The Queen of Sparta (20 page)

We traveled many more weeks and had further adventures in which I proved of much use to the Valkyries. But every day I found myself drawn to this young northern beauty. Her face was of incomparable exquisiteness and her body of mesmerizing perfection. She had a smile that could melt my heart and a soft melodic voice that my ears constantly longed for. Above all, her outer beauty was matched by an attractive personality that drew me helplessly towards her just like a lodestone cannot help but point at the North. Named after a sea-goddess, Rán, in the Norse dialect of the Scandians, also meant robbery. This could not have more appropriate, for I soon realized she was stealing my heart.

We finally reached the shores of a sea named after a local tribe, called the Balts. It was here the Valkyries were reunited with their menfolk, who had been searching for them. The following morning, I participated in one last battle with the Valkyries, when the Scandian camp was attacked at dawn by a war-band from a rival Germanic tribe, the Bastarnae. I was woken by their wild battle-cries and immediately reached for my weapons. I saw the Valkyries running to mount their horses, but the Scandian men took their time, calmly strapping their swords to their hands. They believed that those who did not die with a sword in their hand would not be allowed to enter Valhalla.

But I could not wait, for the attackers were already upon us. With my battle-axe in my right hand and a short sword in my left, I fell among the enemy with ferocity. Blocking with one weapon and striking with the other, I kept on advancing, slaying all those before me. Still, I did not go unscathed, receiving several blows, cuts and slashes in turn – including the scars that still adorn my face.

I was later told that I had single-handedly beaten off the attackers. By the time the rest of the Scandian men had joined battle, the enemy were already on their heels. When I saw the enemy flee, I raised my arms in triumph amid the cheers of the Scandian warriors. And as I turned around to face them, I saw her. And the sight of her made me oblivious to everything going on around me: oblivious to the pain; oblivious to the blood drenching my face and body. All I saw was Rán’s beautiful face, radiantly lit by the rays of the rising sun. That was all the succor I needed, before I passed out.

Over the next days, Rán healed me with great care, but though I could sense her strong desire for me, I detected some reticence also. Because of that, I did not initiate any advance towards her, though I badly wanted to.

As I soon as I was well enough to ride, Hild, as she promised, led me to a deposit of amber. I had never before seen so much of the stone. Her tribesmen even gave me a pack of a dozen horses to carry it. Guides and porters were also hired to help me on my journey. Hild seemed to be in a hurry to see me off. She even told me of a relatively quicker and safer route back to Scythia. I would have no difficulty returning this time.

But it was then I realized that I did not want to leave. I was deeply in love with Rán and I did not know what to do. Hild knew it only too well. She had told me right from the start that I would bring trouble to her womenfolk. She said that each Valkyrie was required to select a man for herself before she could go on an expedition. This was to give them a longing for their men and a reason to live – so they wouldn’t take needless risks. Each girl in the squadron had a husband or a male partner of some sort. Rán was no exception. Hild told me to forget about her, because Rán had already chosen her man; a man whom she would soon marry. ‘If you press this issue you will create problems for yourself and for all of us women with whom you claim a bond of kinship,’ she said. ‘If you are truly our kinsman, you will put the interests of your tribeswomen before yourself.’

I was devastated, but I saw logic in what she said. So I quietly collected my amber and had it packed and ready for travel on the horses the Scandians had given me. As I was about to leave, Rán came to me. I asked her about what Hild had told me. She answered that she was indeed in love with the man who would soon be her husband. Rán said that in all probability she would not see me again, but she wanted me to give her something she could remember our adventures with. I told her she could have anything she asked for. She said she wanted my battle-axe, the one with which I had rescued her from the Werewolf. I gave it to her and started to leave.

Then she told me to stop. ‘I don’t want to send you off defenceless,’ she said.

I still had a sword, I said. She laughed, ‘you call that sorry piece of metal you have with you a sword! Take mine.’ She gave me the long-sword slung over her shoulder. ‘This was made for my mother,’ she said, ‘who was a great warrior.’

I bade Rán farewell and soon returned to the Scythian lands with my sacks of amber. I have been a rich man ever since. But as far as my heart was concerned, I had never felt poorer.

Ten years later, a man came to see me at my military camp outside Sardis. I was in Persian service then. He was an elderly Scandian
Jarl
– chieftain – called Gunnarr. I knew the name meant ‘warrior’ in the Norse tongue of the Scandians and the man certainly looked it, with impressive broad muscles and battle scars, and great rings of gold and silver around his arms; evidence of his courage in battle. He explained he was Rán’s father. I asked him if Rán was well and why he had come to me. He told me a sad tale. Some months earlier, in battle with an invading tribe, Rán had broken the Valkyrie code. Her husband was about to be killed by the enemy when Rán rode out to save him rather than wait until he was dead. In saving her husband, she suffered serious injuries.

After the battle, Rán was tried for her crime in breaking the Valkyrie code. Even her husband bore witness against her. He repudiated her and renounced their marriage. Among the charges leveled against her was infertility. After many years of marriage, she had not borne him a child. In fact, he had already taken another woman as his ‘hand-fast’ wife, as Scandian men often do. Rán had not known about that and was devastated when she found out. The man she had loved, the man for whom she had even risked her life, had betrayed her in such a callous manner. She did not want anything more to do with him. It was then she began to speak of me.

Later, she went back to the tribal council and made two requests. First, that she would be allowed to choose her next husband. Gunnarr told me she had chosen me. The council told her that was her right since she no longer had one. Second, since she could no longer bear children or ride, she was of no more use to the tribe. She wanted permission to leave the tribe.

While the council gave her permission to do as she wished, Gunnarr told me that as her father, he could not let her marry without knowing for sure that I would not treat her badly. He said that his daughter had already suffered too much. I assured him that I still loved his daughter exactly as I had when I first met her. I even showed him her sword, which was constantly strapped over my shoulder. And I told him that nothing could make me happier than marrying Rán.

After a few days, he returned with Rán. That was the first time I had seen Rán in nearly ten years. She looked just as beautiful as the last time I had seen her and on her face was the expression I had seen the day I fought the Bastarnae.

I smiled and said, ‘So, you have come to return my axe?’

‘The axe is mine,’ she said. ‘Remember, you gave it to me. Now I have come to take you as well.’

We were soon married.

At the time, I was still in Datis’ service. He gave me one of King Croesus’ former palaces as residence and summoned physicians from all over the empire and beyond. Under their care, Rán’s health began to improve dramatically. Her scars began to heal and she even started walking and running. Riding a horse was still difficult but occasionally against their advice and my pleas she would disguise herself as a Saka cavalryman, and wearing my spare armour and helmet, sneak into the exercise grounds on a horse and train with my men. She longed to be in battle again. But she also knew that was not to be.

Then she became pregnant. A little after our marriage, she had converted to my belief in one God. One day, she started to talk to me about death. She said that if she ever died before me, the only thing she wanted to take with her to the grave was my battle-axe. She said she wanted to see me again in the afterlife. It would be easier for me to find her there if she took my axe with her, she said.”

Sherzada’s story came to an abrupt end, but Gorgo felt no need to probe him further. There was no child, she was sure of it, and now she knew why he showed fear of death neither on the battlefield nor before the Gerousia.

She wished to touch him, to offer comfort of some kind, but did not.

CHAPTER 24

THE CURSE OF BATTLE

Training grounds

Sparta

Autumn, 479
BC

A fifth warrior stepped into the sand, and Gorgo gave a small gasp. “Is that not Pericleidas?” she asked, remembering the young naval officer who had visited her with the eccentric Athenian playwright-turned-captain, Aeschylus.

Euro nodded. “Fought with distinction at Salamis and commanded an elite marine detachment at Mycale.”

Gorgo watched as Pericleidas walked up to Sherzada and aggressively lunged his sword at his chest. This forced the Saka Prince to move to the right, only to have Pericleidas smash Sherzada’s face with his shield. Though stunned for a moment, Sherzada recovered fast enough to avoid Pericleidas’ second sword thrust, this time aimed at his face. Pericleidas kept the initiative and the pressure on Sherzada. Though Sherzada countered every move, he seemed to be on the back foot. The Spartans cheered, and at that moment Sherzada left his chest open for Pericleidas to strike at. Gorgo’s heart was in her mouth, but as Pericleidas threw his entire body weight into the attack, Sherzada elegantly sidestepped him, tripping his opponent in the process. The tall young Spartan fell face first on the ground. Sherzada walked over and put his foot on the man’s back. Pericleidas tried to rise but Sherzada pinned him down, pointing his sword at the back of the prone Pericleidas’ neck. It was over.

Gorgo walked over to the scene of combat. “Tell me, my Prince, how you can best our warriors individually, and yet lose to these very same men in battle.”

“Ah, but battle is different,” he responded, as Euro led the defeated Pericleidas away, and the crowd dispersed. “I am merely better at single combat than most; but these warriors of yours But when these men fight in the line, fight and move as one, fight as if they don’t know the meaning of fear, they are unbeatable. It is terrible thing to fight Spartans. I would never want to face these gentlemen across the battlefield again.”

For a moment, Gorgo scanned the scars on Sherzada’s face, arms and neck – so much a part of him, and quite beautiful too. For a moment, too, she felt giddy, and when she remembered the parchment and went to take it from her bag, she brushed his arm with hers, feeling the smooth surface of his knot of scars. She picked up the crumpled piece of parchment. “Recognize this, my Prince? I found it among your personal effects,” she said. “For a long time, I have been trying to teach myself how to write and read Persian, but without much success. All I can make out is that this is some sort of poem, and it has to do with the Spartans in battle.”

“It is indeed poetry, written by a young Persian Prince – Khorrem, son of Mashista. Father and son are amongst the noblest and bravest I have met. This poem describes a part of the action on the first day of the battle of Thermopylae, when Khorrem led the charge of the first wave of the
Anusiya
– the elite Persian regiment whom you call the ‘Immortals’ – against your husband’s Spartans. He was wounded thrice before he was ordered to withdraw. I shall translate, if you’d like? Forgive me if the verse does not sound quite as it should.”

I watched them raise their shields

Against an endless hail of arrows

They played their haunting pipes

And they sang their chilling hymns

Their shouts rose like thunder

As they tore our ranks asunder

On the day the Spartans stood strong.

So many brave men fell beside me on that cursed day

Would I have fought or run away?

Yes, fear lies in the soul of every warrior

I wonder if the Spartans have felt this too

In every battle they have been in,

In every victory they have won:

That cowards lurk inside heroes even when they are standing strong?

Gorgo gave Sherzada a dubious look. “So, this ‘brave’ Persian Prince implies Spartans are cowards?”

“Do not underestimate the courage of the Persians, my Queen. They have fought and won battles on three continents. But what the Prince is conveying here is a simple universal truth which every combat veteran knows. Battle, they say, is governed by fear –
phobos
– the greatest enemy of a warrior. And when fear becomes infectious, it turns into sheer terror –
diemos
– the destroyer of armies.

“And yet fear is but a natural emotion, like love. And for the best of warriors, the fear of showing fear is often worse than the fear of death itself. Against that the warrior must be armed with courage –
andreia
. As long as his courage holds, the warrior has every chance of prevailing – or at least dying in the attempt.

“The advantage of your Spartan military education is that it teaches your young men not only to develop their
andreia
, but also to manage their
phobos
. The iron discipline of your training ensures that the only thing your warriors fear is fear. And only those who know how to control their fear can defeat it. Your warriors are taught to hold ground against the enemy, dying where they stand rather than running away. And so your men prefer to die heroically than face any form of disgrace. That is the one thing that makes your men, of all the Greeks, so feared in battle.

“But, my Queen, the Spartans have no monopoly over courage. In all the battles I have fought, I have seen ordinary men turn into heroes; just as I have seen brave warriors flee the field, merely because they showed fear before their opponents did. Courage is not the absence of fear; courage exists in spite of it. Show me a brave man and I shall show you one not willing to admit he is afraid.

“The warrior in battle, my Queen, is a part of a fraternity; a bizarre, mysterious brotherhood born out of violence and the nearness of death. Warriors go to battle for many reasons; for the love of their country, for the glory of their nation, to defend their families, or for the sake of their religion. Some go into battle for the right reasons, and others for the wrong ones, and some for no reason at all. But when battle begins, what binds warriors together is neither love, nor glory, nor greed; neither king, nor country. They fight to hold the line. They fight to hold their ground and force the enemy back. Once the line breaks, once panic spreads, when men begin to flee, the battle is lost; all is lost. So the best of warriors will risk pain or death rather than the possibility of flight and the probability of disgrace. No other creature courts pain and self-destruction in such a way as man.

“They call battle the quintessence of glory; I call it slaughter. At the end of every battle, there the corpses lie. I have been in many battles, my Queen, and no doubt will see many more. But given the choice, I would prefer peace, any time, over war.”

Despite years of trying to understand it, no one had explained the essence of battle to Gorgo more vividly. But there was something else she yearned to know. “So, this poem is about Thermopylae? Tell me what happened there. Tell me about the battle.”

Sherzada shivered. “It is time we went in, my Queen. Thermopylae is not for now. You lost your husband, and I my younger brother, to that battle. I shall tell you everything, I promise. But not now.”

Though Gorgo wanted to press him, she relented. Thermopylae made her uncomfortable, too. “Very well, though there is one more thing I wished to discuss today. I have been through your letters and am struck by your faith in One God.”

“It is the only faith that makes any sense to me.”

“And you seem to have gone to extreme lengths to acquire it?”

Sherzada explained how, in his youth, he traveled across different lands to find those who preached the Word of God, in the monotheistic monasteries of Lake Tana, one of the sources of the River Nile in Africa; in the Temple of Solomon in the ancient city of Yerushalaim; and at the Sacred Precinct of Abraham in the desert of Faran in Arabia. Afterwards, he looked at Gorgo curiously. “Why are you fascinated by my faith? Do you not believe in your gods, as most Greeks do?”

“Our gods are a strange lot, who like to play tricks on mankind and use us to score points against each other. I do not believe that the cosmos is governed by so many fallible, quarreling, selfish, idiotic deities. If this was the case, the universe would be in chaos. I am not convinced by these superstitions.”

“So you don’t believe in any god, then?”

“I am not sure,” said Gorgo. “But there are times I want to believe in something.” As they began to leave, she turned to ask him, “Tell me, do you believe in a forgiving God?”

“As long as His forgiveness is sought, not taken for granted.”

“Then pray to your God to forgive me, for I have committed a horrible crime.”