“Then it were well, Excellency,” thrust in Artabazus, “since the plot is foiled, to retire to the camp.”
Mardonius’s eyes flashed lightnings.
“Woman’s counsel that! Are we not here to conquer Hellas? Yes, by Mithra the Glorious, we will fight, though every dæva in hell joins against us. Re-form the ranks. Halt the charge. Let the bowmen crush the Spartans with their arrows. Then we will see if these Greeks are stouter than Babylonian, Lydian, and Egyptian who played their game with Persia to sore cost. And you, Artabazus, to your rear-guard, and do your duty well.”
The general bowed stiffly. He knew the son of Gobryas, and that disobedience would have brought Mardonius’s cimeter upon his own helmet. By a great effort the charge was stayed,—barely in time,—for to have flung that disorganized horde on the waiting Spartan spears would have been worse than madness. A single stadium sundered the two hosts when Mardonius brought his men to a stand, set his strong divisions of bowmen in array behind their wall of shields, and drew up his cavalry on the flanks of the bowmen. Battle he would give, but it must be cautious battle now, and he did not love the silence which reigned among the motionless lines of the Spartans.
It was bright day at last. The two armies—the whole [pg 430]strength of the Barbarian, the Spartans with only their Tegean allies—stood facing, as athletes measuring strength before the grapple. The Spartan line was thinner than Mardonius’s: no cavalry, few bowmen, but shield was set beside shield, and everywhere tossed the black and scarlet plumes of the helmets. Men who remembered Thermopylæ gripped their spear-stocks tighter. No long postponing now. On this narrow field, this bit of pebble and greensward, the gods would cast the last dice for the destiny of Hellas. All knew that.
The stolidity of the Spartans was maddening. They stood like bronze statues. In clear view at the front was a tall man in scarlet chlamys, and two more in white,—Pausanias and his seers examining the entrails of doves, seeking a fair omen for the battle. Mardonius drew the turban lower over his eyes.
“An end to this truce. Begin your arrows.”
A cloud of bolts answered him. The Persian archers emptied their quivers. They could see men falling among the foe, but still Pausanias stood beside the seers, still he gave no signal to advance. The omens doubtless were unfavourable. His men never shifted a foot as the storm of death flew over them. Their rigidity was more terrifying than any battle-shout. What were these men whose iron discipline bound so fast that they could be pelted to death, and no eyelash seem to quiver? The archers renewed their volley. They shot against a rock. The Barbarians joined in one rending yell,—their answer was silence.
Deliberately, arrows dropping around him as tree-blossoms in the gale, Pausanias raised his hand. The omens were good. The gods permitted battle. Deliberately, while men fell dying, he walked to his post on the right wing. Deliberately, while heaven seemed shaking with the Barbarians’ [pg 431]clamour, his hand went up again. Through a lull in the tumult pealed a trumpet. Then the Spartans marched.
Slowly their lines of bristling spear-points and nodding crests moved on like the sea-waves. Shrill above the booming Tartar drums, the blaring Persian war-horns pierced the screams of their pipers. And the Barbarians heard that which had never met their ears before,—the chanting of their foes as the long line crept nearer.