On the night after the battle, rough soldiers of the phalanx slept in garments of fine wool wrought with gold, clasping in their hands necklaces of jewels in which the glow of the camp-fires danced and flashed. Chares had decked himself in a long cloak of scarlet, upon which strange patterns were worked in silver. A collar of emeralds encircled his arm, and bracelets of gold gleamed upon his wrists.
"These are for Thais," he said proudly, opening a strip of linen and displaying to Clearchus a collection of gems that sparkled with varying hues.
"You are a barbarian at heart," the Athenian said. "Come, let us join the king. Leonidas waits for us."
Alexander sat upon his foam-streaked horse in the golden glow of the sunset. He had removed his white-plumed helmet, and the cool air bathed his temples. There was a new flash of pride in his eyes as he gazed upon the field of his triumph. The last orders had been given, the wounded had been cared for, and Parmenio had been despatched to Damascus, with a swift body of horse, to take possession of the Persian stores and treasure before they could be removed.
"Now let Demosthenes put on mourning!" Alexander exclaimed. "Come, let us see what provision Darius has made for us."
Followed by his Table Companions, he led the way toward the great pavilion, which none had dared to enter before him. At the entrance stood the chariot from which the Great King had looked upon the wreck of his hopes.
"Here is the royal mantle," Alexander remarked, spreading out the purple robe, stiff with gold. He tossed it back into the chariot, which he ordered to be removed.
Like a troop of boys, the Macedonians entered the great pavilion. Light from a hundred lamps filled the tent. Rich carpets had been spread upon the ground, and embroidered hangings divided the interior into a succession of rooms destined for the use of the Great King. From one to another Alexander led the way, making no attempt to conceal his wonder at the evidences of luxury that he there encountered for the first time.
In the first apartment, they found a wardrobe consisting of suits of armor inlaid with gold and silver; garments of silk and linen; helmets, shoes, parasols, mirrors, and a litter of utensils the uses of which were unknown to the Companions.
"I wonder what my old governor, Leonidas, would say to this?" Alexander cried. "He would never allow me clothing enough to keep me warm in winter."
Next they entered the treasure-chamber, filled with chests of cedar, bound with iron and brass. Several of these chests had been forced open, apparently by faithless slaves; but the rapidity of the Macedonian victory had not allowed them to carry away more than a very small part of the treasure. The boxes contained golden coins bearing the stamp of Darius, and evidently fresh from the mint.
"Here is balm for the wounded," Alexander said, lifting a handful of the coins and permitting them to fall back in a glittering stream.
Beyond this, they found the bed upon which Darius was to have reposed from the fatigues of the day. It was a mass of down, covered with silk and linen of the finest texture, and hung with silken curtains, fringed with gold. Adjoining the bedchamber was the scented bath in an enormous vessel of solid gold. Near it stood rows of crystal vases and jars of Phœnician glass, containing unguents and rare perfumes, compounded of priceless ingredients after formulæ known only to the body-servants of the Persian kings.
"This is what gave us the battle," Alexander said, pointing to the enervating array.
He pushed aside the last curtain and stood in the banquet room. Along its sides tables had been spread, flanked by rich couches and covered with dishes of massive gold and silver. At one side of the room was a canopied couch, higher and more magnificent than the others. The tables had been prepared before the flight of the attendants. Royal wine sparkled in goblets of crystal and beakers of gold. Hephæstion found the kitchen and reported that all the materials for the feast were in readiness.
"Let our cooks take charge of them," Alexander said. "I bid you all to sup with me here to-night."
This idea was received with eager applause and in an hour the preparations had been made. The Macedonians, wearing garlands of oak leaves, stretched themselves upon the gorgeous couches and partook of the strange dishes that were set before them by the pages. Goblets were filled and emptied and beakers were drained. Each man began to relate the deeds of valor he had performed on the battle-field, explaining in great detail how, but for him, the day would have been lost. Alexander alone, who had led them to victory, had nothing to say of himself, though he talked with Ptolemy, son of Lagus, Perdiccas, and Philotas of the mistakes that Darius had made.
Aching muscles and smarting wounds were forgotten under the influence of the wine and in the vainglorious rehearsal of the battle. The Macedonians began to feel that the world lay at their feet, and their minds were uplifted by dreams of endless conquest. The pavilion rang with laughter and was filled with the babel of tongues.
Suddenly, amid the jesting, the voices of women raised in lamentation penetrated the tent. The merriment was hushed, and every head was turned toward the sounds. Alexander despatched a page to learn the cause and the lad breathlessly brought word that Sisygambis, the Great King's mother, and Statira, his wife, were bewailing his death.
"Come, Hephæstion," Alexander said gravely, rising from the royal couch. "Let us reassure them."
Looks of intelligence and furtive smiles were exchanged as the two young men left the pavilion; but none dared venture upon open comment. From the beginning of war, the women of the vanquished had been counted as part of the victor's spoil.
Following the direction of the sorrowful sounds, Alexander discovered a smaller pavilion in the rear of the first. At its doorway stood a dark and stalwart figure, erect and motionless as a statue.
Upon the approach of the young king, the silent guardian fell with his face to the earth and remained motionless.
"Who art thou?" Alexander asked, looking down upon him.
"I am Tireus," the man replied. "I guard the women."
"Why didst thou not save thyself when thy master fled?" the young king inquired.
"Because the women could not flee," Tireus replied simply.
Alexander reflected for a moment. "Rise!" he said at last. "Had thy master possessed more servants like thee, he would not have lost his empire. Thou art chief eunuch. Keep thy charge, and if any molest thee, make thy complaint to me. Go now and ask if Alexander may be admitted."
Tireus had risen, but instead of obeying, he fell again upon his knees, stretching his hands toward Alexander in supplication that he dared not put into words.
"Go," Alexander said, understanding his meaning. "They have nothing to fear."
Tireus went, returning in a moment to draw aside the curtain so that the young king might enter. The wailing had ceased.
Alexander and Hephæstion found themselves under a silken canopy of crimson. The floor of the pavilion was covered with thick carpets, woven in bright colors and laid one upon another. Silver lamps suspended from above diffused a soft light.
Huddled together in the middle of the tent upon heaps of cushions lay a crowd of women in attitudes of despair. Their white arms and shoulders gleamed through their dishevelled hair. Their eyes were heavy with weeping. They seemed like a flock of doves that had been caught in a snare and were awaiting with palpitating breasts the coming of the fowler.
A woman of mature years rose from the group and threw herself at the feet of Hephæstion, mistaking him for the king, because he was taller than Alexander and still wore his armor. She was Sisygambis, the queen mother.
"Mercy!" she cried, with streaming eyes. "Thou hast slain my son. Have pity upon his mother and his innocent wife."
"I am not the king!" Hephæstion exclaimed, hastily stepping back.
"I am blinded by my sorrow!" Sisygambis replied, turning to Alexander in confusion. "Pardon me, I pray thee, in the name of thy own mother, Olympias!"
Alexander stooped and raised her gently by the hand.
"Thy son lives," he said. "Be not alarmed that you mistook my friend for me, for Hephæstion is also an Alexander."
Sisygambis looked earnestly into the boyish face before her.
"Is Darius still alive?" she asked beseechingly. "Is it true? I am his mother. Do not deceive me!"
"He is alive and he is free," the young king replied. "He escaped into Syria."
With a cry of joy, Statira rose from among her women, clasping in her hand the chubby fist of her child. The heavy masses of her dark hair framed a face of pure oval. The color flooded her cheeks, and her eyes shone in fathomless depths of mystery and life. As his glance met hers, Alexander was conscious of a thrill such as he had never felt before. His pulses were disturbed, and he felt his face flush. With an effort he mastered the unaccustomed emotion.
"Alexander does not make war upon women," he said quietly. "For your own sakes, I must carry you with me; but you are as safe as though you were still in your palace in Babylon. Your household shall remain with you. Command as freely as you did yesterday, and fear nothing."
"How shall we repay you?" Statira exclaimed, attempting to kneel at his feet.
"By ceasing to grieve," he replied. "Remember that you are still a queen."
The infant son of Darius looked at him with round eyes of wonder. Alexander took the child in his arms and kissed him.
"Come, Hephæstion," he said, turning to go. The Macedonian, whose gaze had been fixed upon Statira with an intensity that rendered him oblivious to everything else, roused himself and followed. As they passed from the pavilion, they heard a murmur of women's voices in silvery notes of astonishment and admiration.
Alexander was silent and thoughtful when he resumed his place at the head of the banquet table. The Companions were impatient to learn the details of his visit.
"Is the queen as beautiful as they say?" Perdiccas ventured at last.
The young king frowned slightly, and the hand in which he held his goblet trembled.
"Whoever in future speaks to me of the beauty of Statira, wife of Darius," he said, "that man is no longer my friend. Let it be known to the army that she is to be treated with all the respect due to a queen. He who forgets shall be punished."
He glanced at Hephæstion, who flushed and looked another way. For a moment there was silence in the tent, and then the laughter and talk flowed on as though nothing had occurred to interrupt them.
Phradates stood on the broad stone wharf in the Sidonian Harbor of Tyre, amid a group of young men whose costly garments and jewelled fingers showed them to belong to the rich families of the richest city in the world. Upon the edge of the wharf were gathered a score of older men, clad in sombre robes, over which spread their silvery beards. They wore close-fitting caps and heavy golden chains. Each carried a short rod of ebony and ivory as a token of authority. They were the elders, members of the council of King Azemilcus, who was absent with the fleet of Autophradates, the Persian admiral.
The basin of the harbor formed a deep bay, shut in on the seaward side by lofty walls, built of huge blocks of squared stone laid in gypsum. On the right, facing north, was a narrow opening in the barrier, forming a passage flanked by long breakwaters. The circumference of the harbor was ringed by a succession of stone wharves, where hundreds of merchant vessels were moored, their sails furled against their masts. They were discharging their cargoes or taking on lading for new voyages. Lines of men, half naked, ran backward and forward between the ships and the great warehouses, carrying bales upon their heads. The sailors, chanting monotonous songs, were emptying the holds of the ships or storing away the fresh cargoes.
"There's an old tub that looks as though she had seen service," cried one of the young men. "Let us see where she has been."
They strolled across to a vessel whose weather-beaten sides and patched sails told of rough usage.
"Whence came you?" demanded the youth, addressing the brown-faced master, who stood at the gangway, superintending the discharge of his cargo.
"From the Cassiterides," the man replied.
"Where are they?" the youth asked, gazing at the bright ingots of tin that the sailors were dragging to the deck.
"They are in the western seas," the master answered, "so far that Carthage seems but a stone's throw away. Three months we were beaten northward by storms, and the waves of the great ocean ran higher than the walls of the city. At last we came to the land of long days, where the men have yellow hair and blue eyes and the women are more beautiful than light. By the favor of Baal, we were enabled to obtain a store of amber that is created there by the sun, in exchange for beads of glass. This we dedicated to the God, and after we had got our tin on board, he brought us back under his protection."
The young men listened, open-mouthed. From their boyhood, they had been accustomed to drink in such tales of mystery and wonder along the wharves of the city, nursing the bold spirit of adventure that was born in every Phœnician. They plied the master with questions. What monsters of the sea had he seen? What were the customs of the men of the North? Was it true that they devoured strangers who fell into their hands? The mariner told them of enormous water snakes and dragons, but his marvellous tales were interrupted by a cry from the walls, where lookouts were always posted to scan the sea. The state trireme had been sighted. She was returning from Sidon, bringing Prince Hur and the ambassadors whom the council had despatched to Alexander. The council was now awaiting their return.
At the signal from the walls, work was suspended throughout the city and the population crowded to the harbor. Merchants with their tablets clasped in their hands, dyers with their arms stained to the elbow, metal workers, artisans, laborers, and soldiers of the garrison, thronged to the water front by thousands to learn the answer of the Macedonian. A vast murmur of expectation and speculation rose from the people.
Presently, through the entrance of the harbor, the trireme could be seen, making for the opening between the sea-walls, over which the waves were dashing in spurts of white spray. Urged by its three banks of oars, rising and falling in unison, the vessel ran swiftly into the harbor.
Headed by Prince Hur, the son of Azemilcus, the ambassadors were standing grave and silent upon the deck. At sight of their anxious faces a hush fell upon the crowd. The pilot gave a sharp command, the oars churned backward in the water, and the long trireme swung into her mooring. The ambassadors descended to the wharf and spoke in low tones to the elders of the council.
Was it peace or war? War! The news ran through the crowd and into the city as ripples spread across the face of a pool when a stone falls. Turmoil and confusion followed. What had Alexander said? Would the other Phœnician cities join with Tyre to repel him?
They had deserted her. Tyre must stand alone. Strato, son of Gerostratus, king of Adradus, had surrendered. Byblos had capitulated. Sidon had opened her gates to the Macedonians.
"We offered submission according to our instructions," said the chief of the ambassadors, to the council. "Alexander accepted it and bade us tell you it was his purpose to offer sacrifice in the temple of Melkarth, who, he says, is really Heracles, and his ancestor. We replied that Tyre could not admit strangers within her walls, but that Melkarth had an older temple on the mainland, where he might offer sacrifice. 'Tell your council,' he said, 'that I and my army will offer sacrifice to Melkarth upon his altar within the walls of New Tyre. Bid them make ready the temple. It is for them to say what the victims shall be.' That was all."
"You did well; let us consider," said Mochus, the eldest of the council.
They walked in slow and silent procession to the palace of the king in the southern quarter of the town and disappeared within its gates.
The city continued to seethe like a huge caldron. Its unwonted stir attracted the attention of Thais and Artemisia, on the housetop, where they had gone as usual to take the air after midday. The two young women stood side by side, close to the parapet of the roof, looking down into the narrow streets, where men came and went like ants whose nest has been disturbed. The strong sea-breeze blew out Thais' crimson robe into gleaming folds, and the sun glistened upon the burnished copper of her hair. Rich color glowed in her cheeks and in her scarlet lips. The immortal vitality of the salt breeze and of the crisply curling waves seemed in her. She laughed aloud.
"I wonder what is the matter?" she said. "These Phœnicians are afraid of their own shadows."
Artemisia smiled. Her chiton of fine white wool, edged with purple, outlining her figure, indicated that it had lost some of its roundness. Her face was pale; blue veins showed through the transparent skin of her temples.
"I hope it means something good for us," she said, slipping her arm around her sister's waist. "When shall we get away from this hateful city?"
"The time will come, child," Thais said soothingly. "You shall see him again; I know it."
It was a conversation that had been repeated many times. Artemisia drew a sigh that caught in her throat in a little sob.
"Oh, Thais, if I could feel his strong arms around me only once," she said, "I think I could die in thankfulness."
"Do not talk of dying," Thais replied reprovingly. "See, the world is beautiful!"
They stood in silence for a moment, gazing at the scene, which was indeed beautiful, as Thais had said. On three sides the sea flashed and sparkled with white-capped waves before the southwest wind. On the east a channel, half a mile in width, divided the mainland from the island upon which the new city was built. Beyond the strait lay the city of Old Tyre, with its wide circle of walls. There, as in the new town, thousands of pieces of cloth—linen, woollen, cotton, and silk—fresh from the vats of the dyers, were hung to dry in the sun. The juice of the shell-fish had lent them rich hues of blue, violet, crimson, scarlet, and the peculiar shade of purple known as "royal" that for ages had made the city famous. Hundreds of fishing and trading vessels were drawn up along the wharves or upon the beach.
Behind the old city, three miles from the beach, rose Mount Lebanon, clothed to its snow-clad summits with the foliage of pine, cedar, oak, and sumach. Its mighty barrier stretched north and south into the misty distance, leaving always between its base and the shore a narrow strip of level land that was given up to tillage.
From the elevation where they stood, the young women looked upon other roofs, filling the space inside the walls, which rose from the sea for one hundred and fifty feet, with towers at every curve and angle. They could see the Sidonian Harbor on their right and the Egyptian Harbor opposite to it on their left, both crowded with masts and connected by a canal spanned by movable bridges.
Before them rose the towers and cupolas of the Temple of Melkarth, and near it the wide Eurychorus, or market-place. Farther south was the huge dome of the Temple of Baal, and there, too, was the royal palace, with its many terraces crowned by a lofty citadel. Agenor's Temple was on the north, overlooking the Sidonian Harbor. Near the western wall was an oasis of verdure which marked the gardens attached to the voluptuous Temple of Astarte, where, through the foliage of palm and rhododendron, shone the marble columns of her habitation.
Phradates had caused a striped awning to be erected upon the roof. Beneath this was spread a gay Babylonian carpet, with couches and silken cushions. Shrubs and flowering plants stood in great vases of stone, screening the enclosure from the eyes of the curious. All the other housetops of the quarter were occupied in a similar manner, thus enabling the population to escape the heat of the lower levels, from which the breeze was excluded by the height of the walls. The space inside the city was so crowded that the houses rose many stories, and, excepting those belonging to wealthy persons, each sheltered scores of families.
"It is a proud city," Thais said musingly.
"Yes," Artemisia replied. "Proud, and cruel, and heartless!"
She shivered as she spoke. Thais beckoned to one of the women, who stood at a respectful distance, talking in low tones with a slender, dark-skinned man, whose cunning eyes gleamed like those of a rat. He was Mena the Egyptian.
"Fetch a wrap," Thais said to the slave girl who answered her summons.
The girl brought a shawl of cashmere and laid it around Artemisia's shoulders.
"Something tells me that our captivity will soon be over," Thais said. "Things cannot last much longer as they are."
There was a meaning in her words that Artemisia did not grasp. Since the flight from Halicarnassus, they had been confined in the house of Phradates, whose passion for Thais had increased until it burned like fever in his veins. The end must have come long ago had it not been for the frequent absences that had been forced upon the young man by the needs of the city and the commands of the Great King. As matters stood, even Thais' resources had been taxed to hold him in check. Hitherto she had fed him with hopes, playing upon his weaknesses and keeping him in a state of subjection from which she knew surrender would set him free. She made a gesture of impatience and began walking up and down between rows of young orange trees.
"I don't know what has come over me," she said. "I am as restless as one of the sea-gulls yonder."
She listened a moment to the cries and commotion in the streets.
"Mena!" she cried. "Come here!"
The Egyptian advanced slowly, with an indefinable insolence in his bearing.
"Find out what is causing all this excitement in the city and bring me word," Thais said.
"Why should my lady be interested?" Mena replied coolly, with a smile that showed his white teeth.
Thais wheeled as though she had been stung. She looked at the Egyptian with head erect, and there was something in her eyes that caused his to fall before them.
"Mena," she said softly, "do not think that, because you are set to watch me, you are my master. Go, or I swear by Astoreth that you shall be flayed alive from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet."
Mena gasped, and moistened his dry lips with his tongue.
"Pardon," he stammered. "I did not mean—"
"I know well what you meant," Thais returned. "Go!"
He turned and went. Thais grasped a branch of the shrubbery and tore it away, crumpling the leaves in her hands and scattering them in a bruised shower at her feet.
"How long must I put up with the insolence of this slave and his master?" she exclaimed. The opalescent animal light gleamed in her eyes as she turned them northward, and she paced backward and forward with impatient strides like a captive lioness. "I hate them!" she cried. "How many times have I been tempted to end it!"
She thrust her hand into her bosom and drew out her tiny dagger, whose hilt was studded with rubies that sparkled like drops of blood.
"Hush, Thais, some one is coming!" Artemisia said.
Thais quickly hid the dagger and turned to greet Phradates. He came forward with a smile, and the smile with which she met him had no trace in it of the anger that had so shaken her but a moment before.
"Great news!" the young man cried. "Alexander is coming!"
Artemisia caught her breath, and for an instant her head swam.
"Tell us," Thais said. "We are dying to hear all about it. You know we have had no news since the battle of Issus, where the Great King, as you call him, was beaten by one who seems to be greater."
There was a spice of malice in her voice that evidently annoyed the Phœnician.
"Yes, through the treachery of the Greeks," he replied, frowning. "Darius will depend upon his own people next time, and you will see then what will happen."
"But what has Alexander been doing since the battle?" Thais asked.
"He might have advanced upon Babylon with nobody to oppose him," Phradates said. "Of course, he would not have been able to capture the city, but at least he will never have a better chance to try it. He was afraid to make the attempt. He has been marching down the coast instead, and there has been no more fighting, because all the northern cities have surrendered to him."
"Well?" Thais said, listening with parted lips.
"In the absence of King Azemilcus," the Phœnician continued, "the council deemed it best to offer terms for the present. They sent an embassy, accompanied by the prince, to tell Alexander that he had nothing to fear from Tyre so long as he did not interfere with us."
"What was his reply?" Thais demanded quickly.
"What do you suppose?" Phradates said. "He had the impudence to announce that Melkarth was the same as your Heracles, and that as Heracles was of his family, he proposed to offer sacrifice in the temple here. The embassy told him flatly that Tyre had never admitted the Persians, and that we should not admit him. Everybody knows that if we should let him in here, he would do what he did in Ephesus when he took possession of the city under pretence of offering sacrifice to Artemis."
"But where is Darius?" Thais asked.
"He is in Babylon," said Phradates. "He sent a letter to Alexander after the battle of Issus, asking freedom for his wife and family. He wrote as one king to another, proposing peace and alliance; but your Alexander, to his sorrow, refused the terms. He pretends that he has already conquered all Asia, and he had the boldness to tell the Great King that he would liberate Statira and her children if Darius would come as a suppliant to ask it."
"The Gods fight with him," Thais said, after a pause. "It would be better for Tyre to open her gates."
The young Phœnician laughed scornfully.
"The walls of Tyre will crumble and fall into the sea before he offers his sacrifice," he exclaimed. "I will wager anything I possess against your looking-glass that he will weary of his task before a stone has been loosened."
"You do not know Alexander," Thais replied.
"Thais," the young man said earnestly, "I will wager what is more precious to me than gold. Thou knowest that I love thee."
"You have told me so," she replied demurely.
"You have been for months in my power," he went on, "and I have not sought to force your inclination. Let us now abide by the result of the siege that Alexander is threatening. On the day that he gives over his attempt to enter Tyre, thou shalt be mine. Until that day comes I shall ask nothing of thee. Is it a bargain?"
"You will not keep your promise," Thais said doubtfully. Her reluctance made the young man more eager.
"Mena!" he called, "bring wine and two doves at once."
When the Egyptian returned, Phradates said to Thais, "See, I am ready to bind myself by oath if thou wilt do likewise."
"I am ready," Thais replied.
The sacrifice was made and the mutual bond was completed. As the blood of the doves trickled upon the stones, Phradates called Astarte to witness his covenant. Thais drew a breath of relief, for she knew that no Phœnician, even the most depraved, would dare to disregard such an oath.
The sun went down in crimson splendor, and lamps began to twinkle in the city. Still the council prolonged its deliberations, and still the anxious merchants waited outside the doors of the palace to learn its decision.
The entire population of Tyre was at work before dawn on the day following the return of the ambassadors. The council had decided to accept Alexander's challenge. As the first measure of preparation, it ordered the abandonment of the Old City on the mainland and the removal of its residents to the New City. In order to make room for them, a fleet was to be sent to Carthage, carrying women and children. This fleet was to return with such aid as the strong colony of the West might be willing to give.
Huge flatboats and a multitude of smaller craft plied backward and forward between the harbors and the mainland. The brilliant stuffs that had been hanging in the sun were gathered into bales. Here was a boat laden with the contents of a glass factory: huge amphoræ, delicate vases, cylinders, scarabs, beads, and amulets of a hundred iridescent hues. Beside it came another vessel, carrying a freight of iron, bronze, and copper, wrought into armor and household furnishings. Other ships brought Syrian cotton and embroideries; white wool and wine of Helbon; corn, honey, balm, and oil from Israel; ivory, ebony, spices, and perfumes from Arabia; lead and tin from the mines of Spain; cedar chests filled with Babylonian embroideries; elephant, lion, leopard, and deer skins from Africa. These precious commodities were stored in the warehouses.
All the public granaries were filled to overflowing, and what grain could not be brought away was destroyed. At the close of the second day, the ancient parent city, from which had sprung such a brood of flourishing daughters, and which more than once had defied the might of the great empire beyond the mountain, lay deserted. Silence and foreboding pervaded the New City as the Tyrians looked across the strait at the empty houses in which many of them had been cradled.
There was little time for despondency. The labor of preparation had been only begun, and the task of making ready the vessels destined for Carthage went forward briskly.
A swift galley was sent to King Azemilcus, who immediately deserted the Persian fleet with all his ships and returned to take charge of the defence of the city. His arrival was the signal for great rejoicing, for his warships would insure command of the sea to Tyre, since Alexander had none with which to oppose them.
At last the departure of the fleet destined for Carthage could be delayed no longer. The scouting ships brought word that the Macedonian army had left Sidon and taken up its march southward. Thousands of women and children, accompanied by the aged and infirm, crowded aboard the merchant vessels that had been pressed into service. Husbands said farewell to their wives, and fathers took their children in their arms for perhaps the last time. One by one the ships were towed out of the harbor and spread their sails for their long flight to the West. The streets were filled with weeping.
Not all the women and children were sent away, even of the better class; for, in spite of the precautions taken by the council, no Tyrian believed that the city was really in danger. Its possession of the sea would prevent famine, and even if Alexander should succeed in reaching its walls, he would never be able to break through them.
While the slanting sails of the departing fleet still glimmered on the horizon, the watchers on the walls of Tyre saw the sun glinting from the armor of the Macedonian array. Presently bands of horsemen dashed up to the walls of the Old City, circled around them, and rode boldly through the open gates. They seemed astonished to find the place deserted. The Phœnicians hurled shouts of derision at them from the walls across the water, scornfully inviting them to try the strait.
Thais' lip curled as she watched this demonstration. She stood motionless among the whispering leaves which hedged the roof of Phradates' house, gazing intently at the advancing army.
"Will they ever be able to cross to us?" Artemisia said.
"There come the Companion cavalry!" Thais exclaimed, shading her eyes.
The troop made a brave showing as it advanced toward the Old City with flying pennants, the manes of the horses tossing free.
"And there is the phalanx!" Artemisia cried, clasping her hands.
The lines emerged, rank after rank, from the dust-clouds. Behind them came more cavalry and then the light-armed troops, followed by wagons and a long train of pack animals. The streets of the Old City became animated again, though not with Phœnicians. The soldiers swarmed through the houses, choosing their quarters and freeing themselves from their burdens. Smoke began to curl up from the chimneys.
A group of men came down to the water front and made a long survey of the walls of the New City. Thais fixed her eyes upon them, leaning over the parapet. Suddenly she caught Artemisia's arm.
"I see him!" she cried. "There he is."
"Who is it? Where?" Artemisia asked, bewildered.
"Chares!" Thais replied. "Do you see that crimson cloak and his yellow hair? O my hero!"
Artemisia trembled and her cheek grew pale.
"If that is Chares, then Clearchus must be there too," she faltered. "Oh, Thais, are you sure?"
She strove to look, but the tears that dimmed her eyes prevented her from seeing anything clearly.
"I am certain," Thais replied. "Who else could it be? There is no other in the army so strong and handsome as he. Look! he is signalling to us."
The figure in crimson stood forward from the rest, his cloak, inflated by the wind, swelling back from his shoulders. He waved his hand toward the city. Thais tore off her saffron shawl and waved it in return, forgetting that, while he stood alone, to him she was one of thousands who were moving on the walls and the house-tops.
"I suppose you would bring them over if you could!" sneered a voice behind her. It was Phradates, who had approached unnoticed.
"Can you blame me if I want to win my wager?" Thais replied, smiling.
"I am half sorry I made it," the Phœnician said sullenly.
Thais saw that he was angry and she leaned toward him until he felt her warm breath upon his cheek.
"If I lose, I will pay!" she whispered, in a tone that only he could hear.
A dark flush mounted to his cheek.
"It will not be long," he returned confidently.
"I would not be too sure of that," she replied, with a blush, giving him a sidelong glance under her lashes.
Phradates could not understand why he had not long ago given free rein to his passion. More than once he had called himself a fool for his forbearance and resolved in his own mind to end it; but when the time came for putting his plans into execution, he found them halted by an indefinable barrier that he could not break. It surprised him that this could have happened. All his life it had never occurred to him to restrain himself. He was master of one of the greatest fortunes in Tyre, and with him to wish was to have. Moreover, he had learned Thais' history, so far as it was generally known, and it seemed to him ridiculous that an Athenian dancing girl should succeed so long in holding him at arm's length. But now he must keep his oath.
Next day, and for many days thereafter, Tyre sat and watched the slow development of the scheme that had been laid for her destruction. She saw the Macedonian army tear down the walls of the Old City and convey them, block by block, to the water front, where they were cast into the sea. Soon the beginning of a broad causeway began to jut out from the shore, pointing like a huge finger at the angle of the city wall, midway between the two harbors, which was nearest to the mainland. Detachments of soldiers brought in squads of men from the surrounding country, who were set at work with the army upon the mole. Piles of cedar were driven into the sand. Earth was brought in baskets and poured over the stones. When the waves washed it away, trees were dragged from the mountain side and thrown in with their leaves and branches to hold it in place. Acres of rushes were cut and laid upon the soil to bind it. Foot by foot the causeway lengthened. On the shore could be seen men building towers and battering rams, catapults, and ballistæ.
Alexander's figure became so familiar to the Tyrians that even the children could point him out. He was seen everywhere, overlooking and superintending the work in all its details. One day he was missed, and the next, smoke was observed drifting up from the rocky fastnesses of Lebanon, which the Tyrians knew had been held for centuries by untamed robber bands, who had exacted toll from their caravans and even from the convoys of the Great King. Their spies on shore brought them word that the robbers had attacked Alexander's scouting parties and he had gone to punish them. Tyre laughed at the idea that he could take the impregnable strongholds among the crags, but the columns of smoke continued to rise farther and farther back among the mountains; and when Alexander reappeared on the mole, at the end of a week, the news came that the robbers had been harried and hunted out of their caves until not a vestige of them remained. Tyre wondered, and a vague uneasiness crept into the city.
The mole had advanced almost within bow-shot of the wall when the city woke from its lethargy of contempt and began to bestir itself. Towers were erected on the wall opposite the causeway, and the wall itself was raised. The engineers and their workmen, whose skill was famed throughout the world, fashioned new machines for repelling the expected attack.
When the Macedonians had covered more than half the distance between the shore and the wall, the Phœnicians began to resist their advance. The catapults were brought into play. These were great bows of tough wood, set in a solid framework. The strings of twisted gut were drawn back by a windlass, and huge arrows, made of iron and weighing two or three hundred pounds, were fitted to the groove prepared for them. The string was released by drawing a trigger as in a cross-bow, and the missile sped to the mark.
The catapults were reënforced by the ballistæ. In a frame of heavy beams an arm was set, with a great spoon at one end, while the other was held firmly in twisted cords. By means of a rope wound about a roller the arm was drawn back, and a stone or a ball of metal was placed in the spoon. Suddenly freed, the arm flew up until it was halted by a cross-beam of the framework, when the missile left it and hurtled through the air toward the mole.
While darts and stones were showered upon the causeway from the walls, vessels attacked it from both harbors, filled with archers and slingers, who drove the workmen back. Tyre was jubilant. Alexander, she thought, must now surely abandon his foolish enterprise.
Work on the causeway was indeed halted for a time, but only long enough to permit the Macedonians to contrive means of defence. Two great towers were built and pushed out to the end of the mole. These were tall enough to dominate the wall. They were provided with catapults and ballistæ, with which to answer and silence those of the Tyrians, and were manned by soldiers, who from their height were able to reach the decks of the triremes that were sent to annoy them. For further protection, palisades of timber and movable breastworks were constructed on the mole, and pushed forward as it advanced.
Work was resumed, and the long causeway crept nearer and nearer to the city. By order of the council, under cover of night, sponge and pearl divers were sent to the mole in small vessels. With cords in their hands they plunged into the water and fastened them to the foundation stones of the mole, which the crews on board the boats pulled away.
But in spite of all these devices, the mole continued to lengthen.
Still the Tyrians remained confident. The council hit upon a plan to destroy the towers, and when all was ready the people flocked to the walls to witness its execution. Artemisia and Thais watched from the roof, where, day after day, for weeks, they had counted the inches of progress made on the mole and calculated how long it would be before the structure could reach the wall.
"See!" cried Artemisia. "They are going to try to burn the towers."
An old transport, that had been used for carrying horses, emerged clumsily from the Sidonian Harbor, towed between two triremes. The wide deck was heaped with dry wood, which had been saturated with bitumen and intermixed with straw. From the yards of the masts caldrons filled with sulphur, naphtha, and oil were suspended by chains. Upon the deck stood rows of naked men, each holding in his hand a blazing torch.
Slowly and laboriously the ship was guided through the choppy sea to a point directly to windward of the end of the mole. A strong northwest breeze sang through her rigging, and her stern had been filled with ballast until her bow stood almost out of the water. Sailors went aloft and set two small sails to give her headway. The triremes cast off, and she swam straight for the northern tower.
The two women had watched the preparations with the most intense excitement. As the fire-ship neared the mole, gathering speed as she went, they saw a volley of huge stones shoot from the towers in her direction.
"They are trying to sink her," Thais said breathlessly.
"Zeus grant that they may succeed!" cried Artemisia.
Some of the stones struck the ship, scattering her load of combustibles; but they failed to check her approach. The best marksmen in the army strove to pick off her crew. The divers raised shields, from which the arrows harmlessly rebounded.
When the ship had come within a few fathoms of the mole, the men on board of her scattered blazing oil into the caldrons swinging from her yards and thrust their torches into the heaps of material that lay upon her deck. Then they plunged into the sea and swam back to the city. The steersman followed, and the next instant the transport, sending before her a roaring banner of flame, ran high upon the mole at the foot of the northern tower.
A mighty shout arose from the walls of Tyre as the spectators saw the flames wrap themselves around the tower, shrivelling up the green skins of cattle that had been hung to protect it. The soldiers swarmed down through the smoke and fire like rats, leaping from the lower stories in their haste. In a moment the lofty structure was sending out red tongues from every loophole and window. A great cloud of black smoke rolled from the end of the mole toward the shore.
Thais and Artemisia saw the Greeks driven back from the towers and from the defences which had protected the work. Presently the fire attacked these and ran across to the second tower. The transport still lay with her nose in the rocks, belching flames that were streaked with green and blue and white as they fed upon the various substances which had been stored in her hull.
Dashing down from the windward side, the Tyrian vessels tore away such of the work as had escaped the conflagration, while the bowmen on their decks sent flights of arrows upon the huddled workmen who had been forced back by the heat and smoke. The towers fell one after the other with a crash into the sea, which hissed into steam as the glowing timbers sank. In an hour nothing was left at the end of the causeway but the blackened ruin and part of the transport, through whose ribs the waves washed.
"The time is at hand," Phradates said to Thais, with a smile full of meaning.
"Not yet," she exclaimed, smiling. "The siege has only begun. I told you you did not know Alexander."
Nevertheless, secretly her heart was full of misgivings, and the slave women who waited upon her that night found her hard to please.