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 forward, with bent head, apparently forgetful of his
presence.
Suddenly she stopped before him and smiled, rather wistfully he
thought. He almost fancied that there were tears under the fringe of
her dark lashes. "Farewell," she said. "May the Gods protect you--and
Alexander, my son."
She resumed her walk, and the young man left the apartment in silence.
Clearchus tried in vain to analyze the strange impression that she had
made upon him, but for many days her smile, half sad, and her
mysterious dark eyes, with the living spark in their depths, continued
to haunt him.