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.