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

In each of the three young men who met in the house of Clearchus were typified many of the characteristics of the states to which they belonged. Athens, Thebes, and Sparta in turn had held the supremacy in the little peninsula to which the civilized world was confined. Contrasted as they were, there was still a bond between them that had been welded by centuries of association.

"Tell me," Clearchus said, after their hunger had been somewhat appeased, "what is the news of Thebes? Are the Macedonians still perched in the Cadmea?"

"They are," Chares replied lazily. "We are still in the grasp of the barbarian; but our plotters are at work and they tell me that soon we shall break it."

"Do you mean they are planning revolt?" Clearchus asked eagerly.

"Don't get excited," the Theban responded. "It will give you indigestion. They have revolted already, thanks to the gold your city sent them, and the barbarians are eating their corn in the citadel just at present, waiting for something to turn up."

"But that means war, Chares," Clearchus exclaimed.

"Well," Chares replied, "that will give Leonidas a chance to clear the rust from his sword. You know he is in the market."

"That is true," the Spartan said in response to Clearchus' glance of inquiry. "No man can live on air. I follow my profession where there is work to be done."

There was nothing disgraceful in this avowal. If his own country was at peace, a Greek soldier might sell his sword to the highest bidder, as did Xenophon, without reproach.

"And I suppose you, too, will be fighting, Chares?" said Clearchus.

"As to that, I don't know," the Theban answered, stretching himself with a yawn. "Perhaps the best thing that could happen to us would be to have the Macedonian conquer and rule. It would put an end to our own wars. If matters go on as they have been going, all three of us may be trying to cut each other's throats before the month is out."

"No," Clearchus exclaimed, "that cannot be, because you must promise me to stay here and drink at my wedding feast at the next new moon."

"What, Clearchus! you are going to be married?" Chares cried, springing from his couch. "Who is she?"

"Artemisia, daughter of Theorus," Clearchus answered. "She is the most beautiful – "

"Ho, Cleon, Cleon! Where are you?" Chares shouted at the top of his voice. "Cleon, I say!"

The steward ran into the room in alarm.

"Bring wine of Cyprus, quickly!" Chares cried, waving his arms.

Cleon vanished with a smile, and Chares hastened to embrace his friend with a fervor that threatened to crack his ribs. Leonidas grasped him warmly by the hand, and both showered congratulations upon him.

"We pledge thee!" Chares cried, taking the wine that Cleon brought in a great beaker of carved silver and raising it to his lips, after spilling a portion of its contents in libation.

"May the Gods give thee happiness!" Leonidas said, drinking deep in his turn.

"Neither war, famine, nor pestilence shall take us from thee until thou art married," Chares cried, half in jest. "We swear it, Leonidas, by the head of Zeus!"

"We swear it!" the Spartan echoed, and each of them again pressed the young man's hand.

"I expected no less of you," Clearchus said, smiling into the faces of his companions. "It makes my heart glad to know that you will be with me. But after your long ride you must both be used up. I will leave you to get an hour or two of sleep before the Assembly which has been called for this afternoon to hear what Demosthenes has to say upon our policy toward Macedon. You will want to hear him, of course."

"Go, Clearchus," Chares said, laughing. "That is a long speech to tell us that you would like to be rid of us while you go to your Artemisia. Come back in time for the bath, that's all."

CHAPTER II

WARNING FROM THE GODS

A few miles west of Athens, in the suburb of Academe, dwelt Melissa, aunt and guardian of Artemisia. She was an invalid, bedridden for the greater part of the year, and she had chosen to live in the country that she might not be disturbed by the city noises. She had never married, and no departure from the routine of her well-ordered house was permitted. She loved her niece; but she was not sorry to have her marry, because, as she said, her own hold upon life was so uncertain, and besides, the match was a brilliant one.

Her household consisted of Philox, her steward, who had managed her affairs for a score of years, Tolmon, her gardener, and a dozen women slaves who, like their mistress, had passed the prime of life.

In Melissa's old-fashioned garden Artemisia, with two little slave girls to help her, was at work over a hedge of roses. She had not yet reached her nineteenth year. Her soft, light brown hair was gathered in a knot at the back of her head, showing the graceful curve of the nape of her neck and half revealing the little pink lobes of her ears. Her forehead was low and smooth and broad, with delicately arched brows, a shade darker than her hair. Her eyes were blue and the color in her cheeks was heightened by her exertions in bringing the straying rose stems into place. The folds of her pure white chiton left her warm arms bare to the shoulder and defined the youthful lines of her supple figure. As she stooped among the flowers, handling them with gentle touches, she seemed preoccupied, and her glance continually wandered from her task.

Agile as monkeys, the slave girls darted about her, pelting each other with blossoms and uttering peals of shrill laughter. Their short white tunics made their swarthy skins darker by contrast.

The garden was set in a tiny meadow beside the river Cephissus. It was shut in on both sides by groves of olive and fig trees, against whose dark foliage gleamed the marble front of the house to which it belonged. The sunlight swept the smooth emerald of the turf, touched the brilliant hues of the flowers, and flashed back from the rippling river beyond.

"Oh, mistress, there's a beautiful butterfly! Oh, please, may I catch him?" cried one of the little girls.

"Hush, chatterbox," said Artemisia; "come and help me here."

"Ouch, that awful thorn! Look, mistress, how my finger bleeds," the other girl said, holding up her small brown hand.

"Will you never end your nonsense?" the young woman asked in affected despair. "See, Proxena, we have not half finished."

"Don't be angry with us, mistress; see who's coming!" Proxena cried, taking her wounded finger from her mouth and pointing with it toward the house.

Clearchus must have ridden fast to arrive so soon after leaving his friends. Artemisia, hastily plucking a half-blown rose, went forward to meet him, while the little slave girls remained behind, peeping slyly with sidelong glances and whispering to each other while they pretended to busy themselves with their work.

"Greeting, Artemisia, my Life!" Clearchus said, taking her hands in his.

"Greeting, Clearchus; I am glad to see thee," she replied.

"How beautiful thou art and how fortunate am I, my darling," the young man said radiantly. "Dost thou love me, Artemisia?"

"Thou knowest well that I do, Clearchus," she answered reproachfully. "Why dost thou ask?"

"For the joy of hearing thee say it once more," he said, laughing. "There is nothing the Gods can give that could be sweeter or more precious to me, and to add the last touch to my happiness, Chares and Leonidas came this morning and have promised to stay until our wedding."

They had been strolling toward the grove at the edge of the meadow, where a bench of carved stone, overhung with trailing vines, was set in the shade in such a position as to permit its occupants to look out over the garden and the river. They sat down side by side and Clearchus slipped his arm about Artemisia's waist. Evidently, with the subtle sense of a lover, he detected a lack of responsiveness, for he bent forward and gazed anxiously into her face. He saw that it was troubled.

"What is the matter, my dearest?" he asked in sudden alarm.

She hesitated for a moment. "Oh, Clearchus, I fear that we are too happy," she said at last in reply.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, drawing her closer to him. "Why should any of the Gods wish us harm? We have not failed in paying them honor, and we have transgressed in nothing."

Artemisia hid her face in her hands and her head drooped against his shoulder. He held her still closer and kissed the soft coils of her hair, awaiting an explanation.

"What is it, Artemisia?" he asked quietly. "You are tired and nervous and overwrought, and some foolish fancy has crept into your heart to trouble you. Tell me, my dearest; thou canst have no sorrow that is not mine as well as thine."

"Clearchus, my husband," she said, without moving from her position or lifting her face, "thou art strong and I am but a weak girl. Whatever may come, I shall always be thankful that thou didst love me. I am thine – heart and mind, body and spirit, here and in the hereafter – forever."

"Why dost thou speak so, my Soul?" Clearchus asked in alarm. "What has happened? Surely we shall be married at the new moon."