“Zopyrus, I go shortly to charge the enemy and if the gods will that I do not return, read this and obey its instructions.” So saying he thrust into his friend’s hand a bit of parchment. A few seconds fraught with emotion and Masistius strode off to obey his superior’s orders.
When the Athenians observed the approach of the Persian cavalry they descended to the plain below. Zopyrus stood, a tense figure, behind the barracks. His bosom swelled with pride as he watched the manly form of Masistius mounted on a black charger, likewise of huge proportions.
“Now if I but knew the secret power of the maiden’s prayer!” thought he.
Riding rapidly at the head of the Greek cavalry was the Athenian Olympiodorus, a white steed bearing him to the scene of conflict. He was not a man of large frame, but his attitude of calm self-reliance and his military bearing gave promise to Masistius that here was an opponent worthy of the utmost exertion of belligerent mettle. On came the two principal antagonists, the distance between them steadily decreasing. At last they met with a clash of weapons.
The Greek was successful in parrying the stroke of the Persian. With exceptional agility he dodged now this way, now that, bringing to naught the superior strength of his antagonist. At length Olympiodorus began losing ground. His muscles were tiring under the continued strain of warding off his opponent’s thrust. Just when it would seem that Masistius could make the final stab, another horseman rode up to the assistance of Olympiodorus. In this unequal conflict Masistius felt himself a loser. He wondered why his friends did not come to his aid, but was vaguely conscious that they were busily engaged in battle. Still he labored on parrying each thrust till he relaxed in complete exhaustion and a second later fell as the sword of Olympidiorus’ helper pierced his vitals. So perished Masistius, one of the bravest of Mardonius’ soldiers.
From his position behind the bulwarks, Zopyrus witnessed the death of his dearest friend. He stood for a moment as one in a stupor. His consciousness seemed gradually to weaken, flicker and die out, then a new spirit appeared to take hold of him and slowly gain predominance. After struggling for months with indecision which was gradually destroying his willpower, the right course for him to take became unquestionably apparent. He realized that since the defeat at Salamis, Masistius had been the only bond that held him to the Persian despot whose many acts of atrocity he had viewed with growing aversion. The influence of his Greek mother had at last gained undeniable supremacy. She had taught him while it is manly to love one’s country, it is God-like to love the world.
It was a new Zopyrus who turned and with resolute steps sought the seclusion of his tent. With deferential fingers he touched the note which his departed friend had given him and perused it with eyes moist with unshed tears. It ran as follows:
“To Zopyrus greetings—When you read this, my dear friend, you will know that I am no longer among the living. My one regret is that I can not carry out in the body that which I planned. Would it be asking too much of you, my friend and comrade, to undertake that which death makes impossible of accomplishment? Do you remember the eve of the Theban’s banquet when you confessed to me that you loved a Greek maiden, whom you returned unharmed to her people? I did not then tell you that a somewhat similar experience has been mine. But to make this clear to you, I must go back to that moment upon the Acropolis in Athens when Xerxes gave to you the girl whom Artabazus had seized. If you were not too busy with your own affairs you will remember that after granting this maid to you, Xerxes then told Artabazus to take the other girl. I happened to be standing beside Artabazus at the time, and never shall I forget the agonized expression upon the Greek maid’s face as she felt herself seized by the Persian. I understand and speak Greek but poorly, yet I knew what she said. Observing that I did not enter into the course jests of the other soldiers, she pled with me to save her from Artabazus, a thing I would willingly have attempted had it been at all possible.
“The memory of her naturally fair face distorted in the agony of fear, haunted me and I resolved to attempt a rescue. I knew she was confined in a tent to the rear of that of Artabazus where a number of Persian women were kept under guard of a eunuch. I passed by the tent often that evening under pretext of official duty beyond. At last I was rewarded by the sight of a piece of parchment slipped under a fold of the tent. I placed my foot upon it while I looked about to be assured no one had witnessed the passing of the note which read:
“‘I am a prisoner in the harem of Artabazus. Can you save me? Artabazus has promised not to harm me till after the encounter between Greeks and Persians. This promise was wrung from him principally through the efforts of a jealous Persian woman who threatened my life. He and she made a compromise, the result of which was that I should be forced to surrender myself to him immediately after the next conflict regardless of which side came through victorious. If you can rescue me before the close of another battle, I will owe you a debt of gratitude which I can never repay—Ladice.’