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

"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.

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."