THAIS AND ARTEMISIA
Through her window in the house of Iphicrates in Halicarnassus,
Artemisia could see the blue waters of the harbor and beyond them the
massive gray walls of the Royal Citadel. For weeks she had watched the
merchant ships coming and going, bringing their freights from Tyre and
Egypt and even from beyond the Pillars of Heracles, and many times had
her eyes filled with tears at the thought that perhaps one or another
of them might be bound for the Piræus. She imagined Clearchus
questioning the master and the sailors on their arrival at the port of
Athens, seeking to learn from them whether they had seen in their
wanderings the ship that had borne her away.
At times her sorrow was made more bitter by doubts that forced
themselves upon her mind in spite of her repeated resolve not to admit
them. They whispered that Clearchus had given her up for lost and had
forgotten her. Perhaps at first, they said, he had been eager in his
search; but when all his efforts were in vain and he could find no
trace of her, he had become gradually resigned to her loss, occupied as
he was with the cares of his estate. Why else had he paid no heed to
her letters?
When such evil ideas tormented her, Artemisia could no longer endure
the sight of the glancing sails and the quivering waters of the harbor.
She hid her face in her hands and her embroidery slipped unheeded to
the floor.
But always she put the black thoughts from her and turned again to her
faith in her lover. He was brave and true. It could not be that he
had forgotten. It must be that her letters had never reached him.
Then she pictured him wandering in distant lands in search of her, or
sailing from city to city in hope of finding the men who had taken her
away. When in this mood, she would watch every sail as it emerged from
the misty distance in the belief that it might be bringing him to her
at last. But as the days went by her cheeks lost their roundness and
shadows darkened beneath her eyes. Her gaze grew more wistful and
unconsciously more hopeless as she looked out upon the harbor, and more
and more her hands lay idle in her lap.
Day after day her thoughts trod the same round. "He will come to-day,"
she said to herself in the morning. "Surely, to-day he is coming."
Her pulses quickened at every footfall, and she started at every
strange voice. When twilight fell and he had not come she whispered to
herself: "He will come to-morrow!" but to-morrow faded into yesterday
and he came not.
Gradually her gentle spirit lost its courage and its hope under the
repeated buffets of disappointment. She drooped like a flower whose
roots can find no water, and even her nightly prayer to Artemis, the
Virgin Goddess, failed at last to bring peace to her troubled mind.
One morning she was aroused from the lethargy into which she had fallen
by a change in the scene with which she had become so monotonously
familiar. Instead of the usual merchant ships, the harbor was filled
with warlike vessels with brazen beaks and banks of oars on either
side. The wharves were covered with soldiers in armor. Hundreds of
men were unloading bales and boxes which were being carried to the
Acropolis, to the Citadel of Salmacis, or to the Royal Citadel.
The streets were filled with strange men, some of them wearing cloaks
of gay color, with plumed helmets, others in shining coats of mail,
with swords at their sides. Throughout the city rose the hum of
activity and the bustle of preparation. Artemisia, ignorant of the
invasion of Alexander, wondered what the reason could be. She imagined
that the barbarians might be planning another attack upon Greece, and
she reflected that this might bring Clearchus into danger. All her
thoughts and all her hopes centred in him.
In the midst of her conjectures some one knocked at her door. She had
found it necessary to keep it fastened as a precaution against the
unexpected entrances of Iphicrates. He came into the room with a smile
on his fat face, glancing furtively from side to side out of his
restless little eyes, which always reminded her of the eyes of a pig.
He sat down wheezing from the exertion of his climb. His neck carried
a triple roll of fat at the back and his bullet head looked like a mere
knob affixed to the shapeless mass of his body.
Artemisia attributed to his unfortunate physical appearance the
nameless aversion that she felt for him, and she sought to overcome it,
for he had always been considerate of her.
"City is full of soldiers," he gasped, wiping his forehead.
"Is there to be war?" Artemisia asked.
"They say Alexander will try to cross the Hellespont," he replied,
attempting a shrug.
"And will he come here?" she inquired.
He caught the eagerness in her voice and his eyes grew cunning among
their wrinkles. "Perhaps," he replied. "Who can tell? These Asiatic
dogs laugh at him, but they may find themselves mistaken. We Greeks
know how to fight."
"Why are they sending their army here?" she persisted.
"It is Memnon of Rhodes," he told her. "He is a great general, but the
Persians do not trust him. He is on his way to the north with his
troops."
"Can you not send me back to Athens before the war begins?" Artemisia
pleaded.
"My dear child," he exclaimed with a gesture of despair, "it is
impossible. All my plans have failed. The war has already begun. The
Persian fleet holds the sea, and if you attempted to leave now, you
would be captured and sold as a slave. You know how I have tried to
grant your wish. Only yesterday I thought that at last I had found the
vessel for which I had been looking, and I had hoped to earn your
gratitude. But now--all is at an end while the war lasts. If they
overthrow the Macedonians in the north, it will be short."
"I do not wish it," Artemisia said decisively. "I prefer to remain
here. I hope that Alexander will win, and when he comes, I shall be
free."
"You are free now," Iphicrates said reproachfully. "You know that I
have kept you in seclusion only for your own safety and that I have
done all I could do to console you."
"Yes, yes; I know," she replied hastily. "I have no complaint to make
against you. You have tried to be kind."
"If the Macedonians should come after all, you may be able to repay
me," Iphicrates continued, reaching the real purpose of his visit. "In
time of war men are likely to judge hastily, and it may be that old
Iphicrates will have to look to you for protection as you have looked
to him."
"What have you to fear?" Artemisia asked in surprise. "And why do you
think that I may be able to protect you?"
"It is possible that some of your countrymen may be with the army," he
replied evasively. "But they may not come here, even if they win in
the north."
He rose with some difficulty from his chair. "Is there anything you
want?" he inquired. "You know that if I can give it to you, you have
only to ask."
"There is nothing," Artemisia said, and the mockery of her answer
struck her to the heart.
Artemisia's mind was diverted for a time by the activity in the city,
which seemed at least to portend a change; but soon the novelty wore
off, and although the soldiers did not go away, she fell once more into
the listless mood against which she found it so difficult to struggle.
When she least expected it, the change came. A disturbance arose in
the narrow street before the house which led up from the harbor. There
was a medley of cries and shouting, and Artemisia, leaning from her
window, saw the street below her filled with a throng of men who had
met in conflicting currents at the turn of the way. In the midst of
the press lay a litter, whose gilded frame was curtained with crimson
silk. It had been overturned by collision with a chariot in which one
of the generals had been proceeding toward the harbor. Beside the
litter Artemisia saw the form of a young woman. Her robe was of
shimmering saffron, and her copper-colored hair, broken from its coil,
lay spread upon the pavement.
While she looked, the general, whose chariot had been the cause of the
mishap, descended and stood beside the prostrate figure. Glancing
about him in evident embarrassment, his eyes met her own as she leaned
from the casement. Brief as the meeting was, she felt the piercing
power and directness of his glance. He turned quickly to his escort
and gave a brief command, motioning toward the house of Iphicrates as
he spoke. As he resumed his place in his chariot, the soldiers lifted
the unconscious woman into the litter and bore it to the door of the
house, followed by a curious crowd.
Artemisia heard them enter and the sound of voices, among which she
recognized that of Iphicrates raised in whining protest.
"I have no room for her here," he cried.
"Then you will make room," was the rough reply. "It is Memnon who
gives the order, do you understand? He directed that the young woman
who lives here should care for her. Where is she?"
"There is no young woman here," Iphicrates replied glibly. "The
general must have been mistaken."
"Lying will not help you," the soldier replied. "I saw her myself.
Call her quickly if you want to save your skin."
Artemisia did not wait to be summoned. She descended the stairs and
went in among the soldiers.
"Carry her to the room above, and I will see that she is cared for,"
she said quietly.
The young captain to whom the execution of Memnon's order had been
entrusted looked at her with frank admiration.
"By Zeus!" he said, "I wish I had been run over myself. Take her up,
litter and all," he added to his men, "and be quick about it."
With some difficulty the soldiers carried the litter with its burden up
the staircase.
"If he makes any trouble for you on account of this, report it to the
general," the captain said to Artemisia, indicating Iphicrates with a
nod. "And tell her when she recovers," he continued, nodding toward
the litter, "that Memnon desired to express his regrets."
Without waiting for an answer, he wheeled and tramped down the stairs,
followed by his men. Artemisia was already bending over the young
woman. There was a bruise where the back of her head had struck the
pavement, but otherwise she seemed to have escaped unhurt. Her
wonderfully thick hair had evidently broken the force of the blow. She
recovered her senses at the first touch of the cold water with which
Artemisia bathed her temples.
"Where am I?" she asked, opening her eyes.
"You are safe and with friends," Artemisia assured her.
"Am I much hurt?" she asked, without attempting to move.
"I think not," Artemisia said. "Your head is bruised."
"Is my face scarred?" was the next question.
"It is not even scratched," Artemisia replied, smiling.
The strange woman's lips parted in a responsive smile. "Then it might
have been worse," she said.
With Artemisia's assistance she walked to a couch, where the young girl
made her comfortable with pillows. Presently, under Artemisia's
ministrations, she fell asleep. Artemisia sat watching her even
breathing and wondering who she could be. A great ruby flamed upon her
finger, and heavy chains of gold encircled her white throat. Her tiny
feet were shod with silken sandals and her yellow chiton disclosed the
rounded grace of her delicate limbs and the willowy suppleness of her
figure. She must be some great lady, in spite of her youth, Artemisia
thought, innocently, and she felt drawn to her in a manner that she
hardly understood. If only she would stay, she would be a friend in
whom confidence might be placed and whose sympathy would be a help.
But of course she would go away as soon as she was able to move.
Artemisia sighed in her loneliness.
When the stranger woke, however, she seemed in no hurry to go. She
declared that the pain in her head had left her, and, turning lazily on
her side, she studied her surroundings.
"Whose house is this?" she asked.
"It belongs to Iphicrates," Artemisia said.
"To Iphicrates?" the strange woman replied with sudden interest and in
evident astonishment. "And--are you his daughter?"
"No; I am of Athens; my name is Artemisia," the girl replied.
Her companion's head fell back among the pillows and her gaze rested
upon Artemisia's face. So intent was the look that Artemisia grew
uncomfortable under it.
"Why do you look at me so strangely?" she asked at last.
"Pardon me," the other replied, letting her eyes fall. "I have heard
of you."
"Then you, too, are of Athens?" the girl cried joyfully, throwing
herself on her knees beside the couch and taking the strange woman's
hand. "You have heard of Clearchus? Is he--living?"
"He is living, and he loves thee," the stranger replied, as though
reading what was in her mind.
A great gladness rushed through Artemisia's being. An immeasurable
load was suddenly lifted from her heart. She put her face down upon
the edge of the couch and wept for sheer gratitude. The strange woman
said nothing, but her hand rested lightly on the soft brown hair, and
she stroked the bent head with gentle fingers.
The door opened without noise, and the bulk of Iphicrates advanced
gradually into the room. As his cunning eyes took in the scene before
him an anxious look overspread his face.
"I came to see if you were better," he muttered, in a tone of apology.
The strange woman raised her body slightly on the couch and extended
her hand toward the door.
"Go!" she said briefly.
Iphicrates hesitated and cleared his throat, trying to meet the
scornful gaze directed upon him. Finally he mustered up his courage
with an effort.
"This is my house," he said doggedly.
"Go," the stranger repeated in a tone of unutterable contempt. "Must I
speak again?"
Iphicrates slowly turned and went, slinking from the room before the
blaze of her anger like a beaten hound.
"Why are you so hard upon him?" Artemisia asked.
"Because he deserves it," the stranger said. "Has he not held you
captive here?"
"Who art thou who knowest so much of my affairs?" the girl demanded
suddenly.
"I am thy--" The word "sister" trembled upon her tongue, but she
checked it. "I am thy protectress," she said. "Men call me Thais."
A blush rose to her cheek as she uttered the name and felt the clear
blue eyes of the young girl upon her own.
"Thais?" Artemisia repeated, searching in her memory. "I have heard
the name in Athens, but I forget when and where. I think they said you
were beautiful, and indeed you are."
"Is that all they said of me?" Thais returned.
"I think that is all; I do not remember more," Artemisia replied.
Thais felt relieved. Her sister would learn soon enough who and what
she was. She hoped that when the knowledge came Artemisia would love
her enough to grant her forgiveness. She had broken with her old life.
Why drag it with her wherever she went?
"Why did you come here?" Artemisia continued.
"I came in search of you, and the Gods have given you to me," Thais
said.
Artemisia nestled beside her companion on the broad couch while Thais
told her of all that had happened in Athens since she had been carried
away by Syphax and his crew. In her narration she omitted the feast in
the house of Clearchus and passed lightly over details that might have
given Artemisia a clew to her identity. She described Clearchus'
despair at her loss and his vain effort to find some trace of her. She
told how he had consulted the oracle and of her own adventure in Thebes
when Chares had given his fortune to save her from Phradates. Then the
young men had joined the army and left her alone in Athens.
"Chares consented that I should meet him here," she went on. "He said
that women would not be allowed to follow the army to its first battle.
It is there the greatest danger lies; for if they win there, they will
hold all the western provinces of the Persian empire."
"And if they lose?" Artemisia asked anxiously.
"If they lose," Thais replied slowly, "then we shall return to Athens.
But they will not. The Gods are faithful to their promises. I had
intended to wait until the battle had been fought, but Mena, the same
who set Phradates upon me in Thebes, found me out. From him I
discovered that you were here in the care of Iphicrates, and I came."
Artemisia kissed her. "I would have died if you had not come," she
said simply. "But how did Mena know where I was?"
"He would not tell me and I did not wait to learn," Thais said.
"Will he not find out where you have gone and inform Phradates?" the
young girl suggested. "Would it not be better to leave this house and
conceal ourselves somewhere?"
"I have thought of that," Thais replied. "I cannot leave the city,
since I am to meet Chares here; and if we were to go to some other
house, Iphicrates would know where we were. The Rhodian general sent
me here and Iphicrates fears me. As for Phradates," Thais smiled
slightly, "we need not try to avoid him, for he loves me. He is my
slave."
"Do you love Chares much?" Artemisia asked.
Thais threw her arms around her and crushed her in a fierce embrace.
"Love him!" she cried. "To the last drop of my blood--in every fibre
of my body! He is my God! If I lay dead before him, my eyes would see
him, as they do now."
"I think you love him as much as I love Clearchus, only differently,"
Artemisia said. "Does he love you?"
"As much as he can," Thais replied. "There will always be more of the
boy than the man in him; but he loves me more than any other."
Thais rose and went to the litter, where, from its hiding place among
the cushions, she drew forth a bag of leather which she emptied upon
the couch. Artemisia uttered a cry of delight. Rubies, emeralds,
diamonds, sapphires, and gems of turquoise lay spread before her in a
glittering heap.
"There is our fortune," Thais said. "We shall not want, at least for
the present."