“I expect to die,” answered Prexaspes, and the pain and despair of his soul snatched away the smile from his face, leaving his handsome features haggard and drawn. “Remorse has been with me, since by this hand the stout young Prince departed! I will tell you. Cambyses was jealous of Bardya. His advisers, the Magian priests, who by their wonder works had made much impression on the King’s mind, also hated Bardya because he clung to the ancient religion of Iran and was an enemy to their religion. They knew that with Bardya as King they would never gain power in the state. They hinted to the King that Bardya contemplated rebellion. They artfully brought stories of the young man’s popularity. They advised his death. It was then that the King laid his command upon me to slay his brother. The Magian priests sent a body of their armed followers to lie in wait on the road to Rhages that night when the feast in honor of the Prince’s departure was held; and I rode with Bardya that night until, as prearranged, they attacked us. Then, in the mêlée, I struck the Prince with my sword and he died. Was not the Great King’s word law? I executed his word, without malice towards the Prince. But I am weary of life! My wife is dead. Cambyses slew my son. I have run the full course of power and wealth. I am your prisoner, ready to die. But know this, great Prince, I have never advised Cambyses against your interests!”
The Prince listened attentively and believed that Prexaspes spoke truthfully. He turned to Athura, who had listened to the recital, and asked, “What do you advise?”
Athura shook her head sadly.
“I cannot advise,” she said. “Last night when the drunken priests and the false King attempted to break into the castle and do me harm, this man interfered and compelled them to cease.”
“For that, Prexaspes, I would pardon you, had I the power,” said the Prince, turning to the prisoner. “I could order you slain now, but I cannot slay you. Prexaspes, you have deserved my gratitude. I grant you life for the present. I am not the King. My father is King of Iran. There is no King of Kings; until the nobles of Bactra, Persia, and Medea shall select one of the Achæmenian line. You shall go to Hamadan to be judged.”
“Rather would I be slain by you now,” responded Prexaspes, earnestly. “Let me die a soldier’s death, not the death of a dog condemned for murder!”
The Prince was troubled. He hesitated. Sympathy for a brave man moved him.
“I promise you this, Prexaspes,” he said after a moment of consideration. “If you will testify before the council of nobles and to the people, that this Gaumata was a false traitor and not Bardya and that Bardya was slain by your hand, I promise that you may choose the manner of your death. The King and the nobles will heed my promise. They will not deny me. If you make this confession and implicate the Magian priest, they will pursue you with bitter vengeance. It is said that their death penalties are tortures such as even fiends would not inflict. We could not save you from them. It is the ancient law that one who lifts his hand against one of the Achæmenian race must die. Is it not so? And this law, not even the King may set aside.”
“It is so!” answered Prexaspes. “I will testify before the people and the council, in order that your reign as King of Kings may not be disturbed by other false Bardyas. I advise that you carry this Gaumata’s head to Hamadan and exhibit it in the market that all may see. I myself will ascend the criers’ tower and confess the death of Bardya to the people. So be it. I will choose my own death.”
“Meanwhile,” said the Prince, “Gobryas shall be your keeper. He will treat you as a brave soldier should treat a brave soldier unlucky enough to be a captive. We shall rest here this night. On the morrow we march to Hamadan.”