THE
PRINCESS ATHURA

A ROMANCE OF IRAN

BY
SAMUEL W. ODELL

NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1913, by
Thomas Y. Crowell Company
Published April, 1913

CONTENTS

THE PRINCESS ATHURA
A Romance of Iran

CHAPTER I
THE GREAT KING’S LAST BATTLE

IT was morning on the plains of Asia. Long-legged herons stood in the shallows of the yellow Jaxartes, bathing their feet in its sluggish flood and warming their bodies in the first rays of the sun. They were silently and uneasily watching a host of armed men drawn out in long battle-lines across the lowlands bordering the southern margin of the stream.

Where the armed host stood was a sandy plain, about two miles wide. Beyond this was a low range of sand-hills, which trended away to the southeast, enlarging the plain as they receded from the river. Cutting through hills and plain to join the river-bed was a dry water-course, where, in winters only, a torrent flowed. In it were some stunted trees and scattered thickets of shrubs. To the north of the river was a vast plain on which the dry, yellow grass had been withered by summer sun and wind. Far in the east appeared dimly through a blue haze the summits of high mountains. Westward the river had yet to flow half its length to the Oxian swamps. Here it was wide and shallow and its banks were low and marshy.

The rays of the sun sparkled on the brazen breastplates and shining blades of battle-axes, on the spear-points and gilded helmets, of two hundred thousand men, who here awaited the approach of a far more numerous host coming down from the east along the river towards them. The light rested softly upon the stern, bearded faces of veterans of many wars and the softer cheeks of young men on this, their first campaign. They were men of Iran for the most part, though some were Assyrians, Babylonians, Arabs, Hebrews, or Greeks from the Ionian cities. They were followers of Cyrus, the King of Kings, the Great King, ever victorious Lord of the World.

Those about to attack them were Touranian horsemen, known to ancient history as Scythians, Massagetæ, Sacæ, and to modern history as Tartars, Turks, or Kalmuks. The hearts of the soldiers of Cyrus were glad. For the long, dusty marches in pursuit of an ever retreating enemy would now end in a riot of blood and slaughter, and perhaps they might then set their faces homeward. No doubt of victory entered their minds. They were led by Cyrus, the invincible. It mattered not if the enemy outnumbered them three to one, as their scouts had reported. There would be more killing and a greater victory.

Racial hatred, reaching back beyond history and tradition to the distant age when the first family of man threw off branches to different parts of the earth and the branches immediately claimed the pleasant places and fought each other for them, animated both parties to the coming conflict. The folklore of the early Aryans is largely composed of tales concerning heroes who had saved their people from the ravages of those fierce men of the North, the Touranians. Century after century the wandering hordes of the great northern plains hovered, like threatening clouds, along the boundaries of Iran, looking across the mountains from their own arid and wind-swept abodes to the rich and pleasant hills and valleys of the South. The children of those tribes, in the days of Tamerlane and Mohammed, broke over all barriers, crushed Eastern civilization, and put back the clock of progress a thousand years.

Once even before the time of Cyrus, the wild Touranians had passed over the mountains and pushed through into Mesopotamia, bearing woe to the nations. Then, one day, their captains sat down to a banquet prepared by the conquered ones and instead of meats were fed with sword-blows and dagger-thrusts. Having thus been deprived of leaders, the Touranian conquerors had suffered disaster; and all had been either killed, enslaved, or driven back across the mountains. Stories of that invasion were thereafter told at every fireside of the Bactrians, Medes, Persians, and their kindred tribes; and the mothers in Iran frightened their children into obedience by threatening to hand them over to the dreaded monsters of Touran.

Having conquered all civilized Asia, Cyrus had thought to rest in his palaces at Hamadan, or Susa, Babylon, or Pasargadæ; but there had come word from ancient Balk, or Bactra, the mother city of all Aryans, warning him that the Touranians were gathering for war in numbers so immense that help must be sent. The great war-king had at once responded. With half a million men he had marched into Bactra, to the aid of King Hystaspis, who, under him, ruled there, and, passing through the mountains on its northern border, he had driven back the leading troops of the enemy. The Touranians had retreated, seeking to draw him into the great plains, where they hoped that they might crush him with overwhelming numbers. He had followed carefully, building forts as he advanced, that his supply-line might be safe, and leaving strong detachments to guard them. With less than half his army, though its best part, he had arrived at the great river, Jaxartes, and had waited there for the enemy to assemble and attack him. Now they were coming and he was ready.

Cyrus had chosen the battle-ground. He had marched out of his camp, situated a mile or so down the river, and had taken position where the narrow plain enabled him to mass his forces, with the sand-hills to protect his right, the river his left, and the dry water-course his front. The enemy, coming down towards him, would be compressed into an ever narrowing field where their immense superiority in numbers would not give them undue advantage. Knowing that the Touranians were all mounted and were accustomed to charge in mass at headlong speed, he hoped to draw them into the great ditch at his front in such confusion that the impetus of their assault would be broken. For this purpose he threw out to the east of the ditch about one thousand paces a curtain of light cavalry, which had orders to draw an assault, retreat rapidly before it, and take refuge behind the infantry. The position of the infantry was a line about halfway down the western slope of the water-course, and it would not be perceived by the pursuers until they should arrive at the upper margin of the eastern slope. Keeping five thousand of his heavy cavalry, known as the Imperial Guard, in reserve on the high ground at his extreme left near the river, he had stationed the remainder, about fifteen thousand strong, behind the crests of the sand-hills at his extreme right; and it would be their duty as soon as the Touranians should join battle, to make a détour to the right, descend from the hills upon their rear, and there attack. Thus, by the grace of Ahura-Mazda, Cyrus hoped, the enemy would be placed between his veteran infantry and his invincible cavalry, and so be ground to pieces.

Near the margin of the river in front of the army was a group of men whose dress and demeanor denoted them leaders. One of these, to whom the others gave worshipful attention, was mounted on a noble Nisæan stallion. He was watching the distant mass of enemies with searching attention. He seemed indeed a king and worthy to be a King of Kings. Historians and storytellers have surrounded him with heroic luster. His countenance was eagle-like. His forehead was high, his nose sharp and slightly bridged, and his chin firm. The piercing glance of his black eyes never failed to read men nor to impress them with the necessity of instant obedience to orders. His demeanor was humorous and kind toward friends but fierce and terrible to evil-doers or to an enemy. Despite his sixty years, forty of which had been spent in war, his body was erect and soldierly. A helmet, glittering with gold, was on his head, and from beneath it his straight gray hair fell to the collar of his cloak. A white, silky beard covered the lower portion of his face and lay upon the silver breast-scales of the flexible coat-of-mail which covered his body and hips. Brazen greaves, fastened to soft leathern breeches, protected his limbs. His only weapon was a short sword, pendent from a belt around his waist. The trappings of his horse were rich. Its chest and neck were also protected by link mail.

In the group of officers surrounding the Great King, there were two of no less royal birth than he. One was Hystaspis, King of Iran, his cousin, one of the Achæmenides, the family that had ruled in Iran for ages. Cyrus had been King of Fars, or Persia, before he became King of Kings. Hystaspis had ruled in Bactra, the ancient seat of the Aryan race. Astyages was king of Medea and grandfather of Cyrus, whose mother was a Medean princess. He claimed suzerainty over all Iran. Cyrus had conquered his grandfather in war and, having dethroned him, had stepped up into the exalted position of King of Kings. He had then placed Persia under control of Hystaspis, who loyally supported him and acknowledged him as the overlord of all Iran. Cyrus was a warrior. Hystaspis was a student, a lover of peace and a mystic, though he ruled his people well as a statesman and showed qualities of a great warrior when necessity demanded. In his youthful days he had known the famous Zoroaster, the seer of Iran, who had reduced to writing the ancient songs and the ritual of religious worship of his race and had preached new life into its creed. Hystaspis was milder, more benevolent, and less alight with energy than Cyrus.

Prince Darius Hystaspis, son of the King of Iran, was the other royal person in the group. He had dismounted from his war-horse and, with folded arms, was standing at its head, also watching the enemy. Six feet in height and well-proportioned, youthful and gallant, he was an ideal soldier. A helmet of gold and silver leaves covered his black, short-cropped hair save at the temples. A coat of leaf-mail protected his chest and his limbs halfway to the knee and was confined at his waist by a broad leather belt studded with gems set in golden buttons. A bronze plate further protected his breast, and greaves of the same metal were fastened to his leather riding-breeches as a protection to his legs. High-laced leather shoes encased his feet. A short sword hung at his belt, and a short-handled battle-ax swung from the saddle on his horse. A soldier from boyhood and already a veteran, having served in Cyrus’ last campaign against Babylon, yet he was, like his father, a student, and had learned wisdom of the greatest seer of that age, Belteshazzer, the Hebrew. His shaven cheeks were fair and glowing with the health of right living. His eyes were blue and clear and were set deeply beneath dark eyebrows and a lofty forehead. He was the idol of all Aryans, and, next to Cyrus, the hero of the army. He was commander of the Imperial Guard, and to him had been entrusted the duty of leading the Guard in the flank movement by which Cyrus hoped to crush the enemy.

Otanes, a giant in size, the noblest of Iran’s seven great nobles, was another of the group. He was shield-bearer to Cyrus and commander of his chosen body-guard. There was also Hydarnes, another of the seven nobles, a short, heavy man whose long, upturned mustache and beetling eyebrows were his most prominent features. He was commander of the Persian infantry. Vomisces, one of the seven nobles and commander of the allied infantry, the Babylonian, Assyrian, and Hebrew levies, and Gobryas, another one of the seven, a young man, blood-brother and closest friend of Prince Darius, were in the group. There was also Prexaspes, a Medean noble, commander of the light-armed cavalry, a brave, ambitious man, richly dressed in jeweled armor and having his hair and whiskers curled and perfumed. He was a cynical, unscrupulous, and pleasure-loving man, but energetic, resourceful, and brave. Of him we shall hear much in this story. A number of orderlies waited near by to receive and transmit the Great King’s commands.

The herons in the Jaxartes have become restless but have not yet flown. While they wait and while Cyrus is watching the enemy, we may study the private soldiers to whose blows he will owe his victory, if he wins. They were not of the same quality as those effeminate men who, in later years, were unable to withstand the Greeks under the great Alexander. This was true at least of the Aryans who constituted the bulk of the army.

Passing along the front of the light-armed cavalry, we observe the dusky Arab, with his curved scimiter and long javelin, his bow and arrows. He is clothed in turban, short tunic, loose cloak, brazen breastplate, and leathern breeches. He is mounted on the beautiful, swift horse of the desert which he loves as his own brother. Here also we see famous bowmen from Edom and Canaan, slingers from the Mediterranean isles, and Syrians from Mesopotamia, severally arrayed in their national costumes. When we pass along the lines of infantry, we note a distinctive army dress. Each soldier wears on his head a high, round felt cap; on his body, a stout, leathern, tight-fitting jacket, or tunic, with skirt extending halfway to the knee, and on his legs linen trousers, confined at the ankles by the tops of the soft leathern shoes with which his feet are shod. A bronze breastplate covers his chest, and bars of the same metal are on his arms and shoulders. The front rank, as it stands in position, is protected by wicker shields, covered with heavy leather, braced with metal bands. These shields are about seven feet long and are placed upright with the pointed lower ends thrust into the earth. Behind them, as a wall, the spearmen are comparatively safe from the enemy’s javelins and arrows. If the fight comes to close quarters, the shields may be easily thrown down; then for his further protection, the soldier must rely on a small, round targe held in place by straps on his left forearm.

Each heavy-armed infantryman in the six front ranks carries a heavy spear about seven feet long and a short sword somewhat like a long dagger. A short-handled battle-ax with sharp, shearing blade and pointed beak is hung by a strap over his shoulder. The soldiers in the rear ranks, instead of the heavy spear and battle-ax, carry bundles of light javelins, for casting at short range, and long bows with sheaths of arrows, for fighting at long range. Protected by the wicker wall and the hedge of spears in the fore, they will meet the assault with showers of darts cast over the front ranks or, advancing behind the charging spearmen, will gall the enemy thus before the shock of the hand-to-hand fight comes.

At intervals along the lines stand the captains of hundreds and commanders of thousands, distinguished from private soldiers only by richer armor and plumes of horse-hair on their caps.

We next note the soldiers of the Imperial Guard. They are all large men, none of them over forty years of age, every one of noble birth, and all belong to the military class of Iran. They know but one calling, that of arms. All had entered military service at the age of sixteen, had been enrolled in the Guards at the age of twenty, and will remain there until they shall reach their fortieth year, at which time they will either be made civil officers or promoted and placed in command of companies and divisions of the imperial armies. Their armor consists of brazen helmets for their heads, chain-mail for their bodies, and brazen greaves for their legs and arms. A round shield, held on the left forearm in battle, will give further protection. A long, sharp javelin, a sword, and a battle-ax are their weapons. Their horses are protected by chain-mail on neck, forehead, and breast.

Cyrus, having satisfied himself that the Touranians were really coming to battle, turned to his generals and said: “At last the Touranians have decided to fight! We must not only repel this attack but must utterly destroy them, so that hereafter the terror of our name shall command peace! Take no prisoners! This day we shall avenge the wrongs of Iran in the death of its ancient enemies! Should it happen that I be slain in this battle, my cousin, the King of Iran, will command. In case he also should fall, his son, our beloved Prince, will command.”

His piercing black eyes rested a moment upon the Prince’s countenance. The latter flushed with pleasure at the honor done him, and bowed in acknowledgment. The King continued: “The King of Iran will remain at my side. I shall need his advice. There will be no change in the plans announced last evening. With the help of Ahura-Mazda, this day we will fill that torrent-bed with Touranian dead! You, Prince of Iran, have the most important duty. Ride down upon their rear as soon as you see their front ranks engaged with our infantry. Officers, go to your places! Let the skirmishers advance farther into the plain!”

The group scattered, each officer riding to his place. Cyrus and the King of Iran retired across the torrent-bed to the eminence at the rear of the left wing of the army. The Prince of Iran mounted and hurried to his command. Trumpets sounded. The light cavalry of the skirmish line moved briskly out upon the plain. The Touranians came on, a vast throng with but little semblance of order. Their leaders rode in advance at intervals, and the front ranks only preserved an irregular alignment. The two opposing forces slowly drew near each other. The shaggy coats made of hairy skins, the tall, peaked caps, and the fierce, dark faces of the Touranians soon became plainly visible to their opponents. The former were surprised at the apparent weakness of the latter and began to utter shouts of derision and defiance. These shouts presently blended into a great roar as the soldiers demanded of their leaders the right to charge.

But the Touranian leaders were wary. They thought that but a fraction of the Persian army was here, possibly an advance guard sent out to delay their progress. They were puzzled and hesitated. But when the enemy halted at long bowshot distance and sent a flight of arrows into their crowded battalions, they lost control of their men. Screams of agony arose, and a roar of angry shouts. Another flight of arrows and a third smote the Touranians. Their own bowmen sought to reply, but their bows were weak and their arrows fell short. Then came a vast forward movement of the mass. Leaders were swallowed up in the midst of galloping squadrons. The skirmishers of Iran retreated, but turned in their saddles and shot backwards with fatal effect. Eager to overtake the flying archers, the Touranians threw caution to the winds and urged their horses to full speed. The earth shook with the beat of a million hoofs, and the air was rent by the terrific volume of savage war-cries. No line of infantry ever formed could have withstood the impetus of that charge if unprotected by ditch or wall.

The herons, affrighted, spread their broad wings, sprang out of the yellow waters of the Jaxartes, and hastily flapped away. The conflict had begun.

After pausing at the margin of the torrent-bed to send one last flight of arrows into their pursuers, the skirmishers of Cyrus quickly descended into and crossed it, passed through the ranks of the infantry, which opened to permit their passage, and formed in line on the ridge beyond. The Touranian leaders were surprised when the fugitives disappeared from their view in the chasm as if the earth had swallowed them up, and, guessing the reason, frantically screamed orders for their men to halt. But the noise was so great that the orders were unheard. The shaggy horses of the leading ranks came at full speed to the margin of the torrent-bed and, unable to halt, plunged headlong down into it. Many horses and riders went down and were ridden over, crushed and mangled. Some retained their footing and struggled across the bottom of the ditch and up the opposite slope to assault the Aryan infantry. But the momentum of their rush was lost. The gleaming hedge of spears, protruding from behind the wicker shields, was terrible to horse and rider. The Touranians struck at the spear-points with their curved scimiters and endeavored to force ways between them. Masses of horsemen poured into the great ditch and struggled forward. Pushed on from behind, those in front could not avoid contact with the darting spears, which, in the hands of sinewy and practiced veterans, gashed horse and rider and threw them down in dying, struggling heaps.

The rear ranks of Cyrus’ army came into action. They hurled clouds of javelins and arrows over the heads of the men in front upon the confused mass of assailants. The slaughter was horrible. But the Touranians in the front could not retreat had they desired. Those in front were crowded on, over dead and dying, upon the darting spears and against the wicker shields, overthrowing the shields and pushing back the Aryan infantry by sheer weight. Especially at the extreme left, where Cyrus was watching the struggle, did this backward movement of his lines take place. Here the water-course was wider and shallower than elsewhere and the advance was not so difficult. Here and there the Touranians succeeded in getting between the Aryan spears and with fierce strokes opened ways into the midst of the infantry. The latter, dropping their spears, fought with battle-ax and sword. The contest became a mad swirl of screaming, plunging horses, shouting men, gleaming swords, and slashing axes. Heads were crushed, limbs lopped off, bodies hurled to earth, horses brained and hamstrung. Ever the stout veterans of Cyrus faced their enemy, unterrified, sweating, grunting, and cursing, as they stabbed and hewed; but they were forced back step by step.

Cyrus watched the struggle with anxiety. There seemed no end to the on-pressing masses of the enemy. More and yet more poured down into the vale of death and pushed across to the assault. Javelins and arrows were becoming exhausted. The infantrymen were fighting furiously, but were beginning to show weariness. Casting his eyes often to the distant hills, he presently noted with satisfaction that the Prince of Iran and his guards were passing down into the plain at the rear of the enemy’s left. He then ordered the light-armed cavalry to the assistance of the infantry at the center and right, and placing himself at the head of that division of the Imperial Guard held in reserve, he led it into the affray just as the infantry, pressed back by sheer weight of numbers, seemed about to be overwhelmed. The heavy horsemen of the Guard rode forward smartly and plunged into the battle. Prodigies of valor were performed. The infantrymen, seeing their King in their midst swinging his battle-ax with deadly effect, renewed their efforts. Huge Otanes with mighty strokes and protecting shield endeavored to ward off from Cyrus all blows aimed at him. King Hystaspis of Iran rode along the battle-lines towards the right. Everywhere the battle was close, fierce, and deadly.

Meanwhile the Prince of Iran with the Guard rode down into the plain, and with javelins at rest charged the Touranians in flank and rear. This soon relieved the pressure in front. Confusion and terror seized the Touranians. Those who sought to resist went down before the shock of the huge Persian horses and the thrust of the long javelins.

The contest became a slaughter. Thousands of the luckless Touranians rode into the river, seeking to ford it and thus escape; but quicksands and treacherous water-holes swallowed them up or mired them down, so that they became easy prey to the pursuing archers. The Aryan infantry assumed the offensive, crossed the torrent-bed, and drove the Touranians back upon the lances of the Guard, who in turn hurled them back upon the infantry. The larger part died. Some broke through and fled. The noon sun looked down upon heaps of slain and wounded, upon despairing squads flying over hill and plain, and upon a river whose waters were red with blood and choked with bodies. The Aryan victory was complete, overwhelming, and decisive.

But the victors also suffered. Their loss was heavy in men, but worst of all they had lost their Great King. Cyrus at the head of the Guard had ridden into the press and restored the battle. When the assault on their rear caused the Touranians to give back, he had followed furiously. Then an arrow struck him in the neck just above the collar of his coat-of-mail, inflicting a deep wound. He reeled from the shock, plucked out the weapon with his own hands, and then fell fainting from his horse into the arms of Otanes, who carried him back out of the battle.

CHAPTER II
AN OATH

THE wounded King was tenderly borne to his pavilion in the camp, and his injury was dressed by the most skillful surgeons in the army. He was weakened by loss of blood, however, and suffered much pain. He became feverish. The surgeons had but little skill in those days; and the wound was deep and infected. He suffered the pain with heroic resignation and, after a while, fell into a restless sleep, in which he tossed about and muttered continually.

Meanwhile the King of Iran, having taken chief command, pushed the victory to completion and recalled the troops to their camp from the bloody plain only when the last enemy had disappeared or died.

Prince Darius and the Imperial Guard pursued the fugitives as long as they held together in a body, but when they scattered, some crossing the Jaxartes and others taking refuge in the southern hills where it was difficult to follow them with heavy horse, he left further pursuit to the light-armed cavalry and returned to camp with his shouting, singing troopers. He did not learn of the King’s condition until within bowshot of camp, where an orderly from his father met him bearing the sad news. At once the shouts and songs of his troopers were turned to sighs and tears. They entered the camp in silence. They were dusty, blood-stained, and weary, and their joy of victory had given place to dejection. The Great King’s headquarters were in the midst of the camp. The Prince caused his battalions to form around the pavilion in a square, with their faces toward it. Then, leaving them still mounted, he went in to inquire concerning the King’s condition.

It was almost sundown. The herons, which had fled away in the morning, were now returning with heavy wings to the marshes along the river. They did not alight, however, but hurriedly flapped away when they found the marshes filled with the dead bodies of men and horses.

The Prince found the chief captains of the army assembled in the outer room of the pavilion. His father was wearily reclining on a couch, while the others stood near in whispering groups; but he rose as the Prince entered, and embraced him and kissed his cheeks, exclaiming:

“My son, to the Guard belongs much of the glory of our great victory. Never have I seen a movement so well made or a blow struck at more opportune time. But alas for the Great King! He is sorely wounded and has a fever. He is now sleeping, but he mutters and tosses in his sleep.”

“May we go in and see him? The Guard waits anxiously to hear his condition,” inquired the Prince.

The King of Iran called the chief surgeon out of the inner room where the wounded monarch lay and, after a whispered consultation with him, bade his son follow and went into the inner room with him. The stricken man lay on a silk-covered couch, apparently asleep, while an attendant waved a fan above his head. Aroused by their entrance, the Great King opened his eyes, half-raised himself upon his elbow, and stared wildly at them. The surgeon gently sought to repress his movements. He quickly recognized the King of Iran and the Prince and smiled as he sank back upon the couch.

The surgeon bowed low before him and exclaimed: “Let not my lord move! It may open the wound and cause it to bleed afresh!”

But Cyrus impatiently waved him aside, and said weakly: “Let be! If I am to die, I die; if I am to live, I will live! I have had a vision! Draw near, my good cousin and my beloved Prince! Is the victory complete? Did many escape?”

The King of Iran answered: “It is your most glorious victory, O King of Kings! Hundreds of thousands of dead Touranians testify to the valor of your arms and the effectiveness of your battle-plans.”

“It is well!” he sighed. “To you, my beloved Prince, is due the thanks of your King, of the army, of all Iran! Oh, my heart leaped when I saw the Guard with spears at rest ride down upon the enemy! It was then that I rushed into the battle. Now I lie here! So be it! I know that I am about to die. I have had a vision. Now I would see the sun set, lest I never see it again. Cause the curtains to be rolled up. This close air stifles me!”

Servants quickly rolled up the heavy side-curtains of the pavilion. At a motion of the sufferer the Prince knelt by his side, placed an arm beneath his shoulders, and gently raised him. Instantly the Guards, standing at attention about the tent, uncovered their heads, bowed to their horses’ necks, and roared out a salute, while tears streamed down their grimy cheeks and many wept aloud. The men of Iran were emotional, weeping or laughing like children as the mood seized them. The Great King smiled upon them and feebly waved his hand in greeting. He whispered to the Prince:

“How they love me! It is sweet to die surrounded by those who love you. Ah, if I might now have my children here! I would give them a parting blessing and die in peace. My sweet daughters, Athura, the wise, and Artistone, my babe! Bardya, my strong Prince, and Cambyses,— But, lay me down! The sun is setting! So sets my life!”

“Say not so, my lord!” exclaimed the Prince, his eyes swimming in tears. “It has been a glorious day!”

“True, my son! And the wrongs of Iran have been avenged. A nation of warriors has been wiped out. No more will the Tourans threaten my people. We shall make this river the boundary of our empire. Fortresses and cities must be built along it so that never again may the yellow men of the plains carry desolation south of it. Advise my sons to this policy. Nay, tell them I have ordered it so!”

The Great King closed his eyes. The tent-sides were then dropped. The troopers dismounted and went into camp, satisfied to have seen the King alive, and praying to Ahura-Mazda, Giver of Life, that he might recover. The King of Iran, with uncovered head, stood for a while looking down upon the sufferer, while his son still knelt at the side of the couch. Presently Cyrus opened his eyes and looked intently upon the sad countenance of the Prince.

“Would that you were my own son, Darius Hystaspis!” he exclaimed. “I love you well and I know that you have deserved well of me. Ask of me what you will. It shall be decreed ere I die!”

The Prince bowed his head till his forehead touched the King’s hands, which nervously clasped his own strong right hand between their palms. Then he looked up into the grave eyes of his father inquiringly. The latter indicated by a nod that he should speak what was in his mind.

“O King of Kings,” he said, “you have been as a father to me! If I have found favor with you, let my reward be very great! I ask no less than that you will give me for my wife your daughter, Athura!”

Cyrus was greatly pleased. He smiled approvingly as he answered: “Truly you ask much! But not too much; and you shall have her, if she so wills. I doubt not that she will gladly consent. She must marry whom she will. Her mother married me even against her father’s will and she was ever the light and joy of life to me. In her love I rejoiced all the days of her life. I have given her no successor. I go to meet her soon. I rejoice to call you son. Would that Athura were here to wed you now! I pledge her to you. Now I have a request to make of you, and your royal father. I constituted my son, Cambyses, regent in my absence, that he might learn to rule. My soul is exceedingly anxious concerning him. His passions are great; he is violent and he endures no opposition to his will. He will need advisers and supporters. My son, Bardya, is of better nature; he is brave but impulsive. Much have I thought of them. It will depend upon you two, King and Prince of Iran, whether the family of Cyrus shall continue to reign. This I have seen. I ask of you that you will pledge me your royal oaths that, as long as Cambyses or Bardya live, you will support them on my throne—Cambyses first, and Bardya second.”

He ceased. The Prince again looked up to his father, who had listened attentively and who now spoke without hesitation: “My son, we are Kings of Iran only. Cyrus, our cousin, is King of Kings. By his own genius he has made this great empire. It is his. He conquered it. He extended his scepter over other peoples. We forfeit none of our hereditary rights by swearing as he requests. As for me, I am ready to swear!”

“And I also!” added the Prince.

The Great King extended his two hands and took the right hands of father and son between his palms, saying, “Is it an oath in the hearing of Ahura-Mazda and His recording angel?”

“It is an oath!” they solemnly answered.

“It is well,” said the King, releasing them. “May Shraosha, the swift messenger of God, take those oaths and register them in heaven! Now I will tell of my vision. I saw Mount Demavend, and, upon its snowy summit, I beheld a great eagle. He spread his wings and, behold! they reached across all the heavens and their shadow covered the earth. The countenance of the eagle, Prince Darius, when I closely observed it, was your countenance. Shall it come to pass that you will overshadow the world? Or will you spread your protecting wings in days to come over this empire and by your help shall my sons reign well? Ahura-Mazda knows! Let his will be done!”

The King’s weak voice ceased. He closed his eyes. The Prince and his father remained silent. A rising wind touched the tent and made it quiver. In the adjacent room was a low murmur of conversation. After a moment’s silence the Great King again opened his eyes and continued:

“Since this empire of mine is new and my will has been its law, there are no laws by which succession to my throne may be regulated. By right of birth, Cambyses should succeed to the supreme power. Yet I am not happy in him. He is inclined to evil ways and regards not the customs of our race. He runs after the folly of the Medes. He seeks the pleasures of Babylon. I have thought much on this. Perhaps it would be just that he should be given Medea, Susiana, Babylonia, and all the western provinces to rule, since their customs he follows. Bardya is not so. He loves our ancient customs. To him I will give supreme rule over Iran and the provinces of Hind, of Hyrcania, and the Scyths and of all our eastern conquests; but he shall acknowledge Cambyses as overlord of the world, aiding him with an army in war, but undisturbed by him in peace. Thus will I do justly and satisfy all Iran, whose people love not Cambyses. I will make a testament and a decree ere I die. Call hither my scribe. I would relieve my mind of care by making such decree. Call in the nobles of Iran to hear my will!”

The scribe came. The nobles of Iran entered the room. They saw the King’s will written down on Egyptian papyrus. Two copies were made. The King signed them and impressed thereon his seal. Then, greatly exhausted, he indicated that he would be alone; and all left his presence to seek refreshment after the day of toil, and to discuss the Great King’s last decree.

It was the duty of the Prince, as commander of the Imperial Guard, to appoint the watches at the King’s pavilion. Otanes, the King’s shield-bearer and personal guard, slept in the outer room and stood at the door on state occasions. There were usually with Otanes several noble youths who acted as pages or orderlies to the Great King. But on this night the King of Iran and several others of the nobility kept silent watch in the outer room, anxiously consulting the surgeons as they went in and out upon their ministrations. The Prince, after setting a double guard around the pavilion, went alone down to the river and for an hour slowly paced back and forth on the low bank along the shore. He wished to be alone with his thoughts.

A violent wind was blowing from the north. The lap and wash of waves, thrown up by its power, and the rustle of reeds and grass, were the only sounds coming to his ears. The subdued noise of the vast encampment drifted away behind him as he looked out across the stream. The moon had not yet appeared. The stars were dim and hazy behind dust-clouds raised by the great wind. Alone thus, though thousands of men were near, while the whispers of the moving air suggested the voices of those wailing spirits released from their mortal bodies in this day’s slaughter, the young man reviewed the past and contemplated uneasily the future.

First in his thoughts, as indeed she had been for years, was Athura, eldest daughter of Cyrus, known to the Greek historians as Atossa, the most famous, most beautiful, and most queenlike woman of her age. He had loved her from the day when he, a youth of fourteen, and she, a child of ten years, had first met and played together in the great park surrounding his father’s palace at Persepolis, where she had come to visit with her mother, the queen. She had often been his companion in sports since the time he had entered the service of the Great King, as a page. Lately he had not seen her often, as his service in the Imperial Guard had called him away to the wars. But, when he had last met her in the ancient city, Bactra, to which place she had accompanied her father when he started on this expedition, they had made mutual avowals of love and pledges of faith, subject to her father’s consent. Now the expedition was ended. He had the consent of Cyrus to their marriage. Happiness seemed to be in store for him.

But the future was not without clouds. Cyrus was dying. What then? The hate-filled countenance of Cambyses arose before his mind. The large, square body of that Prince, the bullet head, the black, dull eye, the fat face, usually expressive of scorn, he well remembered. He seemed to hear again the brutal laugh, the bitter gibe or threat, the coarse words, and the raucous tones of the Prince, as he had heard them often when as boys they played together. Cambyses had hated him, apparently for no other reason than that he could not bully him as he was accustomed to bully other boys. More than once they had engaged in personal encounters; and the officers, who ever guarded the King’s children, had to interfere and separate them. Some of these combats had arisen when he had gone to rescue Athura or Bardya from their brother’s abuse. Cambyses also hated Bardya, whom Cyrus loved. More than once Cyrus himself had inflicted corporal punishment upon the elder Prince for abusing his playmates, and in later years he had often caused him to be confined in his room as a punishment. If Cyrus should die, the violent, degraded, drunken Cambyses would be King, with power absolute of life and death, and able to wreak vengeance upon the royal brother and sisters, as he had often sworn he would do, when he should come into power.

Prince Darius did not fear Cambyses. But if Cambyses should disregard his father’s will and forbid the marriage of Darius and Athura, what would be the result? The Prince involuntarily laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. Cambyses could be overthrown, since the people and the army of Iran loved him not; and the younger Prince Bardya would then reign. Bardya was a friend of Darius and would approve the marriage. But to the Prince came the remembrance of his oath to Cyrus. He had sworn to uphold Cambyses. No matter what the Prince should do or what wrong he should inflict upon him or his friends, he must henceforth support him on his throne! As the possibilities involved in that oath occurred to his mind, the young man smote his hands together and groaned. But he said to himself that perhaps Cambyses, the King, would be different from Cambyses, the man. In any event, the nobles of Iran and the King, his father, would compel Cambyses to give Athura to him. Cambyses would not dare refuse to regard his own father’s pledge.

The moon appeared, a dim, pale disk behind a veil of flying dust. The wind increased in violence. Thin, broken clouds floated across the sky. The river, vaguely seen, was filled with choppy waves. The howl of a wolf came faintly from beyond the stream. A great sadness, a sense of impending danger, filled the soul of the Prince.

A voice aroused him, saying, “Gracious Prince, the King has awakened and is calling for you!” It was one of the King’s pages who thus summoned him. Throwing off his depression, he followed the youth into the tent, pausing only at the door to direct the guards to take additional precautions to prevent the wind from throwing down the swaying shelter. The King turned a wan, pain-drawn countenance towards him as he entered and beckoned him to a low stool at the side of his couch.

“My son,” he said, speaking slowly and with difficulty, “I am unable to sleep. This wound pains me greatly and the wind roars about the tent. I am very lonely. I seem to stand naked and alone before God! I am about to step out into the dark. I would have you near me. You have been with me so many years that you are to me as a son. Now that I have promised my daughter to you, I have a double claim upon you. Sit here, unless you are weary and must sleep. It has been a long, hard day, but a glorious one for Iran!”

“Father, I am not weary,” replied the Prince. “My heart is heavy for you! I pray God you may recover! Is the wound so bad, then? Once before you were hurt in battle and recovered.”

“This wound is fatal. It is poisoned. The weapon that pierced me was unclean. Even now I feel it throb and burn. I know the symptoms. I have watched many a dying officer, wounded by unclean darts. But I am at peace. I have been a man of war all my life; but I have ever had right with me. I have lived uprightly and wronged none. Justice has never been sold by me. Oppression has been rebuked. I have crushed the rulers of nations to free their people from tyranny and misrule. I do not fear to die. I am an Aryan. Ahura-Mazda is God and there is none other! My mind dwells much on the future, my son. Discourse to me of that. You sat at the feet of Belteshazzer, the wise, he that was chief of the college of wisdom in Babylon. He talked to me often of God and of his own people. I made a decree that his people should be returned to their home at Jerusalem and rebuild their temple to God. Call this to my son’s remembrance, when you go to him, and say to him that I lay it upon him to obey. What said Belteshazzer of that which lies beyond death?”

“He taught that the spirit continues to live after the body dies.”

“Yes, truly, so said he to me! But in that he agrees with our Zoroaster.”

“He taught much as did the great Master. Indeed, he agrees that Ahura-Mazda, the Holy One, the Father of Truth, the Life-Giving Spirit, is but another name for the same God he worships as Jah, who is the Father of all spirits and the Giver of Life. He teaches that there is one God, a loving Father, the Eternal One; and that in the far-distant past there were but one man and one woman, from whom sprang all the races of men; and that all worshiped one God, the Father of all; but that many of their children have forgotten Him and have wandered away, making Gods of their own imaginings. He is a mighty prophet and holds communion with messengers from God and with spirits.”

“I have heard wonderful things of him, how that fire will not burn him nor wild beasts harm him. What says Zoroaster of the dying?”

“He taught that Shraosha, the swift messenger, stands ready to receive the soul and to conduct it over the bridge that is straight and narrow into paradise, where the great angel, Bohman, will greet it and say, ‘How happy art thou who hast come hither from mortality to immortality!’ Then will the soul enter upon eternal blessedness.”

“You said that Belteshazzer talks with unseen spirits and is a mighty prophet. Do not the Magi also call up the dead and prophesy?”

“They say so, Sire. But Belteshazzer says that they are liars and that their art is black. He admits that they may talk with spirits, but accuses them of dealing with demons and evil spirits. They worship the spirits who inhabit the dark places of earth and work ill to men.”

The Great King lay silent a moment with closed eyes. At length, heaving a deep sigh, he said:

“It is all a mystery! But I shall soon know. I am troubled concerning Cambyses. I have heard that he has dealings with the Magi and has attended their worship. God forbid that he should fall into their hands! They are a vile sect, regarding neither oath nor promise. They prey upon the weak and superstitious. They would throw down our ancient laws. I have not been intolerant of others’ creeds or ever interfered with their religion. Each nation has continued to worship God in its own manner, giving obedience to me only in matters of government. Can it be said that one God is better than the other? How was I to judge the unknown things of God? But I know that God rules, whether named Ahura-Mazda, Jah, Merodach, Jove, or Ra. Men know him not!”

Again he fell silent, with closed eyes and pallid face turned to the dim light of the lamps which hung from the ridge-pole by chains, flaring in the currents of air and swinging to and fro as the tent rocked under the shocks of the mighty wind.

Rousing himself again, he continued: “I feel that my spirit will soon depart. When it does, I lay upon you the task of conveying my body to Pasargadæ, where you shall deposit it in a suitable tomb. Take half of the Guard with you. Leave the remainder here with the King, your father, who must finish the work I have begun and establish fortresses along this river so that never again may the Touranians recover the land we have conquered, or further molest Iran. Let my body be entombed after the fashion of our fathers. Take a message to Bardya and say that I have blessed him. Restrain him with your advice, that he do not rebel and bring on war with his brother. Take my love and blessing to Athura and Artistone. Into your care I give Athura. May long years of happiness be yours! But I am very weary and I would sleep. Sit here by me. It is pleasant to know that you are near!”

The King closed his eyes and sank into a stupor. The Prince bent his head upon his hands and silently wept. Presently becoming calmer, he sat still in meditation, listening to the irregular breathing of the sufferer. After a while he also slept, with his head resting on his arms, which were folded across his knees. The hours went by, while the great wind continued to bellow around and to whip the awnings of the pavilion and while the life of the Great King slowly flickered out. Darius was awakened by the surgeons, who, alarmed at the long silence in the sick-room, had come in to look at the King.

“Great Cyrus is dead!” he heard one of them say.

CHAPTER III
PREXASPES

CYRUS, the Great King, had been conquered by a greater King. The generals and nobles of his army gathered in solemn council on the day following his death. The King of Iran presided. On him, as upon an anchor in a storm, the others depended; and it was in the hearts of many to declare him successor to the mighty dead. There was no love in their hearts towards Cambyses, the heir. His open contempt for their ancient customs and religion and his erratic and brutal disposition had not attracted them. The army had given the throne and his distinctive eminence as King of Kings to Cyrus; it could give them to another, now that he was gone, in spite of his expressed will.

At the right hand of the King stood the Prince, his son, his eyes heavy with sorrow. Otanes, Gobryas, Hydarnes, Vomisces, and a score of Persians of lesser note were there; and also Prexaspes, the Mede.

As usual Prexaspes was carefully dressed; he was ornate in golden, jewel-set armor and half enveloped in a silken cloak, the famous Medean robe. His hair and beard were curled and perfumed. He moved with exaggerated grace and carried his fine head haughtily. His brothers-in-arms could ill conceal their contempt for his foppish manners. They were rough, ready men, straight of look and direct of speech. They loved not an Aryan who copied the manners of Babylon and Nineveh and, as they suspected, the vices of those ultra-civilized peoples. But they knew that Prexaspes was a brave and able commander of horse and on that account ignored his manners. He was a fair sample of the higher classes of Medes, who, residing on the borders of the more effeminate peoples of the great Mesopotamian valley, had been infected by their manners and customs.

The Medes, in the former days, when they had conquered the lands now occupied by them, had been sturdy, simple people. Centuries of intercourse with the Assyrians and Babylonians had materially changed their qualities and had not only affected their dress and manner of living, but had injected into their ancient religion, which was a monotheistic creed, new ideas that were polytheistic, much to the indignation of their brethren of Persia and Bactra who still clung to the ancient faith. The Medes had permitted the fire-worshipers of the northern provinces to practice their occult arts and had to some extent adopted those practices. There had, as a consequence, grown up a priest class of Magi, or seers, wise men, prophets, who claimed to communicate with the gods of hill, mountain, and plain, and who did undeniably work wonders that could not be duplicated by the priests in the Aryan temples, and thereby not only discomfited the latter in the eyes of the people, but impressed the rulers of Medea in their favor.

It was said that Prexaspes was a follower of the Magi, but on that subject he adroitly avoided conversation. Cyrus, whose policy had ever been to conciliate those he conquered, had recognized the military ability of Prexaspes and had forborne to examine closely into his creed or his manner of life. In return the latter had given him faithful service and had been extremely useful in dealing with the Medean nobility and in recruiting for the army.

As soon as all who had been bidden were assembled, the King of Iran addressed them briefly: “I have called you together to consider the great calamity that has befallen this army and the empire. Great Cyrus sleeps with his fathers. The decisive victory of yesterday resulted thus in greater loss to us than to the enemy. The command of this army has fallen upon me until a messenger can be sent to bring orders from Cambyses, who, by the will of his august father, succeeds to the throne of the King of Kings. It was the will of Cyrus that we hold all this country and make the Jaxartes the future boundary of Iran. It shall be done. We shall remain here until the enemy shall fully submit, and we shall build fortresses along this river. On this spot where great Cyrus departed this life, let us found a city named in honor of the Great King. It shall be a monument to his glorious victory and a bulwark of the empire. What say you?”

He paused. Otanes, upon whom the King’s eyes rested, answered: “Let it be so! Let the King’s will be law!” Nods and exclamations of assent came from the company.

The King continued: “The Great King ordered that his body be taken to Pasargadæ, there to rest in the tomb prepared by him and in which rests the body of his wife. He directed that my son take the Imperial Guard for an escort and convey his body, when embalmed, to its resting-place. This shall be done. As for me, I shall remain here until the frontier be made safe. My son shall select such of you as he desires to accompany him on his honorable mission. It will be necessary to send a special messenger to Cambyses with the Great King’s last decree. He shall travel with the Guard and my son until he reach Bactra; but then he must go more swiftly, in order that Cambyses may make fitting preparation for the funeral of his father. Who will volunteer for this service?”

Silence fell upon the company. There was no desire in any of them to greet Cambyses. They would rather have deposed him. But Prexaspes stood forth and said: “O King, if it please you, I will bear the message to Cambyses, the King of Kings.”

The King regarded Prexaspes a moment thoughtfully. He liked not this man, but he could think of no reason to deny him. He said:

“You shall go. But swear before us here that you will faithfully carry to Cambyses this decree and assure him of our support!”

“I swear!” responded Prexaspes, solemnly, lifting both hands towards the sun and turning his face to it. A frown passed over the calm features of the King. He liked not this exhibition of Mithra worship. But he made no comment, only saying:

“Say to the Great King, Cambyses, that I, Hystaspis, King of Iran, have sworn to support him and his brother on their thrones according to the will of Cyrus; and my word shall be kept! Advise him also that the ancient laws and customs in Iran must not be disregarded. His great father gave heed to them; and on them the Aryan peoples lay great weight. In their observance will he gain strength; and the men of Iran will in return dash to pieces his enemies. Do I not speak truth?”

The speaker’s eyes glanced inquiringly over the company. The black, sparkling eyes of Prexaspes likewise swept over it and noted the expression on every countenance. Nods of approval and unanimous spoken assent indicated the sentiment of all. Prexaspes, bowing low before the King, answered:

“I will exactly report your words, O King! I shall take great pleasure in assuring the Great King that all here are his loyal supporters.”

The King was about to dismiss the council, when a messenger rode up from the east in great haste. He was from the pickets stationed near the battlefield. The King waited till he had dismounted and drawn near.

“A message, gracious King, from Captain Mardux of the scouts!” cried the messenger, bowing low till his hands touched the earth.

“Speak!” commanded the King.

“The captain is approaching with a company of Touran princes, who come to the Great King to tender submission. He has halted at the outer limits of the camp to await your orders. Shall he slay them or bring them hither?”

“Bring them hither!”

The messenger again bowed low, backed from the circle, and sprang on his horse. As soon as he was gone, the King said:

“It will be best not to inform these men of the death of Cyrus. No lie need be spoken. But I am the King. Cyrus is not dead but sleepeth. Send hither an interpreter.”

Gobryas, to whom the last command was spoken, departed to summon an interpreter. Meanwhile the King caused a purple-covered chair to be brought out and placed on a platform made of camp-chests covered with a costly rug. In this he seated himself, and with his son at his right hand, Otanes at his left, and the other nobles near, all dressed in glittering mail and fully armed, he was ready to receive and impress the coming delegation. A glittering crown of gold studded with gems, high and pointed, like the miter of a priest, was placed on his head. In his hand was a scepter, a silver rod tipped with a golden pomegranate. Right royal was his aspect; and the stern countenances of his captains added to the impressiveness of the scene.

Captain Mardux, a stout, bluff soldier, who had won his promotion from the ranks by prowess and shrewdness, presently rode up with a company of cavalry, escorting five men of swarthy countenance, long-haired, almond-eyed, mounted on powerful ponies, sitting on goatskins instead of saddles, and clothed in silken garments and pointed fur caps. The captain caused them to dismount and led them before the King, where, in obedience to an expressive gesture of the captain’s hands, they threw themselves flat upon the earth in salutation. Here they lay face-downward while the captain reported as follows:

“These dogs, O King, came to us with hands in air, showing themselves unarmed and asked to be taken to the Great King. I know some words of their language and so understood that they come as messengers from the Tourans.”

“It is well, Mardux. Bid them rise to their knees.”

Captain Mardux roused the prostrate men with his toe and made them assume a kneeling posture. From this position, they glanced with ferret eyes at the King and his supporters. They were evidently greatly impressed, but their sullen countenances exhibited no fear. Gobryas now appeared with an interpreter, a man of Bactra who had conducted trading expeditions over the great plains in more peaceable days. Thereupon the following colloquy occurred between the King and one of them:

“Who are you and whence come you?”

“We are messengers of the Queen of the Massagetæ. We come from her encampment, a day’s journey eastward.”

“What seek you?”

“We come to greet the Great King, Cyrus, whose power even the gods cannot withstand. Behold! our King is dead on yonder field, and the King’s son is dead. Our people are broken. The bodies of our slain choke the great river. Only old men and children are left. Who can withstand Cyrus? Like the lightning and the whirlwind he sweeps up from the south! He smites and men are not! We come to tender unto him a handful of earth, a broken twig, and a cup of water, and to ask his pardon, that we may henceforth be his men and live under the shadow of his arms.”

“Cyrus, the Great King, sleeps and we cannot awaken him. Behold me, the King of Iran, Hystaspis! I will receive your tokens of submission.”

“It is well! We know of you, O King of Iran, surnamed the Just. Have we not heard of your strong arm and most just and merciful heart? If it be permitted, we will arise and present to you our tokens of submission, asking mercy for our remnant of people.”

“It is permitted!”

The men arose. One produced a small casket of carved wood inlaid with ivory, and opening it so that it revealed the brown earth of the desert therein, he solemnly placed it in the outstretched hand of the King. Another produced a twig of wood plucked from a stunted oak, and another a small jar of water, which were solemnly received and passed on to Otanes by the King, who then said:

“Hear now the King’s sentence! You are pardoned. Enough blood has been shed to atone for past injury. You are brave men whom the Great King will delight to own as his children. Your lands and all your property are forfeit to him, but these he will let you use so long as you serve him in good faith. But in order that you may enjoy his protection, it will be necessary for you to render to him each summer season ten thousand good horses, as many cattle, and a like number of sheep. That he may have evidence of your good faith and in order that your people may be instructed in his laws, you must send to our city of Bactra each year one hundred of your most noble youths, to enter the King’s service, whose lives shall be forfeit should you rebel. Furthermore, you shall maintain for the King’s service ten thousand horsemen, fully equipped, who shall march whither he wills. You shall guard these lands against all foes. In return for these light services, the power of the Great King shall be over you, your foes shall be his foes, and his mighty arm will give you peace. You shall go out and come in according to your customs, but you shall molest no man who acknowledges the Great King as his master. I have spoken!”

The ambassadors bowed themselves to the earth, and their spokesman replied:

“Let all these conditions be written on tablets, O Gracious King! Most merciful and gracious is your heart! Our people will most gladly submit and will faithfully observe these conditions. And now we beg that as an earnest of our good intent, we may bring to you our first offering of ten thousand horses, ten thousand sheep, and as many cattle, for the use of our Lord and his army. So may the Great King see that we deal not with crooked tongues or lying lips.”

“It is so ordered!” assented the King, graciously. “While we have a sufficiency of victuals, fresh meat will be welcome to the army. The treaty shall be written on tablets. Go now with Captain Mardux and partake of refreshments ere you return to your people. Say to them that we shall build here a great city to be named the City of Cyrus, and it shall be a place for trade where they may exchange the product of their herds for the fruits of the south countries. Let them send laborers to assist, and the King’s bounty shall be sufficient for them. But of this we will give you further information at a future day.”

The ambassadors withdrew, greatly pleased that the sentence of the King was not more burdensome. A week later, the required horses, cattle, and sheep were brought to the camp, and the one hundred youths as hostages were surrendered. Within a year, the walls of a city were begun and a colony of loyal Aryans located within them as the nucleus of an emporium which flourished there a thousand years, rejoicing in the name of the Great King who there died for his race.

Meanwhile expert embalmers, who had learned their art in Egypt, prepared the body of Cyrus for its long journey to the city of his fathers. When well prepared, it was enclosed in a heavy casket, placed on a four-wheeled chariot drawn by ten royal white stallions, and, encompassed by the Imperial Guard, was conveyed to its tomb. The great army, drawn up in two long parallel lines, gave sad farewell to its hero-king as the funeral car passed along between, escorted by the Guard; and tears streamed down every Aryan cheek. To Prince Hystaspis, who led the van, with Gobryas at his side, a roar of acclamation, a royal salute, and shouted wishes for a safe journey and quick return, came from the successive companies he passed. Prexaspes, riding some paces to the rear, noted the great demonstration and pondered deeply thereon.

All day the funeral car and its splendid escort moved slowly southward. The Prince of Iran was silent, absorbed in meditation. Gobryas vainly endeavored to engage him in conversation. The troopers noted his downcast mien and whispered together concerning it. It was well known that Cambyses hated the Prince. Every soldier in the army had discussed it with his fellow since the Great King died. All had hoped that King Hystaspis would claim Cyrus’ throne, his by right of birth and age, if being descended from an older branch of the Achæmenian family counted; but they had been disappointed when the King had announced his support of Cambyses. What if the Prince could be persuaded to seize the throne? It was a new throne anyway, this throne of the King of Kings, the Emperor of many nations. If he would take it, they would give it to him! So reasoned the army. King Hystaspis would accede if the Prince should declare his acceptance. It would be better to go against Cambyses sword in hand and to contest for the prize of sovereignty with him, than to be seized and slain by the madman after submitting to his sway. All day on the march and much of that night around their camp-fires, the troopers discussed the matter. The result of their consultation appeared next morning. The Prince, after a restless night in which evil dreams disturbed his slumber when he did succeed in his efforts to sleep, rose and went forth just as the sun was rising. He was greatly surprised to see his ten thousand men drawn up in solid masses, forming a hollow square around his tent. He was nonplussed when every cap was hurled into the air, every sword struck buckler and every head bowed low in salute to him. His face went white with emotion and then became dark with wrath as he heard the thunderous shout:

“Hail, King of Kings! All hail!”

He raised his hand, beckoning for silence, and, addressing a group of officers, he said, speaking sternly and in a loud voice,

“What means this?”

One of the officers advanced a pace, and, bowing low, said:

“Son of Achæmenes, Cyrus, the Great King, is dead! Your Father, the illustrious King of Iran, has refused to take his place. But you have not refused. Now we know that Cambyses hates you and will do you evil. He is no Aryan, moreover, and is said to be a madman. Heed this, our prayer! Let us recognize you as the King of Kings and our good right arms will make it so!”

As he ceased speaking, a roar of assent went up from ten thousand throats. The soldiers extended their hands to him in entreaty. Again he beckoned for silence. When the clamor ceased, he answered:

“What you ask is impossible to grant! As my father swore to Cyrus, so did I! I am bound by a sacred oath to the Great King, whose body lies there on its car, but whose spirit even now, perhaps, hovers near us; and I must support Cambyses and Bardya on their thrones forever. My word is given; it shall not return! This throne is the throne of Cyrus; he set it up and his children are entitled to it. It is true, the King of Iran by right of descent might have contested with Cyrus the throne of Persia; but he had no right to contest with him that which his mighty arm brought in subjection to him. As King of Iran, my father is your ruler. I, his son, am most happy to be your Prince. But Cambyses is overlord and such must remain! I have no fear. Cambyses, the Great King, will not be empowered to do me harm unless I rebel. You have rebelled. You know the punishment of treason is death; but I will pardon you now if you will swear before Ahura-Mazda to remain faithful to Cambyses, the Great King, so long as he respects the laws of Iran. Up with your hands and swear!”

There was a pause. The troopers looked to their officers and upon each other. A murmur ran through the great host. Would the Prince yield? They knew his firmness and his love of truth and that he had never broken oath or promise. Looking upon his countenance, sad but set with determination, they decided to obey. But some wept aloud, and tears flowed down the cheeks of others. The captains raised their hands, saying: “We swear, O Prince of Iran! You alone may release this oath!” And the soldiers repeated solemnly but without enthusiasm: “We swear, O Prince, and you alone may release this oath!”

Thus did the Prince of Iran for the sake of an oath put aside the highest position earth could give. Dismissing the assembly with a wave of his hand, he turned in great agitation to enter his tent, that he might regain that calmness for which in all difficult situations he was ever noted. As he turned, his eyes met those of Prexaspes, who occupied a tent near his, and, who, standing in his tent-door, had been a witness of the whole incident. He noted on the face of the Mede great astonishment. He gravely acknowledged the profound bow with which the latter greeted him and passed into his tent. Later, on the march that day, the Prince called Prexaspes to his side, and said to him:

“Lord Prexaspes, you were witness when the Imperial Guard sought my consent to rebel. You are going in before Cambyses, the King of Kings; and I place it upon your honor to deal justly with me in this matter. These men are like children, loving me as I love them, and thought they were doing me a service. If you see fit to speak to the King of it, assure him of my loyalty. Also say that I myself will stand or fall with these men. No harm must come to them. The King of Kings shall have loyal service of me and of these as long as they remain with me.”

“What need to report?” rejoined Prexaspes, warmly. “Truly it was no light thing your oath required of you! I marvel that you refused, knowing as you do how the King of Kings hates you, hates your friends, hates his brother, who is dear to you, and even his sister, the lovely Athura! Rest assured that, should this come to his ears, I will truthfully describe your actions. How can I forget that day at the crossing of the Araxes, when my Babylonian archers and I were surrounded by howling Scythians and we were hard-pressed? Was it not the Prince of Iran who came with the Guard to our rescue? I may not be a follower of Zoroaster, Great Prince, but I am not ungrateful!”

The Prince looked into the eyes of Prexaspes and saw that he was sincere. “I trust you,” he said. “Let us hope that Cambyses as King may forget his dislikes as a man.”

CHAPTER IV
ATHURA

ANCIENT Bactra, the mother city of the Aryan race, was situate in the midst of a beautiful valley surrounded on all sides by mountain ranges. It was a fertile valley. Through it rushed the limpid river, Adirsiah, coming down from the distant snow-capped mountains in the east and finding an outlet northward to the Oxus. Though it was summer, the hills were green and the valley was luxuriant with full-leafed trees and blooming gardens. It seemed a paradise indeed to the Prince of Iran and his wayworn guard, marching in from the arid northern plain. Bactra was a great city. Many square miles dotted with ruins at this day mutely tell of its extent. Here the mythical Kaiomur, possibly a son of Japhet, settled, and planted a race from which many nations have sprung. It was not a walled city. The men of Iran relied on their good right arms for defense. Indeed, they were not accustomed to await invasion; they invaded others. In the open, with galloping steed and spear at rest they swept the enemy from their path, or on foot, with bow and arrow they smote him or closed with him in close mortal combat with sword and battle-ax. Their valor made a wall more potent than stones.

Like a hive did the ancient city nourish myriad lives and send forth swarms of sturdy men, who, under the leadership of able men, took with them wives, children, and goods and forcibly possessed new homes in distant climes. One stream passed westward to the lower Caspian and, branching there, flowed northward, westward, and southward. Hellas, Asia Minor, the Saxon woods, Scandinavia, and Western Europe received them, not perhaps in one year or one century, but in successive years, as successive waves with a rising tide ever encroach on the shore. Medea and Persia received them. Ancient records seem to indicate that they dominated the great valley of the Euphrates and Tigris and even planted families in Syria on the shores of the Great Sea; and it is sometimes argued that the ancestors of Abraham, father of the Hebrews, came from Iran bringing their knowledge of one God with them. It is at least true that the monarchs of the Medes and Persians ever favored the Hebrews and acknowledged their Jehovah as the same God they themselves worshiped under the name Ahura-Mazda, or the Life-Giving Spirit. Another swarm crossed the southern mountains and occupied India. But eastward and northeastward, in obedience to some primal instinct that seems to have driven them in all other directions, the Aryans never penetrated. The slant-eyed, yellow races, protected by the vast mountain ranges and desert plains of Tibet, multiplied in peace on the shores of the Pacific Ocean and threw out their swarms northward and eastward into the Americas and the islands of the south seas. Occasionally their hordes, under the general designation of Tourans, pressed upon their western neighbors by way of the plains of Siberia, and later, as Huns, Turks, and Tartars, succeeded in overpowering, by weight of vast numbers, the provinces so long protected by Aryan valor; but not until that valor had been forgotten in the luxuries of an enervating civilization.

Bactra was at the intersection of main highways of commerce. Here the great caravan road from Rhages, to which flowed by different routes the trade of Persia and Medea, of Egypt, Babylonia, Syria, and Europe, intersected the roads from India and Tourania. Here the beautiful wares of Babylon and Nineveh, of Samos and Damascus, of Egypt and the Ionian cities and of Greece were exchanged for the fabrics of India and the products of the northern plains. Here caravans outfitted for trade in distant lands. The great market-place, an open square on the shore of the Adirsiah, near the center of the city, was ever lively with the movement of men of different colors and wearing as many different dresses; of camels ever complaining and groaning; of donkeys, braying; of beautiful horses, exhibiting their points; and of a thousand vehicles for transporting goods. Around three sides were dome-roofed stores, where the wealth of all nations was displayed;, where gold, silver, precious stones, beautiful earthenwares, ivory, rugs, weapons, fruits, grains, and wearing apparel were exhibited for exchange or for sale, and the noisy shouts of traders were heard the whole day. Groups of soldiers swaggered along, keeping the peace. Teachers and priests in long robes walked with solemn pace contemplative; magistrates and nobles rode through with lofty aspect; the countryman, then as ever, wandered about in open-eyed curiosity, loved and respected by all Aryans, but nevertheless simple-minded and apt to be cheated; and the humble laborer of the city, rough-spoken but shrewd, boldly jostled any foreigner who might cross his path.

The royal palace occupied an eminence sloping down to the river, near the eastern limits of the city, its stately walls, and porticos dimly seen through the leafy trees of the park surrounding it. Other mansions of the rich and noble, each surrounded by garden or park, clustered near. The narrow, irregular streets were bordered by the houses and shops of the commercial class. On the outskirts, the humbler cottages of the poor were built. On all sides lay the gardens and fields in which were raised the vegetables consumed by the vast population.

Couriers had brought to Prince Bardya at Bactra news of his father’s death. A period of mourning had been proclaimed. When the funeral car with its guard drew near the city, a decree was issued and proclaimed on all the street corners, commanding all to leave their tasks and to observe a day of special mourning. A great procession marched out of the city to meet the dead king. A thousand horsemen, four abreast, led the way. Prince Bardya, riding a great white horse, rode alone, with bowed head and sorrowful demeanor. Following him were two litters, carried on the shoulders of stout black slaves; these bore the royal daughters of Cyrus, Athura and Artistone. A thousand or more nobles, magistrates, travelers of note, and rich men rode next. Countless multitudes of all classes closed the procession or traveled along the way through the fields, eager to see and to hear.

The Prince of Iran, leaving his camp equipage at a ford of the river a league below the city, advanced slowly with the funeral car and his ten thousand weary, wayworn guards, to meet the procession. Coming to an open field, wherein stood several great oaks, he caused the funeral car to stop beneath the branches of one of the trees and massed his guard in an open square around it, leaving a way open for the royal Prince and his sisters to approach the bier. Then, accompanied by Gobryas, he rode on to meet the procession. The advance guards of Prince Bardya opened to let him pass through, forming in lines on either side of the way.

The Prince of Iran and Gobryas dismounted as they were about to meet the son of Cyrus; and the latter likewise dismounted, and, hastening to them, embraced them affectionately, while tears dimmed all eyes.

“Hail, dear friends!” was his greeting. “It is pleasant to meet you even though sadness comes with you.” He kissed the Prince of Iran and embraced him. “My sisters are here. Let us go to them,” he then said.

The litters drew near and were placed on the ground by their brawny carriers. The curtains of the foremost were parted and from it emerged a young woman, heavily veiled and dressed in rich but somber clothing. As her brother and his two friends approached, she drew aside the veil from her face, and, smiling through tears upon the Prince of Iran, extended to him her hand. He bent knee before her and reverently kissed the extended hand.

“Greeting, Prince of Iran!” she said in a low, sweet voice, wherein gladness struggled with sadness. “Arise! Should a Prince of Iran kneel to any person?”

“To one only in the whole world!” was his reply, arising and looking down into her glorious eyes. “If I were not here on so sad an errand, this would be my happiest day. I bring to you the last message of love and farewell from the King of Kings. His last thoughts and words were of you and of the little sister here.”

He turned to greet Artistone, who now came forward from her litter, and gravely bent to kiss the little hand she gave him.

“Come!” said Bardya, “let us go and greet the dead. When we return to the palace we shall renew our acquaintance and you shall tell us all that our beloved father said.”

Without further conversation they walked between the lines of massed soldiery, who saluted as they passed, to the funeral car, around which stood a score of officers with drawn swords as a guard of honor. They ascended the great car, drew aside the heavy curtains, with which it was surrounded, and stood in the presence of the dead. The casket had been partially opened and some of the wrappings over the face of the remains had been removed, that they might look again upon the beloved features. Royalty for the moment was forgotten and the bereaved children wept; and, in an instant, a great wave of emotion swept over the vast multitude. Men of all stations, women of all classes and their children, lifted up their voices in loud lamentation. The hero, under whose mighty shadow they had so long rested and been safe, was no more! Cyrus, the well-beloved, was gone! Alas and alas! wailed the people. The glowing sun smiled upon the snowy peaks in the east, the green hills in the west, and the lovely valley with its rippling stream, and all nature seemed happy. Only this myriad of human beings voiced their woe. No greater tribute could have been given to the mighty dead.

But weeping must have an end. The Prince and his sisters descended from the car and returned to the palace. The casket, escorted by the multitudes, was conveyed to a temple, which stood in the park surrounding the palace, and was there kept while arrangements were made for its further transportation to Persia.

Prexaspes, having been given audience by Prince Bardya, was furnished with an escort and sent on his way to Cambyses at Hamadan. He was directed to inform the King of Kings that his brother and sisters would accompany the body of their father to Pasargadæ. The determination of Bardya to attend his father’s corpse to its tomb gave the Prince of Iran much concern. It would place Bardya within the power of King Cambyses, whose uncertain temper might lead him to fratricide. Knowing the disposition of Cambyses and his long-standing hatred towards Bardya, and fearing that a conflict would inevitably arise over the divided authority left them by the will of Cyrus, the Prince sought to persuade Bardya to remain in Bactra, whose people would protect him. But Bardya would not be persuaded. He was a bold youth and thought that he would be as safe among the Persians as among the Bactrians.

The palace of Bactra was the property of its ancient line of kings. Here the Kings of Iran were crowned, and from it went forth all royal decrees. Here King Hystaspis in early youth had resided with his queen, and here Darius, their son, had been born. But when Cyrus of Persia became conqueror of Medea and assumed the title of King of Kings, he admitted that Persia was a part of Iran and placed it likewise under the rule of Hystaspis, but on condition that the latter should acknowledge him as overlord of all. King Hystaspis entertained for his great cousin the most lively admiration and affection. He cared not to dispute with him world authority. He was a mystic, a lover of learning and of his fellow-men. He would much rather have sat at the feet of Zoroaster and delved into the mystery of life and the greater mystery of death than rule as King. But he accepted the duties of kingship as a trust for his people and stoutly protected them from their enemies as well as in the enjoyment of their ancient rights. He had accepted the proposition of Cyrus and under him had ruled all Iran, including Persia. His authority even extended over Medea in the absence of Cyrus, although, the capital of Cyrus’ empire being at Hamadan, the Great King generally regulated the internal affairs of Medea himself.

King Hystaspis had then built for himself a palace on the banks of the royal river Pulwar in Persia near where it flowed into the Araxes and about thirty miles below or west of Pasargadæ, around which arose a great city known to history as Persepolis, where in winter he might enjoy a less rigorous climate than at Bactra. There he and his queen loved to reside in the midst of a great park, surrounded by men and women of congenial spirit, embowered in the flowers and foliage of a semi-tropic vegetation with the great plain of Merv, a very paradise under irrigation, lying before them. His provinces were under the rule of governors. The load of executive duties fell upon his officers. Only in times of war did he leave his retreat, except that once each year he returned to Bactra for some weeks of administrative work.

During the absence of King Hystaspis and his son with Cyrus on the expedition against the Tourans, Bardya and his sisters had been guests in the palace at Bactra. This was a rambling structure, one story in height, adorned with a portico whose tall stone pillars supported a heavy wooden roof and gave to its front the appearance of a temple. The walls of the palace were of roughly hewn stone, thick and massive. There were many wings, all gable-roofed and rudely ornate with buttresses and overhanging eaves. Narrow windows and doors gave light and air to the interior. It being summer, the windows were protected by heavy wooden bars only, the winter-time shutters having been removed. Gauze curtains on the inside were hung over them, more to exclude insects than for beauty. The doors were of heavy wood, bound with brazen bands cut in ornate figures. Inside, the many rooms were fitted luxuriously, with bright, soft rugs on the stone floors and with figured draperies on the walls, where, also, hung armor and weapons. Divans, couches, chairs, and tables richly upholstered and set with precious metals and ivory constituted the furniture. In the midst of the palace was an open court, where a fountain gushed up from a rocky islet in the middle of a pool and where flowering shrubs perfumed the air. The servants’ quarters were at the rear, and, not far away, was another building where a company of soldiers had quarters.

The white stone walls of a small temple could be seen three hundred paces to the west of the palace, in the midst of great oaks and elms. There had Zoroaster taught and had exercised the offices of chief priest of Iran, and there beneath its altar lay buried his saintly bones. There a corps of priests kept the sacred fire ever burning and daily uttered prayers for the King and his people. There, before entering upon any long journey or going to war, the King of Iran offered his sacrifices and raised his hands to the Great Life-giving Spirit of Heaven. There, now, within its sacred portals, reposed for a time the body of the Great King.

The ground sloped gently northward from the palace down to the shore of the Adirsiah and was graced with many large trees. A low stone wall surrounded the palace park, except where the river bounded its front. There were benches beneath the elms on the river shore, where one could sit and look upon the distant northern mountains or at the rapid stream, rushing in light green splendor through its narrow, rock-bound channel and with sighing murmur giving an undertone to the songs of birds. Here at even came Athura, after having listened to the chant of the priests, celebrating the close of the day as she knelt by her father’s bier. She had come hither to be alone with her sorrow.

The air was warm and balmy. A cooler breeze was beginning to blow down from the mountains; it played with the dark hair above her brow. The scarflike veil, which commonly served as a head-dress, was thrown aside and rested on her shoulders, exposing the wavy mass of hair upon her head and the gem-studded band that encircled it like a crown. Her tall, well-developed body was robed in a long mantle of dark, soft fabric, somewhat like the Grecian robe, caught up in the folds at the left side so as to expose the tip of a sandaled foot, and secured by a girdle of golden links at the waist. The short sleeves of an under jacket covered her arms to the elbow. Bracelets of gold set with gems graced her wrists. No pen has ever described her beauty or the royal grace of her demeanor. Through the dim vista of the ages comes a picture of dark brown eyes, in the depths of which shone all the tenderness of womanhood with its all-embracing sympathy and boundless capacity for love, and all the fearlessness of a pure, proud spirit, accustomed to power and authority. Comes also a vision of a fair complexion, pure Caucasian, or rather Aryan; a lofty brow, inherited from her father; a profile, now known as Grecian, but not modern Grecian; an expressive mouth, where sweetness dwelt, but which could show firmness and even sternness when necessary; a smile that would raise a worshiper to heaven; a frown before which the boldest would falter.

In those days and among that people, woman held high and honorable place. The servility of the Semitic races, aped by later Persian rulers, had not yet degraded her. As in Greece and Rome, where men of kindred blood dwelt, so among the Iranians, woman held a most honorable place. Man ruled the world; but his heart was ruled by a noble woman. Coming of such a race, where equality made her sex noble, this royal princess exhibited in her carriage a spirit before which men bowed, not because she was high-born and of royal lineage, but because she was a woman.

Of her tradition has spoken much and history little. All agree that she was the most famous woman of her age. Some would have her the wife of three kings: of Cambyses, her brother, of the false Bardya, or Smerdis, and of Darius, son of Hystaspis. Others declare that her sister, Artistone, was the wife of the latter. Others, that Artistone was the ill-fated wife of Cambyses. This is certain, that she was the high-spirited daughter of Cyrus, that she was indeed the wife of the greatest of the Kings of Iran and the mother of a line of kings; and history indicates that she was the real ruler of the empire while her son wore the crown. But such history had not yet been written, when, on this summer evening, she stood on the shore of the river Adirsiah and sadly meditated on the pleasant days of her girlhood spent in the company of her father. Her mother had died when she was a child of ten years; and, thereafter, her father had made her his companion, delighting in her wisdom as much as in her affection. She had traveled with him as he moved through his great empire, had played in the ancestral park at Pasargadæ, had ruled his palace at Susa, had viewed with wonder the mighty walls and hanging gardens of Babylon, and had dwelt much in Hamadan, the chief capital of the empire. There rose in her memory the proud, beautiful face of her mother, the cruel, sneering countenance of Cambyses, the smiling, mischievous face of Bardya, the little sister Artistone, and the grave, kindly father, whose stately manner never departed even in the privacy of home-life. Into this picture of her childhood life there came another face and form, one that of late years had filled much of her life with the sweetness of love. She remembered her first meeting with the Prince of Iran, at Pasargadæ, and how afterwards as a tall youth of fourteen years he came to her father’s court to enter his service, and that he talked much of his mother, of his father, and of his studies. He had at once assumed a sort of protectorate over Bardya and herself, interposing often between them and the cruel elder brother, Cambyses, and even coming to blows with him in their behalf. With him she had studied, had learned the art of writing and reading, had sat at the feet of the great seer of Babylon, Belteshazzer, also known as Daniel, the Hebrew, and had learned to ride, to hunt, and to handle arms. She had not neglected the arts practiced by the women of her race. To cook, to sew, to spin, to weave wonderful tapestries,—all these she had learned. Many times, disguised, she and Bardya and the young Prince of Iran had traveled from place to place, enjoying adventures among the common people and sometimes incurring great risks. Then wars had come, and her brothers and the young Hystaspis had followed the Great King on his campaigns, that they too might learn the war-game.

She sat down on a rustic seat beneath a great elm and with hands folded in her lap gazed dreamily at the swirling stream, into which the shades of evening were darkly falling. Bitter-sweet thoughts, the sense of personal loss, the uncertainty of the future, the near presence of him she loved,—a hundred passing impressions stirred her soul. What would Cambyses do, now that he was to be the King of Kings? She and Bardya had often discussed the subject. She knew that the proud spirit of the latter would suffer no oppression from the King. Would there be civil war? Would brother fight brother? She feared so, knowing the hatred Cambyses felt towards Bardya, a feeling that the latter reciprocated.

A footfall startled her. Turning, she beheld the Prince of Iran coming towards her. She rose with a smile of welcome and extended her hands to him. How noble he seemed to her! He had put off his armor, and over his close-fitting tunic of soft, velvety cloth had thrown the elegant Medean cloak in common use among the noble-born. Sandals protected his feet, and the interlaced thongs with which they were held partially covered his ankles and legs to the knee, to which the skirt of his tunic descended. The open folds of the long cloak gave freedom to his limbs and displayed the broad purple sash which served as a belt and the golden chain from which his short sword swung. His head was bare, displaying a mass of dark hair, slightly curled, and combed back from his broad brow. He had washed away the stains of travel. His sun-tanned skin glowed with health. His eyes were alight with love.

A bulbul broke forth into song in the branches of the tree above them. The breeze rustled gently amidst the leaves. The gurgle and rush of the stream rose softly. A thousand whispering voices seemed to waken all about, as if the spirits of the woods talked of these two standing there in close embrace. Love, without which no human soul desires to live, which raises men to God, which makes of earth a heaven, which in its all-abounding strength makes men and women strong, the chief attribute of God and the chief element in His children, which links congenial spirits together for eternity and drives out evil, here sat enthroned.

After the first warm greetings were over, they sat down side by side on the rustic seat.

“I may tell you now,” he said, “that your father gave consent to our marriage. How I wish you could have been present so that he could have placed your hand in mine! Now, if we observe the ancient customs of our race, your eldest brother must give his consent.”

“But even then we must wait until the days of mourning for my father are finished!”

“I know, but what if Cambyses does not consent?”

She was silent for a moment. This possibility had occurred to both. The word of Cambyses the Great King would be law. He might if he willed give his sister to another.

“That Cambyses is not fit to reign!” she exclaimed presently. “My father should have decreed Bardya his successor! Am I, the daughter of Cyrus, to have no part in this empire? To have no will of my own? Let the people of Iran answer! What say you?”

The Prince was silent now. The oath sworn to the dead Cyrus recurred to his mind. It would indeed have been better had Cyrus willed that Bardya should be his successor, for then the Aryans would have cheerfully followed his will. As he replied not, she continued:

“Who, in truth, is entitled to reign in Iran? If birth gives right, is not the gracious King, your father, this day entitled to succeed my father? For he is of an older branch of the Achæmenian family. Let him assert this right! The men of Iran will uphold him. As for me, I shall be satisfied to become queen of the world, when you succeed to your father’s place.”

“Of all these matters have I thought much,” he replied slowly. “It is true my father is entitled to reign in Iran; but the empire of Cyrus reaches on every side beyond the utmost limits of Iran; and it was his by right of conquest. It is a new empire based on the provinces of Persia and Medea over which he was always entitled to reign. Perhaps our ancient customs and laws would give my father the best right to succeed. But he has refused to assert that right. He has sworn to Cyrus to support Cambyses and Bardya on their thrones forever. I, too, in obedience to my father’s will, when the Great King lay dying, made solemn oath that I would likewise support them on their thrones, according to the terms of his will. Our oaths cannot return. But such oaths do not take away our ancient right to rule as Kings of Iran. That we will ever maintain; but not to the overthrow of Cambyses or of Bardya. I am troubled to know how to act in the future. Cambyses surely will not permit Bardya to reign even over part of this empire; and all the provinces of the East have been given to Bardya with the sole condition that he acknowledge the overlordship of Cambyses. If the King of Kings should lead an army hither to overthrow his brother, we must fight him; if Bardya seeks to overthrow his brother, we must prevent him. Alas! the mind of Cyrus must have been affected so that he could not see clearly! I can see before us long years of civil war, wherein Aryan will fight Aryan. Of one thing I am convinced, Bardya should not accompany the body of his father to Pasargadæ. Here, in the faithful city of Bactra, with the army of King Hystaspis at hand, he may be secure. Would it not be better that you also remain here, while I go to stand before the King and demand his consent to our marriage?”

“Shall I not honor my father by attending when he goes to his tomb? I have no fear of Cambyses. Surely he will attempt no harm to me or to my brother when on this sacred mission! Besides, will you not also be present?”

“Yes, I shall be near. Let us hope that the King of Kings will be gracious. My life shall be between you and harm. It would be valueless to me without you!”

“And mine would end without you! Have no fear that Cambyses may give me to another! I, the daughter of Cyrus, will submit to no such disposition! He dares not violate the ancient custom which gives a woman the right to reject one who may be proposed. Not yet do the slavish laws of the Assyrians have force in Iran. Cambyses may rage; he may slay me! Yet will he not have his way with me! Truly if he attempts to oppress Bardya and me, the people of Iran shall be appealed to; and I know they will rise!”

He drew his encircling arm closer and sighed deeply. “Oaths, lives, and crown shall not stand between us!” he said.

CHAPTER V
CAMBYSES

SOME days were given to rest before the Prince of Iran and his guard, escorting the royal dead and accompanied by the royal family, marched out of Bactra on the long journey, over verdant plain and hill, over rugged mountains and sandy wastes, to Pasargadæ. Their route lay westward to Rhages, with the Elburz chain of mountains on the right and the vast deserts of Iran on the left, thence southward by way of Hamadan. A caravan accompanied them, bearing provisions and luxuries for the journey. In spite of the sad errand, it was a pleasant experience for the Prince and his beloved.

Meanwhile Prexaspes, riding at courier speed, rushed on in advance to carry tidings to Cambyses. As he rode, he formulated plans. He knew Cambyses well,—in fact, it had been reported to Cyrus that Prexaspes had abetted his wayward son in his excesses. As much to remove him from his son as to please the Medes, the King had taken the powerful noble with him on his expedition against the Touranians. Prexaspes had not dared demur. Much as he loved ease and luxury, he was personally brave and capable. He had performed his duties and had won the approbation of the just old King. Knowing the weaknesses of Cambyses, his vanity, his selfishness, his gross passions, and his superstitious nature, he now planned how he should gain advantage by them; and in his mind he saw himself raised to the second place in the empire, covered with riches, honors, and power.

He soon arrived at Rhages, an ancient city situated near that famous pass through the Elburz mountain-chain known as the Caspian Gates, and not far from Mount Demavend, around which cluster many legends of ancient Iran. Here the stream of Aryans had halted many years before separating into the three branches, one of which passed northward through the Gates into the Caucasus and thence into Europe, another westward into the mountains of Azerbijan, and another southward to Medea and Persia. But Hamadan, the Ecbatana of the Greeks, situated farther south, had grown greater and had become the capital of Medea. Rhages had ceased to be the capital. It was, however, a great and important city, a base for the army guarding the Caspian provinces beyond the great mountain-chain and a market through which flowed commerce from the sea of the north, the caravans of the east and south and from the herdsmen of the mountains in the west. Mount Demavend, magnificent in its snow-capped grandeur, on whose peak, it was said, God sometimes rested to view His created world, is one of the great mountains of earth.

Prexaspes halted here but a day. He sacrificed a horse at the temple, where the ancient Aryan rites were performed, and he drank soma and was sprinkled with holy water afterwards at a Magian shrine, where he left a gift of money. Having thus satisfied his conscience and invoked good-luck from all sources, he galloped southward towards Hamadan, where he expected to find King Cambyses.

The queen city of the empire, celebrated in song and story, strong in the martial spirit of its people, called Hamadan by the Persians, Agmetha by the Hebrews, Ecbatana by the Greeks, sat upon a rolling plain, close to the foot of Mount Elwend, sometimes called Mount Orontes. In the center was an eminence on which was the citadel and around which were seven walls rising in gradations, each painted a different color from the others. On the top of the eminence was the far-famed royal palace, covering acres of ground. Its glittering metal roof reflected afar the rays of the sun. Its porch columns, its doors and walls, were plated with precious metal. Its deep, cool interior was luxuriously furnished with carved and curiously wrought tables, divans, settees, and chairs, and with costly tapestries from Srinigar and rugs and carpets from the looms of Medea. Its throne room was vast and magnificent. A stone-built treasury vault occupied one corner, where was stored untold wealth, gathered during the years of conquest, when Crœsus and other unlucky kings fell before the conqueror. A park lay at the rear, inclosed within the walls.

To this city from east and south caravans, with their spirited horses, their complaining camels, and their slow-moving elephants, came, and from the west long trains of pack mules and slaves, to exchange commodities and to outfit for new expeditions. Here came armies, returning from chastisement of some rebel or from conquest of some nation, to recruit for further forays. Half a million people, dwelling in wooden, stone, or tent houses, here made their homes and proudly claimed to be rulers of the world by virtue of the palace on the hill and the power of its royal occupant.

It was midsummer. Royalty and nobility, leaving the lowlands and the heat of the capital city, sought cool retreats in the mountains. Mount Elwend, whose peak is capped with eternal snow, thrusts downward vast spurs into the plains eastward and southward; and, between their wooded sides, babbling streams of cool water flow down from the snows. In the vales and canyons of the foothills were many tents and rustic cabins, where the rich and powerful dwelt and enjoyed the cool, sweet air. Pack-trains fetched provisions and supplies from the city. In luxury and dissipation, with sport and game, the elect of earth here passed the time pleasantly. Here Cambyses was residing, all unconscious that he was now King of Kings.

Riding down from the north, with a score of soldiers at his back, Prexaspes saw the dome and towers of the great palace flash in the afternoon sun and knew that his mission was almost accomplished. His heart beat high. He would be the first to greet Cambyses by his new title, King of Kings, the Great King, and it would depend upon the mood of Cambyses whether he would be given honors as the bearer of good tidings, or be disgraced as the bearer of evil. The guard at his back, picked up at Rhages, did not know his errand or that Cyrus was dead. The dark, eagle-like countenance of Prexaspes was impassive and never betrayed his thoughts. Worn by weather and hardened by exposure, he now looked more the soldier than the courier. But he looked forward to many days of ease and pleasure, when he could discard his dusty uniform for clean linen, perfumed vestments, and the elegant Medean cloak.

At a point about two miles north of the city, he met a train of donkeys led by slaves and under guard of half a dozen mounted troopers. They were moving slowly and they insolently neglected to give way to Prexaspes and his followers when the latter came galloping down towards them.

“On the King’s business!” shouted Prexaspes, wrathfully, reining in his foaming steed. “Out of the way, swine! Offscouring of the earth and filthy jackals! must we ride over you?”

“We also are on the King’s business!” retorted the leader of the troopers, a dour, whiskered Mede, bringing his short spear into position. “By the whiskers of Merodach! keep a civil tongue and do not try riding over the train of Cambyses!”

Prexaspes glowered at the speaker a moment. He recognized the sullen face.

“Ha, Merobates, is it you?” he cried. “I might have known the captain of the King’s houseguard! Know you not Prexaspes?”

Anger left the swarthy countenance of Merobates. He grinned as he answered:

“Truly I remember the Lord Prexaspes! But I did not suppose you were within a thousand parasangs! Whence and whither?”

“From the King to the King,” answered Prexaspes, enigmatically. “But where is he,—Cambyses? I bear a message to him and must not delay.”

“Wise it is not to delay on his business, indeed!” rejoined Merobates. “The Prince is now at his summer camp some parasangs over there,” indicating the slopes of Elwend. “I am just returning from the city with the daily provisions for his use.”

“Guide me to him, good Merobates, and great will be your reward!” said Prexaspes. “In the King’s name, I command! Leave your men to bring the train and lead on.”

Merobates hesitated, considering whether it were wiser to stay with his men and thus assure the performance of his daily duty or to obey the order of the noble Prexaspes. But the compelling gaze of the nobleman was upon him, and, having issued several gruff orders to his subordinates, he led the way along a beaten trail into the hills. As they went, Prexaspes sought information.

“How long has the Prince been at his summer house?”

“Seven days only. He has just married a new wife, the daughter of Nebuchadezer, Prince of Nineveh, and he has taken her there, as he says, to be at peace, leaving his other wives at the palace.”

“Has he many people with him?”

“Oh, yes! Thirty notables of Nineveh came as an escort with the new wife. Thirty Medean nobles are with them for company. Besides, King Crœsus is there and also the son of Hillel of Damascus. There be the Babylonian hostages and Gaumata, the chief Magian, and a hundred others from far and near. A thousand cavalry guard the camp. Great games have there been! The Prince has proven himself to be a mighty archer and spear-thrower. He outshoots them all. Well it is for them! For the liquor—you know?”

Merobates waved his hand suggestively towards his mouth as though quaffing from a goblet. Prexaspes nodded assent.

“How is the Prince’s temper?” he asked.

“Excellent! Never better! His new wife pleases him and his servants have learned how to avoid crossing him. But what is this news, which you have galloped from afar to bring?”

“It is for the Prince’s ears first; but know, O Merobates, that great fortune either of good or evil hangs over your head and mine to-day. How does the Prince regard himself now?”

Merobates laughed.

“He has adopted the customs of the lowlander dogs who salaam to the earth before royalty. Cambyses has forgotten that he is mortal and swears that he will do even greater deeds than the Great King, his father. If you would please him, prostrate yourself and bow very low to the earth. Were he God himself, he could not be pleased more with adulation and homage! Praise his deeds—he swells with pride. Fail to praise—you may as well leap from the tower in the city market! Please him—a gold chain and a chief place at feasts is your reward! Displease him,—a bowstring at your throat, or hanging by your heels to a beam, or some other evil! Me has he ever commanded to treat him as ever I have,—with respect and obedience, but not with lying adulation. I tell him his faults. He laughs.”

“I remember, he used to say that Merobates was his conscience and was the only man who dared to cross him or to speak plainly to him.”

“It has always been so. He is violent. He fears not to smite in wrath; but he is subject to persuasion and art. He has no patience with those whom he dislikes and he dislikes all who neglect to praise him. Even the great Belteshazzer, appointed Governor of this province by Cyrus, has not escaped his anger. The Prince has revoked his authority.”

Presently they entered a canyon, in which a clear brook tumbled over rocks. Following this they soon entered a small valley. Great trees bordered the margin of the stream and were scattered over the valley, forming a natural park. In the midst was the Prince’s palace, a low structure built of hewn timbers. A score of lesser houses and many tents stood at the sides of an open field several acres in extent, which lay in front of the palace. On this field the sports and contests of which Cambyses was fond were held.

Prexaspes now perceived a group of men gathered beneath the spreading branches of a great live-oak near the palace. One, who was seated on a thronelike chair higher than the others, was engaged in conversation with another who stood uncovered before him and whose dress indicated that he was a priest. Others standing near appeared to be giving close attention. He who was seated was a large, heavy-limbed man, well-padded with fat and short-necked and gross. His big, round head was covered with a mass of curly black hair and was encircled by a gem-studded coronet. His face was dark, heavy, and flaccid, but his black eyes looked forth shrewdly from beneath overhanging brows. Bushy eyebrows met above his beaklike nose. A heavy black beard cut to a length of about six inches covered the lower part of his face. He was a powerful man physically and was said to be agile and quick in spite of his fat.

Such was Cambyses, elder son of Cyrus. There were marks of dissipation on his face. From early youth he had indulged his passions, until now, at the age of thirty years, he was a slave to them.

The sound of approaching hoofs called the Prince’s attention to Prexaspes and his followers. He paused in his discourse and exclaimed angrily: “Who comes? It must be very important service to cause men to ride thus into my presence!”

Prexaspes halted at twenty paces’ distance, gave the reins of his steed to Merobates, sprang to the earth and drew near, uncovering his head as he advanced. Cambyses then recognized him and uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure. Prexaspes, throwing himself on his face at the Prince’s feet, cried: “All hail, King of Kings! May the Great King of all the World live forever!”

For a moment, Cambyses was silent. He knew the meaning of those words. His face paled and he sank back upon his seat. But recovering he said, in a voice quivering with excitement: “Rise up, Prexaspes! What mean you? Why are you here? What of my father?”

“I will speak only if you bid me, mighty King!”

“Speak on!”

“King Cyrus, the Great King, the immortal hero, greater than Jemshid, greater than Kaiomur, is no more alive! But there lives a greater, even Cambyses, King of Kings, King of the Whole Earth; and, to him bring I this message at the command of the noble Hystaspis, King of Iran, thy subject. May I find forgiveness as a bearer of this evil news of the death of thy father, and favor as a bearer of the good news of thy accession to the throne!”

Cambyses was again silent, unable fully to realize his elevation to supreme authority. His eyes turned upon his courtiers, who forthwith fell on their faces before him, and cried out: “All hail, King of Kings! Live forever!”

He drew a deep inspiration. Graciously extending his hand he motioned to Prexaspes to rise and draw near; and, taking from his own neck a heavy gold chain, he placed it around the messenger’s neck, saying:

“I give you my favor, noble Prexaspes! A long and weary journey have you come to bear me this news; and you shall be rewarded. That has come to pass which had to come. Henceforth Cambyses, the Achæmenian, son of Cyrus, heaven-born, reigns and shall reign! I thank you, Prexaspes! You shall have room in my palace here and shall feast this night. On the morrow we will return to our capital and proclaim my accession to the throne. Sit down here on my right hand and tell me of the death of my father. There shall be proclaimed throughout the empire forty days of mourning for my father and, after that, forty days of rejoicing for me.”

“I am indeed weary and travel-stained,” rejoined Prexaspes, looking down upon his dusty clothes. “I have ridden day and night, that I might hasten to you. I pray you command that I may retire and dress as becomes one who stands in the presence of the King.”

“Mind not the clothes! It pleases me to note such eagerness in my service. Ho, there, cup-bearer!” cried the King, turning to a youth who stood waiting near the palace door. “Bring cups and wine!”

Instantly the cup-bearer clapped his hands. Two servants came running from the palace, one bearing a jar of wine, the other a tray of golden goblets. The goblets were quickly filled with ruby wine and the cup-bearer presented them to the King, after duly tasting them. Cambyses took one and handed it to Prexaspes.

“Drink!” he said. “You must be thirsty. But, perhaps, my father has trained you to soberness?”

“While King Cyrus lived I obeyed him. Now that Cambyses is King of Kings, I obey him,” answered Prexaspes, taking the cup.

“Well said!” exclaimed Cambyses, taking a huge goblet. “Come, let us first pour a libation to the earth and its gods.”

He poured a little of the wine out upon the earth and drank the remainder. Prexaspes followed suit. The King laughed as he looked around upon his courtiers and saw that their countenances were expressive of curiosity and mild astonishment. Pouring libations to the gods of earth was sin with the orthodox Aryans and a new practice to the majority of those present. But they expected that Cambyses would disregard custom and law, even more now as King than he did while only a prince.

“Now sit here by me and briefly tell how my father died and all that happened thereafter,” said the King to Prexaspes. “Afterwards you shall rest.”

Prexaspes sat down at the King’s right hand on a low bench. The courtiers and attendants, obeying a motion of the King’s hand, retired beyond hearing.

“I thank you, O King, for this favor!” answered Prexaspes. “My last message was written just before your father encamped with his army on the left bank of the Jaxartes and two days before the last great battle. It had been in the King’s mind to cross the river and pursue the enemy farther when he learned from his scouts and some prisoners that the Touranians were gathering at a point ten parasangs above us with the intention of giving battle. Then the King set his army in battle-array, in a very strong position, with the left wing resting on the river and the right far out in shifting sand-dunes. In front was a deep, narrow water-course beyond which lay an open plain over which the enemy must come. He commanded the Prince of Iran to lead the Imperial Guard to a position behind the sand-dunes, ready to come out upon the enemy’s flank and rear when the battle should be joined.”

The King interrupted, exclaiming: “A young man is Prince Darius to hold so important a command! By my beard! Infants shall not command under me!”

“Your will is law, O King,” rejoined Prexaspes bowing. “But I must say that Prince Darius is a most loyal subject of Cambyses and a very brave and able general. King Cyrus took position at the left of our army and the weight of the enemy’s charge fell upon that part. It was a fearful struggle. My light-armed troopers went out to draw the enemy to charge and, as commanded, fell back before the thousands on thousands of shrieking, howling foemen. They followed us into the great ditch in our front and pressed across. They bore back the Persian and Medean heavy-armed infantry. They broke through and would have ruined the army, had not King Cyrus at the head of five thousand men of the Imperial Guard thrown himself into the breach and held them back by most mighty exertions! Then came the Prince of Iran and the remainder of the Guard down from the right upon the rear of the enemy, crushing and rolling them back into the Jaxartes. His charge saved the day. It was magnificent. The light horses of the Touranians went down like leaves before a gust of wind. But just as the victory declared for us, the King received a poisoned dart in his throat and was borne from the field by the noble Otanes. In spite of all that the surgeons could do, he died that night.”

“What message did he leave?”

“King Hystaspis was in command of the army. He called a council of officers and designated me as a messenger to bring to you the last decree of the Great King. Here it is.”

Prexaspes drew a packet from a pouch at his belt and presented it to the King. Cambyses eagerly unbound it and began to read. A dark frown slowly gathered on his face. He suddenly cast the paper upon the earth and set his foot upon it, while his gleaming eyes showed bitter wrath.

“What!” he exclaimed. “Does he think to divide his empire and confirm that hair-brained, beardless Bardya as ruler of Iran and Persia? I say, it shall not be! I am King of Kings now, and I shall reign alone! I will cut that young sprout off if he dare claim a shadow of sovereignty! My father always hated me and loved Bardya. He always did shield that boy from my wrath. Now he gives him the best part of the kingdom! What if he does acknowledge me as overlord? Is he not ambitious? He will ingratiate himself with the people and then will attempt to overthrow me! King Hystaspis and his son,—they doubtless will aid him!”

He rose and paced back and forth, swinging his arms and smiting his hands together. Prexaspes also rose and, though standing in a humble attitude, covertly watched the King.

“What say you?” demanded Cambyses, halting before Prexaspes.

Prexaspes, after some hesitation, answered: “Doubtless it was not just in the Great King to make such provisions; but he was old and very fond of Prince Bardya. Why allow the decree to be published? There is no need until you are firmly established. Afterwards there will be time to deal with the matter.”

The King silently stroked his whiskers a moment considering the advice. It seemed shrewd and good. His wrath cooled somewhat. A cunning look came upon his flushed countenance.

“That is good advice, Prexaspes!” he assented. “You shall be my chief counselor. This decree shall be burned. None know its contents but you and I. I count on your silence and will greatly reward you. If you deceive me, no death shall be too severe for you!”

“Have no doubt of me, Great King! I am your servant and will do as you bid. There is no decree. I have forgotten it. Let it not be seen of men. But Bardya has a copy of it and the Persian nobles witnessed it.”

He recovered the paper from the earth and restored it to Cambyses. The latter laughed as he tore it in small pieces. Calling a servant to bring a brazier of coals, he placed the fragments upon the embers and watched them burn.

“Hark you, Prexaspes!” he then said. “This Bardya must not be allowed to divide this kingdom. See to it! Great will be your reward. The second place in the kingdom shall be yours. Do you understand?”

Prexaspes considered a moment. He well understood the meaning Cambyses sought to convey.

“I understand,” he then said. “Perhaps misfortune will overtake the young man. Who knows?”

The King laughed harshly. “An accident perhaps! Rather than that the empire be divided, one of us should die. The world is not large enough to hold two kings when Cambyses is one of them! What do you advise?”

Prexaspes thoughtfully contemplated the earth. The King impatiently waited, glowering at him with the restless, cruel eyes of a tiger.

“Speak!” commanded the King at length. “Shall we send a force and take him?”

“If it please you, O King, that I should offer advice, no. Bardya is strong in the love of the Aryan race. He now dwells in the midst of hosts of stout men who are his friends and who would overthrow your throne if they could for his sake. Persian and Medean soldiers cannot be compelled to make war upon Bactrians when led by a son of Cyrus. Babylon, Assyria, Damascus, Sardis, and the Ionian cities will not uphold your hands; they but wait for an opportunity to rebel. You must court the favor of the Aryan race. Above all I advise that you show favor to the King of Iran and to his able son. They are the idols of the veteran army of Cyrus.”

“But Darius is Bardya’s friend!”

“True, but he is also your loyal supporter.”

“How know you? Is it not said openly among the nobles of Persia that Hystaspis by right of birth should have ruled instead of Cyrus? Darius is ambitious. I know that youth! I have hated him since my father showed more favor to him and to Bardya than to me! He knows this. How then say you he will be my supporter?”

“Do you not remember his love of truth and his hatred of lies and deception from his boyhood up?”

“I remember! No doubt it was a disease in him!”

“Just so! Nevertheless it is said throughout Persia and Iran and by every man of the great army, that, when once the word of the Prince of Iran is given, it will stand forever. No one ever requires of him a witness or a written tablet. Now at the request of Cyrus and with consent of his father, he placed his hands in those of the Great King and swore to support you and Bardya on the throne of this empire. Therefore you need not fear him; but, rather, you may depend upon him for aid if you need it.”

The cloud on the King’s face lifted somewhat. He had watched with jealous eye the growing power of the young Hystaspis and had feared him even more than Bardya.

“Nevertheless, wait till his ambition meets opportunity,” he suggested.

“No, it is as I say. I have proof. On the march to Bactra, the Prince with the Imperial Guard was in charge of the transport of the King’s body. The Guard, on the morning of the second day’s march, saluted Darius as King of Kings; and all had taken oath to support him if he would consent. But he rebuked them, told them of his oath to support you, and then and there made them also swear with uplifted hands to support you. I myself witnessed it.”

“Is it so? Treason must be flourishing indeed!” exclaimed Cambyses, bitterly. “This Guard shall no longer be the Imperial Guard! It shall be decimated!”

Rage again possessed the King’s soul. He knew himself to be unpopular save with a few boon companions. His jealous heart was filled with hatred towards the popular Prince. Prexaspes ventured to remonstrate.

“Let not the Great King be offended with his servant! I am acquainted with the army and all its soldiers. The Aryans are a proud race and the nobles will not bow the knee even to their kings, as you know. Do not anger them. Without them your subject nations will revolt and you will have no one to support your empire. Rather, dissemble your feelings. You are very wise, O King, if you but stop to think. First, be well established on your throne. After the body of your heroic father shall have been placed in its tomb, send the Prince and his Guard to conquer new provinces. Be advised by me in this. Should evil befall his son, old Hystaspis would lead the veterans of Cyrus five hundred thousand strong against you. Who could stand before them?”

Cambyses ceased pacing back and forth and sat down, saying: “Your words are wise, Prexaspes. I will be advised. Proceed!”

Prexaspes smiled slightly behind his hand. He had properly gauged the King’s impulses. He continued: “I advise that you issue your formal decree as King of Kings to-morrow and send copies thereof to be proclaimed in every province of the empire; that you issue a decree confirming the Prince of Iran in command of the Guard and in his mission to transport the body of the Great King to Pasargadæ; that you send a messenger to Bardya and to your sisters greeting them kindly; that you, also, as soon as they shall have arrived at Hamadan, show them all honor, go with them to do honor to Cyrus at Pasargadæ, and dissemble your real feelings. Thus will you begin wisely and thus will you please the Aryan people. Afterwards we may take counsel; and, should Bardya meet with an accident or disappear, who can blame the Great King? Be assured, O King, that I advise well! I know that upon you only may I depend for advancement and power. Bardya does not, nor do any of the great Persian nobles, love Prexaspes. Their semi-barbaric manners suited not my taste, and my refined manners were not approved by them!”

“I will heed your advice,” said the King. “My favor shall be with you. First, I will make you Satrap of Medea. I will let that old Hebrew, Belteshazzer, rest from his labors in his tower. Afterwards, if you serve me well, I shall increase your power. See to it, Prexaspes, that my will be not thwarted! There shall be one King, who shall be King of Kings, and he must be Cambyses!”

“It shall be as you wish. But let us proceed with all care.” Thus Prexaspes entered upon a road to great gain in wealth and power, but also to ultimate woe.

The King presently dismissed Prexaspes, and the latter was conducted to pleasant rooms in the palace, where he refreshed himself with a bath, arrayed himself in clean linen and rich garments and had himself barbered and perfumed by the King’s own barbers. Cambyses was lavish with his favorites, and just now Prexaspes was chief of them. The latter sat at the King’s right hand at dinner that evening. All festivities were abandoned in honor of the dead King, but the many courtiers who ate at his tables found opportunity to assure the new King of their joy over his accession to the throne. He drank deeply both of adulation and wine until he became half-drunk and maudlin, whereupon Merobates took him almost forcibly to his bedchamber.

Next day, the King and all his retinue returned to Hamadan. A royal decree was immediately issued, reciting the death of the Great Cyrus and the accession of Cambyses to the throne of the world, and commanding all officers, soldiers, and peoples to acknowledge him King of Kings. The royal treasury was opened. From it the golden crown studded with precious gems, which Cyrus had worn on state occasions, and the royal scepter were brought forth. Clad in purple, and having the high, pointed crown on his head, his royal feet encased in yellow shoes, and his hair and whiskers curled, powdered, and perfumed, Cambyses held his first court in the great audience room of the palace. He sat on a golden throne placed high up on a dais, with fan-bearers waving ostrich plumes over him, with Prexaspes standing at his right hand and Merobates at his left, bearing the King’s sword and shield. He placed the crown on his head with his own hands, while a loud-voiced herald recited his titles. Then the thousand nobles and officers who were in attendance fell on their faces to the floor before him and hailed him King of Kings, the Great King! Cambyses, swelling with pride, deemed himself divine, and as a god he looked down upon his subjects with haughty demeanor.

The world thus acquired a new ruler.

CHAPTER VI
PERSEPOLIS

THE modern world knows little of the beauty and grandeur of ancient Anshan, the home of Cyrus, or of the province of Fars and its cities. Mountains shut off from them the hot winds of the Persian Gulf and of the northern deserts. The high valleys lying between the mountain ranges that extend across it like huge dikes are of surpassing loveliness. Romantic woodlands, dells, lakes, canyons, murmuring brooks, rushing rivers, far vistas, plains, mountains, and hills delight the soul. In the valleys, flowers perfume the air all the year, and vegetation, where irrigation is practiced, is luxuriant. On the high hills and mountain tops winter holds sway during three or more months and the seasons are well-marked as in the temperate zones. It is the land of Omar, of Firdusi, and of many lesser poets; the land of an ancient white race, whose rugged virtues made them lords of much of the earth, but whose descendants have degenerated by admixture with lower grades of humanity and have suffered much to maintain even their own independence.

The celebrated plain of Mervdasht is between two parallel ranges of mountains, one of which lies to the west between it and the low hot lands of the gulf-coast and the other to the east between it and the vale of Murghab, or ancient Anshan. A river comes down from the northern mountains through the midst of this plain and empties into a lake. It is a perennial stream, but fordable save in the winter when the rains fall. It has been variously named, anciently the Araxes, later the Kur or river of Cyrus, and again the Bendamir. Another river of less volume but more celebrated, the Pulwar, comes down to join it through the mountains from northeast table-lands. This passes by the vale of Murghab, where a little stream of that name, coming from the east, flows into it. In this vale was ancient Anshan, the capital of the Achæmenian line of kings, a city also known as Pasargadæ. The tortuous bed of the Pulwar connects the vale of Murghab with the valley of Mervdasht, having cut for itself a deep gorge through the mountains. A royal road, passing through this gorge or canyon, connected the ancient capital with a more modern city, Persepolis.

Persepolis, or the city of the Persians, ancient Parsa, lay close to the mouth of the mighty canyon of the Pulwar, where it opened into the vale of Mervdasht. The city lay principally on the northern banks of the river. On the southern bank was a great park; and in this on a plateau extending from the base of low mountains that border the eastern side of the plain, were the palaces of the Kings of Iran. King Hystaspis and his great son, Darius, and his grandson, Xerxes, each erected magnificent palaces of dark-gray marble on this natural platform. The great size and magnificent architecture of these buildings were among the wonders of the ancient world. Their majestic ruins yet testify to the power, the love of art, and the learning of those masters of men.

King Hystaspis, content to rule Iran as a nominal vassal of Cyrus and under the shadow of his mighty arm, laid out for himself in the valley of Merv a new city and there placed his loved friends and retainers. He brought artisans from Egypt, Canaan, Syria, Phœnicia, and distant Greece, and built for himself a great palace. It is said that he or his son formulated a new alphabet for his language and caused the books of Zoroaster to be translated therein.

Orchards of apple, peach, and apricot, vineyards where grape and berry grew, fields of vegetables and grain, covered the fertile valley and its surrounding hills. On the day when the Imperial Guard, escorting the body of the Great Cyrus, halted on the summit of the western ridge bounding the valley and looked down upon the peaceful scene, autumn was touching all with the signs of harvest and the coming winter-rest. On that day, while the funeral car halted, Prince Bardya, his sisters, and the Prince of Iran rode forward to a bluff jutting out from the ridge; and from this position they looked down into a paradise,—so it seemed to them, weary with dusty roads and desert lands. There, where the Pulwar entered the plain from the narrow gorge in the western mountains, Cyrus had drawn up his Persian patriots to fight a last battle for liberty from the Medean yoke, having been driven to bay by the vast army of stern old Astyages, his grandfather. That decisive battle not only gave liberty to his own province but gave Astyages to him as a prisoner and the crown of Medea for his own head. From that victory Cyrus had gone forth to conquer the world. But now, conquered by the last enemy, Death, he was returning there to his final rest. The heart of the Prince of Iran was stirred by strong emotions, as he looked across the beautiful vale. He could see afar the great portico of his father’s palace where, he knew, his mother stood watching for the coming of her son. Uncovering his head, he extended his hands towards heaven, saying:

“To thee, O Ahura-Mazda, Ruler of Heaven, Giver of Life, Lover of Truth, and Protector, we give thanks! For thou hast brought us home!”

“Amen and amen!” exclaimed Bardya, uncovering his head.

The Prince of Iran then addressed his companions: “I welcome you to the home of King Hystaspis. This valley and yonder city are his property, ceded to him as a home for the Achæmenian family, when he consented to remove hither from Bactra. I bid you rest at our palace yonder this night. The road from Parsa to Anshan is rough and ought to be traveled only by day. My mother is at the door to welcome you.”

“We gladly accept!” assented Bardya, heartily. “Do I not love that mother almost as much as you? Do you remember the happy days when we hunted on yonder hills and swam in the Pulwar and the Araxes? Do you remember the day we were almost drowned? We will go to that deep water-hole again to-morrow and swim there as boys again. Our troopers should rest a day while we send a message to Cambyses at Anshan to inform him of our coming.”

Athura added: “It will be delightful to accept the hospitality of your mother. I shall return after going to Anshan and shall stay long with her and rest. My sister is much in need of rest. The long journey has made her ill.”

“After we shall have accomplished our mission,” said the Prince of Iran, “we shall enjoy many pleasant days there. The hunting is good. We shall enjoy the royal sport!”

“Unless Ahriman interfere!” added Bardya, waving his hand towards Anshan, where his brother now awaited their coming. “I propose to stay a month at least. I suppose he awaits us impatiently at Anshan.”

Athura said reprovingly to her brother: “Speak not of the King of Kings thus! He has sent us courteous messages, even if he would not await us at Hamadan or march with us here. Perhaps it was best that he should go on ahead to prepare the tomb and to arrange for the ceremonies. Be advised, brother! Remember to show him the deference due to his station. His anger was ever terrible! Now he has no one to restrain him.”

Bardya laughed and tossed his head, as he answered: “Fear not for me! I shall treat him with all due respect. Am I not on the ground my father gave me in his will? The Persian lords will not permit him to oppress us. When I see that King of Kings, I will demand of him that he publish the full terms of my father’s will. If he refuse to observe that—Well, it may be that he will cease to reign!”

The Prince of Iran said nothing, but his countenance was somber. He feared that the impetuous Bardya would precipitate trouble. He foresaw civil war.

Descending into the valley, they approached Persepolis. A vast throng of people came out to meet them and stood on either side of the road weeping and wailing aloud as the funeral car passed. A company of guards led by an aged veteran met them at the entrance of the city.