Athura, trembling with excitement, had seen the battle and the flight and pursuit of Gaumata, and, from behind Gustasp’s broad shoulders on the stairs, had watched the short, sharp combat between the Prince and the usurper. The Prince, flushed with victory as he stood above the writhing form of Gaumata, heard her exclaim, “Ahura-Mazda be praised!” He turned and their eyes met. He sprang towards Gustasp with dripping sword, thinking the giant guard an enemy in charge of the royal captive. But Athura pressed forward in front of Gustasp, exclaiming, “He is a friend!”
The Prince dropped his sword and extended his arms, with the light of great love in his eyes. Athura threw her arms about his mail-covered shoulders. Gustasp and Gobryas drove back the crowd of Persian troopers who were pressing in to aid their Prince.
But a chief commander must make an end of greetings, no matter how entrancing. The Prince and Athura passed out into the courtyard, now filled with shouting Persians, some of whom were pursuing the luckless garrison and cutting them down. When the Persians saw the radiant Athura standing by the side of their Prince, their shouts rent the heavens. For every man who had taken part in the battle knew that their leader was seeking to rescue his promised wife, the daughter of the great Cyrus.
Prexaspes was among the prisoners. His horse had been killed and had fallen upon him. The Persian cavalry had passed over him. But save for a broken arm, he was not seriously injured. He was brought before the Prince. His countenance showed signs of suffering, but the usual calm, cynical smile rested upon it and he exhibited no fear. The Prince looked upon him sternly.
“At last, Prexaspes,” he said, “you have come to a day of judgment! What have you to say?”
“Nothing, great Prince,” he answered. “Fate has turned against me. I am in your hands, a prisoner of war.”
“But how could you, a noble of Medea, conspire with that carrion, Gaumata? And you even obeyed him as King!”
“I did not conspire. I was faithful to Cambyses till he died—even though he did slay my son, as you know, in cruel jest. I did not conspire against him. What could I do after his death? By the command of Cambyses, I had slain Prince Bardya. For that crime I knew that I would be slain by you. So I came and offered my sword to the false King. He obeyed me, not I him!”
The Prince contemplated his prisoner gloomily. No man ever more admired courage than he. Prexaspes smiled in the face of death. What punishment should be meted out to such a man?
“For taking Bardya’s life, you have merited death,” said the Prince, finally. “But you are a brave man. You shall die as such. Tell me, Prexaspes, how did Bardya die?”