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CHAPTER XV
THAIS AND ARTEMISIA
Through her window in the house of Iphicrates in Halicarnassus, Artemisia could see the blue waters of the harbor and beyond them the massive gray walls of the Royal Citadel. For weeks she had watched the merchant ships coming and going, bringing their freights from Tyre and Egypt and even from beyond the Pillars of Heracles, and many times had her eyes filled with tears at the thought that perhaps one or another of them might be bound for the Piræus. She imagined Clearchus questioning the master and the sailors on their arrival at the port of Athens, seeking to learn from them whether they had seen in their wanderings the ship that had borne her away.
At times her sorrow was made more bitter by doubts that forced themselves upon her mind in spite of her repeated resolve not to admit them. They whispered that Clearchus had given her up for lost and had forgotten her. Perhaps at first, they said, he had been eager in his search; but when all his efforts were in vain and he could find no trace of her, he had become gradually resigned to her loss, occupied as he was with the cares of his estate. Why else had he paid no heed to her letters?
When such evil ideas tormented her, Artemisia could no longer endure the sight of the glancing sails and the quivering waters of the harbor. She hid her face in her hands and her embroidery slipped unheeded to the floor.
But always she put the black thoughts from her and turned again to her faith in her lover. He was brave and true. It could not be that he had forgotten. It must be that her letters had never reached him. Then she pictured him wandering in distant lands in search of her, or sailing from city to city in hope of finding the men who had taken her away. When in this mood, she would watch every sail as it emerged from the misty distance in the belief that it might be bringing him to her at last. But as the days went by her cheeks lost their roundness and shadows darkened beneath her eyes. Her gaze grew more wistful and unconsciously more hopeless as she looked out upon the harbor, and more and more her hands lay idle in her lap.
Day after day her thoughts trod the same round. "He will come to-day," she said to herself in the morning. "Surely, to-day he is coming." Her pulses quickened at every footfall, and she started at every strange voice. When twilight fell and he had not come she whispered to herself: "He will come to-morrow!" but to-morrow faded into yesterday and he came not.
Gradually her gentle spirit lost its courage and its hope under the repeated buffets of disappointment. She drooped like a flower whose roots can find no water, and even her nightly prayer to Artemis, the Virgin Goddess, failed at last to bring peace to her troubled mind.
One morning she was aroused from the lethargy into which she had fallen by a change in the scene with which she had become so monotonously familiar. Instead of the usual merchant ships, the harbor was filled with warlike vessels with brazen beaks and banks of oars on either side. The wharves were covered with soldiers in armor. Hundreds of men were unloading bales and boxes which were being carried to the Acropolis, to the Citadel of Salmacis, or to the Royal Citadel.
The streets were filled with strange men, some of them wearing cloaks of gay color, with plumed helmets, others in shining coats of mail, with swords at their sides. Throughout the city rose the hum of activity and the bustle of preparation. Artemisia, ignorant of the invasion of Alexander, wondered what the reason could be. She imagined that the barbarians might be planning another attack upon Greece, and she reflected that this might bring Clearchus into danger. All her thoughts and all her hopes centred in him.
In the midst of her conjectures some one knocked at her door. She had found it necessary to keep it fastened as a precaution against the unexpected entrances of Iphicrates. He came into the room with a smile on his fat face, glancing furtively from side to side out of his restless little eyes, which always reminded her of the eyes of a pig. He sat down wheezing from the exertion of his climb. His neck carried a triple roll of fat at the back and his bullet head looked like a mere knob affixed to the shapeless mass of his body.
Artemisia attributed to his unfortunate physical appearance the nameless aversion that she felt for him, and she sought to overcome it, for he had always been considerate of her.
"City is full of soldiers," he gasped, wiping his forehead.
"Is there to be war?" Artemisia asked.
"They say Alexander will try to cross the Hellespont," he replied, attempting a shrug.
"And will he come here?" she inquired.
He caught the eagerness in her voice and his eyes grew cunning among their wrinkles. "Perhaps," he replied. "Who can tell? These Asiatic dogs laugh at him, but they may find themselves mistaken. We Greeks know how to fight."
"Why are they sending their army here?" she persisted.
"It is Memnon of Rhodes," he told her. "He is a great general, but the Persians do not trust him. He is on his way to the north with his troops."
"Can you not send me back to Athens before the war begins?" Artemisia pleaded.
"My dear child," he exclaimed with a gesture of despair, "it is impossible. All my plans have failed. The war has already begun. The Persian fleet holds the sea, and if you attempted to leave now, you would be captured and sold as a slave. You know how I have tried to grant your wish. Only yesterday I thought that at last I had found the vessel for which I had been looking, and I had hoped to earn your gratitude. But now – all is at an end while the war lasts. If they overthrow the Macedonians in the north, it will be short."
"I do not wish it," Artemisia said decisively. "I prefer to remain here. I hope that Alexander will win, and when he comes, I shall be free."
"You are free now," Iphicrates said reproachfully. "You know that I have kept you in seclusion only for your own safety and that I have done all I could do to console you."
"Yes, yes; I know," she replied hastily. "I have no complaint to make against you. You have tried to be kind."
"If the Macedonians should come after all, you may be able to repay me," Iphicrates continued, reaching the real purpose of his visit. "In time of war men are likely to judge hastily, and it may be that old Iphicrates will have to look to you for protection as you have looked to him."
"What have you to fear?" Artemisia asked in surprise. "And why do you think that I may be able to protect you?"
"It is possible that some of your countrymen may be with the army," he replied evasively. "But they may not come here, even if they win in the north."
He rose with some difficulty from his chair. "Is there anything you want?" he inquired. "You know that if I can give it to you, you have only to ask."
"There is nothing," Artemisia said, and the mockery of her answer struck her to the heart.
Artemisia's mind was diverted for a time by the activity in the city, which seemed at least to portend a change; but soon the novelty wore off, and although the soldiers did not go away, she fell once more into the listless mood against which she found it so difficult to struggle.
When she least expected it, the change came. A disturbance arose in the narrow street before the house which led up from the harbor. There was a medley of cries and shouting, and Artemisia, leaning from her window, saw the street below her filled with a throng of men who had met in conflicting currents at the turn of the way. In the midst of the press lay a litter, whose gilded frame was curtained with crimson silk. It had been overturned by collision with a chariot in which one of the generals had been proceeding toward the harbor. Beside the litter Artemisia saw the form of a young woman. Her robe was of shimmering saffron, and her copper-colored hair, broken from its coil, lay spread upon the pavement.
While she looked, the general, whose chariot had been the cause of the mishap, descended and stood beside the prostrate figure. Glancing about him in evident embarrassment, his eyes met her own as she leaned from the casement. Brief as the meeting was, she felt the piercing power and directness of his glance. He turned quickly to his escort and gave a brief command, motioning toward the house of Iphicrates as he spoke. As he resumed his place in his chariot, the soldiers lifted the unconscious woman into the litter and bore it to the door of the house, followed by a curious crowd.
Artemisia heard them enter and the sound of voices, among which she recognized that of Iphicrates raised in whining protest.
"I have no room for her here," he cried.
"Then you will make room," was the rough reply. "It is Memnon who gives the order, do you understand? He directed that the young woman who lives here should care for her. Where is she?"
"There is no young woman here," Iphicrates replied glibly. "The general must have been mistaken."
"Lying will not help you," the soldier replied. "I saw her myself. Call her quickly if you want to save your skin."
Artemisia did not wait to be summoned. She descended the stairs and went in among the soldiers.
"Carry her to the room above, and I will see that she is cared for," she said quietly.
The young captain to whom the execution of Memnon's order had been entrusted looked at her with frank admiration.
"By Zeus!" he said, "I wish I had been run over myself. Take her up, litter and all," he added to his men, "and be quick about it."
With some difficulty the soldiers carried the litter with its burden up the staircase.
"If he makes any trouble for you on account of this, report it to the general," the captain said to Artemisia, indicating Iphicrates with a nod. "And tell her when she recovers," he continued, nodding toward the litter, "that Memnon desired to express his regrets."
Without waiting for an answer, he wheeled and tramped down the stairs, followed by his men. Artemisia was already bending over the young woman. There was a bruise where the back of her head had struck the pavement, but otherwise she seemed to have escaped unhurt. Her wonderfully thick hair had evidently broken the force of the blow. She recovered her senses at the first touch of the cold water with which Artemisia bathed her temples.
"Where am I?" she asked, opening her eyes.
"You are safe and with friends," Artemisia assured her.
"Am I much hurt?" she asked, without attempting to move.
"I think not," Artemisia said. "Your head is bruised."
"Is my face scarred?" was the next question.
"It is not even scratched," Artemisia replied, smiling.
The strange woman's lips parted in a responsive smile. "Then it might have been worse," she said.
With Artemisia's assistance she walked to a couch, where the young girl made her comfortable with pillows. Presently, under Artemisia's ministrations, she fell asleep. Artemisia sat watching her even breathing and wondering who she could be. A great ruby flamed upon her finger, and heavy chains of gold encircled her white throat. Her tiny feet were shod with silken sandals and her yellow chiton disclosed the rounded grace of her delicate limbs and the willowy suppleness of her figure. She must be some great lady, in spite of her youth, Artemisia thought, innocently, and she felt drawn to her in a manner that she hardly understood. If only she would stay, she would be a friend in whom confidence might be placed and whose sympathy would be a help. But of course she would go away as soon as she was able to move. Artemisia sighed in her loneliness.
When the stranger woke, however, she seemed in no hurry to go. She declared that the pain in her head had left her, and, turning lazily on her side, she studied her surroundings.
"Whose house is this?" she asked.
"It belongs to Iphicrates," Artemisia said.
"To Iphicrates?" the strange woman replied with sudden interest and in evident astonishment. "And – are you his daughter?"
"No; I am of Athens; my name is Artemisia," the girl replied.
Her companion's head fell back among the pillows and her gaze rested upon Artemisia's face. So intent was the look that Artemisia grew uncomfortable under it.
"Why do you look at me so strangely?" she asked at last.
"Pardon me," the other replied, letting her eyes fall. "I have heard of you."
"Then you, too, are of Athens?" the girl cried joyfully, throwing herself on her knees beside the couch and taking the strange woman's hand. "You have heard of Clearchus? Is he – living?"
"He is living, and he loves thee," the stranger replied, as though reading what was in her mind.
A great gladness rushed through Artemisia's being. An immeasurable load was suddenly lifted from her heart. She put her face down upon the edge of the couch and wept for sheer gratitude. The strange woman said nothing, but her hand rested lightly on the soft brown hair, and she stroked the bent head with gentle fingers.
The door opened without noise, and the bulk of Iphicrates advanced gradually into the room. As his cunning eyes took in the scene before him an anxious look overspread his face.
"I came to see if you were better," he muttered, in a tone of apology.
The strange woman raised her body slightly on the couch and extended her hand toward the door.
"Go!" she said briefly.
Iphicrates hesitated and cleared his throat, trying to meet the scornful gaze directed upon him. Finally he mustered up his courage with an effort.
"This is my house," he said doggedly.
"Go," the stranger repeated in a tone of unutterable contempt. "Must I speak again?"
Iphicrates slowly turned and went, slinking from the room before the blaze of her anger like a beaten hound.
"Why are you so hard upon him?" Artemisia asked.
"Because he deserves it," the stranger said. "Has he not held you captive here?"
"Who art thou who knowest so much of my affairs?" the girl demanded suddenly.
"I am thy – " The word "sister" trembled upon her tongue, but she checked it. "I am thy protectress," she said. "Men call me Thais."
A blush rose to her cheek as she uttered the name and felt the clear blue eyes of the young girl upon her own.
"Thais?" Artemisia repeated, searching in her memory. "I have heard the name in Athens, but I forget when and where. I think they said you were beautiful, and indeed you are."
"Is that all they said of me?" Thais returned.
"I think that is all; I do not remember more," Artemisia replied.
Thais felt relieved. Her sister would learn soon enough who and what she was. She hoped that when the knowledge came Artemisia would love her enough to grant her forgiveness. She had broken with her old life. Why drag it with her wherever she went?
"Why did you come here?" Artemisia continued.
"I came in search of you, and the Gods have given you to me," Thais said.
Artemisia nestled beside her companion on the broad couch while Thais told her of all that had happened in Athens since she had been carried away by Syphax and his crew. In her narration she omitted the feast in the house of Clearchus and passed lightly over details that might have given Artemisia a clew to her identity. She described Clearchus' despair at her loss and his vain effort to find some trace of her. She told how he had consulted the oracle and of her own adventure in Thebes when Chares had given his fortune to save her from Phradates. Then the young men had joined the army and left her alone in Athens.
"Chares consented that I should meet him here," she went on. "He said that women would not be allowed to follow the army to its first battle. It is there the greatest danger lies; for if they win there, they will hold all the western provinces of the Persian empire."
"And if they lose?" Artemisia asked anxiously.
"If they lose," Thais replied slowly, "then we shall return to Athens. But they will not. The Gods are faithful to their promises. I had intended to wait until the battle had been fought, but Mena, the same who set Phradates upon me in Thebes, found me out. From him I discovered that you were here in the care of Iphicrates, and I came."
Artemisia kissed her. "I would have died if you had not come," she said simply. "But how did Mena know where I was?"
"He would not tell me and I did not wait to learn," Thais said.
"Will he not find out where you have gone and inform Phradates?" the young girl suggested. "Would it not be better to leave this house and conceal ourselves somewhere?"
"I have thought of that," Thais replied. "I cannot leave the city, since I am to meet Chares here; and if we were to go to some other house, Iphicrates would know where we were. The Rhodian general sent me here and Iphicrates fears me. As for Phradates," Thais smiled slightly, "we need not try to avoid him, for he loves me. He is my slave."
"Do you love Chares much?" Artemisia asked.
Thais threw her arms around her and crushed her in a fierce embrace. "Love him!" she cried. "To the last drop of my blood – in every fibre of my body! He is my God! If I lay dead before him, my eyes would see him, as they do now."
"I think you love him as much as I love Clearchus, only differently," Artemisia said. "Does he love you?"
"As much as he can," Thais replied. "There will always be more of the boy than the man in him; but he loves me more than any other."
Thais rose and went to the litter, where, from its hiding place among the cushions, she drew forth a bag of leather which she emptied upon the couch. Artemisia uttered a cry of delight. Rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, and gems of turquoise lay spread before her in a glittering heap.
"There is our fortune," Thais said. "We shall not want, at least for the present."
CHAPTER XVI
IN THE CAMP OF THE MERCENARIES
Sometimes running and sometimes walking, Leonidas led Clearchus and Chares all night through the foot-hills of Mount Ida. It was not until day was breaking and they were thoroughly exhausted that he halted at a spot well advanced upon the northeastern slopes of the great mountain. They found themselves at the bottom of a rocky ravine, shaded by evergreens, through which trickled a shallow brook.
"Let us eat and sleep," Leonidas said, and in ten minutes they were lying wrapped in their cloaks in the shelter of a thicket.
Leonidas was awake and had aroused his friends before noon. Although the country was wild and thinly settled, they pushed forward with caution, fearing that they might stumble upon some Persian outpost. For the same reason, they skirted the hillsides instead of keeping to the valleys, where it would have been easier to advance, and the wisdom of this precaution was made manifest before they had gone far. The keen eyes of Leonidas caught a drift of smoke above the tree-tops. Advancing cautiously along a ridge, they found an abrupt declivity which permitted them to look down upon a camp-fire about which were gathered twenty or thirty men.
From the variety of their weapons and costumes, the Spartan judged them to be shepherds and farmers who had been sent out by the Persian commanders as scouts. They were under the command of an officer who wore a conical cap, linen trousers, and a flowing garment of yellow and blue, with wide sleeves. In his hand he carried a whip of rawhide, and his only other weapon was a dagger which he wore at his waist. The party had evidently halted for its midday meal.
Seeing that the Persians did not suspect their presence, the three spies crept behind a huge bowlder which had fallen from the face of the cliff behind them and hung poised on a ledge above the camp. They hoped to learn something from the talk of the men around the fire, but their conversation seemed to be carried on in a dialect with which they were not familiar. While Leonidas and Clearchus were watching, one on either side of the rock, Chares, crouched behind it, began idly to examine the mass of stone. It was taller than the stature of a man and shaped like a rough sphere. Ferns grew from its crevices and around its base, showing that it had hung there for years. It was separated from the cliff by a narrow passage, and its outer side overhung the ledge upon which it had been caught.
Chares measured the great rock with his eye and then quietly stretched himself down upon the ledge behind it, with his feet against the cliff and his shoulders against the stone. As he put forth his enormous strength, slowly a crack appeared in the earth at the base of the stone. The delicate plumes of fern that grew from the moss on its summit began to nod gently, although the air was still. The crack widened and there was a sound of the snapping of slender roots. Clearchus and Leonidas, intent upon the scene below, noticed nothing. Suddenly the great bowlder seemed to start forward of its own motion. It hung balanced for an instant and then plunged from the ledge, bounding down the steep hillside with long leaps, rending everything in its path.
With shouts of alarm, the soldiers scattered in every direction, but their leader tripped on the long skirt of his gaudy robe and fell face downward beside the fire. Before he could rise, the great stone was upon him. It rolled over his prostrate form and came to rest.
Leonidas turned to discover what had happened and saw Chares lying with his head in the hole where the stone had been, shaking with laughter. Without losing a moment, the Spartan dragged him to his feet and ran swiftly back along the way they had come. It was impossible to avoid being seen. There was a cry from below, and half a dozen arrows struck against the cliff about them as they passed. Luckily, they succeeded in gaining shelter in safety.
The Spartan's face was pale with anger. "If you had done that in my country, nothing could save you!" he said to Chares.
"Why? What have I done?" the Theban asked in surprise.
"You have endangered the safety of the whole army and run the risk of bringing the expedition to failure," Leonidas answered hotly. "I say nothing of ourselves, but we have been seen, and what you have done to no purpose may cost us our lives."
"That is true," the Theban said, filled with remorse. "I didn't stop to think."
"You made me leader," Leonidas continued bitterly. "If I am to lead, you must obey my orders. If not, lead on yourself, and I will show you how to obey."
Clearchus peered down into the ravine and saw the Persians gathered about the motionless body of their chief, debating with many gesticulations.
"They are not thinking of pursuit," he said. "Come, I will answer for Chares that he will be more careful in future. Let it pass. We have no time to lose."
The Spartan made no reply, but turned and led the way once more toward the east. They did not halt again until the mountain was at their backs, its peaks cutting a giant silhouette of purple in the crimson evening sky. After a brief rest they struck out along a water-course which brought them at daybreak to a larger stream that they judged to be the Granicus.
As they advanced, the hills became smaller and the country more open. They met several companies of the Persians, some with wagon trains and some on foraging expeditions; but when they explained that they were Greek mercenaries on their way to join Memnon, they were permitted to pass unmolested, since it was extremely unlikely that any of the Macedonians could have advanced so far inland. Finally, late in the afternoon, they reached an opening between the hills which gave them sight of a broad, rolling plain, through which the river ran like a band of silver. Far away they could see the tents of the Persian camp, spread out like a white city, and, a little to the right, a dark square, which they took to be the earthwork surrounding the camp of the Greek mercenaries. Although the Persians made use of the Greeks, they were so jealous of them that they always made them camp apart. Encounters between them were not uncommon, even when they were fighting in the same cause.
Descending to the plain, the three friends lost sight of the camp, but they took the river for their guide, knowing that it must bring them to their destination. They passed farms and cottages, from which the women peeped curiously at them, the men having been drafted into the army. They were emerging from a pasture behind a farm-house rather larger and more prosperous-looking than its neighbors, when they heard a commotion in which they distinguished the shouting of Greeks. Running forward, they found two foraging parties from the rival camps in angry dispute for the possession of a drove of cattle. The Greeks had found the cattle and were about to drive them away when the Persian party came up and demanded them.
Words led to blows. The Greeks were heavily outnumbered, and although they fought stubbornly, it was clear that they would be unable to hold their ground.
"Here is our chance," Leonidas cried. "Memnon! Memnon!"
He drew his sword and rushed into the conflict, with Clearchus and Chares behind him, shouting at the top of their lungs. The Greeks, encouraged by their unexpected succor, made a stand, while the Persians, not knowing how large a force was upon them, ceased to follow up their advantage.
"Drive in the sheep with the cattle," Chares cried, catching up a heavy stake from a hayrick and swinging it around his head with both hands. "Don't let them escape!" He brought the stake down upon the Persian heads like a gigantic flail.
Leonidas and Clearchus forced themselves into the thick of the fight, thrusting and hewing with their swords. The Greek foragers, regaining their courage, ran in after them. The Persians were unable to withstand the charge. They broke and fled down the road toward their camp in disorder, leaving half a dozen of their number upon the field.
"Praise be to Zeus, the Preserver!" said the lochagos, or captain, who was in command of the mercenaries. "Where did you come from?"
"From Antandrus," Leonidas replied promptly, "to join the army of Memnon."
"By the horn of Dionysus, you came in time!" the captain cried, wiping his sword. "But I have been long away from home. Is it the fashion there now to fight with stakes for weapons?"
He looked at Chares, whose mighty onslaught had aroused the admiration of the soldiers.
"It is the fashion there, as it always has been, to fight with whatever comes to hand when Greeks are in danger," Chares said with dignity. "But do you suppose, now, that there is a skin of wine in that house?"
"No harm in looking," the captain replied. "Get the cattle together if you expect to eat before you sleep," he added to his men and led the way into the house.
There were only women inside – the farmer's wife and two daughters, all in a flutter of fear. Chares, ignorant of their language, began by kissing each of them, which served somewhat to dispel their alarm. When the captain produced a bag of gold pieces and announced that he would pay for everything they took, they became quite at ease and readily brought the skin of wine that Chares demanded.
Having finished the wine in great good humor and settled their account, the party set off to the camp, driving the cattle before them. Around their camp-fire that night the three Companions learned all there was to know of the Persian army. Under Memnon, there were nearly twenty thousand Greek mercenaries drawn from the entire Hellenic world and including thieves, fugitives, murderers, and runaway slaves. The Persian force was equal in number to the army of Alexander and consisted mainly of cavalry. It was made up of picked men, the best troops of the empire. With the satraps Arsites and Spithridates were many of the great nobles of the realm, among them Atizyes, satrap of Greater Phrygia, Mithrobarzanes, hipparch of Cappadocia, Omares, and others who were renowned for their bravery and high standing with the Great King.
"They think it will be a holiday affair," the honest captain said contemptuously. "We Greeks know better. They are encumbered with wine and women for the feast that they intend to celebrate after they have won their victory, and they are already quarrelling among themselves for places at the board; but their greatest contention is over what shall be done with Alexander when he is led before Darius, loaded with chains, to answer for his boldness. They have invented more new punishments than would destroy the entire army."
"Why are they so certain of winning?" Clearchus asked. "I have heard the Macedonians are good fighters."
"So they are," the captain replied heartily; "but the best troops of Persia are here, and the young nobles cannot bring themselves to believe that common men can stand against them. Why, they are even predicting that the army of Alexander will run away before a blow has been struck."
"You don't seem to care over much for our friends," Chares remarked with a yawn.
"Nor they for us," the captain said. "You saw what happened this afternoon. They think they can get along without us and they do not intend to let us have any share in the victory if they can help it. I believe we shall win if it is true that Alexander has only half as many men as we; but they will never win without our assistance."
"I suppose we shall fight in the centre," Clearchus suggested.
"I don't know," the captain exclaimed. "Nobody seems to know. If they take Memnon's advice, they will not risk all on a battle now. There is no need of it. All we have to do is to fall back, leaving nothing to eat behind us, and the Macedonians will starve to death. But the nobles will not listen to reason. They want glory, and so they insist upon a battle where the advantage will be all with the other side. They called Memnon a coward in the council this afternoon for proposing to retreat, and now they are at it again over yonder."
He pointed to a gayly colored pavilion in the middle of the Persian camp, where the council feast was being held. It looked like a strange, gigantic mushroom, glowing with interior light.
"They even jeer at us for throwing up breastworks," the captain added bitterly. "They have left their own camp defenceless, to show how brave they are. Perhaps they will be glad enough to take refuge in ours before they are through!"
