justly. It were better for
my empire if my heart were less hard. After all, you danced so elegantly
that I must be mollified. There is the young Prince Zophyrus, son of Datis
the general,—he has only five wives already. True, he is usually the worse
for wine, is not handsome, and killed one of his women not long since
because she did not sing to please him. Yes—you shall have Zophyrus—he
will surely rule you—”
“Mercy, not Zophyrus, gracious Lord,” pleaded the abject Egyptian.
The king looked down on her, with a broader grin than ever.
“You are very hard to please. I ought to punish your wilfulness by some
dreadful doom. Do not cry out again. I will not hear you. My decision is
fixed. Mardonius shall bestow you in marriage to a man who is not even a
Persian by birth, who one year since was a disobedient rebel against my
power, who even now contemns and despises many of the good customs of the
Aryans. Hark, then, to his name. When Hellas is conquered, I command that
Mardonius wed you to the Lord Prexaspes.”
The king broke into an uproarious laugh, a signal for the thousand loyal
subjects within the great pavilion to roar with laughter also. In the
confusion following Artazostra and Roxana disappeared. Fifty hands dragged
the appointed bridegroom to the king, showering on him all manner of
congratulations. Xerxes’s act was a plain proof that he was adopting the
beautiful Hellene as one of his personal favourites,—a post of influence
and honour not to be despised by a vizier. What “Prexaspes” said when he
thanked the king was drowned in the tumult of laughing and cheering. The
monarch, delighted to play the gracious god, roared his injunctions to the
Athenian so loud that above the din they heard him.
“You will bridle her well, Prexaspes. I know them—those Egyptian fillies!
They need a hard curb and the lash at times. Beware the tyranny of your
own harem. I would not have the satrapies know how certain bright eyes in
the seraglio can make the son of Darius play the fool. There is nothing
more dangerous than women. It will take all your courage to master them. A
hard task lies before you. I have given you one wife, but you know our
good Persian custom—five, ten, or twenty. Take the score, I order you.
Then in twelve years you’ll be receiving the prize a Persian king bestows
every summer on the father of the most children!”
And following this broad hint, the king held his sides with laughter
again, a mirth which it is needless to say was echoed and reëchoed till it
seemed it could not cease. Only a few ventured to mutter under breath:
“The Hellene will have a subsatrapy in the East before the season is over
and a treasure of five thousand talents! Mithra wither the upstart!”
* * * * * * *
The summer was waning when the host moved southward from Larissa, for mere
numbers had made progress slow, and despite Mardonius’s providence the
question of commissariat sometimes became difficult. Now at last, leaving
behind Thrace and Macedonia, the army began to enter Greece itself. As it
fared across the teeming plains of Thessaly, it met only welcome from the
inhabitants and submissions from fresh embassies. Report came from the
fleet—keeping pace with the land army along the coasts—that nowhere had
the weak squadrons of the Greeks adventured a stand. Daily the smile of
the Lord of the World grew more complacent, as his “table-companions” told
him: “The rumour of your Eternity’s advent stupefies the miserable
Hellenes. Like Atar, the Angel of Fire, your splendour glitters afar. You
will enter Athens and Sparta, and no sword leave its sheath, no bow its
wrapper.”
Every day Mardonius asked of Glaucon, “Will your Hellenes fight?” and the
answer was ever more doubting, “I do not know.”
Long since Glaucon had given up hope of the defeat of the Persian. Now he
prayed devoutly there might be no useless shedding of blood. If only he
could turn back and not behold the humiliation of Athens! Of the fate of
the old-time friends—Democrates, Cimon, Hermione—he tried not to think. No
doubt Hermione was the wife of Democrates. More than a year had sped since
the flight from Colonus. Hermione had put off her mourning for the yellow
veil of a bride. Glaucon prayed the war might bring her no new sorrow,
though Democrates, of course, would resist Persia to the end. As for
himself he would never darken their eyes again. He was betrothed to
Roxana. With her he would seek one of those valleys in Bactria which she
had praised, the remoter the better, and there perhaps was peace.
Thus the host wound through Thessaly, till before them rose, peak on peak,
the jagged mountain wall of Othrys and Œta, fading away in violet
distance, the bulwark of central Hellas. Then the king’s smile became a
frown, for the Hellenes, undismayed despite his might, were assembling
their fleet at northern Eubœa, and at the same time a tempest had
shattered a large part of the royal navy. The Magi offered sacrifice to
appease Tishtrya, the Prince of the Wind-ruling Stars, but the king’s
frown grew blacker at each message. Glaucon was near him when at last the
monarch’s thunders broke forth.
A hot, sultry day. The king’s chariot had just crossed the mountain stream
of the Sphercus, when a captain of a hundred came galloping, dismounted,
and prostrated himself in the dust.
“Your tidings?” demanded Xerxes, sharply.
“Be gracious, Fountain of Mercy,”—the captain evidently disliked his
mission,—“I am sent from the van. We came to a place where the mountains
thrust down upon the sea and leave but a narrow road by the ocean. Your
slaves found certain Hellenes, rebels against your benignant government,
holding a wall and barring all passage to your army.”
“And did you not forthwith seize these impudent wretches and drag them
hither to be judged by me?”
“Compassion, Omnipotence,”—the messenger trembled,—“they seemed sturdy,
well-armed rogues, and the way was narrow and steep where a score can face
a thousand. Therefore, your slave came straight with his tidings to the
ever gracious king.”
“Dog! Coward!” Xerxes plucked the whip from the charioteer’s hand and
lashed it over the wretch’s shoulders. “By the _fravashi_, the soul of
Darius my father, no man shall bring so foul a word to me and live!”
“Compassion, Omnipotence, compassion!” groaned the man, writhing like a
worm. Already the master-of-punishments was approaching to cover his face
with a towel, preparatory to the bow-string, but the royal anger spent
itself just enough to avert a tragedy.
“Your life is forfeit, but I am all too merciful! Take then three hundred
stripes on the soles of your feet and live to be braver in the future.”
“A thousand blessings on your benignity,” cried the captain, as they led
him away, “I congratulate myself that insignificant as I am the king yet
deigns to notice my existence even to recompense my shortcomings.”
“Off,” ordered the bristling monarch, “or you die the death yet. And do
you, Mardonius, take Prexaspes, who somewhat knows this country, spur
forward, and discover who are the madmen thus earning their destruction.”
The command was obeyed. Glaucon galloped beside the Prince, overtaking the
marching army, until as they cantered into the little mud-walled city of
Heraclea a second messenger from the van met them with further details.
“The pass is held by seven thousand Grecian men-at-arms. There are no
Athenians. There are three hundred come from Sparta.”
“And their chief?” asked Glaucon, leaning eagerly.
“Is Leonidas of Lacedæmon.”
“Then, O Mardonius,” spoke the Athenian, with a throb in his voice not
there an hour ago. “There will be battle.”
So, whether wise men or mad, the Hellenes were not to lay down their arms
without one struggle, and Glaucon knew not whether to be sorry or to be
proud.