The phalanx swept into the shallow bed of the river. The Greek mercenaries who confronted it on the western bank, nerved by the hope of gaining the immense reward promised by the Great King, and knowing that his eyes were upon them, met its shock with courage. Clearchus heard the fierce shouts with which they closed and saw the line of the phalanx bend and sway as it pressed upward to gain a foothold.
"Hot work," cried Chares, who was galloping beside him. "By Zeus, the king leads!"
Alexander, surrounded by young men whose hearts were as high as his own, struck the left of the stubborn mercenary line where the curve in the river half exposed its flank. The Agema split its way in between the files, tearing asunder everything before it.
"Follow the Whirlwind!" shouted Clearchus; but his voice was lost in the wild cry of the charge.
Clearchus was conscious of being carried swiftly forward without guidance or volition of his own. The water of the Pinarus splashed in his face. A blaze of color spread confusedly before his eyes where the Persians stood awaiting the charge on the terrace above. An arrow struck his breast and rebounded from his armor. Javelins fell all around him.
"Now!" he heard the voice of Chares shouting. "Now for it!" and his horse began scrambling up the bank with the others.
On his right and left the Companions rushed upward like a torrent. He grasped his lance more firmly, but he had no occasion to use it. The Persians gave way, crumpling back upon each other in a disordered mob. Behind them in vain their captains plied the terrible knotted whips with which they sought to hold the men to their work.
Showers of darts and arrows continued to fall from the rear, striking friend and foe without distinction, but the Persian troops who were directly exposed to the Macedonian attack huddled together like sheep. They were prevented from fleeing only by the fact that they were hemmed in by the dense ranks of their own host. Through them the Companions raged at will, clearing a space into which the archers and slingers pressed with shouts of triumph.
Above the turmoil the Macedonian trumpets rang out high and clear, and, in obedience to their command, the Companions swerved to the left, leaving the light-armed troops to hold what they had gained. Clearchus saw that their charge had torn away the support from the left of the Greek mercenary cohorts, leaving them wholly unprotected. He caught sight of the Agema and the other hypaspists, struggling hand to hand with the mercenaries, and beyond them the phalanx, which he was surprised to find had not yet succeeded in gaining a lodgement on the west bank of the river.
"There's something worth fighting," Chares cried to Nathan, waving his lance at the mercenaries. "They are Greeks," he added proudly. "Come on, and we will show you what a real battle is like."
The Companions had partially regained the order which they had lost in the charge. They now faced the mercenary flank at right angles to the front of both armies. Again the trumpet notes launched them forward. Again the wild cheer arose, ending in a grinding shock. The momentum of the charge carried the Companions far into the exposed flank of the mercenaries; but this time no panic and no yielding followed. Although hard pressed in front by the furious and unremitting onslaught of the Agema and the hypaspists, where Clearchus again caught the gleam of Alexander's floating plumes, the hirelings stood their ground until death overcame them. Facing half about, they met as well as they could the attack of the Companions to which the cowardice of their allies had laid them open. But not even their courage could save them, unsupported and without generalship as they were, from the impetuous determination of Alexander.
Into the living wall the Macedonians hewed their way, foot by foot. Alexander raged like a tiger, knowing that here the battle was to be lost or won. The phalanx was all but broken. Away on the beach the Thessalians had been borne back by the impenetrable masses of the Persian cavalry and were holding the enemy in check only by a series of desperate and reckless charges. At that moment Darius was triumphant everywhere excepting at the bloody curve in the river where Alexander led in person.
It seemed to Clearchus that for hours they were locked in that desperate struggle without being able to advance. His lance was broken and the hand in which he held his sword was numb. Beside him he saw the broad shoulders of Chares heave and fall as he delivered his blows. The lust of battle seemed to flame in the Theban's veins like a fever. Again and again the mercenaries leaped upon him to pull him down. His sword was everywhere.
"He is mad!" thought Clearchus, and so indeed he seemed.
Nathan fought beside him, cool and wary, parrying and thrusting with sinews of steel. His eyes glowed with excitement held in check, and a flush tinged the sunburned olive of his cheek.
Little by little, the Companions worked their way toward the hypaspists, until at last the cavalry and the foot fought side by side, with Alexander at their head. So fierce was the conflict that flesh and blood could not long sustain it. The flank attack finally threw the left of the mercenaries into confusion, which gradually extended until the ranks that opposed the phalanx began to waver. A mighty quiver ran through the hireling force. Its resistance weakened and it gave ground.
With a wild shout the phalanx rushed up the river bank. The mercenary lines were hurled backward. The wall was broken.
Among the swirling eddies of men and plunging horses, Clearchus found himself close to Alexander. He saw the young king, sword in hand, his armor dimmed with dust and blood, pause for a moment with heaving breast to note the final charge of the phalanx. As soon as he saw the straightened lines and caught sight of the sarissas rising above the river bank, followed by the grim faces of his veterans, he turned and directed his gaze in the opposite direction, toward Darius.
The Great King had not shifted his ground since the beginning of the battle. He still stood, erect and proud, in the golden chariot with its four white steeds, whose jewelled bridles were held by slaves. His long robe, in folds of lustrous purple, floated from his shoulders. In his hand he held an idle bow, inlaid with pearl. He looked unmoved upon the slaughter that was going on before his eyes, but when the mercenary line gave way, he turned to his brother Oxathres.
"Is that the courage of which these Greeks boast so much?" he asked.
Oxathres shrugged his shoulders.
"They are dogs," he replied. "Wait until the Macedonian has spent his strength upon them, and we will show him what it is to meet Persian steel. Look yonder, O king!"
He waved his hand toward the sea beach, where the Persian cavalry had pushed Parmenio and the Thessalians back from the river's mouth.
"So will we do to them here," he said contemptuously.
A cupbearer brought Darius a goblet, gleaming with precious stones and filled with the wine that only the royal lips might taste. The Great King drank it deliberately and turned again to the battle.
"What is that handful of horsemen there on the left?" he asked.
"They are called the Companion cavalry," Oxathres answered. "They are said to be brave men."
"Who is leading them?" Darius asked again.
"Alexander, who wears the white plumes," his brother replied. "He is mounting. They are about to charge."
"Will he dare to attack us here?" Darius queried anxiously.
"Grant, O Beltis, that he may!" Oxathres said fervently. "Then we shall have him at our mercy."
"What shall I do with him when he has been captured?" Darius asked.
"O king, may you live forever!" Oxathres exclaimed. "Many have fallen this day. Crucify him beside his fellow-robbers on the shore as a warning to all the world."
"Could I so treat a king?" Darius asked doubtfully.
"Thou couldst treat him so, for he is no true king," Oxathres urged. "Thou knowest the stories of his birth."
"So then shall it be," Darius said. "Give the necessary orders."
At that moment the steward of the king's household forced his way through the nobles and prostrated himself, kissing the dust before the chariot.
"Speak," Darius commanded.
"O king of kings!" the man said, "Sisygambis, thy mother, and the Queen Statira sent me to know if thou wert safe, and to ask when thou wilt return to them."
"Tell them to have no fear," Darius said confidently. "Let them make ready to attend the banquet in my pavilion at the going down of the sun."
Darius glanced again at the Companions, who were forming for the charge under cover of the advancing phalanx, and let his eyes sweep slowly over his own forces. Around him stood princes and governors of provinces, satraps, viceroys, and generals. His personal guard of ten thousand horse was drawn up on either side, while in front of him, so disposed as not to obstruct his view of the battle, were ranged the Immortals, ten thousand of the bravest soldiers of his empire.
In an open space behind his chariot stood a group of white-robed priests around a massive altar of silver from which rose the pale blue perfumed smoke of the eternal fire. Mithra, Darius believed, would never forsake his votaries or permit his fire to be extinguished.
"They are coming," the Great King said tranquilly, having completed his inspection. "Look, Oxathres, Baal has stricken them with madness!"
He leaned forward in his chariot, fixing his eyes upon the white plumes that his brother had said distinguished his rival. Between him and the Macedonians stood a solid barrier of men, every one of whom was ready to die if by so doing he could save his master so much as a scratch.
"If they will persist in their folly," Oxathres said, "let them come."
The Companions tore their way through the remnant of the mercenary line. Onward they came, trampling and scattering a squadron of Scyths as if their weapons had been the toys of children. They reached the Immortals. Darius drew a breath of relief. There they must stop at last.
But no! The white plumes still advanced, and behind them came a widening stream of horses and men. It seemed as though nothing could stand against them. The Immortals were scattered like chaff from a threshing-floor.
Oxathres changed color. He turned and spoke to his trumpeter. The brazen note that followed warned the nobles to make ready for a charge. The heart of many a silk-robed courtier who had been boasting all day of the deeds he would do when his chance came grew sick at the sound. The time had come.
Darius hastily dismounted from his heavy chariot, leaving his mantle behind him, and took his place in another chariot, drawn by two horses only and more easily manageable. At a sign from Oxathres, a groom advanced, leading a beautiful chestnut mare, who tossed her head with distended nostrils, neighing for her foal, which had purposely been left behind beyond the Amanic Gates in Syria. The groom took his place in silence beside the chariot.
"Shall I lead the charge?" Darius asked.
"Thy servants beg of thee not to deprive them of the glory that awaits them," Oxathres replied.
Darius waved his hand in assent. Already the nobles in the outer circle of the royal guard were struggling for their lives with the Companions. The charge had been delayed too long and there was no time now to make it. Nothing was left but defence.
Darius saw the white plume tossing like a fleck of foam on the crest of an advancing wave. He fitted an arrow to his bow and drew it to the head. The loosened shaft struck the satrap Arsames and passed through his body.
Princes and nobles fought breast to breast with the sons of Macedonian herdsmen. There was no longer question of rank or power, of birth or riches, but only of who had the braver heart and the stronger arm. The eminence on which the Great King had posted himself to witness the punishment of the invaders at his leisure was clothed in slaughter. His favorites were rolling in the dust under the feet of their maddened horses. For the first time in his life, the monarch looked in the face of peril, and his spirit quailed before the test.
Out of the struggle Oxathres came galloping, breathless and with blood upon his armor.
"Save thyself, brother!" he cried, forgetting the royal titles in his haste. "The battle is lost! Mount and fly while there is yet time!"
Darius sprang from his chariot and threw himself upon the back of the chestnut mare, whose silken flanks trembled with excitement. A bound and she was beside the smoking altar, from which the priests had already fled. In her ears rang the anxious call of her foal, and the brute instinct of her mother-love saved that day the King of Kings, who was leaving his own wife and children and the queen his mother to the mercy of his enemies.
Straight as an arrow, leaping every obstacle that came in her way, the mare darted through the confused squadrons of the reserves toward the Amanic Gates. Behind her thundered prince and satrap, each intent upon saving himself at whatever cost.
"The king flees! The king flees!" The cry rose in a hundred tongues throughout the Persian host. The tens of thousands of troops who had not been called upon to strike a blow because there had been no room for them in the fighting line melted away as if by magic. The plain was filled with men streaming toward the mountains or the sea, seeking some place of refuge. Here a body of Scyths, clad in shuggy skins, retreated sullenly; there a band of dark-skinned Libyans ran like a herd of frightened cattle, casting away their clubs and stone-tipped spears; Arabs, Egyptians, Indians, Assyrians, fled in panic, each man seeking to place his neighbor behind him. Collisions were frequent, and more than one unfortunate was hacked down because he stood in the way of some savage comrade in arms.
The men who were actually engaged in fighting did not at first perceive that they were being left to their fate. As soon as they discovered the desertion of the reserves, many of them threw down their weapons and sued for mercy. A portion of the Greek mercenaries alone maintained a semblance of discipline, though broken into several bodies. They fell back, still facing their enemies, toward the seashore, in search of ships to carry them away.
To the Persian cavalry, that had borne back Parmenio, the news of defeat came last of all. They alone still held an advantage, and it was bitter for them to be forced to abandon it. But without support they were powerless. The phalanx wheeled in upon them, threatening to drive them into the sea. Finally they too relinquished hope and joined the rout.
Then through all the plain and up the mountain slopes rode squadrons of Macedonian horse, cutting down the fugitives. The Thessalians there took merciless revenge for their losses. The earth was encumbered with corpses.
When the trumpets at nightfall recalled the scattered and weary bands of executioners, nothing of the vast army of Darius remained on the plain excepting the spoil and the dead, over whom the jackals snarled and howled. And down the Syrian slope of the pass, bathed in sweat, galloped the fleet-limbed chestnut mare, with Darius upon her back.
On the night after the battle, rough soldiers of the phalanx slept in garments of fine wool wrought with gold, clasping in their hands necklaces of jewels in which the glow of the camp-fires danced and flashed. Chares had decked himself in a long cloak of scarlet, upon which strange patterns were worked in silver. A collar of emeralds encircled his arm, and bracelets of gold gleamed upon his wrists.
"These are for Thais," he said proudly, opening a strip of linen and displaying to Clearchus a collection of gems that sparkled with varying hues.
"You are a barbarian at heart," the Athenian said. "Come, let us join the king. Leonidas waits for us."
Alexander sat upon his foam-streaked horse in the golden glow of the sunset. He had removed his white-plumed helmet, and the cool air bathed his temples. There was a new flash of pride in his eyes as he gazed upon the field of his triumph. The last orders had been given, the wounded had been cared for, and Parmenio had been despatched to Damascus, with a swift body of horse, to take possession of the Persian stores and treasure before they could be removed.
"Now let Demosthenes put on mourning!" Alexander exclaimed. "Come, let us see what provision Darius has made for us."
Followed by his Table Companions, he led the way toward the great pavilion, which none had dared to enter before him. At the entrance stood the chariot from which the Great King had looked upon the wreck of his hopes.
"Here is the royal mantle," Alexander remarked, spreading out the purple robe, stiff with gold. He tossed it back into the chariot, which he ordered to be removed.
Like a troop of boys, the Macedonians entered the great pavilion. Light from a hundred lamps filled the tent. Rich carpets had been spread upon the ground, and embroidered hangings divided the interior into a succession of rooms destined for the use of the Great King. From one to another Alexander led the way, making no attempt to conceal his wonder at the evidences of luxury that he there encountered for the first time.
In the first apartment, they found a wardrobe consisting of suits of armor inlaid with gold and silver; garments of silk and linen; helmets, shoes, parasols, mirrors, and a litter of utensils the uses of which were unknown to the Companions.
"I wonder what my old governor, Leonidas, would say to this?" Alexander cried. "He would never allow me clothing enough to keep me warm in winter."
Next they entered the treasure-chamber, filled with chests of cedar, bound with iron and brass. Several of these chests had been forced open, apparently by faithless slaves; but the rapidity of the Macedonian victory had not allowed them to carry away more than a very small part of the treasure. The boxes contained golden coins bearing the stamp of Darius, and evidently fresh from the mint.
"Here is balm for the wounded," Alexander said, lifting a handful of the coins and permitting them to fall back in a glittering stream.
Beyond this, they found the bed upon which Darius was to have reposed from the fatigues of the day. It was a mass of down, covered with silk and linen of the finest texture, and hung with silken curtains, fringed with gold. Adjoining the bedchamber was the scented bath in an enormous vessel of solid gold. Near it stood rows of crystal vases and jars of Phœnician glass, containing unguents and rare perfumes, compounded of priceless ingredients after formulæ known only to the body-servants of the Persian kings.
"This is what gave us the battle," Alexander said, pointing to the enervating array.
He pushed aside the last curtain and stood in the banquet room. Along its sides tables had been spread, flanked by rich couches and covered with dishes of massive gold and silver. At one side of the room was a canopied couch, higher and more magnificent than the others. The tables had been prepared before the flight of the attendants. Royal wine sparkled in goblets of crystal and beakers of gold. Hephæstion found the kitchen and reported that all the materials for the feast were in readiness.
"Let our cooks take charge of them," Alexander said. "I bid you all to sup with me here to-night."
This idea was received with eager applause and in an hour the preparations had been made. The Macedonians, wearing garlands of oak leaves, stretched themselves upon the gorgeous couches and partook of the strange dishes that were set before them by the pages. Goblets were filled and emptied and beakers were drained. Each man began to relate the deeds of valor he had performed on the battle-field, explaining in great detail how, but for him, the day would have been lost. Alexander alone, who had led them to victory, had nothing to say of himself, though he talked with Ptolemy, son of Lagus, Perdiccas, and Philotas of the mistakes that Darius had made.
Aching muscles and smarting wounds were forgotten under the influence of the wine and in the vainglorious rehearsal of the battle. The Macedonians began to feel that the world lay at their feet, and their minds were uplifted by dreams of endless conquest. The pavilion rang with laughter and was filled with the babel of tongues.
Suddenly, amid the jesting, the voices of women raised in lamentation penetrated the tent. The merriment was hushed, and every head was turned toward the sounds. Alexander despatched a page to learn the cause and the lad breathlessly brought word that Sisygambis, the Great King's mother, and Statira, his wife, were bewailing his death.
"Come, Hephæstion," Alexander said gravely, rising from the royal couch. "Let us reassure them."
Looks of intelligence and furtive smiles were exchanged as the two young men left the pavilion; but none dared venture upon open comment. From the beginning of war, the women of the vanquished had been counted as part of the victor's spoil.
Following the direction of the sorrowful sounds, Alexander discovered a smaller pavilion in the rear of the first. At its doorway stood a dark and stalwart figure, erect and motionless as a statue.
Upon the approach of the young king, the silent guardian fell with his face to the earth and remained motionless.
"Who art thou?" Alexander asked, looking down upon him.
"I am Tireus," the man replied. "I guard the women."
"Why didst thou not save thyself when thy master fled?" the young king inquired.
"Because the women could not flee," Tireus replied simply.
Alexander reflected for a moment. "Rise!" he said at last. "Had thy master possessed more servants like thee, he would not have lost his empire. Thou art chief eunuch. Keep thy charge, and if any molest thee, make thy complaint to me. Go now and ask if Alexander may be admitted."
Tireus had risen, but instead of obeying, he fell again upon his knees, stretching his hands toward Alexander in supplication that he dared not put into words.
"Go," Alexander said, understanding his meaning. "They have nothing to fear."
Tireus went, returning in a moment to draw aside the curtain so that the young king might enter. The wailing had ceased.
Alexander and Hephæstion found themselves under a silken canopy of crimson. The floor of the pavilion was covered with thick carpets, woven in bright colors and laid one upon another. Silver lamps suspended from above diffused a soft light.
Huddled together in the middle of the tent upon heaps of cushions lay a crowd of women in attitudes of despair. Their white arms and shoulders gleamed through their dishevelled hair. Their eyes were heavy with weeping. They seemed like a flock of doves that had been caught in a snare and were awaiting with palpitating breasts the coming of the fowler.
A woman of mature years rose from the group and threw herself at the feet of Hephæstion, mistaking him for the king, because he was taller than Alexander and still wore his armor. She was Sisygambis, the queen mother.
"Mercy!" she cried, with streaming eyes. "Thou hast slain my son. Have pity upon his mother and his innocent wife."
"I am not the king!" Hephæstion exclaimed, hastily stepping back.
"I am blinded by my sorrow!" Sisygambis replied, turning to Alexander in confusion. "Pardon me, I pray thee, in the name of thy own mother, Olympias!"
Alexander stooped and raised her gently by the hand.
"Thy son lives," he said. "Be not alarmed that you mistook my friend for me, for Hephæstion is also an Alexander."
Sisygambis looked earnestly into the boyish face before her.
"Is Darius still alive?" she asked beseechingly. "Is it true? I am his mother. Do not deceive me!"
"He is alive and he is free," the young king replied. "He escaped into Syria."
With a cry of joy, Statira rose from among her women, clasping in her hand the chubby fist of her child. The heavy masses of her dark hair framed a face of pure oval. The color flooded her cheeks, and her eyes shone in fathomless depths of mystery and life. As his glance met hers, Alexander was conscious of a thrill such as he had never felt before. His pulses were disturbed, and he felt his face flush. With an effort he mastered the unaccustomed emotion.
"Alexander does not make war upon women," he said quietly. "For your own sakes, I must carry you with me; but you are as safe as though you were still in your palace in Babylon. Your household shall remain with you. Command as freely as you did yesterday, and fear nothing."
"How shall we repay you?" Statira exclaimed, attempting to kneel at his feet.
"By ceasing to grieve," he replied. "Remember that you are still a queen."
The infant son of Darius looked at him with round eyes of wonder. Alexander took the child in his arms and kissed him.
"Come, Hephæstion," he said, turning to go. The Macedonian, whose gaze had been fixed upon Statira with an intensity that rendered him oblivious to everything else, roused himself and followed. As they passed from the pavilion, they heard a murmur of women's voices in silvery notes of astonishment and admiration.
Alexander was silent and thoughtful when he resumed his place at the head of the banquet table. The Companions were impatient to learn the details of his visit.
"Is the queen as beautiful as they say?" Perdiccas ventured at last.
The young king frowned slightly, and the hand in which he held his goblet trembled.
"Whoever in future speaks to me of the beauty of Statira, wife of Darius," he said, "that man is no longer my friend. Let it be known to the army that she is to be treated with all the respect due to a queen. He who forgets shall be punished."
He glanced at Hephæstion, who flushed and looked another way. For a moment there was silence in the tent, and then the laughter and talk flowed on as though nothing had occurred to interrupt them.
Phradates stood on the broad stone wharf in the Sidonian Harbor of Tyre, amid a group of young men whose costly garments and jewelled fingers showed them to belong to the rich families of the richest city in the world. Upon the edge of the wharf were gathered a score of older men, clad in sombre robes, over which spread their silvery beards. They wore close-fitting caps and heavy golden chains. Each carried a short rod of ebony and ivory as a token of authority. They were the elders, members of the council of King Azemilcus, who was absent with the fleet of Autophradates, the Persian admiral.
The basin of the harbor formed a deep bay, shut in on the seaward side by lofty walls, built of huge blocks of squared stone laid in gypsum. On the right, facing north, was a narrow opening in the barrier, forming a passage flanked by long breakwaters. The circumference of the harbor was ringed by a succession of stone wharves, where hundreds of merchant vessels were moored, their sails furled against their masts. They were discharging their cargoes or taking on lading for new voyages. Lines of men, half naked, ran backward and forward between the ships and the great warehouses, carrying bales upon their heads. The sailors, chanting monotonous songs, were emptying the holds of the ships or storing away the fresh cargoes.
"There's an old tub that looks as though she had seen service," cried one of the young men. "Let us see where she has been."
They strolled across to a vessel whose weather-beaten sides and patched sails told of rough usage.
"Whence came you?" demanded the youth, addressing the brown-faced master, who stood at the gangway, superintending the discharge of his cargo.
"From the Cassiterides," the man replied.
"Where are they?" the youth asked, gazing at the bright ingots of tin that the sailors were dragging to the deck.
"They are in the western seas," the master answered, "so far that Carthage seems but a stone's throw away. Three months we were beaten northward by storms, and the waves of the great ocean ran higher than the walls of the city. At last we came to the land of long days, where the men have yellow hair and blue eyes and the women are more beautiful than light. By the favor of Baal, we were enabled to obtain a store of amber that is created there by the sun, in exchange for beads of glass. This we dedicated to the God, and after we had got our tin on board, he brought us back under his protection."
The young men listened, open-mouthed. From their boyhood, they had been accustomed to drink in such tales of mystery and wonder along the wharves of the city, nursing the bold spirit of adventure that was born in every Phœnician. They plied the master with questions. What monsters of the sea had he seen? What were the customs of the men of the North? Was it true that they devoured strangers who fell into their hands? The mariner told them of enormous water snakes and dragons, but his marvellous tales were interrupted by a cry from the walls, where lookouts were always posted to scan the sea. The state trireme had been sighted. She was returning from Sidon, bringing Prince Hur and the ambassadors whom the council had despatched to Alexander. The council was now awaiting their return.
At the signal from the walls, work was suspended throughout the city and the population crowded to the harbor. Merchants with their tablets clasped in their hands, dyers with their arms stained to the elbow, metal workers, artisans, laborers, and soldiers of the garrison, thronged to the water front by thousands to learn the answer of the Macedonian. A vast murmur of expectation and speculation rose from the people.
Presently, through the entrance of the harbor, the trireme could be seen, making for the opening between the sea-walls, over which the waves were dashing in spurts of white spray. Urged by its three banks of oars, rising and falling in unison, the vessel ran swiftly into the harbor.
Headed by Prince Hur, the son of Azemilcus, the ambassadors were standing grave and silent upon the deck. At sight of their anxious faces a hush fell upon the crowd. The pilot gave a sharp command, the oars churned backward in the water, and the long trireme swung into her mooring. The ambassadors descended to the wharf and spoke in low tones to the elders of the council.
Was it peace or war? War! The news ran through the crowd and into the city as ripples spread across the face of a pool when a stone falls. Turmoil and confusion followed. What had Alexander said? Would the other Phœnician cities join with Tyre to repel him?
They had deserted her. Tyre must stand alone. Strato, son of Gerostratus, king of Adradus, had surrendered. Byblos had capitulated. Sidon had opened her gates to the Macedonians.
"We offered submission according to our instructions," said the chief of the ambassadors, to the council. "Alexander accepted it and bade us tell you it was his purpose to offer sacrifice in the temple of Melkarth, who, he says, is really Heracles, and his ancestor. We replied that Tyre could not admit strangers within her walls, but that Melkarth had an older temple on the mainland, where he might offer sacrifice. 'Tell your council,' he said, 'that I and my army will offer sacrifice to Melkarth upon his altar within the walls of New Tyre. Bid them make ready the temple. It is for them to say what the victims shall be.' That was all."
"You did well; let us consider," said Mochus, the eldest of the council.
They walked in slow and silent procession to the palace of the king in the southern quarter of the town and disappeared within its gates.
The city continued to seethe like a huge caldron. Its unwonted stir attracted the attention of Thais and Artemisia, on the housetop, where they had gone as usual to take the air after midday. The two young women stood side by side, close to the parapet of the roof, looking down into the narrow streets, where men came and went like ants whose nest has been disturbed. The strong sea-breeze blew out Thais' crimson robe into gleaming folds, and the sun glistened upon the burnished copper of her hair. Rich color glowed in her cheeks and in her scarlet lips. The immortal vitality of the salt breeze and of the crisply curling waves seemed in her. She laughed aloud.
"I wonder what is the matter?" she said. "These Phœnicians are afraid of their own shadows."
Artemisia smiled. Her chiton of fine white wool, edged with purple, outlining her figure, indicated that it had lost some of its roundness. Her face was pale; blue veins showed through the transparent skin of her temples.
"I hope it means something good for us," she said, slipping her arm around her sister's waist. "When shall we get away from this hateful city?"
"The time will come, child," Thais said soothingly. "You shall see him again; I know it."
It was a conversation that had been repeated many times. Artemisia drew a sigh that caught in her throat in a little sob.
"Oh, Thais, if I could feel his strong arms around me only once," she said, "I think I could die in thankfulness."
"Do not talk of dying," Thais replied reprovingly. "See, the world is beautiful!"
They stood in silence for a moment, gazing at the scene, which was indeed beautiful, as Thais had said. On three sides the sea flashed and sparkled with white-capped waves before the southwest wind. On the east a channel, half a mile in width, divided the mainland from the island upon which the new city was built. Beyond the strait lay the city of Old Tyre, with its wide circle of walls. There, as in the new town, thousands of pieces of cloth—linen, woollen, cotton, and silk—fresh from the vats of the dyers, were hung to dry in the sun. The juice of the shell-fish had lent them rich hues of blue, violet, crimson, scarlet, and the peculiar shade of purple known as "royal" that for ages had made the city famous. Hundreds of fishing and trading vessels were drawn up along the wharves or upon the beach.
Behind the old city, three miles from the beach, rose Mount Lebanon, clothed to its snow-clad summits with the foliage of pine, cedar, oak, and sumach. Its mighty barrier stretched north and south into the misty distance, leaving always between its base and the shore a narrow strip of level land that was given up to tillage.
From the elevation where they stood, the young women looked upon other roofs, filling the space inside the walls, which rose from the sea for one hundred and fifty feet, with towers at every curve and angle. They could see the Sidonian Harbor on their right and the Egyptian Harbor opposite to it on their left, both crowded with masts and connected by a canal spanned by movable bridges.
Before them rose the towers and cupolas of the Temple of Melkarth, and near it the wide Eurychorus, or market-place. Farther south was the huge dome of the Temple of Baal, and there, too, was the royal palace, with its many terraces crowned by a lofty citadel. Agenor's Temple was on the north, overlooking the Sidonian Harbor. Near the western wall was an oasis of verdure which marked the gardens attached to the voluptuous Temple of Astarte, where, through the foliage of palm and rhododendron, shone the marble columns of her habitation.
Phradates had caused a striped awning to be erected upon the roof. Beneath this was spread a gay Babylonian carpet, with couches and silken cushions. Shrubs and flowering plants stood in great vases of stone, screening the enclosure from the eyes of the curious. All the other housetops of the quarter were occupied in a similar manner, thus enabling the population to escape the heat of the lower levels, from which the breeze was excluded by the height of the walls. The space inside the city was so crowded that the houses rose many stories, and, excepting those belonging to wealthy persons, each sheltered scores of families.
"It is a proud city," Thais said musingly.
"Yes," Artemisia replied. "Proud, and cruel, and heartless!"
She shivered as she spoke. Thais beckoned to one of the women, who stood at a respectful distance, talking in low tones with a slender, dark-skinned man, whose cunning eyes gleamed like those of a rat. He was Mena the Egyptian.
"Fetch a wrap," Thais said to the slave girl who answered her summons.
The girl brought a shawl of cashmere and laid it around Artemisia's shoulders.
"Something tells me that our captivity will soon be over," Thais said. "Things cannot last much longer as they are."
There was a meaning in her words that Artemisia did not grasp. Since the flight from Halicarnassus, they had been confined in the house of Phradates, whose passion for Thais had increased until it burned like fever in his veins. The end must have come long ago had it not been for the frequent absences that had been forced upon the young man by the needs of the city and the commands of the Great King. As matters stood, even Thais' resources had been taxed to hold him in check. Hitherto she had fed him with hopes, playing upon his weaknesses and keeping him in a state of subjection from which she knew surrender would set him free. She made a gesture of impatience and began walking up and down between rows of young orange trees.
"I don't know what has come over me," she said. "I am as restless as one of the sea-gulls yonder."
She listened a moment to the cries and commotion in the streets.
"Mena!" she cried. "Come here!"
The Egyptian advanced slowly, with an indefinable insolence in his bearing.
"Find out what is causing all this excitement in the city and bring me word," Thais said.
"Why should my lady be interested?" Mena replied coolly, with a smile that showed his white teeth.
Thais wheeled as though she had been stung. She looked at the Egyptian with head erect, and there was something in her eyes that caused his to fall before them.
"Mena," she said softly, "do not think that, because you are set to watch me, you are my master. Go, or I swear by Astoreth that you shall be flayed alive from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet."
Mena gasped, and moistened his dry lips with his tongue.
"Pardon," he stammered. "I did not mean—"
"I know well what you meant," Thais returned. "Go!"
He turned and went. Thais grasped a branch of the shrubbery and tore it away, crumpling the leaves in her hands and scattering them in a bruised shower at her feet.
"How long must I put up with the insolence of this slave and his master?" she exclaimed. The opalescent animal light gleamed in her eyes as she turned them northward, and she paced backward and forward with impatient strides like a captive lioness. "I hate them!" she cried. "How many times have I been tempted to end it!"
She thrust her hand into her bosom and drew out her tiny dagger, whose hilt was studded with rubies that sparkled like drops of blood.
"Hush, Thais, some one is coming!" Artemisia said.
Thais quickly hid the dagger and turned to greet Phradates. He came forward with a smile, and the smile with which she met him had no trace in it of the anger that had so shaken her but a moment before.
"Great news!" the young man cried. "Alexander is coming!"
Artemisia caught her breath, and for an instant her head swam.
"Tell us," Thais said. "We are dying to hear all about it. You know we have had no news since the battle of Issus, where the Great King, as you call him, was beaten by one who seems to be greater."
There was a spice of malice in her voice that evidently annoyed the Phœnician.
"Yes, through the treachery of the Greeks," he replied, frowning. "Darius will depend upon his own people next time, and you will see then what will happen."
"But what has Alexander been doing since the battle?" Thais asked.
"He might have advanced upon Babylon with nobody to oppose him," Phradates said. "Of course, he would not have been able to capture the city, but at least he will never have a better chance to try it. He was afraid to make the attempt. He has been marching down the coast instead, and there has been no more fighting, because all the northern cities have surrendered to him."
"Well?" Thais said, listening with parted lips.
"In the absence of King Azemilcus," the Phœnician continued, "the council deemed it best to offer terms for the present. They sent an embassy, accompanied by the prince, to tell Alexander that he had nothing to fear from Tyre so long as he did not interfere with us."
"What was his reply?" Thais demanded quickly.
"What do you suppose?" Phradates said. "He had the impudence to announce that Melkarth was the same as your Heracles, and that as Heracles was of his family, he proposed to offer sacrifice in the temple here. The embassy told him flatly that Tyre had never admitted the Persians, and that we should not admit him. Everybody knows that if we should let him in here, he would do what he did in Ephesus when he took possession of the city under pretence of offering sacrifice to Artemis."
"But where is Darius?" Thais asked.
"He is in Babylon," said Phradates. "He sent a letter to Alexander after the battle of Issus, asking freedom for his wife and family. He wrote as one king to another, proposing peace and alliance; but your Alexander, to his sorrow, refused the terms. He pretends that he has already conquered all Asia, and he had the boldness to tell the Great King that he would liberate Statira and her children if Darius would come as a suppliant to ask it."
"The Gods fight with him," Thais said, after a pause. "It would be better for Tyre to open her gates."
The young Phœnician laughed scornfully.
"The walls of Tyre will crumble and fall into the sea before he offers his sacrifice," he exclaimed. "I will wager anything I possess against your looking-glass that he will weary of his task before a stone has been loosened."
"You do not know Alexander," Thais replied.
"Thais," the young man said earnestly, "I will wager what is more precious to me than gold. Thou knowest that I love thee."
"You have told me so," she replied demurely.
"You have been for months in my power," he went on, "and I have not sought to force your inclination. Let us now abide by the result of the siege that Alexander is threatening. On the day that he gives over his attempt to enter Tyre, thou shalt be mine. Until that day comes I shall ask nothing of thee. Is it a bargain?"
"You will not keep your promise," Thais said doubtfully. Her reluctance made the young man more eager.
"Mena!" he called, "bring wine and two doves at once."
When the Egyptian returned, Phradates said to Thais, "See, I am ready to bind myself by oath if thou wilt do likewise."
"I am ready," Thais replied.
The sacrifice was made and the mutual bond was completed. As the blood of the doves trickled upon the stones, Phradates called Astarte to witness his covenant. Thais drew a breath of relief, for she knew that no Phœnician, even the most depraved, would dare to disregard such an oath.
The sun went down in crimson splendor, and lamps began to twinkle in the city. Still the council prolonged its deliberations, and still the anxious merchants waited outside the doors of the palace to learn its decision.