The Queen of Sparta (4 page)

Sherzada shook his head and ordered his men to cover the Persian retreat, sufficiently convincing the Greeks that continuous pursuit was not in their best interests. As they came down to the plain below, Asopodorus began to vent. “I hate these Persians. And I fight for them only because I hate the Athenians even more.”

Sherzada knew about the age-old rivalry between the two great city-states of central Greece and how over the years Athens had humiliated and overshadowed the Thebans. If it were not for the Athenians fighting on the other side, the Thebans would have just as easily fought against the Persians, as some of them had done at Thermopylae.

They did not notice that they had company. A bare-headed Persian rider had followed them down the slope. He wore a flowing purple robe and armour, similar to Mashistiyun’s. Sherzada allowed the others to move ahead, while he lingered to let the Persian catch up to him. The two met and shook hands.

The man was Burbaraz; in his early forties, with long dark wavy hair and a pleasant face. He was a true Prince of Persia, a grandson of no less a man than King Cyrus the Great. Despite his delicate frame, the Prince was a hardy warrior, a veteran of many campaigns. He was also the last of a breed; the great thinking generals of the Persian High Command that had once led Persia to great victories. A professional soldier, Burbaraz had fallen foul of royal sycophancies and court conspiracies when the Xerxes ascended the throne, ending up commanding far-flung military outposts on the savage frontier along the great river the Greeks called
Istrus
, better known by the locals as the Danube. He had now been called back to fight the Greeks.

“What was all that about him hating Persians?” he asked Sherzada.

Sherzada smiled. “This might come as a shock to you, Highness, but the Greeks hate you. All of them hate you!”

“Of course they do,” he laughed, “but the question is, will these particular Greeks continue to fight for us?”

“They will.”

“… Because they hate each other even more?”

The Prince knew these Greeks well enough, Sherzada thought. After all, even his wife claimed to be one.

Looking back up the slopes of Cithaeron, Burbaraz said, “This was lunacy. Mardonius simply wanted to prove his point.” Sherzada noted the use of the Greek version of Mardauniya’s name; doubtless an insult.

“Which was?”

“That it was not the right time to attack the Greeks, or so he said,” Burbaraz replied.

Sherzada looked incredulously at the Persian prince.

“What have I always told you about Mardonius, son of Gubaruva?” he asked.

“That he is a military disaster waiting to happen,” Sherzada replied.

“And this you have just seen with your own eyes. But I still do not understand why Khashayarshah had to go home in the middle of the campaign, leaving us at the mercy of this jackass.”

Indeed, Khashayarshah – whom the Greeks called Xerxes, the Great King of Persia – had left Greece over two months ago, declaring his invasion of Greece a famous victory and without finishing the job he had started.

Xerxes’ sudden decision to depart Greece had been as perplexing as his decision to invade it in the first place. The invasion had been the brainchild of Mardonius. He had convinced Xerxes to avenge the defeat the Persians had earlier suffered at the hands of the Greeks. That particular defeat – in fact, a disaster – took place a little more than a decade ago at a beach called ‘Fennel Field’ where thousands of those who fought for Persia, Sherzada’s father included, had lost their lives. Now the name of that battlefield had become etched in the Greek psyche as a byword for endurance and triumph. The Greeks would never let anyone forget the victory they had won at Marathon.

But in giving his royal assent, Xerxes made it clear he was going to invade Greece his way. Against the advice of the best military minds in Persia, the Great King chose to raise the largest army the world had ever seen and lead to it to trample Greece into submission. Tens of thousands of troops were summoned from all corners of the Persian Empire, and beyond. The greatest army ever known to man was assembled and sent across the Hellespont from Asia into Europe, supported by a large fleet, to bring these troublesome Greeks to heel. Once they saw the mighty armies of Persia pouring down their passes, the Greeks would quickly submit – or so Xerxes had hoped.

Greek tenacity, however, proved much tougher than either Xerxes or Mardonius had anticipated. But in spite of receiving a bloody nose at Thermopylae and suffering humiliation at Salamis, the Persians held the upper hand. Their fleet still outnumbered the enemy at sea, and their army remained undefeated on land, controlling the northern half of Greece. A Persian victory was almost at hand. Still, what baffled Sherzada was why Xerxes suddenly abandoned the campaign, leaving Mardonius to finish what they had started together.

And not only that, Xerxes had taken the lion’s share of his best troops with him. Nearly all the regular Persian troops, as well other contingents from the Iranian heartland who were related to the Persians by race and language, had been withdrawn. Except for several Persian cavalry regiments and a hand-picked battalion of veteran ‘Invincibles’, Mardonius was left behind with mostly non-Persian contingents from nations subject to or allied to Persia – Sherzada’s own amongst them. For Xerxes, these foreign troops had come cheap and if they perished, would not be missed. After all, their loyalty to the Persian Empire had always been in doubt.

Pointing to the neat lines of the Persian camp in front of them, Burbaraz explained how Mardonius’ sycophantic commanders spent most of the day drinking and debauching, neglecting their troops. They had acquired scores of captured women for their pleasure. But now, although wine was plentiful, food was running out, while tempers were running high and soldiers were brawling. Internal divisions and ethnic animosities were eating up the army from the inside, while morale was plummeting. “All this happening on Mardonius’ watch,” grunted Burbaraz. “This is not a camp of the Persian Army I once knew.”

“We still outnumber the Greeks, though only by a slim margin, and we have far more cavalry then they do. Mardonius must have a plan?”

“Oh yes, he has a plan,” replied Burbaraz, “and it is all about auguries and gold.

“Mardonius has, for the last week or so, been secretly sending gold to some of the Greek commanders in the hope that they will defect to us. In the meantime, he continues to perform elaborate sacrifices to determine the will of Destiny. And each day, he declares the auguries are unfavourable, and then all of us sit around and wait for the universe to rearrange things for us.”

“Surely this is a jest?”

“I have never been more serious,” Burbaraz responded. “This is only adding to the disaffection in our camp. Many of us are wondering what the enemy have done to receive all that gold while our own side have never seen any of it.”

“This is no way to win a battle.”

“My friend,” replied Burbaraz as he put his hand on Sherzada’s shoulder. “I fear this battle may already be lost.”

CHAPTER 4

ENEMIES OF THE STATE

Royal Compound of the Agiadae

Sparta

Two days later

The old man hobbled silently into the main hall. It was just like the living room of any other Spartan home, only far larger; the privilege of royalty. A low fire was burning in the hearth, casting orange light across the room. In the left corner of the room, the man saw the young Queen-mother standing next to two long-haired officers, both in their mid-twenties. He recognized them. Theras, Commander of the
Hippeis
– the Company of Knights – and his deputy, Iason.

The officers acknowledged the presence of the old man with a respectful nod, but the Queen, with her back turned to the entrance, was too preoccupied to have noticed his arrival. She was poring over a large map spread across the main dining table. The old man looked at her with admiration. The precocious little girl he had once known now looked so majestic, in spite of her relative youth and simple dress.

“Theras, you must take the Knights to Plataea immediately,” the Queen ordered, without lifting her eyes from the map.

“We have been through this before, Majesty,” responded Theras. “I cannot abandon my post. My duty is to remain here and protect the young king, yourself and the family of King Leotychidas while he is away at sea.”

“King Leotychidas’ daughter is fully capable of defending herself,” Gorgo retorted with a laugh.

Iason raised his eyebrows and smiled awkwardly. “I can certainly attest to that,” he said, rubbing his still throbbing chin. Princess Lampito was something of pugilistic prodigy, albeit with a short temper.

“And I can take care of myself, my son and King Leotychidas’ wife. There is no need for you to remain here in Sparta.”

“Do not misunderstand me,” pleaded Theras. “There is nothing I want more than to fight at Plataea. I did not come first in my class in the Upbringing to stay home in Sparta while my former classmates do battle with the enemy. But as the commander of the Knights, my duty is to protect the Royal Households. That is the Law.”

“In that case, I relieve you of that duty, Theras,” replied Gorgo. “I shall bear the full responsibility of the consequences. Gentlemen, you must understand. This is a different type of war. It is no longer a question of opposing armies arriving at the battlefield, and having a go at each other until one side gives up and runs away. Logistics can affect a battle’s outcome just as easily as strategy and tactics. Right now the biggest threat to our army is the enemy cavalry which is threatening their supply lines, and we simply do not have enough horsemen at Plataea. Yours is the only cavalry unit Sparta has and it should be up there on the Heights. It is only a matter of time before the enemy cut off food and water to our troops on the Heights of Cithaeron. We must have more cavalry up there to stop them.”

“But what about our internal enemies?”

Gorgo’s eyes rolled as she let out a frustrated sigh. Moving away from the map, she straightened her posture, folded her arms and said, “There are ways of managing these ‘internal’ enemies. I assure you, gentlemen, we have nothing to worry about for the foreseeable future, excepting the Persians.”

“Majesty, with respect,” replied Iason, “we simply cannot take that chance. We have no choice but to obey the Law. We are sorry.” The two men bowed low and left the room.

Gorgo’s eyes followed them as they left, alighting on the old man. Studying his face, she reflected on the transformation of this once great warrior. His hair, jet-black in his younger days, was now almost completely white, as was his incredibly long beard. He looked more like a wizened priest then a warrior of Sparta. And like a priest he carried a tall staff, if only to compensate for his much suffering left leg.

“I trust you are well,
Navarch
?” she asked, addressing him by his official title of Admiral and motioning him to take a seat. He was the first Spartan ever to hold that rank, having served as the commander of the combined Greek fleet at the battle of Salamis. Athough the great Athenian Themistocles had been the genius behind that victory, Eurybiadas shared a good part of the glory.

“Tell me, how is your leg?” she asked.

“It is getting better, Majesty.” Eurybiadas’ leg, first injured during military training in his youth, had been further damaged the previous year at Salamis when a grappling hook from a Persian warship had torn into his tendons. Although Eurybiadas had been honourably relieved of all further military duties, he continued to serve his Queen in other ways.

“What news of our neighbours to the north?” Gorgo asked as she sat down on a chair beside him.

“The ‘gifts’ were delivered, as per your instruction, Majesty,” said Eurybiadas, smiling slyly. “The Tegean oligarchs have come round to our way of thinking. Tomorrow they will send a force of fifteen hundred, along with contingents from other Arcadian cities, to join ours at Plataea. They will also persuade Mantinea and Elis to join our cause. Soon, Argos will be the only pro-Persian state left in the whole of the Peloponnesus. Our gold is doing its work.”

“And to think, that gold was not even ours to start with.”

“It wasn’t?”

“The coins are
Darics
, Persian gold. We intercepted a shipment last month on its way to Argos, remember?”

Eurybiadas smiled.

“Even though the current regime in Tegea has been sympathetic to us, some Tegean factions oppose us bitterly. But these ‘gifts’ will strengthen the government’s hand domestically and help them convince other cities to send troops to support us. It was worth every coin.”

“Majesty, I have not had so much fun since the time of your father – may the gods forgive him.”

Gorgo smiled at the compliment. Eurybiadas had always been fond of her father, even though like most Spartans he never quite understood his strange ways.

The Queen looked outside the window as the sun began to set. She saw Agathe and the other servant girl retiring to the small hut where they lived, together with the whole of their extended family. She often felt empathy for these hard-working people, whose only role was to serve their Spartan masters. But for an accident of history, Gorgo could not see the distinction between these ‘Helots’ and the ‘Spartans’ they served.

“Have we prepared any contingencies? … In case the battle does not go our way?”

Eurybiadas shook his head. “We have no more troops to spare. Most of our citizens not with the field army at Plataea are either with King Leotychidas’ fleet or on garrison duty in Laconia, Messene and Cythera. The same goes for our
Perioiki
allies. Our border rangers – the
Skiritae
– are manning the fortifications on the Isthmus. I can call up the reserves but, as you know, most of them are young boys or old men and there aren’t many of them in any case. Majesty, we do not have enough troops to stop the Persians if we fail at Plataea.”

“What about the Helots? Surely we can raise a few thousand of them, too?”

Eurybiadas thought a moment. “In theory, we can raise tens of thousands of them, but this is not the point. You know better than I how difficult it is to convince our generals and our politicians to arm the Helots. Majesty, recall the tremendous resistance you faced in arming and training just a thousand helots as heavy infantry to fight alongside our army at Plataea. Imagine how difficult it would be to arm even more, and that too on Spartan soil.”

“But they are the servants of Sparta,” she said. “They will be fighting for their homes if the Persians come, just like us.”

Eurybiadas shook his head but said nothing.

“So when will we begin to trust our Helots? When the enemy is on our very doorstep?”

“Not even then,” he answered. “Spartans will never trust the Helots. That is why we have to maintain our garrisons within the domains of Sparta to keep an eye on them even now, in the middle of war; and that is why we send our secret squads against them year after year. That is why, as you just saw, the Knights will never leave the Royal Families, or indeed Sparta, exposed to Helot threat. They are, after all, the enemies of the State. Spartans fear the day when the Helots will rise up and kill us all.”

Gorgo rose, disgusted. But Eurybiadas was telling her what she already knew. It was not his fault that every Spartan slept with a weapon next to him to protect him against a Helot wanting to slit his throat in the middle of the night. It was not his fault that the Spartans feared their own servants more than their sworn enemies.

She turned and smiled, and coming over to her father’s close friend, thanked him. The old Admiral got up and bowed graciously and limped out of the room. After closing the door behind him, Gorgo was about to walk back across the hall towards her bedchamber, when she heard a knock.

Opening the door, she found one of the household Helots standing before her. A small, thin man of barely twenty, dressed in a tunic of coarse cloth, a short cloak made of a patchwork of animal skins, and a dog-skin cap. He was sweaty, smelling awfully, and panting hard.

“… Majesty, I have just come from Plataea, with a message for you,” he said.

“From Prince Pausanias?”

“No, Majesty …” he replied, “… from Prince Euryanax.” He reached into a pouch, and took out a piece of parchment.

“You have run all the way from Plataea?”

The young man nodded. “I left Plataea two nights ago, Majesty, and I have not ceased to run until now.”

Taking the parchment, Gorgo touched the young man’s shoulder. “Go to your quarters and get some rest. Some food and drink too – and perhaps a wash as well; I shall call you again soon.”

Gorgo closed the door and sat down quietly, unfolding the parchment. What she saw made her smile. “Finally, a coded letter!” she said to herself, “I never thought I would see the day Euro would send me one of these.” He had never paid much attention during her father’s cryptography lessons when they were children, but she was glad he had finally discovered their value.

Gorgo’s father had been fond of solving puzzles, and had developed an unusual interest in cryptography – the only King in Greece with such a hobby. Having a brilliant mathematical mind, his techniques were far more complex that the
Scytale
messages that were routinely used by Spartan field commanders. In any case, Gorgo knew the Scytale code could be cracked by any eleven year old with a little bit of training and a whole lot of patience – at least, she had done so when she was eleven. Her father had taught her and her cousins of the importance of secure communication in all aspects of statecraft; whether war or politics.

Gorgo quickly realized that in spite of his many great qualities, encryption was not one Euryanax’s strongest points. His message was far too long and full of unnecessary errors. She left her chambers and called out to her Helot servants, who quickly brought in more lamps and torches to assist her. It was only after several hours of painstaking work that she finally deciphered his letter:

Our Army is on the verge of chaos. Every single one of the two dozen Greek contingents here wants its own way. Their generals are behaving like unruly children, quarrelling over petty issues. Our own Spartan commanders are not helping matters either, questioning Pausanias’ every order and often defying his instructions. Our young cousin does not know how to handle the situation, except to shout and rave, which, believe me, does not help. But I don’t envy him. Being the Supreme Allied Commander of the Greek Army is not the easiest job in the world. Pausanias might be a gifted warrior and a capable commander, but he is running out of ideas on how to keep the Greeks together.

Aristeides, the only person who could have sorted us out, is beset with problems of his own. Eight of his ten generals have been arrested after being caught in possession of Persian gold. He does not know what to do with them.

I am still confident that we will beat the Persians once the battle begins; that is, if we don’t fall apart first.

“These men and their petty egos,” thought Gorgo. Quickly, she wrote a coded letter to Euro. Once sealed, Gorgo called for the young Helot who had brought the message. He came running. Confirming he had eaten, bathed and rested a little, she told him to take the message and return to Plataea. Her message to Euro had been short and simple:
Stay on Cithaeron. Make sure the Greeks who really matter fight alongside you, and not against each other. Defeat is not an option.