AT SEA
It was not for long, however, that Charidemus was destined to enjoy these
somewhat lonely days, and evenings that seemed only too short. About a
week after the day on which he made his first acquaintance with Memnon
and his wife, he was roused from his sleep about an hour before dawn by a
visit from the governor himself.
“Dress yourself at once,” said Memnon, “I will wait for you.”
“We can hold the place no longer,” the governor explained to his
prisoner, as they hurried down the steep path that led from the citadel
to the harbour. “I am leaving a garrison in the citadels, but the town is
lost. Luckily for me, though not, perhaps, for you, I have still command
of the sea.”
The harbour was soon reached. Memnon’s ship was waiting for him, and put
off the moment the gangway was withdrawn; the rest of the squadron had
already gained the open sea.
“You must make yourself as comfortable as you can on deck; the ladies
have the cabin. Happily the night is fine, and our voyages hereabouts are
not very long. The Ægean is the very Elysium of fair-weather sailors.”
Charidemus rolled himself up in the cloak with which, at Memnon’s
bidding, a sailor had furnished him, and slept soundly, under one of the
bulwarks, till he was awakened by the increasing heat of the sun. When
he had performed as much of a toilet as the means at his disposal would
permit, he was joined by Memnon, and conducted to the after-deck, where
the breakfast table had been spread under an awning of canvas.
Presently the ladies appeared. Barsiné was one of them; the other was a
very beautiful girl, who may have numbered thirteen or fourteen summers.
“My niece, Clearista,” said Memnon, “daughter,” he added in a whisper,
“of my brother Mentor;” and then aloud, “The most troublesome charge that
a poor uncle was ever plagued with.” The damsel shook her chestnut locks
at him, and turned away with a pout, which was about as sincere as her
uncle’s complaint. The next moment a lad of ten, who had been trailing a
baited hook over the stern, made his appearance. This was Memnon’s son,
another Mentor. His tutor, the Nicon, whose acquaintance we have already
made, followed him, and the party was now complete.
It was Clearista’s first voyage, and her wonder and delight were beyond
expression. The sea, calm as a mirror, and blue as a sapphire, under
a cloudless sky; the rhythmic dash of the oars as they rose and fell
in time to the monotonous music of the fugleman standing high upon the
stern; the skimming flight of the sea-birds as they followed the galley
in the hope of some morsels of food; the gambols of a shoal of dolphins,
playing about so near that it seemed as if they must be struck by the
oars or even run down by the prow—these, and all the sights and sounds
of the voyage fairly overpowered her with pleasure. Everything about her
seemed to breathe of freedom; and she had scarcely ever been outside the
door of the women’s apartments, or, at most, the walks of a garden. Who
can wonder at her ecstasy? Memnon and Barsiné looked on with indulgent
smiles. Young Mentor, who had seen a good deal more of the world than had
his cousin, felt slightly superior. As for Charidemus he lost his heart
on the spot. Child as she was—and she was young for her years—Clearista
seemed to him the most beautiful creature that he had ever beheld.
The day’s companionship did not fail to deepen this impression. With a
playful imperiousness, which had not a touch of coquetry in it, the girl
commanded his services, and he was more than content to fetch and carry
for her from morning till night. He brought her pieces of bread when it
occurred to her that she should like to feed the gulls; he baited her
hook when she conceived the ambition of catching a fish; and he helped
her to secure the small sword-fish which she was lucky enough to hook,
but was far too frightened to pull up. When the sun grew so hot as to
compel her to take shelter under the awning the two told each other their
stories. The girl’s was very brief and uneventful, little more than the
tale of journeys, mostly performed in a closed litter, from one town to
another; but the young man thought it profoundly interesting. He, on
the other hand, had really something to tell, and she listened with a
flattering mixture of wonder, admiration, and terror. Towards evening
the unwonted excitement had fairly worn her out, and she was reluctantly
compelled to seek her cabin.
Our hero was gazing somewhat disconsolately over the bulwarks when he
felt a hand laid upon his shoulder. He turned, and saw Memnon standing
behind him with a somewhat sad smile upon his face.
“Melancholy, my young friend?” he said. “Well, I have something to
tell you that may cheer you up. I did not forget you yesterday when
we left the town. Of course it would not have done to let your people
get any inkling of my plans. If they had guessed that we were going to
evacuate the place, they might have given us a good deal of trouble in
getting off. So instead of sending any message myself, I left one for
the commander of the garrison to send as soon as we were safely gone.
Briefly, it was to say that I was ready to exchange you for any one of
four prisoners-of-war whom I named—I might have said all four without
making a particularly good bargain, for, if you will allow a man who
is old enough to be your father to say so, I like your looks. If they
accepted—and I cannot suppose for a moment that they will hesitate—they
were to send out a boat with a flag of truce from Miletus, where we shall
be in two hours’ time or so, if the weather holds good. Then we shall
have to say good-bye.”
“I shall never forget your kindness,” cried Charidemus.
“Well, my son, some day you may be able to make me or mine a return for
it.”
“Command me,” answered the young man in a tone of unmistakeable
sincerity; “you shall be heartily welcome to anything that I can do for
you or yours.”
“Listen then,” said Memnon. “First, there is something that you can do
for me. Perhaps it is a foolish vanity, but I should like to be set right
some day in the eyes of the world. You will keep what I am going to tell
you to yourself till you think that the proper time for telling it is
come. I shall be gone then, but I should not like those that come after
me to think that I was an incompetent fool. Well, then, your king never
ought to have been allowed to land in Asia. We could have prevented it.
We had the command of the sea. We had only to bring up the Phœnician
squadron, which was doing nothing at all, and our force would have been
perfectly overwhelming. Look at the state of affairs now! Your king has
positively disbanded his fleet. He knew perfectly well that it had not a
chance with ours, and that it was merely a useless expense to him. Just
as we could now prevent him from returning, so we could have prevented
him from coming. For, believe me, we were as strong in ships six months
ago as we are now, and I urged this on the king with all my might. He
seemed persuaded. But he was overborne. Some headstrong fools, who
unfortunately had his ear, could not be content, forsooth, but they must
measure their strength with Alexander. So he was allowed to come, to land
his army without losing a single man. Still, even then, something might
have been done. I knew that we could not bring an army into the field
that could stand against him for an hour. The Persians never were a match
for the Greeks, man to man; and besides, the Persians are nothing like
what they were a hundred and fifty years ago. And the Greek mercenaries
could not be relied upon. They were the scum of the cities, and many of
them no more Greeks than they are gods. Any man who had a smattering
of Greek, and could manage to procure an old suit of armour, could get
himself hired; and very likely the only thing Greek about him was his
name, and that he had stolen. Well, I knew that such as they were, and
without a leader, too—even the best mercenaries without a leader go for
very little—they would be worth next to nothing. So I went to Arsites,
who was satrap of Phrygia, and in chief command, and said to him, ‘Don’t
fight; we shall most infallibly be beaten. There is nothing in Asia that
can stand against the army which we have allowed Alexander to bring over.
Fall back before him; waste the country as you go, burn the houses;
burn even the towns, if you do not like to detach men enough to hold
them. Don’t let the enemy find a morsel to eat that he has not brought
himself, or a roof to shelter him that he does not himself put up. And
then attack him at home. He has brought all the best of his army with
him. What he has left behind him to garrison his own dominions is very
weak indeed, poor troops, and not many of them. And then he has enemies
all round him. The Thracians on the north are always ready for a fight,
and in the south there are the Greeks, who hate him most fervently, and
have a long score against him and his father, which they would dearly
like to wipe out. Half the men that you have with you here, and who will
be scattered like clouds before the north-wind, if you try to meet him
in battle, will raise such a storm behind him in his own country that he
will have no choice but to turn back.’ Well, Arsites would not listen
to me. ‘If you are afraid,’ he said, ‘you can go, you and your men; we
shall be able to do very well without you. As for wasting the country and
burning the houses, the idea is monstrous. The king has given it into
my sole keeping, and there it shall be. Not a field shall be touched,
not a house shall be burnt in my province. As for dividing the army,
and sending half of it into Europe, it is madness. What good did Darius
and Xerxes get by sending armies thither? No—the man has chosen to dare
us on our ground, and we will give him a lesson which he and his people
will never forget.’ I urged my views again, and then the fellow insulted
me. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it does not suit you to put an end to the
war. The more it is prolonged, the more necessary you will be thought.’
After that, of course, there was nothing more to be said. We fought, and
everything happened exactly as I had foretold. Then the king made me
commander-in-chief; but it was too late. I shall be able to do something
with the fleet, of course; I shall get hold of some of the islands; but
what good will that do when your Alexander is marching, perhaps, on Susa?”
He paused for a while, and took a few turns upon the deck, then he began
again.
“As for myself, the end is very near; I have not many months to live. I
should like to have measured my strength with this Alexander of yours
without having a pack of incompetent satraps to hamper me. Perhaps it is
as well for me and my reputation that I never shall. You know my name is
not exactly a good omen. He calls himself the descendant of Achilles, and
verily I can believe it. Any one who saw him fighting by the river bank
on the day of the Granīcus might well have thought that it was Achilles
come to life again, just as he was when he drove the Trojans through the
Xanthus. How gloriously handsome he was! what blows he dealt! Well, you
remember—though I don’t think it is in Homer,[29] that there was another
Memnon who fought with the son of Peleus, and came off the worse; and I
might do the same. Doubtless it was in the fates that all this should
happen. I have felt for some time that the end was coming for the Great
King; though, as I think I told you the other day, I am not at all sure
that the change from Darius to Alexander will be for the better. And
now for my present concerns. My wife and child are going to Susa. It is
the way with the Persians to take a man’s family as hostages when they
put him into a place of trust. Under other circumstances I might have
refused. If the Persians wanted my services they must have been content
to have them on my own terms. As it is, I do not object. My people will
be safer there than anywhere else where I can put them. And that sweet
child Clearista will go with them. But I feel troubled about them; they
have that fatal gift of beauty. Good Gods, why do ye make women so fair?
they break men’s hearts and their own. And there is little Mentor too. My
elder sons—children, you will understand, of my first wife—can take care
of themselves; but my wife and my niece and the dear boy are helpless.
Now what I want you to promise is that, if you can, you will protect
them. Your Alexander may reach Susa; I think he will; I do not see what
there is to stop him. If he does, and you are with him, think of me, and
do what you can to help them.”
The young man felt a great wave of love and pity surge up in his heart as
this appeal was made to him.
“By Zeus and all the gods in heaven,” he cried, “I will hold them as dear
as my own life.”
“The gods reward you for it,” said Memnon, wringing his young friend’s
hand, while the unaccustomed tears gathered in his eyes.
Then silence fell between the two. It was interrupted by the approach of
a sailor.
“My lord,” said the man, addressing himself to Memnon, “there is a boat
coming out from Miletus with a flag of truce.”
“Ha!” cried Memnon, “they are sending for you. Well I am sorry to part.
But it is for your good, and for mine too, for I trust you as I would
trust my own son.”
Turning to the man who had brought the message, he said, “I expected the
boat. Tell the captain from me to lie to till she boards us.”
When the little craft drew near enough for the occupants to be
distinguished, Memnon burst into a laugh. “Ah!” he said, “they have put
a proper value on you, my young friend. They have positively sent all
four. I did not like, as I told you, to ask for more than one; but here
they all are. It is not exactly a compliment to them; but they won’t mind
that, if they get their freedom.”
Very shortly afterwards the boat came alongside; and a Macedonian officer
climbed up the side of the galley. He made a profoundly respectful
salutation to Memnon, and then presented a letter. The document ran thus:
“_Alexander, King of the Macedonians, and Commander of the
United Armies of the Hellenes to Memnon, Commander of the
Armies of the King, greeting._
“_I consent to the exchange which you propose. But as I would
not be as Diomed, who gave brass in exchange for gold, I send
you the four prisoners whom you mention, in exchange for
Charidemus the Macedonian. Farewell._”
The letter had been written by a secretary, but it had the bold
autograph of Alexander, signed across it.
“My thanks to the king your master, who is as generous as he is brave,”
was the message which Memnon gave to the officer in charge. The four
exchanged prisoners now made their way up the side of the ship, were
courteously received by Memnon, and bidden to report themselves to the
captain.
“Will your lordship please to sign this receipt for the prisoners?” said
the Macedonian officer.
This was duly done.
“Will you drink a cup of wine?” asked Memnon.
The officer thanked him for his politeness, but declined. He was under
orders to return without delay.
“Then,” said Memnon, “your countryman shall accompany you directly. You
will give him a few moments to make his adieus.”
The Macedonian bowed assent, and the two descended into the cabin.
Barsiné was sitting busy with her needle by the side of a couch on which
Clearista lay fast asleep.
“Our young friend leaves us immediately,” said Memnon to his wife; “I
proposed an exchange, as you know, and it has been accepted. The boat is
waiting to take him ashore. He is coming to say farewell.”
“We are sorry to lose you,” said Barsiné, “more sorry, I fancy, than you
are to go.”
“Lady,” said Charidemus, “you put me in a sore strait when you say such
a thing. All my future lies elsewhere; but at least I can cherish the
recollection of your kindness. Never, surely, had a prisoner less reason
to wish for freedom.”
“And now,” said Memnon, in as light a tone as he could assume, “I should
like to give our young friend a keepsake. It is possible that you may
meet him at Susa.”
“Meet him at Susa,” echoed Barsiné, in astonishment, “how can that be?”
“My darling,” returned Mentor, “if our people cannot make any better
stand against Alexander than they did at the Granīcus, there is no reason
why he should not get to Susa, or anywhere else for that matter.”
Barsiné turned pale, for lightly as her husband spoke, she knew that he
meant something very serious indeed.
“Yes,” continued her husband, “you may meet him there, and he may be able
to be of some use to you. I give him, you see, this ring;” he took, as
he spoke, a ring set with a handsome sapphire from a casket that stood
near. “If he can help you I know he will come himself, if anything should
hinder him from doing that, he will give it to some one whom he can
trust. Put yourself and your children in his hands, or in the hands of
his deputy.”
“Oh! why do you talk like this?” cried Barsiné.
“Darling,” replied Memnon, “it is well to be prepared for everything.
This invasion _may_ come to nothing. But if it does not, if Alexander
does make his way to the capital—well, it is not to me you will have to
look for help; by that time I shall——”
The poor woman started up and laid her hand upon the speaker’s mouth.
“Good words, good words!” she cried.
He smiled. “You are right, for as your favourite Homer says:
“‘In sooth on the knees of the gods lieth all whereof we speak.’
And now give him something yourself that he may remember you by.”
She detached a locket that hung round her neck, and put it into his hand.
He raised it respectfully to his lips.
“And Clearista—she might spare something. Artemis bless the child!
how soundly she sleeps!” said Memnon, looking affectionately at the
slumbering girl. And indeed the voices of the speakers had failed to
rouse her. Exquisitely lovely did she look as she slept, her cheek tinged
with a delicate flush, her lips parted in a faint smile, her chestnut
hair falling loosely over the purple coverlet of the couch.
“The darling won’t mind a curl,” said Memnon; “put that in my wife’s
locket, and you will remember both of them together;” and he cut off a
little ringlet from the end of a straggling lock.
One of the sailors tapped at the cabin door.
“Yes; we are coming,” said Memnon. The young man caught Barsiné’s hand
and pressed it to his lips; he knelt down and imprinted a gentle kiss on
Clearista’s right hand. She smiled in her sleep, but still did not wake.
A few moments afterwards he was in the boat, Memnon pressing into his
hand at the last moment a purse, which he afterwards found to contain a
roll of thirty Darics and some valuable jewels. In the course of an hour
he stepped on to the quay of Miletus, a free man, but feeling curiously
little pleasure in his recovered liberty.