CHAPTER XX
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.”