The Golden Hope: A Story of the Time of King Alexander the Great

Phradates knew that he had the young woman in his power, but he could not bring himself to make use of this advantage. He would not force a triumph; he must have a complete surrender. Day by day he hoped to obtain it. He found a half promise in her words, a suggestion of tenderness in her manner, and at times an implied appeal to his generosity that made his hope almost a certainty. When he grew impatient, the fear of losing her entirely restrained him. Thus he fell more and more completely under her domination, like a man who sips a narcotic, yielding by little and little to its power, until his will to resist is gone, and he gives himself wholly to its subtle intoxication, unwittingly a captive.

After one of her interviews with him, Thais often threw herself down, disgusted with the part that she was forced to play. She grew angry at Artemisia's failure to understand the necessity of what she was doing. When the smile faded from her lips as the door closed upon the Phœnician, she found Artemisia's eyes fixed upon her in sorrowful reproach.

"Why do you look at me like that?" she exclaimed petulantly. "Speak out, if you must!"

Artemisia bent her head and remained silent.

"Do you think I love him?" Thais demanded scornfully, coming close to her. "Do you believe that I am false to Chares? Tell me, if you do."

"I do not," Artemisia replied hesitatingly. "Only it seems to me – "

"It seems to you that I do it too well," Thais exclaimed, completing her thought. "What would you do if you were shut up with an untamed tiger? You may give thanks to your Artemis in your innocence that I have been able so far to hold this one in check."

"Forgive me," Artemisia cried, embracing her. "I know you must, and yet – I am sorry for it, my sister."

Artemisia often made use of this title, never dreaming how true it was, and it always awakened a pang of tenderness in Thais' heart. She returned the embrace and forgave her, although she felt that Artemisia could not really understand, try as she might.

"I wish the siege would end!" Thais said wearily. "If you knew how much I loathe all this, you would have more pity."

Her wish was granted at last. Even the most hopeful inhabitant of the city understood that neither flesh nor stone could hold out much longer against the dogged Macedonian assault. Memnon knew that unless the battering rams and catapults could be destroyed the city must fall. There were breaches in the massive walls and the great towers were tottering. If he could gain a little more time, reinforcements might arrive and compel Alexander to raise the siege. Mustering his best remaining troops, he poured them out of the Triple Gate and through the gaps in the wall upon the works of the enemy. The attack was repulsed without accomplishing its object; and when the garrison sought to regain the defences, scores were slain at the wall and hundreds more in the moat, where they were precipitated by the breaking of the bridge leading to the gate.

It was plain that the end was at hand. The Rhodian felt that the city was at the mercy of the young king, and he hastened to take advantage of the respite that Alexander's forbearance allowed him. At midnight after this last defeat the evacuation began. The troops were withdrawn to the Royal Citadel and to the Salmacis, where they could still remain in touch with their ships. The greater part of the population fled to the harbor and sought escape in the merchant vessels which were putting to sea. Azemilcus, king of Tyre, who had been acting with the fleet, made ready a trireme in which to send home the wounded among the Tyrians. He placed it under the command of Phradates.

Thais learned from the slave women that the young Phœnician was making ready to depart in haste.

"If we are to escape, we must do it now," she said hurriedly to Artemisia. "He will try to take us with him."

"Can we not refuse to go?" Artemisia replied.

"No," Thais responded. "To refuse him would be to open his eyes, and he would certainly take us by force. Flight is our only hope."

She gathered her jewels into a packet and placed it in her bosom. She then ordered the women to muffle them in long cloaks that concealed their faces.

"Go down and find out who is there," she said.

One of the women brought word that Phradates had gone to the harbor to see that all was in readiness, and that Mena was also absent. Thais led the way boldly down the stairs and out of the house, followed by Artemisia and the two women. The slaves who were at work below stared at them, but in the absence of their master none ventured to stop them. They gained the street in safety, and were immediately swept away in the clamoring, terror-stricken streams of fugitives who were pouring toward the harbor. A lofty tower that had been built beside the Triple Gate was on fire. The flames roared up the sides of the structure, bursting from its windows and loopholes, and converting it into a gigantic torch. They spread quickly to the houses nearest the walls, sending volumes of reddened smoke rolling over the harbor. The howling of dogs mingled with the shouts of men and the wailing of women who clasped their children to their breasts.

Iphicrates left the walls with his comrades in arms and plunged into the crowded streets. He had intended to seek his own house in the hope of finding some remains of his hoard untouched; but the panic seized him, and he changed his direction. He determined to gain the Royal Citadel, which he knew was to be defended against the Macedonians. Thinking only of his own safety, he forced his way through the press, pushing women and children aside in his haste. Blinded by the terror that possessed him, he took no heed of a small, dark-skinned man with sharp features who reeled back from the thrust of his elbow. Even if he had noticed that the figure fell in behind him, following his footsteps like a shadow, he would have taken him only for one of the fugitives.

Steeped in the contagion of fear, the money-lender hardly noticed where he went. He soon became exhausted by his struggle with the crowd, and he heaved a sigh of relief when he found himself at last in a street that was comparatively deserted. He overlooked the fact that the few persons whom he met were hurrying the other way, and it was not until he was brought to a halt by a blank wall that he recognized his surroundings. He had entered a road from which there was no outlet.

He halted in dismay. The shadow behind him glided into a doorway and crouched out of sight. The street was hemmed in by tall buildings that had been emptied of their tenants, and the light of the burning tower flickered redly upon the upper walls, increasing the gloom below. A sense of loneliness and desertion smote him. He felt himself suddenly cut off from human companionship. His heart beat thickly and heavily. He seemed to be strangling under the oppression of a nameless and deadly horror.

He turned and rushed back in the direction whence he had come. As he passed the doorway within which the shadow had disappeared, a light form bounded out upon him. There was a flash of steel; a lean arm was thrust forward and seemed to touch him lightly on the back beneath his shoulder. He fell upon his face with a choking cry; the shadow leaped over him, fled, and vanished, leaving him motionless where he lay.

Thais and Artemisia were borne forward in the crowd without power to choose the direction of their flight. In the frantic masses of humanity, all fighting toward the harbor, they saw women and children trampled underfoot; and they clung to each other in desperation, knowing that if they fell, they would never be able to rise. The maddened crowd swept them on to the wharves, where the agitated waters of the harbor spread before them like a lake of blood in the glare of the conflagration.

Utterly bewildered and unable to extricate themselves, the young women were drawn hither and thither by the eddies of the mob as it rushed feverishly from one vessel to another, seeking means of escape. Suddenly they found themselves wedged in before a double line of soldiers drawn up before the gangway of a trireme, the sides of which loomed dark above their heads. Torches shed a smoky light upon the agonized faces of the throng, held at bay by the spears of the guard. Warning shouts rose from the darkness, followed by a swaying motion of the crowd which divided before the rush of a compact body of men making toward the vessel. Thais and Artemisia felt themselves crushed forward against the living barrier until they could hardly breathe. They heard the shouting and cursing of the soldiers advancing from the rear into the circle of torchlight. The pressure became unbearable. They had given themselves up for lost, when, before they knew what was taking place, they were seized and borne upward. Thais recovered her senses to find herself seated upon the deck of the trireme, with Artemisia's head in her lap.

"Why did you run away?" asked a familiar voice reproachfully.

She looked up and saw Phradates standing before her. "It is fate!" flashed through her mind.

"We thought you had deserted us, and we were frightened," she replied.

"I searched everywhere for you," he said. "Astarte must have guided you here."

He turned and commanded the sailors to cast off. The great vessel swung slowly from the wharf, leaving behind the mass of unhappy fugitives, some of whom cursed her, while others stretched out their arms toward her, praying to the last to be taken on board. Artemisia was revived by the cooler air of the harbor.

"Where are we?" she asked faintly, opening her blue eyes.

"We are on the Phœnician trireme, bound, I suppose, for Tyre," Thais answered bitterly. "No, it was not my doing," she continued, replying to her sister's glance of surprise and question. "I had no more part in it than you this time. It is the will of the Gods."

The trireme pointed her brazen beak toward the entrance of the harbor. The banks of oars which fringed her sides in three rows, one above the other, like the legs of some gigantic water insect, caught the waves, and the panic-stricken city began to glide away from her stern. A fishing boat, laden with fugitives, drifted across her path. The sharp prow struck the side of the hapless little craft and cut through it like a knife. For a brief moment the screams of women and children rose out of the darkness, and then the voices were stifled.

Artemisia hid her face on Thais' shoulder and wept; but Thais, gazing back on the fiery city, saw the great tower reel and fall, clothed in flame from base to summit. The roar of turmoil and terror sounded in her ears, and she smiled. The red light danced in her eyes, making them gleam like opals as she turned them upon Phradates.

"They say thy city hath strong walls, Phœnician," she said. "Thou wilt have to build them still stronger, I think."

"They are strong," Phradates answered proudly; "but we shall not need them, for between us and Alexander stand a million men, ready to lay down their lives for their king."

Thais raised her white arm and extended it toward the stricken city.

"What shall withstand the Whirlwind?" she said.

In the stern of the trireme sat Mena, gazing thoughtfully back at the city and wiping the stains from the blade of his dagger.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE GORDIAN KNOT

Alexander kept the anniversary of his departure from Macedon in the city of Gordium, surrounded by his army, on the wind-swept uplands of Phrygia. He reached the place through the drifted snows that blocked the passes of the Taurus and the rugged hills of Pisidia, subduing on his way the tribes that had held them for ages, to whom the Great King himself had deemed it wise to render tribute in exchange for peace.

Looking backward, the young leader of men saw the Ægean coast and all the territory west of the mountains subject to his rule. To the rich and prosperous Grecian cities by the sea he had restored their ancient rights, and the hostages of the barbarians thronged his camp. He had made a beginning, and his heart had confidence in the end.

Parmenio came from Sardis, bringing the troops that had wintered there, with the siege train and abundance of supplies. Alexander resolved to rest until the roads should be settled so that he might strike another blow. In games and feasting and martial exercises his army passed the breathing space permitted before the onslaught. The camp was filled with jests devised by the detachments that under Alexander had conquered stubborn Salagassus, at the expense of the men who had been idling in Sardis and who were accused of having grown white-faced and soft in their luxury. Parmenio's men, in turn, took their revenge in quips levelled at the young married men, who had been allowed to go to their homes across the Hellespont and who now returned, bringing the latest news and gossip of Pella and squadrons of eager recruits.

Leonidas had risen high in the favor of the young king, who had seen his courage tested in the winter campaign. He had become one of the Table Companions, with command of a squadron of cavalry, and even the proud young Macedonian nobles, jealous of intrusion, had ceased to look down upon him as an outsider and had taken him into their circle. Of all the stories told in the camp, none was more often repeated than that which related how the Spartan had held the light-armed troops when they were taken in ambush by the fierce mountaineers before Salagassus, until Alexander could lead the phalanx to their rescue.

But Leonidas showed no elation. On the contrary, he seemed more grim and taciturn than ever. Gladly would he have given both favor and command if he could have seen Clearchus and Chares ride into camp unharmed. Since they started for Halicarnassus, he had heard nothing of them, and it was the general opinion in the army that they were lost. The Spartan had few friends and none to take the place of these two. His grief for them was the deeper because he would not show it. Though it gnawed at his heart like the stolen fox, he gave no sign. One night, at table, the jest turned upon Amyntas, who had purchased gilded armor.

"You are as vain as Chares the Theban," one of the Thessalian officers said to him, laughing.

Leonidas sought the man out next day. "You have insulted my friend, who is not here. I think you are sorry for it," he said quietly.

The young captain laughed, looking down upon the Spartan from his six feet of stature.

"You think too much," he replied contemptuously.

With a bound, Leonidas caught him by the throat in a grip that was like that of a bulldog's jaws. In vain the Thessalian sought to break his hold. His face grew black and his tongue protruded.

"I think you are sorry," Leonidas repeated coolly.

The other, feeling his senses leaving him, made an affirmative motion, and the hands that gripped his throat relaxed.

"Thou shouldst speak no ill of those who cannot answer," the Spartan said, turning away and leaving the young man to recover his breath.

When this incident reached the ears of Alexander, as everything that happened in the camp was sure to do, the king smiled.

"I suppose you would serve me in the same fashion if I should be unfortunate enough to make such a jest," he said.

"The king does not mock brave men," Leonidas replied.

Alexander laid his hand on the Spartan's shoulder. "I am Alexander," he said, "but I envy Chares and Clearchus. I wish I had such a friend as they have."

"Thou hast many," the Spartan replied. "Wrong them not; but thou hast small need of mortal friends since the Gods are with thee."

"That is true," Alexander said simply. He knew that nine-tenths of the army believed indeed that the Gods had taken him under their protection. He seemed to them, in fact, to be himself almost like one of the immortals in the beauty of his face and form, his perfect courage, and his unerring judgment. While the graybeards at home, the philosophers and statesmen, were predicting failure for him and demonstrating by precedent and logic that his success was impossible, he had succeeded. Already he had wrested from the Great King the colonies of Greece that for centuries had groaned under Persian oppression, and while he had not yet stood face to face with the mighty power that he had attacked, he had confounded the prophets of evil and proved their wisdom to be no better than folly. When his captains looked into his face, ruddy with youth and strength, his smooth brow, unmarked by a line of care, and felt the charm of his glance, remembering what he had done, it was impossible for them to think that he was only a man like themselves.

So when it became known, after the preparations for the southward march in search of the Great King had been completed, that Alexander had determined to attempt the loosening of the knot that King Gordius had bound, there were few of his followers who doubted that he would accomplish it. For ages this knot had defied all attempts to guess its secret. The farmer, Gordius, driving his oxen into the city, found himself suddenly raised to the throne. Tradition told how he had tied the neap of his cart to the porphyry shaft in the midst of the temple and how it had been declared that whoso should unbind it should become lord of all Asia. In the reign of King Midas, his son, friend of the great God Dionysus, whose touch had changed the sands of the Pactolus to gold, many had essayed the task and had failed. In subsequent years a long line of ambitious princes and scheming kings had made the attempt, seeking to propitiate the God with rich gifts, but none had succeeded. More lately, few had tried the knot, for the Great King watched the shrine, and those who were bold enough to tempt Fortune there soon found themselves summoned to his court, where they were taught how unwise it was for the weak to aspire to the dominions of the strong.

It was knowledge of all this that led the soldiers to regard Alexander's trial of the knot as no less important than a great battle. If the knot should yield to him, there would no longer be any doubt of what the Gods intended.

Parmenio, with the caution born of age, shook his head when the king told him of his project.

"What will you gain?" he asked. "The army already has complete confidence in you, and if you fail, some of it will be lost."

"Dost thou believe we shall conquer Darius?" Alexander demanded.

"With the aid of the Gods, I think we shall," Parmenio replied.

"And dost thou not believe in the prophecy regarding the knot?" Alexander asked again.

Parmenio hesitated and looked confused. "It is very old," he said at last, "and we know not whence it came."

"Thy faith is weak," the young leader said severely. "Fear not; the cord shall be loosed."

Before the ancient temple the army was drawn up in long lines, archers and slingers, spearmen and cavalry, find the phalanx in companies and squadrons. Alexander, mounted on Bucephalus, rode slowly along the ranks, splendid in his armor, with the double plume of white brushing his shoulders on either side. He halted before the temple, where the robed priests stood ready to receive him. Every eye was upon him as he leaped to the ground and turned his face to the army.

"I go to test the prophecy, whether it be true or false," he cried, in a clear voice. "Wait thou my return."

Followed by his generals and by Aristander, the soothsayer, he entered the portals of the temple after the priests. They led him to the spot where the cart was fastened to the pillar. Its rude construction indicated its great age. Its wheels were sections of a tree trunk cut across. Its body was carved with strange figures of forgotten Gods and monsters, colored with pigment that time had dimmed. Its long neap was tied at the end to the shaft of stone with strips of cornel bark, brown and stiff with age and intertwined in curious folds that left no ends visible.

Alexander looked to the chief priest. "What is the prophecy?" he demanded.

The old man unrolled a parchment written over with dim characters, and read.

"To that man who shall loose the knot bound by King Gordius under direction of the high Gods," he quavered, "shall be given the realm of Asia from the southern ocean to the seas of the North. Once only may the trial be made. Thus saith the God."

Outside the temple the soldiers stood silent in their ranks awaiting the result. As the aged priest ceased reading and rolled up the parchment, Alexander drew closer to the magic knot and examined it, while the others fell back in a wide circle. Between the priests there passed a covert glance of understanding as though they said to each other, "Here is another who will fail, and more gifts will come!" The young king saw that no man could ever disentangle the convolutions of the fastening without tearing the bark. Avoiding even a pretence of attempting the impossible, he drew his sword. The astonished priests started forward with a cry of protest, but before they could interfere, the flashing blade fell and the neap of the ancient cart clattered to the stone floor.

"The knot is loosed," Alexander said quietly, sheathing his sword.

"The God greets thee, Lord of Asia!" the chief priest declared in a solemn tone, bowing his head.

Rushing out of the temple, the generals repeated Alexander's words to the army.

"The knot is loosed! The knot is loosed! We shall conquer!" ran the joyful cry through all the ranks, and the young king, listening within the temple, knew that the hour for decisive action was at hand.

CHAPTER XXV

BESSUS COMES TO BABYLON

Clearchus and Chares gazed with wonder upon the mighty walls of Babylon, raising their sheer height from the surface of the Euphrates until the soldiers who paced the lofty parapet seemed like pygmies against the sky. The little cavalcade, stained with weeks of travel, entered the city through a long archway tunnelled in the wall and flanked on either side by enormous winged lions carved in granite.

Nathan reported to the captain of the gate, who detailed a lieutenant to escort him to the palace. Chares snorted his disgust as the young man took his place at the head of the troop. His beardless face was touched with paint, and his eyebrows were darkened with pigment. His hands were white and soft. His flowing robe of blue silk swept downward on either side below his feet, which were encased in buskins with long points. He glanced superciliously at the two prisoners.

"See that they do not try to get away here in the city," he lisped to Nathan. "It might be hard to find them – there is such a dirty rabble here since the Great King himself decided to take the field."

"Have no fear," Nathan replied quietly.

"Fear?" the lieutenant laughed. "That word, as you will find, is not known here. Ride behind me and let your men surround these two dogs."

He adjusted his long robe and inhaled a breath of perfume from a flask of scent that he carried in his left hand while he gathered up his reins with the other. Chares could restrain himself no longer.

"So we are dogs, are we?" he roared, so suddenly that the lieutenant almost fell from his horse. "Has no one told you that we Greeks have to be fed? Lead on, or I will make half a meal off thy miserable carcass, though how magpie will agree with me, I know not."

"Seize him! Seize him! He talks treason!" screamed the lieutenant, scarce knowing what he said. He looked at Nathan's men, who made no move to obey, but the gleam of their white teeth as they smiled at his agitation brought him to his senses. With an air of offended dignity, he set his horse in motion, and the little troop clattered away into the city.

Inside the vast circumference of the wall they found streets along which stood magnificent dwellings surrounded by trees and gardens. So ample was the enclosure that ground enough remained unoccupied between the houses to sustain the population, if necessary, upon its harvests. Great temples reared their towers above the roofs. Gay chariots and gilded litters passed or met them. Now and then a curious glance was directed toward them, but beyond this they seemed to attract no attention. Everybody was too intent upon his own business or pleasure to give more than a passing thought to the sun-browned soldiers who rode wearily behind the brightly accoutred lieutenant of the guard.

As they advanced the streets became narrower and the houses stood close together, with no space between them for gardens. Shops and bazaars appeared on either hand, filled with a bustling, chaffering throng. The young Greeks saw a strange medley of nations. Swarthy Egyptians elbowed dusky merchants from beyond the Indus. Phœnicians and Jews drove bargains with large-limbed, blue-eyed men of the North, who wore shaggy skins upon their shoulders and carried long swords at their belts. This part of the city was given over entirely to foreigners, for among the Persians the old belief still prevailed that no man could buy or sell without being dishonest, and falsehood was held in religious abhorrence by the conquerors of the Medes.