The Queen of Sparta (5 page)

CHAPTER 5

THE SPRING OF GARGAPHIA

Plataea

Three nights later

“Did you see him?” asked Asopodorus.

“Yes.”

“Then why did you not shoot at him?”

“He was out of range,” Sherzada replied.

“Who do you think he was?”

“If you didn’t know who he was, why did you want me to shoot at him?”

“Shoot first. Ask questions later.” Asopodorus chuckled. “Is that not the common practice in most armies?”

The distant figure was scampering up to the ridge. “He seemed to be in a hurry,” Sherzada observed, “heading for the enemy camp … perhaps a messenger. Looked like he was wearing animal skins; probably a Helot. I wager he was heading for the Spartan lines.”

“If he is,” said Asopodorus, “it won’t be long before this would-be prey of ours informs his comrades. Then we will become the hunted.”

They turned their horses and headed back down the slopes of Cithaeron. With Mashistiyun’s death, Burbaraz had taken over command of the cavalry. Sherzada had been helping him mount round-the-clock raids to harass the Greek supply lines. This night he had ridden out with twenty of his horsemen. Asopodorus had joined them, simply for the fun of it. Sherzada had never met a more enthusiastic warrior.

It was a moonlit night and visibility was good, even in the dark. But so far they had not encountered any enemy patrols. They descended into the plain of Plataea and made their way across its rocky, undulating terrain.

“They say you are something of an expert on Sparta?” remarked Asopodorus.

Sherzada nodded. “I have been studying the Spartans for over ten years.”

“Really? How so?”

“I was in the service of a man called Datis, head of the Persian intelligence network that was gathering information on the Greeks.”

“Was not Datis the Persian who lost the battle of Marathon?” asked Asopodorus.

“The same, though the defeat was not entirely his fault. And, by the way, he was a Mede, not a Persian,” Sherzada corrected him. “It is like mistaking you for an Athenian.”

Asopodorus chuckled at the comparison. Thebans hated being mistaken for Athenians.

Soon they came close to the river Asopus and the Persian camp beyond. The party opted for a circuitous route around the side of the camp so as not to alarm the Persian pickets who would have let loose their arrows before bothering to ascertain who they were.

But as they wound around a narrow gully, they heard riders approaching. Sherzada and his men dismounted and took up concealed positions around the gully.

Only Asopodorus did not dismount, signalling his intention to investigate.

Sherzada watched as Asopodorus calmly approached the dozen Greek riders with their shields bearing the insignia of ‘the Owl and the Olive’. When challenged, he identified himself as a Plataean cavalryman on a reconnaissance mission. He asked the men who they were.

“We are Athenians, friend,” one of them said in hushed tones, “on a mission from our War Archon to deliver gold to a Persian commander.”

“Which one?” asked Asopodorus.

“That is none of your business,” replied the Athenian. “What did you say you were doing here?”

A second Athenian suggested that he might want to accompany them back to camp. “The War Archon, I am sure, would be interested to hear your report.”

Asopodorus calmly turned his horse, and the Athenians drew their swords. Within seconds, the Athenians went down in a hail of arrows.

Sherzada’s men rode over and took charge of the Athenian pack horses, curious to see what they were carrying. Loaded on their backs were dozens of saddlebags full of gold, but all the coins were Darics. Sherzada turned and looked towards Asopodorus.

“The enemy is using the gold Mardonius has sent them to bribe his own commanders.”

“Precisely.”

“So, should we take the gold to Mardonius and tell him his great plan has backfired?”

“From what little I know of Mardonius,” said Aspodorus, “he will blame us for intercepting his gold and using it ourselves, or even being in the pay of the Athenians. If I were you, I would hide this gold somewhere until after the battle is won.”

As Sherzada’s men busied themselves putting the bodies of the dead Athenians on their horses, he began to have a distinct feeling that they were being watched. Hearing a ruffle of leaves and the breaking of twigs, Sherzada sent his men to investigate but they could not find anyone, or anything. It was the second time that night a quarry had eluded them.

The next morning, Sherzada saw the outcome of their strategy of harassing the Greek supply lines; and still it came as something of a surprise. As the sun rose, the Persian camp saw the entire Greek army come down from Cithaeron and march right up to the Asopus.

The shortage of water, brought on by the cavalry raids, had forced them to come down into the open plain where there was a source of fresh water – the Spring of Gargaphia – in front which the Greek army now stood.

This new development caused some anxiety amongst the troops in the Persian camp, not only to see the entire Greek army present right in front of them, but also at how large it was. Sooner or later the two armies had to fight. Sherzada was delighted. This was the opportunity to decisively bring the Persian superiority in cavalry to bear on the enemy in these wide open plains of Plataea. For the first time, he felt exhilarated.

Sherzada rode down to Mardonius’ headquarters. A conference had already been called to discuss the new situation. On arriving, Sherzada saw a steady stream of commanders and generals entering Mardonius’ tent. He could help but notice one individual standing out amid the throng of men dressed in shining armour and fine silks. This man was alone, pacing up and down as if waiting for someone. His head was shaved as was most of his face, and the only evidence of hair was the thin eyebrows above his intelligent dark eyes and a tiny growth under his lower lip. He wore simple trousers and a metal-studded leather jerkin over a plain military tunic. And yet he appeared more distinguished than all of the well-dressed men around him. This man was not a prince, nor a royal favourite, but a soldier who had risen from the ranks through sheer ability. He was Artabaz.

Sherzada had little respect for the Persian hierarchical system, which was generally viewed as corrupt and nepotistic. In spite of these flaws, the system occasionally recognized and rewarded men of talent.

The first-born son of a humble but brilliant accountant in the Persian royal treasury, Artabaz ran away from home at an early age and enlisted in the army, much to his father’s chagrin, exchanging his family’s secure book-keeping profession for the hard and dangerous life of a soldier. Just as his father, Farnaka, eventually rose on the dint of nothing but pure talent to become Darius’ trusted Finance Minister, Artabaz rose rapidly, without any help from his father’s considerable connections, to be a worthy young general in his own right. His approach to war was logical and clinical, based on calculations, balancing the risks against potential gain. Reducing the art of war to a science gave Artabaz a keen, ruthless edge over many a general.

And so it had been. Over the past ten months of fighting, of all the Persian commanders, only Artabaz could boast victories over the Greeks – minor, but victories, nonetheless. Here was a serious military man who did not suffer fools gladly; and who despised Mardonius and his cronies.

Soon the man Artabaz had been waiting for arrived. Burbaraz wore a simple tunic underneath his long purple robe. He did not want people to forget he was the only blue-blooded Prince in Plataea; especially since Mardonius was a commoner, related to the royal family through marriage rather than blood. And like Artabaz, Burbaraz had several victories under his belt, and impressive ones at that. Thirteen years earlier, he had brought all of Macedon to its knees in a lightening campaign that had lasted only thirteen days. Very few Persian commanders could beat such a record.

Entering Mardonius’ tent behind the two veteran generals, Sherzada felt the surrealism of it all. The sweltering heat was replaced by cool air and comforts of all sorts. Outside, soldiers were short of food and essential supplies; inside, the opulence of the Persian courts was on display. Everything inside this tent, from the silk curtains, plush cushions and rich and intricate carpets, to the fragrance of flowers and perfume everywhere, made it easy to forget there was a war going on outside.

There in the centre of the tent, sitting on a large couch, Sherzada saw Mardonius holding court. Once a handsome man, he had grown fat with royal favours. Once a mover and shaker in the Persian royal court, he was now left behind in Greece to finish the conquest. Sherzada wondered if this man had what it took to deliver a decisive victory for the Great King.

When the conference began, Sherzada stepped forward and urged Mardonius to order a full-scale attack. The Greeks were starving, he argued. Their morale low. This was the moment to strike. The Persian infantry could pin down the Greek phalanx, while the open space would allow the superior cavalry of the Persians and their allies to take their flanks and rear. Victory was thus guaranteed.

When Mardonius hesitated, Artabaz interjected. “Perhaps, my Lord, there is no need to fight with the Greeks if we wait for our gold to do its work. Perhaps we should retire to the safety and comfort of Thebes and await enemy surrender?”

The Persian viceroy reddened with anger. But then a mischievous calm descended. “Am I hearing you right, Artabaz?” he asked. “Is one of our best generals suggesting a withdrawal in the face of the enemy? There will be no retreat. We shall fight and defeat the enemy; but only when the time is right. Do not infect my army with your defeatist talk, Artabaz.”

Amid laughter from Mardonius’ sycophants, it was Artabaz’s turn to shake with rage. Mardonius’ friends began to hurl insults at him, turning his sarcastic words into an example of cowardice. The meeting was over.

For the next three days, Mardonius did nothing except to order his favourite Farandatiya to carry out desultory raids against the Greek supply lines to no effect whatsoever, apart from the occasional slaughter of hapless peasants and their cattle.

On the fourth, once again Sherzada followed Artabaz and Burbaraz into Mardonius’ tent. Sherzada smiled as his two comrades grilled their commander-in-chief.

“My lord, are you shying away from the enemy? Why are you avoiding battle?” asked Artabaz.

“I am not shying away. I am awaiting favourable auguries.”

“Persians have never been led by outlandish superstitions,” Burbaraz chided.

“Actually, it’s not the auguries,” Mardonius responded, changing his story. “I have sent gold to many senior Greek commanders. It is only a matter of days until you will see the Greek lines collapse before your very eyes.”

“Lord Mardauniya,” said Burbaraz, addressing Mardonius by his Persian name, “we are warriors. We have not come all this way to bribe the enemy. Over the last decade, my meagre frontier forces in Thrace have fought off repeated attacks by hordes of savages across the Danube, many more in number than these Greeks. General Artabaz here has taken city after city with only a handful of troops. And here we are shying away from closing in with an enemy that we still outnumber. In the name of Ahura-Mazda, are we not proud soldiers of Persia? Did we not conquer many kingdoms and extend our empire across three continents? Are we not here to test our courage against those who are considered among the best warriors of Greece? My Lord, you are depriving us of what little honour we have left.

“The other day, Prince Sherzada correctly advised us to attack the enemy with all we have; pin them down with our infantry while we hammer them on the flanks and rear with our cavalry. Why have we not done that? Why do we not attack them even now while they are still vulnerable?”

“If this ‘Prince’ wants to attack the enemy, he can certainly do so. I have just the mission for him. We shall destroy the enemy water supply at the Spring of Gargaphia behind the Greek lines.”

Sherzada stepped forward from the shadows. “It would be a folly. By destroying their only source of water, we would compel the Greeks to return to Cithaeron. We will have no advantage over the Greeks once they are back on the Heights.”