The Queen of Sparta (11 page)

The bulk of the Persian horse-archers and lancers plus other allied cavalry Mardonius had recently put under the command of his favourite, Farandatiya. Twenty-four regiments of cavalry could not just suddenly disappear into thin air. But they had.

One of Sherzada’s officers answered, “Highness, they were seen leaving the camp at first light, heading north on the main road, away from the battlefield.”

Sherzada sighed as he saw the Persian army implode on itself. Within moments, it seemed as if most decided to leave the battlefield without order or instruction. Many units were leaderless; their commanders nowhere to be found. Some of the fleeing troops ran and took refuge inside the fortified camp Mardonius had constructed for his personal use. Others took the same main road north; the one that headed directly for the Strymon.

The remnants were left to face the full might of the enemy. Sherzada was now in an undulating part of the Plataean plain, the rest of the battlefield obscured from sight. A heavy battle was waging in front of him, as Mardonius’ men, backed up by Burbaraz’s cavalry, engaged the Spartans and their allies. The outnumbered Invincibles continued to fight, with Mardonius leading them in person. But then a flying rock knocked him off his horse, as the Invincibles were forced to give way to superior numbers. They fell back, still in good order, carrying an injured Mardonius with them as they slowly backtracked to the river.

Burbaraz continued to harass the Greeks with his horse-archers, but the enemy numbers were too much for him to offer Mardonius any effective support.

With Mardonius and Burbaraz in retreat, it was now Sherzada’s turn to take on the Spartans. He told the infantry – the Indus warriors, Arachosians, Pactyans and Gandharans –

to charge Sparta’s allies, the Tegeans and the Arcadians, while he led his cavalry against the Spartans themselves. His force first ploughed through a disorganized rabble of Helots, easily sending them into full retreat. And then he saw the unbroken line of gold and crimson – the Spartan phalanx advancing. It is usually suicide for any cavalry to take on good infantry in a frontal attack – even worse when the infantry happened to be the Spartans. But Sherzada had based his attack on an idea – albeit a risky one.

He shouted at his cavalrymen to charge the Spartans “in the way that we are accustomed,” and his men raced their horses towards the Spartans. The Spartans responded by charging full speed against them. The best cavalry in the world was about to collide with the best infantry on earth. But as the Spartans increased their speed, Sherzada signaled his cavalrymen to start decelerating. And as they did so, they armed their bows as they came right up to the Spartans. As the distance between the two lessened, the charging Spartan infantry was lunging towards Sherzada’s men, who were reigning in their horses. The horsemen slowed to almost a standstill, seconds short of making contact with Spartan spear-points. Then, virtually at the last moment, Sherzada and his men turned and rode in the opposite direction.

And as they retreated, the Tigrakhaudas, the Amyrgians and the Dahae turned in the saddle and unleashed a terrible barrage of arrows, catching many of the Spartan front ranks in their eyes and in their necks, arrowheads piercing between the unprotected areas of the Spartan helmets. The Spartan line faltered as the injured and dying fell. Sherzada’s horsemen withdrew another few dozen paces, unleashing another volley; their archery flawless. This was doubly unkind to the Spartans, for Sherzada knew that of all things, they despised archery.

Sherzada wheeled around and led his mounted Royals around the enemy’s right flank. With battle-axes in hand, they followed him as he attacked the Spartan rear. Being in the lead, Sherzada was the first to strike. He struck the Spartan warrior in the rear-most rank in the exposed back of his neck with his long-sword. The man crumbled to the ground, blood spraying from his neck. The Royals followed suit and likewise slashed into the rear of the Spartan hoplites, whose heavy armour hampered them from turning fast enough to face their foes. Confusion spread. The Spartan phalanx stood paralyzed for a moment or two while Sherzada’s axe-men tore through their rear. It was then orders rang out, probably from their Regent, Pausanias, or some other commander, and the Spartans rose into action from their apparent torpor, like a monster rudely awakened.

Ignoring the arrows of his horse-archers, they turned and charged Sherzada’s axe-wielding horsemen, raising their blood-curdling battle cries. It was a terrifying sight, and this was not the first time Sherzada had seen it. He had no choice but to fall back.

Sherzada’s infantry, who had managed to push back the Tegeans and other Greek contingents, withdrew in good order as well. Artabaz’s Parthian armoured cavalry and the Khorasmian lancers came forward to support them and to cover their retreat. The Spartans too halted to regroup and organize themselves.

As they made their way back to the river, Sherzada’s force saw the remaining units of the Persian army crossing it. These remnants accounted for less than a fifth of the original strength of the Persian army at Plataea. Once they reached their destination, Artabaz’s cavalry rejoined his main force, which was already across the river. Sherzada saw them preparing to leave the battlefield without a fight. Artabaz’s heart had never been in this battle from the start.

Soon, the Invincibles also arrived to cross to the other side of the river. Mardonius appeared to have somewhat recovered from his injury, although blood was oozing down his forehead. He ordered some cavalry officers ahead to rally the remnants of the Persian army outside the stockade in the centre of the Persian camp. That is where he was going to make his last stand.

As soon as Mardonius’ eyes met Sherzada’s, he motioned him to approach. When Sherzada rode up to him, he said, “I, and only I am to blame for what is unfolding here today. Perhaps I still can stop the Greeks across the ford. I would like to make one last request, Highness. Hold the Asopus crossing as long as you can so I can reorganize the survivors on the other side. Perhaps I can still turn the battle against them. And if not, I will show the Greeks what it is like to die a Persian.”

“Lord Mardauniya,” Sherzada said to him in his best Persian, “I will guard this river crossing as long as it will take for those under my command to reach safety, then I also will leave the field. Our debt to your King has been paid in full.”

“And so it has!” Mardonius nodded. He turned his horse and rode across the ford towards his camp.

Sherzada turned to his troops and started to organize their crossing in an orderly manner. He kept back his Royals only to cover the retreat of the others, ordering them to dismount and give their horses’ reins to those going across. He formed them up as infantry. The Amyrgians volunteered to stay behind also. They too dismounted and formed their lines alongside the Royals.

“Remember the Iron Gates,” their senior-most officer said, raising his battle-axe, recalling the famous battle a generation earlier in which the various Saka tribes had fought side-by-side, ironically against the Persians. The Dahae and the Tigrakhaudas crossed to the other side but only to take up position to give them supporting fire from a safe distance.

Then the Spartans appeared, with other Greek troops not too far behind them. As they came closer, Sherzada realized how easy it had been to face a phalanx on horseback, where safe flight was always a possibility. But it was an entirely different matter to fight it on foot. And it was all the more terrifying if the phalanx was a Spartan one. And he had seen all this before – nine months ago at Thermopylae.

The Spartan phalanx advanced like a giant bristling monster. The frightening sound of the Spartan pipes kept time with its slow but dreadful progress. As it came closer, the spears of the front ranks came down to face Sherzada and his men. The heat was becoming unbearable now. Removing his helmet, baring his head, he told his men to protect the river crossing until most of their troops were safely across. Then he would also cross – even if he had to do it while fighting.

The Spartans were by now very close – a veritable mass of bronze and crimson behind a storm of spears. It was a sight at once awesome and terrifying. Sherzada knew that a Spartan warrior was a ferocious individual. But a phalanx of Spartan warriors was greater than the sum of its parts. It was one of the most efficient killing machine he had ever seen. He began to recall what a terrible thing it was to fight the Spartans. And he also realized how small his own force was compared to theirs. The only way to defeat the phalanx was to break it up. Sherzada knew that his men would not be able to, but the terrain just might.

A cry went through the Spartan ranks. It was the
paean
– the war-cry. Drawing his long-sword from over his shoulder, Sherzada moved forward. With the battle-cry
Yavanae Marayna!
– ‘death to the Greeks!’ – he led the counter-charge against the Spartans. But it was the Spartan phalanx that crashed against the Saka lines like a hammer coming down on a sheet of metal. Though they reeled at the impact, the Sakas were able to keep their lines relatively straight. Unlike the weak shields of the Persians which could not prevent Greek spears from punching through, the stronger Saka shields were able to push back the enemy spears. Both sides began to push and shove. The confined space was too tight for Sherzada to use his long-sword, though he tried to use its length to strike through any gaps he could find in the enemies’ lines. But there were none. There was no crack in the Spartan line protected by interlocking shields. Instead, it was the Spartans who were creating a crack in the Saka lines.

But the Sakas fought back. Sherzada’s axe-men lopped off, in turn, the Spartan spear points and butt-spikes, forcing them to draw their swords. But the Spartans had the upper hand. They continued to push back their foes, relying as much on skill as on superior numbers. The very ground under the feet of Sherzada’s men seemed to move forward. The forces of nature were on the side of the Spartans as they pushed Sherzada’s men down a gentle slope that descended towards the ford. The terrain was becoming rocky and uneven. The Sakas were driven back across this broken ground right down to the river. And then it happened.

As the Spartans shoved ahead, the integrity of their phalanx began to crumble over broken ground. Gaps began to appear in their front ranks. Immediately, crying out to his men to follow him, Sherazada pushed through the gaps. Cracks had emerged in the Spartan ranks which were wide enough for Sherzada to use his sword to full effect, and as his axe-wielding warriors followed him.

With neat battle lines disappearing, the Sakas battled the Spartans as equals. But Spartans fought back with equal ferocity. The two sides tore through each other’s lines as the battle raged to feverish intensity. Sherzada reckoned he must have killed at least three Spartans, but it had not been easy. Each Spartan had died fighting to the last breath, inflicting on Sherzada his fair share of cuts and bruises. But now finally the Sakas were gaining ground.

Through the din of battle, Sherzada heard the sounds and clatter of movements behind the crest of a small hill to his right. At first, he thought it was reinforcements coming to his rescue. But then it struck him … a haunting sound … a beautiful sound – music mixed with song. He had heard it before … on the mist-covered field of Eleusis on the very eve before Salamis; as terrifying as it was melodic. A chill must have gone down the spine of every one of those older men who had fought and survived the slaughter at Marathon eleven years ago. It was the Battle Hymn of the Democracy.

Sherzada turned to the right and saw the Athenians attacking his flank.

CHAPTER 11

THE WINDS OF SALAMIS

Sparta

The same day

Gorgo pulled her shawl over her shoulder. She could not help but recall that she had felt the same unseasonable cold breeze before, on the very day her husband fell at Thermopylae. Gorgo was on her way back from the Agora. The marketplace had been buzzing with speculation. There were rumours of a great battle in the offing, or even being fought, at Plataea. But she knew that no news would arrive until after it was over.

As she came over a rise, Gorgo noticed a lone figure hurrying up the road. It was a young woman walking silently and fast, trying not to notice the world, and hoping the world would not notice her. Gorgo called out to her, but she did not respond. Gorgo knew why.

The girl was an outcast and reviled throughout Sparta. Her crime; she had dared to defend her father, Aristodemus. Just before the battle of Thermopylae, Aristodemus contracted an eye disease that impeded his functions. Seeing no use for him in the battle line, Leonidas had sent him home.

Gorgo still remembered the day Aristodemus returned to Sparta; sick and blind in one eye, being guided by his faithful Helot. Rather than sympathy, all he found back home was censure and abuse. He was branded a coward – a ‘trembler’ – who ran away from the fight where his comrades perished. His situation became all the more embarrassing when news came that two other Spartans who had also been sent away by Leonidas chose not to return alive. Both chose to die – one went back to Thermopylae and died in battle and the other had committed suicide rather than return home in ignominy.

Aristodemus was drummed out of his regiment, and a yellow patch was stitched to his cloak indicating his ‘cowardly’ status. No one wanted to talk to him, let alone take meals with him. At all public places he had to make way for other Spartans, even younger men. He was no longer thought to be a Spartan.

Having caught the girl’s attention, Gorgo approached her and asked, “How are you today, Ione?”

“I am well, Majesty,” responded Ione, after a little bemused hesitation.

Gorgo understood Ione’s bewilderment. Why was the Queen being civil to her when the whole of Sparta heaped abuse on her? “I just wanted to know how you were keeping up. I hope you do not miss your father too much.”

Ione’s own brother had disowned Aristodemus. Her mother had retired to her country home because she could not bear to show her face in Sparta. But it was young Ione who had borne the brunt of the humiliation and abuse on his behalf. While he had been shunned, she had been despised. Ione was a pretty girl, but in spite of her beauty, no man would marry her. Who would wed such a woman and produce more Tremblers?

On the night before Pausanias set off to face the Persians, Aristodemus had come to Gorgo to plead that he be given a second chance. She knew that this would mean that he would not return alive, but for Aristodemus, death in battle was infinitely more attractive to the life that he was leading. So it was with some difficulty that Gorgo had convinced a skeptical Pausanias to take him with him to Plataea.

Ione shrugged and said, “I miss him. But I’m not sure if he is coming back.” Then she stared at Gorgo. “I am not like you, Majesty. I am not like most Spartan women who can rejoice at the loss of a loved one in battle.”

Gorgo walked over and gently embraced her and told her to be strong. This did nothing to soothe the young Ione. “How do you do it, Majesty? How did you remain strong when your husband died?”

From the girl’s face Gorgo knew that Ione had asked that question a hundred times before to other Spartan women and each time she had been given the same answer. She had to do what was expected of her. This was the Spartan way. Ione had no choice but to conform. But this was not what Gorgo told her.

“It was not easy. It is never easy. We still have to be strong,” said Gorgo, her thoughts flickering to ten months earlier.

“Majesty, the King and the Three Hundred have perished,” reported the young naval officer.

It was not that Gorgo had not been expecting this news. Of course, no other outcome could have been possible. Leonidas and his men could not have survived the odds. They were not meant to. But what surprised her was her own reaction to the news. She had not anticipated it.

Pangs of all kinds of pain shot through Gorgo’s body. She felt the strength seep out of her legs as her heart-beat accelerated at a reckless pace. All types of emotions, none of them pleasant, began to take hold of her. She was on the verge of a breakdown. But she could not let it happen. So, summoning all the strength she could muster, Gorgo did what every Spartan woman was expected to do in such a situation. She smiled.

“The prophecy has been fulfilled. King Leonidas has saved Sparta by sacrificing himself,” she told the Spartan officer.

He nodded, satisfied with Gorgo’s response.

“Through pain comes wisdom,” murmured the Athenian softly to himself. Gorgo did not know what to make of him. The two officers had just arrived from Artemesium where the allied Greek fleet was facing the Persian navy, bringing her the news of the battle at Thermopylae which had ended three days earlier. Though devastated, she put on a façade of complete calm. Focussing on the matter at hand might help, she thought. And it did. For there was something very strange about her Athenian guest.

In his mid-forties, he was short and plump, with a balding head, thick eyebrows and a scruffy brown beard. His expression was of a man lost in another world; his eyes constantly staring out into empty space. He was dressed like a civilian, in a simple tunic, partially covered by a robe. There was nothing remotely military about him.

“Where are my manners,
Trierarch
,” she said, addressing him by his proper naval rank – that of a warship Captain. “Welcome to Sparta. I trust an Athenian mariner like yourself had no trouble tackling last night’s storm.”

“I am not afraid of storms, Madam,” said the Athenian, “for I’m still learning to sail my ship.”

His response caused a frown to appear Gorgo’s face, as she wondered what type of captain the Athenian navy produced.

Perhaps reading her thoughts, the Spartan officer intervened. “The Trierarch fought with the Athenian army at Marathon, with distinction.”

The Athenian smirked, “The long-haired Persian remembers and can speak of it too.”

Gorgo gasped at the man’s conceit. She looked at him from top to bottom and found any of it hard to believe; not sure if this man even knew which end of a sword he was supposed to use.

“So, Pericleidas,” Gorgo said, turning to the Spartan officer, who was everything the Athenian was not; tall, handsome, and muscular. “What does Admiral Eurybiadas suggest we do now?”

“We fought the Persian fleet at Artemisium,” said Pericleidas, “for three consecutive days in running sea battles, inflicting heavy casualties on the enemy in each engagement …”

“… Except for the time we fought the squadron of Queen Artemisia of Caria,” interrupted the Athenian, his eyes lighting up, “who almost turned tables on us. But nobody wants to talk about that. As I have always said, in war, truth is the first casualty. The plain fact is that the Persian fleet still outnumbers ours and we cannot hold our position at Artemisium.”

Gorgo allowed herself the shadow of a smile, pleased that a woman had given these warlike men a headache. She had always admired the warrior Queen of Caria, even though she fought on the other side. But her face quickly became sterner. “Hence my question. What do we do next?”

The two men looked at each other and hesitated. Pericleidas decided to go first. “Admiral Eurybiadas and most our allies want to fall back to the Isthmus of Corinth to stop the Persians at the narrow entrance of the Peloponnesus, but …”

“But …” the Athenian interrupted again, “our admiral, Themistocles, has requested the allied fleet to redeploy to Salamis instead, where we can try to hold off the Persians fleet …”

“And do what?” Pericleidas retorted. “If we go to Salamis, their fleet can simply bypass ours, and even support an amphibious landing in the Peloponnesus. The only reason you prefer Salamis is that it is close to Athens and you want us all to come and protect your city.”

As the Athenian resumed his gaze into the distant unknown, Pericleidas turned to Gorgo. “We are at an impasse. That is why we have come here to seek your guidance, Majesty.”

Gorgo gave the Athenian a harsh stare. “Perhaps our Three Hundred would not have perished so easily if the Athenians had bothered to send an army to support my husband at Thermopylae. Now you want us to support this hare-brained strategy of your Admiral, Themistocles.”

The Athenian turned to Gorgo and smiled. “Not so hare-brained, Madam. Our combined fleet is less than 400 ships and we face an enemy almost twice our strength. The Isthmus offers no protection to an outnumbered fleet, whereas the Persians will be unable to exploit their numerical superiority in the tight Straits of Salamis.”

“But that depends on the premise that you can somehow lure the Persian navy into a battle in the Straits,” said Gorgo. “Why would they want to fight us there? But the bigger question is why I should follow Themistocles’ strategy when he has no interest in supporting mine.”
“I suppose,” said the Athenian, “that if you don’t agree with our strategy, we can always take our 200 ships and our citizens and relocate to Italy or some other place. But then, without the Athenians, the Greeks won’t have much of a navy.”

“You are not as dull as you look,” said Gorgo drily.

“It is a profitable thing, if one is wise, to seem foolish.”

“But you do make foolish threats. I know enough about you Athenians to know when you are bluffing. And indeed, Trierarch, I have no qualms about calling your bluff and you will surely regret it when I do.”

“No … no, Madam. Forgive me. Allow me to start again.” The Athenian swallowed hard, cleared his throat and said, “King Leonidas’ sacrifice at Thermopylae has taught us that it is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees. We Athenians want our Spartan allies and other patriotic Greeks to stand by us. Together, we will fight for freedom. Together, we shall avenge the Three Hundred. Together, we shall bring the Persians to justice. The cold breeze of sorrow will turn into an angry wind of retribution in those narrow Straits of Salamis. That is what Themistocles promises.”

Gorgo turned from the window and looked at the man a little suspiciously. Squinting her eyes, she asked him his name.

“Aeschylus,” came the response.

“What is your trade? I mean, when you are not learning how to sail your ship?”

His eyes lit up again. “I am a playwright, of course.”

“Of course,” Gorgo said to herself, rolling her eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“He is famous in Athens for his tragedies,” Pericleidas added.

“In that case, good Aeschylus, may you live long enough to write one about the Persians.” Then she sighed. “Very well! Tell Themistocles that he has my support, provided he is able to trap the Persians in the Straits at Salamis and defeat them. But tell him too that even though he can beat the Persians in a thousand battles at sea, it is all for nought unless we defeat them decisively on land. That is the only way we can end this war.”