CHARES FINDS REST
Again Alexander and Darius stood face to face, this time upon the plain
of Nineveh at Gaugamela, the Camel's House, beyond the swift Tigris.
Chares and Leonidas felt the chill of autumn in the air as they
strolled out upon the earthen ramparts that sheltered the Macedonian
camp. The wide plain below them, where they knew the Persian host was
assembled, was shrouded in mist.
Both were silent, and both were thinking of Clearchus, whom they had
left behind in Egypt, in the new city that Alexander had founded at the
mouth of the Nile, giving it his own name. There he was building the
house that was to shelter him and Artemisia amid its gardens, within
sight and sound of the sea; for when he learned of the wreck of his
fortune, he had no desire to return to Athens.
"We shall soon know who is master," the Spartan said, gazing toward the
mist-wrapped plain.
Chares followed his look indifferently, yawned, and stretched his arms.
"I believe I would rather go back to sleep than fight," he said. "I
don't know what has come over me."
Leonidas shot him a quick glance, and it seemed to him that the
Theban's face had aged and grown grave over night.
"I wonder what Clearchus and Artemisia and little Chares are doing,"
Chares went on. "I would like to see them again. May the Gods give
them happiness!"
"Yes, and I shall be happy too when you have built your palace beside
them," Leonidas replied. "It will have to be a palace, for Thais will
be satisfied with nothing less."
Chares smiled a little sadly and shook his head.
"That is not for me," he said. "I shall never have a home and children
of my own."
"Nonsense!" the Spartan replied decisively. "What is to become of
Thais, then?"
"I know not," Chares said reflectively. "Watch over her, Leonidas, if
I am not there to do it. She loves me."
"You talk like a sick man," Leonidas exclaimed, "yet you were never
better. What is the matter with you?"
"Who can speak of to-morrow?" Chares replied. "You know, Leonidas,
that I am not afraid, and yet somehow I care not. You and Clearchus I
must leave sometime, and whenever that time comes, it will be a regret
to me; and Thais, of course, will grieve; but she will recover. She is
not like Artemisia. I think something is lacking in me. I have taken
pleasure in life, but I am tired of everything. My city exists no
more. Perhaps I am being punished for taking service under the man who
destroyed it. I do not know--or care. Let be what will be."
"When you hear the trumpet, you will forget all this folly," Leonidas
said impatiently. "You are young and you have everything to live for.
That palace will be built yet; and when our heads are gray, we shall be
sitting there, telling each other of this battle. See, they are
waiting for us. They have been there all night."
The mist was lifting in undulating billows and twisted scarfs of vapor,
floating away into the upper air. Before them was mustered the might
of the greatest empire the world had ever seen. Away to the left and
right spread the army of the Great King, a wilderness of bright plumes
and glittering helmets. The spear-points, emerging from the mist,
caught the rays of the sun like diamonds. Rank on rank they stood, so
deep that the young men could not distinguish where the files ceased.
Far on their right was the Bactrian cavalry and the Persian horse under
the cruel viceroy Bessus, who had unwittingly saved Chares and
Clearchus from the Babylonian mob. They could make out the banners of
the Susians, the Albanians, the Hyrcanians, the fierce Parthians, the
Syrians, the Arachotians, the Cadusians, the Babylonian levies, the
haughty Medes, the dusky squadrons from beyond the Indus, the warriors
from the shores of the Red Sea, the Mesopotamians, the Armenians, the
Cappadocians, and the mongrel tribes of mixed blood. From the
flaunting banners they could read the muster-roll of the nations that
bowed to the will of Darius.
In advance of the first rank stood a line of huge, swaying brown bulks.
They were the royal elephants, stationed there to drive a pathway
through the Macedonian army for the Great King. Leonidas wondered at
their number and size. On both sides of them stretched rows of
chariots, with axles and neaps that terminated in long, curved
scythe-blades. Behind the elephants was the royal squadron of ten
thousand picked riders, and in its rear Darius had stationed himself,
surrounded by his kinsmen, and protected on either side by bodies of
Greek mercenaries. All the plain in front of the vast array had been
made as level as a floor, so that the chariots might find no obstacle
in their advance.
"This will be the last battle," Chares said indifferently. "If we win
here, the empire is ours."
"We shall win!" Leonidas exclaimed.
"I'm not so sure of that," Chares said, measuring the host of the enemy
with his eye. "There are more of them than there were at Issus, and
here they have room to move."
A trumpet sent its bold notes from the Macedonian camp. The call was
taken up by others, rose, and died away. Presently the first squadron
of the phalanx wheeled out upon the plain, and began marching slowly
and in silence down the gentle slope toward the Persian van.
"We must get into our armor," Chares said, and the two friends hastened
down from the rampart.
The camp was swarming like a great beehive. Rough shouts of greeting,
jests, and salutations were heard on every side as the soldiers hurried
to join their commands. The army was in high spirits at the prospect
of a decisive grapple, but the heaviness that oppressed Chares' mind
refused to yield to the general enthusiasm. He made his way through
the crowds to the purple pavilion set apart for Sisygambis, the mother
of Darius, and his children. The beautiful Statira was no longer
there. She had died in her captivity.
"I wish to speak with Thais," Chares said to the eunuch who guarded the
door.
He was admitted to an anteroom of the tent while a slave carried his
message. Thais answered the summons quickly. A proud smile parted her
lips when she saw the powerful form of the Theban, clad in resplendent
armor; but it vanished when she looked into his face.
He took her hands and bent down to kiss her, while the plumes of his
helmet fell about their heads.
"I have but a moment," he said. "Farewell, Thais; you have loved me
better than I deserved."
"Chares!" she exclaimed, with a sinking of the heart that caused her
voice to flutter. "Why do you speak to me like this? I have loved you
and I do love you with all my heart--with all my heart! Never have I
loved another, and I never shall. Without you I should die!"
She stood on tiptoe and threw her arms around his neck. "You are all I
have!" she cried, with a sob.
"Thais," he said, holding her close, "if I come not back to you,
promise me that you will accept what the Gods send. They are wiser
than we."
To Thais it seemed as though the world was slipping away from her. He
had gone to battle before, and she well knew its chances; but he was so
brave and strong that she had never really feared for him and for
herself. What would become of her without him? She remembered what
she had been before she knew him. The future would be worse than a
void. The thought of it stabbed her heart like a knife.
"If you come not back!" she cried, clinging to him with all her
strength. "But you will come back, Chares--tell me that you will!
Tell me that you will come back for my sake. I cannot let you go!"
"I will come back if the Gods permit it," he said, kissing her once
more, "but promise me, my love, for the time is short."
A trumpet sounded, and Thais understood that he must leave her.
"I promise," she said hastily, "but, O my heart, guard thyself in the
battle; for it is thy life and mine thou bearest!"
She felt his arms press her closely and tenderly, and then he was gone.
She turned slowly back to the inner rooms of the pavilion, where the
queen mother sat with her little grandson in her lap. Sisygambis had
taken a fancy to her, especially since the death of her
daughter-in-law, whom Thais had tended in her illness. She turned her
face toward her, stamped with traces of sorrow.
"What is happening?" she asked.
"They are marching out to battle," Thais replied.
"My son is there!" the queen said. "May Astoreth have him in her care.
But whichever way the battle goes, either I or thou must weep. Our
hearts are their playthings!"
As the Companions emerged from the camp, they passed through the ranks
of the Thracian infantry, left behind to protect it, and saw the
phalanx forming on the plain. They swung into the battle line on its
right, behind the archers and the javelin men. The Persians overlapped
them on both flanks by half a mile.
Never had Chares seen Alexander so confidently at ease as when he rode
along the line in his bright armor, his white plumes nodding as he
looked to see that all was in readiness. His eye was clear and his
brow was untroubled in the face of those tremendous odds, although he
knew that his fate depended upon the issue of that day. He took his
place beside Clitus on the extreme right wing of the army, with the
squadrons of Glaucias behind him.
There was a stir in the Persian host, and the terrible scythed
chariots, drawn by horses that were lashed to madness, bounded forward
across the interval that separated the two armies. At the same time
the elephants began to move, and the Persian centre advanced to the
attack.
Chares had hardly time to note this movement before the Bactrian and
Scythian cavalry under Bessus swept down upon the Companions.
Alexander ordered M[oe]nidas and the Greek mercenary cavalry to meet
the charge. The Greeks galloped bravely to oppose the onset, but the
rush of the Bactrians scattered them like chaff. The P[oe]onian
cavalry under Aristo was then sent forward with better success. The
wild troops of Bessus were curbed and forced back for a space, and
Chares could see the bull-necked viceroy raging among them in a frantic
endeavor to make them stand. Finding all his efforts in vain, he
ordered the main body of the Bactrian cavalry, fourteen thousand in
all, to charge. They left their place in the left of the Persian line
and thundered down upon the P[oe]onians like an avalanche.
Not until then did Alexander turn his face to the impatient Companions.
He raised his hand as a signal to make ready. Each man gathered his
bridle reins more firmly, and tightened his grasp on his spear. A page
scurried back to Aretes, who had been posted in the rear of the main
line as a protection to the flank, telling him to charge with his
splendid lancers. Then the Companions rushed forward, with Alexander
at their head, and with their plumes fluttering like foam on the crest
of a wave.
Squadron by squadron, they tore into the enemy's lines, while Scyth and
Bactrian went down before them. Swift and deadly as a falcon, Aretes
swooped upon Bessus' flank, throwing it into confusion. But the
viceroy refused to yield, and the stubborn righting continued.
Meantime the dreaded scythe-bearing chariots had neared the phalanx,
which it was their task to break. The soldiers clashed their spear
butts against their shields with a clangor that frightened many of the
horses beyond control. The light-footed skirmishers in advance of the
line shot their arrows into the sides of the animals, or risked their
lives to sever the traces of their harness. Some of the horses wheeled
and galloped back into the Persian horde. Others were killed upon the
sarissas that pierced their necks. A few of the chariots reached the
line, that opened hastily to let them through, and both horses and
charioteers were slain at leisure in the rear.
The elephants, from which the Great King had hoped so much, proved as
useless as the chariots. Bewildered in the clamor raised by the
phalanx, and maddened by the wounds inflicted upon them by the archers,
they rushed about the field, trumpeting wildly, and trampling the
Persians in their search for escape. Darius saw them, and his brow
clouded.
With the first stride of his horse when the Companions charged, Chares
felt his heart leap and the glow of joy in battle warm his veins.
Misgiving and foreboding fell from him. He struck with mighty blows,
spurring his horse forward into the Bactrian ranks until he could go no
further. When his squadron fell back to give place to another, he
refused to follow it, but remained there, fighting until the fresh
troop in its charge surrounded him and bore him forward. Even when the
Bactrians began to give way, and Alexander, leaving them to Aretes,
directed the trumpeters to draw off the Companions, the Theban would
not go. The young king, who happened to be near, spoke to him sharply.
"Obey orders!" he said. "You shall have your fill of fighting."
Chares reluctantly complied. His eyes were bloodshot and his face
flushed like that of a drunken man. To ease the throbbing of his
temples, he loosed his helmet and threw it upon the ground.
Alexander's eye, keen as a hawk's, glanced along the front of the
Persian line, and his heart leaped as he saw a wide break in the ranks
just at the left of the centre, where Darius stood in his chariot. The
Susians had shifted slightly toward Bessus, in order to give him their
support, and a gap had opened between them and the Greek mercenaries
who guarded the Great King on that side. The Macedonians had been
ordered to fight in silence, so that the trumpets might be heard, and
now their varied notes rang across the field. At the first signal, the
hypaspists under Nicanor detached themselves from the line and came
forward at a run. Another call, another, and another, brought the
veterans of the phalanx swinging in behind them. Rank on rank, the
tough fighting men of C[oe]nas, Perdiccas, Meleager, and Polyspherchon
fell in with the rapid precision of cool discipline, forming a solid
column that fronted toward the gap.
Alexander gave the word to the Companions to place themselves at the
head of this enormous wedge, and then, with a shout that rolled far
across the plain, it hurled itself against the Persian line. Into the
gap rode the Companions, and after them pressed the heavy infantry.
The matchless horsemen struck at the heart of the Persian host; the
resistless charge of the men who followed them tore wide the wound.
Close to the snowy plumes that floated from Alexander's helmet in the
front rank of the Companions streamed the yellow hair of Chares. The
Theban fought with the strength of fury. His sword rose and fell, and
every blow carried a death wound. A strange sense of unreality
possessed him. He seemed to be fighting in a dream. Suddenly, through
the dust and confusion of the trampled field, he caught sight of the
figure of Darius, and every sense became acute. The Great King,
wearing the royal robe of purple over his armor, stood erect in his
chariot, shooting arrows into the Macedonian column. Between him and
the Companions stood ten thousand Greek mercenaries.
Chares was seized by an overmastering and unreasoning rage against the
tall, handsome man who had brought the vast horde together to oppose
them.
"Darius! Darius!" he shouted, and spurred his horse so fiercely that
the animal leaped forward, carrying his rider far into the mercenary
cohorts. Alexander and the foremost of the Companions, among them
Leonidas, pressed in after him. The Spartan shouted to him to be
cautious, but he might as well have warned the wind. To right and left
swung the terrible sword, and every bound of the frantic horse carried
him farther forward. The ranks of the mercenaries were cleft apart.
From every side blows were aimed at him, but the hireling troops were
prevented by those who came after from closing around him.
Chares saw nothing but the pale face of the Great King. A sword gashed
his thigh, but he did not feel the wound. An arrow pierced his
shoulder. He snapped off the shaft so that it might not interfere with
the sweep of his arm.
Darius looked toward the left, and his eyes met those of the Theban.
He saw the strokes that were rained upon his armor; he saw the darts
that were aimed at him. At every breath it seemed that he must go
down, and yet onward he came, and his gaze never left the royal
chariot. The Great King noticed that his lips were stained with bloody
froth and that his hair was roped and matted with sweat. A chill
settled about the monarch's heart. It seemed to him that the
yellow-headed giant, whom nothing could stay, would surely reach him;
and yet he was incapable of movement. Like a man bound hand and foot
by a nightmare, he stood awaiting his end. The man was now so near
that he fancied he could hear the panting of his breath. The warning
cries of his kinsmen sounded in his ears, and he knew that they were
trying to throw themselves before him. Of all the Macedonian army he
feared only this one enemy. Would he succeed in reaching the chariot?
No! His horse had swerved aside. Darius saw him grasp a javelin that
was being thrust at his breast, and wrest it from the hands of the man
who held it. He was about to cast. The Great King could see the
glitter of the point of steel. Something grazed his arm, and the haft
of the weapon quivered across his heart, its blade buried in the side
of his charioteer.
Darius drew a shuddering breath of relief, and opened his eyes. He saw
the great roan steed that bore his foe rear high above the heads of his
guard. Its fore legs struck aimlessly at the air, and the face of its
rider was hidden in its tossing mane. Then, with a scream of agony,
the horse fell backward, and a hundred mercenaries swarmed upon him,
thrusting and thrusting with their short swords.
The Great King was saved; but he knew that the battle, upon which he
had staked all, was lost. He saw the eager faces of the Companions,
and beyond them the solid wall of the phalanx, sweeping nearer, like a
resistless tide. He stepped across the body of his charioteer and
mounted a horse. Before his feet were in the stirrups he heard the
ominous cry, "The king flees!" that had run before the rout at Issus,
and by the time he reached the spot where the rear guard of his army
should have been, the dust-cloud raised by hurrying hoofs and flying
feet obscured the sun.
Slowly, from among the dead, Chares raised himself, and gazed with
dimming eyes toward the place where the Great King had stood. Only the
broken chariot and the dead were there, but far away he saw the ebbing
tide of the battle. A smile flickered upon his lips, his head sank
upon the side of his brave horse, and his blue eyes closed. "Sleep and
rest!" he thought, and the darkness swept over him.
CHAPTER L
PROMISES FULFILLED
In the great Hall of Xerxes, in Persepolis, the city whose streets had
never been trodden by the feet of an enemy since the first Cyrus
overthrew the Medes and founded the Achæmenian line, Alexander feasted
with his friends. Two months had passed since the empire that Cyrus
won had been wrested from Darius at Gaugamela. Susa had fallen, and
the might of Persia was shattered forever.
Terrace above terrace, from the limpid waters of the Araxes, fed
eternally by mountain snows, rose the wonderful palaces upon which the
revenues of generations had been lavished. There the grandeur and
majesty of the masters of more than half the world had bloomed into
visible form. There Cyrus and his successors had been accustomed to
seek refuge from the summer heat, and to lay aside the cares of empire
for luxurious days amid the myriad blossoms of their gardens and the
fairer flowers of their effeminate courts.
The huge monoliths of the Hall of the Hundred Columns reared themselves
from their hewn platform of stone. Around them were grouped the
palaces of Cyrus and of Xerxes, of Artaxerxes and Darius, built of rare
woods and polished marble, brought from distant quarries with infinite
labor, that the eyes of the Great Kings might take delight therein.
Each monarch had striven to outdo his predecessor in beauty and
magnificence.
Broad staircases, guarded by colossal figures of soldiers, connected
terraces, upheld by retaining walls upon which were sculptured enormous
lions and bulls.
The palaces themselves were large enough to give an army lodgement.
Their walls and ceilings were adorned with paintings commemorating the
triumphs of the kings in war and in the chase. Upon the sides of the
Hall of Xerxes, where the Macedonian captains were gathered at tables
laden with vessels of solid gold, the petulant monarch, who had
chastised the Hellespont with rods and who had given the temples of
Athens to the flames, was represented in his hunting chariot, receiving
the charge of a wounded lion. In the light of countless torches, the
great paintings, the hangings, and the carpets spread upon the floor
formed a background of rich color for the snowy garments of the
banqueters.
Statues of ebony, lapis-lazuli, marble, and jade, brought from many a
captured city, gleamed against the lofty wainscoting of golden plates,
wrought into strange reliefs.
Alexander reclined upon a raised couch, covered with priceless
Babylonian embroidery. In front of him the tables were arranged in the
form of an oblong, stretching the length of the hall, and beside them
lolled the veterans, crowned with wreaths of flowers whose perfume
mingled with the heavy scent of unguents and incense. There were many
women at the feast, each sitting beside her chosen lord. Some of them
had been taken as captives. Others, released from the bondage of the
harem, had formed willing alliances with the conquerors. They were
admitted to the banquet on terms of equality with the men, according to
the Macedonian fashion, and their light laughter, the brilliancy of
their eyes, and the flashing of the jewels with which they were
plentifully adorned lent a finishing touch of brightness to the scene.
But the beauty of the fairest representatives of a race famed for its
beauty paled before that of Thais, whose gilded chair was set next to
the couch of Ptolemy on Alexander's left. It was not so much the
perfect grace of her form or the proud poise or her head, with its
masses of tawny hair, that gave her distinction, as the spirit that
shone in her eyes. Beautiful as she was, she had changed since the
death of Chares. There was a suggestion of imperious hardness in her
glance; she was less womanly, but more fascinating. The hearts of men
turned to wax as they gazed upon her, even though something indefinable
warned them that their longing would find no response in her heart.
Yet warm vitality seemed to radiate from her, and the quick blood came
and went under her clear skin with each changing emotion.
Habituated to the stiff formalities of the Persian court, the deft
slaves who attended the Macedonians were astonished at the freedom of
their manners. All the skill of the royal cooks was expended to
prepare the feast. Scores of delicate dishes were brought in and set
before the Greeks, but the master of the kitchens was in despair at
their lack of appreciation. They devoured what was offered to them, it
was true, but without a sign of the gastronomical discussion in which
the Persian nobles were wont to indulge. The wine, however, was not
spared, and the keeper of the royal cellars groaned over the havoc
wrought among his precious amphoræ. The provision for a twelvemonth
was exhausted, and still the thirst of the strangers seemed unabated.
In the last and most ancient of the Persian capitals they were
celebrating their triumph in their own way, and it was the way of men
whose vices were as strong as their virtues.
The conversation, animated from the first, became livelier as the
banquet progressed. The soldiers called to each other from table to
table, pledging each other in goblets of amber and ruby wine as costly
as amber and rubies. Faces were flushed and eyes grew bright. The
stately hall echoed with laughter, in which the musical voices of the
women joined. Old stories were told again, and time-worn jokes took on
the attraction of novelty. The women provoked their guerdon of homage,
and it was paid to them on hand and lip with frank generosity. The
brains of even the stoutest members of the company were whirling, and
some of the more susceptible to the influence of the wine began to slip
unsteadily away, amid the jeers of their comrades, in the hope that the
cool outer air would drive off their giddiness and enable them to see
the end. Those who remained were all talking at once, boasting of
their deeds, with none to listen.
Alexander, weary of the din, called suddenly upon Callisthenes to speak
in praise of the Greeks. The orator rose slowly from his place and
strode out into the open space between the tables.
"To whom shall I speak?" he demanded, gazing about him with an
expression of disgust upon the babbling captains. "They are all mad
with vanity and wine."
"Speak then to Xerxes," Alexander replied, pointing to the wall, from
which the royal portrait seemed to look down upon them with a sneer.
Callisthenes obeyed. At first his voice was unheeded; but as his
apostrophe gathered force, the chatter of talk died away around him,
and all eyes were turned upon him.
Calling upon the dead king by name, he magnified his power and told how
he had gathered the nations to the invasion of Hellas. The failure of
his attempt he attributed to the jealousy of the Gods, who would not
permit destruction to fall upon the country that was to produce
Alexander. He described the heroic stand of the Spartans at
Thermopylæ, and the victory of Salamis; and as he dwelt upon the
bravery of the Greeks in the face of those overwhelming odds, the hall
rang with the cheers of men who themselves knew what it was to fight
and to conquer.
"By thy command, O Xerxes!" the orator cried, extending his open palm
toward the portrait, "Hellas was made to blush in the flames that
devoured the temples of her Gods upon the Athenian Acropolis; but the
life of man is brief, while the Gods die not nor do they forget. Look
down from thy chariot! Alexander, the defender and avenger of Hellas,
holds thy dominions, and the nations that owned thy sway are bowed at
his feet. Turn not thy face away; for the fire with which thou didst
insult and offend the Gods of Hellas hath flamed across all Persia,
until it hath reached thee at last!"
The rage that had been gathering in the breasts of the Macedonians at
the recital of the wrongs that Greece had suffered could be repressed
no longer. Clitus leaped to his feet and hurled his golden beaker at
the painted face of Xerxes. In an instant the hall was in an uproar.
The company rose with one accord and turned to Alexander, shouting for
revenge. To their inflamed minds it seemed as though the injuries
inflicted by Xerxes were of yesterday. The contagion caught the young
king, who sprang from his couch and stood gazing around him, seeking
some means of satisfying the desire for vengeance that swelled his
heart.
Thais had been watching his face with lips slightly parted and a
strangely intent look in her eyes, as though waiting for the moment to
carry into execution some project that she had formed in her mind.
While Alexander stood hesitating, she seized a blazing torch from its
socket in one of the columns.
"He burned our temples--let fire be his punishment!" she whispered,
thrusting the torch into Alexander's grasp.
"The Gods shall be avenged!" he cried, accepting her plan without
hesitation; for the wine he had drunk and the maddening clamor of his
followers had gone to his head.
He thrust the lighted torch against the draperies that hung behind him.
A cry of horror burst from the slaves and attendants as the flame
caught the heavy folds and ran upward in leaping spirals; but the cry
was lost in the fierce triumphant shout of the captains. Every man
grasped a torch and ran to spread the conflagration. The great Hall of
Xerxes was enveloped in flame and smoke so quickly that the
incendiaries themselves had barely time to escape.
Rushing from the doorways with the torches in their hands, the
Macedonians hastened from palace to palace, scattering destruction.
Clouds of smoke, glowing red above the leaping flames, rose over the
marvellous structures that had been reared with so much toil. Tower
and terrace, porch and portico, were transformed into roaring furnaces
in whose heat the great columns cracked and fell with a noise like the
rumbling of thunder. The lofty ceilings crashed down upon wonders of
art and precious fabrics. The plates of beaten gold that lined the
walls melted and ran into crevices which opened in the marble floor.
Of the slaves, some perished in the flames; others fled with booty
snatched from the ruin; still others ran wildly into the darkness,
crying that the Macedonians were preparing to put to the sword all who
dwelt in the pleasant valley.
The banqueters, driven back by the heat, watched the conflagration with
shouts of joy while it slowly burned itself out, leaving only the gaunt
and blackened skeletons of the group of palaces that had been the
delight of the Great Kings.
Thais stood beside Ptolemy, beneath the wide branches of an oak where
the glare of the flames she had kindled threw her figure into strong
relief against the blackness. She held herself proudly erect, and a
slight smile curved her lips as she saw the banners of flame leap
upward toward the stars.
"Why did you do it?" the Macedonian asked, with an accent of respect
that seemed out of place in a camp where women were held so cheap.
"I did it because of a promise that I gave to Orontobates when I was a
captive in Halicarnassus," Thais replied. "I like to keep my word."
Something in her tone prevented the soldier, bold as he was, from
asking her what the promise had been. She had already taught him when
to remain silent, and he had learned that he must either submit or
abandon hope of winning her. As he stood, drinking in her beauty,
revealed in a new aspect by the firelight, he was puzzled to see her
head droop, while two tears slowly gathered upon her lashes.
"Farewell, Chares, my lover!" she was saying to herself. "Upon thy
funeral pyre my heart, too, is turning to ashes!"
"Thais," Ptolemy whispered, moved by her emotion without knowing its
cause, "do not forget that I love thee!"
"I do not forget," she replied, "nor have I forgotten another promise
that I made; for I think the Gods have sent thee to me. To-morrow I
will be thy wife; and when this war has reached its end, thou shalt
reign in Alexandria over Egypt with me at thy side."
"Thais!" Ptolemy exclaimed, clasping her at last in his arms.
So Thais, the Athenian dancing girl, kept her pledge; but through the
length and breadth of the land ran the news that the home of the Great
Kings had been laid in ashes, and men knew that, though Darius still
lived, his power indeed was gone forever.
CHAPTER LI
AMID FRAGMENTS OF EMPIRE
Clearchus and Artemisia were walking in the garden of their home in
Alexandria. Between the trunks of the trees, at a distance, they could
see the roofs and towers of the populous city, and across the blue
water, which began where the slopes of verdure ended, they could watch
the white sails of ships bringing trade from all parts of the world.
Ten years had passed since the palaces of Persepolis had crumbled into
ashes. Alexander had been dead three years, and his body lay in the
royal tomb at the mouth of the Nile, whither Ptolemy had brought it
from Babylon, when the empire was divided among the Macedonian generals
and he came to rule over Egypt in place of the rapacious Cleomenes.
Artemisia's figure had lost some of its girlish grace, but her blue
eyes retained their clearness and her cheeks the delicate flush of her
youth. Clearchus, too, was heavier than he had been when he fought
among the Companions under Alexander, whom men were beginning to call
"the Great."
At a turn in the path Artemisia placed her hand upon his arm and
checked him. The silvery voices of children came from a sunlit glade
among the shrubbery. They saw a boy of eleven years, clad in a short
white tunic that left his arms and legs free, shooting with blunt
arrows at a target that hung against a tree. Two little girls stood
watching him, and after each shot they ran with eager laughter to find
the arrow and fetch it back to him. Their fair hair gleamed in the
sun. Artemisia's eyes sought those of her husband, and a smile of
mother love transfigured her face.
"I am almost afraid to be so happy," she murmured.
Clearchus laughed. "You need not fear, my heart," he replied. "Do not
the Gods owe us something? They are generous."
They heard a step on the gravel behind them, and Leonidas advanced with
a smile and hands outstretched. He had changed little, excepting that
a few gray hairs appeared at his temples and the lines of his face had
deepened.
"Welcome, comrade!" Clearchus cried, running forward to meet him.
"Whence come you? What news?"
"I come from the council in Syria," Leonidas answered, "and as for
news, there has been another division of the world."
"And Ptolemy?" Clearchus asked anxiously.
"He retains Egypt," the Spartan said. "Antipater is regent, with
Macedonia and all Greece; Seleucus gets the satrapy of Babylon; and
Antigonus, Susiana, besides what he had."
"I hope we shall have peace at last," Artemisia said, glancing toward
the children.
"We shall have peace here, at all events," Leonidas said grimly. "None
of the generals is desirous of sharing the fate of Perdiccas."
They sat down beneath a vine-grown trellis while Leonidas told them of
the events that had led to the new distribution of the empire,
describing the jealousies of the leaders and the ferment of revolt that
was working in Greece.
"When will they stop killing each other?" Artemisia said sadly. "Has
not each of them more than enough without trying to rob the others?
Leave them to their quarrels, Leonidas; there is room enough for
another house here beside us, and we will find you a mistress for it."
Leonidas shook his head and sipped the wine that a slave had brought
for his refreshment. He knew that she referred to the site that they
had reserved for Chares and Thais.
"It is too late," he replied, half regretfully. "As we have lived, so
we must die."
Artemisia slipped her hand within that of Clearchus, while the Spartan
followed with his eyes the glancing sails of a vessel whose prow was
turned toward the north and the rugged hillsides of his native land.
Their reflections were interrupted by the children, who had tired of
their play and were seeking new diversion.
"Ho! Uncle Leonidas," shouted the boy, swooping down upon the Spartan.
"Where did you come from? Tell me about the death of King Darius!"
He sat down beside Leonidas and composed himself to listen. The little
girls took Artemisia prisoner and led her away to see a nest they had
found, in which, they assured her, were funny little birds with no
feathers on their wings. Leonidas, his eyes still on the receding
ship, began the story that he had often told before. He related how
the army came to Ecbatana, the gem of cities, with its seven walls each
of a different color from the others, and each rising higher than the
one outside it, and how they found that the Great King had fled up into
the snow-capped mountains that overlook the Caspian Sea. He had with
him Bessus, the treacherous; Oxathres, his own brother; Artabazus, the
first nobleman of Persia, who commanded the Greek mercenaries; and a
score more of the generals and viceroys who still remained constant to
his fortune. He told how Darius wished to stand and fight among the
rugged passes, but the others would not allow it; how Artabazus,
suspecting their perfidy, besought him to trust himself to his Greeks,
to which the Great King consented for the morrow; and how that night
Bessus fettered him with golden chains and made him a prisoner in his
litter.
The boy listened with sparkling eyes intent upon the Spartan's face,
while Leonidas described how Alexander, finding the Persians ever
fleeing before him, had left the foot-soldiers behind and struck out
with the Companions across the desert to intercept them. The lad held
his breath as he followed the desperate ride over the burning sands,
where one by one the horses stumbled and fell, gasping, until only
seventy riders remained. His cheeks flushed when he heard how a
soldier had brought water to Alexander in his helmet, and how the young
king, thirsty as he was, refused to moisten his lips because there was
not enough for all.
Then came the charge of the seventy weary Macedonians in the gray of
the morning upon the camp of the sleeping Persians and the
panic-stricken flight of the cowardly army before them, too frightened
even to look back. And there they found the Great King lying in his
litter, stabbed through and through by the order of Bessus, who had
hoped thus to win the favor of Alexander.
"And that was the end of Darius," the Spartan concluded. "Alexander
was sorry for his death, and he spread his own cloak over him as he lay
there; but I think it was better for him to die then than to live
subject to another, remembering his former power. He was unfortunate
in this, that he was not killed in battle, as all brave men should wish
to be. He had an opportunity for that at Gaugamela, but he threw it
away."
A picture rose before the Spartan's memory of Chares, lying with his
broad shoulders against the side of his horse amid the dead, with a
smile upon his lips, and he sighed.
"You have never yet told me what became of Bessus," the boy said
coaxingly. "Is he still alive?"
"No," Leonidas replied, his face darkening. "He was betrayed in his
turn, and Alexander ordered him to be killed in the manner of the
Scyths when they punish traitors."
"What is that?" the boy asked.
"I shall not tell you," Leonidas said grimly, "but it was too good for
him!"
"There is Thais," Clearchus exclaimed. "Run and fetch your mother," he
added to his son.
They rose and went to meet Thais, who was advancing slowly down an
avenue of trees. Two enormous black eunuchs held a broad parasol above
her head, and other slaves followed her, both men and maids, forming a
train of escort. When she saw Clearchus and Leonidas, she spoke a word
to her attendants, who halted, and she came forward alone. The
sunlight, sifting through the branches that formed a green arch over
her head, touched the burnished coils of her hair, flashing from hidden
jewels and glancing upon the shimmering silk of her robes.
"She is more beautiful than ever," Leonidas said, gazing at her with
admiration.
"Yes, and she rules Ptolemy in everything," Clearchus replied.
"My friends!" Thais exclaimed, giving them her hands. "It makes my
heart glad to see you; but where is Artemisia?"
"I have sent for her," Clearchus replied.
"Before she comes," Thais said, seating herself beneath the trellis and
lowering her voice, "I must tell you something. The proofs for which I
sent to Athens have arrived, and there can no longer be any doubt that
we are sisters."
"She will be overjoyed," Clearchus said.
"I shall not tell her," Thais replied.
"Why not?" Leonidas asked bluntly. "You are a queen now, or will be
one soon, and nobody thinks of--of the past."
"It is precisely because I intend to be a queen that I shall not tell
her," Thais continued. "She could not love me more if she knew, and I
will not be the means of bringing danger upon her or her children. We
know the fate that awaits the kinsmen of princes. Did not Olympias
cause Cleopatra to be slain with her babe in her arms? Has not Roxana
murdered Statira, and is not Roxana herself, with the young Alexander,
held in captivity? Nevertheless, I will tell her if you desire, and it
shall be proclaimed throughout Egypt."
"May the Gods forbid!" Clearchus exclaimed. "You are right, Thais. It
must not be told."
"Then I will destroy the proofs," she said, "and remain, as I have
been, the first of my race."
All three were silent, thinking of the future, and Thais smiled
faintly, as though at that moment she were conscious of the wonderful
power that was to descend through her daughters, until it attained its
perfection in the irresistible charm of that Cleopatra who was to see
the conquerors of the world at her feet. Yet she sighed as her eyes
met those of Clearchus.
"If only Chares were here!" she murmured.
"We know," the Athenian answered gravely, "and we do not blame you,
since all of us must bow to the will of the Gods."
"I thank you," she said simply. "You have both been kind to me."
Artemisia joined them, holding one of her girls by either hand, while
young Chares followed with his bow, concerning which he wished to
consult Leonidas. There, in the vine-grown arbor, they sat talking
until the shadows began to lengthen, and the afternoon drew to its
close. Thais rose, lithe and graceful as an animal of the desert, and
the slaves, who had been watching her, in a bright-colored group, from
beneath the trees, scrambled to their feet.
"Come, Leonidas, the cares of state await us," she said. "Remember
that you are a general now, and I am almost a queen, while these two
have nothing to do but waste their time in being happy."
"You will come again to-morrow?" Artemisia said, embracing her.
"Perhaps," replied Thais, and she moved away down the avenue with the
Spartan, toward the retinue of slaves who stood waiting to surround her.
Clearchus and Artemisia watched them until the foliage hid them from
sight, and then turned toward the house. Artemisia noticed that a rose
bush, weighted with flowers, had swayed across the path, and she
stooped to put it back into place. Clearchus slipped his arm about her
waist and kissed her.
"Silly!" she said, blushing, "everybody will see you."
"That cannot be helped," he retorted. "You looked then just as you
looked in the garden in Academe that morning when I found you among
your roses--and I think I love you more now than I did then."
"We love each other more," Artemisia said softly, "because we did not
know then what it would be to lose each other."
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