Inside the Temple of Baal-Moloch the chant of the priests swelled to a triumphant hymn of praise. The throbbing of drums and the droning of strange musical instruments increased the volume of sound. It drowned the uproar of the conflict between the guards and the Israelites, who had reached the gardens of the temple, and it rose above the wailing of the infants destined for the sacrifice. The children were held by the priests, who formed in a deep semicircle before the idol. The throng of devotees filled the body of the temple beyond their line and the dim reaches of the arcades behind the rows of columns.
The pungent smell of smoke from the sacrificial fire was mingled with the odor of incense that floated from censors swung by neophytes clad in robes of scarlet.
Amid the crowd that burst into the temple in such numbers as to forbid all semblance of the usual ceremonial order, rose the image of the Giver of Life and its Destroyer, gigantic and terrible. Its broad breast glowed dull red, and a spurt of flame issued from its sneering lips like a fiery tongue. The terror that had driven the people into the temple gave way to awe when they found themselves in the presence of the God. Many of the votaries fell upon their faces before the colossal figure; others stretched their hands toward it in an agony of supplication. Sharp cries pierced the maddening pulsations of the music. The gusts of the storm, entering through the opening in the temple roof, drove the smoke in eddies through the obscurity.
Hiram walked straight to the idol and prostrated himself upon the lowest of the steps that rose to the platform on which it stood. He remained for a moment in silent prayer, and then, rising, he stretched forth his arms and repeated the ancient formula that always preceded the sacrifice, calling upon the God by the numerous titles that signified his manifold attributes.
Artemisia stood behind him, within the half-circle of priests who held back the eager crowd. Her white garments gleamed pure and spotless against the background of their sombre official robes. Her head was slightly bowed, and her hands were clasped lightly before her. She seemed utterly oblivious of her surroundings and the terrible fate that awaited her. Thais, firmly held by the priests who had brought her to the temple, was stationed by her captors on the left hand of Baal, in a position that prevented her eyes from meeting Artemisia's gaze. The angry color had faded from her cheeks. She realized at last that Artemisia was lost and that she herself must endure the agony of seeing her perish. Her face had grown haggard and drawn.
"Spare her, priest of Moloch!" she cried desperately, as Hiram ended his invocation. "Her death cannot save thy city. Give her back to me, and I promise thee thy safety and the safety of thy order. If thou needs must sacrifice a woman, let me be the victim. I am fairer than she, and I will be more acceptable to thy God. See, I beg her life at thy hands!"
She would have thrown herself upon her knees, but the priests restrained her. Hiram made no reply and paid no heed to her appeal. Ascending the steps with a firm tread, he stood between the feet of the idol and turned to the multitude, extending his hands over Artemisia's head with the palms downward. The chant ceased and the music died away. Only the frightened sobbing of the infants, whom the assistants sought in vain to quiet, broke the silence within the temple. Hiram began to speak in a solemn and impressive voice.
"We bring thee, O Lord, a maiden, pure in heart," he said. "We have sinned against thee in our pride; upon her head we place our sins; take thou her and forgive!"
He paused, and a wailing cry of supplication rose throughout the temple.
"We have neglected thy worship," Hiram went on. "Upon her head be our neglect; take her and forgive! We have done those things that are forbidden; upon her head be our disobedience to thy law; take her and accept our atonement! We have disregarded our oaths; upon her head be our perfidy; receive her in quittance of our debt to thee. Pardon us, O Lord, in this our sacrifice to thee, all our many sins against thee, and protect us out of thy mercy in this hour of our great peril!"
At the conclusion of the recital, he turned again to the God. The arms of the idol slowly sank and extended themselves until the outstretched palms were brought together before the iron knees a few feet from the floor.
"Artemisia!" the chief priest called imperatively.
With faltering steps she obeyed his command, advancing slowly until she stood before the broad palms that seemed to tremble with impatience to clasp her form. In the deadly hush of expectancy, the fierce cries of the Israelites, struggling with the soldiers outside the temple, could be distinctly heard. Hiram saw that haste was necessary if the sacrifice was to be accomplished.
"Dost thou give thyself willingly for the sins of Tyre?" he demanded, confident of his power.
Before she could answer a shriek rang through the temple.
"Deny him, Artemisia, my sister!" Thais cried. "He is a sorcerer. Do not—"
Her voice was roughly stifled by the priests, her captors, but a questioning murmur rose from the crowd.
"Answer!" Hiram said sternly, bending all the strength of his merciless will upon her.
"Artemisia! Do not answer!" cried another voice. It was the voice of a man, and it rang strong and clear, though it vibrated with anxiety. It seemed to issue from the dark recesses behind the idol. A stir of astonishment broke the spell that had imposed silence upon the worshippers. Every eye strove to pierce the gloom of the sanctuary. Hiram started, and his pallid face grew a shade paler.
"Artemisia!" came the clear voice again. "Dost thou not hear me?"
Artemisia's eyes left those of the chief priest and looked beyond him eagerly into the darkness. The mask of impassiveness faded from her face. Her lips parted.
"Clearchus!" she cried. "Where art thou? Save me! Save me!"
She threw up her arms with a despairing gesture, and sank upon the platform beneath the terrible hands that were stretched to seize her.
"Alexander! Alexander!" shouted Chares out of the darkness. "Down with the dogs!"
The words were followed by a cry of mortal agony from one of the priests whose duty it was to feed the fire that roared inside the idol. The Tyrians heard the sound of a brief commotion in the rear of the temple, they saw the gleam of armor and of weapons, and the dark hangings that veiled the innermost shrine were rent from the walls. Armed men rushed across the platform and leaped down among the priests, hewing at the holy ministers with flashing swords.
In the obscurity, the Tyrians fancied that an entire company of Macedonians was upon them. Those who had sought refuge there from the Hebrew mob forgot the dangers that awaited them outside and surged toward the entrance. But the Israelites had scattered the soldiers in the gardens, and they charged the doors just as the assemblage attempted to force its way out. The fugitives from the terrors of the temple were struck down in heaps upon the threshold.
Hiram alone retained his presence of mind. He had implicit faith in the power of the terrible deity, in whose service he had spent the greater part of his life, and absolute confidence in the efficacy of sacrifice. When he saw Artemisia fall and heard Chares' battle-cry, he knew that all was lost unless the offering could be consummated.
Unmindful of his own danger, he bounded forward and raised the slim, unconscious form in his arms. Quickly he laid it upon the iron palms, with a muttered prayer. There was a sound of creaking chains, and the hands ascended slowly, bearing upward the slender figure. One bare, white arm hung inertly between the iron fingers, and the snowy chiton shone through the smoke against the dark bulk of the monstrous image.
Clearchus sprang out of the darkness and saw Artemisia raised aloft in that pitiless grasp. She was already beyond his reach. A cold sweat broke out upon his body. He stood for an instant transfixed with dread, unable even to cry out. Every heart-beat brought her nearer to that glowing metal surface, whose terrible heat he could feel upon his face where he stood.
Hiram stepped forward to the edge of the platform and stretched out his arms. The glare of religious madness shone in his eyes.
"Peace, peace!" he cried to the struggling and shrieking mob, frantic with fear. "Baal-Moloch accepts the sacrifice. Peace! Profane not his temple!"
His voice was drowned in a crash of thunder that seemed to rend the sky across from mountain to sea. Before it died, a huge mass of rock, hurled from an engine of the Macedonian fleet, crashed through one of the openings in the dome of the temple. The ponderous missile struck the masonry and bounded backward and downward in a shower of dislodged stones upon the inclined head of the idol.
Moloch seemed to rise from his throne, as though about to stride from the platform. His iron arms flew apart, and the grim colossus lurched forward down the steps, and fell with a clang of metal upon the marble floor.
A sharp cry rose from the struggling crowd. Those who witnessed the downfall of the sacred image stood in doubt, unable to believe their eyes. The Israelites, unaware of what had happened, took advantage of the moment to overcome the slight opposition of the Tyrians who still faced them. They rushed into the temple, crying aloud for the restoration of their children.
In the wild confusion of their onslaught, many of the infants were trampled to death. Others were killed by the priests, who seemed crazed by the fall of their idol. At first they stood stupefied. Hiram's voice was no longer heard. They called upon him in vain. Finally one of them ran to the fragments of the prostrate image. Bending above it, he saw the distorted face of the chief priest gazing up into his own. The unfortunate man had been caught beneath the breast of the God to whom he had offered so many innocents, and his crushed body was being slowly roasted under the red-hot metal.
"Moloch has taken him!" the priest shouted, tossing his arms in the air.
He ran into the crowd, and, seizing one of the infants by the heels, dashed out its brains against a pillar. His example was followed by others no less frantic than himself.
"Strike, brothers!" he cried. "Baal has fallen! The end is at—"
Before he could finish the sentence, Leonidas' sword pierced his throat, and he fell upon the body of the child that he had slain.
Down the dim arcade, behind the pillars, strode the Spartan and Chares, hacking and thrusting at the black-robed minions of Moloch. They showed no mercy. Neither prayer nor entreaty availed. They sought the priests through the terrified crowd, and dragged them from every place of concealment, until of all who had been in the temple not one remained alive.
With the crash of the stone as it smote the idol, Clearchus realized what had happened. He saw the iron arms drop, and he leaped forward in time to snatch Artemisia from their embrace. The hot iron grazed his body as the image fell. Artemisia's pale, sweet face lay upon his shoulder, and he clasped her close to his breast. In the revulsion from his despair he felt his muscles endowed with strength.
He smiled to see his friends dash past him, and he looked smilingly upon the clamorous crowd in which every man fought for his life. One of the priests, whose face had been gashed to the bone, rushed upon him, with hands extended, and tried to tear Artemisia from his arms. The man was unarmed, and Clearchus thrust him through the breast. He sank and died without a moan.
Amid the fragments of Moloch's image, the fire that had been kindled in the iron bosom flickered with blue and crimson tongues of flame.
Suddenly the crowd was split by a rush from the great doorway, and Clearchus saw Nathan leading the Israelites into the temple. With the name of Jehovah upon their lips, the swarthy, black-eyed Hebrews poured in, smiting the Tyrians and beating them down with merciless strokes in the delirium of their exaltation. They swept through the temple like wolves through a sheepfold. The floor was heaped with the dead, and the stones were slippery with blood. Nathan recognized the Athenian and sprang to his side, shouting to his followers to strike and spare not.
Into the midst of the confusion rushed the Hebrew women, seeking the children who had been taken from them. The uproar of conflict gave way to the lamentations of mothers whose infants had been slaughtered. Others, more fortunate, sat with their babes in their arms, kissing them and feeling them over to discover whether they had been hurt. One young wife sat upon the steps at Clearchus' feet with her first-born and only child. Nathan recognized her as the woman who had been struck down by the priest in the market-place. The baby had been strangled and was dead.
"Hush!" she said, in a crooning voice, and, covering the child's head with her garment, she pressed its lips to her breast. For an instant she sat there, but the chill of the waxen mouth struck through her heart. She gave a startled glance at the baby's face, and then sprang up with a scream of despair and rushed out of the temple into the tempest, with the poor little body clasped in her arms.
Nathan called to Chares and Leonidas. "Alexander is on the wall," he said. "The streets are filled with the Tyrians. We must escape as we came. Listen!"
He held up his hand, and the Greeks became aware of a dull roaring that filled the city like the humming of a gigantic hive of bees.
"Even here we shall not be safe," Nathan continued. "Let us seek the secret passage."
"Chares!" cried one from among the women, and Thais ran forward, with her saffron robe torn so that half her perfect breast was exposed. She carried a dagger in her hand, and its blade was red; but her face shone with joy. The weapon fell from her grasp as she sprang to the Theban, who lifted her like a child in his arms and kissed her.
"Come," he said, as he set her down, "let us go."
Turning their backs upon the throng of the living and the dead, they descended into the secret passage and closed the entrance behind them.
King Azemilcus stood at a window of his chamber, with the aged chancellor at his side, looking out across the parapet of the wall. They were alone in the room, for the king had ordered his guard to await his commands in an outer apartment. The window opened directly upon the top of the wall, to which the royal palace was joined. Often during his long reign had the old king stood there, revolving his schemes in his cunning brain, while the salt breeze cooled his temples.
Beneath his feet the stones trembled with the shock of the great battering rams that were enlarging the breach in the wall west of the palace. In his ears sounded the tumult of the attack upon the two harbors, where the Macedonian triremes were seeking to break the barriers of chains. He saw the Tyrian soldiers upon the battlements, fighting against hope, with the valor of desperation.
The roar of falling masonry told him that the rams had done their work. The breach had become a wide gap, extending beyond the ends of the inner wall that had been built to block the assault. The vessels lying in wait drew nearer. Flights of arrows and volleys of stones, great and small, swept the defences. Troop-ships, provided with drawbridges at their prows, closed in at the breach. The bridges fell, and streams of men in armor began to flow across them. They gained the breach and held it. They scaled the slope of fallen blocks and reached the top of the wall. The Tyrians were forced backward or hurled into the sea.
"That must be Alexander," the king remarked, noting the irresistible vigor of the assault.
"Yes," the chancellor replied, "those are his plumes."
Alexander indeed was leading the charge along the wall toward the palace, fighting in the forefront as his custom was, while the shield-bearing guards pressed forward where he led. Their triumphant voices shouted his name. At one of the towers upon the wall, between the breach and the palace, the Tyrians made a stand, seeking to check the advance of their foes. The Macedonians hunted them out and drove them to the next tower. The battle raged in mid-air, and the bodies of the slain fell either into the sea on one side or into the streets of the city on the other.
"They will enter here," Azemilcus said. "I think it is time to go."
"It is time!" the chancellor echoed, gazing upon the slaughter like a man under the spell of a horrible fascination.
The king led the way into the large hall where the guard was stationed. It consisted of a company of a hundred men under the command of a young captain whose bronzed face and steady gaze showed that he was a veteran in service despite his youth. He had been pacing backward and forward before his men, who stood at attention along the wall. At sight of Azemilcus he paused and saluted. The old king placed a thin hand upon his shoulder.
"I am going to the Temple of Melkarth," he said. "Escort me thither."
The young man shook off the royal hand as though he felt contaminated by its touch.
"Does your Majesty really mean to seek refuge with the Alexandrine?" he asked indignantly.
"Yes," the king replied, "and I command you to come with me."
"Then I refuse!" the soldier exclaimed. "I have two brothers yonder on the wall, if they be still alive. The Macedonians will try to enter the palace, and if they succeed, the city is lost. Go you to Melkarth's temple if you will; but you go alone. We remain here."
Azemilcus looked at the handsome face, flushed with anger, and his inscrutable smile played about his lips.
"Thy father was my friend, and I have loved thee," he said. "I would save thee if I could, but youth is hot and hasty; have thy will if thou must."
He began to descend the broad staircase, followed by the trembling chancellor.
"There goes Tyre!" the young captain cried bitterly, "selfish and treacherous to the last. To the windows! We may yet save him honorably, though he does not deserve it."
They reached the seaward side of the palace in time to receive the remnants of the Tyrian companies that had vainly striven to defend the wall. The captain's brothers were not among the fugitives.
It had seemed to the young officer that the entrances to the palace from the wall might be held by a few men against any force that could be brought up; but it was not within human power to resist the onrush of the Macedonians. The captain was slain by Ptolemy; half his men fell with him, and the others fled down through the palace to the streets with the Macedonians at their heels.
The noise of the battle spread from the palace through the city. There was the clash of steel and the hoarse shouting of men at barricades; screams of women in fear and sharp cries of command mingled with the trampling of many feet. Save for the obstinate guard, the palace had been left unprotected by the crafty old king, who was awaiting his conqueror in the sanctuary of Melkarth's temple. Alexander led the way into the city with Hephæstion and Philotas. Ptolemy, Perdiccas, Clitus, Peithon, Glaucias, Meleager, Polysperchon, and a score more of his Companions and captains swept after him, heading the scarred veterans of Philip's wars,—phalangites, archers and javelin throwers, Thessalian cavalry riders, and heavy-armed mercenaries.
Then in the city of Tyre, whose name for centuries had been a synonym for power and pride, began a slaughter which lasted until nightfall. Alexander ordered that the Israelites should not be molested and that none should enter with violence the Temple of Melkarth; but he did not seek to forbid his followers from taking revenge for the rigors and hardships of the long siege.
At first the Tyrians fought desperately from street to street and from square to square, falling back from one barrier to another; but this resistance served only to whet the rage that drove the Macedonians on. Fresh troops constantly landed from the fleet and poured in through the palace. The breach in the wall became a gateway. The pitiless squadrons hunted the defenders from lane and housetop, cutting them to pieces.
In the Sidonian Harbor, seven ships were hastily manned, the chains were let down, and the crews made a dash for the open sea. They were snapped up by the Cretan vessels which lay in wait beyond the breakwater. Three of them were sunk, and the rest were forced to surrender.
In the house of Phradates the terrified slaves locked and barred the doors by direction of Mena. The master was fighting on the walls. More than once parties of Macedonian soldiers demanded that the gates be opened, but when no response was given, thinking perhaps that the house was deserted and tempted by easier spoil, they passed on. At last came a Tyrian cry for admittance. Mena looked from the wicket and saw Phradates, supported by two soldiers. His face was pale and his helmet had been shattered.
"Open!" cried the soldiers. "Your master has been wounded."
Several of the slaves started forward and laid their hands upon the bars, but the Egyptian pushed them back.
"There is no longer master or slave in Tyre," he said. "Each man must think first of himself."
At the suggestion of Phradates the soldiers bore him to the rear of the house, where there was a small door leading to the kitchens. It was opened by a white-haired crone, whose eyes were blinded with tears.
"Bring him in," she cried. "I am his nurse."
"Take him, then," the soldiers said roughly, irritated by the delay. "He owes us fifty darics for bringing him off, and we have our own to save."
Upheld by the trembling arms of the old woman, Phradates staggered across the threshold. He could no longer feel the earth beneath his feet. If he could only rest a little!
"Is it you, mother?" he asked faintly. "I must sleep."
"Yes, yes, master," the old woman replied through her sobs, "but not here. Come to your own chamber."
She tried to urge him toward the banqueting hall, but his steps grew more uncertain and his weight became too great for her feeble strength.
"Mena!" she called. "Mena, here is your master. Come and help him!"
The Egyptian ran in furiously and closed the door that she had left open in her anxiety.
"Do you want to have us all killed?" he demanded, turning upon the old woman. "Take that, my master, for the beatings you have given me!"
He plunged his dagger into the young man's defenceless side, and Phradates sank to the floor.
"Thais!" he muttered, "where art thou?"
The old woman uttered a quivering cry and fell upon her knees beside him, trying with her robe to stop the flow of blood. Mena ran back to the front of the house, leaving her alone with the body.
"Speak to me! Speak to me!" she wailed, not knowing what she said; but Phradates made no reply.
Tyre was in a turmoil of riot and license. The real fighting was at an end, but the soldiers were everywhere pillaging and drinking. Costly fabrics were trampled in the mud of the gutters. Rare vases and priceless statuary were shattered upon the pavements. Rough Thessalians ransacked the houses of rich merchants for gold and gems, destroying with laughter and jests what they did not want. The stifled screams of women mingled with their voices. Here a soldier emerged from a great house with his arms full of rich silks. Another shouted to him that a hoard of gold had been discovered close at hand, and he straightway dropped his burden that he might get his share of the more convenient plunder. There a man who had found a huge tusk of ivory tried to carry it away on his shoulder, while his comrades wrestled with him for it, uttering shouts of laughter as their fingers slipped upon its polished surface. Sometimes swords were drawn and blood flowed over a bag of gold or a necklace of pearls. Bands of mercenaries paraded with wine-skins on their backs, singing the hymns of Dionysus and squirting the precious vintage into each other's faces. Gorged with blood, the army glutted itself in a delirium of indulgence.
In the universal license the baser elements of the city's population joined in the pillage with none to hinder, for the Macedonians were too intent upon their revenge to heed them. Like Mena, slaves rose against their masters, and entire families were slain for the sake of plunder or to requite harsh treatment. The prisons were broken open and their inmates set at liberty. The sailors about the harbors, who had been kept inactive by the blockade of the fleet, desperate men from all quarters of the sea, satisfied their ferocious appetites at will. In the frenzied carnival of lust and slaughter, neither age nor innocence was spared.
The swirl of the battle drew Syphax and his companions from their haunts among the great warehouses near the waterside, where they had been drinking. The bloated face of the freebooter grew purple with eagerness as he heard the sounds of conflict and of panic spread through the city.
"Ho, comrades!" he shouted, "to-day we pay ourselves for all we have had to endure from Fortune! The spoil lies ready for us."
"Break open the warehouses and load a ship with ivory and silk," cried one of his followers.
"You are a fool," Syphax replied contemptuously. "We should be sunk before we could get out of the harbor. Take nothing but gold and jewels. We can hide them until the time comes to escape. Look there!"
An old man, a member of the council, came running toward them, glancing back over his shoulder to see if he was being pursued. Syphax grasped him by the arm and tore the heavy golden chain of office from his neck. The man made no resistance, but fled away without a word as soon as he was released.
"This is what we want," Syphax cried, holding up the shining links. "Be bold and follow me."
He set off toward a part of the city that the Macedonians seemed not yet to have penetrated. It was a quarter where many wealthy houses stood, and the sailors were fortunate enough to arrive among the first of the marauders. In half an hour, each of them had collected a fortune in gold and precious stones. There was blood upon the hands of Syphax and one of his men had a cut across his forehead when they came out of the last house, carrying their spoil in small, heavy bundles. The city was in its death-throes. From harbor to harbor it had become a vast shambles.
"Let us get back to the warehouses and bury what we have," one of the seamen said.
Syphax looked about him, and his glance fell upon the house where he had seen Ariston enter. In their immediate vicinity there was yet no sign of the enemy. A cruel gleam entered the pirate's bloodshot eyes.
"Now that we are rich," he cried, "it is no more than fair that we should pay our debts. I have one yonder that must be discharged, and to you I resign my share of whatever of value we may find inside."
"Lead on, then, but hasten," the sailors answered.
Syphax found the door bolted, as he had expected. His men battered it in with stones and rushed into the entrance hall. The place seemed deserted. The sailors scattered through the house in search of booty, but Syphax sought only his enemy.
The terrified family had taken refuge in an alcove on the third floor of the house. There one of the sailors found them and summoned his chief with a joyful shout. Ariston and his host stood at the entrance of the recess, with swords in their hands to defend the women, a mother and three daughters, who cowered behind them in the shadow with two slave girls only, the rest of the household having fled. The sailors laughed at the two feeble old men who dared to oppose them.
"Spare our lives and you shall each receive five thousand talents of gold," Ariston cried. "I am Ariston of Athens, and I pledge myself to the payment."
"We know what the pledges of Ariston are worth!" Syphax replied, his face convulsed with hate and rage.
"We are lost, my friend," Ariston said, in a low voice, to his host, recognizing the pirate.
"You bade me once to remember Medon," Syphax bellowed. "I bid thee now to remember him and the silver talent thou wert to give me for what was done in Athens. I have had no luck since; and now thou shalt pay for all!" He rushed upon Ariston, who tried to defend himself; but the pirate easily disarmed him and dragged him out into the room. The master of the house fell beneath a shower of blows.
"Now for the harbor! Our time is short," Syphax shouted, hurrying Ariston with him down the stairs.
The screaming and prayers of the women mingled with sounds of brutal merriment told him that his order was unheeded.
"Do you hear?" he roared. "Come, I tell you, before it is too late!"
This time two of the wretches obeyed him, bursting from the room with loud guffaws. The others straggled after them, but several minutes elapsed before they were all assembled for the sally.
"Why not do it here?" one of the sailors asked, indicating Ariston, whose arm Syphax held in a firm grasp.
"Because I intend to make him remember Medon," the freebooter answered savagely. "You shall see sport when we reach the harbor."
A cold sweat covered Ariston's forehead, but he made no sound. His ear had caught the trampling of feet, and he hoped yet for rescue.
The sailors emerged into the street and turned toward the harbor. Just as they reached the first corner, a company of Thessalians, in pursuit of a few Tyrian fugitives, ran into them. No questions were asked. The swords of the cavalrymen were already out, and they drove them into the bodies of the men who were unfortunate enough to block their way.
Syphax alone had time to drop his booty and draw his sword. He saw that there was no escape.
"Thou hast been my evil genius," he cried to Ariston, "but at any rate thou shalt go with me to the Styx."
He plunged his sword into the old man's side. Before he could withdraw it, a Thessalian blade cleft his skull. Murderer and victim fell together.
The storm had blown over. The sinking sun shone crimson upon the twisted clouds far across the sky. In the quarter where the Israelites dwelt, amid the mourning and rejoicing, Pethuel, the high priest, raised his hands to heaven.
"Give thanks to Jehovah!" he cried. "Our enemies have fallen and they that mocked Him are no more! Blessed be the name of the Lord!"
Down in the secret passage the fugitives from the Temple of Moloch could hear no sound of the battle. Leonidas had snatched one of the perfumed censers from the hand of a quaking neophyte, and this shed a glimmer of light as he led the way.
Artemisia came to her senses to find herself clasped in her lover's arms.
"Clearchus!" she murmured, "may the Gods grant that this be not a dream."
"It is no dream, my beloved!" the young man answered. "I have found thee at last."
"Dear heart, I have longed for thee so!" she said, with a little sigh of content, as her arms stole around his neck.
Clearchus bent his head, and their lips met in the darkness. Thais heard the murmur of their voices.
"Oh, I have lost my sandal—and I am cold!" she exclaimed, in a tone of distress. "Chares, I am afraid you will have to carry me."
"You are so heavy," the Theban said, taking her in his arms.
"There, be careful, sir, or I shall make you set me down again," she cried.
Leonidas uttered a sound that was something between a snort and a grunt and signified disdain, whereupon Chares laughed until the narrow passage rang.
Before they reached the palace it was in full possession of the Macedonians. They entered the room where the young men had left Azemilcus the night before, and found a portion of the squadron belonging to Leonidas busily searching there for plunder. The men stood open-mouthed when their captain appeared from behind the hangings. They looked like schoolboys caught in a forbidden frolic.
"Where is the king?" the Spartan demanded sternly.
"He is fighting down there," one of the soldiers replied, pointing from the window.
Leonidas glanced down upon the city and saw the conflict raging in the streets.
"Then what are you doing here?" he asked harshly. "Fall in!"
"I will go with you," Nathan said. "I must seek my people."
"You will find us here when you come back," Chares cried after them. "We will fight no more to-day."
Leonidas overtook Alexander stamping out the last sparks of resistance in the northern part of the city. The young king, still glowing with the ardor of battle, greeted him with a smile.
"Are Clearchus and Chares safe?" he asked.
"They await you in the royal palace with Artemisia and Thais," the Spartan replied.
"Good!" Alexander cried. "This will have to be celebrated. Let us see what has become of Azemilcus."
He led the way to the Temple of Melkarth, which was filled with fugitives and suppliants. The general feeling in the city that the God was on the side of the Macedonians had led many to seek his protection when no other remained. Some of them were even striving to remove the chains with which the image had been bound to the pillars.
Azemilcus and the chancellor came forward, surrounded by the priests of the temple. The two kings, one withered and shrunken and old, his brain cankered by the cynical knowledge of experience, and the other, in the fulness of his vigorous youth and generous enthusiasms, looked into each other's eyes. Alexander's face was grave and stern, but the mocking smile still hovered about the lips of the older man.
"What have you to say?" Alexander said at last.
"I have been a king," Azemilcus replied, "but I am a king no longer. What is your will?"
"You may live," Alexander replied coldly, "but you have never been a king. Where is your son?"
"He is dead," the old king answered, and his eyes wavered.
"I would rather be in his place than in thine," Alexander said shortly. "Follow me."
Azemilcus shrugged his shoulders and gathered his robe more closely around him. To all who had sought refuge in the temple Alexander granted safety, and then, having issued the necessary orders regarding the city, he turned back to the palace.
The streets were encumbered with the dead. The bodies lay in heaps behind the broken barricades or scattered between them, where the fugitives had been stricken as they fled before the fury of the Macedonian charge. A wounded Tyrian raised himself on his elbow while the two kings passed, cursed Azemilcus, and died.
In the council room of the palace Alexander demanded from the chancellor an accounting of the public treasure of Tyre, an enormous sum in gold and silver, and gave it into the custody of his own treasurer. There, too, he received the reports of his captains, and with marvellous quickness despatched the business that they brought before him. The greater part of the army he ordered back to the camp on the mainland.
When nothing more remained to be done, he turned to Leonidas.
"Where are thy friends?" he asked. "They seem to have forgotten me."
"I will fetch them," the Spartan replied.
He ran to the apartment where he had left the lovers, and burst in, to find them nestled among the cushions, telling each other of all they had endured.
"Come," he cried. "The king has asked for you."
"Tell him that we will come presently," Chares said, but Thais promptly boxed his ears and slipped out of the arm that encircled her waist.
"I don't suppose there is a woman in the palace to smooth my hair," she exclaimed.
"Do you think Alexander will look at you?" Chares asked. "He has more important things to think about, indeed."
Nevertheless, Artemisia and Thais made Leonidas wait five minutes while they aided each other to make the best appearance possible under the circumstances, before they followed him to the great council chamber. Artemisia entered shyly, casting down her eyes before the bold glances of so many men; but Thais walked beside Chares with head erect, her red lips parted in a smile, and a gleam of excitement dancing in her eyes.
With the license that Alexander permitted, the captains raised a shout of welcome when Chares and Clearchus appeared. Before Artemisia could catch her breath, she was standing in front of Alexander, and Clearchus was presenting her to him.
"She looks like a rosebud when the dew is on it," Clitus whispered to Hephæstion.
"Don't be sentimental," the favorite answered. "When did you become a poet?"
"Not until this minute," Clitus replied.
Alexander himself was not free from embarrassment when he greeted Artemisia, for he knew nothing of women, not yet having met Roxana; but he took her hand and praised the bravery of Clearchus, at which she blushed and smiled.
Thais looked the young king frankly in the face. "We bid you welcome to Tyre," she said.
There was something in the unconquerable vitality of her gaze that reminded him of his mother, although Olympias' eyes were dark and the eyes of this girl were yellow, if any color could be assigned to them that seemed a blend of all.
"It was worth fighting for," he said, returning her look with unconcealed admiration. "But sometimes I wish I were not Alexander," he added, turning to Chares with a smile.
"And I thank the Gods that thou art indeed Alexander," the Theban replied, drawing Thais closer to him.
The young king seemed to fall into a momentary revery, but it passed quickly.
"You four shall be my guests to-night," he exclaimed. "Azemilcus will provide the feast."
"Do not trust him," Chares said, in a low voice. "He tried to poison us."
"If that be so, we will eat elsewhere," Alexander answered, frowning and looking askance at the Tyrian.
"If you will permit me to manage it," Thais said, "Phradates shall furnish the feast."
"Who is he?" Alexander asked.
"He was our captor here," Thais replied, "and he is a man of some good qualities, though he has others also."
"He is the messenger whom you sent from Thebes to carry word to King Azemilcus of your coming," Clearchus explained.
"I remember," Alexander said. "I would like to see him again and ask him whether he delivered the message. So be it, then."
Bidding the Companions follow, Alexander suffered Thais to lead him to the house of Phradates. It was still closed and silent, but Chares and Clearchus beat upon the door with their sword-hilts and demanded admittance in the name of Alexander. Mena, recognizing the king through the wicket, thought it best to open, since he knew that resistance would be in vain. The door swung back, and he prostrated himself at Alexander's feet.
"Welcome, O son of Philip," he said. "The house of my master and all that was his belong to the Conqueror of the Earth."
"Where is he that he does not himself receive me?" Alexander demanded.
"Alas, he is dead!" the Egyptian answered. "He received a fatal wound while fighting on the walls, and they brought him home. He died in my arms."
Mena affected to wipe tears from his eyes as he told of his master's end.
"It is a lie!" the old nurse screamed, from among the slaves clustered in the back of the hall. They tried to stifle her voice, but Alexander commanded her to come forward.
"What happened?" he asked briefly.
The old woman sank upon her knees and raised her hands in supplication.
"I was his nurse," she said, in her cracked and broken voice. "They brought him wounded to this door, and Mena—this man here—would not permit him to enter. He was not always kind to me, but I loved him; for how often when he was little have I held him in my arms! So I stole away and brought him in by another door, thinking to save him, for he was so weak from his wound. And then Mena stabbed him, and he died. Vengeance, O king; thou art strong!"
"Thou shalt have it," Alexander said sternly. "Is this true, dog?"
Mena tried to deny, but he could not speak. His face turned ashen.
"I promised this man that he should be crucified," Thais said softly.
"Then let it be done now," Alexander said.
He motioned to his guard, who seized the Egyptian and held him fast. "Were others concerned in this?" he demanded of the nurse.
"No others, my lord," the woman replied.
"Then let them have no fear," he said. "They shall be unharmed. I give them and this house to Thais."
"Mercy! Mercy!" cried Mena, finding his voice at last. "It is all a lie!"
"Take him away," Alexander said. "I see you know how to punish," he added, turning to Thais.
"I thank the king, both for that and for his gift to me," she replied demurely. "I was sold at Thebes."
By her order the slaves conducted Alexander to the bath and waited upon the Companions who began to arrive. She caused the body of Phradates to be carried to his own chamber, where it was left in the care of the old nurse. With the aid of Artemisia, she superintended the preparations for the feast, giving especial care to the selection of the wines and to the decoration of the hall in which the tables were spread.
Masses of oak leaves from the gardens of Melkarth's temple hid the columns, and from among them shone hundreds of lamps and torches, shedding their light upon the platters of gold and trenchers of silver, interspersed with flagons of colored glass of the finest workmanship, that weighed down the tables. The couches were covered with silks of many hues and piled with yielding cushions.
Pyramids of flowers from the roofs of the houses were disposed upon the tables, and for each guest a wreath was prepared. The warm, perfume-laden air throbbed with the music of flutes breathed upon by invisible musicians.
Thais had caused soldiers to be sent to the Temple of Astoreth, where the priestesses, with many lamentations, supplied them with pheasants from the sacred flock, and these, with abundance of fish from the harbors, pastries, and sweetmeats, disguised the poverty of the larder. Alexander was accustomed afterward to drive his cooks and stewards to despair by commanding them to provide a banquet like the one that Thais had given; for, try as hard as they might, he never could be brought to give his approval, but persisted in declaring that the feast of Thais remained unequalled.
The secret was that there never after came a time when the young king was so well satisfied with himself and his fortune, when his friends were so inspired, and when the future held so much promise. The battle of Issus had been won, and the strongest fortress in the world had been taken. The shores of the sea, from the Hellespont to the Nile, had been conquered and held. Alexander knew then that no power on earth could stand against him. He foresaw the overthrow of Darius and the spread of his own dominion to the confines of the world. Great thoughts and limitless projects were stirring in his mind. He felt himself half a God, and he wondered at his own power. There was yet no bitterness of anxiety to contaminate the pleasure of anticipation, which always in ambitious hearts so much exceeds that of realization.
The feelings that animated the young leader were shared in greater or less degree by his followers. Even Hephæstion forgot to sulk because his place on the right of the king had been given to Artemisia. Thais sat on his left, and beyond her reclined the lazy bulk of Chares. Each man looked his neighbor frankly in the face, sure of his sympathy, and all felt toward Alexander an affection and generous admiration in which there was no selfish thought.
What wonder that, in after years, when suspicion and insidious pride had poisoned the mind of the young king, and when the free-hearted soldiers there gathered together had fallen away from each other, each hoping evil to his comrade that he himself might profit thereby,—what wonder that Alexander remembered the feast of Thais as the happiest of his life? But of the sorrows that were to come none then knew or even guessed, unless it was old Aristander, to whom all paid honor because his prophecy of the fall of Tyre, that the king himself had deemed impossible, had been fulfilled. And even Aristander was cheerful that night beyond his custom, forgetting the future in the present.
So the young men rejoiced in their strength, in their hopes, and in the honest affection that warmed their hearts toward each other. The hall was filled with laughter, and their jesting left no scars. The wine expanded and stimulated their minds instead of their passions, and when Callisthenes, at Alexander's request, recited the immortal description of the fall of Troy, the majestic periods of the epic drew tears of emotion to their eyes, and every man of them became a hero.
"If I were to bid thee crave a gift at my hands, what would it be?" Alexander asked of Artemisia.
She blushed, and her glance sought Clearchus.
"It would be one of thy soldiers, O king," she replied softly.
"That is much to ask of a general," Alexander said, affecting hesitation. "I would rather you had demanded his weight in gold; but which one?"
"Here he is," said Artemisia, blushing still more deeply and laying her hand in that of the Athenian.
"I suppose I must give him to thee," the young king said. "Let the chief priest of Melkarth be summoned."
"I will fetch him myself," Clearchus cried, leaping from his couch, and he hurriedly left the hall amid the approving laughter of the company.
The priest was found, the marriage contract drawn and signed, and while Alexander joined their hands, the words were spoken that made Clearchus and Artemisia one. The captains rose to their feet, each with a brimming goblet, and they drank the health of the bride with a cheer such as they had not given since they charged the squadrons of Darius. With heart-felt freedom they showered good wishes upon their comrade, and loud were their protests when Alexander broke up the feast to return to the royal palace.
Leonidas remained, with a few men of his troop, to guard the house, and he and Chares sat for hours with a flagon of wine between them, talking of all that had passed since the day when they rode at dawn into Athens in search of Clearchus.
In the lofty chamber where Artemisia and Thais had spent so many weary days waiting for the coming of deliverance, Artemisia stood with Clearchus at the window that looked toward the Macedonian camp. The cloud-wrack had vanished, and the sky was thickly sown with great stars that seemed to look down upon them with friendly gaze. The young man's arm clasped his bride warm and close, and her dear head rested against his breast. He kissed the soft coils of her hair; but she lifted her lips to his, and he saw that her blue eyes were swimming with tears of happiness.