Tyre was delirious with joy over the success of the attack on the towers, for the city was convinced that now, at last, the Macedonians would depart. Feasts were given in the great houses, processions wound through the streets, and sacrifices of thanksgiving were offered in all the temples. In order to strike terror into the hearts of the enemy, twenty Macedonian prisoners were put to death upon the walls with lingering tortures, and their mangled bodies were cast into the sea. Hourly the Tyrians expected to see the besieging army evacuate Old Tyre and march away.
Their rage knew no bounds when a boat bearing two heralds put out from the shore and entered the Sidonian Harbor. The young men whom it contained, Galas and Cleanor, pages of Alexander and members of distinguished Macedonian families, were greeted with jeers by the people. They were escorted by a strong guard to the royal palace, where King Azemilcus and the council awaited them.
They bore themselves calmly and proudly under the insults of the mob and the hostile scrutiny of the council. They met without fear the gaze of the Tyrian king, who sat upon his throne in the chamber of state. The light fell upon the old man's cunning and wrinkled face and touched the heads of the councillors, some silvery white and others showing hardly a trace of gray. Their eyes, in which cruelty lurked like a coiled snake, were fixed upon the heralds. The king opened his thin lips.
"Speak!" he said softly.
"Alexander, lord of Asia, sends his greeting to King Azemilcus and the people of Tyre," Galas began in a clear voice. "He calls upon you to surrender your city into his hands."
A murmur rose like a growl from the council. King Azemilcus stroked his chin gently with his jewelled fingers, as if to hide the smile that played about his mouth.
"If ye do not this," Galas continued, raising his head, "Alexander, lord of Asia, bids me say that for thy walls, they shall become as the walls of Thebes, thy city shall be given to plunder, and the sea-gull shall build his nest in thy harbors. If ye would find mercy for your wives and your children, for yourselves and your possessions, ye must seek it now."
He ceased and stood awaiting their answer. There was dead silence in the chamber. Azemilcus continued to stroke his chin, glancing at the youths and then at his advisers with an amused expression in his eyes.
"You may retire," he said at last, "while we consider what reply we shall send."
The youths were conducted to an anteroom, while the lean king laid before the council the jest that he had been revolving in his mind. It was received with approbation, and the reply to Alexander was written upon parchment in two copies, one for each of the heralds. When all was in readiness the council rose.
"Come with us," Azemilcus said to the heralds. "We desire to show you our city before we send you back to Alexander."
Talking pleasantly, he led the way through the citadel to the top of the wall, pointing out the temples and the various objects of interest as they went. The boys looked down with wonder from the dizzy height upon the sea, crawling and lapping far below them. They examined the engines of war and the piles of ammunition that had been assembled upon the landward side of the defences. Upon the mainland they could see their comrades and the gangs of laborers at work upon the mole.
They scarcely noticed that soldiers and citizens were gathering about them, occupying every point of vantage and pressing forward with nods and winks as if to a spectacle where a humorous surprise was in store.
"And now," Azemilcus said, smiling pleasantly upon the two heralds, "you shall hear our answer to the king."
He beckoned to a scribe, who stepped forward and read from a parchment so that all might hear.
"King Azemilcus and the people of Tyre greet Alexander the Pretender," read the scribe. "If he be lord of Asia, Tyre is his. Let him come and take it."
The two boys looked blankly at the king, and a great shout of laughter went up from the multitude upon the wall. At another sign from Azemilcus, two soldiers roughly seized each of the heralds.
"What does this mean?" Galas demanded indignantly.
"Be not angry," Azemilcus replied, still with his soft smile. "We have wasted so much time in sight-seeing that no doubt Alexander is growing impatient. We will send you back to him more quickly than you came, so that his anger may be turned from us."
Amid shouts of delight from the crowd, the heralds were bound hand and foot with cords. Their knees were drawn up to their chests and lashed there so as to make their bodies as compact as possible. Finally a copy of the reply to Alexander was attached to their right hands.
"King of Tyre!" Galas said, when the soldiers had done their work, "you have broken the faith of nations. For our death, if for nothing else, shall your city fall and become an evil memory among men. Even your Gods shall withdraw from you. Farewell!"
Neither of the lads had uttered a cry as the rawhide thongs, drawn too tightly, cut into their flesh. Galas turned his head as well as he could and spoke to his younger companion.
"Cleanor, we have been friends," he said. "Now we are about to die. Be brave for the honor of Macedon! I go with you."
"Do not fear, Galas; I promise," the other replied, and no more words passed between them.
The soldiers were busily preparing two of the immense ballistæ. Inserting levers in holes in the ends of the rollers, they turned the wooden cylinders backward, slowly winding up the rope that was attached to the casting arm and drawing it back into a horizontal position. The tough rope strained and the framework of beams creaked as the great arms were forced into place.
When the wide spoons of wrought iron were ready, the boys were lifted and placed in them. The spectators, irritated because the victims did not beg for mercy, howled threats and insults at them. This abuse brought no response, and fearful lest the courage of the lads might create a bad impression, Azemilcus ended the sport by ordering the ballistæ to be discharged.
Throwing their weight suddenly upon the cords that drew the triggers, the soldiers released the arms of the machines, which sprang upward and crashed against the cross-beams. The bodies of the heralds, hurled with frightful velocity into the air, shot outward and upward. Galas fell upon the end of the mole. Cleanor was dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks beside him.
A savage outcry rang from the wall across to the Macedonian camp. Soldiers ran forward and took up the two bodies, bearing them tenderly to the shore.
"Alexander has his answer!" Azemilcus said, with a chuckle. "Let us go to dinner."
On the night after the slaughter of the heralds, the galleys sent to Carthage returned with a courteous message that it would be impossible for the colony to send assistance. Ambassadors who had been despatched to other Phœnician towns, demanding aid, were equally unsuccessful. Tyre must stand or fall alone. Her brood turned its back upon her.
This indifference created a disagreeable feeling in the city. The joy over the destruction of the Macedonian works was transformed into uneasiness. Instead of abandoning the siege, the army of Alexander had begun a new mole, twice as wide as the first, and so directed that the wash of the waves, which before had been a serious obstacle, was rendered harmless. It was apparent that the young king intended to keep his word.
Several of the inhabitants of the city reported that in dreams they had seen the great bronze image of Melkarth rise from its seat in his temple and stretch its hands over the walls toward the Macedonian camp, calling upon Alexander to enter. There was a consultation of the priests. The enormous statue was bound with chains to the pillars of the temple and huge spikes were driven through its feet into the floor. Nevertheless, the Tyrians were apprehensive and spoke of Melkarth as "the Alexandrine." The ominous words of the herald, Galas, when he declared that the Gods of Tyre would desert her, were remembered and repeated. The people began to think that perhaps they had gone too far.
Time failed to remove this impression. The new mole continued to advance, and one hazy afternoon the watchmen on the walls caught sight of a fleet of warships approaching from the north. The flag of Sidon fluttered from their masts and the beleaguered city concluded that at last reinforcements had been sent. But instead of entering the Sidonian Harbor, the vessels sheered off and came to anchor in front of the Macedonian camp.
The gloom of the city deepened when Enylus, king of Byblos, and Gerostratus, king of Adradus, added their fleets to that of Sidon. All three were Phœnician cities. Rhodes sent ten ships and Cyprus later added one hundred and twenty, under command of Prytagoras.
For every Tyrian ship, Alexander now had three; and among them were vessels of the largest size, some with four banks of oars and some even with five. They were manned by sailors of Phœnician stock, whose skill upon the water equalled that of the Tyrians themselves. As soon as the fleet had gathered, it sailed in battle order toward the mouth of the Sidonian Harbor, from which the Tyrian navy came out to meet it. But when Azemilcus saw the overwhelming force opposed to him, his heart failed, and he gave the order to retreat into the harbor, the entrance of which he caused to be blocked with huge chains behind which were moored as many Tyrian vessels as would lie in the passage side by side.
Tyre was no longer mistress of the sea. She stood forsaken amid the waters, gray and deserted, like a lioness in her last refuge, encompassed by the hunters. The mole crept ever nearer to the wall, and Macedonian captains, cruising around the city, gazed hungrily at the battlements.
The inhabitants understood that nothing but a miracle could save the city. They turned to their Gods. In ancient times they had never failed in the observance of their worship, but as they waxed strong and gained knowledge of the world, scepticism had found a lodgement in their hearts. The ceremonials had been neglected by many who either did not believe or had grown careless. The offerings diminished. More than once the sacrifice of the first-born to Baal-Moloch had been omitted. The worship of Astoreth, it is true, had been maintained; but it was clear that the Goddess was not powerful enough to rescue them. Baal was angry and must be propitiated.
Phradates became more and more downcast and sullen as misfortune gathered about the city. The cruelty that was a part of his Phœnician heritage rose to the surface. His slaves were lashed for the slightest fault, or even for no fault at all. Some of them he ordered put to death. Terror filled the great house, with its spacious rooms hung with embroideries, beautiful with paintings and statues, its rare glass, and its treasures of gold and of amber.
One evening, when a languid southern breeze stirred the silken curtains, the young Phœnician entered the apartments occupied by Artemisia and Thais. Artemisia sat by the window, gazing at the brilliant stars that seemed so near and yet so immeasurably far away. The two young women had been talking of Chares and Clearchus; but a silence had fallen between them. Thais lay on a couch of cedar, burying her fingers in the thick fur of a Persian cat, which purred with half-shut eyes under her caress.
Phradates threw himself into a chair in an attitude of weariness and dejection. Thais shot a glance at him and went on stroking the cat.
"Do you believe in the Gods?" the young man asked.
"Artemisia does," Thais replied lazily, with a tantalizing smile.
"Why?" Phradates demanded, turning to the younger sister.
Artemisia turned her eyes wonderingly upon his troubled face.
"I cannot tell you," she replied slowly, as though searching for a reason. "I have always believed in them and I have passed through many dangers unharmed. I think Artemis has protected me, for I love her. I have no fear, since I am in her hands."
"We do not worship her," Phradates said. "With us, the moon belongs to Astoreth, who is the same as your Aphrodite, and she has lost her power."
"Are you sure of that?" Thais asked.
The young man looked at her and his expression changed.
"I am sure of nothing," he said thickly.
"Except?" Thais suggested, looking into his eyes and leaning forward on her arm so that the necklace of pearls slid across her bosom, half revealed under the folds of her robe.
"Except that I love you!" he responded.
Thais fell back upon her cushions and began again to stroke the cat.
"You should not insult the Goddess," she said.
"By Melkarth, I think you are she!" Phradates cried.
"Perhaps," she admitted, smiling and nodding her head.
Phradates stared at her for a moment as though he half believed it, and then, rising abruptly, left the room. His brain seemed obscured. He could think of nothing but his love for her. The emotion that possessed him mastered every faculty, and even the approaching ruin of the city seemed trivial in comparison with it. Yet there was his oath!
At the door of his chamber he encountered Mena.
"Master, the council is sitting," the Egyptian said.
"What is that to me?" Phradates replied harshly.
"They have decided to offer sacrifice to Baal-Moloch," Mena continued, following him into the apartment.
"They should have thought of that before," said Phradates. "Where will they find children now fit for an offering? They have all been sent to Carthage. No wonder Moloch is angry."
"This has been considered by the council," Mena continued. "Esmun, the chief priest, has told them that there are still enough of the first-born left among the Jews, who, as you know, refused to send their families away."
"But the Jews will not give them as a willing sacrifice, and without that it will be of no avail," Phradates replied impatiently. "Why do you tell me all this?"
"The council intends to find means of forcing them to make the sacrifice willingly," Mena persisted; "but Esmun declares that this will not be enough to calm the God. Baal demands a virgin of noble birth to be given to him before he will aid the city."
Phradates laughed. "Where do they expect to find her?" he asked scornfully.
"She must be pure and beautiful," Mena continued. "It is announced that he who will bring such an offering will do the city a great service."
"What do you mean? Speak out, dog!" Phradates exclaimed, catching an undertone of significance in the Egyptian's voice.
"Thou hast such a maiden," the slave said hesitatingly.
"Thais!" the young man cried. "Never. The city may perish first! Have you dared to suggest this?"
He drew his dagger and made a step toward Mena, who cowered before him with hand uplifted.
"No, no; not Thais," he hastened to say. "Think, master, how could she meet the conditions? Not Thais!"
Phradates paused with the dagger still in his hand.
"Wait until you have heard me?" the slave continued, in a whining voice. "It was not Thais, but the Athenian maiden, who was in my thoughts."
"No!" Phradates thundered; "does not Thais love her as her own sister?"
"Consider for a moment," Mena urged insinuatingly, watching the young man's face with cunning eyes. "Hast thou not been generous toward these captives?"
"What of that?" the Tyrian asked.
"And they have betrayed thee by entrapping thee into an oath," Mena said. "I would not have thee break it; but what will not the Lady Astoreth grant to him who saves her shrine from pollution and destruction? She will release thee from thy vow."
He paused to note the effect of his words. Phradates remained silent and thoughtful.
"It is not for me, a slave, to tell thee what thou shouldst do," Mena went on, "but it has seemed to me that there has lately been a spell upon thy mind. Thou art not now what thou wast a month ago. What the cause is and what must be the cure, thou knowest; but thou art bound by thy oath."
Again he paused, but as Phradates showed no sign of resentment, he continued.
"Master, thou canst not win thy wager," he said. "Tyre is lost. It may be next week, and it may not be until next year; but the Macedonian is too deeply engaged here to withdraw. There is no hope excepting through the Gods alone, who might send a pestilence upon our enemies if they so willed it. Thou knowest that the battering rams are pounding upon the wall, and that they have already weakened it. On the southern side it cannot stand much longer unless something happens to put an end to the attack. Obtain release from thy vow before it is too late. Our time may be short."
Phradates shuddered and covered his face with his hands.
"I think Thais really loves thee," the Egyptian continued artfully. "It is the presence of the other that restrains her, because she is ashamed to show her love before her. If Artemisia were away, she would grieve, it is true, but she would recover. It is not needful that thou shouldst give her up. The priests take whom they will for sacrifice. Thou mightest even defend her, which would commend thee to Thais and earn her gratitude."
"Get thee gone!" Phradates shouted, suddenly springing to his feet.
Mena fled noiselessly down the stairs and out of the house. Once in the street, he clapped his hands together and laughed.
"I will show them what it is to insult Mena!" he cried.
He made his way through the narrow streets and across the canal to the southern part of the city, beyond the Temple of Baal. The slow and regular beat of the great rams, at work upon the massive wall, throbbed in the air. Mena plunged into a network of lanes, in which the houses had a meaner look than in the quarter he had left behind. He proceeded cautiously, halting from time to time as though he feared that he might be followed. Finally, under the shadow of the wall, he reached a low house within which lights were burning. He pushed open the door and entered. The room in which he found himself was filled with men, young and old, who sat at tables upon which stood flagons of red wine. Some of the company were engaged in earnest discussion across the tables. In one corner a sea captain was relating the strange adventures of a distant voyage. Elsewhere men exchanged jests and laughter over their wine. While the occupants of the room bore a general resemblance in feature to the Phœnicians, a glance was sufficient to show that they were not of Phœnician blood, and the language they spoke was Hebrew.
There was a momentary hush when Mena appeared, but apparently he was known, for the interrupted talk immediately flowed on again. A man of middle age, whose black, crisp beard was streaked with gray, came forward to welcome the Egyptian.
"Which wine will you have to-night?" he asked, conducting him to a table where already a younger man was sitting.
"The wine of Cyprus," Mena cried. "You are as gay here to-night, Simon, as though there were no such place in the world as Macedon."
Simon shrugged his shoulders. "Would our tears mend the walls?" he asked. "What is to be, will be."
He went to fetch the wine, and Mena turned to his companion at the table.
"Where have you been, Joel?" he asked. "I have not seen you for a week. One would say that you had been on shore, if it were possible to get there."
He directed his shrewd glance at the young man. Joel laughed, and his dark eyes rested upon those of the Egyptian. He had an easy distinction of manner, acquired at the court of Darius. After the escape of Nathan, Chares, and Clearchus, his company had marched with the Great King; but it had been detailed to help guard the women and the treasure left behind at Damascus while the army went on to destruction at Issus. After the defeat, he visited Jerusalem and then came to Tyre, where he had relatives.
"What would you give to know where I have been?" he demanded mockingly.
"Perhaps I know already," the cunning Egyptian replied. "Why is it that the Jews are so indifferent to the siege? Why do they expect to escape the sword or the slave-market when the walls fall? Tell me that."
Simon returned with the wine, which he set before Mena. While the Jews knew him to be a slave, they did not disdain to associate with him, because his influence over Phradates was so great that he was a bondman only in name. Besides, he had more than once given them information of value, and they were not accustomed to neglect any means of defence.
Joel paused and seemed to reflect before he answered.
"Perhaps it is because we are under the protection of Jehovah," he replied at last. "If He does not save us, nothing can."
"Bah!" Mena exclaimed. "Perhaps He can save your first-born from Baal-Moloch!"
"What do you mean?" Joel returned quickly.
"I thought you Jews knew everything," the Egyptian said. "Have you not heard what Esmun told the council? He has warned them that nothing but a sacrifice can save the city, and the council has authorized it. Where can they find children excepting here?"
"Is this true?" Joel demanded.
"It is true!" Mena declared.
Joel rose from the table and whispered to Simon, who ran to the chief priest. Messengers were sent to verify the news. They brought confirmation and the additional intelligence that the sacrifice would take place on the second day. Meantime Joel had returned to his place, where Mena, as usual, had begun to grow garrulous with his wine.
"You know those two Greek girls my fool of a master holds in his house?" he asked.
"What are they called—Thais and Artemisia? You told me of them," Joel responded. "What of them?"
"Thais promised to have me flayed alive," Mena remarked.
"Well?" the young Hebrew said.
"So I am going to have Artemisia included in the sacrifice to Moloch," the slave said coolly.
Joel started but instantly restrained himself.
"What has that to do with Thais' promise?" he asked.
"Thais loves her," Mena explained. "No doubt she will be glad to see her in Moloch's arms!"
"How did you manage it?" Joel inquired carelessly.
"Why, I told you of the oath that Thais got from Phradates," Mena said. "Well, I have convinced him that the only way in which he can win Thais and at the same time obtain release from his oath is by having Artemisia burned."
The Egyptian laughed at his own cleverness. Joel sat making rings on the table with the foot of his wine-glass.
"And what do you think?" Mena continued, recovering himself. "The fool threatened to stab me for it. But he'll do it, never fear. There is a long score between him and me. Unless I am mistaken, the time is at hand when we shall have the reckoning. There is one house in Tyre where the Macedonians, when they come, will get little plunder. Come then to Memphis, and you will find Mena, with slaves of his own—and I would not be surprised if Thais was among them. Flayed alive, indeed!"
"Let us have wine!" Joel cried, making an almost imperceptible sign to Simon that meant the substitution of a stronger vintage. The wine was brought, glowing like liquid amber in the flagon. In half an hour Mena was incoherently trying to explain that he knew the Jews were in correspondence with Alexander's camp, although he could not tell how, and begging Joel not to forget him when the city fell. A little longer, and two servants carried him to the house of Phradates.
As soon as he was rid of the Egyptian, Joel beckoned to Simon.
"I must go ashore to-night," he said. "The women are in danger, and if anything is to be done to save them, it must be done now."
"The moon is shining; it will be dangerous," Simon said doubtfully.
"That cannot be helped; I must go," the young man declared.
Simon made no further remonstrance. He took up a lamp and led the way down a flight of stone stairs to the cellar, where great amphoræ of wine, covered with dust and cobwebs, stood in the darkness. Picking his way between them, he advanced to the end of the cellar, where he gave the lamp to Joel while he rolled aside one of the jars. Then, with some difficulty, he raised the slab upon which it had stood, revealing a narrow opening in the floor and another flight of steps. Down these they passed to a small chamber hewn in the rock. Around its sides ran a stone platform not more than three feet in width, and the remainder of the floor space was occupied by a pool of water.
When the wall of the city was built, its base had been laid in such a manner as to bridge a natural fissure in the rock below the water line. Why this opening had been left, Simon did not know. Possibly it had been the intention of the architects to make it the outlet of a sewer. If so, the plan had been abandoned, but the opening had been allowed to remain.
Standing on the ledge of stone, Joel stripped off his clothing and removed his sandals. Simon took from a niche a small jar of oil and rubbed him with the contents from head to foot, at the same time instructing him how to proceed.
"When shall you return?" he asked.
"To-night, if I can," Joel replied. "If not, then to-morrow night in the third watch. Farewell!"
"Farewell!" Simon replied, stepping back and raising his lamp so that its light fell upon the pool.
Joel drew in a long breath, clasped his hands, and plunged head-foremost into the water. Simon placed the young man's clothing in the niche, put away the oil jar, and ascended to the first cellar. He did not close the opening in the floor, but arranged the amphoræ so as to conceal it, and returned to the room above.
The impetus of Joel's plunge carried him the length of the pool and into the fissure under the wall. He struck out vigorously, mindful of Simon's instructions, and knowing that if his breath should fail while he was below the masonry, nothing could save him. With the tips of his fingers he could feel the sides of the passage, and presently he became aware of a motion in the water caused by the underwash of the waves outside. His head seemed bursting, and there was a ringing in his ears. He felt that he must suffocate unless he could get air. He began to swim upward through the water, dreading each moment to feel his head strike the stones. What if the passage had been closed? None had passed through it for years, and the defenders of the city were constantly throwing down blocks of stone outside the walls. Something grazed his back. He threw his arms upward, but his hands found no obstruction. He had cleared the entrance.
He lay on the surface of the water filling his lungs again and again, and gazing up at the stars above the gray height of the wall against whose grim base the swell lazily washed. Half an hour later one of the watch on a quinquereme that lay off the mouth of the Egyptian Harbor to prevent the escape of any of the Tyrian vessels heard a voice under the stern and saw the white gleam of Joel's shoulders in the water.
There was no sound in the Macedonian camp save the monotonous cries of the sentinels when the young Israelite stepped from a small boat and climbed the southern slope of the mole. He looked back and saw Tyre, standing in the sea like an island raised upon cliffs of stone and crowned with a circle of light.
He made his way into the Old City, now hardly more than a bare ruin since houses and temples had been tumbled into the strait to lengthen the causeway. He had been provided with the pass-word, and with the assistance of the sentries he had little difficulty in finding the tent that he sought. He lifted the flap and entered. Inside he could hear the breathing of sleeping men, dominated by a tremendous snore that sounded as though it must come from the throat of a giant.
"Peace be unto thee!" Joel cried, stumbling over the legs of one of the sleepers.
"Thieves!" cried a stentorian voice, and the snoring suddenly ceased.
"It is I—Joel," the young man hastily announced.
"Joel!" exclaimed the voice of Nathan in the darkness. "How came you here?"
He slipped out of the tent and returned in a moment, blowing upon a brand from a smouldering camp-fire. With this he lighted an oil lamp that swung from the central pole of the tent. Then he threw his arms around the young man and embraced him heartily.
Joel saw Clearchus and the lazy bulk of Chares, who looked at him sleepily with his head propped on his elbow. There was another man in the tent whom he did not know—a man with firm shoulders and a square jaw, who stood glowering at him with a sword in his hand.
"Put it away, Leonidas," Clearchus said, laughing. "This is no Tyrian, but our little jailer in Babylon. How came you here?"
"I came from Tyre," Joel answered.
"From Tyre!" echoed Nathan and Clearchus. "How did you escape?"
"I swam under the wall," Joel said, "and I bring you bad news."
"Artemisia!" Clearchus cried. "Is she dead?"
"As yet she is unharmed," Joel replied.
"What is it, then? Speak!" Clearchus cried.
Joel repeated what Mena had told him.
"Is it possible to return by the way you came?" Clearchus demanded.
"It is possible for a good swimmer, but it is dangerous," Joel replied.
"I shall return with you at once," Clearchus announced, and began to belt on his sword.
"You are mad, Clearchus," Leonidas said, raising the flap of the tent. "Dawn is breaking. It would be broad daylight before you could reach the walls."
"I am going, nevertheless," Clearchus answered calmly, continuing his preparations.
"Do you think we are going to let you go alone?" Chares roared. "No, by Zeus; I am going, too! I have something I wish to say to Thais."
He proceeded to arm himself, adjusting with care a breastplate inlaid with gold.
"Wait!" cried Nathan. "I have a better plan. When does this sacrifice take place?"
"It was to be on the second day," Joel replied. "That will be to-morrow."
"Then we have another night before us," Nathan said. "Do you think my people in Tyre will surrender their first-born to Moloch? Not while Jehovah reigns will they do that, nor will Jehovah permit the sacrifice. It would be folly to think of entering the city now. We should be discovered, and all would be ruined. We can enter at nightfall, if need be, and my people will join us to save their own. Let us consult Alexander. It may be that he will order the attack and that Jehovah will give Tyre into his hands to-day. At any rate, if it is a question of dying, we can die to-morrow as well as now."
Leonidas nodded. "You are right," he said.
"Are you satisfied, Clearchus?" Chares asked.
"Let it be as you will," the Athenian responded.
Alexander listened to Joel's story and questioned him closely regarding the disposition of affairs in the city. He learned that supplies were running low and that already the garrison was on half rations. Joel assured him that the feeling of discouragement and despair was universal in the city.
"We will attack to-day," Alexander said to Clearchus, who stood waiting in a fever of anxiety. "If we can break the walls, Baal-Moloch will be cheated of his sacrifice, but Melkarth will have his fill."
The fleet put forth from both sides of the mole, the oars of the rowers flashing in the sun. The great towers on the end of the mole, which now extended to the wall of the city, were filled with men who showered arrows and javelins upon the garrison so as to protect the huge battering rams at work below. These engines consisted of heavy beams, one hundred feet long, ending in great rams' heads of bronze. They were suspended by chains from a framework that permitted them to swing freely. As many men as could grasp the short cords attached to the sides of a beam labored to keep it oscillating with a regular motion. With each downward swing, the bronze head, with its twisted horns, dashed against the wall. The impact ground the stones to powder, but the wall was so thick and so strongly built that its joints remained firm.
Alexander was reluctant to admit that the mole which he had constructed with so much expenditure of time and labor was useless, and he therefore kept the towers in action and the rams at work; but his real hope of taking the city now lay elsewhere. The wall on the seaward side, where no attack had been deemed possible, was less solid than toward the land. Tests made by floating rams had shown that a breach was practicable on the southwest and it was to this spot that the attack was directed.
The Cyprian ships hovered about the northern side of the city. Some threatened the mouth of the Sidonian Harbor, while others sent flights of arrows over the walls. The fortress was encircled by a menacing ring of vessels, which kept the attention of the garrison occupied, while Alexander prepared for the assault, which was to be made at a point where the masonry already showed cracks, and some of the stones had been pushed out of place.
Towed by quinqueremes, the floating forts that the Macedonians had built were brought slowly around to the southern wall. Some carried ballistæ and catapults and stores of darts and stones. Others had rams, scaling ladders, iron hooks, and siege implements of all kinds. All were provided with shields to protect the men from missiles from the walls.
One by one they swung into position and came to anchor. The catapults and ballistæ were placed two hundred yards from the wall, so as to afford space for the flight of their projectiles. The ships of war moved backward and forward, while the archers and slingers swept the towers and ramparts with a hissing hail of lead and steel.
Under cover of this protection, the rams and siege vessels pushed forward. Their crews made them fast to projections in the wall, and soon the regular throbbing crash of the rams was heard, pounding on the masonry. The vessels with the ladders and scaling implements lay waiting, with the bravest men in the army ready to spring to the assault as soon as a breach should be opened.
The July sun lay warm on the heaving sea, and the heat rose in shimmering waves from the wall. Around and within the city the shouting of men, the thudding of the rams, the creaking of the machines, and the crash of stones cast by the ballistæ filled the air.
The garrison brought its engines along the broad parapet within range of the ships, and hurled great blocks of stone at the besieging fleet. Several of the smaller vessels were sunk. Sometimes the stones met in the air and burst into fragments. The attack upon the wall was not relaxed. Finally a block was sufficiently exposed to permit the grappling-irons to be fastened to its inner angles. Strong ropes were attached to it and carried out to a quinquereme. The rowers bent to their work, and the ropes lifted, dripping, from the water. The block held fast for a moment, and then came out of its bed like a cork out of a bottle, rolling with a splash into the sea.
Amid the triumphant shouts of the Macedonians, a flatboat was pushed forward and a hundred men attacked the weakened wall with levers and bars of irons. Some of them were crushed by the rocks toppled down upon them from above, others were pierced by arrows; but when they withdrew, a wide cavity yawned where they had been, exposing the inner courses of masonry.
After them came the largest and heaviest of the rams. Under its tremendous blows the cavity deepened and widened until the wall above it began to tremble. It swayed, crumbled, and at last with a mighty roar it fell, burying the ram and half the men who had been working it under tons of broken stone. The Macedonians, gazing through the gap that was opened, saw the Temple of Baal-Moloch, with its dome and towers, rising gloomily among the cypress trees that surrounded it.
With one impulse, the vessels carrying the shield-bearing guards and the veterans of the Agema rushed in toward the breach. The soldiers leaped ashore. Order was impossible upon such an insecure footing as the tumbled blocks afforded. Every man clung where he could, advancing step by step, and protecting himself by holding his shield above his head.
The Tyrians from the ends of the broken wall and from the top of the slope where the gap had been made sent down flights of darts and arrows. In order to repel the storming party, they even loosened portions of the wall that still held firm and hurled them down upon the enemy.
Still the Macedonians pressed upward in the hope of winning the breach, and holding it until reinforcements could arrive. Ptolemy, son of Lagus, and Black Clitus fought in the foremost ranks. Beside them Leonidas plied his sword, and with him were Clearchus and Chares.
"Ho, comrades! Beware the stone!" the Theban shouted, as a loosened block rushed toward them down the slope.
Leonidas started aside, but his foot slipped and he fell to his knees. Chares caught his arm and dragged him away. The fragment grazed him as it hurtled past.
"Forward, men of Macedon!" Ptolemy cried. "Alexander is watching you."
A breathless cheer from the struggling ranks behind him told him that the soldiers were doing their best. The stones of the fallen wall, slippery with blood, rocked beneath their feet. Some of the men were caught in crevices between the blocks and their lives were crushed out, or they were held there until a javelin put an end to their misery. But those who escaped this peril pressed upward like wolves when the quarry is in sight. The exasperation of all the long months of the siege, the accumulation of countless insults, and the joy of the battle filled their hearts.
Leaping upon a swaying stone that raised him above the heads of his companions, Chares held his shield aloft to deflect the darts and arrows that fell upon it as thickly as the drops of a shower.
"Ohe!" he cried down the slope. "Come on! The victory is ours!"
Clearchus bounded up beside him, his face pale with eagerness, and stared into the city.
"Where is she? Where is she?" he cried, panting.
Chares laughed. "Did you expect she would be waiting for you at the top?" he asked. "You will have to wait until we get inside."
The Athenian gazed at the lofty buildings, whose walls were pierced by hundreds of windows. If he only knew where to look! From the housetops fluttered countless scarfs of yellow, blue, and red. Any one of them might be hers. He was bewildered.
The wall had fallen outward, leaving about twenty feet of its base standing on the side toward the city. Companies of Tyrian soldiers ran toward the breach. They placed ladders against the foot of the broken wall and scrambled up into the gap like a swarm of ants to meet the Macedonians. Ptolemy saw them coming and uttered a joyful cry.
"Here they are," he shouted. "Melkarth, take thy sacrifice of dogs!"
A conflict without quarter began on the crest of the gap. The Tyrians fought with desperation, knowing that if the enemy once gained a lodgement in the city they were lost. But in vain they hurled themselves upon the head of the column, where Ptolemy and Clitus, Chares and Clearchus, and a hundred more received them with the deadly upward thrust of their swords, against which no armor was proof. There was no longer room for the Tyrians in the breach. Those who had ascended last were forced back, leaping or falling in their armor, the weight of which broke their bones. Mingled with the living, the dead began to drop back through the breach. The shouts of the victors carried panic into the streets.
Tyre lay at the mercy of Macedon. Looking down into the city, Ptolemy saw the Tyrians hastily constructing barricades of furniture, casks, litters, and such material as they were able to drag quickly together.
"Do they think that will save them, now that we hold this?" he said to Clitus.
Clearchus leaned against a stone with great joy in his heart. Tyre had been won and Artemisia was saved. The sight of Moloch's dark temple no longer chilled his blood. Baal must look elsewhere for victims. The weary months of longing were at an end.
So desperate had been the struggle in the breach that the Macedonians had forgotten all else. It was not until the pause before the final charge into the city that they began to notice the rolling clouds of black smoke that were drawing together toward the gap along those portions of the wall that remained standing. It rose in dark masses against the sky, blotting out the sun as it spread seaward from the parapet. Under its gloomy canopy men were swarming in long processions upon the top of the wall toward the gap, bearing caldrons of iron and copper suspended from yokes across their shoulders.
"See! They are going to provide us with shade," Clitus said.
Ptolemy looked, and his expression changed to one of alarm.
"Pitch and bitumen!" he exclaimed. "The men will never be able to stand it!"
A caldron rolled down into the gap, followed by another and another, scattering their blazing contents as they came. Wherever the bitumen fell it continued to burn, giving out smoke in stifling volumes. In a few minutes the gap was obscured by suffocating clouds in which the Macedonians groped blindly. Every stone was covered with a coating of the blazing substances. Showers of molten lead and burning oil descended from the walls. The bitumen ate into the flesh of the soldiers. The lead and oil burned out their eyes. Many of them fled like living torches down the slope and plunged into the sea. The gap had become untenable.
Ptolemy saw that it would be impossible for reënforcements to reach him. He shook his sword at the city through the drifting smoke. "Another day!" he shouted, and, turning, plunged down the blazing path.
Clearchus stood dazed as he saw his comrades turn back.
"Come!" Chares shouted. "Do you want to be burned to death?"
"Cowards!" Clearchus cried, "why do you fly? Do you not see that Tyre is yours?"
He made a step toward the edge of the wall and would have leaped down into the city had not Chares caught him with an iron grasp.
"Leonidas!" cried the Theban.
"Here!" the voice of Leonidas replied, and he appeared through the smoke, smothering a patch of blazing pitch that had fallen upon his bare shoulder.
"Clearchus has gone crazy," Chares said. "Help me to carry him down."
"You shall not!" the Athenian cried. "Traitors! Set me free!"
Leonidas calmly twisted the sword out of his hand and threw it aside. They lifted him between them, despite his struggles. Suddenly his muscles relaxed and his head fell backward.
"That's right," Chares said. "He has fainted. We can carry him better so."
He threw the limp form over his shoulder and strode after Leonidas into the black curtain, which had become so dense that it was impossible for sight to penetrate it in any direction. Sulphur and pepper had been mixed in the caldrons, giving the smoke a pungent, choking quality. Stumbling over jagged blocks of stone, and tripping upon the bodies of the dead, Chares, with Clearchus in his arms, followed Leonidas through that vale of death. Blinded and gasping, they staggered to the edge of the water. They were the last to come alive out of the smoke. They were drawn upon one of the siege boats, and lay there until the unwieldy vessel was towed out into the clear sunshine and safety.