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The Golden Hope: A Story of the Time of King Alexander the Great

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Title: The Golden Hope: A Story of the Time of King Alexander the Great

Author: Robert H. Fuller


        
Release date: September 30, 2011 [eBook #37576]
                Most recently updated: January 8, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN HOPE: A STORY OF THE TIME OF KING ALEXANDER THE GREAT ***




Produced by Al Haines









[Transcriber's note: In this text file, "[oe]" represents the
oe-ligature character]





THE GOLDEN HOPE

  _A STORY OF THE TIME OF
  KING ALEXANDER THE GREAT_



BY

ROBERT H. FULLER




NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS




Copyright, 1905,

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.


Set up and electrotyped.  Published March, 1905.  Reprinted May, 1906.




Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.




"_For what was all his war in Asia after the death of Philippus, but
tempests, extreme heats, wonderful deep rivers, marvellous high
mountains, monstrous beasts for greatness to behold, wild savage
fashions of life, change and alteration of governors upon every
occasion, yea treasons and rebellions of some?  At the beginning of his
voyage, Greece did yet lay their heads together, for the remembrance of
the wars that Philippus made upon them: the towns gathered together:
Macedonia inclined to some change and alteration: divers people far and
near lay in wait to see what their neighbours would do: the gold and
silver of Persia flowing in the orators' purses, and governors of the
people did raise up Peloponnese: Philippus' treasure and coffers were
empty, and the debts were great.  In despite of all these troubles, and
in the middest of his poverty, a young man, but newly come to man's
estate, durst in his mind think of the conquest of Asia, yea of the
empire of the whole world, with thirty thousand footmen and five
thousand horse, ... howbeit he was furnished with magnanimity, with
temperance, with wisdom, and valour: being more holpen in this martial
enterprise, with that he had learned of his tutor Aristotle, than with
that which his father Philippus had left him....  In Alexander's
actions they see, that his valiantness is gentle, his gentleness
valiant: his liberality, husbandry, his choler soon down, his loves
temperate, his pastimes not idle, and his travels gracious.  What is he
that hath mingled feasting with wars, and military expeditions with
sports?  Who hath intermingled in the middest of his besieging of
towns: and in the middest of skirmishes and fights, sports, banquets,
and wedding songs?  Who was ever more enemy to those that did wrong,
nor more gracious to the afflicted?  Who was ever more cruel to those
that fought, or more just unto suppliants?_"

--NORTH'S _Plutarch_.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

       I.  THREE FRIENDS MEET
      II.  WARNING FROM THE GODS
     III.  ARISTON LAYS A PLOT
      IV.  THE VOICE OF DEMOSTHENES
       V.  THE BANQUET
      VI.  SYPHAX EARNS HIS REWARD
     VII.  THE RESPONSE OF THE ORACLE
    VIII.  THE THUNDERBOLT FALLS
      IX.  THE DOOM OF THEBES
       X.  CHARES BARTERS HIS SWORD
      XI.  THAIS
     XII.  MENA READS A LETTER
    XIII.  THE UNQUENCHABLE FIRE
     XIV.  ACROSS THE HELLESPONT
      XV.  THAIS AND ARTEMISIA
     XVI.  IN THE CAMP OF THE MERCENARIES
    XVII.  THE TRAGEDY OF THE MARSH
   XVIII.  GREEK AND BARBARIAN
     XIX.  THE ROUT OF THE SATRAPS
      XX.  MENA MAKES A DISCOVERY
     XXI.  PHRADATES TRIUMPHS
    XXII.  THE VISION OF DANIEL, THE VICEROY
   XXIII.  IN THE WHIRLWIND'S TRACK
    XXIV.  THE GORDIAN KNOT
     XXV.  BESSUS COMES TO BABYLON
    XXVI.  THE GREAT KING IS ANGRY
   XXVII.  NATHAN KEEPS HIS WORD
  XXVIII.  BETWEEN EARTH AND SKY
    XXIX.  THE SLUICE GATE
     XXX.  LEONIDAS UNDERTAKES A MISSION
    XXXI.  ALEXANDER IS SURPRISED
   XXXII.  THE WORLD AT STAKE
  XXXIII.  THE CHESTNUT MARE
   XXXIV.  IN THE PAVILION OF THE QUEENS
    XXXV.  PHRADATES MAKES A WAGER
   XXXVI.  TYRE ACCEPTS THE CHALLENGE
  XXXVII.  THE JEST OF KING AZEMILCUS
 XXXVIII.  MENA REVEALS A SECRET
   XXXIX.  JOEL BRINGS BAD NEWS
      XL.  THE GAP OF DEATH
     XLI.  PRINCE HUR'S COUNTERPLOT
    XLII.  A TRAITOR IN PURPLE
   XLIII.  THI KING TAKES HIS REVENGE
    XLIV.  THE REVOLT OF THE ISRAELITES
     XLV.  MOLOCH CLAIMS HIS SACRIFICE
    XLVI.  THE PASSING OF A GOD
   XLVII.  SYPHAX SQUARES HIS ACCOUNT
  XLVIII.  THAIS GIVES A FEAST
    XLIX.  CHARES FINDS REST
       L.  PROMISES FULFILLED
      LI.  AMID FRAGMENTS OF EMPIRE




THE GOLDEN HOPE




CHAPTER I

THREE FRIENDS MEET

Athens was rousing herself from sleep.  The beams of the morning sun
bathed the rugged sides of Mount Hymettus and lightened the dark
foliage that clothed the nearer wooded slopes of Lycabettus.  The low,
flat-roofed houses of the city were still nothing more than blurred
masses of gray in the shadow; but presently a ray touched the point of
Athene's spear, and the flood of orange light flowed over the
Acropolis.  Its temples and statues were enveloped in a radiance which
fused the rich, harmonious colors of column and cornice and melted the
massive outlines into a resplendent whole, rising immortal from the
gloom at its base.

Thin curls of smoke mounted here and there above the housetops,
straight up toward the limitless turquoise vault of the sky.  The
vivifying freshness of the new-born day was in the air.

There was a clatter of hoofs in the Street of Pericles, and two young
men, followed by three mounted servants, swung into view.

"By Zeus, Leonidas!" cried the foremost of the riders, drawing rein and
pointing to the Acropolis, "that is worth riding all night to see!"

"You mean the sunrise?" the other asked, also coming to a halt.
"Pshaw!  You may see that any day without sitting up for it."

"Not I!" said his companion, laughing.  "I love the lamps too well."

Leonidas shrugged his square shoulders.  "It's not the lamps you love,
Chares," he returned dryly.  "But why are we idling here?  Unless we
make haste, Clearchus will be out of bed before we can surprise him."

"Come on, then!" Chares cried, urging his tired horse.  "By Heracles!
what's that?"

The three servants had ridden forward in advance of their masters.
From the direction they had taken, the young men heard a confusion of
angry voices, mingled with oaths.  In another moment they saw that the
street was blocked by a gorgeous litter borne on the shoulders of four
sturdy slaves and surrounded by a dozen more, some of whom carried
torches which burned pale in the morning light.  The litter-bearers had
refused to draw aside, and the guard was attempting to turn the
horsemen back.  Evidently some youth had been overtaken at his revelry
by the dawn and was now being carried home by slaves who had followed
his example at the wine-cup.

A bustling little man, with close-cropped hair and the sharp-nosed face
of a fox, was shaking his sword in the faces of the riders.

"Back with you!  Back!" he shouted.  "Do you seek to halt the noble
Phradates?  Back, while you may!"

The curtains of the litter parted, and a young man's face, crimson with
wrath and wine, appeared at the opening.  He wore upon his head a
wreath of wilted roses, which had slipped sidewise over one ear.

"What is the matter, Mena?" he called thickly.  "Cut the rascals down!"

The three servants hesitated, looking back to their masters for
instructions.

"Here is sport!" Chares cried, his eyes sparkling.  "Let us ride
through them!  They need a lesson."

Leonidas made no answer, but shook his bridle rein free and plunged his
spurs into the flanks of his horse.

"Way!  Way!" Chares cried in a mighty voice, as they thundered down
upon the obstinate group.  "Follow us, my lads!" he shouted to the
servants as he swept past.

The officious man with the sharp nose dropped his sword and scrambled
up the steps of a house, but before the rest could follow his example
the five horsemen were among them, and they were rolling under foot
with their torches.  Chares swerved his horse skilfully against the
litter in such a manner that it was overturned.  Its occupant pitched
head foremost into the street, and the litter fell on top of him,
burying him beneath a mass of curtains and silken cushions, among which
he struggled like some gigantic insect caught in a web.

"You shall pay for this!" he gasped from the wreckage, shaking his fist
after the little cavalcade.  "I am Phradates!"

Chares laughed until the street echoed, and even Leonidas could not
forbear a smile when he glanced back upon the havoc their passage had
caused.

"We must ask Clearchus who this fellow is," Chares said.  "Here is the
house."

He sprang down in front of a dwelling of white marble and ran to the
gate.

"Hola!" he shouted.  "Let us in!  Do you intend to keep your master's
guests all day at his door?  Open, then!"

After a slight delay there was a sound of falling bars, and the grating
swung back, revealing a drowsy slave in the entrance.

"Is it you, my master?  Enter; you are welcome," the man said, bowing
before Chares.

"Is Clearchus awake?" Chares demanded eagerly.

"I think not, sir," the slave replied.

"Then we will rouse him!" Chares cried, running across the outer court
and into the house.  Leonidas followed more deliberately, leaving the
attendants to care for the horses.

Chares did not stop to return the greeting of the slave who opened the
house door for him, but dashed through the corridor that led to the
inner court, shouting at the top of his voice: "Clearchus!  Wake up,
sluggard, and feed the hungry, or the Gods will turn their faces from
you!  Dreamer, where art thou?"

Just as he emerged from the corridor to the spacious inner court, the
young man came suddenly upon a fresh-faced slave girl, who was busied
with some early duties about the broad cistern filled with lotus
flowers.

"Aphrodite, as I live!" Chares cried, throwing his arms about her and
kissing her on the lips with a smack.  The girl fled, laughing and
blushing, to the women's quarters, and at the same moment the master of
the house, awakened by the uproar, appeared on the threshold of his
chamber.

"Chares!" he cried, coming forward with outstretched hands.  "Who else
could it be, indeed!"

"Oh, Clearchus," Chares said, "what hardships and perils we have passed
to reach thee!"

"And here is Leonidas," said the Athenian, freeing himself from the
embrace of Chares as the second of his guests entered the court.  "Both
my brothers here!  For this I owe a sacrifice of thanksgiving which I
shall not fail to pay.  But what fortunate chance brings you to Athens?"

"We were sitting quietly enough in Thebes, talking of you," Leonidas
replied, "when this madcap declared that he would not live another day
without seeing you and that he intended to make you give him breakfast.
Piso, who was with us, fell into dispute with him, offering to wager
twenty minæ that we could not ride here before midday.  Chares
maintained that he would wake you this morning or forfeit the stake,
and here we are."

"And so you have ridden all night?" Clearchus asked.

"All night, amid dangers and darkness, only to see you!" Chares replied
gayly, throwing his arm around his friend's shoulder.  "And now, have
you anything to eat in the house?  I am like a famished wolf."

"Come with me," Clearchus said, leading the way into a large room
opening from the left of the court.  The sunlight streamed in from the
garden outside, over rich Persian carpets which covered the floor.  The
walls were frescoed with scenes from the Iliad of Homer, drawn with
marvellous skill.  Painted statuettes stood in niches of stone.  Chairs
and tables of ebony, cypress, and cedar were scattered through the
room, and soft couches invited rest.  Clearchus struck a bell, and a
grave man of middle age appeared in the doorway.

"Send us food, Cleon," Clearchus said.

The steward withdrew, and two younger slaves entered.  They quickly
divested Chares and Leonidas of their riding cloaks and swords and
washed their hands in bowls of scented water, drying them upon linen
towels.  They were followed by other slaves bearing trays of cold fowl,
bread, and wine.

"This seems like getting home," Chares exclaimed, throwing himself upon
one of the couches and leaning back luxuriously upon the cushions of
down which the slaves hastened to arrange behind him while he helped
himself to food from the table.  "By the Gods, Clearchus, unless you
stop growing handsome, Ph[oe]bus will be jealous of you!"

The Athenian flushed like a girl.  He was a clean-cut, clear-eyed young
man, hardly more than twenty-one years old, with a face and figure that
might have served as a model for Phidias himself.  Although slender,
his form was graceful, with the ease that comes only from well-trained
muscles.  Brown curls covered his head, and the glance of his dark eyes
was steady and straightforward, with a singular earnestness.  His
expression was thoughtful and his mouth betrayed a sensitive delicacy.

His parents had died when he was still a lad.  His father, Cleanor,
bequeathed to him an immense fortune, amassed in the mines, which had
been managed by his uncle, Ariston, until he became of age.  His wealth
made him envied by the fashionable young men of Athens, but he had few
friends among them.  He cared nothing for their drinking-bouts,
cock-fights, and gaming, and he had no ambition in politics except to
do his duty as a citizen of Athens.  Deep in his heart he worshipped
the city and her glorious achievements, especially those of the
intellect, with fanatical devotion.

Chares, too, belonged to a family of wealth and influence, for his
father, Jason, had been one of the foremost men in Thebes.  In height
he stood more than six feet, and the knotted muscles of his arms
indicated enormous strength.  He was buoyant, light-hearted,
irresponsible, and pleasure-loving.  His affection for the Athenian,
whom he had known from boyhood, was the strongest impulse in him.

They had first met Leonidas at the Olympic Games, where he won the
laurel crown in the chariot race, and they had there admitted him to
their friendship.  Different as they were from each other, there seemed
little in common between either of them and the swarthy Lacedæmonian
who lay eating silently while they chattered gossip of mutual
acquaintances.  Leonidas was rather below the middle stature, all bone
and sinew, practised in arms, and inured to hardships from his
childhood by the unbending discipline of Sparta.  His dark hair grew
low down on his forehead and his black eyes were set deep under
overhanging brows.  He neither shared nor wished to understand the
delight which Clearchus felt in a perfect statue or a masterpiece of
painting.  He scorned the philosophers and poets.  Upon the
questionable pleasures to which Chares gave his days and nights, he
looked with good-natured contempt.  The narrow prejudices of his
country were ingrained too deeply in his character to be disturbed by
any change of surroundings.  He valued more highly the consciousness
that in his veins ran a few drops of the blood of the Lion of
Thermopylæ than all the riches of the world.

In each of the three young men who met in the house of Clearchus were
typified many of the characteristics of the states to which they
belonged.  Athens, Thebes, and Sparta in turn had held the supremacy in
the little peninsula to which the civilized world was confined.
Contrasted as they were, there was still a bond between them that had
been welded by centuries of association.

"Tell me," Clearchus said, after their hunger had been somewhat
appeased, "what is the news of Thebes?  Are the Macedonians still
perched in the Cadmea?"

"They are," Chares replied lazily.  "We are still in the grasp of the
barbarian; but our plotters are at work and they tell me that soon we
shall break it."

"Do you mean they are planning revolt?" Clearchus asked eagerly.

"Don't get excited," the Theban responded.  "It will give you
indigestion.  They have revolted already, thanks to the gold your city
sent them, and the barbarians are eating their corn in the citadel just
at present, waiting for something to turn up."

"But that means war, Chares," Clearchus exclaimed.

"Well," Chares replied, "that will give Leonidas a chance to clear the
rust from his sword.  You know he is in the market."

"That is true," the Spartan said in response to Clearchus' glance of
inquiry.  "No man can live on air.  I follow my profession where there
is work to be done."

There was nothing disgraceful in this avowal.  If his own country was
at peace, a Greek soldier might sell his sword to the highest bidder,
as did Xenophon, without reproach.

"And I suppose you, too, will be fighting, Chares?" said Clearchus.

"As to that, I don't know," the Theban answered, stretching himself
with a yawn.  "Perhaps the best thing that could happen to us would be
to have the Macedonian conquer and rule.  It would put an end to our
own wars.  If matters go on as they have been going, all three of us
may be trying to cut each other's throats before the month is out."

"No," Clearchus exclaimed, "that cannot be, because you must promise me
to stay here and drink at my wedding feast at the next new moon."

"What, Clearchus! you are going to be married?" Chares cried, springing
from his couch.  "Who is she?"

"Artemisia, daughter of Theorus," Clearchus answered.  "She is the most
beautiful--"

"Ho, Cleon, Cleon!  Where are you?" Chares shouted at the top of his
voice.  "Cleon, I say!"

The steward ran into the room in alarm.

"Bring wine of Cyprus, quickly!" Chares cried, waving his arms.

Cleon vanished with a smile, and Chares hastened to embrace his friend
with a fervor that threatened to crack his ribs.  Leonidas grasped him
warmly by the hand, and both showered congratulations upon him.

"We pledge thee!" Chares cried, taking the wine that Cleon brought in a
great beaker of carved silver and raising it to his lips, after
spilling a portion of its contents in libation.

"May the Gods give thee happiness!" Leonidas said, drinking deep in his
turn.

"Neither war, famine, nor pestilence shall take us from thee until thou
art married," Chares cried, half in jest.  "We swear it, Leonidas, by
the head of Zeus!"

"We swear it!" the Spartan echoed, and each of them again pressed the
young man's hand.

"I expected no less of you," Clearchus said, smiling into the faces of
his companions.  "It makes my heart glad to know that you will be with
me.  But after your long ride you must both be used up.  I will leave
you to get an hour or two of sleep before the Assembly which has been
called for this afternoon to hear what Demosthenes has to say upon our
policy toward Macedon.  You will want to hear him, of course."

"Go, Clearchus," Chares said, laughing.  "That is a long speech to tell
us that you would like to be rid of us while you go to your Artemisia.
Come back in time for the bath, that's all."




CHAPTER II

WARNING FROM THE GODS

A few miles west of Athens, in the suburb of Academe, dwelt Melissa,
aunt and guardian of Artemisia.  She was an invalid, bedridden for the
greater part of the year, and she had chosen to live in the country
that she might not be disturbed by the city noises.  She had never
married, and no departure from the routine of her well-ordered house
was permitted.  She loved her niece; but she was not sorry to have her
marry, because, as she said, her own hold upon life was so uncertain,
and besides, the match was a brilliant one.

Her household consisted of Philox, her steward, who had managed her
affairs for a score of years, Tolmon, her gardener, and a dozen women
slaves who, like their mistress, had passed the prime of life.

In Melissa's old-fashioned garden Artemisia, with two little slave
girls to help her, was at work over a hedge of roses.  She had not yet
reached her nineteenth year.  Her soft, light brown hair was gathered
in a knot at the back of her head, showing the graceful curve of the
nape of her neck and half revealing the little pink lobes of her ears.
Her forehead was low and smooth and broad, with delicately arched
brows, a shade darker than her hair.  Her eyes were blue and the color
in her cheeks was heightened by her exertions in bringing the straying
rose stems into place.  The folds of her pure white chiton left her
warm arms bare to the shoulder and defined the youthful lines of her
supple figure.  As she stooped among the flowers, handling them with
gentle touches, she seemed preoccupied, and her glance continually
wandered from her task.

Agile as monkeys, the slave girls darted about her, pelting each other
with blossoms and uttering peals of shrill laughter.  Their short white
tunics made their swarthy skins darker by contrast.

The garden was set in a tiny meadow beside the river Cephissus.  It was
shut in on both sides by groves of olive and fig trees, against whose
dark foliage gleamed the marble front of the house to which it
belonged.  The sunlight swept the smooth emerald of the turf, touched
the brilliant hues of the flowers, and flashed back from the rippling
river beyond.

"Oh, mistress, there's a beautiful butterfly!  Oh, please, may I catch
him?" cried one of the little girls.

"Hush, chatterbox," said Artemisia; "come and help me here."

"Ouch, that awful thorn!  Look, mistress, how my finger bleeds," the
other girl said, holding up her small brown hand.

"Will you never end your nonsense?" the young woman asked in affected
despair.  "See, Proxena, we have not half finished."

"Don't be angry with us, mistress; see who's coming!" Proxena cried,
taking her wounded finger from her mouth and pointing with it toward
the house.

Clearchus must have ridden fast to arrive so soon after leaving his
friends.  Artemisia, hastily plucking a half-blown rose, went forward
to meet him, while the little slave girls remained behind, peeping
slyly with sidelong glances and whispering to each other while they
pretended to busy themselves with their work.

"Greeting, Artemisia, my Life!" Clearchus said, taking her hands in his.

"Greeting, Clearchus; I am glad to see thee," she replied.

"How beautiful thou art and how fortunate am I, my darling," the young
man said radiantly.  "Dost thou love me, Artemisia?"

"Thou knowest well that I do, Clearchus," she answered reproachfully.
"Why dost thou ask?"

"For the joy of hearing thee say it once more," he said, laughing.
"There is nothing the Gods can give that could be sweeter or more
precious to me, and to add the last touch to my happiness, Chares and
Leonidas came this morning and have promised to stay until our wedding."

They had been strolling toward the grove at the edge of the meadow,
where a bench of carved stone, overhung with trailing vines, was set in
the shade in such a position as to permit its occupants to look out
over the garden and the river.  They sat down side by side and
Clearchus slipped his arm about Artemisia's waist.  Evidently, with the
subtle sense of a lover, he detected a lack of responsiveness, for he
bent forward and gazed anxiously into her face.  He saw that it was
troubled.

"What is the matter, my dearest?" he asked in sudden alarm.

She hesitated for a moment.  "Oh, Clearchus, I fear that we are too
happy," she said at last in reply.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, drawing her closer to him.  "Why
should any of the Gods wish us harm?  We have not failed in paying them
honor, and we have transgressed in nothing."

Artemisia hid her face in her hands and her head drooped against his
shoulder.  He held her still closer and kissed the soft coils of her
hair, awaiting an explanation.

"What is it, Artemisia?" he asked quietly.  "You are tired and nervous
and overwrought, and some foolish fancy has crept into your heart to
trouble you.  Tell me, my dearest; thou canst have no sorrow that is
not mine as well as thine."

"Clearchus, my husband," she said, without moving from her position or
lifting her face, "thou art strong and I am but a weak girl.  Whatever
may come, I shall always be thankful that thou didst love me.  I am
thine--heart and mind, body and spirit, here and in the
hereafter--forever."

"Why dost thou speak so, my Soul?" Clearchus asked in alarm.  "What has
happened?  Surely we shall be married at the new moon."

"I do not know, Clearchus--all that I know is that I love thee and
shall love thee always.  A warning from the Gods has been sent to me."

She lifted her face and clasped her hands in her lap.  Her eyes were
wet and her lips were tremulous as those of a helpless child who awaits
a blow.

"What was it, my Life?" Clearchus asked gently.

"I was in a strange house," she replied, looking straight before her as
though she could see the things that she described.  "It was a house of
many rooms, some filled with lights and some so dark I could not tell
what was in them.  I heard the sound of voices, of laughter, and of
weeping, but I could see nobody.  Thou wert there, I knew, and I was
seeking thee with my heart full of terror; for something told me I
would not find thee.  It was dreadful--dreadful, Clearchus!"

She paused and clung to him for a moment as though in fear of being
torn from his side.

"I do not know how long I wandered through passages and chambers," she
resumed, "but at last I reached a corridor that had rows of pillars on
either side.  At the end was a crimson curtain, beyond which men and
women were talking.  As I stood hesitating in the empty corridor,
suddenly I heard thy voice among the rest.  I could not mistake it,
Clearchus.  Joy filled my heart.  Thou didst not know I was there nor
what peril I was in.  I felt that I had but to lift the curtain--thou
wouldst see me and I would be saved.  I ran forward, crying out to
thee; but before I reached the curtain, rough men came from between the
pillars and thrust me back, drowning my voice with shouting and
laughter.  I threw myself on my knees before them and prayed them not
to stop me.  They answered in words that I could not understand.  My
heart was breaking, Clearchus!  The light beyond the crimson curtain
grew dim, and outside I could hear a roaring like a great storm.  The
pillars were shaken and the walls crumbled, and I woke crying thy name."

The young man's face had grown unusually grave and thoughtful as he
listened to the recital of the dream.  No man or woman of his time who
believed in anything ever thought of doubting that the visions of sleep
were divine communications to mortals.  Statesmen directed the course
of nations and generals planned their campaigns in accordance with the
interpretation of these revelations.

"What does it mean, Clearchus?  You are wiser than I," Artemisia said
anxiously.  "If I am separated from thee, I shall die."

"The men who halted you seemed to be barbarians?" Clearchus asked
thoughtfully.

"Thus they seemed," she replied.  "I could not understand their speech,
and their clothes were not our fashion."

"I know not what it means, Artemisia," Clearchus said at last.  "We are
in the hands of the Gods.  I shall ask the protection of Artemis and
offer her a sacrifice.  To-morrow we must be married.  I do not dare to
wait for the new moon, for I must be near you to protect you.  Then,
whatever may come, we will meet it together."

"Perhaps the dream was meant for me alone," Artemisia said tenderly.
"I cannot bear to bring you into danger."

"Hush, Artemisia!" Clearchus said reprovingly.  "I would rather a
thousand times die with thee than live without thee."

With a sigh, she let her head rest on his shoulder.

"I care not what may happen so that thou art with me," she said; "then
I can feel no fear."

"Artemisia," Clearchus said suddenly, "go not out again to-day.  I
shall tell Philox to guard thee well until to-morrow.  Hast thou told
Melissa of the dream?"

"No, for I wished to tell thee first and she is so easily frightened,"
Artemisia said.

"Then say nothing to her about it," the young man replied.

One of the little slave girls ran up to them at this moment and stood
before them, twisting her fingers together and waiting to be spoken to.

"What is it, Proxena?" Artemisia asked.

"The morning meal is waiting, mistress," said the child, and sped away
again.




CHAPTER III

ARISTON LAYS A PLOT

Ariston, uncle of Clearchus and formerly guardian of his fortune, sat
at his work-table before a mass of papyri closely written with
memoranda and accounts.  His house stood by itself in a quarter of the
city that had once been fashionable but now was occupied chiefly by the
poorer class of citizens.  Its front was without windows and its stone
walls were yellowed and stained with age.  Its seclusion seemed to be
emphasized by the bustle of life that surrounded it and in which it had
no part.

The room in which Ariston sat was evidently used as an office, for rows
of metal-bound boxes of various shapes and sizes were piled along its
walls.  A statuette of Hermes stood in one corner upon its pedestal,
and its sightless eyes seemed bent upon the thin, gray face of the old
man as he leaned with his elbows upon the top of the table, polished by
long use.  Lines of care and anxiety showed themselves at the corners
of his mouth and about his restless eyes.  The light of the swinging
lamp that illuminated the small room, even in the daytime, made shadowy
hollows at his temples and beneath his cheek-bones.

Little was known of the personal concerns of the old man in Athens.
Although he mingled with the other citizens without apparent reserve,
he never discussed his own affairs.  The general impression was that he
was a good Athenian who had been faithful to the trust reposed in him,
and who had won a modest competence of his own for the support of his
age.  This idea was encouraged by the parsimonious habits of his life
and by the trifling but cautious ventures that he sometimes made in the
commercial activity of the city.  His most conspicuous characteristic,
in the minds of his acquaintances, was his mania for gathering
information concerning not only Athens and Greece, but distant lands
and strange peoples as well.  This was looked upon as a harmless and
even useful occupation, and it accounted for his evident fondness at
times for the company of strangers, who, no doubt, contributed to the
satisfaction of his curiosity.

Great would have been the astonishment if some orator had announced to
the Athenian Assembly that the humble old man was really one of the
richest citizens of Athens, as well as the best informed concerning the
plans and hopes of the rulers of the world and of the probable current
of coming events.  Laughter would have greeted the assertion that much
of the merchandise which found its way to the Piræus belonged to him
and that the profits realized from the sale of silks and spices, corn
and ivory, went into his coffers.  Yet these statements would have been
true a year before.  In Athens the rich were required to contribute to
the public charges in proportion to their wealth, and the saving that
Ariston was able to effect by making his investments abroad and
concealing them through various stratagems from the knowledge of his
neighbors was sufficient, in his opinion, to compensate him for the
trouble and the risks that such a course involved.  He would rather
have suffered his fingers to be hacked off one by one than part with
the heavy, shining bars of gold that his prudence and foresight had
amassed.

If the history of each separate coin and bar could have been told, it
would have revealed secrets which their master had forced himself to
forget.  Some of them were the price of flesh and blood; some had been
gained by violence upon the seas or among the trackless wastes of the
desert; some had been won at the expense of honor and truth; for in his
earlier years Ariston had been both bold and unscrupulous in his
cunning, and his craving for riches had always been insatiable.  As his
years and his wealth increased he became more circumspect and
conservative.  He even sought to expiate some of his earlier faults by
furtive sacrifices to the Gods, and especially to Hermes, whose image
he cherished.

But the Gods had turned their faces from him, and his repentance, if
repentance it could be called, had been unavailing.  Misfortune had
come upon him, and calamity seemed always to be lying in wait for him.
If his vessels put to sea, they were sunk in storms or captured by
pirates.  His factories and warehouses were burned; his caravans were
lost; his debtors defaulted; and if he purchased a cargo of corn, its
price at the Piræus was certain to be less than the price he had paid
for it in the Hellespont.  One after another the precious bars which
had cost him so much to obtain were sent to save doubtful ventures and
losing investments, until at last all were gone.  Sitting in his dingy
room, on the day of the arrival of Chares and Leonidas at the house of
Clearchus, he was at last in a worldly sense what his neighbors thought
him to be; and the marble face of Hermes, with its painted eyes, smiled
malignly at him from its corner.

But there was still hope left to him.  Although the widespread web of
his enterprises had been rent and torn by misfortune, there yet
remained enough to build upon securely if he had but a few more of the
yellow bars to tide over his present distress.  Without them he might
keep afloat for a few months longer; but the end would be utter ruin.
At least he still owned the great dyeing establishment in Tyre, which
had never failed to yield him a handsome revenue.  He recalled how he
had taken it from Cepheus for one-fourth its real value.  It was no
concern of his that Cepheus had stolen it from young Phradates.  What
did the details of the transaction matter now, since they were known
only to himself and to Cepheus, who would not be likely to reveal them,
and to Mena the Egyptian, the young man's steward?  Mena had stolen so
much himself from the spendthrift that he would never dare to tell what
he knew.  And yet the fellow had it in his power to rob Ariston of the
last remnant of his fortune.

A discreet knock interrupted Ariston's reflections.  He brushed his
parchments and papyri hastily into an open box that stood beside his
chair and closed the lid.  "Enter!" he commanded.

An aged slave opened the door.  "Mena, of Tyre," he said.

Cold sweat broke out on Ariston's forehead, but he gave no outward sign
of his consternation.  "Bring him hither," he directed.

The Egyptian, who had been watching the sluggish goldfish floating in
the weed-grown cistern of the court, entered the room with an air of
importance.  He turned his alert face, with its sharp, inquiring
features, upon Ariston.

"Greeting!" he said, extending his hand.  "It is long since we have
seen thee in Tyre."

"Yes," Ariston replied, leading him to a seat opposite his own, "I am
getting too old for travel."

"You have indeed grown older since I saw you last," Mena said, looking
at him attentively.  "I hope it is not because Fortune has been unkind."

Ariston winced, and the change in his expression was not lost upon the
shrewd Egyptian.

"What brings you here?" he asked, shifting the subject.

"We are travelling, my beloved master and I," Mena answered.

"Phradates is with you, then?" the old man asked with an alarm that he
was unable to conceal.

The steward paused before he answered, gazing at Ariston with eyes half
closed and a faint smile upon his lips.

"Phradates is here," he said at last.  "I know of what you are
thinking.  We have been friends too long to have secrets from each
other.  You need have no fear.  Cepheus is dead and I have too many
causes to despise Phradates to take his part."

He paused again and suddenly his face became convulsed with a spasm of
hatred.

"I could strangle him!" he cried, clenching his hands as though he felt
his master's throat beneath his fingers.

Ariston breathed more freely.  At any rate, his property in Tyre was
safe.

"Why don't you do it, then?" he asked coolly.

"Because the time has not yet come!" Mena replied fiercely.  "For every
insult that he has given me and for every blow that he has made me
feel, he shall suffer tenfold!  His fortune is dwindling, and in the
end it will be mine.  Then let him ask Mena for aid!"

"I did not know that you had so much courage," Ariston remarked.

"I have not watched you in vain," Mena replied, "and it is to you that
I now come for assistance."

"To me!" Ariston exclaimed.

"To you," Mena repeated.  "Be not alarmed, for what I have to propose
will be for our mutual benefit.  Phradates has been throwing money
right and left since we set out from Tyre.  Great sums he spent in
Crete and still greater in Corinth.  Since his arrival here he has been
fleeced without mercy.  You will understand that I have tried to
protect him, but merely to save him from injury.  He might have lost
his life only this morning had I not been there to guard him from an
attack by two desperate characters with a crowd of slaves, who set upon
us while we were returning from the dice.  Luckily, I succeeded in
beating them off, but the noble Phradates was thrown from his chair and
his noble nose was battered.  Soon he will be in want of more money.
Of the property that remains to him, he has quarries on Lebanon, which
employ a thousand slaves, silk mills in Old Tyre, where as many more
are kept busy, and a score of ships in the trade with Carthage.  He
believes the value of the quarries and the mills to be only half what
it really is and reports have been made to him that two-thirds of the
vessels of his fleet have been lost.  All this he will pledge for
anything that it will bring when he learns that his money is gone.  It
is for us to get possession of that pledge.  I have a few talents, but
not enough.  I will take care that the loan is never repaid and our
success is certain.  What do you say?"

Ariston looked at the statue of Hermes.  It was a fancy of his that he
could draw either a favorable or an adverse augury from the expression
on the face of the God as it showed in the wavering light of the lamp.
He could detect no change in the mocking smile that seemed to hover
about the marble lips.  It left him with no conclusion.

"What you have told me," he said to Mena, "makes it necessary for me to
tell you something in return.  I am a ruined man."

"Ruined!  You!" Mena exclaimed incredulously.

"It is true," Ariston replied.  "Of all that I had, nothing remains to
me intact except the dye-house in Tyre and a small fleet of corn ships
that has but now arrived from the Euxine.  The worst is that I have
debts that must be met if I am to save other ventures."

"But you have the property of your nephew to draw upon," Mena suggested.

"I had it," the old man said, "but it was turned over to him more than
a year ago.  Since then all my losses have befallen."

"But you are his heir," the Egyptian replied meaningly.  "Is he
married?"

"No; but he soon will be," Ariston replied.

The two men exchanged glances, reading each other's thoughts in their
eyes.  Neither cared to put into words what was in his mind.

"Leave it to me," Ariston said at last.  "I think it can be managed.
Clearchus knows nothing of my affairs, and if I can once more get
control of the property all will be well.  I think we may safely assume
that he will not marry.  For the rest, we must wait and see.  Let us
talk of this pledge that Phradates is to make for our security."

He produced his tablets and a stylus and the conspirators were soon
buried in a mass of calculations.  When Mena took his leave, every
detail had been arranged.

Hardly had Mena disappeared in the direction of the Agora when a man of
unusual stature, with brawny arms and a heavy black beard, turned into
the street in which Ariston lived and stood staring doubtfully about
him.  There was a hint of the sea in his sunburned face and rough
garments.

"If you are looking for the Piræus, my friend, you will not find it
here," said a fruit dealer who chanced to meet him.

"What do you know of the Piræus, grasshopper?" returned the stranger,
halting and looking at the merchant with contempt.  "I am searching for
the house of Ariston, son of Xenas.  Do you know where in this accursed
street it is?"

"Tut, tut; fair words, my friend," the merchant replied, carefully
keeping his distance.  "What do you want with Ariston?"

"That is his affair and mine, but not yours," growled the stranger.

"I'll warrant it is nothing good," the fruit dealer said, "but you will
find his house at the end of the street, near the wall."

Without stopping to thank him, the stranger strode on in the direction
that he had indicated.  The merchant stood for a moment gazing after
him, wondering whence he came and what he wanted; but finding no answer
to these questions in his own mind, he shook his head like a man who is
assured of the existence of something that should not be and continued
on his way to his shop in the Agora to relate his suspicions.

Ariston himself came to the door in response to the stranger's knock.
He was admitted at once and without a word.  Ariston led him in silence
to his own room and seated him in the chair that Mena had occupied half
an hour before.  Instead of summoning a slave, the old man went himself
to fetch a flask of wine and a trencher of bread and cheese.

"Can it be done?" he asked in an eager voice, leaning forward in his
favorite attitude with his elbows on the table while the other ate and
drank.

"It can be done, but it will not be easy," his guest replied.

"Not easy to carry off a woman who has only slaves to guard her?"
Ariston exclaimed.  "Are your men cowards, then, Syphax?"

"No, my men and I are not cowards, old Skinflint," Syphax said, "but
you may as well understand now that we do not intend to risk our lives
for nothing."

He delivered this speech with the blustering air of a bully, gazing
boldly into the old man's face.  Ariston, naturally of small stature,
looked more than ever shrunken and withered in contrast with his
companion; but at the sound of the other's threatening tone, his face
hardened and there came a cold gleam into his eyes.

"I am glad you are not afraid, Syphax," he said in a voice so soft that
it sounded almost caressing.  "Have you forgotten Medon?  Your eyes saw
his death.  He was a brave man, too, your old chief.  I think I can
hear him yet as he called upon the Gods in his torture.  They could not
help him.  Poor Medon!"

The face of Syphax paled under its tan at the recollection that Ariston
had conjured up and an involuntary shudder ran through him.  His bold
eyes wavered before the persistent stare of the little old man, whom he
could have crushed in one of his hands.

"What are you willing to pay?" he asked hoarsely, pushing away his food
half finished.

"You would do it for nothing, if I asked you, Syphax," the old man
replied, still in the same soft voice, "but I have no wish to be hard
with you.  This is a matter in which I have a deep interest and I am
willing to pay well for it.  When you have taken her safely on board,
you will sail to Halicarnassus, where you will search out Iphicrates,
son of Conon, and give him this letter.  If he finds you have done your
work well, he will pay you a talent in silver.  But if the girl has
been harmed in any way, not a drachma will you get and worse will
befall you than befell Medon."

"The work is worth five times as much," Syphax grumbled with downcast
eyes, "but I suppose I have no choice."

"None, my dear Syphax, and I am a poor man," said Ariston.  "Let us
regard the matter as settled.  Now, how do you intend to proceed?"

Syphax roused himself like a man whose professional skill has been
called upon.

"The house stands thus," he said, indicating its position on the table
with a huge finger.  "On this side is the grove where I and a dozen of
my men will lie hidden with the litter.  One of my fellows will scale
the roof and let himself down inside.  He will open the door to us and
the thing will be over in a moment."

"Where will you embark?" the old man asked, nodding approval.

"My ship will be lying off-shore with a boat in waiting.  We will carry
her in the litter to this spot, about two stadia beyond the Piræus,
which we shall have to pass.  We shall make the attack soon after the
middle watch of the night when the moon will be low."

"You should have been a general, Syphax," the old man said.  "You have
a better head for strategy than most of those the Athenians employ.  Go
to your work and forget nothing.  I must attend the Assembly, where
Demosthenes is to stir up the citizens against Alexander, son of
Philip.  They say the boy is dead."

"Alexander dead!" Syphax exclaimed.

"The story is that he was killed by the Illyrians, and Demosthenes has
a man who saw him die," Ariston replied indifferently.  "I think the
man is lying and that Demosthenes knows it.  But these affairs have
nothing to do with you.  Be off to your business."

When the adventurer had gone, Ariston returned to his room and prepared
to write.  From his expression of content, it was evident that he was
satisfied with what had been done.

"To Iphicrates, son of Conon," his letter ran.  "I am sending to you
Syphax, a freebooter from Rhodes, who will deliver to you a young
woman.  You will take her into your house and guard her with care until
you hear from me again.  Syphax will present to you an order for a
talent of silver.  Defer the payment until you have the girl, and then
do with him as you will.  As a pirate and a robber, he has richly
merited death.  May the Gods protect you."

As Ariston was carefully sealing this letter, a gaunt, sour-visaged
woman entered the room.  She was his wife and the one person on earth
in whom he had confidence.  Like most secretive men with whom duplicity
is a daily study, he sometimes felt the need of telling the truth, if
only to note the effect of his schemes upon another's mind.  But even
to his wife, whose covetousness was equal to his own, he never revealed
all that was in his brain.  Her lonely life was spent in a constant
endeavor to piece out from what he imparted to her the full extent of
his plans.  She admired his intellect, but deep in her heart she feared
him, and, womanlike, she was tormented by the suspicion that somewhere
she had a rival to whom he told what he concealed from her.  The
consciousness of her own deficiency of charms made her manner all the
more harsh and forbidding.  As soon as she entered the room she noted
that he was in an easy mood, and she made haste to take advantage of it.

"Who were these men?" she asked.  "What are you about now?"

"Affairs of state, Xanthe, that are not for women to know," he said
mockingly.

"All that concerns you concerns me," she replied.  "Am I to do the work
of a slave here like a mole in the dark?  Who are these women you were
talking of with that evil-looking man?"

"So you were listening!" Ariston said with a frown.

"Yes, I was, if you must know it," Xanthe said defiantly.  "Do you
think I am to know nothing?  If you had consulted more freely with me
before, we would not now be the paupers that we are, and many times I
have told you this, but you will not listen to me because I am a woman."

There was something in this remonstrance that made an impression upon
Ariston's mind, smarting as he was over the loss of his fortune.  It
might have been better, after all, if he had told her more.

"We were talking of only one woman," he said, with an impulse of
frankness.  "She is Artemisia."

"Artemisia!" Xanthe exclaimed.  "Don't try to deceive me.  Why should
you wish Artemisia to be carried off?  Is not Clearchus to make her his
wife?"

"It is for that very reason," Ariston replied.  "I do not wish him to
do so."

"Why not?" Xanthe demanded in a tone of suspicion.

"Sit down and let us talk rationally," Ariston said.  "Suppose they
marry and have children.  His property would be lost to us forever."

"That is true," Xanthe assented.  "I had not thought of that, and we
need it so much more than he.  If he should die, would it belong to us?"

"It would," her husband answered, "and now you know why I wish to
prevent the marriage."

He rose, and she aided him to adjust the folds of his himation.

"I am going to the Assembly," he said.  "If we have war with Macedon,
the price of corn will advance.  Look to the house and let none enter
while I am away."

It was not until after he had gone that Xanthe began to wonder how she
and Ariston were to profit by preventing the marriage, since their
nephew would still be alive and in the possession of his property.  It
could not be that Ariston intended to have him slain.  She shuddered at
the thought, for she was fond of Clearchus, and he had always been kind
to her.  Besides, such a crime could not be committed without almost
certain detection.  Ariston must have formed some other scheme for
bringing about his object.  She reproached herself for not having
questioned him on this point while he was in a frame of mind to answer.
The opportunity might not occur again and she could only guess at what
was to come.  The half-confidence that he had given her left her more
watchful and suspicious than ever.

Syphax meantime had found his way back to the Agora and was about to
enter a wine-shop when he felt some one pluck him by the elbow.
Glancing back, his eyes met those of Mena.

"Ah, my fox," he exclaimed, "what brings you to Athens?"

"Necessity and my master," Mena replied.  "And you?"

Syphax shook his head and made as if to move away, but Mena was not to
be denied.  An hour later they were still together, sitting side by
side in a corner of the wine-shop, and it was fortunate for Ariston
that the Egyptian was his ally instead of his enemy, for all that
Syphax could tell, he knew.




CHAPTER IV

THE VOICE OF DEMOSTHENES

In the Theatre of Dionysus the citizens of Athens were gathering for
the purpose of deciding whether to break their treaty with Macedon and
by one stroke revenge upon Alexander the wrongs and humiliations that
his father had made them suffer.  Ariston walked through the spacious
Agora, surrounded by colonnades and embellished by the statues of
heroes and the Gods.  The shopkeepers and merchants were closing their
places of business and joining in the human tide that was setting all
in the same direction.

Everywhere Ariston heard repeated the assertion that Alexander was
dead.  The news was announced in tones of joy, and invariably it was
accompanied by an expression of desire for war while the enemy was
still unprepared.  There seemed to be only one opinion among the
people.  It was manifested in the clamor of gay and careless confusion
that betrayed the nervous tension of the throng.

Ariston's face became more thoughtful as he proceeded.  He had no doubt
of what the Assembly would do if unchecked, and he foresaw the downfall
of his plans.  A declaration of war with Macedon would be fatal.
Whatever the issue of such a conflict might be, it would certainly
delay Alexander's invasion of Persia and keep Clearchus at home.  He
must be rid of Clearchus at all hazards, and without violence.

Moreover, he knew that the report of Alexander's death was false.  It
was impossible that any person in Athens should have been able to
obtain information later than that which had been brought to him.  He
felt assured that the young king was fighting his way out of Illyria,
with every prospect of escape, and that the report of his death had
been started by Demosthenes as a stratagem to dispose the minds of the
people to war.  By preventing the success of this plan, he reflected,
he would not only be serving his own ends, but also performing a public
service.  Such a coincidence had happened rarely enough in his career.

But he knew it would be useless to attempt any contradiction of the
report at that moment.  He was too thoroughly acquainted with the
characteristics of his countrymen to think of it.  They wished to
believe and they would not allow that wish to be thwarted.  He must
watch and wait.

Pushing through the chattering crowd, he entered the Theatre.  Before
him, in a great semicircle, hewn partly out of the solid rock of the
southeastern pitch of the Acropolis, he saw row on row and tier above
tier of his fellow-citizens,--the brilliant, unstable, cowardly,
heroic, passionate, generous, cruel democracy of Athens.  Above them
towered the crag which they had crowned with triumphs of art and
architecture beyond the power of the world to equal, guarded by the
wonderful Athene, whose creator they had sent to die in prison.  On the
left the great temple of Olympian Zeus raised its massive fluted
columns.  In the Theatre where they sat their fathers had hissed or
applauded the masterpieces of tragedy and comedy.  The babel of talk
and of light-hearted laughter, the shifting of many-hued garments under
the intense blue arch of the sky, reminded Ariston of the fickle sunlit
waves of the Ægean.

The cloud that for years had overshadowed Athens had been removed.
Philip, the tenacious, subtle, resourceful monarch of barbarous
Macedon, had fallen under the dagger of Pausanias, who had doubtless
been inspired by the Gods to punish him for his crimes against the
Athenians.  Little by little, with a purpose that never swerved, he had
made himself master of their fairest possessions.  Time and again they
had sought to shake him off with brief outbursts of restless fury; but
he held what he had won, and in the lull that followed the storm he had
never failed to creep nearer to their citadel.  His advance seemed to
them as inevitable as fate.

Now he was gone, resigning his power and his ambitions to his son,
Alexander, a boy of twenty years, whom all Athens knew as a foolish and
rash youth.  After laying claim to the honors that his father had
forced the states of Hellas to bestow upon him, he had marched into the
unknown wilderness of the north with his army and there had perished.
His fate had been told only in rumors at first, but had not Demosthenes
talked with a fugitive from the Macedonian camp, who had seen him fall
beneath a stone?  Every Athenian felt that the time had come to place
the name of his city once more at the head of the civilized world.
Already the Thebans, aided by their subsidies, had risen against the
barbarian garrison and had shut the Macedonians in the Cadmea.  The
reverses of the past had been forgotten and the lively imaginations of
the Athenians had carried them halfway to the goal of their hopes.

Ariston gazed about him at the shifting throng as though in search of
some one.  The priests of Ceres, Athene, and Zeus stood talking in
groups with the officials of the city, or had already taken their
places in the cushioned marble arm-chairs, with curved backs, that
formed the first row of seats.  Presently the old man caught sight of
Clearchus, and his friends, Chares and Leonidas.  With them sat a young
man of singular appearance whom Ariston did not recognize.  He wore a
splendid mantle of purple, embroidered with gold, a profusion of rings
flashed upon his fingers, and the odor of costly perfumes hung about
him like a cloud.  It seemed as though he sought in his costume to make
up for the deficiencies of nature, for in figure he was short and
stout, with legs and arms of disproportionate slenderness, and his
narrow eyes were set beneath a square forehead from the top of which
the hair had been shaved.

"Greeting, uncle," Clearchus said cordially, as the old man forced his
way toward them.

Ariston sat down on the broad marble step in the space that Clearchus
made for him.  He found himself between his nephew and the stranger.

"This is Aristotle of Stagira, but more recently of Pella," Clearchus
said.  "He can talk to you by the hour, if he chooses, about Alexander,
whom you so much admire."

"Is he really dead, as they say he is?" Ariston asked doubtfully.

"I do not know," lisped Aristotle.  "It is his habit always to expose
himself in battle."

"Can he make himself master of Hellas?" Ariston asked again.

"Only the Gods can answer that," Aristotle replied.  "It is safe to say
that what human ambition can accomplish, he will do.  He was my pupil,
and there are those who maintain that he knows more than his master!"

Although the philosopher spoke with a smile, there was a trace of irony
in his tone that did not escape the alert Athenian.

"You hear that?" he cried, turning to Clearchus.  "Here is a boy who
begins by conquering his instructor.  Where will he end?"

"They say he has ended already, up there among the savages," Chares
said lazily.

"I'll lay you a box of Assyrian ointment that Alexander is still
alive," Aristotle said.

"It's a wager," the Theban cried.  "And the box shall be of gold."

"There goes Callicles.  Hi, there, old Twenty Per Cent!" cried a youth
who was sitting in front of them.

"By the Styx, I wish I had what I owe him!" Chares remarked fervently.

A young man with oiled and curled ringlets, wearing a long silken robe,
and carrying a cane inlaid with mother-of-pearl, pushed toward them,
followed by a slave laden with cushions for him to sit upon.

"Do you know what Phocus has done now?" he asked in an affected voice.

"No," said Chares, coldly.

"He happened to go to the Lyceum the other day, and he overheard
Theodorus, the atheist, say that if it was praiseworthy to ransom a
friend from the enemy, it would also be commendable to rescue a
sweetheart from bondage.  What does he do but buy Tryphonia her freedom
from old Mnemon.  He vows that he will marry her."

Having imparted this bit of gossip, the youth lounged away to repeat it.

"Who is that young man with the red chiton?" Leonidas asked.

"He is Ctesippus, son of Chabrias," Clearchus replied.  "He has spent
twenty thousand talents of gold since his father died--he and Phocus
together.  He thinks he knows more about war than his father knew.  He
drives poor Phocion almost distracted with his advice whenever there is
a campaign; and Phocion endures it because he is his father's son."

Throughout the Theatre rose the hum of gossip and malicious small talk.
Chares listened with indolent contempt.  Leonidas studied the faces of
the men who had won distinction in war, such as Diopethes, Menestheus,
and Leosthenes, whom Clearchus pointed out to him.  Aristotle continued
to lisp to Ariston concerning Macedon.  The attention of the crowd was
diverted by the arrival of the Lexiarchs with their scarlet cords.
Stretching them across the narrow streets, they had been driving the
stragglers into the Assembly like sheep.  The laggard whose garments
showed a trace of the dye with which the cords were covered was forced
to pay a fine.

"Look; there's Phaon with the red stripe on his back!" Chares cried,
standing up to get a better view.

A roar of laughter greeted the victim as he entered and his name was
repeated from all sides.

"Were you asleep, Phaon?  Did your wife keep you at home?  You should
drink less wine in the morning!" shouted his acquaintances.

Another unfortunate came to divert attention from Phaon, and still
others, until all the citizens were accounted for.  The tumult was
succeeded by a hush as the white-robed priests solemnly advanced into
the open space in the middle of the semicircle, carrying a bleating
lamb.  After an invocation to Athene, they cut the animal's throat
before the altar and sprinkled its blood in every direction upon the
pavement.  The oldest of the priests then stood forth, raised his
hands, and looking upward, cried the accustomed formula:--

"May the Gods pursue to destruction, with all his race, that man who
shall act, speak, or plot anything against this State!"

The priests then slowly withdrew, and a herald mounted the bema to
announce, on behalf of the Proedri, the occasion of the Assembly.  He
declared the question to be whether the treaty with Macedon should be
maintained or set aside, and he added that the Senate of the Areopagus
had referred the matter to the decision of the people without
expressing its opinion.

He was followed by a second herald, representing the Epistate, who,
with a loud voice, called upon any citizen above the age of fifty years
to speak his mind, others to follow in accordance with their ages.  As
he ceased and descended, all eyes were turned toward a portion of the
Theatre where sat a gray-haired man, with shoulders slightly stooped, a
sloping forehead, and a retreating chin, partly hidden by a
close-cropped beard.

"Demosthenes!  Demosthenes!" came from every part of the horseshoe.

The man to whom Athens turned in this crisis of her affairs sat unmoved
and apparently oblivious to the demand of the crowd.  Accustomed as
they were to the oratorical combats of the Theatre, the citizens
understood that Demosthenes had determined to reserve to himself the
advantage of speaking last.  They turned, therefore, to his chief
opponent and called upon Æschines.

With an affectation of carelessness, Æschines ascended the bema and
plunged at once into his argument, like a man who speaks what first
occurs to his mind.  The burden of his contention was that Athens was
bound by her oath to observe her treaty with Macedon.  To break it, he
declared, would be to sink to the depth of dishonor and to make the
name of the city a byword throughout the world.  As he elaborated point
after point in his reasoning, all tending to confirm and enforce his
conclusions, it was plain that he was making an impression in spite of
the fact that all who heard him knew that he had been in Philip's pay.
He painted in dark colors the cost and danger of the war that would
follow the violation of the treaty and closed with a florid appeal for
constancy and forbearance, which he called the first of virtues.

He was succeeded by the dandy, Demades, whose robes of embroidered
linen trailed upon the ground, but who sustained the argument against
war with sledge-hammer blows of rhetoric.  Glaucippus, Eubulus,
Aristophon, and other orators, less famous, sat nodding their heads
among their pupils and admirers, who clustered about them criticising
or commending each period that fell from the lips of the speakers.

Watching the effect of the speeches, the partisans of Demosthenes,
fearful that it might be disastrous to permit his opponents to hold the
attention of the people any longer, renewed their shouts for him.  The
Assembly joined them.  It had heard enough of the peace party, and it
was eager to know how Demosthenes would answer.

There had been hardly any cessation of the talk and laughter.  Many
persons even moved about through the audience, chatting with their
friends, and the Scythians, whose duty it was to maintain order, did
not venture to interfere with them.  Everywhere there was talk of the
advantages of peace.  The fever for war had cooled before the logic of
oratory.  Ariston, keenly attentive to all that was passing, was among
those who left his place and wandered about the amphitheatre, pausing
here and there to exchange a few words with an acquaintance.  Behind
him, like a ripple on the surface of a lake, there spread through the
crowd the news that the story of Alexander's death was a falsehood
contrived by the friends of Macedon to entrap the republic into war.

Before the old man had returned to his seat, the contradiction had
reached Demosthenes, elaborated into every semblance of truth.  He saw
that it was believed and that he had been robbed of the main theme of
his speech; for he could not prove that Alexander was dead.  In
response to the cries of the multitude, he rose, and there was no
pretence in the reluctance with which he walked with head bent toward
the benia, considering what he should say.  As he ascended, the
shouting died away, and for the first time there was absolute stillness
in the Theatre.

"Athenians!" he began, in a voice of moderate pitch, but of a resonant
tone that carried it to all parts of the circle, "by all means we
should agree with those who so strenuously advise an exact adherence to
our oaths and treaties--if they really believe what they say.  For
nothing is more in accord with the character of democracy than the
maintenance of justice and honesty.  But let not the men who urge us to
be honest, embarrass us and our deliberations by harangues which their
own actions contradict."

Ariston glanced about him with alarm, which was intensified as the
orator, with consummate skill, built up the argument that, having bound
himself by the treaty to maintain the liberties of Greece, Alexander
had violated his oath by reinstating the tyrants of Messene and by
disregarding other specific clauses.  Artfully exaggerating the
Macedonian aggressiveness, recalling by flattering allusions the great
days of Athens, raising the hope of victory if war should be declared,
Demosthenes presented the situation to the Assembly in such a light as
to make it seem that Athens not only had a right to take up arms
against Macedon, but that it was her plain duty to begin the attack.
This impression grew out of his words without apparent effort to convey
it.  There was nothing in his speech to indicate that he was a special
pleader presenting only one side of the case.  He seemed the
personification of candor and fairness.  As his voice and gestures
became more animated, and the flood of his marvellous eloquence swept
over them, it appeared to his fellow-citizens that the men who had
given expression to the desire for peace must be charlatans or worse,
who had been bribed by Macedonian gold, as in fact many of them had
been, to betray them into the hands of the enemy.  In words that none
but he knew how to choose, he raised the spectre that had been laid by
the death of Philip and made it more threatening than it had ever been
before.

Under the magic spell of his voice old thoughts and feelings stirred
and woke in the hearts of the Athenians.  For an hour they became once
more the men of Platæa and Salamis and of the hundred bloody fields
upon which they had measured their strength with that of their ancient
foes from the Peloponnesus.  Their former greatness of soul flamed up
like a flash from a dying fire.

While Demosthenes spoke, not a word was uttered in the group around
Clearchus.  The young man sat with flushed cheeks and shining eyes,
tingling with a desire to sacrifice life itself, if need there were, to
revenge the wrongs of Athens and crush the insolent Macedonian.
Leonidas listened with hands clenched and with every nerve at tension,
like a hound of pure race straining at his leash toward the quarry.
Aristotle was gravely attentive, and even Chares, though he could not
be aroused from his lazy pose, followed the oration with evident
enjoyment.

When Demosthenes ended and came down from the bema, the Assembly drew a
long breath, and instantly each man fell to discussing with his
neighbor what was best to be decided.  Suddenly they realized with
astonishment that Demosthenes had failed to propose any decree and that
they had nothing before them upon which they might vote.

"I thought he was going to tell us how Alexander died!" Demades sneered.

"What has become of his witness of whom we have heard so much?" a
leather-dealer asked.

"He is afraid to propose war!  He has offered no decree!" another
citizen cried.

These questions and a hundred others were discussed on every side with
a violence that swept away all semblance of dignity or restraint.  The
factions quarrelled like children, and more than once came to blows in
their eagerness, making it necessary for the Scythians of the public
guard to separate them.  At last the herald of the Epistate demanded in
due form whether the Assembly desired any decree to be proposed.  Far
less than the required number of six thousand hands were raised in the
affirmative, and the gathering was dissolved, eddying out of the
enclosure in turbulent disorder.

"Is that all?" asked Chares, rising and stretching himself with a yawn.

"That is all," Clearchus replied sadly.

"With a phalanx of ten thousand brave men I could take your Acropolis,"
Leonidas remarked, measuring the height above his head.

"Yes, but where could you find them?" Aristotle said.

"Who knows?  Perhaps in the camp of Alexander," the Spartan replied.

Ariston had slipped away into the crowd.




CHAPTER V

THE BANQUET

On their way from the Theatre, Clearchus informed his friends of his
decision to be married on the morrow.

"Then we must feast to-night!" Chares cried promptly.

"Very well," Clearchus said, "but you will have to make the
arrangements for me, as I have other things to do."

"Aristotle will take charge of the food and wine," said the Theban,
eagerly, "if he is willing to assume such a responsibility; and I will
provide the entertainment and send out the invitations.  What do you
say?"

"Good," Clearchus replied; "that is, if Aristotle agrees."

"I am willing," said the Stagirite.

"It is settled, then," Chares declared.  "Come, Leonidas, I shall need
your help.  Let us get to work."

It was hardly sunset when the guests who had been bidden by Chares
began to assemble at the house of Clearchus.  A crimson awning had been
drawn over the peristylium and the soft light of scores of lamps shone
upward against it.  Shrubs and flowering plants partly hid the marble
columns.  Medean carpets had been spread upon the floor.  The tables,
each with its soft couch, had been arranged in two parallel lines,
joined at one end by those set for the host and the most honored of the
guests.  At the farther end of the space thus enclosed a fountain flung
up a stream that sparkled with variegated colors.

All had been prepared under the direction of Aristotle in such a manner
as to gratify the senses without jarring upon the most sensitive taste.
The masses of color and the contrasts of light and shade were grouped
with subtle skill to create a pleasing impression.  Slaves walked
noiselessly across the hall, appearing and vanishing in the wall of
foliage, bearing dishes of gold and of silver and flagons filled with
rare wines.  Softly, as from a distance, sounded the music of flutes
and citharse.

Clearchus and his guests, crowned with wreaths of myrtle, reclined upon
the couches.  Their talk ran chiefly upon the events of the day and the
contest of oratory in the Assembly.

"You Athenians ought to pass a law banishing all your speakers," Chares
drawled.  "Then there might be some chance that you would adopt a
policy and stick to it.  As it is, the infernal skill of these men
makes you believe first one thing and then another, until you end by
not knowing what to think."

"You mean we have plenty of counsellors but no counsel," Clearchus
replied.

"That's it, exactly," Chares said.  "And that man, Demosthenes, will
bring you to grief yet, some day."

"All your states have had their turn of power," Aristotle said, "and
none has been able to keep it.  There is another day coming and it will
be the day of the Macedonian.  He dreams of making you all one."

"Let him keep away from my country with his dreams," Leonidas remarked.

"There spoke the lion!" laughed Clearchus.  "Stubborn to the last."

"Did you hear what old Phocion said when he came out of the Theatre?"
asked a young man with a shrill voice who sat on the right.

"No; what was it?" Clearchus inquired.

"Demosthenes wanted to know what he thought of his oration," the
narrator said.  "You know Demosthenes likes to hear himself praised and
he would almost give his right hand for a compliment from Phocion, the
'pruner of his periods,' as he calls him.  'It was only indifferent,'
the old fellow told him, 'but good enough to cost you your life.'  You
should have seen how pale Demosthenes grew; but Phocion put his hand on
his shoulder and said, 'Never mind; for this once, I think I can save
thee.'"

"They say Phocion is an honest man," Chares remarked.

"So he is," Aristotle replied.  "And one of few."

The young men who had assembled to honor the occasion listened eagerly
to every word that fell from the lips of the man whose keen deductions
and daring speculations had begun to open new pathways in every branch
of human wisdom.  The rivalry between the philosophers in Athens was
even more keen than that between the orators, and each had his school
of partisans and defenders.

"Honesty is truth," said Porphyry, a young follower of Xenocrates, who
had succeeded Plato in the Academy.  "But what is truth?  Have you
Peripatetics discovered it yet?"

"We are seeking, at least," Aristotle replied dryly, feeling that an
attempt was being made to entrap him.

"Democritus holds that truth does not exist," Porphyry ventured,
unabashed.

"Yes, and Protagoras maintains that we are the measure of all things
and that everything is true or false, as we will," the Stagirite
rejoined.  "They are unfortunate, for if there were no truth, there
would be no world.  As for the Sceptics, they have not the courage of
their doctrines; for which of them, being in Libya and conceiving
himself to be in Athens, would think of trying to walk into the Odeum?
And when they fall sick, do they not summon a physician instead of
trusting to some person who is ignorant of healing to cure them?  Those
who search for truth with their eyes and hands only shall never find
it, for there are truths which are none the less true because we cannot
see nor feel them, and these are the greatest of all."

"We might know the truth at last if we could find out what animates
nature," Clearchus said.  "Why do flowers grow and bloom?  Why do birds
fly and fishes swim?"

"The marble statues of the Parthenon would have remained blocks of
stone forever had not Phidias cut them out," Aristotle responded.  "It
was Empedocles who taught us that earth, air, fire, and water must form
the limits of our knowledge; but who believes him now?"

"Do you hold, then, with Anaxagoras of Clazomene, that all things are
directed by a divine mind?" Porphyry asked.

This question was followed by a sudden hush while Aristotle considered
his answer.  All present had heard whispers that the Stagirite in his
teaching was introducing new Gods and denying the power of the old
divinities.  This was the crime for which Socrates had been put to
death and Pericles himself had found it difficult to save Aspasia from
the same fate when a similar charge was preferred against her.
Aristotle felt his danger, for he knew that the jealous and powerful
priesthood would be glad to catch him tripping, as indeed it did in
later years.

"It was Hermotimus, I think, who first proposed that doctrine," he said
slowly, "and I have noticed that Anaxagoras employs it only when no
other explanation of what he sees is left him."

There was a murmur of applause at this reply, which suggested the
necessity for supposing the existence of an overruling intelligence
without committing the philosopher to such a belief.  The young
Academician seemed crestfallen, but by common consent the topic was
abandoned as too dangerous and the conversation became more general.

Clearchus could not wholly conceal the anxiety that filled his mind.
He started at every unexpected sound and turned his face toward the
entrance, where he had posted a slave with orders to bring him word
instantly should any message for him arrive.  His mood did not escape
his friends, who, without knowing the reason for it, urged wine upon
him in the hope of raising his spirits and for the same reason
themselves drank more freely than usual.

Chares had promised something new in the way of amusement, but he
refused to tell what it was to be.  Consequently there was a flutter of
expectation when the attendants removed the last course, washing the
hands of the guests for the seventh time, and leaving only wine and
sweetmeats before them.

First came a Scythian with a trained bear, which performed a series of
familiar tricks.  Aristotle watched the animal with the most minute
attention, directing notice to several of its characteristics and
explaining their meaning.  The music then struck into a louder and
livelier air and six young girls, in floating garments of brilliant
hue, performed a graceful dance of intricate figure.  There was no
novelty in this and Chares became the target for good-natured
reproaches, which he received smilingly.  The dancing girls gave place
to a swarthy Indian juggler, whose feats of magic delighted the
spectators and evoked cries of wonder and admiration.

As the juggler retired gravely, it was noticed that Aristotle, unused
to so much wine, had dropped quietly off to sleep.  By command of
Clearchus, two stalwart slaves carried him away to bed, while his
companions at the board drank his health.

"All this is very well, Chares," Porphyry complained, "but I thought
you were going to show us something new."

"Pour a libation to Aphrodite!" the Theban replied, sprinkling a few
drops from his goblet and draining what remained.

The others followed his example, nothing loath.

From behind a mass of blossoms came a young woman and stood before the
sparkling fountain with her chin slightly raised and a smile upon her
lips.  She wore a chiton of shimmering, transparent fabric from the
looms of Amorgos.  The coils of her tawny hair were held in place by
jewelled pins which were her only adornment.  There was a confident
expression of sensuous content on her face and a slight smile parted
her lips as she saw the involuntary admiration that she inspired.

Through the golden cobweb that covered without hiding it, her firm
flesh glowed warmly.  The curves of her shoulders and breast and the
rounded fulness of her lithe limbs were as perfect as a statue.  As
Clearchus gazed upon her with the delight in pure beauty which was so
strong in him, he was beset by an elusive sense of familiarity for
which he tried in vain to find some explanation.  He was certain that
he had never seen the girl before.  Had there been nothing else to
assure him of this, he knew that he never would have forgotten her
eyes.  Like the eyes of a predatory animal, they shot back the light in
reflected gleams of fleeting topaz.

Crouched at her side lay a leopard, his body pressed flat against the
rich carpet in which her white feet were buried.  He wore a golden
collar with a slender chain, the end of which she held between her
fingers.  The beast glanced restlessly from side to side in his strange
surroundings, twitching his tail with nervous uneasiness.

In the light that bathed her from head to foot, the young woman posed
for a moment to allow the spectators to feel the full effect of her
beauty.

"Thais!  Thais!" cried several of the guests, in accents of intense
astonishment.

"Is it really Thais?" Clearchus asked, turning to Chares.  "How did you
ever persuade her to come?"

The Theban smiled, but made no reply.  Thais had only recently begun to
attract attention, but her fame had already eclipsed that of other
popular favorites in Athens.  Sculptors and painters had declared her
the most beautiful woman in all Hellas.  Poets had made verses in her
honor, likening her to Hebe and Aphrodite.  Her house was thronged
daily with the youth of fashion.  She had become the latest sensation
in a city greedy for all that was new.

Little was known of her beyond the fact that she had been reared and
educated in all the accomplishments of her profession by old Eunomus,
one of the most skilful of all the Athenian dealers in flesh and blood.
Where he had found her he refused to tell.  Everybody had heard that
Alcmæon had purchased her freedom a short time before his death, paying
Eunomus half her weight in gold, and that he had made comfortable
provision for her when his last illness seized him and he knew that he
must die.  The only regret that he had expressed was that he must leave
her behind him.

Left in an independent position, Thais had shown herself capricious.
None of the young men who hung about her could boast of any successes.
A few had ruined themselves in their efforts to gain her favor, and one
had even drunk hemlock and crept to her door to die.  Clearchus,
although he had never before seen her, had heard enough of her to feel
astonished at her presence.  He could not understand how Chares had
been able to induce her to come, like a mere dancing girl, for their
amusement, unless he had offered her an enormous sum of money.  Knowing
the reckless character of his friend, the thought alarmed him.

"You have ruined yourself!" he whispered to the Theban.  "What did you
promise the woman?"

"Not an obol, on my honor, O youth of simple heart!" Chares replied,
laughing.

"Then how did you get her to come?" Clearchus asked.  "You do not know
her."

"I invited her," Chares replied; "and she accepted.  I suppose it was a
woman's whim.  I did not ask her."

Slaves ran forward with a number of sword blades set in blocks of wood
in such a manner as to enable them to stand upright.  These they
arranged symmetrically upon the carpet at equal distances from each
other, so as to form a lozenge pattern with its point toward Thais.
Dropping the end of the chain by which she held the leopard, as the
music changed to a rhythmic cadence, the young woman began to tread in
and out between the swords.  Her movements were so light and graceful
that she seemed hardly to touch the carpet, threading her way from side
to side to the quickening measure.  The leopard crept closer to the
line of steel and watched her with glowing eyes.  Faster and faster
grew the measure, and faster grew her motions, until she was whirling
among the blades, which flickered like blue flames as her shadow
intercepted the light.  A misstep would have sent her down to her death
upon one of the points which she seemed to regard no more than if they
had been so many flowers.  The company watched her with a suspense that
was breathless.  Suddenly the music ceased, and she stood before them
unharmed at the upper point of the lozenge.  There was a glow on her
cheeks and her bosom panted from her exertions.  The guests broke into
cries of admiration, casting their wreaths of myrtle at her feet; but
she had eyes only for Chares, who lay looking at her with a lazy smile.
She frowned and bit her lip.

"Did I not do it well?" she demanded.

"Excellently well," Chares replied.

"Is that all?" she asked in a tone of disappointment.

Before he could make any reply there came a frantic knocking at the
door outside the house.  Clearchus started forward with an exclamation
of alarm.  The man whom he had placed on guard ran in, terror stricken,
followed by Tolman, one of the slaves from Melissa's house in Academe.

"Oh, my master!" Tolman cried, throwing himself at the feet of
Clearchus.

"Artemisia!" the young man demanded.

"They have carried her off," Tolman said, "and Philox, the steward, is
slain!"

"Horses, Cleon!  Bring swords and armor!" Clearchus shouted.

"Who has done this?" Chares asked.

"I know not," Clearchus replied; "we were forewarned; but it would be
better for them had they never been born."

"Fetch me a jar of water," Chares cried, pushing aside the guests, who
had left their places and were crowding around Clearchus to learn the
news.  When a slave brought a jar of cold water, the Theban plunged his
head into it to clear his brain and shook off the drops from his yellow
hair.  "Now my armor!" he said.

Leonidas was already occupied in putting on the light accoutrement of a
horseman, and, although he said nothing, there was a look of expectant
joy on his harsh face.

Thais, who had drawn to one side, stood for a moment, and then seeing
that she had been forgotten, slipped away unnoticed.  Some of the
guests hastened to their homes to arm themselves and follow the three
friends, while others remained behind to discuss the event.  Clearchus
said a hasty farewell, and in a few moments from the arrival of the
slave the three young men, followed by Cleon, were racing down to the
city gate.

Into the open country they dashed, Clearchus leading the way, while the
others spurred madly in their effort to keep pace with him.  The sun
had not yet risen when they wheeled into the gateway and drew rein at
Melissa's villa.  The place seemed deserted, for the terrified servants
had closed and barred the doors, fearing a renewal of the attack.  It
was several minutes before they were able to gain an entrance.

The frightened women pressed around Clearchus, wailing and beating
their breasts and trying all at once to tell him the story of what had
happened.  The young man waved them aside and ran to the room where
Philox lay.  The faithful old steward had received a dagger thrust in
the breast and was unconscious.  Clearchus then sought Melissa; but in
the extremity of her fright she had locked herself in her apartments
and refused to open the door.

Finding that nothing was to be learned in that quarter, Clearchus
sternly commanded the women to be silent and answer his questions.
Trembling, they obeyed, and he managed to make them tell how the
marauders had scaled the walls of the house with a ladder and how
Philox had fallen while trying to prevent them from admitting their
confederates.  They had pillaged the house of everything that they
could carry.  Artemisia had fainted when they laid their hands upon her
to take her away, but they had placed her in a litter which they seemed
to have ready for the purpose.  As nearly as the women were able to
judge, they had gone southward, and as soon as they were out of sight,
Tolman had ridden to the city to give the alarm.

"They are making for the harbor," Leonidas cried.  "We shall catch them
yet!"

Clearchus felt two small cold hands clasp his own, and glancing down he
saw Proxena, one of Artemisia's little slave girls, with her
tear-stained face upturned to his.

"Please, master," she sobbed, "bring back our mistress, Artemisia!"

The young Athenian could not speak, but he lifted the child quickly and
kissed her.  In another moment they were off in the pursuit.




CHAPTER VI

SYPHAX EARNS HIS REWARD

Clearchus led the way through brake and thicket and across tilled
fields, bearing off slightly to the southwest so as to avoid the Long
Walls that joined the city to the Piræus, where he knew the robbers
would not dare to venture.  They crossed the winding Cephissus by the
Sacred Way, skirting the hills that overlook the harbor.  It seemed
hours to the young man before they emerged upon the brow of a slope
that fell away to the rocky beach.

Directly below them was a small inlet from which a boat filled with men
was putting out toward a weather-beaten galley that lay a short
distance offshore.

"There she is!" Chares cried, pointing to a blotch of white in the bow
of the boat.

"We are too late!" Clearchus groaned, as he measured with his eye the
widening gap between the boat and the shore.  Despair and helpless rage
surged up in his heart as they dashed recklessly down the slope.

"Come back!" he shouted desperately.  "Twenty talents of ransom!"

The distance was too great for his words to be distinguished, although
his voice evidently reached the boat.  Artemisia heard it and stretched
her arms toward him.  She struggled to rise, but the sailors held her
in her seat.  The steersman turned his bearded face toward the shore
and shouted out a rough command.  The boat continued on toward the
galley, whose sails were already spread for flight.

"They are not all gone!" Leonidas cried eagerly.  "See there!"

A second boat lay in the inlet with its nose in the sand, while its
crew hurriedly stowed away the litter.  As Clearchus looked, they
completed this task and prepared to push off.

The three young men leaped from their horses, but the boat was now
launched.  One of the mariners waded into the water, pushing at her
stern to give her headway, while the others got out their oars.

"You come too late, idlers!" the seamen cried mockingly as their
pursuers leaped down over the rocks to the narrow strip of sand that
fringed the inlet.  "You should rise earlier in the morning."

The man who had been pushing at the stern of the boat was up to his
waist in water.  "Pull me in, lads, she has way enough!" he said; but
as he gathered himself to spring, Leonidas plunged in after him and
clutched him by the ankle.  Paying no more attention to his struggles
than he would have given to those of some fish that he had taken, the
Spartan dragged the spluttering wretch back to the beach.  The crew of
the boat hesitated for a moment as though doubtful whether to attempt a
rescue, but Leonidas settled their doubts by thrusting his sword into
the man's throat.

A cry of rage and a volley of threats came from the boat as the sailors
witnessed the fate of their comrade.  In giving vent to their
indignation, they lost valuable seconds of time.  So narrow was the
inlet that the boat was still within easy javelin cast of the shore.
Clearchus ran along the beach abreast of it, promising a fabulous
reward to the men who should bring back the captive.

"Seek the girl in the slave markets," was all the reply that he could
get, "and see that you come not too late a second time!"

"I promise that you shall not be punished!" the Athenian cried in
despair.  "At least lend us your boat, or take us with you to the
galley."

"If you want our boat, come out and get it!" one of the sailors cried
in derision.

The words were still on his lips when a great stone fell into the water
close beside the prow, dashing the spray into the faces of the crew.
Clearchus looked up in astonishment and saw Chares standing on the
crest of the ledge of rock that rose behind the strip of sand.  The
Theban held another huge and jagged missile poised above his head.
With a mighty effort he hurled it at the boat.  Uttering cries of
terror the sailors attempted to sheer out of the way, but in their
confusion, their splashing oars neutralized each other.  The great
stone, which a man of ordinary strength could not have moved, turned
ponderously in the air and struck the gunwale amidships with a crash
that tore out the planks in splinters.  In an instant the boat filled
and went down, leaving the crew struggling among the floating fragments
of the litter.

Several of the men, who seemed unable to swim, disappeared beneath the
surface.  Others struck out for the beach, only to meet death on the
swords of Chares and Clearchus on one side, and of Leonidas, who had
run around to the opposite shore of the bay to intercept those who
sought to escape in that direction.

One man only, a fellow of powerful frame, seeing the fate that awaited
him on land, swam boldly for the open sea, preferring to take his
chance of being picked up there rather than face death upon the sand.

"Leave him to me!" Chares cried, stripping off his chiton.

Without hesitation, he plunged into the sea, holding his sword in his
left hand and swimming with his right.

"Take him alive!" Clearchus shouted.  "We may learn something from him!"

The chase was short, for although the Theban carried a weapon, the
sailor was encumbered by his garments.

"Wait, my friend, I have something to say to thee," Chares said,
pricking the man with his sword point.

Like a wild beast, the sailor turned in desperation as though to make a
struggle for his life.  He looked with bloodshot eyes into the Theban's
smiling face.

"You have only one chance of seeing to-morrow's sun," Chares said
coolly.  "Swim before me to the shore and make up your mind on the way
to tell all that you know of what has happened."

"Will you spare my life?" the man asked.

"That depends," Chares replied, "but I promise you that I will not
spare it unless you obey without question."

"There is no help for it," the man muttered, and he swam sullenly back
to the beach, where Leonidas quickly secured his arms behind him.

"There is still a chance of capturing the galley," the Spartan said to
Clearchus.  "Ride quickly to the Piræus and hire a vessel to put out
after her.  We will bring this fellow in."

Clearchus dashed away toward the harbor, but, as it happened, there was
no vessel that could take up the chase with any chance of success.  The
galley was running before a fresh southwest wind, and although still
visible, she was already distant.  Of the ships in port, some were
newly arrived and were heavily laden, while others were discharging
their cargoes.  Clearchus offered any price to the captain who should
overtake the fugitive and bring Artemisia back, but the offer was made
in vain.  The best that he could do was to charter six of the swiftest
ships that were available to take up the pursuit as soon as they could
be made ready.

While he was concluding these arrangements, Chares and Leonidas arrived
with the prisoner.  The man said that the galley had just returned from
a piratical cruise on the coast of Lucania and was under the command of
Syphax.  He had joined the crew at Locri, he said, and knew nothing
about the abduction excepting that they were all to be well paid for
it.  He was unable to tell what port the galley expected to make after
leaving Attica.

Although he was examined later under torture, the man could reveal no
more.  He was thrown into prison to be used as a witness against his
companions should they be caught.  The last of the vessels that
Clearchus sent on the chase was out of the harbor before nightfall, and
the young man, feeling that he had done all that he could do, rode back
to the city overwhelmed by his loss.  Chares and Leonidas sought in
vain to comfort him.  His self-reproach at having left Artemisia
unguarded after the warning of the dream was too poignant.  He shut
himself up to avoid the acquaintances who flocked about him to offer
their sympathy and to learn the details of his sorrow.  They questioned
the slaves when they found the doors closed against them and then ran
to tell what they had learned in the baths, the barber shops, and the
gaming houses, greedy of gossip.  Ariston, after making certain that
his part in the plot had not been discovered, came to visit his nephew
and was admitted.

"We have no defence against the will of the Gods when it falls heavily
upon us save one," he said.

"What is that?" Clearchus asked.

"Patience," the old man responded.

"Patience!" Clearchus exclaimed, striding back and forth with clenched
fists.  "Yes, I will have patience!  I will have patience to seek
Artemisia to the ends of the world until I have found her!  And I will
have patience until every man who is concerned in this attack upon us
has paid for it with his life.  I will be patient!"

Ariston blanched at this outburst, but immediately recovered himself.
"Alas!  What can you do alone?" he asked mournfully.

"He will not be alone, for Chares and I will be with him," Leonidas
said quietly.  "We have sworn it."

"I will not advise against it," Ariston said with a sigh.  "But it may
be that the galleys you have sent out will bring the robbers back.  You
must not forget that you have duties to the State.  The times are
troubled and your fortune is great."

"My own affairs must come first at present," Clearchus said bluntly.
"As for my fortune, of what use is it to me without Artemisia?  I must
ask you to take charge of it once more for me.  I shall give you full
power, and if I come not back I desire that it shall be devoted to the
public good as you may see fit."

"I am an old man," Ariston said, with mock hesitation, "but I cannot
refuse the trust under the circumstances if you require it of me.  Yet,
why dost thou leave Athens?"

"How can I remain here?" Clearchus exclaimed.  "My suffering is too
great.  But I knew you would not refuse me," he added in a calmer
voice, clasping his uncle by the hand.

"Doubtless they have carried her to some one of the Eastern cities,"
Ariston said reflectively.  "That is where this Syphax would most
naturally go, as it seems his hope is to get money.  I will write to
such friends as I have there to be on the watch."

Clearchus groaned.  "It will be too late, I fear, before thy letters
can reach them," he said.  "I know not what to do nor where to turn."

"Here is Aristotle; let us consult him," Chares said as the philosopher
entered.

Aristotle listened attentively while Clearchus and his friends related
all the circumstances of Artemisia's abduction.  He asked many
questions regarding the particulars of the dream of warning that had
preceded the attack.

"Some things we know and others we can guess," he said at last.  "Only
the Gods know all.  The world is wide.  I pity thee, Clearchus, my
friend, with all my heart, and I wish that I might aid thee.  It is
clear that the warning came from Artemis.  I advise thee to seek
counsel from Ph[oe]bus, her brother.  Thou art not an unworthy disciple
of his, for thy heart is pure and thy hands are clean.  Thou lovest the
poets and music.  Go to him with faith and perhaps he will aid thee."

Hope appeared upon the face of the young Athenian.  "I will go," he
said.  "The great God himself loved Daphne and lost her.  He may take
compassion on me.  Chares shall remain here and set all things in order
so that we may act quickly if a sign should be given.  Will you come
with me, Leonidas, to Delphi?"

"I will," said the Spartan, "and let us go at once; for I can see that
thy heart is sick."




CHAPTER VII

THE RESPONSE OF THE ORACLE

Clearchus and Leonidas rode out of Attica across the olive-bearing
plains, and up the rugged spurs and ridges which flank the mountain of
Cithæron, upon whose rocky slopes Antiope wailed as an infant, and the
rash Pentheus was torn to pieces by women to the end that the power of
Dionysius might be established.  They halted for a brief space at the
fortress of Phyle, the key that had opened to Thrasybulus his native
land and enabled him to give it freedom.  Leonidas admired the great
walls built of square blocks of stone laid one upon another without
mortar and fitted so exactly that the joints would scarcely be seen.

Teleon, captain of the guard which was stationed at this gateway, was a
friend of Clearchus.  He gave them bread and wine, while the young
Athenian told him of his misfortune.  After expressing his sympathy,
Teleon inquired eagerly for the news of Athens.

"Will the Assembly send troops to the aid of Ph[oe]nix and Prothytes,
who have raised the revolt in Thebes?" he asked.  "You know they now
hold the city, and my spies tell me that they are preparing for any
attack that may be made upon them."

Clearchus gave him an account of the indecisive meeting of the Assembly
on the preceding day.

"All Athens believes the boy king is dead," he said, referring to
Alexander.  "What is your opinion, Teleon?"

"That, too, is the belief in Thebes," the captain replied.  "I know
not; but if it proves to be so, Thebes is free."

"And if not?" Clearchus asked.

"If not, there will be fighting," Teleon predicted, "and may Zeus
inspire the Macedonian to attack us here!"

From the slope beyond Phyle the young man saw the B[oe]otian plain
spread out before them, and beyond, in the purple distance, the rocky
ramparts of Phocis.  There, glowing rose-colored in the evening light,
shone the snow-clad crest of Parnassus.  Clearchus' heart swelled as he
looked upon the goal in which his hope was centred.

"We must be there to-morrow," he said eagerly.

"The God will not run away!" Leonidas replied.

They plunged down the mountain slope into the shadows, which deepened
under the plane trees as they advanced, until the winding track was
almost hidden before them.  The moon rose as they emerged upon the
plain that had so often drunk the life-blood of Hellas.  At Thespiæ
their horses could go no further, and they halted for the night.

Although the road from Thebes was better, they had purposely avoided
the city, fearing that the disturbances there might delay them.  They
found Thespiæ full of rumors of the Theban uprising.  Some said that
the Macedonians in the Cadmea had been put to the sword; others that
the peace party had gained the upper hand and was awaiting the arrival
of Alexander.  Leonidas, who listened eagerly to all that was said, was
surprised to find that the report of the young king's death was
discredited in the town.  There were even men who insisted that he was
on his way through Thessaly at the head of his army, ready to strike.

The Spartan sighed and looked wistfully over his shoulder in the
direction of Thebes as they took horse at sunrise.  At evening,
begrimed with dust, they toiled up the last ascent that led to Delphi,
the terraced city among the sacred cliffs--the Navel of the World.

As Clearchus gazed upward at the twin columns of the Phædriades rising
side by side a thousand feet above the temple in the cool gray
twilight, the fever of anxiety in his blood left him and his pulses
beat more slowly.  The strong masonry of the outer wall, which enclosed
and seemed to hold from slipping down the mountain side the buildings
clustered about the lofty terrace, on which the temple stood close
under the towering cliffs, shut in the shrine that for centuries all
Hellas had looked upon as hallowed.  Awe came upon him in the presence
of the great Mystery.  There were scoffers in Athens who laughed at all
religion.  There were philosophers in the world who taught that the
existence of the Gods was a foolish dream.  Why had Ph[oe]bus permitted
the Phocians to seize his treasure and to profane his altar, they
asked, if he really existed?

Clearchus put the same question to himself as he looked down upon the
Cirrhæan fields that had been consecrated to the God and condemned to
lie waste forever in his honor.  The Phocians had desecrated them by
cultivation.  When condemned by the Amphictyons at the instance of
their enemies, the Thebans, they had seized the shrine and the
treasure-houses.  Though they had prospered for a time, in the end
Philomelus and Onomarchus had been slain and the Phocians broken and
scattered.  The sacrilege had been punished, but Philip had been
brought into Hellas as the champion of the God and the chief instrument
of his wrath.  Thebes had been placed beneath his feet.

What was to be the end?  Was the fate of the city that had driven the
Phocians to their crime to be worse than that of their victims?
Clearchus, as he thought of these things, was chilled with an
indefinable dread of the Invisible Presence whose home was among the
silent and Titanic crags that made the utmost triumphs of human art and
skill laid at their feet seem as transitory as the work of children
fashioned in sand.  He felt that here the mighty purpose of the Unseen
was being worked out, deliberate and irresistible, before which the
races of men were as nothing.

They did not enter the city that night, but turned aside to the house
of Eresthenes, who had been a guest-friend of Clearchus' father.  The
old man was overjoyed to see them.  After the evening meal he sought
the priests of the temple and brought back word that the oracle might
be consulted next day if the sacrifice proved propitious.

Clearchus slept soundly.  In the morning he purified himself, according
to the rule, in the clear, cold waters of the Castalian Font hung about
with votive offerings in marble and bronze placed there by grateful
pilgrims to the shrine.  Eresthenes gave him fresh garments, with the
garland of olive and the fillet of wool which suppliants were required
to put on.

Guided by the old man, the two friends ascended the wide marble
staircase that led to the great stone platform at the southeast corner
of the lower terrace, where ceremonial processions were accustomed to
form before entering the sacred enclosure.  Passing through the gate,
they advanced between treasure-houses upon which the most famous
sculptors of the world had lavished their skill.  Among these and the
dwellings of the priests and the chief men of the place were set scores
of columns and statues, the offerings of centuries from kings and
princes.  Across the lower terrace the way led them to the next higher,
with a sharp turn to the right at the great stone sphinx which guarded
the passage through the second wall.  They continued up the slope to
the final platform, on which the temple stood resplendent with color.

Entering between the great columns, Eresthenes and Leonidas left
Clearchus to the care of the priests--grave men of advanced age who
were under the direction of Agias.  They led the Athenian to the
apartment of the chief priest, a venerable minister whose age had
passed one hundred years.  He sat in his marble arm-chair, propped by
cushions.  His white beard flowed over his breast, and his thin hands
lay crossed in his lap.  He raised his dim eyes and fixed them upon the
face of his visitor.

"What wilt thou, Thrasybulus, who comest back to me from beyond the
tomb?" he asked in a quavering voice.

The attendant priests glanced at each other in surprise, but none of
them dared to reply.

"Speak, Thrasybulus; I am an old man," the chief priest said.

"Thrasybulus has been dead these fifty years, Father," Agias said.
"This is Clearchus, an Athenian, who comes as a suppliant to the
oracle."

"He is like Thrasybulus!" the old man muttered, bowing his head.  "It
seems but yesterday that he stood before me."  He paused for a moment
and then continued with an effort: "Art thou pure of heart?  Art thou
free from the sins of the flesh?"

"I am," Clearchus replied firmly.

"Then pass into the presence of the God who knoweth all and who doth
not forget!" said the patriarch, closing his eyes wearily.

Clearchus bowed and was about to turn away, when the old man roused
himself once more.

"Come hither, boy, and let me look at thee!" he said.  "My sight is
growing dim."

Clearchus knelt at his feet, and the aged priest placed his hand on his
head, stroking his hair and peering into his face.

"So like Thrasybulus!  It was only yesterday!" he said to himself.
"The storm comes and the world is changing.  Thou shalt see thrones
made empty and nations perish; but the God will remain until a greater
cometh.  Clearchus art thou called?  It may be so; but to me thou art
Thrasybulus.  Go thy ways.  The God will be kind to thee."

Although the other priests were evidently struck by this unusual scene,
they made no comment, but led Clearchus into the dim interior of the
temple.  On every hand, between the columns and against the walls,
gleamed statues and vessels of precious metals, exquisite in design and
workmanship, that the Phocians had not dared to remove from the house
itself of the God.  Before them stood a group of young women in snowy
robes with fillets in their hair.  They were chanting a hymn of slow
and solemn measure.

They ceased their chant as the priests entered with Clearchus, and two
of them advanced, leading between them one of the three priestesses of
the temple.  The Pythia was a woman of middle age, slender of figure,
with large gray eyes that seemed to look at Clearchus without seeing
him.  Her thin cheeks still retained the fresh color of youth, and her
lips, of a deep red, moved gently as though she were whispering to
herself.

Looking about him with eyes grown accustomed to the semidarkness,
Clearchus saw a slightly raised platform of white marble toward the
rear of the temple.  Three shallow steps led to a broad slab, in the
middle of which was a cleft.  Through this orifice curled a pale,
fleeting vapor, which rose like transparent smoke for the height of a
man above the platform before it vanished.  It came from the stone in
puffs and spirals which swayed, now this way, now that, with a
peculiarly irregular and capricious impulse like the balancing of a
coiled serpent.

Over the cleft was set a low tripod, the legs of which were formed of
intertwined snakes wrought in gold so cunningly that every scale seemed
reproduced in the bright metal.  The jewelled eyes of the reptiles
twinkled through the vapor which alternately hid and revealed them.

Slowly and solemnly the priestesses led the Pythia to the foot of the
platform, where they gave her hands to two of the most venerable of the
priests, whose office it was to conduct her to the tripod.  Her lips
formed themselves into a smile as she mounted the steps and the women
resumed their chanting.

As she took her place upon the tripod and the priests descended,
leaving her alone, a sudden thunderstorm burst above the towering crags
which overhung the shrine.  The wind roared down between the Phædriades
with mighty strength, and a crash of thunder, leaping and reverberating
from rock to cliff, shook the temple to its foundations.

"Zeus is speaking to the son of Latona!" murmured Agias, and all bowed
their heads in reverence.

Filled as he was with awe, Clearchus felt reassured by the calm
demeanor of the priests.  He fixed his eyes on the Pythia, who remained
seated on the tripod with her hands loosely folded in her lap,
oblivious alike to the storm and to her surroundings.  The chill vapor
seemed to grow more dense.  At times it hid her entirely, wrapping her
in its cold embrace.  The color deepened in her cheeks and the smile
left her parted lips.  With dilated pupils she gazed over the heads of
the little group before her.  Gradually her face assumed a troubled
expression and her tongue began to frame broken words and fragmentary
sentences the purport of which Clearchus could not understand.
Suddenly she half raised her hands as though she would cover her eyes
and her face contracted as with a spasm of pain.

"Evohe!  Ph[oe]bus!" she cried in a wailing voice.

"Ask thy question--the God is here!" Agias whispered, pushing Clearchus
toward the platform.

The young man found himself standing alone in the dread Presence,
gazing upon the Pythia, who was no longer a woman, but an instrument in
the hands of the God.  The vapor curled about her and encircled her in
swiftly changing, fantastic forms.  Her gray eyes looked out into his,
fixed and steadfast, and the tension of the influence which possessed
her convulsed her features.  Dead silence reigned throughout the vast
and shadowy interior of the temple.

Clearchus tried to frame the question that he had prepared but the
words refused to come.  The awe of his surroundings paralyzed his
speech.

Suddenly the dear, wistful face of his love seemed to appear to him
amid the folds of the rolling mist, filled with sorrow and yearning.
His fear left him.  All else, even life itself, was as nothing before
the fierce desire of his heart.

"Where shall I find Artemisia?" he cried, stretching out his arms
before the whirling cloud which hid the priestess in its embrace.

There was a moment of suspense, in which he could hear the dull rushing
of the torrent that filled the sluices, overflowing with the rain, on
either side of the temple.  The priests leaned forward attentively to
catch the reply, each holding a tablet of wax and a stylus with which
to record any words that the Pythia might utter.  Clearchus stood
motionless, his arms still outstretched, gazing with straining eyes
upon the lips of the priestess.  She writhed upon the tripod as though
in agony.  Her eyes were set and glassy and a slight foam showed itself
upon her mouth.  Then came her voice, strained and strange, through the
eddies of the vapor:--

"Seek in the track of the Whirlwind--there shalt thou find thy Beloved!"

Her eyes closed, and a shuddering sigh issued from her bosom.  The two
priests who had placed her upon the tripod hastened forward and bore
her from the platform.  She had lost consciousness completely.  Her
head drooped upon her shoulder and her face was as pale as death.  The
old men gave her in charge of the women, who ran forward to receive her
and quickly carried her into their own apartments.

A great joy filled Clearchus.  "She is safe!  She is safe!  And I shall
find her!" he said to himself, following the silent priests out of the
temple.  As they passed out into the portico he looked back over his
shoulder at the platform where the God had manifested himself.  The
swift storm had swept over and the sun was shining again.  A gleam of
his light fell upon the curling mist and Clearchus saw it tinged with
the prismatic colors of the rainbow.




CHAPTER VIII

THE THUNDERBOLT FALLS

Leonidas and Eresthenes stood in the portico of the temple awaiting the
return of Clearchus.

"All is well!" the young man cried, throwing his arms around Leonidas
in the excess of his joy.

"Shall we find her?" the Spartan asked anxiously.

"Yes; the God has promised it," Clearchus replied.

"Where is she?" Leonidas asked quickly.

Clearchus hesitated and his face fell.  The oracle had not told him
where she was.

"What did the God mean when he spoke of the Whirlwind's track?" he
asked, turning to the priests.

"We know no more than thou," Agias replied.  "The answer given to thee
is more definite than any we have had in these later times.  That is a
good omen.  Be content and doubtless the God will choose his own way to
make all clear to thee."

Clearchus was troubled, but he thanked the priests and arranged for the
bestowal of an offering of ten talents of gold.  He was about to take
his leave when a man with mud-stained garments came running up the
steep incline to the temple.  He was one of the agents or messengers
that the priests maintained in every large city of Greece to keep them
informed of events.  The knowledge which they brought, added to that
which came with visitors to the oracle from all parts of the world,
made Delphi the centre of intelligence and enabled the servants of the
God, if need there was, to supplement his answers from their own
understanding.

The man halted breathless before the white-clad group that stood in the
sunlight between the columns awaiting him.

"It is Cimon," Agias said.  "What news dost thou bring--speak!"

"Alexander is before the walls of Thebes with his army!" the messenger
panted.

"Whence came he?" Agias demanded.

"Out of the mountains of Thessaly--like a whirlwind!" Cimon replied.
"Before men had time to learn of his approach, he was there."

"Like a whirlwind, you say?" Agias repeated, glancing at Clearchus.

"Like a whirlwind, indeed," the messenger replied, "and panic holds the
city!"

"Thy question is answered, my son," said Agias, quietly.

Clearchus was amazed.  He had believed that the words of the Pythia
were to be taken in their literal sense, and he had resolved to consult
Aristotle in the matter on his return to Athens.  But when Agias called
his attention to the reply of the messenger, who could have had no
knowledge of the prophecy, he could not doubt that a metaphor had been
intended.  The plans of the young Macedonian monarch at once acquired a
new and intense interest in his mind and he listened eagerly to Cimon's
story.

"The Thebans are divided," said the messenger.  "They know not whether
to surrender their city and earn their pardon, or to give defiance to
the young king.  The last they had heard of him was that he had been
slain in battle at Pelium by the blow of a club.  You know already that
the citizens rose when Ph[oe]nix and Prothytes came back from Athens
and that they besieged the Macedonian garrison in the Cadmea.  Athens
sent money and promised an army.  The B[oe]otarchs ordered the walls to
be made strong and a barricade to be built inside so that even if the
walls should fall, they would still be able to defend themselves.
Fugitives from Onchestris brought the first news that Alexander and his
army were there.  Even then the city would not believe it was the
Hegemon himself, but maintained that it must be Antipater or the
Lyncestian namesake of the king.  For how, they asked, could the dead
come to life?"

"Nothing is beyond the power of the Gods," Agias said sententiously.

"We expected a swift attack," Cimon continued, "but it was not until
the next day that the army came within sight of the city and encamped
north of the walls.  The Thebans sent their cavalry and light troops to
meet them.  This was only a skirmish, but the soldiers brought word
that Alexander, indeed, was there.  Some of them who knew him had seen
him directing the Macedonian troops.

"We found this to be true when the Macedonians moved their camp around
to the main gate.  The soldiers of the garrison in the Cadmea
recognized their king and cried out to us that Alexander had come to
avenge them.  Still he did not attack, but sent a herald to say that he
would forgive all that had been done if the city would yield itself and
send him Ph[oe]nix and Prothytes to be punished."

"And what was the answer?" Agias asked.

"There were many who favored accepting the terms," Cimon replied,
"especially since aid from Athens had been cut off; but the exiles who
had returned to raise the revolt declared that the king was afraid.
Should he have the boldness to attack the walls, they promised that he
would be beaten and that Thebes would send a garrison to Pella instead
of having one in the Cadmea."

"They are desperate men," the old priest said.

"But they won the people," Cimon replied, "and it was resolved to
fight.  So matters stood when I slipped out of the northern gate last
night to bring you word."

"You have done well, Cimon," Agias said.  "Dost thou think the city
will escape?"

"That I cannot tell," the messenger answered.  "It has corn enough for
a siege; but Alexander's army contains thirty thousand footmen and a
troop of horse, besides ballistæ and battering-rams which they were
setting up when I left."

"The walls are strong," Agias said, reflecting.  "Well, go to thy rest.
Thou hast need of it."

Clearchus and his friends had enough to talk about as they walked down
from the temple.

"One thing is certain," said the young Athenian.  "We must go at once
to Thebes."

"That we must do if only to see the fighting," Leonidas replied.

"What if the Dragon's Teeth should win?" Eresthenes suggested.

"They cannot," Leonidas said.  "The man who could make the march that
Alexander made is a general as well as a king.  There is no Epaminondas
in Thebes now."

"What will become of Chares' mother and his family if the city falls?"
Clearchus exclaimed, stopping short.

"Have I not heard him say that his father formed a guest-friendship
with Philip when the Macedonian was left in Thebes as a hostage?"
Leonidas replied.

"Yes," Clearchus admitted, "but that may be forgotten by his son if all
they say concerning Philip's death be true."

"Then we must remind him," Leonidas said, "and that is another reason
why we must go to Thebes."

Eresthenes gave the young men a cordial good-speed when they left him
in the morning to set out for the beleaguered city.  They descended
from the mountains and entered the fertile plains of B[oe]otia, through
which they rode all day without finding a sign of war.  The farmers
went about their work and the shepherds were pasturing their flocks as
peacefully as though there were no such things as armies and slaughter.
More than once they stopped to ask news of the siege, but the people of
the plain could tell them nothing.  Many of them had not heard that
Alexander was before the city; others had indeed heard the rumor, but
convinced that they themselves were safe, they took no interest in it.

Evening was drawing on and they had approached to within a few miles of
the city when they met a rider whose horse was dripping with sweat.

"Ho, there; what news of Thebes?" Leonidas shouted as he passed.

The man looked at them, but made no answer.  He bent low on the neck of
his horse and his cloak flew out behind him like the wings of a huge
bird.

"There has been a battle," Leonidas said.  "Was he Theban or
Macedonian?"

Burning with impatience, they urged their horses to the crest of a low
hill, where they came suddenly upon half a dozen cavalrymen, who had
halted in a small grove to bind up a wound which one of their number
had received in the shoulder.

"What has happened?" Leonidas asked, drawing rein beside them.

"Know you not that the city has fallen?" one of the soldiers replied.
"The accursed Macedonians forced us in through the gates and came in
with us.  Not a soul is left alive in Thebes, and my wife and children
were there!"

"And that is where you should be," the Spartan replied contemptuously.

The poor fellow burst into tears at this reproach as he thought of the
fate of his little family.  Clearchus, touched by his grief, drew out
his purse and gave it to him.

"If they are still living, this may aid you to ransom them," he said.

As the two friends proceeded they now began to meet other bands of
fugitives straggling along the road.  Most of them fled silently, often
looking back over their shoulders as if in dread of pursuit.

"Cowards!" said Leonidas, scornfully.

"Life is sweet to all of us," Clearchus remonstrated, thinking of
Artemisia.

"To such as these it should be bitter!" the Spartan replied.

They were rounding a turn in the road as he spoke, and before the words
were well out of his mouth they found themselves entangled in a rabble
of horsemen, who were retreating before a fierce attack.

"In here, quickly!" Leonidas cried, urging his horse back among the
trees beside the road.

They had barely time to gain this shelter before the rush of plunging
horses and shouting men went past them.  The Thebans were evidently
making a desperate attempt to rally, and just beyond the spot where the
two were concealed they halted, wheeled, and stood at bay.

But before they had accomplished this man[oe]uvre the foremost of the
pursuers, headed by a young man riding a powerful chestnut horse, swept
into sight.  The leader, in his excitement, had distanced his troop.
Clearchus and Leonidas, who, from their position in the elbow of the
road, were able to see in both directions, realized that he was
galloping straight into an ambush.  Leonidas started forward to warn
him, but it was too late.  The Thebans had regained their order, and
with a wild shout they charged back around the curve.

Either the unexpectedness of the onset caused the chestnut to swerve,
or his rider tried to pull him up too suddenly, for he stumbled and
went to his knees.  The young man was pitched headforemost into the
underbrush and fell almost at the feet of Leonidas.

Some of the Theban troopers saw the accident and rushed upon him with
cries of triumph.  They were confronted by Leonidas and Clearchus, who
stood over the prostrate figure with drawn swords.  Surprise caused the
Thebans to hesitate, and this saved the lives of all three; for the
Macedonian riders, thundering down upon the Thebans at full speed,
struck them and tore them to pieces.  Horse and man went down before
that fierce charge, which left nothing behind excepting the dead and a
handful of wounded, whose cries for mercy were cut short by a
sword-thrust.  The survivors fled without looking behind them.

"Where is Ptolemy?" shouted one of the Macedonians, a bearded man who
seemed to be second in command.  "Who has seen the captain?"

"He rode in advance," one of the troopers replied.

"If we do not bring him back, we shall have to answer for it to the
king, and you know what that means," the first man said.

"He is here!" Clearchus called from the thicket.

The bearded lieutenant and several others hastily dismounted and
carried their captain out into the road.  He was still unconscious.

"Who are you?" the lieutenant demanded gruffly, looking at the two
young men with suspicion.

"I am Clearchus of Athens, and this is Leonidas of Sparta," Clearchus
replied.

"Of Athens!" the man said sneeringly.  "Go back to your city and tell
the cowards who live there that we are coming!"

"As you came once before--with Xerxes!" the young Athenian answered
quickly.

The lieutenant's face grew livid and he whipped out his sword.

"Cut their throats!  Kill them!" the troopers cried angrily, pressing
closer.

Like a flash, Leonidas bestrode the form of the captain, sword in hand.

"I am of Sparta!" he cried boastfully.  "My country never saw the face
of Philip, nor shall it look upon that of his son, who calls himself
the Hegemon of all Hellas.  Put away your swords, or here is one whose
funeral you will celebrate to-morrow!"

He placed the point of his blade at the captain's throat as he spoke.
The men of Macedon dared not move.

"Listen to reason!" Clearchus said hastily.  "We are without armor, as
you see.  We saved the life of your captain, and we are on our way to
Thebes to see Alexander on matters of importance.  Take us with you and
let your king deal with us.  This is no time nor place for brawling."

"You are right," the lieutenant said sullenly.  "Let it be as you say."

He sheathed his sword, and the others followed his example, though with
an ill grace.  The captain had begun to recover his senses.  His skull
must have been tough to have resisted the shock of his fall without
cracking.

"Why are you letting me lie here?" he demanded.  "Where is the enemy?"

"Scattered and gone, excepting these that you see," the lieutenant
replied, pointing to the bodies.

"Then get me on a horse and back to camp," the captain ordered.

As they rode the lieutenant explained the presence of Clearchus and
Leonidas.  The captain frankly gave them thanks when he learned that
they had protected him while he lay helpless.

"I am Ptolemy," he said, "and since you desire to see Alexander, I will
take you to him.  I owe you much and the day may come when I shall be
able to repay you."




CHAPTER IX

THE DOOM OF THEBES

The plain where once the sons of Niobe lay weltering had borne its last
harvest of slaughter.  On every side Leonidas and Clearchus noted the
ghastly evidences of battle.  Darkness fell before Ptolemy's troop
reached the shattered gates of Thebes.  Men with torches in their hands
wandered through the streets strewn with corpses, seeking plunder among
the dead or searching for the bodies of friends.  Neither sex nor age
had been spared when Perdiccas hewed his way into the city.  The very
altars of the Gods were crimsoned with the vengeance taken by the
Phocians, the Platæans, and the B[oe]otians for the centuries of cruel
oppression that they had suffered from the rapacious brood of the
Dragon.

Mothers lay dabbled in blood, with their infants beside them, struck
down in flight.  The market-place was heaped with bodies, showing how
desperate had been the final stand of the Theban soldiers.  The streets
were littered with household gear that had been dragged in wantonness
from despoiled homes.

The plundering was not yet finished.  Bands of soldiers were still
searching for booty in the remoter quarters of the city, where their
progress could be traced by the sound of their drunken laughter,
mingled with the screams of their victims.

Macedonian guards paced the walls and cut off all hope of escape.  The
wretched inhabitants, driven into the highways, sought concealment in
dark angles and narrow lanes, cowering in silence.

Here and there a woman, rendered desperate by her anguish, walked with
dishevelled hair, heedless of insult, seeking her children among the
slain in the hope that she might find them still alive.

Clearchus felt his heart grow faint at the thought that Artemisia might
be exposed to the frightful chances of such a sack.  Ph[oe]bus himself,
he thought, might be unable to protect her, since here the temples of
the Gods had been profaned.  An old man in priestly robes stood out
before them with trembling hands upraised.

"Vengeance, O Zeus!" he cried aloud.  "Vengeance upon those who have
violated the sanctuary of Dionysus, thy son!  May they--"

"Silence, Graybeard!" growled a soldier, striking him across the mouth
with his fist.

The old man reeled from the blow and shrank away into the shadow.

"You'll choke if you ever try to drink wine again, Glaucis!" a comrade
cried, laughing.

"Dionysus will forgive me soon enough for a sacrifice," Glaucis
returned.  "Never fear!"

Ptolemy learned that Alexander had gone to the Cadmea and thither he
led Clearchus and Leonidas after he had dismissed his men, eager to
take their share in the pillage.  They found the young king in a large,
bare room in the lower part of the citadel.  He had not yet laid aside
his armor, which was dented and scratched by use.

When they entered, he was giving orders to his captains, who stood
grouped about him.  Clearchus looked at him with eager interest.  He
saw a well-proportioned, athletic figure, no taller than his own.  The
handsome beardless face glowed with the warm blood of youth and a smile
parted the full red lips.  There was no trace of fatigue in the young
king's attitude, despite the labors of the day, and his movements were
alert and decisive.  He looked even more youthful than his twenty-one
years as he stood among his leaders, some of whom were veterans of
Philip's campaigns, grizzled with service.  But in spite of his youth,
there was a confidence in his bearing that left no doubt of who was
master.

Clearchus felt himself strangely drawn to the young man whom all
Hellas, with the exception of Sparta, acknowledged as its champion, and
who was about to assail that great power beyond the Hellespont, whose
limits were unknown and before whom Greece had stood in dread since the
days of Great Cyrus.  The Athenian found the "boy king" very different
from the arrogant, mean-spirited upstart that the orators of his city
had painted him.

"Stop the plundering," Alexander said to his captains.  "Even the
B[oe]otians must be satisfied by this time.  Let the men go back to the
camp, and see that order is maintained.  The Ætolians and the Elæans
are on the march and reënforcements are coming from Athens.  There may
be more work to do to-morrow."

As the officers left him to execute his commands, Alexander turned to
Ptolemy with hands outstretched.

"I am glad to see you safe!" he said.  "You charged bravely before the
gate, and I feared that something might have happened that would
deprive me of your aid when we march into Persia."

Ptolemy's bronzed face reddened with pleasure as he heard the praise of
the young king.

"I went in pursuit of the enemy's cavalry," he said.

"Is it likely that any of those who escaped will be able to rally?"
Alexander asked.

"They are scattered in every direction and think only of flight,"
Ptolemy replied.

"That is well," Alexander said.  "We shall be the better able to deal
with the others when they come.  Who are these that you have brought to
me?"

He turned toward the two young men, who had been standing at a little
distance, and looked them frankly in the eyes.

"This is Clearchus, an Athenian, and this, Leonidas of Sparta," Ptolemy
replied, presenting them in turn.

Alexander's face clouded at the names of the two most powerful of the
states that opposed him in Greece, and Ptolemy hastened to add: "They
saved my life when my horse stumbled in the pursuit, and they have a
request to make of you."

"You have done me a great service," Alexander said kindly.  "What is it
that you desire?"

"We ask clemency for the family of Jason, on behalf of Chares, his son,
whom we left behind in Athens," Clearchus replied.

"And why is he not in Thebes?" Alexander asked quickly.

"Because he did not know that you were coming," Clearchus said.  "Had
he been aware of the danger, he would not have been absent.  We heard
of your arrival while we were in Delphi, and we made all haste to
remind you that Jason was a guest-friend of your father, Philip."

"Orders have been given that the guest-friends of Macedon shall be
spared, both in their lives and their property," Alexander replied.
"What did you in Delphi?"

Clearchus told him briefly how Artemisia had been stolen and of the
response of the oracle.

"Love must be a strong passion," the young king said thoughtfully.

"I would give all that I possess to recover Artemisia," Clearchus
replied.  "Nor would I be willing to exchange my hope of finding her
for the wisdom of Aristotle or even for the hopes of Alexander."

"So you know Aristotle," Alexander said.  "He is a wonderful man.  Were
I not Alexander, I would envy him." He looked curiously at Clearchus as
he spoke, as though he were considering something that he did not
understand.  "So that is what they call love," he continued, "and I and
my army are the Whirlwind of which the God spoke."  He beckoned to an
attendant.  "Call Aristander!" he said.

He made Clearchus repeat his story to the famous soothsayer.
Aristander listened attentively, stroking his chin with the tips of his
fingers as his custom was.

"What do you think of it?" Alexander asked, when Clearchus had
finished.  Everybody knew the confidence that he placed in the words of
the prophet and that he never took an important step against his advice.

"Full credit must be given to the oracle," Aristander said, turning his
blue eyes upon the young king, "and I think that the priests of the
temple were right in their interpretation, since the message brought
and the title given could have had no other meaning.  As the maid was
carried away by sea, she was probably taken to some island or to one of
the cities on the coast of Asia.  The Whirlwind's track must needs lead
thither, and since the maid is to be set free, it is clear that the
Whirlwind shall prevail."

"Then the oracle is propitious!" Alexander exclaimed.  "What is your
plan?" he added to Clearchus.

"I shall obey the oracle and follow in thy track," the Athenian
replied.  "If thou wilt permit me, I myself will become a part of the
Whirlwind."

Alexander looked at him with the unquenchable fire of enthusiasm in his
eyes.

"Thou art welcome!" he said.  "And you, my friend of stubborn Sparta?"
he continued to Leonidas.

"I go with Clearchus," the Spartan responded briefly.

"You shall be of my Companions," Alexander cried, placing his hand upon
a shoulder of each.  "The world grows old and we have been wasting our
strength in foolish quarrels with each other while the tiger has been
lying there across the water, waiting to devour us.  We shall show him
that the spirit of Hellas still lives, although Troy has fallen, and we
will do deeds that shall be sung by some new Homer as worthy too of a
place beside those of Achilles and Ajax and Agamemnon.  Yes, and we
will bring back a fleece more precious than that which the Argonauts
sought.  I promise you that the Whirlwind's track shall be long enough
and broad enough to lead you to your heart's desire, whatever it may
be.  Ptolemy, I count these men among my friends and I give them into
your charge."

Clearchus and Leonidas felt their hearts swell at the young king's
words and his lofty generosity, but before they could thank him, they
were interrupted by a commotion at the door.

"Out of the way!  I will see him!  I care not how late it is," an angry
voice exclaimed.

"It is Chares, son of Jason," Clearchus said.  "How comes he here?"

Alexander quietly signed to the guard, and the Theban strode into the
room, clad in armor that clashed noisily as he walked.  He looked
neither to the right nor left, but went straight to Alexander.

"I am come to remind the King of Macedon of the ties of hospitality,"
he said boldly, in a voice more fitted to a demand than a petition.

Alexander measured his great stature with admiration in his glance,
noting that the armor, gold-inlaid, was crusted with mud and grime like
his own.

"Thy name might be Hector," he said.

The Theban, ignorant of the young king's train of thought and of what
had gone before, imagined that he saw mockery in this remark.  His face
flushed darkly.

"My name is Chares!" he said haughtily.  "Jason, my father, was the
friend of Epaminondas, who furnished thy father with the weapons that
thou hast used against us this day.  I come not to thee on my own
behalf, but on that of my mother and sisters, who were shut in here
when the attack came."

"You are too late!" the young king said composedly.

Chares staggered and his face blanched.  "Too late!" he exclaimed
hoarsely.  "Does Alexander, then, make war upon women?"

"I say you came too late," Alexander replied, "and doubly so; for your
friends, here, were more prompt than you, and yet even they were tardy."

"My friends!" Chares cried in bewilderment, seeing Leonidas and
Clearchus for the first time.

"Alexander speaks the truth," Clearchus said quickly.  "We are all too
late, because he had already given orders for the safety of your
family."

"I ask your forgiveness; I spoke without understanding," Chares said,
turning to the king.

"Thou hast courage," Alexander said with a smile, "but I would not
choose thee as my envoy on a delicate mission.  Thou wert not here to
defend thy home?"

"Because I knew not that there was need," Chares admitted.  "I am
sorry."

"And I am glad," the young king rejoined, "for hadst thou been inside
the walls, I fear I might have lost men whom I cannot spare.  Didst
thou come from Athens?"

"I left Athens with the army," Chares answered, "but it halted on the
frontier when news arrived that Thebes had fallen."

"Then there will be no more fighting!" Alexander exclaimed, turning to
Ptolemy.  "I am glad of it.  Greet thy mother for me, Chares, and tell
her to fear nothing.  Ptolemy will conduct you."

Escorted by the Macedonian captain, the three friends descended from
the citadel.  Order had been restored in the city as though by magic.
Only the military patrols and the bodies of the dead remained in the
streets.  The living had been driven into their houses, taking the
wounded with them.  The plunderers had retired to the camp outside the
walls.

Chares strode eagerly in advance, asking many questions regarding the
experiences of his friends in Delphi.  The house of Jason, a mansion
built near the northern end of the city, had been saved by its location
from the desperate fighting that had taken place about the southern
gate and in the market-place.  They found a guard stationed at the door.

"You see that the king is as good as his word," Ptolemy said.  "You
will find nothing disturbed here."

"How could he have remembered his friends in the heat of the attack?"
Chares asked.

"He forgets nothing," the captain replied, "neither friend nor enemy."

Chares urged the Macedonian to enter, but Ptolemy declined on the
ground of fatigue and left them.  The slave at the gate went wild with
joy when he caught sight of his young master.  He had been waiting in
momentary expectation of being summoned forth to the death that he was
convinced awaited everybody in the city.

Chares hastened to the women's court, where he found his mother and
sisters robed in white and surrounded by their maids, who were trying
to spin, although their fingers trembled so that they could hardly hold
the distaff.  The widow of Jason, a woman with silvery hair and a face
that was still beautiful, sat calmly in the midst of the group,
awaiting with quiet courage what might befall.  She rose with composure
to greet her son and his companions.

"You are safe, mother!" Chares exclaimed, clasping her in his arms.
"Alexander has given his word that you shall be unharmed!"

"You have seen him?" she returned.  "That is well.  You may go to your
rest.  Nothing shall harm you," she added, dismissing her maidens.




CHAPTER X

CHARES BARTERS HIS SWORD

What was to be the fate of Thebes?  The minds of the wretched
inhabitants of the city were diverted from their sorrows as they asked
each other this question on the morning after the battle.  The dead had
been removed from the streets.  The wounded had been cared for.  The
enemy had withdrawn outside the walls, after posting guards in
sufficient numbers to suppress any rising that the Thebans might be
desperate enough to attempt.

All eyes were directed toward the Cadmea, within whose gray walls the
punishment that was to be visited upon the city was being discussed.
One citizen suggested that a heavy fine would be exacted.  Another
declared he had heard that the Thebans would be forbidden to bear arms.
A dozen similar conjectures were made and canvassed before news came
from the Cadmea that Alexander had left the Phocians, the Platæans, and
the B[oe]otians, his allies, to impose the sentence.  This announcement
was received in gloomy silence; for more than one Theban recalled how
his city in her day of pride had blotted out Orchomenus and Platæa and
sold their people into bondage.

The anxious watchers in the streets at last saw a stir in the crowd
that waited outside the gates of the citadel.  The portals opened, and
the victorious generals, surrounded by waving standards, came out and
began to descend from the rock.  The spectators below saw the Thebans
scatter before them, tossing their arms above their heads and rending
their garments.  A hush full of dread fell upon the city.

"Thebes must perish!  Her walls must go down!" cried one from above
with a despairing gesture.

"We are to be sold for slaves!" shouted another, halting upon a parapet
and making a trumpet of his hands.

The tidings were received with incredulity, followed by stupefaction.
The blow had fallen, and it was worse than even the least sanguine
prophet had predicted.  The generals, as they rode toward the gates of
the city, were followed by men who fell on their knees and begged for
quarter.  No heed was paid to their prayers, and the escort of soldiers
thrust them back with jeers.

Alexander remained in the Cadmea, where Chares and a handful of the
most prominent Thebans, who had been able to establish guest-friendship
with the royal house of Macedon, sought him to intercede for the city.
They found him alone, sitting with his chin in his hand.  They recalled
to him the glorious deeds of Thebes, dwelt upon the misery that the
sentence would inflict upon the innocent, and warned him that all
Hellas would reproach him if he permitted it to be carried into effect.
They admitted the fault of the city and asked forgiveness.

The young king heard them through without stirring.

"All that you have said to me," he replied when they had finished, "I
have already said to myself.  Thebes has been false to her oath.  I
pardoned her as did Philip, my father.  The sentence is not mine, but
that of my allies, and what cause they have, you know.  Can I ask them
to forget?"

Terror ran with the news through all Greece.  The Athenians, the
Ætolians, and the Elæans, who had encouraged the rebellion with money
and promises of further aid, hastily recalled their troops and sent
ambassadors to sue for mercy.  Demosthenes was chosen to plead for
Athens, but when he had advanced on his journey as far as Mount
Cithæron, his courage failed him and he turned back.  The young king
sent a messenger to Athens calling upon the Athenians to deliver eight
of their orators who had been foremost in stirring up the people
against Macedon, and the name of Demosthenes stood at the head of the
list.

In the Assembly that was called to consider this demand Demosthenes won
the day by repeating the fable of how once the wolves asked the sheep
to deliver to them their watch-dogs and how, when the demand had been
granted, they fell upon the defenceless flock.  But so great was the
fear of Alexander among the people that they might, after all, have
sent the orators to Thebes had not the men who were threatened hired
Demades with a fee of five talents to offer himself as an intermediary.
The offer was accepted and Alexander yielded.

The escape of Demosthenes through the intercession of his inveterate
enemy and the mysterious disappearance of Thais were the talk of the
city when Chares arrived with his two friends, bringing his family with
him.  Clearchus received them into his house, where they were to remain
during his absence from Athens in search of Artemisia, following the
directions of the oracle.  Ariston was much disappointed when his
nephew refused to exact any rental from his friend.  He had taken
charge of Clearchus' fortune again, and it grieved him that any
possible source of income should be neglected.  But Clearchus knew that
Chares had need of all his resources; for his mother had drawn up a
list of the friends of the family who had been forced to remain in
Thebes, telling him that he must purchase them and thus save them from
slavery, even if it should take all they possessed in the world.  As
the list was long, Clearchus deemed it wise not only to place his house
at the disposal of Jason's widow, but to make provision for its
maintenance out of his own income while he should be away.

He paid no attention to the grumbling of his uncle, who affected to
look upon this generosity as little short of madness.  He said so much
to dissuade the young man from his plan, that Clearchus at last was
forced to remonstrate with him.

"One would think that you were on the brink of ruin," he said, "instead
of being one of the richest men in Athens, if reports that I have begun
to hear lately are true."

"Who says that?" Ariston demanded sharply.  "He lies, whoever repeats
such things.  Whenever you hear it, if you love me, say that it is not
true.  If such stories should get to be believed, that accursed
Demosthenes will be forcing me to fit out a trireme for some of his
wild schemes.  The times are so troubled that what little I have been
able to save by my frugality for the support of my age I am likely to
lose."

He was not unwilling to have his nephew believe that he was at least
moderately rich, for had Clearchus known the straits his uncle was in,
his suspicions might have been aroused.  With his mind full of the loss
of Artemisia, there was small chance that he would discover anything.

Like vultures upon a deserted field of battle the slave-dealers
gathered at the great market of flesh and blood at Thebes.  The sale of
the population of the city had been delayed so as to insure a good
attendance; for Alexander had need of the money that it was expected to
yield with which to defray the cost of his expedition against the Great
King.  Speculators, traffickers by wholesale, and agents from every
considerable mart in the world, to say nothing of amateurs, flocked to
the city.  It was not so much the fact that thirty thousand men and
women were to be offered and the consequent probability of low prices
that drew them as the quality of the victims.  It was easy enough to
purchase slaves in almost any number, but there was a vast difference
between ignorant barbarians, captured in distant raids, and the
population of one of the oldest and most cultured of the Grecian
cities.  And no comparison was to be made between girls who had been
destined to slavery from their cradles and the Theban maidens reared in
the shelter of luxury and ease.

It had been expected that it would take several days to dispose of the
prisoners, but so numerous were the buyers that the Macedonians decided
to attempt it in one day.  For greater convenience, the captives were
separated into companies of about five hundred and brought out upon the
plain before the city, where most of the dealers had pitched their
tents.  Each division was guarded by a squad of soldiers commanded by
an officer, whose duty it was to conduct the auction of the group under
his care.

No outcry was permitted among the hapless population.  Mothers clasped
their children in their arms, weeping softly over them.  Some awaited
their fate with sullen resignation.  Others looked for a prodigy to
restore them to freedom and their city.  A report had gone abroad that
Dionysus would appear in person and forbid the sale.  On all sides rose
the murmur of his name in tones of entreaty or reproach.  With anxious
eyes, the believers scanned the sky and the barren hillsides for some
sign, they knew not what.  None was vouchsafed.  Their God had deserted
them.

In order that the friends whom he was to ransom might not be lost in
the confusion, Chares had obtained consent that they be assembled in
one group.  They came last out of the city, clad in garments of
mourning and moving in heavy-footed procession.  Lest he should raise
false hopes, Chares had made a secret of his plans.  The prisoners
fully expected to pass into the possession of strangers.  Old men of
grave face and dignified bearing, who had spent their lives in the
service of the city and whose names were known throughout Greece, led
the way.  Behind them walked their women, proud of bearing and
accustomed to the privileges of rank and wealth.  Some of the matrons
led daughters who looked with terror upon the strange scenes that met
their eyes.  Orphaned children clung to each other in fear, while here
and there new-made widows, whose husbands had been slain when the
strength and vigor of the city were cut off in a day, walked sadly and
alone.

When all had been herded within the ring formed by the guard, the
Macedonian captain who was to conduct the sale of the group that
contained Chares' friends mounted briskly upon a block of stone and
announced the terms prescribed for buyers.  Payment was to be made in
all cases in cash, and the purchaser was to have immediate possession.
Chares took a position facing the auctioneer in a knot of dealers who
were searching for some fortunate speculation.  These men looked upon
the unhappy Thebans with professional keenness, exchanging comments
among themselves.

"That's a fine old fellow with the white beard," said one.  "He looks
as though he might have money out at interest somewhere."

"Probably he's only a philosopher," another said scornfully.  "For my
part, I shall buy that thin one.  He has been living on bread and water
all his life and he must have a snug sum buried.  Trust me to make him
dig it up!"

"There seem to be some marketable girls here," observed a third.  "I
find the Medes will pay a better price for them if they have a pedigree
as well as good looks."

Mena, the Egyptian, prying about through the crowd, examined the
captives with speculative eyes.  Suddenly he caught sight of a figure
that caused him to stop and stare.  It was that of a young woman,
veiled, who seemed to be seeking to conceal herself behind the other
prisoners.

"Who is she?" he asked of one of the guard when he had recovered from
his astonishment.

"She is down on our list as Maia, daughter of Thales," the man replied.

Mena seemed puzzled.  "I must find out more about this," he said to
himself, taking his stand at a point of vantage.  "Besides, there may
be a chance here to turn a profitable investment."

The chatter ceased as the captain opened a roll of papyrus containing
the names of the prisoners and announced that the sale was about to
begin.  The old man with the white beard was the first to be brought
forward.  He proved to have been one of the B[oe]otarchs.

"How much am I offered for him?" the captain cried.  "He is old, but
his wisdom is all the greater for that."

"Five drachmæ!" shouted a countryman in a patched and faded cloak.  "He
gave a decision against me once in a lawsuit."

Everybody laughed at this reason for making a bid, but the farmer
seemed in deadly earnest.

"Five minæ!" Chares said quietly.  There was no other bid and the sale
was made.

Then came a slender girl with yellow hair and blue eyes that were
swollen with weeping.  Her chiton of fine linen clung in graceful folds
to her slim figure, and she trembled so violently that she could
scarcely stand.

"She ought to fill out well if she lives," said one of the merchants,
stroking his beard, while he examined her carefully.  "But it's always
a risk to buy them so young."

"She might be trained to dance," said Mena, who had elbowed his way
into the crowd.  "It's worth trying if she goes cheap.  Fifty drachmæ!"

"Five minæ!" Chares said again.

"That's ten times what she is worth!" Mena exclaimed, turning angrily
upon the Theban.  "Are you trying to prevent honest men from making a
living?"

"Let honest men speak for themselves," Chares retorted.

The laugh that followed filled the Egyptian with rage.  He was cunning
enough to wait until Chares had made several more purchases, and at
prices far above the market value of the captives.  Mena guessed that
the Theban intended to outbid all who opposed him.  He resolved to be
revenged by making him pay dearly for his purchases.  It happened that
the next offering was a man whose name was not on Chares' list.  Out of
mere good nature he bid two hundred and fifty drachmæ for him.

"Five minæ!" the Egyptian shouted, doubling the bid with the intention
of forcing Chares to go higher.

But Chares was silent, and no other bidder appeared.  Mena, who did not
have the money that he had offered, shifted uneasily, looking at Chares.

"I see you have some sense," he cried at last.  "You are afraid to bid
against me!"

Chares made no reply.

"He is yours," the auctioneer said, addressing Mena.  "Step this way
with your money!"

"Wait!" screamed the Egyptian.  "I withdraw the bid!  The man is lame!"

"Do you mean to accuse me of trying to cheat you?" roared the
Macedonian captain.

"Perhaps you didn't notice it," the Egyptian faltered.

"Away with him!" cried the soldier.

While the prisoner was being awarded to Chares, two men led Mena out of
the circle, amid the jeers of the spectators.  At a safe distance,
under pretence of seeing whether he really had the money he had
offered, they took from him all that he possessed and divided it
between themselves before they let him go.

"I'll make him sorry for this!" Mena said, shaking his fist at Chares.
"I know what I know; but why do they call her Maia?"

Burning with rage, the Egyptian slunk away in search of his master,
Phradates, whom he found wandering idly among the scattered groups of
captives.

"Oh, Phradates, thou hast been insulted!" Mena cried, breathlessly.

"How so, dog?" Phradates demanded, his face darkening as he spoke.

The Ph[oe]nician's figure was tall and well knit, although the
profusion of jewels and golden chains that he wore, and his garments of
rich silk, woven with gold thread, gave him an effeminate look.  His
face might have been handsome had it not been marred by an expression
of haughty insolence which betrayed the weakness upon which Mena
intended to play.

He had been sent into Greece by Azemilcus and the Tyrian Council in the
guise of a rich young man on his travels, but with the real object of
discovering the plans and strength of Alexander.  Tyre was nominally
tributary to the Great King, but the only sign of her dependence was
the payment of a small annual tribute.  In all matters of moment she
managed her own affairs.  It was important, therefore, for her rulers
to have exact knowledge of what was going forward in Greece, so that
they might shape their course as seemed best for their own advantage.

Mena noted the flush on his master's cheek and foresaw the success of
his scheme of revenge.

"It occurred to my poor mind," he explained volubly, "that your
Highness would be pleased with a slave from this city of rats, which,
nevertheless, contains some charming maidens.  I learned that they had
assembled all the prisoners of gentle birth in one place together.  I
went there and examined them for you.  Among them I found a girl of
rare beauty and when I asked concerning her, they told me she was Maia,
daughter of Thales, one of the chief men in the city.  Such a form as
she has!--with hair like copper and a glance that would--"

"Will you never finish?" Phradates asked angrily.

"I chose her for your Highness and gave command that she be reserved
until I could find you to claim her," Mena continued.  "But it seems a
Theban, whom they call Chares, had resolved to buy her for himself.  I
told him that I had spoken for the girl in your name.  'Let the Tyrian
hound go back to his dye-vats,' he said.  'The girl is mine and he
shall not have her while I have an obol left!'  He said much more
against the people of Tyre and yourself in particular that I will not
offend your Highness by repeating.  I am sorry that I lost the girl,
for there is no other like her among the captives."

"Where is she?" Phradates demanded abruptly.

"If your Highness will deign to follow, I will conduct you to her,"
Mena replied with alacrity.

"Lead on!" Phradates commanded.  "And then fetch quickly the gold we
borrowed from the old Athenian."

Chares had purchased all the prisoners on his list excepting the girl
called Maia, and the soldiers were leading her forward when Mena and
Phradates arrived.  The young woman's face and head were muffled in a
silken scarf, and her figure was concealed beneath a cloak.

"Give place!" cried Mena, bustling officiously into the crowd.  "Make
way for the noble Phradates!"

One of the soldiers raised the scarf long enough for the Ph[oe]nician
to see the young woman's face.  Her beauty evidently made a deep
impression upon him, for his expression changed and he seemed hardly
able to take his eyes from her.

"Where is this Chares?" he inquired, at last, staring about him.

Mena indicated the Theban with a nod, and then, noticing that all eyes
were turned upon his master, he bawled out: "Make room for Phradates of
the royal blood of Tyre!"

"Do you want to sell him?" asked the auctioneer.

The Ph[oe]nician's face became purple and he turned angrily upon Mena,
but the alert Egyptian had slipped away to fetch the gold.

"Three talents for the girl!" Phradates cried.

"Five talents!" Chares answered.

The spectators, who had long ago ceased to think of bidding against the
Theban, drew a deep breath and looked from one contestant to the other.
Maia alone seemed indifferent.  A tress of her hair had fallen upon her
shoulder.  She twisted it back into place.  Chares had not seen her
face when the soldier lifted her veil and his attention was now centred
upon his opponent.

"Seven talents!" Phradates shouted, fixing his eyes defiantly upon
Chares.

"Eight!" the Theban answered, without hesitation.

This was more than all the other captives in the group had brought.
The crowd began to hum with excitement.  Phradates looked over his
shoulder and saw Mena leading four slaves who carried bags of gold.

"Ten talents!" he cried.

"All bids must be paid in cash," the auctioneer said warningly.

Every face was turned toward Chares, who had called his steward and was
consulting with him.  "How much have we left?" the Theban asked.  The
man made a rapid calculation on his tablets.

"You have ten talents and thirty minæ," he replied.  "That is the end."

"I bid ten talents and thirty minæ," Chares said promptly, addressing
the auctioneer.

It was evident to all that he could go no further.  Would Phradates be
able to outbid him?  The Ph[oe]nician hesitated and turned to Mena.

"He has won," the slave whispered.  "You have only ten talents.  If you
had beaten him, we should have starved to death."

"Then we will starve!" Phradates replied.  "I demand that the gold be
weighed!"

"You have that right," the auctioneer admitted.  "Bring out the scales."

The scales were brought and the gold was poured into the broad pans
which hung suspended from their framework of wood.  The glittering
heaps increased until each pan overflowed with the precious coins and
ingots.  When all was in readiness for the test, they held a fortune
such as few men in all Greece possessed.  The spectators devoured it
with their eyes, pressing against the soldiers in the hope of getting a
better view.  The maiden, Maia, who was the object of the rivalry, was
forgotten.

The scales oscillated slowly and at last settled deliberately on the
side toward Chares.  The tale was correct and his last thirty minæ had
given him the victory.  The crowd broke into a cheer.

"Are you satisfied?" asked the Macedonian captain.

"No!" Phradates shouted.  A red spot glowed on his cheeks and his
fingers trembled as he stripped off his rings and his chains of gold.
He placed the ornaments on his side of the scales.  "I bid thirteen
talents," he declared.

"Payments are to be made in money," Chares remonstrated.  "Who can tell
what these trinkets are worth?"

"We may accept them at a true valuation," the captain decided.

He summoned a jeweller of Corinth, who examined the rings with care,
and announced his readiness to take them at a sum sufficient to make up
the total of the Ph[oe]nician's offer.

"Phradates wins!" shouted the spectators, cheering the Tyrian with all
the enthusiasm that they had shown to his rival a moment before.

The Theban stood silent.  He had nothing more to offer.  He raged
inwardly at his defeat, for he felt that his honor was involved.  While
he stood hesitating, nobody seemed to notice a young Macedonian soldier
of athletic figure and fresh complexion who had stopped on the
outskirts of the crowd and stood listening, with his head slightly
inclined to one side.

Suddenly Chares strode forward and threw his sword upon the scales.
The weight of the steel caused the balance to sway decisively toward
him.

"I bid fifteen talents!" he cried.  "Let my sword make up the weight of
gold that is lacking."

Phradates laughed mockingly.  "Let me have the girl," he said.  "It is
time to end this child's play.  There is no place in the world where a
sword is worth three talents."

"Except here," a voice behind him said quietly.

Phradates turned, and his eyes met those of the soldier who had been
lingering on the edge of the ring of spectators.

"Here!" the Ph[oe]nician exclaimed angrily.  "And who is there here to
give such a price for it?"

"I will," the soldier replied with a smile.

"You will, indeed!" Phradates echoed.  "And who are you?"

"My name is Alexander," the soldier said.

Phradates turned to the crowd, which had fallen back a little and now
stood strangely silent.

"Who is this insolent fellow?" he cried.  "Why do you allow him to
interfere here?" he demanded of the captain.

The captain made no reply, and nobody in the throng ventured to answer.
Phradates felt deserted.  He stood with Chares and the soldier beside
the gold-laden scales, beyond which waited Maia, with her eyes fixed
upon the face of the newcomer.

"Is there no fair dealing in this land of thieves?" Phradates cried,
losing his temper absolutely.  "The girl is mine!  Deliver her to me in
accordance with your agreement and let me go.  You have your price and
it is enough!"

He made a step forward as though to seize Maia, but the soldier blocked
his path.

"I am Alexander, as I told you," he said, slightly raising his voice.
"I will tell you more.  You are Phradates of Tyre, sent here by your
king and your Council to spy out my strength and learn my plans.  You
have used the eyes and ears of your slaves.  Take what you have learned
to King Azemilcus, and with it take also this message: Alexander, King
of Macedon, sends word that he is coming with his companions to offer
sacrifice to Heracles in his temple, known in the city of Tyre as the
temple of Melkarth.  Let him prepare the altar."

Phradates read in the faces of the crowd that the youth who spoke so
confidently to him was indeed the king.  Nevertheless, he could not
wholly stifle his rage.

"Has your army wings, Macedonian?" he asked insolently.  "The walls of
Tyre are both high and strong."

"What is the fate of spies in your country?" Alexander replied.  "You
are spared to bear my message.  Must I choose another?"

There was something in the tone of these words that brought Phradates
to his senses like a plunge into cold water.

"We shall meet elsewhere," he said, casting a look of hatred at Chares,
who stood smiling at his discomfiture.

"If we do not, I shall never cease to regret it," the Theban replied.

Mena had been hurriedly putting his master's gold into the sacks in
which he had brought it.  The waiting slaves took it up and followed
Phradates back to his tent.

"What was it all about?" Alexander asked, glancing from Chares to Maia.

"I wished to buy her as a present to my mother, as I have bought nearly
five hundred of our friends to-day," Chares replied.

Alexander took up the sword from the scales and drew it from its sheath.

"It is a good blade," he said, "and I would not deem its price too high
if your arm was to wield it in my cause."

"Was not that included in the purchase?" Chares asked, surprised.  "I
have made my bargain and I will live up to it."

"No," said Alexander, gently, "I will not have such an arm at a price.
I am no Cyrus to attack the power of Persia with hired weapons.  The
spirit and the hope that goes with us are not to be bought with gold.
Come to me at Pella, if you will, with Clearchus and the Spartan, as
soon as your affairs will permit.  But if you come, let it be of your
free will and not in payment of a debt."

"I will come," Chares said simply.

Day was drawing to a close over the plain where the people of Thebes
had paid the final penalty for their rebellion.  The multitude that had
assembled to witness the last scene was melting away.  Some of the
unfortunates had found friends like Chares to rescue them; but the
greater part of the thousands who were sold that day had become the
property of strangers.  On every side rose the sound of wailing and
lamentation.  Wives clung sobbing to their husbands until torn from
them by their masters.  Children wept for mothers they would see no
more.

In the gathering twilight camp-fires began to glow.  Slave-dealers
bargained and chaffered over their purchases.  Melancholy processions
moved away into the darkness.  Men fettered together gazed back
silently but with bursting hearts upon the dark mass of the Cadmea,
where it rose, black and huge, against the crimson sky.  The air
reverberated with the crash of falling houses and walls as the soldiers
labored by the light of torches to level the city to the earth.  A pall
of dust and smoke hung suspended above them.  Thebes had become a
memory.

The captives purchased by Chares had been led away by his attendants as
fast as each sale was made.  When Alexander and the Macedonian soldiers
moved off he was left alone with Maia.  He had scarcely glanced at her
during his duel with Phradates.  She stood before him now with bent
head, submissively, and he fancied that she was drooping from weariness.

"Come," he said kindly, extending his hand toward her.

The girl did not move, but as he approached she raised the scarf that
hid her face and her eyes met his.

"Thais!" he exclaimed.  "How did you get here?  Where is Maia?"

There was a tone of displeasure in his voice, and the smile faded from
the young woman's lips.

"Maia is safe enough," she returned, raising her head proudly.

"But where is she?" he persisted.

She hesitated and her eyes fell.  A warm flush mounted to her cheeks.

"I bought her place," she murmured, "and you have bought me."

The Theban stared a moment in bewilderment, but as her meaning dawned
upon him he threw back his head and laughed, a little recklessly.
Thais bit her lip and then suddenly burst into tears.




CHAPTER XI

THAIS

Chares sat in the house of Thais in Athens, idly watching the lithe
motions of the tame leopard as it worried an ivory ball.  Its mistress
lay at full length on a low couch of sandalwood looking at the Theban
with eyes half closed.

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" he replied.

"Am I not your slave?" she said softly.  "Have you not ruined yourself
to buy me?"

"That is true," he said, stroking his chin and examining her
reflectively.  "You are my most costly possession!"

"Well?" she insisted.

"And I shall not be here to guard you," he continued.  "Who knows what
may happen?"

She drew through her slender fingers the silken fringe of the crimson
shawl that was twisted about her waist.

"You have not asked me why I went to Thebes," she said at last.

"No," he replied, looking at her inquiringly.

"I wanted to see Maia," she said, looking at him innocently.  "I had
heard so much of her beauty."

"Oh," he said, smiling.  "What did you think of her?"

"I did not see her," Thais replied.  "Is she beautiful?"

"Let me see," Chares said, studying the walls as though in an effort to
remember.  "She has black hair and her eyes too are dark, I think.  Her
forehead is low and broad and her nose is straight.  Perhaps her mouth
might be thought a little too wide, but her chin is beautifully rounded
and her shoulders and neck are perfect.  Yes, I think she might be
called beautiful."

"Chares," Thais said timidly, "do you love her?"

Chares laughed.  "How can a man make love without an obol that he can
call his own?" he replied.

"Are you wholly ruined, then?" she asked.

"I haven't enough left to buy you a singing thrush," he replied gayly.

"But you have me and all that is mine," she said softly.

"Not even you!" he answered.  He drew a scroll from the folds of his
chiton and tossed it into her lap.  She opened it slowly and read a
release legally executed, giving her back her freedom and placing her
in the enjoyment of all her possessions.  Chares watched her with an
expectant smile as her eyes followed the written lines.  When she had
ended, she raised herself on her elbow and gazed earnestly at him for a
moment with dilated eyes.  Then, without a word, she buried her face in
the cushions and her form was shaken with sobs.  As the scroll fell
from her hand the leopard pounced upon it and began tearing it with his
teeth.

"What is the matter with you, Thais?" Chares asked in a tone of
displeasure.

"Why did you buy me?" she replied, without lifting her head.

"To save you from falling into the hands of the Ph[oe]nician, of
course," he replied impatiently.

"Then I wish you had not done it," she sobbed.

"Listen to reason, Thais!" Chares said in a graver tone.  "It is I who
am no longer free.  I have sold my sword and I am in bonds to the
Macedonian."

He paused, but she made no answer, although her weeping ceased.

"Were it not so," he continued, "why should I stay here?  This is not
my city and these are not my people.  I have neither, now that Thebes
is no more.  Clearchus and Leonidas are going with Alexander, as I have
told you.  Would you have me lag behind?  There will be fighting and
danger, glory and spoil.  Shall I not share them?"

"You may be killed," Thais said faintly, showing her tear-stained face.

"Zeus grant that it be not until I have met Phradates on the field of
battle!" he exclaimed.

"Is there nothing, then, that you care for in Athens?" she asked
dolefully.

"Thou knowest well that I love thee, Thais," he replied.  "Thou knowest
that it will tear my heart to leave thee behind.  But it is the Gods
who have decided for us and we have no choice.  Were there no other
reason for my going, Clearchus will have need of me in his search for
Artemisia, and that would be enough to forbid my remaining here."

"Then I will go, too!" Thais cried, leaping from the couch and standing
defiantly before him.

Chares returned her look with an indulgent smile.  Her exquisitely
moulded form was outlined under the clinging folds of her garment.  Her
tiny feet, with their pink little heels, looked as though they had
never rested upon the earth.  Her hair fell about her rounded neck and
dimpled shoulders like spun copper.  Her red lips and pearly teeth
seemed made to feast on dainties.  Physically she was as sensitive and
delicate as a child; but her eyes shone with a fire that betrayed
indomitable spirit.

"What will you do when it snows?" the Theban asked mockingly.

She threw herself down on her knees on the floor beside him, taking his
hand in hers and pressing it against her glowing cheek.

"Chares!  Chares!  My master!  I love thee!" she murmured.  "The blind
God at whose power I laughed so often when I was in his mother's
service has stricken me through the heart.  My soul is naked before
thee.  I cannot have thee leave me.  If thou dost, I shall die.  I will
go to the ends of the earth with thee.  I will suffer hardships to be
near thee.  Thou art all I have.  I am thy slave, and I do not wish to
be free."

Chares felt her tears upon his hand.  He lifted her face and kissed her.

Suddenly she sprang to her feet and began to pace backward and forward
on the many-colored carpet that was spread upon the floor.  The leopard
stopped tearing at the parchment and followed her with his eyes.

"Is it my fault that I am--what I am?" she cried.  "Am I to blame
because my life has not been like that of other women?  They are
shielded from the world and ignorant of what is good and what is bad.
Have I committed a fault in fulfilling the will of the Gods, from whom
there is no escape?  For the evil done by others must I pay the
penalty?"

"Of course not," Chares said consolingly, scarcely knowing what she
meant or how to answer her.  Her passion took him by surprise.  She
stood before him glowing in every limb with youth and beauty, her chin
raised and her lips parted in scorn, as though defying the world to
accuse her.

"Who cast me adrift?" she went on vehemently.  "You talk of going into
Asia to aid Clearchus in his search for Artemisia.  Very well, I will
go with you and search too, for I also wish to find Artemisia.  She is
my sister!"

"What do you mean, Thais?  Are you mad?" Chares exclaimed.

"It is the truth," she replied.  "I forced old Eunomus to tell me only
last night.  He has the proofs and he has promised to deliver them to
me, for a certain sum, of course.  I am the daughter of Theorus, who
caused me to be exposed because I was a girl.  The old pander found me,
as he has found many another in his time, and--and--he made of me what
you see me."

She threw herself once more upon the couch to ease her grief among the
crimson cushions.  Chares knew not what to say.  He distrusted the
story told by Eunomus, for he knew the wretch was capable of doing
anything for money.  But, after all, what if the tale were true?  He
was fond of Thais, of course.  How could a man help being fond of a
young and beautiful woman who loved him?  There was Aspasia, who had
ruled Athens and all Hellas through Pericles.  There was the son of
Phocion, who had actually married a girl no better than Thais.  Still,
what had been could not be changed; and even if Thais was the daughter
of Theorus, that fact could make no difference.

Thais raised her head from the pillows as though she had read his
thoughts.  Her eyes were softened with tears.

"Is it my fault," she pleaded, "that my sister has the love of an
honorable man and will be married to him, while I--I can never hope for
such a marriage?  I know it, Chares, and I do not ask it.  All I ask is
that you will permit me to go with you.  I am tired, since I knew you,
of my life here.  Without meaning to do so, you have opened my eyes to
new things.  I am what I am; but, in spite of all, I am still a
woman--more a woman perhaps, than Artemisia, my sister, whom I have
never seen.  Let me go with you, Chares, to share your dangers and your
glory, to nurse you if you are wounded, and to stand beside your
funeral pyre and watch my heart turn to ashes if you are killed.  I
cannot bear to be left behind.  The weariness and the waiting would
surely kill me.  Let me go with thee, my Life, for I think neither of
us will see Athens again."

Chares felt deep pity for the unfortunate girl stir in his heart.  The
strength of his emotion troubled his careless nature.

"There, there," he said, anxious to pacify her.  "Don't make gloomy
predictions.  You shall come."

She nestled into his arms and laid her head upon his shoulder.

"I shall never know greater happiness," she said, with a sigh of
content; and then, changing her tone, "They say the women of the Medes
are very beautiful.  You will not make me jealous, will you, Chares?"

He laughed and kissed her, looking into her eyes.  "Small need have you
to fear the Medean women!" he said.




CHAPTER XII

MENA READS A LETTER

"They have gone," said Ariston, on his return home one evening.

"Who have gone?" his wife inquired.

"Clearchus and his two friends, Chares and the Spartan," the old man
replied.  "They set out for Pella this afternoon to join the Macedonian
army.  Fortune has smiled upon us once more and I think there will be a
turn in our affairs."

Ariston made no attempt to hide his satisfaction.  His shoulders no
longer stooped, and his step was light.  A hundred schemes were running
through his head for repairing the disasters that had brought him so
low.  For all practical purposes he was again the richest man in
Athens, and with the gold at his command he imagined that it would be
easy for him to regain his feet.

"You must be cautious," Xanthe said anxiously.  "You know that at any
time Clearchus may demand an account."

"Yes, but he will not," Ariston replied, pinching her withered cheek.
"He will never return to trouble us.  I have news of what the Great
King is doing and unless the Gods themselves interfere to save
Alexander, he will be crushed as soon as he has crossed the Hellespont.
The Persians will meet him there in such numbers that there can be no
escape for him.  None who follow him will return.  By Hermes, I feel
almost young again!"

He entered his workroom briskly and sat down at the table.  Producing a
roll of papyrus, he broke the seal, slipped off the wrapping, and
spread the document out before him.

"Iphicrates to Ariston," he read.  "Greeting: I have obeyed your
instructions.  Syphax brought me the girl.  I dismissed him with
promises after she had told me that she had no complaint to make
against him.  I am convinced that he is a rogue and that he will live
to be crucified.  For Artemisia, she remains in my household.  I have
told her that I am awaiting a suitable opportunity to send her back to
Athens; but I have put her off from time to time with excuses.  She has
lost flesh since she came hither, and if she is to be sold, I think it
would be best not to delay too long, as her value will be less than if
she were offered now.  She has written many letters, which I promised
to forward for her.  One of these I send you with this; the others have
been destroyed.

"It is expensive for me to maintain her as you directed.  It has cost
me already one talent and twenty drachmæ, which leaves me in your debt
six talents, eleven drachmæ, and thirty minæ.  Please make this
correction in our account.

"There is talk here that Alexander, the Macedonian, is preparing to
lead an army against this city.  Nobody doubts that he will be
defeated, since Parmenio could accomplish nothing.  Memnon, the
Rhodian, has been here, strengthening the fortifications and exercising
the soldiers, but of this there is no need; for all the armies of
Greece could not take this place, even though they should invest it by
land and sea.  May the Gods keep you in good health!  Farewell."

"He has cheated me out of a talent, at least!" Ariston muttered.  "The
old skinflint!"

He turned his attention to a second roll of papyrus, which had been
enclosed in the first.

"My Beloved," it ran.  "Why hast thou not answered the letters I have
sent thee, or come thyself to take me home?  Clearchus, my Life, I know
thou hast not forgotten me, although it seems ages since I last saw
thee.  Each day I watch and wait for a word from thee, only one little
word, but none has come.  I try to keep up my courage, thinking that
perhaps thou art seeking me elsewhere and that thou hast not received
my letters.  I do not doubt thee, Clearchus, but I am weary of waiting
for thee and my heart is sick.  When shall I hear thy voice and see thy
face again?  I pray each night and morning to Artemis to give thee back
to me.  My love, my love, may the Gods, who know all things, keep thee
safe!  While I live, I am thine.  Farewell."

A smile played about the corners of Ariston's thin lips as he thrust
the papyrus into the flame of the lamp and held it over the brazier
until it was consumed.  He did the same with the epistle that
Iphicrates had sent to him, and then plunged into his accounts.

Xanthe had never been quick-witted, and the monotonous round of her
labors had dulled even her natural perceptions.  At the bottom of her
heart she believed her husband to be the cleverest man in the world.
She did not pretend to fathom his schemes.  The twistings and windings
of his subtle mind confused and bewildered her, and she had no thread
by which to trace the labyrinth.  While she had long ago ceased to try
to follow him, the fact that she did not know all that he was doing
tended to make her suspicious, and her distrust, as is usual with women
of limited intelligence, took the form of jealousy.

In their forty years of married life Ariston had never given her the
slightest cause for such an emotion.  Among his few weaknesses there
was none for women, whom he despised as mere machines or treated as
commodities.  But notwithstanding its lack of result, Xanthe, year
after year, maintained her vigil, ever seeking what she most dreaded to
find.

Of late her husband's cares and advancing age had given her a feeling
of security, but the revival of his spirits at the departure of his
nephew sent her mind back again to the well-worn track.  Could it be
that he was deceiving her after all?

This idea laid siege to her thoughts with recurrent insistence.  What
had she to attract so brilliant a man?  Her mirror showed her a
wrinkled brow and hollow cheeks.  She turned away from it with
bitterness in her heart.  The wonder was that he had ever loved her;
but that was years ago.  She could not blame him if he sought a younger
and fairer companion for his hours of relaxation.  Other men did the
same, and men were all alike.

Tormenting herself with these thoughts, the unfortunate woman passed a
sleepless night, and rose determined to know the worst.  As soon as
Ariston had gone out, she entered his workroom.  Her search brought her
at last to the brazier, where she found the charred fragments of the
letters from Halicarnassus.  Unluckily one corner of Artemisia's
missive to Clearchus had not been wholly burned.  She bore it in
triumph to her own apartments and set herself to the task of
deciphering its contents.  The very fact that her husband had sought to
burn the letter was enough in her excited frame of mind to convince her
that her suspicions were correct.  It remained only to establish the
proof.

She succeeded in making out a few words, but she could derive no
meaning from them.  Study them as she would, her skill failed her.  The
tantalizing thought that knowledge was within her grasp and eluding her
filled her with rage.  She was still puzzling over the fragment when
she was interrupted by a knocking at the door.  On the threshold stood
the sharp-faced Egyptian whom she had so often seen with her husband.

"Is Ariston here?" he demanded.

She told him that her husband was away from home.

"Then I will wait for him," Mena returned coolly, pushing past her into
the house.  "He told me to see him without fail and he will soon be
here."

There was no help for it now that he was inside the house.  Xanthe led
him to a bench beside the cistern and gave him fruit and wine.  The
thought occurred to her that he might be able to read the riddle that
had baffled her.  There could be no harm in showing him the fragment,
she reasoned, since it could tell him nothing, although to her it could
reveal so much.  The temptation was strong, and after all the
opportunity was too good to be lost.

"Can you read this for me?" she asked, placing the blackened papyrus
before him.

He took it up and studied it curiously.

"Where did you find it?" he demanded, shifting his beadlike eyes
quickly to hers.

"The wind blew it into the court, here," she stammered, taken aback by
the question.  "I wondered what it might be."

His glance continued to rest upon her face for an instant before it
went back to the fragment.  It was easy enough for him to read them
both, and a malicious smile twitched his mouth as he understood that
Ariston had a jealous wife.  The idea struck him as distinctly
ridiculous.  More in idleness than with any direct purpose, excepting
that of making mischief, he determined to humor her mood.

"It is difficult to understand," he said, looking carefully at the
papyrus, "as it seems to have been burned.  But here it says: 'When
shall I hear thy voice and see thy face?' and here: 'While I live, I am
thine.'  It sounds like a poet, but the writing is that of a woman.
You seem to have surprised some romantic love affair.  You probably
have some amorous youth among your neighbors whom a girl is foolish
enough to adore."

Xanthe's forebodings had suddenly become realities.  Ariston, then, was
deceiving her, and she had not been mistaken in him.  Of that, she was
now certain.  He had probably always deceived her and she had been a
fool ever to believe him.  Her world seemed coming to an end.

"Why do you say that the letter was sent to a young man?" she asked.
"Might it not have been an old one?"

"I dare say," the Egyptian replied carelessly.  "Old men are often the
worst in these matters."

"This girl, whoever she may be, seems very much in love with him,"
Xanthe remarked.

"No doubt," Mena said, watching her with increasing amusement, "and
probably he has a wife of his own.  Why else should he burn the letter?"

Xanthe winced at this thrust, although she had no idea that Mena had
fathomed what was in her mind.  "At any rate, he cannot marry her," she
said, as though thinking aloud.

"The old one might die, you know," Mena suggested.  "Such things have
been known to happen at the right moment."

These words were accompanied by a look so full of meaning that poor
Xanthe felt a chill of apprehension.  She did not trust herself to say
more, but carried away the fragment to her own room, where she
concealed it.

Mena's hint had fallen upon fertile ground.  She went over the
situation again and again in her mind, coming always to the same
conclusion.  That Ariston was carrying on an intrigue with some girl
was now certain; for it never occurred to her that the letter might not
have been intended for him.  It seemed certain to her also that her
husband would seek to rid himself of her so that he might marry her
rival.  Mena was right.  Such things had happened more than once and
poison was the easiest way.  If she should die, who was there to ask
what had caused her death?  Nobody.  She began to take infinite
precautions regarding her food, tasting nothing that she had not
herself prepared; yet she felt that she was in hourly danger in spite
of all she could do.  When nothing happened to her, she concluded that
her husband's failure to attempt her life was due solely to the fact
that his plans were not yet ripe.  When all was ready, he would kill
her and flee with Clearchus' fortune to some distant land, where he
could meet the abandoned creature upon whom his affections had fallen.
She knew only too well that he was capable of anything in the
furtherance of his selfish schemes.  Thus her folly led her on until at
last she came to regard her imaginings as truth confirmed.  But if she
was to be murdered, she thought, at least she would prevent him from
enjoying the fruit of his wickedness.  She would write to Clearchus and
tell him all.

When she had reached this conclusion, she lost no time in carrying it
into execution.  But it was long since she had used the stylus and she
was forced to confine herself to the barest outline of what she wished
to say.  After many failures, she finally produced the following:--

"Clearchus: Iphicrates has Artemisia in Halicamassus.  My husband is a
beast who wants to poison me.  If you hear that I am dead, you will
know why, and I hope you will see that he is punished.  Go to
Halicamassus, and when you get her, keep her safe.  Iphicrates is a
wicked man and he should be killed.  If my husband does not poison me,
make no accusation against him."

Xanthe sealed this letter and hid it away until a chance should offer
to send it to her nephew.  She felt much easier, as though the fact
that she had written it were in some way surety for her safety.
Several weeks passed before she found the opportunity for which she had
been looking.  At last she learned that Callias, son of a widow of her
acquaintance, had joined a mercenary troop that was being raised in
Athens.  She gave the letter to his mother to be delivered to Clearchus
in Pella, but Callias, having received part of his pay in advance,
could not tear himself away from his friends in Athens until the gold
was spent.  Consequently the letter was not delivered until after
Macedon and Persia had met at the Granicus.




CHAPTER XIII

THE UNQUENCHABLE FIRE

It was a clear, bright spring day when the three friends rode into
Pella.  The new sap was beginning to swell the buds, and the fresh
green of the grass was gleaming hopefully on sunny slopes.  Chares had
been singing snatches of love songs since early morning when they set
out on the last stage of their journey.  Even Clearchus forgot his
anxiety in the thought that he was drawing nearer to Artemisia, and the
grim Leonidas had smiled more than once at the sallies of the
light-hearted Theban.

In the Macedonian capital on every side was the stir of animation and
preparation.  Recruits were being drilled for the army.  Messengers
were hastening hither and thither.  Ambassadors were coming and going
with their trains.  They gazed with admiration at the solid buildings,
designed with a stately magnificence which, in its own way, was as
impressive as the marble embodiments of Athenian genius.  Everywhere
were the evidences of a young and strong people, buoyant,
self-confident, energetic, and fearless.  No idlers blocked the
streets.  Every man had something to do and was doing it.  The tide of
vigorous life flowed strong through the city as in the veins of a young
oak tree.

It was not strange that Pella should have swarmed with activity on that
day in spring.  Within the boundaries of the rugged little state, half
Hellenic and half barbarian, a vast project, supported by a sublime
confidence, was taking shape.  It had been formed and nursed by the
crafty and far-seeing Philip, whether as a possibility or as a stroke
of policy to bring Hellas under his control none could say.  Now it had
suddenly become a reality.  The great empire of Persia, which covered
the world from the shores of the Euxine to the sources of the Nile, and
from the Ægean to limits undefined, beyond the regions of mystery
through which the Indus flowed, was to be invaded.  It had endured for
centuries as an immense and impregnable power.  Fierce tribes dwelt in
the fastnesses of its snow-clad mountains, numberless caravans crept
across its scorching deserts, gigantic cities flourished upon its
fertile plains.  Nations were lost among the uncounted millions of its
population.  Its wealth surpassed the power of imagining, and about the
throne of the Great King, whose slightest wish was the unchangeable law
of all this vast dominion, stood tens of thousands of the bravest
warriors in the world, ready at a sign to lay down their lives for him.

What had Persia to fear from the handful of peasants turned soldiers
who had made a boy their king?  Why should Darius feel any uneasiness
concerning the projects of a rash young man who already owed more than
he could pay?  To be sure, he had made himself the Hegemon of Hellas,
with the exception of Sparta, but everybody knew that he had forced the
older states to bestow the title upon him against their will and that
they were waiting only until his back should be turned to fall upon
him.  With the slender resources at his command, how could he hope to
hold Greece in subjection and at the same time to subdue an empire
which had more Hellenic mercenaries alone upon its pay-roll than the
sum total of his entire army?  Surely, the Great King must be himself
despised if he did not look with contempt upon such mad ambition.

Something of the force of this reasoning assailed the mind of Clearchus
as he lay down that night on the hard pallet that had been assigned to
him by Ptolemy in the barracks of the Companion Cavalry.  The immensity
of the obstacles to be overcome oppressed him, and he began once more
to doubt whether, after all, there could be any hope of success for the
young king.  He fell asleep, to see in his dreams the pale face of
Artemisia framed in her unbound hair.

His mind was still clouded with misgiving when he went next morning
with Chares and Leonidas to pay his respects at the palace; but they
were dispelled like mists before the morning sun when he stood face to
face with Alexander.  In the inspiring presence of the young leader no
doubts could live.  He radiated confidence as a fire radiates warmth.
Every glance of his sympathetic eyes, every tone of his voice, revealed
a certainty of the future that was beyond peradventure.

The palace was the centre of the activity that was filling the city.
Generals and captains, agents, princes, hostages, ambassadors, and
messengers swarmed in its halls.  Here stood the gray-haired Antipater,
who had been appointed by Alexander regent of Macedon and guardian of
Greece during his absence, talking with citizens of Corinth who had
come to consult him concerning proposed changes in their civil
government.  There was old Parmenio, fresh from his campaign in Mysia,
giving his orders for the disposition of a company of mercenaries who
had arrived that morning.

There were travellers from the Far East, who had been summoned to tell
what they knew of the cities, rivers, and mountains through which the
Macedonian march would lie and of the character of the peoples who were
to be encountered.  There were contractors for horses and supplies
anxious to provide the army with subsistence.  There were soothsayers
and philosophers, slaves, attendants, and courtiers; and among them
all, with banter, jest, and laughter, walked the young nobles of
Macedon, bosom friends of the king, who had defied Philip for his sake
and were now reaping their reward.  There were Hephæstion, son of
Amyntas, Philotas, son of Parmenio, Clitus, Crateras, Polysperchon,
Demetrius, Ptolemy, and a score of others, in spirits as brave as their
attire, as though they were about to start upon a holiday excursion
instead of a desperate venture into the unknown.

Alexander recognized the three friends immediately and gave them
cordial greeting.

"So you have come to follow the Whirlwind," he said, laughing, as
though the simile pleased him.  "It will soon be launched now."

"We have come to take any service that you may give us," Chares replied.

"You are enrolled in the Companion Cavalry," Alexander informed them.

They gave him their thanks for this mark of favor, for the Companions
contained the flower of the kingdom, young men of distinguished
families, who were admitted freely into Alexander's confidence as his
friends.

"I have just been giving away the security for my debts," Alexander
said, smiling at Chares.  "I saw you spend your last obol to purchase
the liberty of your friends at Thebes.  You trusted to the chance of
war to bring your fortune back to you, but I have gone further than
you, for I have staked my honor.  As you see me, I am worth some
thirteen hundred talents less than nothing."

"But what have you left for yourself?" the Theban asked.

"My hopes," Alexander replied.

"They say the Medes have gold in plenty," Leonidas observed
reflectively.

"Never fear," Alexander replied, laughing.  "What are our debts of
to-day in comparison with our riches of to-morrow?  The Companions are
all following my example.  We set out with only our swords and our
courage--and our golden hope!"

Again he laughed, and calling Philotas to him he turned to Clearchus.

"The queen, my mother," he said, "has heard the story of Artemisia and
of what they told you at Delphi.  She desires to see you.  Philotas
will take you to her."

Philotas led the way through courts and colonnades to the women's wing
of the palace, where Olympias held sway.  As they went, Clearchus
recalled all he had heard of Alexander's mother--how it was averred
that a great serpent was her familiar, and the tales of her passionate
and revengeful nature that had caused her to order the babe of
Cleopatra, who had supplanted her in the affections of her husband, to
be torn from the arms of its mother and killed in her sight before she
herself was slain.  He had heard also of her devotion to religious
mysteries and especially of her skill in the secret rites of the
Egyptian magicians.

As they neared the queen's apartments, Clearchus was astonished to hear
a woman's voice raised in anger, followed by the sound of blows and
pitiful cries for mercy.  He paused in embarrassment, but Philotas drew
him on.

"Do not be disturbed," said his guide; "the queen is probably
chastising one of her slaves."

He ushered the young Athenian into a large room furnished with
luxurious magnificence.  Before them stood Olympias, with a rod of
ebony in her grasp, and at her feet upon the silken carpet crouched a
weeping girl with bare white shoulders, marked with red where the rod
had fallen.  The queen turned upon them with blazing anger in her great
black eyes and the wrathful color on her cheeks.

"Who enters here unbidden?" she demanded sternly, and then in a milder
tone she added: "Is it you, Philotas?  These girls will kill me yet
with their stupidity.  I wish I could drown them all in the sea!  Ah!"

She swung up the rod and brought it down upon a great vase of
Ph[oe]nician glass, which flew into a thousand fragments.  She laughed
and threw the rod from her.

"There, now I feel better!" she exclaimed, drawing a long breath.  "You
may go, Chloe.  Dry your eyes, child; you shall have your freedom.  Who
is this whom you have brought me, Philotas?"

"It is Clearchus, the Athenian, whom the king sends," Philotas answered.

"I remember," she said quickly, turning to Clearchus.  "You were robbed
of your sweetheart.  Do you love her very much?"

"I love her better than my life," Clearchus replied simply.

"Will you never grow weary of her and cast her off, as Philip did me?"
she persisted.

"If I find her, I will never willingly let her go out of my sight
again," the young man declared.

"But did not the Pythia tell you that you would find her if you
followed my son?" she inquired.

"The oracle instructed me to follow the Whirlwind," Clearchus said,

"Tell me about it," Olympias commanded, seating herself upon a couch.
She made him relate his experience with the oracle in the minutest
detail, asking many questions that indicated her lively curiosity.  She
then inquired of Artemisia's personal appearance, her age, and family.

"Wait here for me," she said finally, and left them alone in the room.

"She seems hardly older than Alexander," Clearchus remarked.

"Appearances are sometimes deceitful," Philotas replied dryly,
"especially when they are assisted by art."

The queen was absent for more than half an hour.  She seemed tired when
she returned.

"I have consulted the Gods," she said, "and you will find her if your
heart remains true and strong.  The priestess of Apollo told the truth."

"I thank you for giving me this consolation," Clearchus said eagerly,
hoping that she would tell him more; but she began pacing thoughtfully
backward and forwar

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