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.