Gorgias went to his work without delay. When the twin statues were only
waiting to be erected in front of the Theatre of Dionysus, Dion sought
him. Some impulse urged him to talk to his old friend before leaving the
city with his betrothed bride. Since they parted the latter had
accomplished the impossible; for the building of the wall on the Choma,
ordered by Antony, was commenced, the restoration of the little palace
at the point, and many other things connected with the decoration of the
triumphal arches, were arranged. His able and alert foreman found it
difficult to follow him as he dictated order after order in his
writing-tablet.
The conversation with his friend was not a long one, for Dion had
promised Barine and her mother to accompany them to the country.
Notwithstanding the betrothal, they were to start that very day; for
Cæsarion had called upon Barine twice that morning. She had not
received him, but the unfortunate youth's conduct induced her to hasten
the preparations for her departure.
To avoid attracting attention, they were to use Archibius's large
travelling chariot and Nile boat, although Dion's were no less
comfortable.
The marriage was to take place in the "abode of peace." The young
Alexandrian's own ship, which was to convey the newly wedded pair to
Alexandria, bore the name of Peitho, the goddess of persuasion, for Dion
liked to be reminded of his oratorical powers in the council.
Henceforward it would be called the _Barine_, and was to receive many an
embellishment.
Dion confided to his friend what he had learned in relation to the fate
of the Queen and the fleet, and, notwithstanding the urgency of the
claims upon Gorgias's time, he lingered to discuss the future destiny of
the city and her threatened liberty; for these things lay nearest to his
heart.
"Fortunately," cried Dion, "I followed my inclination; now it seems to
me that duty commands every true man to make his own house a nursery for
the cultivation of the sentiments which he inherited from his
forefathers and which must not die, so long as there are Macedonian
citizens in Alexandria. We must submit if the superior might of Rome
renders Egypt a province of the republic, but we can preserve to our
city and her council the lion's share of their freedom. Whatever may be
the development of affairs, we are and shall remain the source whence
Rome draws the largest share of the knowledge which enriches her brain."
"And the art which adorns her rude life," replied Gorgias. "If she is
free to crush us without pity, she will fare, I think, like the maiden
who raises her foot to trample on a beautiful, rare flower, and then
withdraws it because it would be a crime to destroy so exquisite a work
of the Creator."
"And what does the flower owe to your maiden," cried Dion, "or our city
to Rome? Let us meet her claims with dignified resolution, then I think
we shall not have the worst evils to fear."
"Let us hope so. But, my friend, keep your eyes open for other than
Roman foes. Now that it will become known that you do not love her,
beware of Iras. There is something about her which reminds me of the
jackal. Jealousy!--I believe she would be capable of the worst----"
"Yet," Dion interrupted, "Charmian will soften whatever injury Iras
plans to do me, and, though I cannot rely much upon my uncle, Archibius
is above both and favours us and our marriage."
Gorgias uttered a sigh of relief, and exclaimed, "Then on to happiness!"
"And you must also begin to provide for yours," replied Dion warmly.
"Forbid your heart to continue this wandering, nomad life. The tent
which the wind blows down is not fit for the architect's permanent
residence. Build yourself a fine house, which will defy storms, as you
built my palace. I shall not grudge it, and have already said, the times
demand it."
"I will remember the advice," replied Gorgias. "But six eyes are again
bent upon me for direction. There are so many important things to be
done while we waste the hours in building triumphal arches for the
defeated--trophies for an overthrow. But your uncle has just issued
orders to complete the work in the most magnificent style. The ways of
destiny and the great are dark; may the brightest sunshine illumine
yours! A prosperous journey! We shall hear, of course, when you
celebrate the wedding, and if I can I shall join you in the Hymenæus.
Lucky fellow that you are! Now I'm summoned from over yonder! May Castor
and Pollux, and all the gods favourable to travel, Aphrodite, and all
the Loves attend your trip to Irenia, and protect you in the realm of
Eros and Hymen!"
With these words the warm-hearted man clasped his friend to his breast
for the first time. Dion cordially responded, and at last shook his hard
right hand with the exclamation:
"Farewell, then, till we meet in Irenia on the wedding day, you dear,
faithful fellow."
Then he entered the chariot which stood waiting, and Gorgias gazed after
him thoughtfully.
The hyacinthine purple cloak which Dion wore that day had not vanished
from his sight when a loud crashing, rattling, and roaring arose behind
him. A hastily erected scaffold, which was to support the pulleys for
raising the statues, had collapsed. The damage could be easily repaired,
but the accident aroused a troubled feeling in the architect's mind. He
was a child of his time, a period when duty commanded the prudent man to
heed omens. Experience also taught him that when such a thing happened
in his work something unpleasant was apt to occur within the circle of
his friends. The veil of the future concealed what might be in store for
the beloved couple; but he resolved to keep his eyes open on Dion's
behalf and to request Archibius to do the same.
The pressure of work, however, soon silenced the sense of uneasiness.
The damage was speedily repaired, and later Gorgias, sometimes with one,
sometimes with another tablet or roll of MS. in his hand, issued the
most varied orders.
Gradually the light of this dismal day faded.
Ere the night, which threatened to bring rain and storm, closed in, he
again rode on his mule to the Bruchium to overlook the progress of the
work in the various buildings and give additional directions, for the
labour was to be continued during the night.
The north wind was now blowing so violently from the sea that it was
difficult to keep the torches and lamps lighted. The gale drove the
drops of rain into his face, and a glance northward showed him masses of
black clouds beyond the harbour and the lighthouse. This indicated a bad
night, and again the boding sense of coming misfortune stole over him.
Yet he set to work swiftly and prudently, helping with his own hands
when occasion required.
Night closed in. Not a star was visible in the sky, and the air, chilled
by the north wind, grew so cold that Gorgias at last permitted his body
slave to wrap his cloak around him. While drawing the hood over his
head, he gazed at a procession of litters and men moving towards
Lochias.
Perhaps the Queen's children were returning home from some expedition.
But probably they were rather private citizens on their way to some
festival celebrating the victory; for every one now believed in a great
battle and a successful issue of the war. This was proved by the shouts
and cheers of the people, who, spite of the storm, were still moving to
and fro near the harbour.
The last of the torch-bearers had just passed Gorgias, and he had told
himself that a train of litters belonging to the royal family would not
move through the darkness so faintly lighted, when a single man, bearing
in his hand a lantern, whose flickering rays shone on his wrinkled face,
approached rapidly from the opposite direction. It was old Phryx,
Didymus's house slave, with whom the architect had become acquainted,
while the aged scholar was composing the inscription for the Odeum which
Gorgias had erected. The aged servant had brought him many alterations
of his master's first sketch, and Gorgias had reminded him of it the
previous day.
The workmen by whom the statues had been raised to the pedestal, amid
the bright glare of torches, to the accompaniment of a regular chant,
had just dropped the ropes, windlasses, and levers, when the architect
recognized the slave.
What did the old man want at so late an hour on this dark night? The
fall of the scaffold again returned to his mind.
Was the slave seeking for a member of the family? Did Helena need
assistance? He stopped the gray-haired man, who answered his question
with a heavy sigh, followed by the maxim, "Misfortunes come in pairs,
like oxen." Then he continued: "Yesterday there was great anxiety.
Today, when there was so much rejoicing on account of Barine, I thought
directly, 'Sorrow follows joy, and the second misfortune won't be spared
us.' And so it proved."
Gorgias anxiously begged him to relate what had happened, and the old
man, drawing nearer, whispered that the pupil and assistant of
Didymus--young Philotas of Amphissa, a student, and, moreover, a
courteous young man of excellent family--had gone to a banquet to which
Antyllus, the son of Antony, had invited several of his classmates. This
had already happened several times, and he, Phryx, had warned him, for,
when the lowly associate with the lofty, the lowly rarely escape kicks
and blows. The young fellow, who usually had behaved no worse than the
other Ephebi, had always returned from such festivities with a flushed
face and unsteady steps, but to-night he had not even reached his room
in the upper story. He had darted into the house as though pursued by
the watch, and, while trying to rush up the stairs--it was really only a
ladder--he had made a misstep and fell. He, Phryx, did not believe that
he was hurt, for none of his limbs ached, even when they were pulled and
stretched, and Dionysus kindly protected drunkards; but some demon must
have taken possession of him, for he howled and groaned continually, and
would answer no questions. True, he was aware, from the festivals of
Dionysus, that the young man was one of those who, when intoxicated,
weep and lament; but this time something unusual must have occurred, for
in the first place his handsome face was coloured black and looked
hideous, since his tears had washed away the soot in many places, and
then he talked nothing but a confused jargon. It was a pity.
When an attempt was made, with the help of the garden slave, to carry
him to his room, he dealt blows and kicks like a lunatic. Didymus now
also believed that he was possessed by demons, as often happens to those
who, in falling, strike their heads against the ground, and thus wake
the demons in the earth. Well, yes, they might be demons, but only those
of wine. The student was just "crazy drunk," as people say. But the old
gentleman was very fond of his pupil, and had ordered him, Phryx, to go
to Olympus, who, ever since he could remember, had been the family
physician.
"The Queen's leech?" asked Gorgias, disapprovingly, and when the slave
assented, the architect exclaimed in a positive tone: "It is not right
to force the old man out of doors in such a north wind. Age is not
specially considerate to age. Now that the statues stand yonder, I can
leave my post for half an hour and will go with you. I don't think a
leech is needed to drive out _these_ demons."
"True, my lord, true!" cried the slave, "but Olympus is our friend. He
visits few patients, but he will come to our house in any weather. He
has litters, chariots, and splendid mules. The Queen gives him whatever
is best and most comfortable. He is skilful, and perhaps can render
speedy help. People must use what they have."
"Only where it is necessary," replied the architect. "There are my two
mules; follow me on the second. If I don't drive out the demons, you
will have plenty of time to trot after Olympus."
This proposal pleased the old slave, and a short time after Gorgias
entered the venerable philosopher's tablinum.
Helena welcomed him like an intimate friend. Whenever he appeared she
thought the peril was half over. Didymus, too, greeted him warmly, and
conducted him to the little room where the youth possessed by demons lay
on a divan.
He was still groaning and whimpering. Tears were streaming down his
cheeks, and, whenever any member of the household approached, he pushed
him away.
When Gorgias held his hands and sternly ordered him to confess what
wrong he had done, he sobbed out that he was the most ungrateful wretch
on earth. His baseness would ruin his kind parents, himself, and all his
friends.
Then he accused himself of having caused the destruction of Didymus's
granddaughter. He would not have gone to Antyllus again had not his
recent generosity bound him to him, but now he must atone--ay, atone.
Then, as if completely crushed, he continued to mumble the word,
"atone!" and for a time nothing more could be won from him.
Didymus, however, had the key to the last sentence. A few weeks before,
Philotas and several other pupils of the rhetorician whose lectures in
the museum he attended had been invited to breakfast with Antyllus. When
the young student loudly admired the beautiful gold and silver beakers
in which the wine was served, the reckless host cried: "They are yours;
take them with you." When the guests departed the cup-bearer asked
Philotas, who had been far from taking the gift seriously, to receive
his property. Antyllus had intended to bestow the goblets; but he
advised the youth to let him pay their value in money, for among them
were several ancient pieces of most artistic workmanship, which Antony,
the extravagant young fellow's father, might perhaps be unwilling to
lose.
Thereupon several rolls of gold _solidi_ were paid to the astonished
student--and they had been of little real benefit, since they had made
it possible for him to keep pace with his wealthy and aristocratic
classmates and share many of their extravagances. Yet he had not ceased
to fulfil his duty to Didymus.
Though he sometimes turned night into day, he gave no serious cause for
reproof. Small youthful errors were willingly pardoned; for he was a
good-looking, merry young fellow, who knew how to make himself agreeable
to the entire household, even to the women.
What had befallen the poor youth that day? Didymus was filled with
compassion for him, and, though he gladly welcomed Gorgias, he gave him
to understand that the leech's absence vexed him.
But, during a long bachelor career in Alexandria, a city ever gracious
to the gifts of Bacchus, Gorgias had become familiar with attacks like
those of Philotas and their treatment, and after several jars of water
had been brought and he had been left alone a short time with the
sufferer, the philosopher secretly rejoiced that he had not summoned the
grey-haired leech into the stormy night for Gorgias led forth his pupil
with dripping hair, it is true, but in a state of rapid convalescence.
The youth's handsome face was freed from soot, but his eyes were bent in
confusion on the ground, and he sometimes pressed his hand upon his
aching brow. It needed all the old philosopher's skill in persuasion to
induce him to speak, and Philotas, before he began, begged Helena to
leave the room.
He intended to adhere strictly to the truth, though he feared that the
reckless deed into which he had suffered himself to be drawn might have
a fatal effect upon his future life.
Besides, he hoped to obtain wise counsel from the architect, to whom he
owed his speedy recovery, and whose grave, kindly manner inspired him
with confidence; and, moreover, he was so greatly indebted to Didymus
that duty required him to make a frank confession--yet he dared not
acknowledge one of the principal motives of his foolish act.
The plot into which he had been led was directed against Barine, whom he
had long imagined he loved with all the fervour of his twenty years.
But, just before he went to the fatal banquet, he had heard that the
young beauty was betrothed to Dion. This had wounded him deeply; for in
many a quiet hour it had seemed possible to win her for himself and lead
her as his wife to his home in Amphissa. He was very little younger than
she, and if his parents once saw her, they could not fail to approve his
choice. And the people in Amphissa! They would have gazed at Barine as
if she were a goddess.
And now this fine gentleman had come to crush his fairest hopes. No word
of love had ever been exchanged between him and Barine, but how kindly
she had always looked at him, how willingly she had accepted trivial
services! Now she was lost.
At first this had merely saddened him, but after he had drunk the wine,
and Antyllus, Antony's son, in the presence of the revellers, over whom
Cæsarion presided as "symposiarch"* had accused Barine of capturing
hearts by magic spells, he had arrived at the conviction that he, too,
had been shamefully allured and betrayed.
[* Director of a banquet.]
He had served for a toy, he said to himself, unless she had really loved
him and merely preferred Dion on account of his wealth. In any case, he
felt justified in cherishing resentment against Barine, and with the
number of goblets which he drained his jealous rage increased.
When urged to join in the escapade which now burdened his conscience he
consented with a burning brain in order to punish her for the wrong
which, in his heated imagination, she had done him.
All this he withheld from the older men and merely briefly described the
splendid banquet which Cæsarion, pallid and listless as ever, had
directed, and Antyllus especially had enlivened with the most reckless
mirth.
The "King of kings" and Antony's son had escaped from their tutors on
the pretext of a hunting excursion, and the chief huntsman had not
grudged them the pleasure--only they were obliged to promise him that
they would be ready to set out for the desert early the next morning.
When, after the banquet, the mixing-vessels were brought out and the
beakers were filled more rapidly, Antyllus whispered several times to
Cæsarion and then turned the conversation upon Barine, the fairest of
the fair, destined by the immortals for the greatest and highest of
mankind. This was the "King of kings," Cæsarion, and he also claimed
the favour of the gods for himself. But everybody knew that Aphrodite
deemed herself greater than the highest of kings, and therefore Barine
ventured to close her doors upon their august symposiarch in a manner
which could not fail to be unendurable, not only to him but to all the
youth of Alexandria. Whoever boasted of being one of the Ephebi might
well clench his fist with indignation, when he heard that the insolent
beauty kept young men at a distance because she considered only the
older ones worthy of her notice. This must not be! The Ephebi of
Alexandria must make her feel the power of youth. This was the more
urgently demanded, because Cæsarion would thereby be led to the goal of
his wishes.
Barine was going into the country that very evening. Insulted Eros
himself was smoothing their way. He commanded them to attack the
arrogant fair one's carriage and lead her to him who sought her in the
name of youth, in order to show her that the hearts of the Ephebi, whom
she disdainfully rejected, glowed more ardently than those of the older
men on whom she bestowed her favours.
Here Gorgias interrupted the speaker with a loud cry of indignation, but
old Didymus's eyes seemed to be fairly starting from their sockets as he
hoarsely shouted an impatient--
"Go on!"
And Philotas, now completely sobered, described with increasing
animation the wonderful change that had taken place in the quiet
Cæsarion, as if some magic spell had been at work; for scarcely had the
revellers greeted Antyllus's words with shouts of joy, declaring
themselves ready to avenge insulted youth upon Barine, than the "King of
kings" suddenly sprang from the cushions on which he had listlessly
reclined, and with flashing eyes shouted that whoever called himself his
friend must aid him in the attack.
Here he was urged to still greater haste by another impatient "Go on!"
from his master, and hurriedly continued his story, describing how they
had blackened their faces and armed themselves with Antyllus's swords
and lances. As the sun was setting they went in a covered boat through
the Agathodæmon Canal to Lake Mareotis. Everything must have been
arranged in advance; for they landed precisely at the right hour.
As, during the trip, they had kept up their courage by swallowing the
most fiery wine, Philotas had staggered on shore with difficulty and
then been dragged forward by the others. After this he knew nothing
more, except that he had rushed with the rest upon a large _harmamaxa_,
and in so doing fell. When he rose from the earth all was over.
As if in a dream he saw Scythians and other guardians of the peace seize
Antyllus, while Cæsarion was struggling on the ground with another man.
If he was not mistaken it was Dion, Barine's betrothed husband.
These communications were interrupted by many exclamations of impatience
and wrath; but now Didymus, fairly frantic with alarm, cried:
"And the child--Barine?"
But when Philotas's sole reply to this question was a silent shake of
the head, indignation conquered the old philosopher, and clutching his
pupil's _chiton_ with both hands, he shook him violently, exclaiming
furiously:
"You don't know, scoundrel? Instead of defending her who should be dear
to you as a child of this household, you joined the rascally scorners of
morality and law as the accomplice of this waylayer in purple!"
Here the architect soothed the enraged old man with expostulations, and
the assertion that everything must now yield to the necessity of
searching for Barine and Dion. He did not know which way to turn, in the
amount of labour pressing upon him, but he would have a hasty talk with
the foreman and then try to find his friend.
"And I," cried the old man, "must go at once to the unfortunate
child.--My cloak, Phryx, my sandals!"
In spite of Gorgias's counsel to remember his age and the inclement
weather, he cried angrily:
"I am going, I say! If the tempest hurls me to the earth, and the bolts
of Zeus strike me, so be it. One misfortune more or less matters little
in a life which has been a chain of heavy blows of Fate. I buried three
sons in the prime of manhood, and two have been slain in battle. Barine,
the joy of my heart, I myself, fool that I was, bound to the scoundrel
who blasted her joyous existence; and now that I believed she would be
protected from trouble and misconstruction by the side of a worthy
husband, these infamous rascals, whose birth protects them from
vengeance, have wounded, perhaps killed her betrothed lover. They
trample in the dust her fair name and my white hair!--Phryx, my hat and
staff."
The storm had long been raging around the house, which stood close by
the sea, and the sailcloth awning which was stretched over the impluvium
noisily rattled the metal rings that confined it. Now so violent a gust
swept from room to room that two of the flames in the three-branched
lamp went out. The door of the house had been opened, and drenched with
rain, a hood drawn over his black head, Barine's Nubian doorkeeper
crossed the threshold.
He presented a pitiable spectacle and at first could find no answer to
the greetings and questions of the men, who had been joined by Helena,
her grandmother leaning on her arm; his rapid walk against the fury of
the storm had fairly taken away his breath.
He had little, however, to tell. Barine merely sent a message to her
relatives that, no matter what tales rumour might bring, she and her
mother were unhurt. Dion had received a wound in the shoulder, but it
was not serious. Her grandparents need have no anxiety; the attack had
completely failed.
Doris, who was deaf, had listened vainly, holding her hand to her ear,
to catch this report; and Didymus now told his granddaughter as much as
he deemed it advisable for her to know, that she might communicate it to
her grandmother, who understood the movements of her lips.
The old man was rejoiced to learn that his granddaughter had escaped so
great a peril uninjured, yet he was still burdened by sore anxiety. The
architect, too, feared the worst, but by dint of assuring him that he
would return at once with full details when he had ascertained the fate
of Dion and his betrothed bride, he finally persuaded the old man to
give up the night walk through the tempest.
Philotas, with tears in his eyes, begged them to accept his services as
messenger or for any other purpose; but Didymus ordered him to go to
bed. An opportunity would be found to enable him to atone for the
offence so recklessly committed.
The scholar's peaceful home was deprived of its nocturnal repose, and
when Gorgias had gone and Didymus had refused Helena's request to have
the aged porter take her to her sister, the old man remained alone with
his wife in the tablinum.
She had been told nothing except that thieves had attacked her
granddaughter, Barine, and slightly wounded her lover; but her own heart
and the manner of the husband, at whose side she had grown grey, showed
that many things were being concealed. She longed to know the story more
fully, but it was difficult for Didymus to talk a long time in a loud
tone, so she silenced her desire to learn the whole truth. But, in order
to await the architect's report, they did not go to rest.
Didymus had sunk into an armchair, and Doris sat near at her spindle,
but without drawing any threads from her distaff. When she heard her
husband sigh and saw him bury his face in his hands, she limped nearer
to him, difficult as it was for her to move, and stroked his head, now
nearly bald, with her hand. Then she uttered soothing words, and, as the
anxious, troubled expression did not yet pass from his wrinkled face,
she reminded him in faltering yet tender tones how often they had
thought they must despair, and yet everything had resulted well.
"Ah! husband," she added, "I know full well that the clouds hanging over
us are very black, and I cannot even see them clearly, because you show
them at such a distance. Yet I feel that they threaten us with sore
tribulation. But, after all, what harm can they do us, if we only keep
close together, we two old people and the children of the children whom
Hades rent from us? We need only to grow old to perceive that life has a
head with many faces. The ugly one of to-day can last no longer than you
can keep that deeply furrowed brow. But you need not coerce yourself for
my sake, husband. Let it be so. I need merely close my eyes to see how
smooth and beautiful it was in youth, and how pleasant it will look when
better days say, 'Here we are!'"
Didymus, with a mournful smile, kissed her grey hair and shouted into
her left ear, which was a little less deaf than the other:
"How young you are still, wife!"