The Queen of Sparta (3 page)

She paused to see if the Athenians would react. None did. So she continued, “For Sparta’s help in liberating Athens, I ask a two-fold price.

“The first is that you reconvert a large part of your fleet back into the army so that we can now confront the Persians together on land. We have tried your strategy and it has not worked; now, you must try mine.”

Phaenippus first looked at Xanthippus, the naval commander, who nodded after some hesitation. Then he looked around to see if there were any objections. There were none. “Done,” he said in a loud decisive voice, “And what, your Majesty, is your second condition?”

“That the General who would command these new land forces of Athens,” she said, “be a man of my choice.”

The Athenians were in uproar. “We are a sovereign democracy, Madam,” said an indignant Phaenippus. “We elect our own leaders. We do not take instructions from a foreign monarch, much less a woman, on who to appoint as our War Archon.”

“Under the circumstances, gentlemen,” she said, curling her lips, “you have little choice.”

“But the Generals are always elected by the people of Athens,” insisted Xanthippus, “not selected by us, or anyone else for that matter.”

“And who are the people of Athens, pray tell me Lord Xanthippus?” Gorgo asked, “if not you?”

Smiling, she walked towards the Athenians. “I know how this democracy of yours works. All of you present here represent the different factions of the Athenian democracy. If a man wants to be elected in Athens, he needs the support of the majority of your parties. It is thus you, gentlemen, who control the Council and Assembly of Athens, and no War Archon can be elected without your collective consent.”

“So who is this man you would want to lead our armies?” sighed Callias.

“We will not accept that lout, Themistocles,” muttered another Ambassador under his breath, but loud enough for Gorgo to hear.

“Oh, how fickle is this great Democracy of yours,” she said. “The flesh of the dead Persians that lie at the bottom of the Straits have not even been stripped by fish of their bones that you have become so eager to cast aside that genius who won you your greatest victory? No, gentlemen. It is not Themistocles that I have in mind.”

Cimon breathed a sigh of relief, as did Phaenippus. Themistocles was no longer powerful in Athens; the very democracy that had once brought him to power was now chasing him away.

Gorgo spoke the name of the man she wanted to command the land forces of Athens. At first, many of those assembled looked a little surprised.

Callias was the first to smile. Xanthippus and Cimon looked at each other for a moment and then nodded simultaneously. Phaenippus again scanned the faces of his colleagues to detect any dissent. And finding none, he concluded, “so be it.”

The Athenians hurriedly filed out of the garden, leaving Gorgo alone to reflect on the moves to come. The Spartan army was seizing the initiative. The Athenians were on board now. Soon others would be as well. In her head, she was playing out every move.

The Queen did not notice her chambermaid, Agathe, approach.

“Is everything alright, Your Majesty?” the girl asked.

Still lost in thought, Gorgo gently touched Agathe’s shoulder as she passed. “I think we may yet humble a mighty Empire.”

CHAPTER 3

THE HEIGHTS OF CITHAERON

The Plataean plain

Boeotia, Greece

Three months later

Dust rose as the rider galloped hard up the hill, his face covered by a visor that resembled a dark skull. The colour of the horsehair plume on the top of his helmet matched that of his light blue cloak. A long-sword hung over the back of his right shoulder.

A thundering sound was following close behind. He looked back and saw them at a distance. A long river of horsemen with their lances upheld, the reflection of their weaponry gleaming beneath the hot sun. These were fresh reinforcements he was bringing to the battlefield – warriors, like him, of Scythian blood – who had come to Greece to fight for Persia.

On reaching its crest, he found his destination ahead. The Persian camp spread out on the reverse slope along the banks of the River Asopus. He took off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow, opened his flask of water and poured it down over his head.

As he approached the camp, two riders appeared. They wore artificially curled beards and tall crown-like head-dresses. Fine silk gowns covered their glistening armour. These were officers of the Persian army, and they motioned him to stop. They pointed across the vast plain to the high ridges in the distance. “All cavalry units have been ordered to attack the Greek positions on the Heights of Cithaeron. Hurry!”

The rider turned to look at his exhausted men and after some hesitance ordered them forward. As he led his men past the Persian camp, he could not help but wonder at its array of brightly coloured tents, the whole camp giving the impression of a peacock’s beautiful splayed wings. In the middle of this long camp, the Persians had erected a wooden stockade – protecting within it the largest and most magnificent tents, made of silk and other fine materials, more colourful and elegant than the rest.

They crossed the Asopos at a nearby ford and galloped across a vast undulating plain. It was randomly pocked by large rocks and the scene presented a pleasant combination of green, yellow and grey. After a long ride, they reached a stream on the side of the plain. The rider ordered his men to dismount and rest, and the horses to be watered, while he rode up ahead towards the Heights of Cithaeron to attain a better view.

As he did so, he heard the thundering of thousands of hooves shaking the slopes. He looked up through the clouds of dust and saw the Persian cavalry charging up the hill in great waves. The majority were horse archers, armed with powerful bows but little by way of armour. Instead of helmets, they wore felt caps and turbans. The rest of the horsemen were lancers, wearing bronze helmets with cheek-guards and jackets lined with overlapping rows of metal strips – not unlike the scales of a fish. While the horse-archers covered their advance by a volley of endless arrows, the lancers pressed forward up the slopes of Cithaeron to punch a hole in the Greek line.

And where were the Greeks? All he could see was thousands of points of light above the dust clouds of the Persian horses. These were reflecting from shields and helmets all across the top ridge. And as he rode closer, he began to see them clearly. Tens of thousands of Greek
hoplites
, all packed into a single solid formation – the phalanx – eight rows deep, extending for hundreds of yards along the top of the ridge. These foot-soldiers wore shiny bronze armour and face-covering helmets topped with colourful crests which gave them a fearsome appearance, more like iron monsters than men. In front of their positions, they had set up improvised barricades to protect themselves against cavalry attacks such as these. The Greek army was larger than he had expected; certainly much larger than the Persian cavalry advancing up towards it.

As a seasoned warrior, he knew that attacking up a steep slope was always risky, and taking on superior numbers was always a folly; but cavalry assaulting well-entrenched, disciplined infantry was nothing less than suicidal.

As he rode back to his men, the command came. They were going up in the next wave. He joined his men as they mounted up and formed into battle lines. The horses snorted and shuffled restlessly. He looked at his men and then up the Heights above him.

As he formed up his horsemen at the base of the ridge, he saw a familiar contingent, several hundred strong, ride up alongside his men. Whilst most cavalrymen wore shiny armour with brightly coloured clothes and crests to impress their opponents, these particular horsemen were clad in dark metallic helmets and iron cuirasses worn with dark cloaks and black tunics. There was a menacing air about them. Their helmets were of the Grecian type and each of their shields bore the embossed club of Heracles. These were the dreaded Dark Riders of Thebes; Greeks who had come to fight against other Greeks.

As the Thebans organized themselves, the commander rode up to him. He took off his fearsome iron helmet to reveal a fresh, handsome face. Even his short beard could not hide his youth. This was Asopodorus, commander of the Dark Riders, at twenty-eight already the most feared cavalry commander in all of Greece. “Prince Sherzada, would you care to join me in partaking of this day’s glory?” he asked the rider.

“What glory?” Sherzada scoffed as he watched Persian lancers hit the Greek phalanx, as ineffectual as a wave smashing against a rock, many impaling themselves on their enemy’s eight-foot spears.

“Not quite what I had in mind, Highness.” Asopodorus drew his curved
machaera
sword, and pointed it up towards a gentler slope on the right. “Over there is an enemy contingent, cut off from the main body.”

Sherzada saw a smaller Greek phalanx isolated from the rest of the Greek lines, with its flanks virtually undefended. He studied the emblems on their shields to determine which city-state these warriors belonged to. While most bore the standard designs of Attica, it only took one shield emblem to confirm their identity to Sherzada. “The Chimera!” he said. “They are Megarians.”

“Aye,” nodded Asopodorus, “I would have preferred to attack their neighbours, the Athenians, but for now the Megarians will do.”

Sherzada counted their ranks, estimating their numbers. “About three thousand of them, and we – your force and mine – are less than two. We cannot defeat a solid phalanx like that.”

“Unless?”

They looked at each other, as if they had read each other’s mind.

Sherzada quickly turned his horse around and, approaching his riders, ordered them to change formation; dividing them into three consecutive waves. Asopodorus’ Dark Riders formed up behind them. Sherzada told his men to sheath their battle-axes and take out their bows instead. He and his men had practiced this manoeuvre many times with the Thebans but this would be the first time they would put it to use.

Nudging his horse forward, Sherzada ordered his men up the gentle slope towards the Megarian lines. As the distance between his horsemen and the Megarians lessened, he gave a signal and a volley of arrows from the first wave shot high in the air, following a trajectory that came down hard into the centre of the Megarian phalanx. Then he ordered his men to slow down, as he reigned in his own horse. And as they did so, the first wave fired their arrows again, this time directly into the massed Megarians, each horse-archer seeking out exposed body parts: arms, thighs, necks and eyes.

Sherzada brought his horse to a halt out of range of any javelins or rocks the Megarians could hurl at him. But the first wave continued forward, increasing their speed. They rode confidently toward the Megarian lines and then at the last moment wheeled around, turning away from the enemy. And as they turned, they fired another direct volley into the Megarian mass. The fire was accurate and deadly.

While Sherzada’s horse remained motionless, the second wave repeated exactly what the first wave had done, but to even greater damage. The Megarian hoplites, however, continued to maintain the cohesion of their phalanx; the place of each fallen comrade taken by the man behind him. Amid an unrelenting hailstorm of arrows, the Megarians held their ground.

The first two waves kept up a steady fire of arrows from a safe distance, as the third wave came up. And this time, driving his horse at full speed, Sherzada galloped up ahead, leading them sharply to the right, threatening the Megarian left flank. The Megarian shields went up in anticipation of collision. Sherzada could see them bracing for the impact. But there was none; at the last moment, his men swerved away.

The Megarians had been too distracted by Sherzada’s feint against their left flank to notice the Dark Riders suddenly appear on their right. Having ridden unnoticed behind Sherzada’s first two groups, they now smashed into the Megarian lines. The shock was enough to convulse the phalanx. The Thebans did whatever damage they could and then quickly retreated. Momentum is the ally of every cavalryman; immobility his enemy. Their retreat was covered with a deadly barrage of arrows.

Sherzada halted his force at safe distance and surveyed the Megarian lines. He saw dozens of men dead and the dying. The soldiers in their front rank, if it could still be called so, were literally on their knees, cowering behind their shields. Behind them, the rest of their formation had melted into a mob of men huddling together for protection. And in the rear, he could see increasing numbers of men throwing away their heavy shields, hurrying up the hill for safety. The Megarian phalanx was no more.

“Once more and we’ll finish them off,” suggested Asopodorus.

Sherzada agreed. But as he was about give the command, a Persian messenger rode up and addressed them. “Prince Mashistiyun orders you to retire from the field. He will take over the operations here. His Highness wishes to make an example of these Greeks.”

Asopodorus could understand Persian, even if he could not speak it. He threw up his arms in the air and rode up to the messenger. “I am a Greek too, you know, if ‘His Highness’ has not forgotten. Would you like to make an example of me, too?”

The Persian messenger, who had not understood a word Asopodorus had said, chose to ignore the tiresome Greek. He rode away.

Asopodorus muttered, “We did not take the risk to let the Persians steal our glory.”

Sherzada was about to explain that they had no choice as long as the Persians led them, but then he looked at the Megarian lines, and changed his mind.

Greek reinforcements were coming down the ridge to shore up the Megarians. The first to arrive were some three hundred Athenians. Their officers went over to the Megarian mob and hurriedly reformed them into some semblance of a military formation. The Athenians took up position alongside the Megarian mauled right flank, where the Dark Riders had wrought the most damage.

Meanwhile, four thousand armoured Persian cavalry arrived under the command of an exceptionally large man riding a magnificent, though much suffering, horse. Mashistiyun, wearing a long purple cape over heavy gold-plated armour, had styled himself a ‘Prince’ even though he was related only by a distant marriage to the royal family. He was, however, a favourite of Mardauniya, the Persian viceroy, and had been appointed by him to command the Persian cavalry. Mashistiyun arrogantly sneered at Sherzada and Asopodorus and then turned to look at the Megarians with equal disdain.

He raised his sword with a mighty roar. “Let us slaughter these dogs!” Men thundered down the slopes to the aid of the Megarians, but they were too far. Not even the three hundred Athenians deployed on the Megarian right would make any difference. The pride of the Persian cavalry was about to teach a terrible lesson.

Suddenly the front row of the Athenian infantry went down on one knee. And by doing so, they revealed scores of archers behind them, training their bows directly at their attackers. In a split moment, the arrows flashed into the crowd of oncoming Persian horsemen. Within moments, a second volley followed the first, sparing not even the horses. And then, a third. Mashistiyun and his horse fell with a crash. His cavalrymen were stopped in their tracks; forced to turn back under an unrelenting hail of arrows.

It was not long before the entire Persian cavalry appeared at the scene to gawp at Mashistiyun’s corpse. His bloody cape covered most of his corpulent body like a shroud, a dozen arrows protruding from it. Though most of the Persians had no particular love for Mashistiyun, honour demanded his body be recovered.

The ground shook as tens of thousands of Persian horsemen charged up the hill again against the Megarian lines. But Sherzada and Asopodorus held their men back. It was not their fight. By then the Greek formations had come down and formed a gigantic solid phalanx around the Megarians. As the Persian cavalry closed in, the battle-cry
Eleutheria
rang out across the Heights. With that, the entire Greek army surged forward and charged their enemies. Infantry clashed with cavalry amid a thunderous crash.

Some of Persians’ horses panicked and shied away at last moment, throwing their riders to the ground. Most could not escape being skewered by Greek spears. Screams of men and animals echoed through the valley. The Greeks had smelled blood and pushed through their advantage. As they advanced, injured horses went wild – charging to the rear, crashing into anything that came in their way. The fallen ones flailed their legs wildly in the air. The Persians tried to fight back, but could not. It was not long before they were in full retreat, leaving the bodies of their General and thousands of their comrades littered on the slopes of Cithaeron.