The Queen of Sparta (7 page)

And that was the crux of it. Half a century earlier, the Persian Empire had appeared on the eastern shores of the Aegean, replacing the Kingdom of Lydia as the overlord of many Greek colonies in Asia. Cleomenes knew that it was only a matter of time before the Persians would cast their gaze across the sea and try to conquer the whole of Greece. Of all the Greek rulers, only Cleomenes had the foresight to see this, and he took action accordingly. All of his interventions throughout Greece were aimed at limiting Persian influence – knowing that Persia’s best option would be to try to divide and rule the Greeks. In his view, the best way to defend Greece was for Sparta to establish a web of alliances so that some of the important Greek states stood together alongside Sparta. So he focused on those who had a common distrust, if not hatred, of Persia. ‘The enemy of my enemy,’ he told the Gerousia, ‘will always be my best ally.’

Cleomenes also wanted to address another major threat, this one closer to home. Once the mightiest city in the Peloponnesus, Argos lay only a day’s march north of Sparta. The enmity between Argos and Sparta went back centuries, and it was against this state Spartans had fought most of their wars. Seeing it as a potential Persian ally, and a strong one too, Cleomenes attacked the Argive army and completely destroyed it, down to the last man, at the Battle of Sepeia. He then marched on an undefended Argos.

Argive legends claim that the women of the city, encouraged by the poetess Telesilla, mounted such a robust defence that the Spartan army gave up and went home. The Spartans indeed went home, but what the Argives could not explain was why they were made to tear down the walls of their own city. The truth is that as soon as Cleomenes appeared before Argos with his army, the Argives sued for peace. The peace that the Spartan King imposed on them was a humiliating one, without walls, leaving their city defenseless.

Yet this was a victory most Spartans could not comprehend. ‘What was the point, your Majesty,’ an Ephor enquired on his return, ‘of destroying the entire Argive army at Sepeia, when you had no intention of wiping out Argos itself?’

‘Who would the Spartans practice on, if the Argives did not exist?’ Cleomenes responded with a smile.

Much later, Gorgo asked him the true reason behind his unwillingness to conquer or destroy Argos. He explained that had he done so other Greek states, especially in the Peloponnese, would have started fearing Sparta even more than Persia, thus undermining Greek unity. ‘The balance of power in Greece,’ said Cleomenes, ‘must be maintained. No state should be allowed to become so strong that it could threaten Greek freedom. Not even Sparta.’

Cleomenes’ worst fears, however, were vindicated just a few months before his death when two Persian envoys came to Sparta. They rode into the central market, the Agora, where many were gathered for a festival. Gorgo, who had just turned sixteen, had come with her father and they were watching a dance performance by some of the younger women. This was the first time Gorgo had ever set eyes on a Persian. She had imagined them to be dark skinned, tall, fierce and warlike. Instead, to her surprise, they were men whose hue and height were similar to the Greeks. But everything else about them was strange and alien.

Their hair and beards were long; artificially curled and manicured to the extent that even some twelve years hence, Gorgo thought they could not possibly have been real. The delicate appearance did not end there, but was complemented with eyeliner and kohl, pearl earrings and other forms of cosmetics and jewellery. They looked unmistakably effeminate; faces painted so carefully they could have made a Corinthian harlot jealous, or so she thought. Atop their heads were jeweled turbans. Their clothes were of the finest silk, the type she imagined rich Lydian women wore, and then there were the trousers, exactly like those worn by warrior women in Athenian vase paintings. The Persians held perfumed handkerchiefs to their noses as if to protect their delicate nostrils from unpleasant Spartan odours. While the Spartans watched these strange adorned men with amazement, the Persians in turn sneered in contempt, as if all around them were inferior, dirty creatures.

The Persians laughed at Spartan men for wearing long beards without mustaches, for covering their bodies with rough cloaks resembling shrouds. They ogled Spartan women who, in their eyes, went about practically nude – especially the dancing girls, whose legs were bare right up to their thighs. But their greatest surprise and loudest laughter was yet to come.

When they asked, through their interpreter, a Greek slave, to be taken to the King, Cleomenes stepped forward and said, ‘I am the King of Sparta.’

The Persians paused for a moment, then looked at each other and laughed long and hard. Cleomenes asked the interpreter why they were laughing. He said this was the first place they had visited where they found a king dressed like a beggar. ‘To these Persians, Majesty, all you Spartans look like beggars.’

The slave translated as the ambassadors continued to talk to each other. He said that they had heard great stories of Sparta, but they found nothing impressive here, except perhaps the beautiful young women, if one could perhaps look past the slave attire. Despite their mockery, Gorgo watched them stare at the young dancing girls. And then to her disgust, their attention soon turned towards her.

Ignoring their insulting behavior, Cleomenes calmly invited the envoys to alight from their horses and tell him what they wanted. After some hesitation, they dismounted.

‘King of Sparta,’ said the thinner of the two, his hooked nose being his most distinguished feature, ‘we bring greetings and blessings from the Dariyavush of Persia, King of Lands, King of Kings, the Lord of the East, Conqueror of the North, and Overlord of the West. Our King has sent us here to seek a peaceful conclusion to the cowardly war you have declared on us.’

Cleomenes interrupted. ‘Sparta has not declared any war on Persia.’

‘You declared war on Persia many years ago at the time of Kurush the Great, when you supported Lydia’s aggression against our then peaceful Kingdom,’ replied the stouter envoy with a short nose.

Everybody in Greece knew the story of how Croesus, King of Lydia, went to war against Cyrus the Great because of a prophecy. Apparently, the Oracle of the god Apollo at Delphi had advised him that if he crossed the River Halys – the border between Lydia and Persia – he would
destroy a great kingdom
. So he did. After crossing the river and invading Persia, Croesus suffered a crushing defeat at the hands of Cyrus, which led to the destruction of a great kingdom: his own.

‘We did not,’ Cleomenes exclaimed.

‘Were you not allied to Lydia at the time?’ said the hooked-nose envoy. ‘Did you not warn our King, whom you call Cyrus, not to invade Lydia and not to advance on Ionian Greek colonies who owed allegiance to the Lydian King? Did you not threaten him with war if he did?’

Cleomenes would later tell Gorgo that there was truth to the Persian accusation. But at the time, he said, ‘That was long ago and I don’t know what this has to do with us. But since you have come here for peace, what does your King propose?’

The stout Persian smiled. ‘Our master is very gracious. He abhors senseless bloodshed. And since he wants peace above all else, he asks from you two simple tokens.’

‘Tokens of what?’

‘Tokens of submission,’ the other replied. ‘Offer our Great King earth and water, accept him as your ruler, and he will be merciful towards you.’

‘And if we refuse?’

They laughed. ‘Then you will face certain annihilation,’ said hook-nose. ‘This hovel of a city will be laid to waste; your temples will be burnt down; all your men put to the sword, and your women will become our concubines,’ he said, staring at Gorgo.

‘So which of these two options would you prefer, oh King of Sparta?’ asked the hooked-nosed one, snickering under his breath.

Cleomenes did not speak. But his signal was enough. The Spartan King’s bodyguards seized the Persians and forced them to their knees. Immediately, the Persians’ arrogant sneers turned to panic. They began to shout incoherently. They said something about the sacred status of an envoy; the inviolability of his person. To harm an envoy was to bring divine retribution upon oneself. But Cleomenes paid no heed. He ordered them to be tied up and dragged to a disused well behind the marketplace.

The Persians fell to the ground – pleading, crying, begging for mercy. Gorgo thought their behaviour shameful. If these Persians were real men, they would not become so submissive. Spartans preferred to die like men and expected these foreigners to do the same. She spat on the face of the hooked-nose envoy – the one who had threatened to make her his concubine. In broken Greek, upon his knees, he kissed her feet and begged her to spare his life. Gorgo looked into his face and searched her heart but found no compassion.

Cleomenes’ voice was calm as he spoke to the Persians through their slave. ‘We do things a little differently in Sparta. If you want earth and water, you will find plenty of both at the bottom of this well,’ he said, as he signaled his guards to hurl the Persians head-first into the near-empty well.

Gorgo watched her father smile with simple satisfaction when he heard the thuds echo as the two bodies hit the bottom.

‘Mischief, do your worst,’ she heard him whisper. ‘The hounds of hell are baying for blood. From this moment on, we are at war!’

And indeed, Gorgo thought, Sparta had been at war ever since. But her father had not lived to see the coming war, dying unexpectedly just before the first blood was drawn at Marathon. Eleven years on, the conflict was now approaching its conclusion.

Pleistarchus looked at his mother and said, “So we have no option against the Persian other than victory?”

She nodded.

Gorgo kissed her son on the head as he left the room. She could not help but reflect on his last words. She knew the Greeks had a fighting chance of winning this war. She still had faith in the warriors of Sparta and in the fierce patriotism of the Athenians.

Gorgo sat down on the table and wrote another coded letter, this time using the Athenian method of military cryptography – another technique her father had taught her. Apparently, he had cracked it during his last abortive campaign against the Athenians, before he turned them into his allies. They never knew that he had done it, nor did they know that she, Gorgo, knew the secret. But now they would.

The letter began:
Aristeides, War Archon, from Gorgo, Queen of the Spartans, greetings. If you want to secure victory at Plataea, this is what you must do …

CHAPTER 7

CASUALTIES OF WAR

Plataea

That evening

The euphoria of the ‘victory’ at Gargaphia did not last long. The morning’s commanders’ conference became something of a shouting match between those who wanted Mardonius to take immediate military action against the Greeks and those who supported his policy of ‘wait and see’.

Taking the lead in defending Mardonius was his favourite, Farandatiya – a perfect Persian dandy with long curled hair and a full beard, wearing the finest jewels and perfumes, grown fat on luxury. Once a ruthless field commander, he had realized that life could be infinitely more comfortable and richer through blindly supporting his patron; and there in that tent Farandatiya did everything to earn his keep as Mardonius’ chief supporter.

Sherzada smiled as he saw the enormous, hirsute Farandatiya go head to head against the lean and almost hairless Artabaz. The men exchanged insults so elaborate and colourful that no language other than Persian was sophisticated enough to weave, let alone explain, them.

As the meeting grew even more heated, Mardonius offered a compromise. Two more days. He was still confident that his bribes would soon take effect and this would lead to the disintegration of the Greek army. If, however, by the third morning, the situation had not changed, Mardonius promised that he would attack the Greeks and win – or die in the attempt.

“He is just buying time,” Burbaraz whispered to Sherzada. “Just look at him. He remains locked away in this luxurious tent of his, cut off from the reality outside. And his cronies continue to treat this whole expedition as some sort of a decadent picnic, rather than anything vaguely resembling a military campaign vital to Persia’s interests.”

Sure enough, that evening Mardonius’ Greek friends organized a dinner party – a
symposion
– very much in the traditional Greek fashion, with the finest wines and delicacies for the Persian generals and their supporters. Sumptuous carpets, couches and cushions had been laid out across a vast tent for the occasion.

The young slaves who had been drafted for service and pleasure were dressed in a peculiar mixture of Greek and Persian attire, with long robes over short tunics. The organizers, probably Boeotians from nearby towns, had the slave girls wear veils, mistaking it for a Persian tradition. In Persia, this veil was only for high-born women, a symbol of dignity and respect. The Persians would have taken exception this, had they been sober enough to notice.

Burbaraz stayed away, deeming it bad taste to celebrate while the enemy stood ready for battle only a few hundred yards away. Sherzada decided to show up for no other reason than curiosity, though once there he realized Bubaraz had been right all along.

Soon after entering the tent, Sherzada spied Artabaz and Asopodorus reclining on high couches in a secluded corner. They were deep in discussion, and incredibly drunk. As Sherzada approached them, he heard Artabaz say in Greek, “It’s not going to go well, my friend. Look around you. I do not expect many of these clowns to survive the impending battle.”

“How can you be sure, my Lord?” Asopodorus asked.

“All these man are sycophants,” said Artabaz, shouting above the noise. “Their only purpose is to entertain Mardonius and shield him from the truth. They are not real warriors … And, besides, I have a bad feeling about this battle … It’s making me sick … or perhaps it’s this wine,” he said, as he retched forth. He struggled to sit up to regain his composure. Then he fell face forward, burying his nose deep inside the thick carpet amid his own bile. The most cool-minded of Persia’s generals had just passed out.

Asopodorus looked up with an expression of disgust on his face and saw Sherzada approaching. Raising his goblet, he gave him a broad smile, and in doing so, leaned so far backward that he lost his balance, and fell off his couch headfirst onto the soft carpet below. He too lay unconscious in a drunken stupor.

Sherzada had been looking forward to talking with these two, but they were not in any state for rational discourse, or discourse of any kind for that matter. Looking around the room, he was reviled by what he saw. Outside, ordinary soldiers were starving for lack of food, thirsting for water, and here their leaders were indulging in the most extravagant gluttony and debauchery.

Sitting atop the couch that Asopodorus had just vacated, Sherzada noticed a young slave girl with long dark hair standing not far away. Something about her was familiar, and she slowly made her way towards him. Coming close, she lowered her veil, revealing a beautiful face, and suddenly he recognized her. Farandatiya’s favorite concubine.

The Persians kept their concubines in harems, rarely allowing them the liberty of the camp. But Sherzada had seen this one the day he arrived here, as he was walking through Mardonius’ camp. This girl had passed very close to him; near enough for him to get a good look at her face. What had struck him, in addition to her beauty, was her eyes. The colour was rare and unforgettable. He had noticed that her sad face had momentarily lit up to give him a pleasant smile – as if she knew him. It was the same smile and those same bright violet-blue eyes that greeted him now.

Most of the women serving in the Persian camp had only recently been acquired – in the sacking of cities that dared to resist Persian occupation; or, less frequently, taken from their homes simply because a Persian commander liked what he saw. Now as concubines or slave-girls of Persian nobles, these young women were not meant to leave their tents except to serve their respective masters. Only Persians were allowed to keep concubines during the expedition and these concubines were not supposed to be with other men. They could be killed for such an offense.

The girl walked over and quietly sat down next to him, ignoring the attentions of other men calling for her. She reached her arms around his neck and whispered into his ear. But Sherzada could not understand what she was saying, her soft voice drowning amid the revelry.

Sherzada was about to ask her to repeat what she had said, when a drunken Persian nobleman swaggered towards them and grabbed one of her arms. The girl resisted, stammering in broken Persian, “I shall be with you soon, Master. I just need to attend to his Lordship first.”

“‘His Lordship’ is nothing but a subject princeling,” sneered the man. “One of our slaves, just like you.”

Sherzada rose and gripped the soft upper parts of the Persian’s hand so tightly that he yelped in pain, forcing his fingers to release the girl. Next, Sherzada plunged his knee into the Persian’s groin as hard as he could. The man doubled over in pain, and fell to the ground, where Sherzada quietly but fiercely kicked his head in for good measure. The Persian did not get up. He took the girl by the arm and took her outside. “What do you think you are doing here? Go back to you quarters.”

“But I came here,” she said, “to see you.”

This he was not expecting.

“I shall explain everything,” said the girl. “Let us first get away from this place.”

She set off towards a clearing behind a small hill at the rear of the Persian camp. A lonely place where she sat on the stump of a tree while Sherzada stood in front of her waiting to hear her story. She introduced herself as Cleonice, from Byzantium. Farandatiya had taken her from her family and made her his concubine. Farandatiya, or as the Greeks called him Pharandates, was a vicious lout. He was as brutal as he was sycophantic. Sherzada hated him, but the girl had reason to hate him even more.

“What is it you want me to do?” Sherzada asked.

“You intercepted some gold from the Athenians the other night. I want you to buy my freedom with it and that of the other girls who want to leave Pharandates.”

So this was the person Sherzada had heard that night.

“I was trying to escape, but when I saw your men massacre the Athenians, I got scared and ran back. But before I left, I heard what you were planning to do with the gold. You can put that gold to good use now and free us.”

“What makes you think I don’t have better use for it?”

“My Lord, I approached you tonight only because I have heard good things about you. We all witnessed your courage at Gargaphia, but you are also not afraid of speaking your mind, even in front of Mardonius himself. I have heard too that you had a reputation for rescuing women in distress. They say you bought the freedom of the Athenian women and children who were captured when the Persians stormed the Acropolis. So, my lord, can you not free us also?”

Cleonice got down on her knees before Sherzada. He knew what she intended to do. She wanted to grovel at his knees in the fashion of a Greek supplicant, a practice he had always regarded as humiliating.

He stepped back and motioned her to get up. “I will do what I can for you and the other girls. But you have to be patient. I expect the battle to take place in a day or two. If the Persians win, I shall use the gold I had captured from the Athenians to buy your freedom.”

Cleonice gathered her long dress and rose to face him. “And if the Persians don’t win?” she asked.

“Well, you will have nothing to worry about. The Greeks, I am sure, would free you.”

“My Lord, all Greeks who are found in the Persian camp will be killed. The Greeks who are fighting against you make no difference between those who fight for the Persians willingly and those who are kept by them against their will. There is even less mercy for Greek women who sleep with Persians.”

“Is there not someone in the Greek camp – some Athenian or Spartan – who could help you?”

Cleonice shook her head. But then she said, “One of the other concubines is a girl from the nobility of the island of Cos. She told me that her father was a close friend of a man called Cleombrotus, the brother of the late King Leonidas of Sparta.”

“Cleombrotus passed away some months ago,” said Sherzada. “But his son Pausanias now commands the entire Greek army. Tell the girl from Cos to seek him out when battle is over.”

“But how will she do that?”

Sherzada described the Spartans to her and said that under the custom of his people, Pausanias could not deny protection to the daughter of a
Xenos
– a Guest-Friend. Under the Greek code of hospitality a Guest-Friend was virtually a family member. The girl from Cos could thus win her freedom, he explained, as well that of all the other girls kept by the Persians.

“What if we cannot reach the Spartans?”

“Then seek out the Athenians,” he replied. “They are led by a general – a good man – called Aristeides the Just. If Pausanias does not help you, Aristeides certainly will. Just mention my name to him. He will protect you.”

Cleonice smiled slyly. “My Lord, for a commander in the Persian army, you seem to know an awful lot of important Greeks.’”

Sherzada smiled back but avoided explanation. “Now, please return to your quarters,” he said, “before someone sees you.”

“Stay safe, my Lord. My freedom may well depend on you,” said Cleonice, before she hurried away.

Sherzada did not expect what lay in store for him on return to his quarters. As soon as he arrived, two of his officers approached. “Highness. A Macedonian officer is waiting for you,” one of them said.

“Macedonian?” he repeated. There were no Macedonians in Plataea.

“He says that he has come with an urgent message from Alexander, King of Macedon,” said the second officer. “We told him you were at a dinner, and it might take a while. But he said he would wait all night if he had to. So we asked him to wait inside your tent.”

The Macedonian King, officially an ally and subject of Persia, was an enigmatic individual. Sherzada had met him some years back, but had no idea what he might want.

“What does this Macedonian look like?”

“We don’t know. He did not take off his helmet. But he said he was very hungry, so we sent in some food,” said the first officer.

“He is not tall,” said the other, “and by his voice he is young, almost a boy.”

As Sherzada walked into his tent, he saw the back of the Macedonian, seated at the table, eating heartily; long russet hair fell down his back right to the waist. Eager to have a look at him, he walked around the table and then let out a gasp. “Princess Gygaea?”