The Princess Athura: A romance of Iran

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.