"I bought her place," she murmured, "and you have bought me."
The Theban stared a moment in bewilderment, but as her meaning dawned upon him he threw back his head and laughed, a little recklessly. Thais bit her lip and then suddenly burst into tears.
Chares sat in the house of Thais in Athens, idly watching the lithe motions of the tame leopard as it worried an ivory ball. Its mistress lay at full length on a low couch of sandalwood looking at the Theban with eyes half closed.
"What are you going to do with me?" she asked.
"What do you mean?" he replied.
"Am I not your slave?" she said softly. "Have you not ruined yourself to buy me?"
"That is true," he said, stroking his chin and examining her reflectively. "You are my most costly possession!"
"Well?" she insisted.
"And I shall not be here to guard you," he continued. "Who knows what may happen?"
She drew through her slender fingers the silken fringe of the crimson shawl that was twisted about her waist.
"You have not asked me why I went to Thebes," she said at last.
"No," he replied, looking at her inquiringly.
"I wanted to see Maia," she said, looking at him innocently. "I had heard so much of her beauty."
"Oh," he said, smiling. "What did you think of her?"
"I did not see her," Thais replied. "Is she beautiful?"
"Let me see," Chares said, studying the walls as though in an effort to remember. "She has black hair and her eyes too are dark, I think. Her forehead is low and broad and her nose is straight. Perhaps her mouth might be thought a little too wide, but her chin is beautifully rounded and her shoulders and neck are perfect. Yes, I think she might be called beautiful."
"Chares," Thais said timidly, "do you love her?"
Chares laughed. "How can a man make love without an obol that he can call his own?" he replied.
"Are you wholly ruined, then?" she asked.
"I haven't enough left to buy you a singing thrush," he replied gayly.
"But you have me and all that is mine," she said softly.
"Not even you!" he answered. He drew a scroll from the folds of his chiton and tossed it into her lap. She opened it slowly and read a release legally executed, giving her back her freedom and placing her in the enjoyment of all her possessions. Chares watched her with an expectant smile as her eyes followed the written lines. When she had ended, she raised herself on her elbow and gazed earnestly at him for a moment with dilated eyes. Then, without a word, she buried her face in the cushions and her form was shaken with sobs. As the scroll fell from her hand the leopard pounced upon it and began tearing it with his teeth.
"What is the matter with you, Thais?" Chares asked in a tone of displeasure.
"Why did you buy me?" she replied, without lifting her head.
"To save you from falling into the hands of the Phœnician, of course," he replied impatiently.
"Then I wish you had not done it," she sobbed.
"Listen to reason, Thais!" Chares said in a graver tone. "It is I who am no longer free. I have sold my sword and I am in bonds to the Macedonian."
He paused, but she made no answer, although her weeping ceased.
"Were it not so," he continued, "why should I stay here? This is not my city and these are not my people. I have neither, now that Thebes is no more. Clearchus and Leonidas are going with Alexander, as I have told you. Would you have me lag behind? There will be fighting and danger, glory and spoil. Shall I not share them?"
"You may be killed," Thais said faintly, showing her tear-stained face.
"Zeus grant that it be not until I have met Phradates on the field of battle!" he exclaimed.
"Is there nothing, then, that you care for in Athens?" she asked dolefully.
"Thou knowest well that I love thee, Thais," he replied. "Thou knowest that it will tear my heart to leave thee behind. But it is the Gods who have decided for us and we have no choice. Were there no other reason for my going, Clearchus will have need of me in his search for Artemisia, and that would be enough to forbid my remaining here."
"Then I will go, too!" Thais cried, leaping from the couch and standing defiantly before him.
Chares returned her look with an indulgent smile. Her exquisitely moulded form was outlined under the clinging folds of her garment. Her tiny feet, with their pink little heels, looked as though they had never rested upon the earth. Her hair fell about her rounded neck and dimpled shoulders like spun copper. Her red lips and pearly teeth seemed made to feast on dainties. Physically she was as sensitive and delicate as a child; but her eyes shone with a fire that betrayed indomitable spirit.
"What will you do when it snows?" the Theban asked mockingly.
She threw herself down on her knees on the floor beside him, taking his hand in hers and pressing it against her glowing cheek.
"Chares! Chares! My master! I love thee!" she murmured. "The blind God at whose power I laughed so often when I was in his mother's service has stricken me through the heart. My soul is naked before thee. I cannot have thee leave me. If thou dost, I shall die. I will go to the ends of the earth with thee. I will suffer hardships to be near thee. Thou art all I have. I am thy slave, and I do not wish to be free."
Chares felt her tears upon his hand. He lifted her face and kissed her.
Suddenly she sprang to her feet and began to pace backward and forward on the many-colored carpet that was spread upon the floor. The leopard stopped tearing at the parchment and followed her with his eyes.
"Is it my fault that I am—what I am?" she cried. "Am I to blame because my life has not been like that of other women? They are shielded from the world and ignorant of what is good and what is bad. Have I committed a fault in fulfilling the will of the Gods, from whom there is no escape? For the evil done by others must I pay the penalty?"
"Of course not," Chares said consolingly, scarcely knowing what she meant or how to answer her. Her passion took him by surprise. She stood before him glowing in every limb with youth and beauty, her chin raised and her lips parted in scorn, as though defying the world to accuse her.
"Who cast me adrift?" she went on vehemently. "You talk of going into Asia to aid Clearchus in his search for Artemisia. Very well, I will go with you and search too, for I also wish to find Artemisia. She is my sister!"
"What do you mean, Thais? Are you mad?" Chares exclaimed.
"It is the truth," she replied. "I forced old Eunomus to tell me only last night. He has the proofs and he has promised to deliver them to me, for a certain sum, of course. I am the daughter of Theorus, who caused me to be exposed because I was a girl. The old pander found me, as he has found many another in his time, and—and—he made of me what you see me."
She threw herself once more upon the couch to ease her grief among the crimson cushions. Chares knew not what to say. He distrusted the story told by Eunomus, for he knew the wretch was capable of doing anything for money. But, after all, what if the tale were true? He was fond of Thais, of course. How could a man help being fond of a young and beautiful woman who loved him? There was Aspasia, who had ruled Athens and all Hellas through Pericles. There was the son of Phocion, who had actually married a girl no better than Thais. Still, what had been could not be changed; and even if Thais was the daughter of Theorus, that fact could make no difference.
Thais raised her head from the pillows as though she had read his thoughts. Her eyes were softened with tears.
"Is it my fault," she pleaded, "that my sister has the love of an honorable man and will be married to him, while I—I can never hope for such a marriage? I know it, Chares, and I do not ask it. All I ask is that you will permit me to go with you. I am tired, since I knew you, of my life here. Without meaning to do so, you have opened my eyes to new things. I am what I am; but, in spite of all, I am still a woman—more a woman perhaps, than Artemisia, my sister, whom I have never seen. Let me go with you, Chares, to share your dangers and your glory, to nurse you if you are wounded, and to stand beside your funeral pyre and watch my heart turn to ashes if you are killed. I cannot bear to be left behind. The weariness and the waiting would surely kill me. Let me go with thee, my Life, for I think neither of us will see Athens again."
Chares felt deep pity for the unfortunate girl stir in his heart. The strength of his emotion troubled his careless nature.
"There, there," he said, anxious to pacify her. "Don't make gloomy predictions. You shall come."
She nestled into his arms and laid her head upon his shoulder.
"I shall never know greater happiness," she said, with a sigh of content; and then, changing her tone, "They say the women of the Medes are very beautiful. You will not make me jealous, will you, Chares?"
He laughed and kissed her, looking into her eyes. "Small need have you to fear the Medean women!" he said.
"They have gone," said Ariston, on his return home one evening.
"Who have gone?" his wife inquired.
"Clearchus and his two friends, Chares and the Spartan," the old man replied. "They set out for Pella this afternoon to join the Macedonian army. Fortune has smiled upon us once more and I think there will be a turn in our affairs."
Ariston made no attempt to hide his satisfaction. His shoulders no longer stooped, and his step was light. A hundred schemes were running through his head for repairing the disasters that had brought him so low. For all practical purposes he was again the richest man in Athens, and with the gold at his command he imagined that it would be easy for him to regain his feet.
"You must be cautious," Xanthe said anxiously. "You know that at any time Clearchus may demand an account."
"Yes, but he will not," Ariston replied, pinching her withered cheek. "He will never return to trouble us. I have news of what the Great King is doing and unless the Gods themselves interfere to save Alexander, he will be crushed as soon as he has crossed the Hellespont. The Persians will meet him there in such numbers that there can be no escape for him. None who follow him will return. By Hermes, I feel almost young again!"
He entered his workroom briskly and sat down at the table. Producing a roll of papyrus, he broke the seal, slipped off the wrapping, and spread the document out before him.
"Iphicrates to Ariston," he read. "Greeting: I have obeyed your instructions. Syphax brought me the girl. I dismissed him with promises after she had told me that she had no complaint to make against him. I am convinced that he is a rogue and that he will live to be crucified. For Artemisia, she remains in my household. I have told her that I am awaiting a suitable opportunity to send her back to Athens; but I have put her off from time to time with excuses. She has lost flesh since she came hither, and if she is to be sold, I think it would be best not to delay too long, as her value will be less than if she were offered now. She has written many letters, which I promised to forward for her. One of these I send you with this; the others have been destroyed.
"It is expensive for me to maintain her as you directed. It has cost me already one talent and twenty drachmæ, which leaves me in your debt six talents, eleven drachmæ, and thirty minæ. Please make this correction in our account.
"There is talk here that Alexander, the Macedonian, is preparing to lead an army against this city. Nobody doubts that he will be defeated, since Parmenio could accomplish nothing. Memnon, the Rhodian, has been here, strengthening the fortifications and exercising the soldiers, but of this there is no need; for all the armies of Greece could not take this place, even though they should invest it by land and sea. May the Gods keep you in good health! Farewell."
"He has cheated me out of a talent, at least!" Ariston muttered. "The old skinflint!"
He turned his attention to a second roll of papyrus, which had been enclosed in the first.
"My Beloved," it ran. "Why hast thou not answered the letters I have sent thee, or come thyself to take me home? Clearchus, my Life, I know thou hast not forgotten me, although it seems ages since I last saw thee. Each day I watch and wait for a word from thee, only one little word, but none has come. I try to keep up my courage, thinking that perhaps thou art seeking me elsewhere and that thou hast not received my letters. I do not doubt thee, Clearchus, but I am weary of waiting for thee and my heart is sick. When shall I hear thy voice and see thy face again? I pray each night and morning to Artemis to give thee back to me. My love, my love, may the Gods, who know all things, keep thee safe! While I live, I am thine. Farewell."
A smile played about the corners of Ariston's thin lips as he thrust the papyrus into the flame of the lamp and held it over the brazier until it was consumed. He did the same with the epistle that Iphicrates had sent to him, and then plunged into his accounts.
Xanthe had never been quick-witted, and the monotonous round of her labors had dulled even her natural perceptions. At the bottom of her heart she believed her husband to be the cleverest man in the world. She did not pretend to fathom his schemes. The twistings and windings of his subtle mind confused and bewildered her, and she had no thread by which to trace the labyrinth. While she had long ago ceased to try to follow him, the fact that she did not know all that he was doing tended to make her suspicious, and her distrust, as is usual with women of limited intelligence, took the form of jealousy.
In their forty years of married life Ariston had never given her the slightest cause for such an emotion. Among his few weaknesses there was none for women, whom he despised as mere machines or treated as commodities. But notwithstanding its lack of result, Xanthe, year after year, maintained her vigil, ever seeking what she most dreaded to find.
Of late her husband's cares and advancing age had given her a feeling of security, but the revival of his spirits at the departure of his nephew sent her mind back again to the well-worn track. Could it be that he was deceiving her after all?
This idea laid siege to her thoughts with recurrent insistence. What had she to attract so brilliant a man? Her mirror showed her a wrinkled brow and hollow cheeks. She turned away from it with bitterness in her heart. The wonder was that he had ever loved her; but that was years ago. She could not blame him if he sought a younger and fairer companion for his hours of relaxation. Other men did the same, and men were all alike.
Tormenting herself with these thoughts, the unfortunate woman passed a sleepless night, and rose determined to know the worst. As soon as Ariston had gone out, she entered his workroom. Her search brought her at last to the brazier, where she found the charred fragments of the letters from Halicarnassus. Unluckily one corner of Artemisia's missive to Clearchus had not been wholly burned. She bore it in triumph to her own apartments and set herself to the task of deciphering its contents. The very fact that her husband had sought to burn the letter was enough in her excited frame of mind to convince her that her suspicions were correct. It remained only to establish the proof.
She succeeded in making out a few words, but she could derive no meaning from them. Study them as she would, her skill failed her. The tantalizing thought that knowledge was within her grasp and eluding her filled her with rage. She was still puzzling over the fragment when she was interrupted by a knocking at the door. On the threshold stood the sharp-faced Egyptian whom she had so often seen with her husband.
"Is Ariston here?" he demanded.
She told him that her husband was away from home.
"Then I will wait for him," Mena returned coolly, pushing past her into the house. "He told me to see him without fail and he will soon be here."
There was no help for it now that he was inside the house. Xanthe led him to a bench beside the cistern and gave him fruit and wine. The thought occurred to her that he might be able to read the riddle that had baffled her. There could be no harm in showing him the fragment, she reasoned, since it could tell him nothing, although to her it could reveal so much. The temptation was strong, and after all the opportunity was too good to be lost.
"Can you read this for me?" she asked, placing the blackened papyrus before him.
He took it up and studied it curiously.
"Where did you find it?" he demanded, shifting his beadlike eyes quickly to hers.
"The wind blew it into the court, here," she stammered, taken aback by the question. "I wondered what it might be."
His glance continued to rest upon her face for an instant before it went back to the fragment. It was easy enough for him to read them both, and a malicious smile twitched his mouth as he understood that Ariston had a jealous wife. The idea struck him as distinctly ridiculous. More in idleness than with any direct purpose, excepting that of making mischief, he determined to humor her mood.
"It is difficult to understand," he said, looking carefully at the papyrus, "as it seems to have been burned. But here it says: 'When shall I hear thy voice and see thy face?' and here: 'While I live, I am thine.' It sounds like a poet, but the writing is that of a woman. You seem to have surprised some romantic love affair. You probably have some amorous youth among your neighbors whom a girl is foolish enough to adore."
Xanthe's forebodings had suddenly become realities. Ariston, then, was deceiving her, and she had not been mistaken in him. Of that, she was now certain. He had probably always deceived her and she had been a fool ever to believe him. Her world seemed coming to an end.
"Why do you say that the letter was sent to a young man?" she asked. "Might it not have been an old one?"
"I dare say," the Egyptian replied carelessly. "Old men are often the worst in these matters."
"This girl, whoever she may be, seems very much in love with him," Xanthe remarked.
"No doubt," Mena said, watching her with increasing amusement, "and probably he has a wife of his own. Why else should he burn the letter?"
Xanthe winced at this thrust, although she had no idea that Mena had fathomed what was in her mind. "At any rate, he cannot marry her," she said, as though thinking aloud.
"The old one might die, you know," Mena suggested. "Such things have been known to happen at the right moment."
These words were accompanied by a look so full of meaning that poor Xanthe felt a chill of apprehension. She did not trust herself to say more, but carried away the fragment to her own room, where she concealed it.
Mena's hint had fallen upon fertile ground. She went over the situation again and again in her mind, coming always to the same conclusion. That Ariston was carrying on an intrigue with some girl was now certain; for it never occurred to her that the letter might not have been intended for him. It seemed certain to her also that her husband would seek to rid himself of her so that he might marry her rival. Mena was right. Such things had happened more than once and poison was the easiest way. If she should die, who was there to ask what had caused her death? Nobody. She began to take infinite precautions regarding her food, tasting nothing that she had not herself prepared; yet she felt that she was in hourly danger in spite of all she could do. When nothing happened to her, she concluded that her husband's failure to attempt her life was due solely to the fact that his plans were not yet ripe. When all was ready, he would kill her and flee with Clearchus' fortune to some distant land, where he could meet the abandoned creature upon whom his affections had fallen. She knew only too well that he was capable of anything in the furtherance of his selfish schemes. Thus her folly led her on until at last she came to regard her imaginings as truth confirmed. But if she was to be murdered, she thought, at least she would prevent him from enjoying the fruit of his wickedness. She would write to Clearchus and tell him all.
When she had reached this conclusion, she lost no time in carrying it into execution. But it was long since she had used the stylus and she was forced to confine herself to the barest outline of what she wished to say. After many failures, she finally produced the following:—
"Clearchus: Iphicrates has Artemisia in Halicamassus. My husband is a beast who wants to poison me. If you hear that I am dead, you will know why, and I hope you will see that he is punished. Go to Halicamassus, and when you get her, keep her safe. Iphicrates is a wicked man and he should be killed. If my husband does not poison me, make no accusation against him."
Xanthe sealed this letter and hid it away until a chance should offer to send it to her nephew. She felt much easier, as though the fact that she had written it were in some way surety for her safety. Several weeks passed before she found the opportunity for which she had been looking. At last she learned that Callias, son of a widow of her acquaintance, had joined a mercenary troop that was being raised in Athens. She gave the letter to his mother to be delivered to Clearchus in Pella, but Callias, having received part of his pay in advance, could not tear himself away from his friends in Athens until the gold was spent. Consequently the letter was not delivered until after Macedon and Persia had met at the Granicus.
It was a clear, bright spring day when the three friends rode into Pella. The new sap was beginning to swell the buds, and the fresh green of the grass was gleaming hopefully on sunny slopes. Chares had been singing snatches of love songs since early morning when they set out on the last stage of their journey. Even Clearchus forgot his anxiety in the thought that he was drawing nearer to Artemisia, and the grim Leonidas had smiled more than once at the sallies of the light-hearted Theban.
In the Macedonian capital on every side was the stir of animation and preparation. Recruits were being drilled for the army. Messengers were hastening hither and thither. Ambassadors were coming and going with their trains. They gazed with admiration at the solid buildings, designed with a stately magnificence which, in its own way, was as impressive as the marble embodiments of Athenian genius. Everywhere were the evidences of a young and strong people, buoyant, self-confident, energetic, and fearless. No idlers blocked the streets. Every man had something to do and was doing it. The tide of vigorous life flowed strong through the city as in the veins of a young oak tree.
It was not strange that Pella should have swarmed with activity on that day in spring. Within the boundaries of the rugged little state, half Hellenic and half barbarian, a vast project, supported by a sublime confidence, was taking shape. It had been formed and nursed by the crafty and far-seeing Philip, whether as a possibility or as a stroke of policy to bring Hellas under his control none could say. Now it had suddenly become a reality. The great empire of Persia, which covered the world from the shores of the Euxine to the sources of the Nile, and from the Ægean to limits undefined, beyond the regions of mystery through which the Indus flowed, was to be invaded. It had endured for centuries as an immense and impregnable power. Fierce tribes dwelt in the fastnesses of its snow-clad mountains, numberless caravans crept across its scorching deserts, gigantic cities flourished upon its fertile plains. Nations were lost among the uncounted millions of its population. Its wealth surpassed the power of imagining, and about the throne of the Great King, whose slightest wish was the unchangeable law of all this vast dominion, stood tens of thousands of the bravest warriors in the world, ready at a sign to lay down their lives for him.
What had Persia to fear from the handful of peasants turned soldiers who had made a boy their king? Why should Darius feel any uneasiness concerning the projects of a rash young man who already owed more than he could pay? To be sure, he had made himself the Hegemon of Hellas, with the exception of Sparta, but everybody knew that he had forced the older states to bestow the title upon him against their will and that they were waiting only until his back should be turned to fall upon him. With the slender resources at his command, how could he hope to hold Greece in subjection and at the same time to subdue an empire which had more Hellenic mercenaries alone upon its pay-roll than the sum total of his entire army? Surely, the Great King must be himself despised if he did not look with contempt upon such mad ambition.
Something of the force of this reasoning assailed the mind of Clearchus as he lay down that night on the hard pallet that had been assigned to him by Ptolemy in the barracks of the Companion Cavalry. The immensity of the obstacles to be overcome oppressed him, and he began once more to doubt whether, after all, there could be any hope of success for the young king. He fell asleep, to see in his dreams the pale face of Artemisia framed in her unbound hair.
His mind was still clouded with misgiving when he went next morning with Chares and Leonidas to pay his respects at the palace; but they were dispelled like mists before the morning sun when he stood face to face with Alexander. In the inspiring presence of the young leader no doubts could live. He radiated confidence as a fire radiates warmth. Every glance of his sympathetic eyes, every tone of his voice, revealed a certainty of the future that was beyond peradventure.
The palace was the centre of the activity that was filling the city. Generals and captains, agents, princes, hostages, ambassadors, and messengers swarmed in its halls. Here stood the gray-haired Antipater, who had been appointed by Alexander regent of Macedon and guardian of Greece during his absence, talking with citizens of Corinth who had come to consult him concerning proposed changes in their civil government. There was old Parmenio, fresh from his campaign in Mysia, giving his orders for the disposition of a company of mercenaries who had arrived that morning.
There were travellers from the Far East, who had been summoned to tell what they knew of the cities, rivers, and mountains through which the Macedonian march would lie and of the character of the peoples who were to be encountered. There were contractors for horses and supplies anxious to provide the army with subsistence. There were soothsayers and philosophers, slaves, attendants, and courtiers; and among them all, with banter, jest, and laughter, walked the young nobles of Macedon, bosom friends of the king, who had defied Philip for his sake and were now reaping their reward. There were Hephæstion, son of Amyntas, Philotas, son of Parmenio, Clitus, Crateras, Polysperchon, Demetrius, Ptolemy, and a score of others, in spirits as brave as their attire, as though they were about to start upon a holiday excursion instead of a desperate venture into the unknown.
Alexander recognized the three friends immediately and gave them cordial greeting.
"So you have come to follow the Whirlwind," he said, laughing, as though the simile pleased him. "It will soon be launched now."
"We have come to take any service that you may give us," Chares replied.
"You are enrolled in the Companion Cavalry," Alexander informed them.
They gave him their thanks for this mark of favor, for the Companions contained the flower of the kingdom, young men of distinguished families, who were admitted freely into Alexander's confidence as his friends.
"I have just been giving away the security for my debts," Alexander said, smiling at Chares. "I saw you spend your last obol to purchase the liberty of your friends at Thebes. You trusted to the chance of war to bring your fortune back to you, but I have gone further than you, for I have staked my honor. As you see me, I am worth some thirteen hundred talents less than nothing."
"But what have you left for yourself?" the Theban asked.
"My hopes," Alexander replied.
"They say the Medes have gold in plenty," Leonidas observed reflectively.
"Never fear," Alexander replied, laughing. "What are our debts of to-day in comparison with our riches of to-morrow? The Companions are all following my example. We set out with only our swords and our courage—and our golden hope!"
Again he laughed, and calling Philotas to him he turned to Clearchus.
"The queen, my mother," he said, "has heard the story of Artemisia and of what they told you at Delphi. She desires to see you. Philotas will take you to her."
Philotas led the way through courts and colonnades to the women's wing of the palace, where Olympias held sway. As they went, Clearchus recalled all he had heard of Alexander's mother—how it was averred that a great serpent was her familiar, and the tales of her passionate and revengeful nature that had caused her to order the babe of Cleopatra, who had supplanted her in the affections of her husband, to be torn from the arms of its mother and killed in her sight before she herself was slain. He had heard also of her devotion to religious mysteries and especially of her skill in the secret rites of the Egyptian magicians.
As they neared the queen's apartments, Clearchus was astonished to hear a woman's voice raised in anger, followed by the sound of blows and pitiful cries for mercy. He paused in embarrassment, but Philotas drew him on.
"Do not be disturbed," said his guide; "the queen is probably chastising one of her slaves."
He ushered the young Athenian into a large room furnished with luxurious magnificence. Before them stood Olympias, with a rod of ebony in her grasp, and at her feet upon the silken carpet crouched a weeping girl with bare white shoulders, marked with red where the rod had fallen. The queen turned upon them with blazing anger in her great black eyes and the wrathful color on her cheeks.
"Who enters here unbidden?" she demanded sternly, and then in a milder tone she added: "Is it you, Philotas? These girls will kill me yet with their stupidity. I wish I could drown them all in the sea! Ah!"
She swung up the rod and brought it down upon a great vase of Phœnician glass, which flew into a thousand fragments. She laughed and threw the rod from her.
"There, now I feel better!" she exclaimed, drawing a long breath. "You may go, Chloe. Dry your eyes, child; you shall have your freedom. Who is this whom you have brought me, Philotas?"
"It is Clearchus, the Athenian, whom the king sends," Philotas answered.
"I remember," she said quickly, turning to Clearchus. "You were robbed of your sweetheart. Do you love her very much?"
"I love her better than my life," Clearchus replied simply.
"Will you never grow weary of her and cast her off, as Philip did me?" she persisted.
"If I find her, I will never willingly let her go out of my sight again," the young man declared.
"But did not the Pythia tell you that you would find her if you followed my son?" she inquired.
"The oracle instructed me to follow the Whirlwind," Clearchus said,
"Tell me about it," Olympias commanded, seating herself upon a couch. She made him relate his experience with the oracle in the minutest detail, asking many questions that indicated her lively curiosity. She then inquired of Artemisia's personal appearance, her age, and family.
"Wait here for me," she said finally, and left them alone in the room.
"She seems hardly older than Alexander," Clearchus remarked.
"Appearances are sometimes deceitful," Philotas replied dryly, "especially when they are assisted by art."
The queen was absent for more than half an hour. She seemed tired when she returned.
"I have consulted the Gods," she said, "and you will find her if your heart remains true and strong. The priestess of Apollo told the truth."
"I thank you for giving me this consolation," Clearchus said eagerly, hoping that she would tell him more; but she began pacing thoughtfully backward and forward, with bent head, apparently forgetful of his presence.
Suddenly she stopped before him and smiled, rather wistfully he thought. He almost fancied that there were tears under the fringe of her dark lashes. "Farewell," she said. "May the Gods protect you—and Alexander, my son."
She resumed her walk, and the young man left the apartment in silence. Clearchus tried in vain to analyze the strange impression that she had made upon him, but for many days her smile, half sad, and her mysterious dark eyes, with the living spark in their depths, continued to haunt him.
Upon Bucephalus, whose proud spirit he alone had known how to tame, Alexander led his army out of Pella. The great charger tossed his head and uttered a shrill neigh, which sounded like a trumpet-call of defiance to the whole world, as he issued forth from the gate of the city. Many a Macedonian wife and mother, standing upon the walls, dashed the tears from her eyes that day as her gaze followed the lines of the troops, striving until the last to distinguish the form that perhaps she would see no more.
The young king drew aside, with his captains about him, upon a low hill a short distance from the city. The sunlight flashed upon his gilded armor and upon the double white plume that swept his shoulders. With swelling hearts, the men saluted him as they marched by, horse and foot, squadron and company, thirty thousand in all. The bronzed faces of the veterans of Philip's wars lighted up as they heard his son call one or another of them by name, and the countenances of the younger soldiers flushed with pride and pleasure at his smile of approval. Last came the baggage and provision trains and the great siege engines, lumbering after the army on creaking wheels.
Alexander turned to Antipater and gave him his hand. "I would that thou, too, wert coming with us to share in our victories," he said. "Remember, all our trust is in thee. Be just and firm."
"I will remember," the old general replied, his stern face softening. "Return when and how thou wilt; thou shalt find all as thou hast left it to-day."
Alexander turned to go, but a cry of "The queen!" caused him to halt. A chariot drawn by foaming horses drew up before him. He sprang from his horse and ran forward to receive Olympias in his arms.
"My son! My son!" she cried, looking into his face with streaming eyes.
"Hush!" he said gently. "Do not forget that you are the queen!"
"But I am still a woman and thy mother," she replied. "How can I suffer thee to leave me?"
"I will send for thee from Babylon," he said consolingly.
"Thou goest to victory and to glory," she said. "Of that I have no fear; but thy mother's heart is filled with sorrow! Kiss me yet again!"
Alexander embraced her and led her back to the chariot. He stood looking after her with bared head, until, escorted by Antipater, she disappeared in the city gate. His heart went out to the jealous, fiery woman's spirit, whose great love for him made her ever faultless in his eyes. Something told him, as it had told her, although neither had confessed it, that they would never look upon each other again.
In another moment he was astride of Bucephalus and off after the army. Clearchus, riding with Chares and Leonidas in their company of the Companions, saw him dash past with a smile on his eager face.
Along the northern shore of the Ægean, and always within sight of its blue waters, they marched for twenty days until they crossed the Melas and came to the Hellespont, beyond which they could see the mountains of Phrygia, with the snow-capped summit of Mount Ida towering above the rest. Before them, across the strait, lay the promised land. Wheeling south to Sestos, they met the fleet that had kept them company along the coast. There Alexander left Parmenio to take the army over to Abydos, while he pushed on with the Companions to Elæus.
He himself steered the foremost of the ships that carried them across the strait to Ilium. In mid-channel they offered sacrifice to Poseidon and the Nereids, and as they neared Cape Segeium the king hurled his javelin upon the sand, and leaping into the water in full armor, dashed forward to the Persian beach. From every ship rose cries of emulation as the Companions plunged in after him and strove with each other to see which of them should first follow him to the shore.
Upon the battle-field where the terrible Achilles had raged among the Trojans when the Greeks of olden time sought revenge for Helen's immortal shame, the Companions celebrated with feasting and with games the fame of the Homeric heroes. These exercises, filling their minds with thoughts of wondrous deeds, were a fitting prelude for the mighty task that lay before them.
Through their camp the rumor ran from sources none could trace that beyond the mountains lay the Persian host in countless numbers. Arsites, Phrygia's satrap, and the cruel Spithridates, ruler of Lydia and Ionia, were said to be in command. Memnon of Rhodes, the story went, was at the head of an Hellenic mercenary force more numerous than Alexander's entire army.
No attempt was made to check the spread of these tidings. If the thought of possible defeat crossed the mind of any of the Companions, he was careful not to give it utterance. In their talk around their camp-fires they assumed that the first battle was already won and their plans ran forward into the heart of Persia. What mattered it whether the enemy was many or few? Had not the Ten Thousand, whose exploits Xenophon related, shown to the world that one Greek soldier was better than a hundred barbarians?
But in the intervals of the celebration Alexander talked long with Ptolemy. The truth was, they knew not what preparations had been made to receive them nor what force had been sent against them. The scouts who had gone out weeks in advance had either failed to return or could not tell them what they wished to know.
Clearchus was sitting with Leonidas discussing Xenophon's account of the death of Cyrus when a messenger brought them word that the king desired to see them. They followed at once to Alexander's tent, where they found Chares awaiting them.
"You have heard the rumors of the enemy's advance," Alexander began. "I wish to know how strong he is in both horse and foot, how many Greeks he has with him, where they will fight in the line, and who are the commanders. To win this information will be the first service of danger and difficulty in the campaign. Which of you is willing to undertake it?"
"I am!" cried the three young men with one voice.
"Why not send us all?" Clearchus said. "Then if one of us falls, two will remain, and if two are lost, the third may still be able to reach you."
"Be it so," Alexander replied, smiling. "We shall join the army at once and march along the coast, as you see upon this map, to the Granicus. There I think you should be able to rejoin me and there I shall look for you."
He rolled up the map and handed it to Leonidas. "This may serve for your guidance," he said. "I shall place you under no instructions, for I do not think you need them."
He rose and shook each of them by the hand. "Farewell," he said, "and be not rash, for I shall have need of you hereafter."
Some of the Macedonians cast envious eyes at them as they came out of the pavilion. Young Glycippus, who was in the same company with them, joined them as they passed.
"What is going on?" he asked.
"The king wanted to ask me whether I thought Ajax or Achilles was the better fighter," Chares answered gravely.
"What did you tell him?" Glycippus inquired.
"I told him that Ajax, in my opinion, was the better with the sword," the Theban said. "He did not like it because, you know, he claims descent from the son of Thetis."
"Yes," the young man said eagerly. "And he has taken Achilles' armor from the temple here, leaving his own in its place."
"He had it on while he was talking with us," Chares said. "It fits him well enough. You know he has ordered Ilium to be rebuilt."
"Has he?" cried Glycippus. "That is news," and he hurried off to tell it.
"That, at least, has the merit of being true," Chares said. "Ptolemy told me while I was waiting for you."
"First of all we must choose a leader," Clearchus said when they were alone in their tent. "I vote for Leonidas."
"And so do I," Chares added heartily, clapping the Spartan on the back.
Leonidas protested, but his friends refused to give way, pointing out that to him Alexander had given the map. They persuaded him at last to yield.
"My idea is that we shall go as peltasts and as though we were seeking the Persian camp to take service under Memnon," he said. "Get rid of that gaudy armor of yours, Chares."
"What, must I part with my mail?" the Theban exclaimed, glancing down at the glittering links that covered his broad breast. He was inordinately proud of this display. "What shall I do with it?" he asked dolefully.
"Throw it into the sea," Leonidas suggested in an uncompromising tone.
"Some rascal is sure to steal it if I leave it here," Chares grumbled, as he divested himself of the armor.
At nightfall the three slipped out of the camp in the guise of light-armed footmen, each with a round shield at his back, two javelins in his hand, and a short sword at his side. As soon as they were safe from observation Leonidas struck out briskly for the northern slopes of Mount Ida, and they quickly vanished into the darkness.