The Queen of Sparta (8 page)

A dark purple cloak bearing the royal insignia of the blazing sun of Macedon covered much of her body, but the bronze cuirass the Princess wore looked uncomfortably large for her slender frame. The white horse hair-crested helmet that had obscured her face was placed on the table, alongside the food she was feasting on.

“My Lord, it is good to see you again,” she said, with a delightfully exotic Macedonian accent. Most Greeks regarded it very provincial, but Sherzada found it melodic. “I hope you do not mind me making myself at home.”

“My lady, you are very welcome here,” he said, “but I feel a little awkward entertaining the wife of Prince Burbaraz alone. Does your husband know you are here?”

Gygaea shook her head as she finished swallowing her last morsel. “Burbaraz does not, and must not.”

“I am sure if I were him, I would like to know if my wife were visiting my camp.”

“My brother Alexander is also here at Plataea and he too does not know I am here. With the help of some trusted officers I disguised myself as one of his escort cavalrymen and accompanied him here, without his knowledge. When we arrived, I slipped away to see you. I shall explain everything. But you must promise that what I am going to share is for you alone. Not even my husband can hear of it.”

Sherzada frowned. He walked over to his couch and, deep in thought, sat down opposite his guest. And after a long, awkward silence, he said, “Very well. I give you my word, my Lady.”

Gygaea got up and walked over to Sherzada across the carpeted floor, sitting down beside him on a broad cushioned chair. Sherzada’s tent was not as grand as those that belonged to the senior Persian commanders, but it was tasteful and elegant, with handcrafted furniture and cushions covered with Himalayan silk. Gygaea paused to take in the tent before she spoke. And when she did, leaning over and almost whispering to him, Sherzada felt the gravity of her voice. “You know that Burbaraz often talked about a traitor on the Persian side, who has been passing vital intelligence to the Greeks?”

Sherzada nodded. He knew that somebody high up was passing sensitive information to the Greeks. Lately, Burbaraz had become increasingly obsessed with uncovering his identity. Of course, Sherzada knew that there were many on both sides spying for the other, and some even passing sensitive information to both sides for profit. But the one Gygaea spoke of was a particularly important man on the Persian side, and the information he was giving to the Greeks was critical.

“I know him well,” she said, slowly. “For he is my own brother.”

Sherzada had long suspected Alexander, son of Amyntas, the King of Macedon, of having sympathies for the Greek cause. All Macedonian royals claimed Greek descent, even though the Greeks never accepted them as such. For most of the Greeks, Alexander was something of a semi-Barbarian. But then no one was so well placed as Alexander. Through the marriage of his sister to Prince Burbaraz, he was a member of the extended Persian Royal Family. At the same time, he held the title of Friend of the Athenian People. The Macedonian King counted among his personal friends successive kings of Sparta while being hailed by its bitter arch-enemy Argos as its Benefactor. He was the only king of his time to have attended in the same year both the coronation of Xerxes in Susa and the Olympic Games in Greece. He was a trusted by both Xerxes and Mardonius, and yet only fourteen years ago he had executed Persian envoys, long before the Spartans and the Athenians followed his example, and still he managed to get a pardon for himself. Gygaea’s marriage to Burbaraz – the man who had humbled Macedon – had helped sweeten that particular deal. Alexander of Macedon had literally gotten away with murder.

“I am not so surprised, my lady. Your brother has made a career of operating on both sides of the fence.”

“You too are a man of many secrets, my Lord,” she said as she go up and walked about. “Alexander has come here to Plataea, ostensibly with supplies for Mardonius’ army. But the real purpose of his visit was to contact the Athenian, Aristeides, to coordinate his plans with him. A trap is being laid for the Persians, both here in Plataea and on the Macedonian border. This trap is being sprung as we speak. There is not much anybody can do about it at this stage. The only thing I am certain of is that your army will be defeated here at Plataea.”

“What makes you so sure, my Lady?”

“Are you aware that some Persian commanders are being bribed by the Greeks, with the same gold that Mardonius was sending them?”

“I am, and I believe Aristeides to be behind this.”

“Precisely,” she said. “If the Greek plan works, many Persians will flee the battlefield once the fighting starts. Some will stand and fight; others will flee. But in the end, it won’t matter. All will be killed. My brother will make sure of that. Right now, in Macedon, the entire Persian garrison is being put to the sword. Alexander will ride back tonight to the Macedonian border with Thrace at the crossing of the river Strymon. It is there he intends to ambush and massacre the defeated Persian army fleeing Plataea. After that, Macedon will once again be free of Persian control, and my brother will become King of an independent state.

“This brings me to the reason I have come to you. You and my husband are among those who will not flee. You will fight and die bravely. But you can save yourself and my husband too. All I ask is that if the battle turns against you, run away. And when you flee, do not take the shortest and easiest route to Thrace across the Strymon. Take any other route; just avoid that crossing. You must convince my husband to do the same, but without betraying my brother’s plan.

“My Lord,” continued Gygaea, “you see me as a Macedonian princess. But in my heart I am Greek as well as Persian. For me, it matters not who wins. I am caught between the sin of betraying my brother and the land of my birth and that of abandoning my husband and being disloyal to the blood of my children. Either way, one side or the other will call me traitor. But I do not care. I love Macedon and Greece but I cannot hate Persia either. My own children have been brought up as Persians. The blood of Cyrus the Great runs through their veins. I cannot stop this useless war, but I can try to save my family. Of all the men here in Plataea, you are the only one I trust – not because you are neither Greek nor Persian but because you have a reputation of being a man of honour.”

It was a reputation that was lately becoming very difficult to live up to. “My Lady, I promise that I shall do what I can to save your husband,” he said.

“That is all I can ask of you.” She rose and put on her ill-fitting crested helmet. “Stay safe, my Lord.”

Afterwards, Sherzada paced his quarters. Was a Persian defeat really a foregone conclusion, or was there yet a possibility of Mardonius awakening from his torpor?

CHAPTER 8

THE HERO’S DILEMMA

Sparta

The following morning

“
How glorious fall the valiant, sword in hand, in front of battle for their native land!
”

Standing in the middle of the vast courtyard, Pleistarchus recited the lines of the war-poet Tyrtaeus under the strict but satisfied gaze of his instructor.

Gorgo sat on a bench alone in the corner watching her son go through his lessons, but her mind was on Plataea. She felt dismayed that Pausanias was making needless blunders when he ought to have been taking control of the situation. While anxiously waiting for more news to arrive, she also dreaded what it might be. Whether for good or for ill, Gorgo knew the decisive moment was approaching.

Her thoughts drifted to the past, eleven years ago to the very day – the day the Persians first arrived in Greece.

It was the first night of the Carneia Festival. People were in streets, dancing and celebrating. But something made them stop and turn around. Dressed only in a loin-cloth, a young herald had come running into town. His lean bronzed body and curly dark hair caused much excitement as people tried to speculate who he was. Was it really him?

Instinctively, the crowd got out of his way, allowing the man to run up to the Agora, where Gorgo and Leonidas were holding court. On reaching it, he all but collapsed at Leonidas’ feet. Kneeling before the King, the young man produced a golden laurel wreath – the Olympic Crown – from his satchel and placed it upon his head. The crowd gasped. Spartans were not easily impressed, but in this they were; for the man was Pheidippides, the greatest athlete in all of Greece. The Athenians could not have sent a better envoy.

Gorgo’s father had died less than a month earlier, shortly after her marriage. She was only sixteen then, and Leonidas forty-four. He was her father’s younger half-brother. Like him, he was unusually good-looking. In his tall muscular frame and long combed hair, he appeared the very epitome of a Spartan warrior. None could match his courage in battle. He was the darling of Sparta. The marriage had been the idea of her father to ensure the solidarity of the clan Agiadae, though Gorgo had long been infatuated with her handsome half-uncle.

“The Barbarians have landed at Fennel Field. Athens needs Sparta to stand by its side. How soon can you send troops, Majesty?” Pheidippides asked, still panting.

By the terms of the alliance that Gorgo’s father had crafted shortly before his death, they were bound to come to Athens’ aid. Yet Sparta’s leaders were unsure. Some feared they might be sucked into a trap, even more so if the Persian army was as large as reports claimed; even more so when intelligence was coming in that Athenian traitors were planning to deliver their city to the invaders. Others argued, however, that no self-respecting Spartan warrior would pass up such a glorious opportunity to repulse a hated enemy.

Leonidas was caught in a bind. Though a warrior of Sparta, he was also her king. “Thank you for your message, good Pheidippides. You shall have your answer shortly. I must consult the Ephors and the Generals, and perhaps also seek the will of the Heavens. In the meantime, you must rest.”

Leonidas had bought himself some time, but still he did not know what to do. That night, he spent hours arguing with the Ephors and the Generals. So perplexed was he, he returned home and sought his wife. He found her with their Helot servants helping them to sew clothes for their children for the approaching winter. While her husband did not exactly approve of Gorgo’s compassion for the Helots, he tolerated it, seeing it merely as a sentimental quirk she had inherited from her father. Like him, she too was viewed as a little strange.

When she saw him, Gorgo followed him into their bedchamber, where he sat down upon the bed. He held his head in his hands. They said Leonidas knew no fear. And indeed, he feared nothing, except confusion. “I don’t know what do. Cleomenes would have known exactly how to handle this,” he said. “Tell me, what would you do if you were in your father’s place right now?”

In battle, Leonidas was a lion among men. As a commander, he was skilful and decisive. He was everything Spartans could admire in a king, but in politics, he was completely at a loss. She gave him the most honest advice she could. “Sparta does not have a large army. If the invading Persian force is as strong as the reports suggest, then it does not matter whether Athens fights alone or with Spartan help, the Greeks will be defeated. If Spartans lose this battle and the Persians decide to move against Sparta, we will have no one to protect us. Is it wise, my Lord, to take such a risk?”

After a long silence, Leonidas got up and walked over to the hearth in the centre of the room. “But how can I refuse the Athenians’ request without violating the terms of our alliance, and without being seen a coward?”

“My Lord,” she said calmly. “The Carneia festival begins tonight, and our laws forbid any military activity during this period. All you need to tell Pheiddipides is that Sparta will send a force to support the Athenians as soon as the Carneia is over.”

“And after that?”

“If the Persians defeat the Athenians by then, it will have meant the Barbarian army is much stronger and our absence from Fennel Field has been prudent. But if they are weaker than the Athenians, they will delay battle and if you lead our army after the Carneia, you and the Athenians will have a good chance of gaining victory.”

Leonidas continued to frown; this strategy went against the very grain of the warrior in him. He was dying to go and fight at Fennel Field.

Next morning, he told Pheidippides that military activity was forbidden during the period of the Carneia. As soon as the festival was over, he would personally lead a Spartan force to help the Athenians. “And we shall come running,” Leonidas promised.

Disappointment appeared on the face of the young Pheidippides. He bowed and said, “I shall convey your decision to the Assembly and Council of Athens.” And then he sprinted away.

Most Spartans, being religious, accepted Leonidas’ decision without question. They did not want to invite the wrath of the gods against by violating the laws of the Carneia.

And so it was that under the guidance of the red-haired Miltiades, the Athenian army destroyed the Persian force at Marathon. Even though much was made of this spectacular victory, rumours persisted that the Persians never saw this to be more than a scoping mission and their army was not as large as the Athenians claimed.

True to his word, Leonidas arrived at Marathon with a strong Spartan force as soon as the Carneia was over. And they had come
running
, as he had promised. Still, they arrived a day after the battle was over. The Spartan army was shown the aftermath of Marathon and the amazing extent of the Athenian victory. Athens had triumphed without Sparta. Sparta’s ego was bruised but her army had been preserved. Even though there was much grumbling by the troops for letting the Athenians win such spectacular victory on their own, the army accepted Leonidas’ appeal to their piety; it was the will of the gods.

But after Marathon, Leonidas wanted to restore the army’s confidence in itself. An opportunity soon presented itself when the Mantineans began to raid Perioiki settlements and Spartan farmsteads in Messene. Leonidas marched a force of three thousand troops to check the Mantinean incursions. He wanted to show off his military talents to his young wife, and so invited Gorgo to come along with the expedition. It was her first experience on a military campaign, and she felt just like the warriors, eager to see the enemy and repel their aggression.

As the troops approached the border, the Mantineans reacted by sending their entire citizen army – seven thousand strong – and dug them in on a high ridge near the village of Gortys, just inside Spartan-controlled territory. No self-respecting Spartan king could tolerate foreign occupation of Spartan soil and Leonidas had every intention of driving out these invaders, no matter what the odds.

The Spartans arrived at Gortys as the sun was setting and found the enemy force camped in strength just outside the village. The Mantinean army was impressively arrayed on an imposing ridge. Gorgo was not sure how three thousand Spartans could dislodge them.

Later that night, Leonidas’ commanders debated alternative strategies of how to defeat the enemy. Growing impatient with the discussion, Leonidas interrupted them. “Gentlemen, you can discuss your plans all night if you wish, but all of us know that any plan we make is shot to Hades the very moment we make contact with the enemy. Must I remind you that Spartan military strategy consists of two simple steps? The first step is to locate the enemy; the second to destroy it. Today we have found the enemy force; tomorrow, we shall finish it off.” With that, he dismissed the officers and went to bed.

And so it was with a degree of anticipation that Gorgo watched the events unfold from a safe distance of an opposing hillside that calm spring morning. Marshalling his men, Leonidas took them to the bottom of the ridge as the sun rose above the horizon. There he addressed them in his loudest voice, loud enough for even the enemy to hear.

“Spartan kings do not normally address their troops before battle, because Spartans warriors need not be told how to fight. And, comrades, that is not what I am going to do. I just wanted to share an observation with you.

“I have taken a good look at our enemy above us, and do you know what I see? I see farmers, shepherds, and masons; potters, carpenters, and even fishmongers; and smiths of all kinds. Given the increasing influence of the Athenians on our Mantinean neighbours, I am sure there must be a playwright or two up there; a philosopher too … perhaps even an architect …”

Laughter convulsed the Spartan ranks.

“… and somewhere in that rabble above this hill, without a doubt, is also the village idiot!”

More laughter.

“But what I don’t see up there,” he continued, “even after searching again and again through this crowd of Mantineans … is a single warrior. The Mantineans have brought here all sorts of men of all sorts of professions, but they forgot to bring their soldiers.

“Brothers!” he continued, “Look at us! There is not a single potter among us, no beekeeper, no ironsmith, not even a part-time plumber. We are all soldiers. So what, I ask myself, stands between us and the top of that ridge today … if anything at all?”

The Spartan warriors responded with a loud collective grunt. For some moments, Gorgo’s gaze had rested at the Mantinea force arrayed across the ridge, looking quite formidable. But at the point the Spartans grunted, she saw something strange happen to those troops on the ridge. She saw the knees of some begin to quake. Some vomited and she could clearly see others defecating where they stood.

She was so busy observing the Mantineans that she did not realize the Spartans had started charging up the steep slope. Having grown up in a warrior society, and often instructed by her father on matters military, Gorgo knew it was generally considered a folly to attack your enemies uphill, especially if they were well dug in as these Mantineans were. And it was an even greater folly to do so if the enemy outnumbered you, as on this occasion. And so her first instinct was to think that her husband had lost his mind.

A deafening crash shook the valley as metal and wood collided in fury. The Spartans had struck the enemy lines. The night before, Leonidas had chided his generals that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. On that serene spring morning, it was the Mantinean army that did not survive first contact. It simply collapsed under the weight of the Spartan onslaught. The battle of Gortys, if it could be called a battle, was over in no time. The few Mantineans who had the courage to resist were cut down as swiftly as blades of grass before a slicing scythe. The vast majority of them, however, turned and fled. Their shields were the first things they threw away; and then their helmets. Some kept their spears for comfort, others simply let them go. It soon became a chase by the victorious Spartans after their Mantinean prey – the latter trying to run as fast as they could away from their pursuers. For reasons no one could explain, all the Mantineans raced down the other side of the ridge and sought refuge in a wooded grove nearby, where the Spartans quickly surrounded them.