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CHAPTER XI
THAIS

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.

CHAPTER XII
MENA READS A LETTER

"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.