AN EGYPTIAN PRINCESS, Complete

By Georg Ebers

Translated from the German by Eleanor Grove


PREFACE TO THE SECOND GERMAN EDITION

It is now four years since this book first appeared before the public, and
I feel it my duty not to let a second edition go forth into the world
without a few words of accompaniment. It hardly seems necessary to assure
my readers that I have endeavored to earn for the following pages the
title of a “corrected edition.” An author is the father of his book, and
what father could see his child preparing to set out on a new and
dangerous road, even if it were not for the first time, without
endeavoring to supply him with every good that it lay in his power to
bestow, and to free him from every fault or infirmity on which the world
could look unfavorably? The assurance therefore that I have repeatedly
bestowed the greatest possible care on the correction of my Egyptian
Princess seems to me superfluous, but at the same time I think it
advisable to mention briefly where and in what manner I have found it
necessary to make these emendations. The notes have been revised, altered,
and enriched with all those results of antiquarian research (more
especially in reference to the language and monuments of ancient Egypt)
which have come to our knowledge since the year 1864, and which my limited
space allowed me to lay before a general public. On the alteration of the
text itself I entered with caution, almost with timidity; for during four
years of constant effort as academical tutor, investigator and writer in
those severe regions of study which exclude the free exercise of
imagination, the poetical side of a man’s nature may forfeit much to the
critical; and thus, by attempting to remodel my tale entirely, I might
have incurred the danger of removing it from the more genial sphere of
literary work to which it properly belongs. I have therefore contented
myself with a careful revision of the style, the omission of lengthy
passages which might have diminished the interest of the story to general
readers, the insertion of a few characteristic or explanatory additions,
and the alteration of the proper names. These last I have written not in
their Greek, but in their Latin forms, having been assured by more than
one fair reader that the names Ibykus and Cyrus would have been greeted by
them as old acquaintances, whereas the “Ibykos” and “Kyros” of the first
edition looked so strange and learned, as to be quite discouraging. Where
however the German k has the same worth as the Roman c I have adopted it
in preference. With respect to the Egyptian names and those with which we
have become acquainted through the cuneiform inscriptions, I have chosen
the forms most adapted to our German modes of speech, and in the present
edition have placed those few explanations which seemed to me
indispensable to the right understanding of the text, at the foot of the
page, instead of among the less easily accessible notes at the end.

The fact that displeasure has been excited among men of letters by this
attempt to clothe the hardly-earned results of severer studies in an
imaginative form is even clearer to me now than when I first sent this
book before the public. In some points I agree with this judgment, but
that the act is kindly received, when a scholar does not scorn to render
the results of his investigations accessible to the largest number of the
educated class, in the form most generally interesting to them, is proved
by the rapid sale of the first large edition of this work. I know at least
of no better means than those I have chosen, by which to instruct and
suggest thought to an extended circle of readers. Those who read learned
books evince in so doing a taste for such studies; but it may easily
chance that the following pages, though taken up only for amusement, may
excite a desire for more information, and even gain a disciple for the
study of ancient history.

Considering our scanty knowledge of the domestic life of the Greeks and
Persians before the Persian war—of Egyptian manners we know more—even
the most severe scholar could scarcely dispense with the assistance of his
imagination, when attempting to describe private life among the civilized
nations of the sixth century before Christ. He would however escape all
danger of those anachronisms to which the author of such a work as I have
undertaken must be hopelessly liable. With attention and industry, errors
of an external character may be avoided, but if I had chosen to hold
myself free from all consideration of the times in which I and my readers
have come into the world, and the modes of thought at present existing
among us, and had attempted to depict nothing but the purely ancient
characteristics of the men and their times, I should have become
unintelligible to many of my readers, uninteresting to all, and have
entirely failed in my original object. My characters will therefore look
like Persians, Egyptians, &c., but in their language, even more than
in their actions, the German narrator will be perceptible, not always
superior to the sentimentality of his day, but a native of the world in
the nineteenth century after the appearance of that heavenly Master, whose
teaching left so deep an impression on human thought and feeling.

The Persians and Greeks, being by descent related to ourselves, present
fewer difficulties in this respect than the Egyptians, whose
dwelling-place on the fruitful islands won by the Nile from the Desert,
completely isolated them from the rest of the world.

To Professor Lepsius, who suggested to me that a tale confined entirely to
Egypt and the Egyptians might become wearisome, I owe many thanks; and
following his hint, have so arranged the materials supplied by Herodotus
as to introduce my reader first into a Greek circle. Here he will feel in
a measure at home, and indeed will entirely sympathize with them on one
important point, viz.: in their ideas on the Beautiful and on Art. Through
this Hellenic portico he reaches Egypt, from thence passes on to Persia
and returns finally to the Nile. It has been my desire that the three
nations should attract him equally, and I have therefore not centred the
entire interest of the plot in one hero, but have endeavored to exhibit
each nation in its individual character, by means of a fitting
representative. The Egyptian Princess has given her name to the book, only
because the weal and woe of all my other characters were decided by her
fate, and she must therefore be regarded as the central point of the
whole.

In describing Amasis I have followed the excellent description of
Herodotus, which has been confirmed by a picture discovered on an ancient
monument. Herodotus has been my guide too in the leading features of
Cambyses’ character; indeed as he was born only forty or fifty years after
the events related, his history forms the basis of my romance.

“Father of history” though he be, I have not followed him blindly, but,
especially in the development of my characters, have chosen those paths
which the principles of psychology have enabled me to lay down for myself,
and have never omitted consulting those hieroglyphic and cuneiform
inscriptions which have been already deciphered. In most cases these
confirm the statements of Herodotus.

I have caused Bartja’s murder to take place after the conquest of Egypt,
because I cannot agree with the usually received translation of the
Behistun inscription. This reads as follows: “One named Cambujiya, son of
Curu, of our family, was king here formerly and had a brother named
Bartiya, of the same father and the same mother as Cambujiya. Thereupon
Cambujiya killed that Bartiya.” In a book intended for general readers, it
would not be well to enter into a discussion as to niceties of language,
but even the uninitiated will see that the word “thereupon” has no sense
in this connection. In every other point the inscription agrees with
Herodotus’ narrative, and I believe it possible to bring it into agreement
with that of Darius on this last as well; but reserve my proofs for
another time and place.

It has not been ascertained from whence Herodotus has taken the name
Smerdis which he gives to Bartja and Gaumata. The latter occurs again,
though in a mutilated form, in Justin.

My reasons for making Phanes an Athenian will be found in Note 90. Vol. I.
This coercion of an authenticated fact might have been avoided in the
first edition, but could not now be altered without important changes in
the entire text. The means I have adopted in my endeavor to make Nitetis
as young as possible need a more serious apology; as, notwithstanding
Herodotus’ account of the mildness of Amasis’ rule, it is improbable that
King Hophra should have been alive twenty years after his fall. Even this
however is not impossible, for it can be proved that his descendants were
not persecuted by Amasis.

On a Stela in the Leyden Museum I have discovered that a certain Psamtik,
a member of the fallen dynasty, lived till the 17th year of Amasis’ reign,
and died at the age of seventy-five.

Lastly let me be permitted to say a word or two in reference to Rhodopis.
That she must have been a remarkable woman is evident from the passage in
Herodotus quoted in Notes 10, and 14, Vol. I., and from the accounts given
by many other writers. Her name, “the rosy-cheeked one,” tells us that she
was beautiful, and her amiability and charm of manner are expressly
praised by Herodotus. How richly she was endowed with gifts and graces may
be gathered too from the manner in which tradition and fairy lore have
endeavored to render her name immortal. By many she is said to have built
the most beautiful of the Pyramids, the Pyramid of Mycerinus or Menkera.
One tale related of her and reported by Strabo and AElian probably gave
rise to our oldest and most beautiful fairy tale, Cinderella; another is
near akin to the Loreley legend. An eagle, according to AElian—the
wind, in Strabo’s tale,—bore away Rhodopis’ slippers while she was
bathing in the Nile, and laid them at the feet of the king, when seated on
his throne of justice in the open market. The little slippers so enchanted
him that he did not rest until he had discovered their owner and made her
his queen.

The second legend tells us how a wonderfully beautiful naked woman could
be seen sitting on the summit of one of the pyramids (ut in una ex
pyramidibus); and how she drove the wanderers in the desert mad through
her exceeding loveliness.

Moore borrowed this legend and introduces it in the following verse:

Fabulous as these stories sound, they still prove that Rhodopis must have
been no ordinary woman. Some scholars would place her on a level with the
beautiful and heroic Queen Nitokris, spoken of by Julius Africanus,
Eusebius and others, and whose name, (signifying the victorious Neith) has
been found on the monuments, applied to a queen of the sixth dynasty. This
is a bold conjecture; it adds however to the importance of our heroine;
and without doubt many traditions referring to the one have been
transferred to the other, and vice versa. Herodotus lived so short a time
after Rhodopis, and tells so many exact particulars of her private life
that it is impossible she should have been a mere creation of fiction. The
letter of Darius, given at the end of Vol. II., is intended to identify
the Greek Rhodopis with the mythical builder of the Pyramid. I would also
mention here that she is called Doricha by Sappho. This may have been her
name before she received the title of the “rosy-cheeked one.”

I must apologize for the torrent of verse that appears in the love-scenes
between Sappho and Bartja; it is also incumbent upon me to say a few words
about the love-scenes themselves, which I have altered very slightly in
the new edition, though they have been more severely criticised than any
other portion of the work.

First I will confess that the lines describing the happy love of a
handsome young couple to whom I had myself become warmly attached, flowed
from my pen involuntarily, even against my will (I intended to write a
novel in prose) in the quiet night, by the eternal Nile, among the palms
and roses. The first love-scene has a story of its own to me. I wrote it
in half an hour, almost unconsciously. It may be read in my book that the
Persians always reflected in the morning, when sober, upon the resolutions
formed the night before, while drunk. When I examined in the sunshine what
had come into existence by lamplight, I grew doubtful of its merits, and
was on the point of destroying the love-scenes altogether, when my dear
friend Julius Hammer, the author of “Schau in Dich, und Schau um Dich,”
too early summoned to the other world by death, stayed my hand. Their form
was also approved by others, and I tell myself that the ‘poetical’
expression of love is very similar in all lands and ages, while lovers’
conversations and modes of intercourse vary according to time and place.
Besides, I have to deal with one of those by no means rare cases, where
poetry can approach nearer the truth than prudent, watchful prose. Many of
my honored critics have censured these scenes; others, among whom are some
whose opinion I specially value, have lavished the kindest praise upon
them. Among these gentlemen I will mention A. Stahr, C. V. Holtei, M.
Hartmann, E. Hoefer, W. Wolfsohn, C. Leemans, Professor Veth of Amsterdam,
etc. Yet I will not conceal the fact that some, whose opinion has great
weight, have asked: “Did the ancients know anything of love, in our sense
of the word? Is not romantic love, as we know it, a result of
Christianity?” The following sentence, which stands at the head of the
preface to my first edition, will prove that I had not ignored this
question when I began my task.

This opinion of our great scholar is one with which I cheerfully coincide
and would refer my readers to the fact that love-stories were written
before the Christian era: the Amor and Psyche of Apuleius for instance.
Indeed love in all its forms was familiar to the ancients. Where can we
find a more beautiful expression of ardent passion than glows in Sappho’s
songs? or of patient faithful constancy than in Homer’s Penelope? Could
there be a more beautiful picture of the union of two loving hearts, even
beyond the grave, than Xenophon has preserved for us in his account of
Panthea and Abradatas? or the story of Sabinus the Gaul and his wife, told
in the history of Vespasian? Is there anywhere a sweeter legend than that
of the Halcyons, the ice-birds, who love one another so tenderly that when
the male becomes enfeebled by age, his mate carries him on her outspread
wings whithersoever he will; and the gods, desiring to reward such
faithful love, cause the sun to shine more kindly, and still the winds and
waves on the “Halcyon days” during which these birds are building their
nest and brooding over their young? There can surely have been no lack of
romantic love in days when a used-up man of the world, like Antony, could
desire in his will that wherever he died his body might be laid by the
side of his beloved Cleopatra: nor of the chivalry of love when Berenice’s
beautiful hair was placed as a constellation in the heavens. Neither can
we believe that devotion in the cause of love could be wanting when a
whole nation was ready to wage a fierce and obstinate war for the sake of
one beautiful woman. The Greeks had an insult to revenge, but the Trojans
fought for the possession of Helen. Even the old men of Ilium were ready
“to suffer long for such a woman.” And finally is not the whole question
answered in Theocritus’ unparalleled poem, “the Sorceress?” We see the
poor love-lorn girl and her old woman-servant, Thestylis, cowering over
the fire above which the bird supposed to possess the power of bringing
back the faithless Delphis is sitting in his wheel. Simoetha has learnt
many spells and charms from an Assyrian, and she tries them all. The
distant roar of the waves, the stroke rising from the fire, the dogs
howling in the street, the tortured fluttering bird, the old woman, the
broken-hearted girl and her awful spells, all join in forming a night
scene the effect of which is heightened by the calm cold moonshine. The
old woman leaves the girl, who at once ceases to weave her spells, allows
her pent-up tears to have their way, and looking up to Selene the moon,
the lovers’ silent confidante, pours out her whole story: how when she
first saw the beautiful Delphis her heart had glowed with love, she had
seen nothing more of the train of youths who followed him, “and,” (thus
sadly the poet makes her speak)

“Then” (she continues) when Delphis at last crossed her threshold:

Whence came her love? thence, whence it comes to us now. The love of the
creature to its Creator, of man to God, is the grand and yet gracious gift
of Christianity. Christ’s command to love our neighbor called into
existence not only the conception of philanthropy, but of humanity itself,
an idea unknown to the heathen world, where love had been at widest
limited to their native town and country. The love of man and wife has
without doubt been purified and transfigured by Christianity; still it is
possible that a Greek may have loved as tenderly and longingly as a
Christian. The more ardent glow of passion at least cannot be denied to
the ancients. And did not their love find vent in the same expressions as
our own? Who does not know the charming roundelay:

If my space allowed I could add much more on this subject, but will permit
myself only one remark in conclusion. Lovers delighted in nature then as
now; the moon was their chosen confidante, and I know of no modern poem in
which the mysterious charm of a summer night and the magic beauty which
lies on flowers, trees and fountains in those silent hours when the world
is asleep, is more exquisitely described than in the following verses,
also by Sappho, at the reading of which we seem forced to breathe more
slowly, “kuhl bis an’s Herz hinan.”

and:—

The foregoing remarks seemed to me due to those who consider a love such
as that of Sappho and Bartja to have been impossible among the ancients.
Unquestionably it was much rarer then than in these days: indeed I confess
to having sketched my pair of lovers in somewhat bright colors. But may I
not be allowed, at least once, to claim the poet’s freedom?

How seldom I have availed myself of this freedom will be evident from the
notes included in each volume. They seemed to me necessary, partly in
order to explain the names and illustrate the circumstances mentioned in
the text, and partly to vindicate the writer in the eyes of the learned. I
trust they may not prove discouraging to any, as the text will be found
easily readable without reference to the explanations.


PREFACE TO THE FOURTH GERMAN EDITION.

Two years and a half after the appearance of the third edition of “An
Egyptian Princess,” a fourth was needed. I returned long since from the
journey to the Nile, for which I was preparing while correcting the
proof-sheets of the third edition, and on which I can look back with
special satisfaction. During my residence in Egypt, in 1872-73, a lucky
accident enabled me to make many new discoveries; among them one treasure
of incomparable value, the great hieratic manuscript, which bears my name.
Its publication has just been completed, and it is now in the library of
the Leipzig University.

The Papyrus Ebers, the second in size and the best preserved of all the
ancient Egyptian manuscripts which have come into our possession, was
written in the 16th century B. C., and contains on 110 pages the hermetic
book upon the medicines of the ancient Egyptians, known also to the
Alexandrine Greeks. The god Thoth (Hermes) is called “the guide” of
physicians, and the various writings and treatises of which the work is
composed are revelations from him. In this venerable scroll diagnoses are
made and remedies suggested for the internal and external diseases of most
portions of the human body. With the drugs prescribed are numbers,
according to which they are weighed with weights and measured with hollow
measures, and accompanying the prescriptions are noted the pious axioms to
be repeated by the physician, while compounding and giving them to the
patient. On the second line of the first page of our manuscript, it is
stated that it came from Sais. A large portion of this work is devoted to
the visual organs. On the twentieth line of the fifty-fifth page begins
the book on the eyes, which fills eight large pages. We were formerly
compelled to draw from Greek and Roman authors what we knew about the
remedies used for diseases of the eye among the ancient Egyptians. The
portion of the Papyrus Ebers just mentioned is now the only Egyptian
source from whence we can obtain instruction concerning this important
branch of ancient medicine.

All this scarcely seems to have a place in the preface of a historical
romance, and yet it is worthy of mention here; for there is something
almost “providential” in the fact that it was reserved for the author of
“An Egyptian Princess” to bestow the gift of this manuscript upon the
scientific world. Among the characters in the novel the reader will meet
an oculist from Sais, who wrote a book upon the diseases of the visual
organs. The fate of this valuable work exactly agrees with the course of
the narrative. The papyrus scroll of the Sais oculist, which a short time
ago existed only in the imagination of the author and readers of “An
Egyptian Princess,” is now an established fact. When I succeeded in
bringing the manuscript home, I felt like the man who had dreamed of a
treasure, and when he went out to ride found it in his path.

A reply to Monsieur Jules Soury’s criticism of “An Egyptian Princess” in
the Revue des deux Mondes, Vol. VII, January 1875, might appropriately be
introduced into this preface, but would scarcely be possible without
entering more deeply into the ever-disputed question, which will be
answered elsewhere, whether the historical romance is ever justifiable.
Yet I cannot refrain from informing Monsieur Soury here that “An Egyptian
Princess” detained me from no other work. I wrote it in my sick-room,
before entering upon my academic career, and while composing it, found not
only comfort and pleasure, but an opportunity to give dead scientific
material a living interest for myself and others.

Monsieur Soury says romance is the mortal enemy of history; but this
sentence may have no more justice than the one with which I think myself
justified in replying: Landscape painting is the mortal enemy of botany.
The historical romance must be enjoyed like any other work of art. No one
reads it to study history; but many, the author hopes, may be aroused by
his work to make investigations of their own, for which the notes point
out the way. Already several persons of excellent mental powers have been
attracted to earnest Egyptological researches by “An Egyptian Princess.”
In the presence of such experiences, although Monsieur Soury’s clever
statements appear to contain much that is true, I need not apply his
remark that “historical romances injure the cause of science” to the
present volume.


PREFACE TO THE FIFTH GERMAN EDITION.

Again a new edition of “An Egyptian Princess” has been required, and again
I write a special preface because the printing has progressed so rapidly
as unfortunately to render it impossible for me to correct some errors to
which my attention was directed by the kindness of the well-known
botanist, Professor Paul Ascherson of Berlin, who has travelled through
Egypt and the Oases.

In Vol. I, page 7, I allow mimosas to grow among other plants in Rhodopis’
garden. I have found them in all the descriptions of the Nile valley, and
afterwards often enjoyed the delicious perfume of the golden yellow
flowers in the gardens of Alexandria and Cairo. I now learn that this very
mimosa (Acacia farnesiana) originates in tropical America, and was
undoubtedly unknown in ancient Egypt. The bananas, which I mentioned in
Vol. I, p. 64, among other Egyptian plants, were first introduced into the
Nile valley from India by the Arabs. The botanical errors occurring in the
last volume I was able to correct. Helm’s admirable work on “Cultivated
Plants and Domestic Animals” had taught me to notice such things.
Theophrastus, a native of Asia Minor, gives the first description of a
citron, and this proves that he probably saw the so-called paradise-apple,
but not our citron, which I am therefore not permitted to mention among
the plants cultivated in ancient Lydia. Palms and birches are both found
in Asia Minor; but I permitted them to grow side by side, thereby
committing an offense against the geographical possibility of vegetable
existence. The birch, in this locality, flourishes in the mountainous
region, the palm, according to Griesbach (Vegetation of the Earth, Vol. I,
p. 319) only appears on the southern coast of the peninsula. The latter
errors, as I previously mentioned, will be corrected in the new edition. I
shall of course owe special thanks to any one who may call my attention to
similar mistakes.


PREFACE TO THE NINTH GERMAN EDITION.

I have nothing to add to the ninth edition of “An Egyptian Princess”
except that it has been thoroughly revised. My sincere thanks are due to
Dr. August Steitz of Frankfort on the Main, who has travelled through
Egypt and Asia Minor, for a series of admirable notes, which he kindly
placed at my disposal. He will find that they have not remained unused.


AN EGYPTIAN PRINCESS.

By Georg Ebers


BOOK 1.


CHAPTER I.

The Nile had overflowed its bed. The luxuriant corn-fields and blooming
gardens on its shores were lost beneath a boundless waste of waters; and
only the gigantic temples and palaces of its cities, (protected from the
force of the water by dikes), and the tops of the tall palm-trees and
acacias could be seen above its surface. The branches of the sycamores and
plane-trees drooped and floated on the waves, but the boughs of the tall
silver poplars strained upward, as if anxious to avoid the watery world
beneath. The full-moon had risen; her soft light fell on the Libyan range
of mountains vanishing on the western horizon, and in the north the
shimmer of the Mediterranean could faintly be discerned. Blue and white
lotus-flowers floated on the clear water, bats of all kinds darted softly
through the still air, heavy with the scent of acacia-blossom and jasmine;
the wild pigeons and other birds were at roost in the tops of the trees,
while the pelicans, storks and cranes squatted in groups on the shore
under the shelter of the papyrus-reeds and Nile-beans. The pelicans and
storks remained motionless, their long bills hidden beneath their wings,
but the cranes were startled by the mere beat of an oar, stretching their
necks, and peering anxiously into the distance, if they heard but the song
of the boatmen. The air was perfectly motionless, and the unbroken
reflection of the moon, lying like a silver shield on the surface of the
water, proved that, wildly as the Nile leaps over the cataracts, and
rushes past the gigantic temples of Upper Egypt, yet on approaching the
sea by different arms, he can abandon his impetuous course, and flow along
in sober tranquillity.

On this moonlight night in the year 528 B. C. a bark was crossing the
almost currentless Canopic mouth of the Nile. On the raised deck at the
stern of this boat an Egyptian was sitting to guide the long pole-rudder,
and the half-naked boatmen within were singing as they rowed. In the open
cabin, which was something like a wooden summer-house, sat two men,
reclining on low cushions. They were evidently not Egyptians; their Greek
descent could be perceived even by the moonlight. The elder was an
unusually tall and powerful man of more than sixty; thick grey curls,
showing very little attempt at arrangement, hung down over his short, firm
throat; he wore a simple, homely cloak, and kept his eyes gloomily fixed
on the water. His companion, on the contrary, a man perhaps twenty years
younger, of a slender and delicate build, was seldom still. Sometimes he
gazed into the heavens, sometimes made a remark to the steersman, disposed
his beautiful purple chlanis in fresh folds, or busied himself in the
arrangement of his scented brown curls, or his carefully curled beard.

The boat had left Naukratis, at that time the only Hellenic port in Egypt,
about half an hour before.

During their journey, the grey-haired, moody man had not spoken one word,
and the other had left him to his meditations. But now, as the boat neared
the shore, the restless traveller, rising from his couch, called to his
companion: “We are just at our destination, Aristomachus! That pleasant
house to the left yonder, in the garden of palms which you can see rising
above the waters, is the dwelling of my friend Rhodopis. It was built by
her husband Charaxus, and all her friends, not excepting the king himself,
vie with one another in adding new beauties to it year by year. A useless
effort! Let them adorn that house with all the treasures in the world, the
woman who lives within will still remain its best ornament!”

The old man sat up, threw a passing glance at the building, smoothed the
thick grey beard which clothed his cheeks and chin, but left the lips
free,—[The Spartans were not in the habit of wearing a beard on the
upper lip.]—and asked abruptly: “Why so much enthusiasm, Phanes, for
this Rhodopis? How long have the Athenians been wont to extol old women?”
At this remark the other smiled, and answered in a self-satisfied tone,
“My knowledge of the world, and particularly of women, is, I flatter
myself, an extended one, and yet I repeat, that in all Egypt I know of no
nobler creature than this grey-haired woman. When you have seen her and
her lovely grandchild, and heard your favorite melodies sung by her
well-practised choir of slave-girls, I think you will thank me for having
brought you hither.”—“Yet,” answered the Spartan gravely, “I should
not have accompanied you, if I had not hoped to meet Phryxus, the
Delphian, here.”

“You will find him here; and besides, I cannot but hope that the songs
will cheer you, and dispel your gloomy thoughts.” Aristomachus shook his
head in denial, and answered: “To you, sanguine Athenians, the melodies of
your country may be cheering: but not so to me; as in many a sleepless
night of dreams, my longings will be doubled, not stilled by the songs of
Alkman.”

“Do you think then,” replied Phanes, “that I have no longing for my
beloved Athens, for the scenes of our youthful games, for the busy life of
the market? Truly, the bread of exile is not less distasteful to my palate
than to yours, but, in the society afforded by this house, it loses some
of its bitterness, and when the dear melodies of Hellas, so perfectly
sung, fall on my ear, my native land rises before me as in a vision, I see
its pine and olive groves, its cold, emerald green rivers, its blue sea,
the shimmer of its towns, its snowy mountain-tops and marble temples, and
a half-sweet, half-bitter tear steals down my cheek as the music ceases,
and I awake to remember that I am in Egypt, in this monotonous, hot,
eccentric country, which, the gods be praised, I am soon about to quit.
But, Aristomachus, would you then avoid the few Oases in the desert,
because you must afterwards return to its sands and drought? Would you fly
from one happy hour, because days of sadness await you later? But stop,
here we are! Show a cheerful countenance, my friend, for it becomes us not
to enter the temple of the Charites with sad hearts.”—[The goddesses
of grace and beauty, better known by their Roman name of “Graces.”]

As Phanes uttered these words, they landed at the garden wall, washed by
the Nile. The Athenian bounded lightly from the boat, the Spartan
following with a heavier, firmer tread. Aristomachus had a wooden leg, but
his step was so firm, even when compared with that of the light-footed
Phanes, that it might have been thought to be his own limb.

The garden of Rhodopis was as full of sound, and scent and blossom as a
night in fairy-land. It was one labyrinth of acanthus shrubs, yellow
mimosa, the snowy gelder-rose, jasmine and lilac, red roses and laburnums,
overshadowed by tall palm-trees, acacias and balsam trees. Large bats
hovered softly on their delicate wings over the whole, and sounds of mirth
and song echoed from the river.

This garden had been laid out by an Egyptian, and the builders of the
Pyramids had already been celebrated for ages for their skill in
horticulture. They well understood how to mark out neat flower-beds, plant
groups of trees and shrubs in regular order, water the whole by aqueducts
and fountains, arrange arbors and summerhouses, and even inclose the walks
with artistically clipped hedges, and breed goldfish in stone basins.

At the garden gate Phanes stopped, looked around him carefully and
listened; then shaking his head, “I do not understand what this can mean,”
he said. “I hear no voices, there is not a single light to be seen, the
boats are all gone, and yet the flag is still flying at its gay
flag-staff, there, by the obelisks on each side of the gate.”

“Rhodopis must surely be from home; can they have forgotten?”—Here a
deep voice suddenly interrupted him with the exclamation, “Ha! the
commander of the body-guard!”

“A pleasant evening to you, Knakais,” exclaimed Phanes, kindly greeting
the old man, who now came up. “But how is it that this garden is as still
as an Egyptian tomb, and yet the flag of welcome is fluttering at the
gate? How long has that white ensign waved for guests in vain?”

“How long indeed?” echoed the old slave of Rhodopis with a smile. “So long
as the Fates graciously spare the life of my mistress, the old flag is
sure to waft as many guests hither as the house is able to contain.
Rhodopis is not at home now, but she must return shortly. The evening
being so fine, she determined on taking a pleasure-trip on the Nile with
her guests. They started at sunset, two hours ago, and the evening meal is
already prepared; they cannot remain away much longer. I pray you, Phanes,
to have patience and follow me into the house. Rhodopis would not easily
forgive me, if I allowed such valued guests to depart. You stranger,” he
added, turning to the Spartan, “I entreat most heartily to remain; as
friend of your friend you will be doubly welcome to my mistress.”

The two Greeks, following the servant, seated themselves in an arbor, and
Aristomachus, after gazing on the scene around him now brilliantly lighted
by the moon, said, “Explain to me, Phanes, by what good fortune this
Rhodopis, formerly only a slave and courtesan can now live as a queen, and
receive her guests in this princely manner?”

“I have long expected this question,” answered the Athenian. “I shall be
delighted to make you acquainted with the past history of this woman
before you enter her house. So long as we were on the Nile, I would not
intrude my tale upon you; that ancient river has a wonderful power of
compelling to silence and quiet contemplation. Even my usually quick
tongue was paralyzed like yours, when I took my first night-journey on the
Nile.”

“I thank you for this,” replied the Spartan. “When I first saw the aged
priest Epimenides, at Knossus in Crete, he was one hundred and fifty years
old, and I remember that his age and sanctity filled me with a strange
dread; but how far older, how far more sacred, is this hoary river, the
ancient stream ‘Aigyptos’! Who would wish to avoid the power of his
spells? Now, however, I beg you to give me the history of Rhodopis.”

Phanes began: “When Rhodopis was a little child playing with her
companions on the Thracian sea-shore, she was stolen by some Phoenician
mariners, carried to Samos, and bought by Iadmon, one of the geomori, or
landed aristocracy of the island. The little girl grew day by day more
beautiful, graceful and clever, and was soon an object of love and
admiration to all who knew her. AEsop, the fable-writer, who was at that
time also in bondage to Iadmon, took an especial pleasure in the growing
amiability and talent of the child, taught her and cared for her in the
same way as the tutors whom we keep to educate our Athenian boys.

The kind teacher found his pupil tractable and quick of comprehension, and
the little slave soon practised the arts of music, singing and eloquence,
in a more charming and agreeable manner than the sons of her master
Iadmon, on whose education the greatest care had been lavished. By the
time she had reached her fourteenth year, Rhodopis was so beautiful and
accomplished, that the jealous wife of Iadmon would not suffer her to
remain any longer in the house, and the Samian was forced, with a heavy
heart, to sell her to a certain Xanthus. The government of Samos at that
time was still in the hands of the less opulent nobles; had Polykrates
then been at the head of affairs, Xanthus need not have despaired of a
purchaser. These tyrants fill their treasuries as the magpies their nests!
As it was, however, he went off with his precious jewel to Naukratis, and
there gained a fortune by means of her wondrous charms. These were three
years of the deepest humiliation to Rhodopis, which she still remembers
with horror.

Now it happened, just at the time when her fame was spreading through all
Greece, and strangers were coming from far to Naukratis for her sake
alone, that the people of Lesbos rose up against their nobles, drove them
forth, and chose the wise Pittakus as their ruler.

The highest families of Lesbos were forced to leave the country, and fled,
some to Sicily, some to the Greek provinces of Italy, and others to Egypt.
Alcaeus, the greatest poet of his day, and Charaxus, the brother of that
Sappho whose odes it was our Solon’s last wish to learn by heart, came
here to Naukratis, which had already long been the flourishing centre of
commercial communication between Egypt and the rest of the world. Charaxus
saw Rhodopis, and soon loved her so passionately, that he gave an immense
sum to secure her from the mercenary Xanthus, who was on the point of
returning with her to his own country; Sappho wrote some biting verses,
derisive of her brother and his purchase, but Alcaeus on the other hand,
approved, and gave expression to this feeling in glowing songs on the
charms of Rhodopis. And now Sappho’s brother, who had till then remained
undistinguished among the many strangers at Naukratis, became a noted man
through Rhodopis. His house was soon the centre of attraction to all
foreigners, by whom she was overwhelmed with gifts. The King Hophra,
hearing of her beauty and talent, sent for her to Memphis, and offered to
buy her of Charaxus, but the latter had already long, though secretly,
given Rhodopis her freedom, and loved her far too well to allow of a
separation. She too, loved the handsome Lesbian and refused to leave him
despite the brilliant offers made to her on all sides. At length Charaxus
made this wonderful woman his lawful wife, and continued to live with her
and her little daughter Kleis in Naukratis, until the Lesbian exiles were
recalled to their native land by Pittakus. He then started homeward with
his wife, but fell ill on the journey, and died soon after his arrival at
Mitylene. Sappho, who had derided her brother for marrying one beneath
him, soon became an enthusiastic admirer of the beautiful widow and
rivalled Alcaeus in passionate songs to her praise.

After the death of the poetess, Rhodopis returned, with her little
daughter, to Naukratis, where she was welcomed as a goddess. During this
interval Amasis, the present king of Egypt, had usurped the throne of the
Pharaohs, and was maintaining himself in its possession by help of the
army, to which caste he belonged.

As his predecessor Hophra had accelerated his fall, and brought the army
and priesthood to open rebellion by his predilection for the Greek nation,
and for intercourse with foreigners generally, (always an abomination in
the eyes of the Egyptians), men felt confident that Amasis would return to
the old ways, would rigorously exclude foreigners from the country,
dismiss the Greek mercenaries, and instead of taking counsel from the
Greeks, would hearken only to the commands of the priesthood. But in this,
as you must see yourself, the prudent Egyptians had guessed wide of the
mark in their choice of a ruler; they fell from Scylla into Charybdis. If
Hophra was called the Greeks’ friend, Amasis must be named our lover. The
Egyptians, especially the priests and the army, breathe fire and flame,
and would fain strangle us one and all, off hand, This feeling on the part
of the soldiery does not disturb Amasis, for he knows too well the
comparative value of their and our services; but with the priests it is
another and more serious matter, for two reasons: first, they possess an
unbounded influence over the people; and secondly. Amasis himself retains
more affection than he likes to acknowledge to us, for this absurd and
insipid religion—a religion which appears doubly sacred to its
adherents simply because it has existed in this eccentric land—unchanged
for thousands of years. These priests make the king’s life burdensome to
him; they persecute and injure us in every possible way; and indeed, if it
had not been for the king’s protection, I should long ago have been a dead
man. But I am wandering from my tale! As I said before, Rhodopis was
received at Naukratis with open arms by all, and loaded with marks of
favor by Amasis, who formed her acquaintance. Her daughter Kleis, as is
the case with the little Sappho now—was never allowed to appear in
the society which assembled every evening at her mother’s house, and
indeed was even more strictly brought up than the other young girls in
Naukratis. She married Glaucus, a rich Phocaean merchant of noble family,
who had defended his native town with great bravery against the Persians,
and with him departed to the newly-founded Massalia, on the Celtic coast.
There, however, the young couple both fell victims to the climate, and
died, leaving a little daughter, Sappho. Rhodopis at once undertook the
long journey westward, brought the orphan child back to live with her,
spent the utmost care on her education, and now that she is grown up,
forbids her the society of men, still feeling the stains of her own youth
so keenly that she would fain keep her granddaughter (and this in Sappho’s
case is not difficult), at a greater distance from contact with our sex
than is rendered necessary, by the customs of Egypt. To my friend herself
society is as indispensable as water to the fish or air to the bird. Her
house is frequented by all the strangers here, and whoever has once
experienced her hospitality and has the time at command will never after
be found absent when the flag announces an evening of reception. Every
Greek of mark is to be found here, as it is in this house that we consult
on the wisest measures for encountering the hatred of the priests and
bringing the king round to our own views. Here you can obtain not only the
latest news from home, but from the rest of the world, and this house is
an inviolable sanctuary for the persecuted, Rhodopis possessing a royal
warrant which secures her from every molestation on the part of the
police.

Our own songs and our own language are to be heard here, and here we take
counsel on the best means for delivering Greece from the ever fresh
encroachments of her tyrants.

In a word, this house is the centre of attraction for all Hellenic
interests in Egypt, and of more importance to us politically, than our
temple, the Hellenion itself, and our hall of commerce.

In a few minutes you will see this remarkable grandmother, and, if we
should be here alone, perhaps the grandchild too; you will then at once
perceive that they owe everything to their own rare qualities and not to
the chances of good fortune. Ah! there they come! they are going towards
the house. Cannot you hear the slave-girls singing? Now they are going in.
First let them quietly be seated, then follow me, and when the evening is
over you shall say whether you repent of having come hither, and whether
Rhodopis resembles more nearly a queen or a freed bond-woman.”

The houses was built in the Grecian style. It was a rather long,
one-storied building, the outside of which would be called extremely plain
in the present day; within, it united the Egyptian brilliancy of coloring
with the Greek beauty of form. The principal door opened into the
entrance-hall. To the left of this lay a large dining-room, overlooking
the Nile, and, opposite to this last was the kitchen, an apartment only to
be found in the houses of the wealthier Greeks, the poorer families being
accustomed to prepare their food at the hearth in the front apartment. The
hall of reception lay at the other end of the entrance-hall, and was in
the form of a square, surrounded within by a colonnade, into which various
chambers opened. This was the apartment devoted to the men, in the centre
of which was the household fire, burning on an altar-shaped hearth of rich
AEginetan metal-work.

It was lighted by an opening in the roof, which formed at the same time,
an outlet for the smoke. From this room (at the opposite end to that on
which it opened into the entrance-hall), a passage, closed by a
well-fastened door, led into the chamber of the women. This was also
surrounded by a colonnade within, but only on three sides, and here the
female inhabitants were accustomed to pass their time, when not employed,
spinning or weaving, in the rooms lying near the back or garden-door as it
was termed. Between these latter and the domestic offices, which lay on
the right and left of the women’s apartment, were the sleeping-rooms;
these served also as places of security for the valuables of the house.
The walls of the men’s apartment were painted of a reddish-brown color,
against which the outlines of some white marble carvings, the gift of a
Chian sculptor, stood out in sharp relief. The floor was covered with rich
carpets from Sardis; low cushions of panthers’ skins lay ranged along the
colonnade; around the artistically wrought hearth stood quaint Egyptian
settees, and small, delicately-carved tables of Thya wood, on which lay
all kinds of musical instruments, the flute, cithara and lyre. Numerous
lamps of various and singular shapes, filled with Kiki oil, hung against
the walls. Some represented fire-spouting dolphins; others, strange winged
monsters from whose jaws the flames issued; and these, blending their
light with that from the hearth, illumined the apartment.

In this room a group of men were assembled, whose appearance and dress
differed one from the other. A Syrian from Tyre, in a long crimson robe,
was talking animatedly to a man whose decided features and crisp, curly,
black hair proclaimed him an Israelite. The latter had come to Egypt to
buy chariots and horses for Zerubbabel, the governor of Judah—the
Egyptian equipages being the most sought after at that time. Close to him
stood three Greeks from Asia Minor, the rich folds of whose garments (for
they wore the costly dress of their native city Miletus), contrasted
strongly with the plain and unadorned robe of Phryxus, the deputy
commissioned to collect money for the temple of Apollo at Delphi, with
whom they were in earnest conversation. Ten years before, the ancient
temple had been consumed by fire; and at this time efforts were being made
to build another, and a more beautiful one.

Two of the Milesians, disciples of Anaximander and Anaximenes, were
staying then in Egypt, to study astronomy and the peculiar wisdom of the
Egyptians at Heliopolis, and the third was a wealthy merchant and
ship-owner, named Theopompus, who had settled at Naukratis.

Rhodopis herself was engaged in a lively conversation with two Samian
Greeks: the celebrated worker in metals, sculptor and goldsmith Theodorus,
and the Iambic poet Ibykus of Rhegium, who had left the court of
Polykrates for a time in order to become acquainted with Egypt, and were
bearers of presents to Amasis from their ruler. Close to the fire lay
Philoinus of Sybaris, a corpulent man with strongly-marked features and a
sensual expression of face; he was stretched at full-length on a couch
covered with spotted furs, and amused himself by playing with his scented
curls wreathed with gold, and with the golden chains which fell from his
neck on to the long saffron-colored robe that clothed him down to his
feet.

Rhodopis had a kind word for each of her guests, but at present she
occupied herself exclusively with the two celebrated Sarnians; their talk
was of art and poetry. The fire of youth still glowed in the eyes of the
Thracian woman, her tall figure was still full and unbent; her hair,
though grey, was wound round her beautifully formed head in luxuriant
waves, and laid together at the back in a golden net, and a sparkling
diadem shone above her lofty forehead.

Her noble Greek features were pale, but still beautiful and without a
wrinkle, notwithstanding her great age; indeed her small mouth with its
full lips, her white teeth, her eyes so bright and yet so soft, and her
nobly-formed nose and forehead would have been beauty enough for a young
maiden.

Rhodopis looked younger than she really was, though she made no attempt to
disavow her age. Matronly dignity was visible in every movement, and the
charm of her manner lay, not in a youthful endeavor to be pleasing, but in
the effort of age to please others, considering their wishes, and at the
same time demanding consideration in return.

Our two friends now presenting themselves in the hall, every eye turned
upon them, and as Phanes entered leading his friend by the hand, the
heartiest welcome met him from all sides; one of the Milesians indeed
exclaimed: “Now I see what it is that was wanting to our assembly. There
can be no merriment without Phanes.”

And Philoinus, the Sybarite, raising his deep voice, but not allowing
himself for a moment to be disturbed in his repose, remarked: “Mirth is a
good thing, and if you bring that with you, be welcome to me also,
Athenian.”

“To me,” said Rhodopis, turning to her new guests, “you are heartily
welcome, but not more in your joy than if borne down by sadness. I know no
greater pleasure than to remove the lines of care from a friend’s brow.
Spartan, I venture to address you as a friend too, for the friends of my
friends are my own.” Aristomachus bowed in silence, but Phanes, addressing
himself both to Rhodopis and to the Sybarite, answered: “Well then, my
friends, I can content you both. To you, Rhodopis, I must come for
comfort, for soon, too soon I must leave you and your pleasant house;
Philoinus however can still enjoy my mirth, as I cannot but rejoice in the
prospect of seeing my beloved Hellas once more, and of quitting, even
though involuntarily, this golden mouse-trap of a country.”

“You are going away! you have been dismissed? Whither are you going?”
echoed on all sides.

“Patience, patience, my friends,” cried Phanes. “I have a long story to
tell, but I will rather reserve it for the evening meal. And indeed, dear
friend, my hunger is nearly as great as my distress at being obliged to
leave you.”

“Hunger is a good thing,” philosophized the Sybarite once more, “when a
man has a good meal in prospect.”

“On that point you may be at ease, Philoinus,” answered Rhodopis. “I told
the cook to do his utmost, for the most celebrated epicure from the most
luxurious city in the world, no less a person than Philoinus of Sybaris,
would pass a stern judgment on his delicate dishes. Go, Knakias, tell them
to serve the supper. Are you content now, my impatient guests? As for me,
since I heard Phanes’ mournful news, the pleasure of the meal is gone.”
The Athenian bowed, and the Sybarite returned to his philosophy.
“Contentment is a good thing when every wish can be satisfied. I owe you
thanks, Rhodopis, for your appreciation of my incomparable native city.
What says Anakreon?

“Eh! Ibykus, have I quoted your friend the poet correctly, who feasts with
you at Polykrates’ banquets? Well, I think I may venture to say of my own
poor self that if Anakreon can make better verses, I understand the art of
living quite as well as he, though he writes so many poems upon it. Why,
in all his songs there is not one word about the pleasures of the table!
Surely they are as important as love and play! I confess that the two last
are clear to me also; still, I could exist without them, though in a
miserable fashion, but without food, where should we be?”

The Sybarite broke into a loud laugh at his own joke; but the Spartan
turned away from this conversation, drew Phryxus into a corner, and quite
abandoning his usually quiet and deliberate manner, asked eagerly whether
he had at last brought him the long wished for answer from the Oracle. The
serious features of the Delphian relaxed, and thrusting his hand into the
folds of his chiton,—[An undergarment resembling a shirt.]—he
drew out a little roll of parchment-like sheepskin, on which a few lines
were written.

The hands of the brave, strong Spartan trembled as he seized the roll, and
his fixed gaze on its characters was as if it would pierce the skin on
which they were inscribed.

Then, recollecting himself, he shook his head sadly and said: “We Spartans
have to learn other arts than reading and writing; if thou canst, read the
what Pythia says.”

The Delphian glanced over the writing and replied: “Rejoice! Loxias
(Apollo) promises thee a happy return home; hearken to the prediction of
the priestess.”

To these words the Spartan listened with intense eagerness; he had them
read over to him twice, then repeated them from memory, thanked Phryxus,
and placed the roll within the folds of his garment.

The Delphian then took part in the general conversation, but Aristomachus
repeated the words of the Oracle unceasingly to himself in a low voice,
endeavoring to impress them on his memory, and to interpret their obscure
import.


CHAPTER II.

The doors of the supper-room now flew open. Two lovely, fair-haired boys,
holding myrtle-wreaths, stood on each side of the entrance, and in the
middle of the room was a large, low, brilliantly polished table,
surrounded by inviting purple cushions.

Rich nosegays adorned this table, and on it were placed large joints of
roast meat, glasses and dishes of various shapes filled with dates, figs,
pomegranates, melons and grapes, little silver beehives containing honey,
and plates of embossed copper, on which lay delicate cheese from the
island of Trinakria. In the midst was a silver table-ornament, something
similar to an altar, from which arose fragrant clouds of incense.

At the extreme end of the table stood the glittering silver cup in which
the wine was to be mixed.

This was of beautiful AEginetan workmanship, its crooked handles
representing two giants, who appeared ready to sink under the weight of
the bowl which they sustained.

Like the altar, it was enwreathed with flowers, and a garland of roses or
myrtle had been twined around the goblet of each guest.

The entire floor was strewed with rose-leaves, and the room lighted by
many lamps which were hung against the smooth, white, stucco walls.

No sooner were the guests reclining on their cushions, than the
fair-haired boys reappeared, wound garlands of ivy and myrtle around the
heads and shoulders of the revellers, and washed their feet in silver
basins. The Sybarite, though already scented with all the perfumes of
Arabia, would not rest until he was completely enveloped in roses and
myrtle, and continued to occupy the two boys even after the carver had
removed the first joints from the table in order to cut them up; but as
soon as the first course, tunny-fish with mustard-sauce, had been served,
he forgot all subordinate matters, and became absorbed in the enjoyment of
the delicious viands.

Rhodopis, seated on a chair at the head of the table, near the wine-bowl,
not only led the conversation, but gave directions to the slaves in
waiting.

She gazed on her cheerful guests with a kind of pride, and seemed to be
devoting her attention to each exclusively, now asking the Delphian how he
had succeeded in his mission, then the Sybarite whether he was content
with the performances of her cook, and then listening eagerly to Ibykus,
as he told how the Athenian, Phrynichus, had introduced the religious
dramas of Thespis of Ikaria into common life, and was now representing
entire histories from the past by means of choruses, recitative and
answer.

Then she turned to the Spartan, remarking, that to him alone of all her
guests, instead of an apology for the simplicity of the meal, she felt she
owed one for its luxury. The next time he came, her slave Knakias, who, as
an escaped Helot, boasted that he could cook a delicious blood-soup (here
the Sybarite shuddered), should prepare him a true Lacedaemonian repast.

When the guests had eaten sufficiently they again washed their hands; the
plates and dishes were removed, the floor cleansed, and wine and water
poured into the bowl.

At last, when Rhodopis had convinced herself that the right moment was
come, she turned to Phanes, who was engaged in a discussion with the
Milesians, and thus addressed him:

“Noble friend, we have restrained our impatience so long that it must
surely now be your duty to tell us what evil chance is threatening to
snatch you from Egypt and from our circle. You may be able to leave us and
this country with a light heart, for the gods are wont to bless you
Ionians with that precious gift from your very birth, but we shall
remember you long and sadly. I know of no worse loss than that of a friend
tried through years, indeed some of us have lived too long on the Nile not
to have imbibed a little of the constant, unchanging Egyptian temperament.
You smile, and yet I feel sure that long as you have desired to revisit
your dear Hellas, you will not be able to leave us quite without regret.
Ah, you admit this? Well, I knew I had not been deceived. But now tell us
why you are obliged to leave Egypt, that we may consider whether it may
not be possible to get the king’s decree reversed, and so keep you with
us.”

Phanes smiled bitterly, and replied: “Many thanks, Rhodopis, for these
flattering words, and for the kind intention either to grieve over my
departure, or if possible, to prevent it. A hundred new faces will soon
help you to forget mine, for long as you have lived on the Nile, you are
still a Greek from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot, and may
thank the gods that you have remained so. I am a great friend of constancy
too, but quite as great an enemy of folly, and is there one among you who
would not call it folly to fret over what cannot be undone? I cannot call
the Egyptian constancy a virtue, it is a delusion. The men who treasure
their dead for thousands of years, and would rather lose their last loaf
than allow a single bone belonging to one of their ancestors to be taken
from them, are not constant, they are foolish. Can it possibly make me
happy to see my friends sad? Certainly not! You must not imitate the
Egyptians, who, when they lose a friend, spend months in daily-repeated
lamentations over him. On the contrary, if you will sometimes think of the
distant, I ought to say, of the departed, friend, (for as long as I live I
shall never be permitted to tread Egyptian ground again), let it be with
smiling faces; do not cry, ‘Ah! why was Phanes forced to leave us?’ but
rather, ‘Let us be merry, as Phanes used to be when he made one of our
circle!’ In this way you must celebrate my departure, as Simonides
enjoined when he sang:

“If we are not to weep for the dead, how much less ought we to grieve for
absent friends! the former have left us for ever, but to the latter we say
at parting, ‘Farewell, until we meet again’”

Here the Sybarite, who had been gradually becoming more and more
impatient, could not keep silent any longer, and called out in the most
woe begone tone: “Will you never begin your story, you malicious fellow? I
cannot drink a single drop till you leave off talking about death. I feel
cold already, and I am always ill, if I only think of, nay, if I only hear
the subject mentioned, that this life cannot last forever.” The whole
company burst into a laugh, and Phanes began to tell his story:

“You know that at Sais I always live in the new palace; but at Memphis, as
commander of the Greek body-guard which must accompany the king
everywhere, a lodging was assigned me in the left wing of the old palace.

“Since Psamtik the First, Sais has always been the royal residence, and
the other palaces have in consequence become somewhat neglected. My
dwelling was really splendidly situated, and beautifully furnished; it
would have been first-rate, if, from the first moment of my entrance, a
fearful annoyance had not made its appearance.

“In the day-time, when I was seldom at home, my rooms were all that could
be wished, but at night it was impossible to sleep for the tremendous
noise made by thousands of rats and mice under the old floors, and
couches, and behind the hangings.

“Even in the first night an impudent mouse ran over my face.

“I was quite at a loss what to do, till an Egyptian soldier sold me two
large cats, and these, in the course of many weeks, procured me some rest
from my tormentors.

“Now, you are probably all aware that one of the charming laws of this
most eccentric nation, (whose culture and wisdom, you, my Milesian
friends, cannot sufficiently praise), declares the cat to be a sacred
animal. Divine honors are paid to these fortunate quadrupeds as well as to
many other animals, and he who kills a cat is punished with the same
severity as the murderer of a human being.”

Till now Rhodopis had been smiling, but when she perceived that Phanes’
banishment had to do with his contempt for the sacred animals, her face
became more serious. She knew how many victims, how many human lives, had
already been sacrificed to this Egyptian superstition, and how, only a
short time before, the king Amasis himself had endeavored in vain to
rescue an unfortunate Samian, who had killed a cat, from the vengeance of
the enraged populace.

“Everything was going well,” continued the officer, “when we left Memphis
two years ago.

“I confided my pair of cats to the care of one of the Egyptian servants at
the palace, feeling sure that these enemies of the rats would keep my
dwelling clear for the future; indeed I began to feel a certain veneration
for my deliverers from the plague of mice.

“Last year Amasis fell ill before the court could adjourn to Memphis, and
we remained at Sais.

“At last, about six week ago, we set out for the city of the Pyramids. I
betook me to my old quarters; not the shadow of a mouse’s tail was to be
seen there, but instead, they swarmed with another race of animals not one
whit dearer to me than their predecessors. The pair of cats had, during my
two years’ absence, increased twelve-fold. I tried all in my power to
dislodge this burdensome brood of all ages and colors, but in vain; every
night my sleep was disturbed by horrible choruses of four-footed animals,
and feline war-cries and songs.

“Every year, at the period of the Bubastis festival, all superfluous cats
may be brought to the temple of the cat-headed goddess Pacht, where they
are fed and cared for, or, as I believe, when they multiply too fast,
quietly put out of the way. These priests are knaves!

“Unfortunately the journey to the said temple” did not occur during the
time of our stay in Memphis; however, as I really could not tolerate this
army of tormentors any longer, I determined at least to get rid of two
families of healthy kittens with which their mothers had just presented
me. My old slave Mus, from his very name a natural enemy of cats, was told
to kill the little creatures, put them into a sack, and throw them into
the Nile.

“This murder was necessary, as the mewing of the kittens would otherwise
have betrayed the contents of the sack to the palace-warders. In the
twilight poor Muss betook himself to the Nile through the grove of Hathor,
with his perilous burden. But alas! the Egyptian attendant who was in the
habit of feeding my cats, had noticed that two families of kittens were
missing, and had seen through our whole plan.

“My slave took his way composedly through the great avenue of Sphinxes,
and by the temple of Ptah, holding the little bag concealed under his
mantle. Already in the sacred grove he noticed that he was being followed,
but on seeing that the men behind him stopped before the temple of Ptah
and entered into conversation with the priests, he felt perfectly
reassured and went on.

“He had already reached the bank of the Nile, when he heard voices calling
him and a number of people running towards him in haste; at the same
moment a stone whistled close by his head.

“Mus at once perceived the danger which was threatening him. Summoning all
his strength he rushed down to the Nile, flung the bag in, and then with a
beating heart, but as he imagined without the slightest evidence of guilt,
remained standing on the shore. A few moments later he was surrounded by
at least a hundred priests.

“Even the high-priest of Ptah, my old enemy Ptahotep, had not disdained to
follow the pursuers in person.

“Many of the latter, and amongst them the perfidious palace-servant,
rushed at once into the Nile, and there, to our confusion, found the bag
with its twelve little corpses, hanging entirely uninjured among the
Papyrus-reeds and bean-tendrils. The cotton coffin was opened before the
eyes of the high-priest, a troop of lower priests, and at least a thousand
of the inhabitants of Memphis, who had hurried to the spot, and when the
miserable contents were disclosed, there arose such fearful howls of
anguish, and such horrible cries of mingled lamentation and revenge, that
I heard them even in the palace.

“The furious multitude, in their wild rage, fell on my poor servant, threw
him down, trampled on him and would have killed him, had not the
all-powerful high-priest-designing to involve me, as author of the crime,
in the same ruin—commanded them to cease and take the wretched
malefactor to prison.

“Half an hour later I was in prison too.

“My old Mus took all the guilt of the crime on himself, until at last, by
means of the bastinado, the high-priest forced him to confess that I had
ordered the killing of the kittens, and that he, as a faithful servant,
had not dared to disobey.

“The supreme court of justice, whose decisions the king himself has no
power to reverse, is composed of priests from Memphis, Heliopolis and
Thebes: you can therefore easily believe that they had no scruple in
pronouncing sentence of death on poor Mus and my own unworthy Greek self.
The slave was pronounced guilty of two capital offences: first, of the
murder of the sacred animals, and secondly, of a twelve-fold pollution of
the Nile through dead bodies. I was condemned as originator of this, (as
they termed it) four-and-twenty-fold crime.

“Mus was executed on the same day. May the earth rest lightly on him! I
shall never think of him again as my slave, but as a friend and
benefactor! My sentence of death was read aloud in the presence of his
dead body, and I was already preparing for a long journey into the nether
world, when the king sent and commanded a reprieve.

“I was taken back to prison. One of my guards, an Arcadian Taxiarch, told
me that all the officers of the guard and many of the soldiers,
(altogether four thousand men) had threatened to send in their
resignation, unless I, their commander, were pardoned.

“As it was beginning to grow dusk I was taken to the king.

“He received me graciously, confirmed the Taxiarch’s statement with his
own mouth, and said how grieved he should be to lose a commander so
generally beloved. I must confess that I owe Amasis no grudge for his
conduct to me, on the contrary I pity him. You should have heard how he,
the powerful king, complained that he could never act according to his own
wishes, that even in his most private affairs he was crossed and
compromised by the priests and their influence.

“Had it only depended on himself, he could easily have pardoned the
transgression of a law, which I, as a foreigner, could not be expected to
understand, and might (though unjustly) esteem as a foolish superstition.
But for the sake of the priests he dare not leave me unpunished. The
lightest penalty he could inflict must be banishment from Egypt.

“He concluded his complaint with these words: ‘You little know what
concessions I must make to the priests in order to obtain your pardon.
Why, our supreme court of justice is independent even of me, its king!’

“And thus I received my dismissal, after having taken a solemn oath to
leave Memphis that very day, and Egypt, at latest, in three weeks.

“At the palace-gate I met Psamtik, the crown-prince. He has long been my
enemy, on account of some vexatious matters which I cannot divulge, (you
know them, Rhodopis). I was going to offer him my parting salutation, but
he turned his back upon me, saying: Once more you have escaped punishment,
Athenian; but you cannot elude my vengeance. Whithersoever you may go, I
shall be able to find you!’—‘That remains to be proved,’ I answered,
and putting myself and my possessions on board a boat, came to Naukratis.
Here, by good fortune, I met my old friend Aristomachus of Sparta, who, as
he was formerly in command of the Cyprian troops, will most likely be
nominated my successor. I should rejoice to know that such a first-rate
man was going to take my place, if I did not at the same time fear that
his eminent services will make my own poor efforts seem even more
insignificant than they really were.”

But here he was interrupted by Aristomachus, who called out: “Praise
enough, friend Phanes! Spartan tongues are stiff; but if you should ever
stand in need of my help, I will give you an answer in deeds, which shall
strike the right nail on the head.”

Rhodopis smiled her approval, and giving her hand to each, said:
“Unfortunately, the only conclusion to be drawn from your story, my poor
Phanes, is that you cannot possibly remain any longer in this country. I
will not blame you for your thoughtlessness, though you might have known
that you were exposing yourself to great danger for a mere trifle. The
really wise and brave man never undertakes a hazardous enterprise, unless
the possible advantage and disadvantage that may accrue to him from it can
be reckoned at least as equal. Recklessness is quite as foolish, but not
so blamable as cowardice, for though both do the man an injury, the latter
alone can dishonor him.

“Your thoughtlessness, this time, has very nearly cost your life, a life
dear to many, and which you ought to save for a nobler end. We cannot
attempt to keep you here; we should thereby only injure ourselves without
benefitting you. This noble Spartan must now take your place as head and
representative of the Greek nation at the Egyptian court, must endeavor to
protect us against the encroachment of the priests, and to retain for us
the royal favor. I take your hand, Aristomachus, and will not let it go
till you have promised that you will protect, to the utmost of your power,
every Greek, however humble, (as Phanes did before you), from the
insolence of the Egyptians, and will sooner resign your office than allow
the smallest wrong done to a Hellene to go unpunished. We are but a few
thousands among millions of enemies, but through courage we are great, and
unity must keep us strong. Hitherto the Greeks in Egypt have lived like
brothers; each has been ready to offer himself for the good of all, and
all for each, and it is just this unity that has made us, and must keep
us, powerful.

“Oh! could we but bestow this precious gift on our mother-country and her
colonies! would the tribes of our native land but forget their Dorian,
Ionian or AEolian descent, and, contenting themselves with the one name of
Hellenes, live as the children of one family, as the sheep of one flock,—then
indeed we should be strong against the whole world, and Hellas would be
recognized by all nations as the Queen of the Earth!”

A fire glowed in the eyes of the grey-haired woman as she uttered these
words; and the Spartan, grasping her hand impetuously and stamping on the
floor with his wooden leg, cried: “By Zeus, I will not let a hair of their
heads be hurt; but thou, Rhodopis, thou art worthy to have been born a
Spartan woman.”

“Or an Athenian,” cried Phanes.

“An Ionian,” said the Milesians, and the sculptor: “A daughter of the
Samian Geomori—”

“But I am more, far more, than all these,” cried the enthusiastic woman.
“I am a Hellene!”

The whole company, even to the Jew and the Syrian, were carried away by
the intense feeling of the moment; the Sybarite alone remained unmoved,
and, with his mouth so full as to render the words almost unintelligible,
said:

“You deserve to be a Sybarite too, Rhodopis, for your roast beef is the
best I have tasted since I left Italy, and your Anthylla wine’ relishes
almost as well as Vesuvian or Chian!”

Every one laughed, except the Spartan, who darted a look of indignation
and contempt at the epicure.

In this moment a deep voice, hitherto unknown to us, shouted suddenly
through the window, “A glad greeting to you, my friends!”

“A glad greeting,” echoed the chorus of revellers, questioning and
guessing who this late arrival might prove to be.

They had not long to wait, for even before the Sybarite had had time
carefully to test and swallow another mouthful of wine, the speaker,
Kallias, the son of Phaenippus of Athens, was already standing by the side
of Rhodopis. He was a tall thin man of over sixty, with a head of that
oval form which gives the impression of refinement and intellect. One of
the richest among the Athenian exiles, he had twice bought the possessions
of Pisistratus from the state, and twice been obliged to surrender them,
on the tyrant’s return to power. Looking round with his clear keen eyes on
this circle of acquaintances, he exchanged friendly greetings with all,
and exclaimed:

“If you do not set a high value on my appearance among you this evening, I
shall think that gratitude has entirely disappeared from the earth.”

“We have been expecting you a long time,” interrupted one of the
Milesians. “You are the first man to bring us news of the Olympic games!”

“And we could wish no better bearer of such news than the victor of former
days?” added Rhodopis. “Take your seat,” cried Phanes impatiently, “and
come to the point with your news at once, friend Kallias.”

“Immediately, fellow-countryman,” answered the other. “It is some time ago
now since I left Olympia. I embarked at Cenchreae in a fifty-oared Samian
vessel, the best ship that ever was built.

“It does not surprise me that I am the first Greek to arrive in Naukratis.
We encountered terrific storms at sea, and could not have escaped with our
lives, if the big-bellied Samian galley, with her Ibis beak and fish’s
tail had not been so splendidly timbered and manned.

“How far the other homeward-bound passengers may have been driven out of
their course, I cannot tell; we found shelter in the harbor of Samos, and
were able to put to sea again after ten days.

“We ran into the mouth of the Nile this morning. I went on board my own
bark at once, and was so favored by Boreas, who at least at the end of my
voyage, seemed willing to prove that he still felt kindly towards his old
Kallias, that I caught sight of this most friendly of all houses a few
moments since. I saw the waving flag, the brightly lighted windows, and
debated within myself whether to enter or not; but Rhodopis, your
fascination proved irresistible, and besides, I was bursting with all my
untold news, longing to share your feast, and to tell you, over the viands
and the wine, things that you have not even allowed yourselves to dream
of.”

Kallias settled himself comfortably on one of the cushions, and before
beginning to tell his news, produced and presented to Rhodopis a
magnificent gold bracelet in the form of a serpent’s, which he had bought
for a large sum at Samos, in the goldsmith’s workshop of the very
Theodorus who was now sitting with him at table.

“This I have brought for you,”’ he said, turning to the delighted
Rhodopis, “but for you, friend Phanes, I have something still better.
Guess, who won the four-horse chariot-race?”

“An Athenian?” asked Phanes, and his face glowed with excitement; for the
victory gained by one citizen at the Olympic games belonged to his whole
people, and the Olympic olive-branch was the greatest honor and happiness
that could fall to the lot, either of a single Hellene, or an entire Greek
tribe.

“Rightly guessed, Phanes!” cried the bringer of this joyful news, “The
first prize has been carried off by an Athenian; and not only so, your own
cousin Cimon, the son of Kypselos, the brother of that Miltiades, who,
nine Olympiads ago, earned us the same honor, is the man who has conquered
this year; and with the same steeds that gained him the prize at the last
games.

“The fame of the Alkmaeonidae is, verily, darkening more and more before
the Philaidae. Are not you proud, Phanes? do not you feel joy at the glory
of your family?”

In his delight Phanes had risen from his seat, and seemed suddenly to have
increased in stature by a whole head.

With a look of ineffable pride and consciousness of his own position, he
gave his hand to the messenger of victory. The latter, embracing his
countryman, continued:

“Yes, we have a right to feel proud and happy, Phanes; you especially, for
no sooner had the judges unanimously awarded the prize to Cimon, than he
ordered the heralds to proclaim the tyrant Pisistratus as the owner of the
splendid team, and therefore victor in the race. Pisistratus at once
caused it to be announced that your family was free to return to Athens,
and so now, Phanes, the long-wished for hour of your return home is
awaiting you.”

But at these words Phanes turned pale, his look of conscious pride changed
into one of indignation, and he exclaimed:

“At this I am to rejoice, foolish Kallias? rather bid me weep that a
descendant of Ajax should be capable of laying his well-won fame thus
ignominiously at a tyrant’s feet! No! I swear by Athene, by Father Zeus,
and by Apollo, that I will sooner starve in foreign lands than take one
step homeward, so long as the Pisistratidae hold my country in bondage.
When I leave the service of Amasis, I shall be free, free as a bird in the
air; but I would rather be the slave of a peasant in foreign lands, than
hold the highest office under Pisistratus. The sovereign power in Athens
belongs to us, its nobles; but Cimon by laying his chaplet at the feet of
Pisistratus has acknowledged the tyrants, and branded himself as their
servant. He shall hear that Phanes cares little for the tyrant’s clemency.
I choose to remain an exile till my country is free, till her nobles and
people govern themselves, and dictate their own laws. Phanes will never do
homage to the oppressor, though all the Philaidae, the Alkmaeonidae, and
even the men of your own house, Kallias, the rich Daduchi, should fall
down at his feet!”

With flashing eyes he looked round on the assembly; Kallias too
scrutinized the faces of the guests with conscious pride, as if he would
say:

“See, friends, the kind of men produced by my glorious country!”

Taking the hand of Phanes again, he said to him: “The tyrants are as
hateful to me as to you, my friend; but I have seen, that, so long as
Pisistratus lives, the tyranny cannot be overthrown. His allies, Lygdamis
of Naxos and Polykrates of Samos, are powerful; but the greatest danger
for our freedom lies in his own moderation and prudence. During my recent
stay in Greece I saw with alarm that the mass of the people in Athens love
their oppressor like a father. Notwithstanding his great power, he leaves
the commonwealth in the enjoyment of Solon’s constitution. He adorns the
city with the most magnificent buildings. They say that the new temple of
Zeus, now being built of glorious marble by Kallaeschrus, Antistates and
Porinus (who must be known to you, Theodorus), will surpass every building
that has yet been erected by the Hellenes. He understands how to attract
poets and artists of all kinds to Athens, he has had the poems of Homer
put into writing, and the prophecies of Musaeus collected by Onomakritus.
He lays out new streets and arranges fresh festivals; trade flourishes
under his rule, and the people find themselves well off, in spite of the
many taxes laid upon them. But what are the people? a vulgar multitude
who, like the gnats, fly towards every thing brilliant, and, so long as
the taper burns, will continue to flutter round it, even though they burn
their wings in doing so. Let Pisistratus’ torch burn out, Phanes, and I’ll
swear that the fickle crowd will flock around the returning nobles, the
new light, just as they now do around the tyrant.

“Give me your hand once more, you true son of Ajax; for you, my friends, I
have still many an interesting piece of news untold.

“The chariot-race, as I have just related, was won by Cimon who gave the
olive-branch to Pisistratus. Four finer horses than his I never saw.
Arkesilaus of Cyrene, Kleosthenes of Epidamnus, Aster of Sybaris,
Hekataeus of Miletus and many more had also sent splendid teams. Indeed
the games this time were more than brilliant. All Hellas had sent
deputies. Rhoda of the Ardeates, in distant Iberia, the wealthy Tartessus,
Sinope in the far East on the shores of Pontus, in short, every tribe that
could boast of Hellenic descent was well represented. The Sybarite
deputies were of a dazzling beauty; the Spartans, homely and simple, but
handsome as Achilles, tall and strong as Hercules; the Athenians
remarkable for their supple limbs and graceful movements, and the men of
Crotona were led by Milo, strongest of mortal birth. The Samian and
Milesian deputies vied in splendor and gorgeousness of attire with those
from Corinth and Mitylene: the flower of the Greek youth was assembled
there, and, in the space allotted to spectators, were seated, not only men
of every age, class and nation, but many virgins, fair and lovely maidens,
who had come to Olympia, more especially from Sparta, in order to
encourage the men during the games by their acclamations and applause. The
market was set up beyond the Alphaeus, and there traders from all parts of
the world were to be seen; Greeks, Carthaginians, Lydians, Phrygians and
shrewd Phoenicians from Palestine settled weighty business transactions,
or offered their goods to the public from tents and booths. But how can I
possibly describe to you the surging throngs of the populace, the echoing
choruses, the smoking festal hecatombs, the bright and variegated
costumes, the sumptuousness of the equipages, the clang of the different
dialects and the joyful cries of friends meeting again after years of
separation; or the splendid appearance of the envoys, the crowds of
lookers-on and venders of small wares, the brilliant effect produced by
the masses of spectators, who filled to overflowing the space allotted to
them, the eager suspense during the progress of the games, and the never
ending shouts of joy when the victory was decided; the solemn investiture
with the olive-branch, cut with a golden knife by the Elean boy, (whose
parents must both be living), from the sacred tree in the Altis planted so
many centuries ago by Hercules himself; or lastly, the prolonged
acclamations which, like peals of thunder, resounded in the Stadium, when
Milo of Crotona appeared, bearing on his shoulders the bronze statue of
himself cast by Dameas, and carried it through the Stadium into the Altis
without once tottering. The weight of the metal would have crushed a bull
to the earth: but borne by Milo it seemed like a child in the arms of its
Lacedaemonian nurse.

“The highest honors (after Cimon’s) were adjudged to a pair of Spartan
brothers, Lysander and Maro, the sons of Aristomachus. Maro was victor in
the foot race, but Lysander presented himself, amidst the shouts of the
spectators, as the opponent of Milo! Milo the invincible, victor at Pisa,
and in the Pythian and Isthmian combats. Milo was taller and stouter than
the Spartan, who was formed like Apollo, and seemed from his great youth
scarcely to have passed from under the hands of the schoolmaster.

“In their naked beauty, glistening with the golden oil, the youth and the
man stood opposite to one another, like a panther and a lion preparing for
the combat. Before the onset, the young Lysander raised his hands
imploringly to the gods, crying: ‘For my father, my honor, and the glory
of Sparta!’ The Crotonian looked down on the youth with a smile of
superiority; just as an epicure looks at the shell of the languste he is
preparing to open.

“And now the wrestling began. For some time neither could succeed in
grasping the other. The Crotonian threw almost irresistible weight into
his attempts to lay hold of his opponent, but the latter slipped through
the iron grip like a snake. This struggle to gain a hold lasted long, and
the immense multitude watched silently, breathless from excitement. Not a
sound was to be heard but the groans of the wrestlers and the singing of
the nightingales in the grove of the Altis. At last, the youth succeeded,
by means of the cleverest trick I ever saw, in clasping his opponent
firmly. For a long time, Milo exerted all his strength to shake him oft,
but in vain, and the sand of the Stadium was freely moistened by the great
drops of sweat, the result of this Herculean struggle.

“More and more intense waxed the excitement of the spectators, deeper and
deeper the silence, rarer the cries of encouragement, and louder the
groans of the wrestlers. At last Lysander’s strength gave way. Immediately
a thousand voices burst forth to cheer him on. He roused himself and made
one last superhuman effort to throw his adversary: but it was too late.
Milo had perceived the momentary weakness. Taking advantage of it, he
clasped the youth in a deadly embrace; a full black stream of blood welled
from Lysander’s beautiful lips, and he sank lifeless to the earth from the
wearied arms of the giant. Democedes, the most celebrated physician of our
day, whom you Samians will have known at the court of Polycrates, hastened
to the spot, but no skill could now avail the happy Lysander,—he was
dead.

“Milo was obliged to forego the victor’s wreath”; and the fame of this
youth will long continue to sound through the whole of Greece.

I myself would rather be the dead Lysander, son of Aristomachus, than the
living Kallias growing old in inaction away from his country. Greece,
represented by her best and bravest, carried the youth to his grave, and
his statue is to be placed in the Altis by those of Milo of Crotona and
Praxidamas of AEgina”. At length the heralds proclaimed the sentence of
the judges: ‘To Sparta be awarded a victor’s wreath for the dead, for the
noble Lysander hath been vanquished, not by Milo, but by Death, and he who
could go forth unconquered from a two hours’ struggle with the strongest
of all Greeks, hath well deserved the olive-branch.’”

Here Kallias stopped a moment in his narrative. During his animated
description of these events, so precious to every Greek heart, he had
forgotten his listeners, and, gazing into vacancy, had seen only the
figures of the wrestlers as they rose before his remembrance. Now, on
looking round, he perceived, to his astonishment, that the grey-haired man
with the wooden leg, whom he had already noticed, though without
recognizing him, had hidden his face in his hands and was weeping.
Rhodopis was standing at his right hand. Phanes at his left, and the other
guests were gazing at the Spartan, as if he had been the hero of Kallias’s
tale. In a moment the quick Athenian perceived that the aged man must
stand in some very near relation to one or other of the victors at
Olympia; but when he heard that he was Aristomachus-the father of that
glorious pair of brothers, whose wondrous forms were constantly hovering
before his eyes like visions sent down from the abodes of the gods, then
he too gazed on the sobbing old man with mingled envy and admiration, and
made no effort to restrain the tears which rushed into his own eyes,
usually so clear and keen. In those days men wept, as well as women,
hoping to gain relief from the balm of their own tears. In wrath, in
ecstasy of delight, in every deep inward anguish, we find the mighty
heroes weeping, while, on the other hand, the Spartan boys would submit to
be scourged at the altar of Artemis Orthia, and would bleed and even die
under the lash without uttering a moan, in order to obtain the praise of
the men.

For a time every one remained silent, out of respect to the old man’s
emotion. But at last the stillness was broken by Joshua the Jew, who began
thus, in broken Greek:

“Weep thy fill, O man of Sparta! I also have known what it is to lose a
son. Eleven years have passed since I buried him in the land of strangers,
by the waters of Babylon, where my people pined in captivity. Had yet one
year been added unto the life of the beautiful child, he had died in his
own land, and had been buried in the sepulchres of his fathers. But Cyrus
the Persian (Jehovah bless his posterity!) released us from bondage one
year too late, and therefore do I weep doubly for this my son, in that he
is buried among the enemies of my people Israel. Can there be an evil
greater than to behold our children, who are unto us as most precious
treasure, go down into the grave before us? And, may the Lord be gracious
unto me, to lose so noble a son, in the dawn of his early manhood, just at
the moment he had won such brilliant renown, must indeed be a bitter
grief, a grief beyond all others!”

Then the Spartan took away his hands from before his face; he was looking
stern, but smiled through his tears, and answered:

“Phoenician, you err! I weep not for anguish, but for joy, and would have
gladly lost my other son, if he could have died like my Lysander.”

The Jew, horrified at these, to him, sinful and unnatural words, shook his
head disapprovingly; but the Greeks overwhelmed the old man with
congratulations, deeming him much to be envied. His great happiness made
Aristomachus look younger by many years, and he cried to Rhodopis: “Truly,
my friend, your house is for me a house of blessing; for this is the
second gift that the gods have allowed to fall to my lot, since I entered
it.”—“What was the first?” asked Rhodopis. “A propitious oracle.”—“But,”
cried Phanes, “you have forgotten the third; on this day the gods have
blessed you with the acquaintance of Rhodopis. But, tell me, what is this
about the oracle?”—“May I repeat it to our friends?” asked the
Delphian.

Aristomachus nodded assent, and Phryxus read aloud a second time the
answer of the Pythia:

Scarcely was the last word out of his mouth, when Kallias the Athenian,
springing up, cried: “In this house, too, you shall receive from me the
fourth gift of the gods. Know that I have kept my rarest news till last:
the Persians are coming to Egypt!”

At this every one, except the Sybarite, rushed to his feet, and Kallias
found it almost impossible to answer their numerous questions. “Gently,
gently, friends,” he cried at last; “let me tell my story in order, or I
shall never finish it at all. It is not an army, as Phanes supposes, that
is on its way hither, but a great embassy from Cambyses, the present ruler
of the most powerful kingdom of Persia. At Samos I heard that they had
already reached Miletus, and in a few days they will be here. Some of the
king’s own relations, are among the number, the aged Croesus, king of
Lydia, too; we shall behold a marvellous splendor and magnificence! Nobody
knows the object of their coming, but it is supposed that King Cambyses
wishes to conclude an alliance with Amasis; indeed some say the king
solicits the hand of Pharaoh’s daughter.”

“An alliance?” asked Phanes, with an incredulous shrug of the shoulders.
“Why the Persians are rulers over half the world already. All the great
Asiatic powers have submitted to their sceptre; Egypt and our own
mother-country, Hellas, are the only two that have been shared by the
conqueror.”

“You forget India with its wealth of gold, and the great migratory nations
of Asia,” answered Kallias. “And you forget moreover, that an empire,
composed like Persia of some seventy nations or tribes of different
languages and customs, bears the seeds of discord ever within itself, and
must therefore guard against the chance of foreign attack; lest, while the
bulk of the army be absent, single provinces should seize the opportunity
and revolt from their allegiance. Ask the Milesians how long they would
remain quiet if they heard that their oppressors had been defeated in any
battle?”

Theopompus, the Milesian merchant, called out, laughing at the same time:
“If the Persians were to be worsted in one war, they would at once be
involved in a hundred others, and we should not be the last to rise up
against our tyrants in the hour of their weakness!”

“Whatever the intentions of the envoys may be,” continued Kallias, “my
information remains unaltered; they will be here at the latest in three
days.”

“And so your oracle will be fulfilled, fortunate Aristomachus!” exclaimed
Rhodopis, “for see, the warrior hosts can only be the Persians. When they
descend to the shores of the Nile, then the powerful Five,’ your Ephori,
will change their decision, and you, the father of two Olympian victors,
will be recalled to your native land.

“Fill the goblets again, Knakias. Let us devote this last cup to the manes
of the glorious Lysander; and then I advise you to depart, for it is long
past midnight, and our pleasure has reached its highest point. The true
host puts an end to the banquet when his guests are feeling at their best.
Serene and agreeable recollections will soon bring you hither again;
whereas there would be little joy in returning to a house where the
remembrance of hours of weakness, the result of pleasure, would mingle
with your future enjoyment.” In this her guests agreed, and Ibykus named
her a thorough disciple of Pythagoras, in praise of the joyous, festive
evening.

Every one prepared for departure. The Sybarite, who had been drinking
deeply in order to counteract the very inconvenient amount of feeling
excited by the conversation, rose also, assisted by his slaves, who had to
be called in for this purpose.

While he was being moved from his former comfortable position, he
stammered something about a “breach of hospitality;” but, when Rhodopis
was about to give him her hand at parting, the wine gained the ascendancy
and he exclaimed, “By Hercules, Rhodopis, you get rid of us as if we were
troublesome creditors. It is not my custom to leave a supper so long as I
can stand, still less to be turned out of doors like a miserable
parasite!”

“Hear reason, you immoderate Sybarite,” began Rhodopis, endeavoring with a
smile to excuse her proceeding. But these words, in Philoinus’
half-intoxicated mood, only increased his irritation; he burst into a
mocking laugh, and staggering towards the door, shouted: “Immoderate
Sybarite, you call me? good! here you have your answer: Shameless slave!
one can still perceive the traces of what you were in your youth. Farewell
then, slave of Iadmon and Xanthus, freedwoman of Charaxus!” He had not
however finished his sentence, when Aristomachus rushed upon him, stunned
him with a blow of his fist, and carried him off like a child down to the
boat in which his slaves were waiting at the garden-gate.


CHAPTER III.

The guests were all gone. Their departing mirth and joy had been smitten
down by the drunkard’s abusive words, like fresh young corn beneath a hail
storm. Rhodopis was left standing alone in the empty, brightly decorated
(supper-room). Knakias extinguished the colored lamps on the walls, and a
dull, mysterious half-light took the place of their brilliant rays,
falling scantily and gloomily on the piled-up plates and dishes, the
remnants of the meal, and the seats and cushions, pushed out of their
places by the retiring guests. A cold breeze came through the open door,
for the dawn was at hand, and just before sunrise, the air is generally
unpleasantly cool in Egypt. A cold chill struck the limbs of the aged
woman through her light garments. She stood gazing tearlessly and fixedly
into the desolate room, whose walls but a few minutes before had been
echoing with joy and gladness, and it seemed to her that the deserted
guest-chamber must be like her own heart. She felt as if a worm were
gnawing there, and the warm blood congealing into ice.

Lost in these thoughts, she remained standing till at last her old female
slave appeared to light her to her sleeping apartment.

Silently Rhodopis allowed herself to be undressed, and then, as silently,
lifted the curtain which separated a second sleeping apartment from her
own. In the middle of this second room stood a bedstead of maplewood, and
there, on white sheets spread over a mattress of fine sheep’s wool, and
protected from the cold by bright blue coverlets’s, lay a graceful, lovely
girl asleep; this was Rhodopis’ granddaughter, Sappho. The rounded form
and delicate figure seemed to denote one already in opening maidenhood,
but the peaceful, blissful smile could only belong to a harmless, happy
child.

One hand lay under her head, hidden among the thick dark brown hair, the
other clasped unconsciously a little amulet of green stone, which hung
round her neck. Over her closed eyes the long lashes trembled almost
imperceptibly, and a delicate pink flush came and went on the cheek of the
slumberer. The finely-cut nostrils rose and fell with her regular
breathing, and she lay there, a picture of innocence, of peace, smiling in
dreams, and of the slumber that the gods bestow on early youth, when care
has not yet come.

Softly and carefully, crossing the thick carpets on tiptoe, the
grey-haired woman approached, looked with unutterable tenderness into the
smiling, childish face, and, kneeling down silently by the side of the
bed, buried her face in its soft coverings, so that the girl’s hand just
came in contact with her hair. Then she wept, and without intermission; as
though she hoped with this flood of tears to wash away not only her recent
humiliation, but with it all other sorrow from her mind.

At length she rose, breathed a light kiss on the sleeping girl’s forehead,
raised her hands in prayer towards heaven, and returned to her own room,
gently and carefully as she had come.

At her own bedside she found the old slave-woman, still waiting for her.

“What do you want so late, Melitta?” said Rhodopis, kindly, under her
breath. “Go to bed; at your age it is not good to remain up late, and you
know that I do not require you any longer. Good night! and do not come
to-morrow until I send for you. I shall not be able to sleep much
to-night, and shall be thankful if the morning brings me a short repose.”

The woman hesitated; it seemed that she had some thing on her mind which
she feared to utter.

“There is something you want to ask me?” said Rhodopis.

Still the old slave hesitated.

“Speak!” said Rhodopis, “speak at once, and quickly.”

“I saw you weeping,” said the slave-woman, “you seem ill or sad; let me
watch this night by your bedside. Will you not tell me what ails you? You
have often found that to tell a sorrow lightens the heart and lessens the
pain. Then tell me your grief to-day too; it will do you good, it will
bring back peace to your mind.”

“No,” answered the other, “I cannot utter it.” And then she continued,
smiling bitterly: “I have once more experienced that no one, not even a
god, has power to cancel the past of any human being, and that, in this
world, misfortune and disgrace are one and the same. Good night, leave me;
Melitta!”

At noon on the following day, the same boat, which, the evening before,
had carried the Athenian and the Spartan, stopped once more before
Rhodopis’ garden.

The sun was shining so brightly, so warmly and genially in the dark blue
Egyptian sky, the air was so pure and light, the beetles were humming so
merrily, the boatmen singing so lustily and happily, the shores of the
Nile bloomed in such gay, variegated beauty, and were so thickly peopled,
the palm-trees, sycamores, bananas and acacias were so luxuriant in
foliage and blossom, and over the whole landscape the rarest and most
glorious gifts seemed to have been poured out with such divine
munificence, that a passer-by must have pronounced it the very home of joy
and gladness, a place from which sadness and sorrow had been forever
banished.

How often we fancy, in passing a quiet village hidden among its orchards,
that this at least must be the abode of peace, and unambitious
contentment! But alas! when we enter the cottages, what do we find? there,
as everywhere else, distress and need, passion and unsatisfied longing,
fear and remorse, pain and misery; and by the side of these, Ah! how few
joys! Who would have imagined on coming to Egypt, that this luxuriant,
laughing sunny land, whose sky is always unclouded, could possibly produce
and nourish men given to bitterness and severity? that within the
charming, hospitable house of the fortunate Rhodopis, covered and
surrounded, as it was, with sweet flowers, a heart could have been beating
in the deepest sadness? And, still more, who among all the guests of that
honored, admired Thracian woman, would have believed that this sad heart
belonged to her? to the gracious, smiling matron, Rhodopis herself?

She was sitting with Phanes in a shady arbor near the cooling spray of a
fountain. One could see that she had been weeping again, but her face was
beautiful and kind as ever. The Athenian was holding her hand and trying
to comfort her.

Rhodopis listened patiently, and smiled the while; at times her smile was
bitter, at others it gave assent to his words. At last however she
interrupted her well-intentioned friend, by saying:

“Phanes, I thank you. Sooner or later this last disgrace must be forgotten
too. Time is clever in the healing art. If I were weak I should leave
Naukratis and live in retirement for my grandchild alone; a whole world,
believe me, lies slumbering in that young creature. Many and many a time
already I have longed to leave Egypt, and as often have conquered the
wish. Not because I cannot live without the homage of your sex; of that I
have already had more than enough in my life, but because I feel that I,
the slave-girl and the despised woman once, am now useful, necessary,
almost indispensable indeed, to many free and noble men. Accustomed as I
am, to an extended sphere of work, in its nature resembling a man’s, I
could not content myself in living for one being alone, however dear. I
should dry up like a plant removed from a rich soil into the desert, and
should leave my grandchild desolate indeed, three times orphaned, and
alone in the world. No! I shall remain in Egypt.

“Now that you are leaving, I shall be really indispensable to our friends
here. Amasis is old; when Psamtik comes to the throne we shall have
infinitely greater difficulties to contend with than heretofore. I must
remain and fight on in the fore-front of our battle for the freedom and
welfare of the Hellenic race. Let them call my efforts unwomanly if they
will. This is, and shall be, the purpose of my life, a purpose to which I
will remain all the more faithful, because it is one of those to which a
woman rarely dares devote her life. During this last night of tears I have
felt that much, very much of that womanly weakness still lingers in me
which forms at once the happiness and misery of our sex. To preserve this
feminine weakness in my granddaughter, united with perfect womanly
delicacy, has been my first duty; my second to free myself entirely from
it. But a war against one’s own nature cannot be carried on without
occasional defeat, even if ultimately successful. When grief and pain are
gaining the upperhand and I am well nigh in despair, my only help lies in
remembering my friend Pythagoras, that noblest among men, and his words:
‘Observe a due proportion in all things, avoid excessive joy as well as
complaining grief, and seek to keep thy soul in tune and harmony like a
well-toned harp.’”

“This Pythagorean inward peace, this deep, untroubled calm, I see daily
before me in my Sappho; and struggle to attain it myself, though many a
stroke of fate untunes the chords of my poor heart. I am calm now! You
would hardly believe what power the mere thought of that first of all
thinkers, that calm, deliberate man, whose life acted on mine like sweet,
soft music, has over me. You knew him, you can understand what I mean.
Now, mention your wish; my heart is as calmly quiet as the Nile waters
which are flowing by so quietly, and I am ready to hear it, be it good or
evil.”

“I am glad to see you thus,” said the Athenian. “If you had remembered the
noble friend of wisdom, as Pythagoras was wont to call himself a little
sooner, your soul would have regained its balance yesterday. The master
enjoins us to look back every evening on the events, feelings and actions
of the day just past.

“Now had you done this, you would have felt that the unfeigned admiration
of all your guests, among whom were men of distinguished merit, outweighed
a thousandfold the injurious words of a drunken libertine; you would have
felt too that you were a friend of the gods, for was it not in your house
that the immortals gave that noble old man at last, after his long years
of misfortune, the greatest joy that can fall to the lot of any human
being? and did they not take from you one friend only in order to replace
him in the same moment, by another and a better? Come, I will hear no
contradiction. Now for my request.

“You know that people sometimes call me an Athenian, sometimes a
Halikarnassian. Now, as the Ionian, AEolian and Dorian mercenaries have
never been on good terms with the Karians, my almost triple descent (if I
may call it so) has proved very useful to me as commander of both these
divisions. Well qualified as Aristomachus may be for the command, yet in
this one point Amasis will miss me; for I found it an easy matter to
settle the differences among the troops and keep them at peace, while he,
as a Spartan, will find it very difficult to keep right with the Karian
soldiers.

“This double nationality of mine arises from the fact that my father
married a Halikarnassian wife out of a noble Dorian family, and, at the
time of my birth, was staying with her in Halikarnassus, having come
thither in order to take possession of her parental inheritance. So,
though I was taken back to Athens before I was three months old, I must
still be called a Karian, as a man’s native land is decided by his
birthplace.

“In Athens, as a young nobleman, belonging to that most aristocratic and
ancient family, the Philaidae, I was reared and educated in all the pride
of an Attic noble. Pisistratus, brave and clever, and though of equal, yet
by no means of higher birth, than ourselves, for there exists no family
more aristocratic than my father’s, gained possession of the supreme
authority. Twice, the nobles, by uniting all their strength, succeeded in
overthrowing him, and when, the third time, assisted by Lygdamis of Naxos,
the Argives and Eretrians, he attempted to return, we opposed him again.
We had encamped by the temple of Minerva at Pallene, and were engaged in
sacrificing to the goddess, early, before our first meal, when we were
suddenly surprised by the clever tyrant, who gained an easy, bloodless
victory over our unarmed troops. As half of the entire army opposed to the
tyrant was under my command, I determined rather to die than yield, fought
with my whole strength, implored the soldiers to remain steadfast,
resisted without yielding a point, but fell at last with a spear in my
shoulder.

“The Pisistratidae became lords of Athens. I fled to Halikarnassus, my
second home, accompanied by my wife and children. There, my name being
known through some daring military exploits, and, through my having once
conquered in the Pythian games, I was appointed to a command in the
mercenary troops of the King of Egypt; accompanied the expedition to
Cyprus, shared with Aristomachus the renown of having conquered the
birthplace of Aphrodite for Amasis, and finally was named
commander-in-chief of all the mercenaries in Egypt.

“Last summer my wife died; our children, a boy of eleven and a girl of ten
years, remained with an aunt in Halikarnassus. But she too has followed to
the inexorable Hades, and so, only a few days ago I sent for the little
ones here. They cannot, however, possibly reach Naukratis in less than
three weeks, and yet they will already have set out on their journey
before a letter to countermand my first order could reach them.

“I must leave Egypt in fourteen days, and cannot therefore receive them
myself.

“My own intentions are to go to the Thracian Chersonese, where my uncle,
as you know, has been called to fill a high office among the Dolonki. The
children shall follow me thither; my faithful old slave Korax will remain
in Naukratis on purpose to bring them to me.

“Now, if you will show to me that you are in deed and truth my friend,
will you receive the little ones and take care of them till the next ship
sails for Thrace? But above all, will you carefully conceal them from the
eyes of the crown-prince’s spies? You know that Psamtik hates me mortally,
and he could easily revenge himself on the father through the children. I
ask you for this great favor, first, because I know your kindness by
experience; and secondly, because your house has been made secure by the
king’s letter of guarantee, and they will therefore be safe here from the
inquiries of the police; notwithstanding that, by the laws of this most
formal country, all strangers, children not excepted, must give up their
names to the officer of the district.

“You can now judge of the depth of my esteem, Rhodopis; I am committing
into your hands all that makes life precious to me; for even my native
land has ceased to be dear while she submits so ignominiously to her
tyrants. Will you then restore tranquillity to an anxious father’s heart,
will you—?”

“I will, Phanes, I will!” cried the aged woman in undisguised delight.
“You are not asking me for any thing, you are presenting me with a gift.
Oh, how I look forward already to their arrival! And how glad Sappho will
be, when the little creatures come and enliven her solitude! But this I
can assure you, Phanes, I shall not let my little guests depart with the
first Thracian ship. You can surely afford to be separated from them one
short half-year longer, and I promise you they shall receive the best
lessons, and be guided to all that is good and beautiful.”

“On that head I have no fear,” answered Phanes, with a thankful smile.
“But still you must send off the two little plagues by the first ship; my
anxiety as to Psamtik’s revenge is only too well grounded. Take my most
heartfelt thanks beforehand for all the love and kindness which you will
show to my children. I too hope and believe, that the merry little
creatures will be an amusement and pleasure to Sappho in her lonely life.”

“And more,” interrupted Rhodopis looking down; “this proof of confidence
repays a thousand-fold the disgrace inflicted on me last night in a moment
of intoxication.—But here comes Sappho!”


CHAPTER IV.

Five days after the evening we have just described at Rhodopis’ house, an
immense multitude was to be seen assembled at the harbor of Sais.

Egyptians of both sexes, and of every age and class were thronging to the
water’s edge.

Soldiers and merchants, whose various ranks in society were betokened by
the length of their white garments, bordered with colored fringes, were
interspersed among the crowd of half-naked, sinewy men, whose only
clothing consisted of an apron, the costume of the lower classes. Naked
children crowded, pushed and fought to get the best places. Mothers in
short cloaks were holding their little ones up to see the sight, which by
this means they entirely lost themselves; and a troop of dogs and cats
were playing and fighting at the feet of these eager sight-seers, who took
the greatest pains not to tread on, or in any way injure the sacred
animals.

The police kept order among this huge crowd with long staves, on the metal
heads of which the king’s name was inscribed. Their care was especially
needed to prevent any of the people from being pushed into the swollen
Nile, an arm of which, in the season of the inundations, washes the walls
of Sais.

On the broad flight of steps which led between two rows of sphinxes down
to the landing-place of the royal boats, was a very different kind of
assembly.

The priests of the highest rank were seated there on stone benches. Many
wore long, white robes, others were clad in aprons, broad jewelled
collars, and garments of panther skins. Some had fillets adorned with
plumes that waved around brows, temples, and the stiff structures of false
curls that floated over their shoulders; others displayed the glistening
bareness of their smoothly-shaven skulls. The supreme judge was
distinguished by the possession of the longest and handsomest plume in his
head-dress, and a costly sapphire amulet, which, suspended by a gold
chain, hung on his breast.

The highest officers of the Egyptian army wore uniforms of gay colors,97
and carried short swords in their girdles. On the right side of the steps
a division of the body-guard was stationed, armed with battleaxes,
daggers, bows, and large shields; on the left, were the Greek mercenaries,
armed in Ionian fashion. Their new leader, our friend Aristomachus, stood
with a few of his own officers apart from the Egyptians, by the colossal
statues of Psamtik I., which had been erected on the space above the
steps, their faces towards the river.

In front of these statues, on a silver chair, sat Psamtik, the heir to the
throne: He wore a close-fitting garment of many colors, interwoven with
gold, and was surrounded by the most distinguished among the king’s
courtiers, chamberlains, counsellors, and friends, all bearing staves with
ostrich feathers and lotus-flowers.

The multitude gave vent to their impatience by shouting, singing, and
quarrelling; but the priests and magnates on the steps preserved a
dignified and solemn silence. Each, with his steady, unmoved gaze, his
stiffly-curled false wig and beard, and his solemn, deliberate manner,
resembled the two huge statues, which, the one precisely similar to the
other, stood also motionless in their respective places, gazing calmly
into the stream.

At last silken sails, chequered with purple and blue, appeared in sight.

The crowd shouted with delight. Cries of, “They are coming! Here they
are!” “Take care, or you’ll tread on that kitten,” “Nurse, hold the child
higher that she may see something of the sight.” “You are pushing me into
the water, Sebak!” “Have a care Phoenician, the boys are throwing burs
into your long beard.” “Now, now, you Greek fellow, don’t fancy that all
Egypt belongs to you, because Amasis allows you to live on the shores of
the sacred river!” “Shameless set, these Greeks, down with them!” shouted
a priest, and the cry was at once echoed from many mouths. “Down with the
eaters of swine’s flesh and despisers of the gods!”

From words they were proceeding to deeds, but the police were not to be
trifled with, and by a vigorous use of their staves, the tumult was soon
stilled. The large, gay sails, easily to be distinguished among the brown,
white and blue ones of the smaller Nile-boats which swarmed around them,
came nearer and nearer to the expectant throng. Then at last the
crown-prince and the dignitaries arose from their seats. The royal band of
trumpeters blew a shrill and piercing blast of welcome, and the first of
the expected boats stopped at the landing-place.

It was a rather long, richly-gilded vessel, and bore a silver sparrow-hawk
as figure-head. In its midst rose a golden canopy with a purple covering,
beneath which cushions were conveniently arranged. On each deck in the
forepart of the ship sat twelve rowers, their aprons attached by costly
fastenings.

Beneath the canopy lay six fine-looking men in glorious apparel; and
before the ship had touched the shore the youngest of these, a beautiful
fair-haired youth, sprang on to the steps.

Many an Egyptian girl’s mouth uttered a lengthened “Ah” at this glorious
sight, and even the grave faces of some of the dignitaries brightened into
a friendly smile.

The name of this much-admired youth was Bartja.

He was the son of the late, and brother of the reigning king of Persia,
and had been endowed by nature with every gift that a youth of twenty
years could desire for himself.

Around his tiara was wound a blue and white turban, beneath which hung
fair, golden curls of beautiful, abundant hair; his blue eyes sparkled
with life and joy, kindness and high spirits, almost with sauciness; his
noble features, around which the down of a manly beard was already
visible, were worthy of a Grecian sculptor’s chisel, and his slender but
muscular figure told of strength and activity. The splendor of his apparel
was proportioned to his personal beauty. A brilliant star of diamonds and
turquoises glittered in the front of his tiara. An upper garment of rich
white and gold brocade reaching just below the knees, was fastened round
the waist with a girdle of blue and white, the royal colors of Persia. In
this girdle gleamed a short, golden sword, its hilt and scabbard thickly
studded with opals and sky-blue turquoises. The trousers were of the same
rich material as the robe, fitting closely at the ankle, and ending within
a pair of short boots of light-blue leather.

The long, wide sleeves of his robe displayed a pair of vigorous arms,
adorned with many costly bracelets of gold and jewels; round his slender
neck and on his broad chest lay a golden chain.

Such was the youth who first sprang on shore. He was followed by Darius,
the son of Hystaspes, a young Persian of the blood royal, similar in
person to Bartja, and scarcely less gorgeously apparelled than he. The
third to disembark was an aged man with snow-white hair, in whose face the
gentle and kind expression of childhood was united, with the intellect of
a man, and the experience of old age. His dress consisted of a long purple
robe with sleeves, and the yellow boots worn by the Lydians;—his
whole appearance produced an impression of the greatest modesty and a
total absence of pretension.

Yet this simple old man had been, but a few years before, the most envied
of his race and age; and even in our day at two thousand years’ interval,
his name is used as a synonyme for the highest point of worldly riches
attainable by mankind. The old man to whom we are now introduced is no
other than Croesus, the dethroned king of Lydia, who was then living at
the court of Cambyses, as his friend and counsellor, and had accompanied
the young Bartja to Egypt, in the capacity of Mentor.

Croesus was followed by Prexaspes, the king’s Ambassador, Zopyrus, the son
of Megabyzus, a Persian noble, the friend of Bartja and Darius; and,
lastly, by his own son, the slender, pale Gyges, who after having become
dumb in his fourth year through the fearful anguish he had suffered on his
father’s account at the taking of Sardis, had now recovered the power of
speech.

Psamtik descended the steps to welcome the strangers. His austere, sallow
face endeavored to assume a smile. The high officials in his train bowed
down nearly to the ground, allowing their arms to hang loosely at their
sides. The Persians, crossing their hands on their breasts, cast
themselves on the earth before the heir to the Egyptian throne. When the
first formalities were over, Bartja, according to the custom of his native
country, but greatly to the astonishment of the populace, who were totally
unaccustomed to such a sight, kissed the sallow cheek of the Egyptian
prince; who shuddered at the touch of a stranger’s unclean lips, then took
his way to the litters waiting to convey him and his escort to the
dwelling designed for them by the king, in the palace at Sais.

A portion of the crowd streamed after the strangers, but the larger number
remained at their places, knowing that many a new and wonderful sight yet
awaited them.

“Are you going to run after those dressed-up monkeys and children of
Typhon, too?” asked an angry priest of his neighbor, a respectable tailor
of Sais. “I tell you, Puhor, and the high-priest says so too, that these
strangers can bring no good to the black land! I am for the good old
times, when no one who cared for his life dared set foot on Egyptian soil.
Now our streets are literally swarming with cheating Hebrews, and above
all with those insolent Greeks whom may the gods destroy!

“Only look, there is the third boat full of strangers! And do you know
what kind of people these Persians are? The high-priest says that in the
whole of their kingdom, which is as large as half the world, there is not
a single temple to the gods; and that instead of giving decent burial to
the dead, they leave them to be torn in pieces by dogs and vultures.”

“The tailor’s indignation at hearing this was even greater than his
astonishment, and pointing to the landing-steps, he cried:

“It is really too bad; see, there is the sixth boat full of these
foreigners!”

“Yes, it is hard indeed!” sighed the priest, “one might fancy a whole army
arriving. Amasis will go on in this manner until the strangers drive him
from his throne and country, and plunder and make slaves of us poor
creatures, as the evil Hyksos, those scourges of Egypt, and the black
Ethiopians did, in the days of old.”

“The seventh boat!” shouted the tailor.

“May my protectress Neith, the great goddess of Sais, destroy me, if I can
understand the king,” complained the priest. “He sent three barks to
Naukratis, that poisonous nest hated of the gods, to fetch the servants
and baggage of these Persians; but instead of three, eight had to be
procured, for these despisers of the gods and profaners of dead bodies
have not only brought kitchen utensils, dogs, horses, carriages, chests,
baskets and bales, but have dragged with them, thousands of miles, a whole
host of servants. They tell me that some of them have no other work than
twining of garlands and preparing ointments. Their priests too, whom they
call Magi, are here with them. I should like to know what they are for? of
what use is a priest where there is no temple?”

The old King Amasis received the Persian embassy shortly after their
arrival with all the amiability and kindness peculiar to him.

Four days later, after having attended to the affairs of state, a duty
punctually fulfilled by him every morning without exception, he went forth
to walk with Croesus in the royal gardens. The remaining members of the
embassy, accompanied by the crown-prince, were engaged in an excursion up
the Nile to the city of Memphis.

The palace-gardens, of a royal magnificence, yet similar in their
arrangement to those of Rhodopis, lay in the north-west part of Sais, near
the royal citadel.

Here, under the shadow of a spreading plane-tree, and near a gigantic
basin of red granite, into which an abundance of clear water flowed
perpetually through the jaws of black basalt crocodiles, the two old men
seated themselves.

The dethroned king, though in reality some years the elder of the two,
looked far fresher and more vigorous than the powerful monarch at his
side. Amasis was tall, but his neck was bent; his corpulent body was
supported by weak and slender legs: and his face, though well-formed, was
lined and furrowed. But a vigorous spirit sparkled in the small, flashing
eyes, and an expression of raillery, sly banter, and at times, even of
irony, played around his remarkably full lips. The low, broad brow, the
large and beautifully-arched head bespoke great mental power, and in the
changing color of his eyes one seemed to read that neither wit nor passion
were wanting in the man, who, from his simple place as soldier in the
ranks, had worked his way up to the throne of the Pharaohs. His voice was
sharp and hard, and his movements, in comparison with the deliberation of
the other members of the Egyptian court, appeared almost morbidly active.

The attitude and bearing of his neighbor Croesus were graceful, and in
every way worthy of a king. His whole manner showed that he had lived in
frequent intercourse with the highest and noblest minds of Greece. Thales,
Anaximander and Anaximenes of Miletus, Bias of Priene, Solon of Athens,
Pittakus of Lesbos, the most celebrated Hellenic philosophers, had in
former and happier days been guests at the court of Croesus in Sardis. His
full clear voice sounded like pure song when compared with the shrill
tones of Amasis.

“Now tell me openly,” began king Pharaoh—[In English “great house,”
the high gate or “sublime porte.”]—in tolerably fluent Greek, “what
opinion hast thou formed of Egypt? Thy judgment possesses for me more
worth than that of any other man, for three reasons: thou art better
acquainted with most of the countries and nations of this earth; the gods
have not only allowed thee to ascend the ladder of fortune to its utmost
summit, but also to descend it, and thirdly, thou hast long been the first
counsellor to the mightiest of kings. Would that my kingdom might please
thee so well that thou wouldst remain here and become to me a brother.
Verily, Croesus, my friend hast thou long been, though my eyes beheld thee
yesterday for the first time!”

“And thou mine,” interrupted the Lydian. “I admire the courage with which
thou hast accomplished that which seemed right and good in thine eyes, in
spite of opposition near and around thee. I am thankful for the favor
shown to the Hellenes, my friends, and I regard thee as related to me by
fortune, for hast thou not also passed through all the extremes of good
and evil that this life can offer?”

“With this difference,” said Amasis smiling, “that we started from
opposite points; in thy lot the good came first, the evil later; whereas
in my own this order has been reversed. In saying this, however,” he
added, “I am supposing that my present fortune is a good for me, and that
I enjoy it.”

“And I, in that case,” answered Croesus, “must be assuming that I am
unhappy in what men call my present ill-fortune.”

“How can it possibly be otherwise after the loss of such enormous
possessions?”

“Does happiness consist then in possession?” asked Croesus. “Is happiness
itself a thing to be possessed? Nay, by no means! It is nothing but a
feeling, a sensation, which the envious gods vouchsafe more often to the
needy than to the mighty. The clear sight of the latter becomes dazzled by
the glittering treasure, and they cannot but suffer continual humiliation,
because, conscious of possessing power to obtain much, they wage an eager
war for all, and therein are continually defeated.”

Amasis sighed, and answered: “I would I could prove thee in the wrong; but
in looking back on my past life I am fain to confess that its cares began
with that very hour which brought me what men call my good fortune.”—“And
I,” interrupted Croesus, “can assure thee that I am thankful thou
delayedst to come to my help, inasmuch as the hour of my overthrow was the
beginning of true, unsullied happiness. When I beheld the first Persians
scale the walls of Sardis, I execrated myself and the gods, life appeared
odious to me, existence a curse. Fighting on, but in heart despairing, I
and my people were forced to yield. A Persian raised his sword to cleave
my skull—in an instant my poor dumb son had thrown himself between
his father and the murderer, and for the first time after long years of
silence, I heard him speak. Terror had loosened his tongue; in that
dreadful hour Gyges learnt once more to speak, and I, who but the moment
before had been cursing the gods, bowed down before their power. I had
commanded a slave to kill me the moment I should be taken prisoner by the
Persians, but now I deprived him of his sword. I was a changed man, and by
degrees learnt ever more and more to subdue the rage and indignation which
yet from time to time would boil up again within my soul, rebellious
against my fate and my noble enemies. Thou knowest that at last I became
the friend of Cyrus, and that my son grew up at his court, a free man at
my side, having entirely regained the use of his speech. Everything
beautiful and good that I had heard, seen or thought during my long life I
treasured up now for him; he was my kingdom, my crown, my treasure.
Cyrus’s days of care, his nights so reft of sleep, reminded me with horror
of my own former greatness, and from day to day it became more evident to
me that happiness has nothing to do with our outward circumstances. Each
man possesses the hidden germ in his own heart. A contented, patient mind,
rejoicing much in all that is great and beautiful and yet despising not
the day of small things; bearing sorrow without a murmur and sweetening it
by calling to remembrance former joy; moderation in all things; a firm
trust in the favor of the gods and a conviction that, all things being
subject to change, so with us too the worst must pass in due season; all
this helps to mature the germ of happiness, and gives us power to smile,
where the man undisciplined by fate might yield to despair and fear.”

Amasis listened attentively, drawing figures the while in the sand with
the golden flower on his staff. At last he spoke:

“Verily, Croesus, I the great god, the ‘sun of righteousness,’ ‘the son of
Neith,’ ‘the lord of warlike glory,’ as the Egyptians call me, am tempted
to envy thee, dethroned and plundered as thou art. I have been as happy as
thou art now. Once I was known through all Egypt, though only the poor son
of a captain, for my light heart, happy temper, fun and high spirits. The
common soldiers would do anything for me, my superior officers could have
found much fault, but in the mad Amasis, as they called me, all was
overlooked, and among my equals, (the other under-officers) there could be
no fun or merry-making unless I took a share in it. My predecessor king
Hophra sent us against Cyrene. Seized with thirst in the desert, we
refused to go on; and a suspicion that the king intended to sacrifice us
to the Greek mercenaries drove the army to open mutiny. In my usual joking
manner I called out to my friends: ‘You can never get on without a king,
take me for your ruler; a merrier you will never find!’ The soldiers
caught the words. ‘Amasis will be our king,’ ran through the ranks from
man to man, and, in a few hours more, they came to me with shouts, and
acclamations of ‘The good, jovial Amasis for our King!’ One of my boon
companions set a field-marshal’s helmet on my head: I made the joke
earnest, and we defeated Hophra at Momempliis. The people joined in the
conspiracy, I ascended the throne, and men pronounced me fortunate. Up to
that time I had been every Egyptian’s friend, and now I was the enemy of
the best men in the nation.

“The priests swore allegiance to me, and accepted me as a member of their
caste, but only in the hope of guiding me at their will. My former
superiors in command either envied me, or wished to remain on the same
terms of intercourse as formerly. But this would have been inconsistent
with my new position, and have undermined my authority. One day,
therefore, when the officers of the host were at one of my banquets and
attempting, as usual, to maintain their old convivial footing, I showed
them the golden basin in which their feet had been washed before sitting
down to meat; five days later, as they were again drinking at one of my
revels, I caused a golden image of the great god Ra be placed upon the
richly-ornamented banqueting-table.

“On perceiving it, they fell down to worship. As they rose from their
knees, I took the sceptre, and holding it up on high with much solemnity,
exclaimed: ‘In five days an artificer has transformed the despised vessel
into which ye spat and in which men washed your feet, into this divine
image. Such a vessel was I, but the Deity, which can fashion better and
more quickly than a goldsmith, has made me your king. Bow down then before
me and worship. He who henceforth refuses to obey, or is unmindful of the
reverence due to the king, is guilty of death!’

“They fell down before me, every one, and I saved my authority, but lost
my friends. As I now stood in need of some other prop, I fixed on the
Hellenes, knowing that in all military qualifications one Greek is worth
more than five Egyptians, and that with this assistance I should be able
to carry out those measures which I thought beneficial.

“I kept the Greek mercenaries always round me, I learnt their language,
and it was they who brought to me the noblest human being I ever met,
Pythagoras. I endeavored to introduce Greek art and manners among
ourselves, seeing what folly lay in a self-willed adherence to that which
has been handed down to us, when it is in itself bad and unworthy, while
the good seed lay on our Egyptian soil, only waiting to be sown.

“I portioned out the whole land to suit my purposes, appointed the best
police in the world, and accomplished much; but my highest aim, namely: to
infuse into this country, at once so gay and so gloomy, the spirit and
intellect of the Greeks, their sense of beauty in form, their love of life
and joy in it, this all was shivered on the same rock which threatens me
with overthrow and ruin whenever I attempt to accomplish anything new. The
priests are my opponents, my masters, they hang like a dead weight upon
me. Clinging with superstitious awe to all that is old and traditionary,
abominating everything foreign, and regarding every stranger as the
natural enemy of their authority and their teaching, they can lead the
most devout and religious of all nations with a power that has scarcely
any limits. For this I am forced to sacrifice all my plans, for this I see
my life passing away in bondage to their severe ordinances, this will rob
my death-bed of peace, and I cannot be secure that this host of proud
mediators between god and man will allow me to rest even in my grave!”

“By Zeus our saviour, with all thy good fortune, thou art to be pitied!”
interrupted Croesus sympathetically, “I understand thy misery; for though
I have met with many an individual who passed through life darkly and
gloomily, I could not have believed that an entire race of human beings
existed, to whom a gloomy, sullen heart was as natural as a poisonous
tooth to the serpent. Yet it is true, that on my journey hither and during
my residence at this court I have seen none but morose and gloomy
countenances among the priesthood. Even the youths, thy immediate
attendants, are never seen to smile; though cheerfulness, that sweet gift
of the gods, usually belongs to the young, as flowers to spring.”

“Thou errest,” answered Amasis, “in believing this gloom to be a universal
characteristic of the Egyptians. It is true that our religion requires
much serious thought. There are few nations, however, who have so largely
the gift of bantering fun and joke: or who on the occasion of a festival,
can so entirely forget themselves and everything else but the enjoyments
of the moment; but the very sight of a stranger is odious to the priests,
and the moroseness which thou observest is intended as retaliation on me
for my alliance with the strangers. Those very boys, of whom thou spakest,
are the greatest torment of my life. They perform for me the service of
slaves, and obey my slightest nod. One might imagine that the parents who
devote their children to this service, and who are the highest in rank
among the priesthood, would be the most obedient and reverential servants
of the king whom they profess to honor as divine; but believe me, Croesus,
just in this very act of devotion, which no ruler can refuse to accept
without giving offence, lies the most crafty, scandalous calculation. Each
of these youths is my keeper, my spy. They watch my smallest actions and
report them at once to the priests.”

“But how canst thou endure such an existence? Why not banish these spies
and select servants from the military caste, for instance? They would be
quite as useful as the priests.”

“Ah! if I only could, if I dared!” exclaimed Amasis loudly. And then, as
if frightened at his own rashness, he continued in a low voice, “I believe
that even here I am being watched. To-morrow I will have that grove of
fig-trees yonder uprooted. The young priest there, who seems so fond of
gardening, has other fruit in his mind besides the half-ripe figs that he
is so slowly dropping into his basket. While his hand is plucking the
figs, his ear gathers the words that fall from the mouth of his king.”

“But, by our father Zeus, and by Apollo—”

“Yes, I understand thy indignation and I share it; but every position has
its duties, and as a king of a people who venerate tradition as the
highest divinity, I must submit, at least in the main, to the ceremonies
handed down through thousands of years. Were I to burst these fetters, I
know positively that at my death my body would remain unburied; for, know
that the priests sit in judgment over every corpse, and deprive the
condemned of rest, even in the grave.”

“Why care about the grave?” cried Croesus, becoming angry. “We live for
life, not for death!”

“Say rather,” answered Amasis rising from his seat, “we, with our Greek
minds, believe a beautiful life to be the highest good. But Croesus, I was
begotten and nursed by Egyptian parents, nourished on Egyptian food, and
though I have accepted much that is Greek, am still, in my innermost
being, an Egyptian. What has been sung to us in our childhood, and praised
as sacred in our youth, lingers on in the heart until the day which sees
us embalmed as mummies. I am an old man and have but a short span yet to
run, before I reach the landmark which separates us from that farther
country. For the sake of life’s few remaining days, shall I willingly mar
Death’s thousands of years? No, my friend, in this point at least I have
remained an Egyptian, in believing, like the rest of my countrymen, that
the happiness of a future life in the kingdom of Osiris, depends on the
preservation of my body, the habitation of the soul.

“But enough of these matters; thou wilt find it difficult to enter into
such thoughts. Tell me rather what thou thinkest of our temples and
pyramids.”

Croesus, after reflecting a moment, answered with a smile: “Those huge
pyramidal masses of stone seem to me creations of the boundless desert,
the gaily painted temple colonnades to be the children of the Spring; but
though the sphinxes lead up to your temple gates, and seem to point the
way into the very shrines themselves, the sloping fortress-like walls of
the Pylons, those huge isolated portals, appear as if placed there to
repel entrance. Your many-colored hieroglyphics likewise attract the gaze,
but baffle the inquiring spirit by the mystery that lies within their
characters. The images of your manifold gods are everywhere to be seen;
they crowd on our gaze, and yet who knows not that their real is not their
apparent significance? that they are mere outward images of thoughts
accessible only to the few, and, as I have heard, almost incomprehensible
in their depth? My curiosity is excited everywhere, and my interest
awakened, but my warm love of the beautiful feels itself in no way
attracted. My intellect might strain to penetrate the secrets of your
sages, but my heart and mind can never be at home in a creed which views
life as a short pilgrimage to the grave, and death as the only true life!”

“And yet,” said Amasis, “Death has for us too his terrors, and we do all
in our power to evade his grasp. Our physicians would not be celebrated
and esteemed as they are, if we did not believe that their skill could
prolong our earthly existence. This reminds me of the oculist Nebenchari
whom I sent to Susa, to the king. Does he maintain his reputation? is the
king content with him?”

“Very much so,” answered Croesus. “He has been of use to many of the
blind; but the king’s mother is alas! still sightless. It was Nebenchari
who first spoke to Cambyses of the charms of thy daughter Tachot. But we
deplore that he understands diseases of the eye alone. When the Princess
Atossa lay ill of fever, he was not to be induced to bestow a word of
counsel.”

“That is very natural; our physicians are only permitted to treat one part
of the body. We have aurists, dentists and oculists, surgeons for
fractures of the bone, and others for internal diseases. By the ancient
priestly law a dentist is not allowed to treat a deaf man, nor a surgeon
for broken bones a patient who is suffering from a disease of the bowels,
even though he should have a first rate knowledge of internal complaints.
This law aims at securing a great degree of real and thorough knowledge;
an aim indeed, pursued by the priests (to whose caste the physicians
belong) with a most praiseworthy earnestness in all branches of science.
Yonder lies the house of the high-priest Neithotep, whose knowledge of
astronomy and geometry was so highly praised, even by Pythagoras. It lies
next to the porch leading into the temple of the goddess Neith, the
protectress of Sais. Would I could show thee the sacred grove with its
magnificent trees, the splendid pillars of the temple with capitals
modelled from the lotus-flower, and the colossal chapel which I caused to
be wrought from a single piece of granite, as an offering to the goddess;
but alas! entrance is strictly refused to strangers by the priests. Come,
let us seek my wife and daughter; they have conceived an affection for
thee, and indeed it is my wish that thou shouldst gain a friendly feeling
towards this poor maiden before she goes forth with thee to the strange
land, and to the strange nation whose princess she is to become. Wilt thou
not adopt and take her under thy care?”

“On that thou may’st with fullest confidence rely,” replied Croesus with
warmth, returning the pressure of Amasis’ hand. “I will protect thy
Nitetis as if I were her father; and she will need my help, for the
apartments of the women in the Persian palaces are dangerous ground. But
she will meet with great consideration. Cambyses may be contented with his
choice, and will be highly gratified that thou hast entrusted him with thy
fairest child. Nebenchari had only spoken of Tachot, thy second daughter.”

“Nevertheless I will send my beautiful Nitetis. Tachot is so tender, that
she could scarcely endure the fatigues of the journey and the pain of
separation. Indeed were I to follow the dictates of my own heart, Nitetis
should never leave us for Persia. But Egypt stands in need of peace, and I
was a king before I became a father!”


CHAPTER V.

The other members of the Persian embassy had returned to Sais from their
excursion up the Nile to the pyramids. Prexaspes alone, the ambassador
from Cambyses, had already set out for Persia, in order to inform the king
of the successful issue of his suit.

The palace of Amasis was full of life and stir. The huge building was
filled in all parts by the followers of the embassy, nearly three hundred
in number, and by the high guests themselves, to whom every possible
attention was paid. The courts of the palace swarmed with guards and
officials, with young priests and slaves, all in splendid festal raiment.

On this day it was the king’s intention to make an especial display of the
wealth and splendor of his court, at a festival arranged in honor of his
daughter’s betrothal.

The lofty reception-hall opening on to the gardens, with its ceiling sown
with thousands of golden stars and supported by gaily-painted columns,
presented a magic appearance. Lamps of colored papyrus hung against the
walls and threw a strange light on the scene, something like that when the
sun’s rays strike through colored glass. The space between the columns and
the walls was filled with choice plants, palms, oleanders, pomegranates,
oranges and roses, behind which an invisible band of harp and
flute-players was stationed, who received the guests with strains of
monotonous, solemn music.

The floor of this hall was paved in black and white, and in the middle
stood elegant tables covered with dishes of all kinds, cold roast meats,
sweets, well-arranged baskets of fruit and cake, golden jugs of wine,
glass drinking-cups and artistic flower-vases.

A multitude of richly-dressed slaves under direction of the high-steward,
busied themselves in handing these dishes to the guests, who, either
standing around, or reclining on sumptuous seats, entertained themselves
in conversation with their friends.

Both sexes and all ages were to be found in this assembly. As the women
entered, they received charming little nosegays from the young priests in
the personal service of the king, and many a youth of high degree appeared
in the hall with flowers, which he not only offered to her he loved best,
but held up for her to smell.

The Egyptian men, who were dressed as we have already seen them at the
reception of the Persian embassy, behaved towards the women with a
politeness that might almost be termed submissive. Among the latter few
could pretend to remarkable beauty, though there were many bewitching
almond-shaped eyes, whose loveliness was heightened by having their lids
dyed with the eye-paint called “mestem.” The majority wore their hair
arranged in the same manner; the wealth of waving brown locks floated back
over the shoulders and was brushed behind the ears, one braid being left
on each side to hang over the temples to the breast. A broad diadem
confined these locks, which as the maids knew, were quite as often the
wig-maker’s work as Nature’s. Many ladies of the court wore above their
foreheads a lotus-flower, whose stem drooped on the hair at the back.

They carried fans of bright feathers in their delicate hands. These were
loaded with rings; the finger-nails were stained red, according to
Egyptian custom, and gold or silver bands were worn above the elbow, and
at the wrists and ankles.

Their robes were beautiful and costly, and in many cases so cut as to
leave the right breast uncovered. Bartja, the young Persian prince, among
the men, and Nitetis, the Pharaoh’s daughter, among the women, were
equally conspicuous for their superior beauty, grace and charms. The royal
maiden wore a transparent rose-colored robe, in her black hair were fresh
roses, she walked by the side of her sister, the two robed alike, but
Nitetis pale as the lotus-flower in her mother’s hair.

Ladice, the queen, by birth a Greek, and daughter of Battus of Cyrene,
walked by the side of Amasis and presented the young Persians to her
children. A light lace robe was thrown over her garment of purple,
embroidered with gold; and on her beautiful Grecian head she wore the
Urmus serpent, the ornament peculiar to Egyptian queens.

Her countenance was noble yet charming, and every movement betrayed the
grace only to be imparted by a Greek education.

Amasis, in making choice of this queen, after the death of his second
wife, (the Egyptian Tentcheta, mother of Psamtik the heir to the throne,)
had followed his prepossession in favor of the Greek nation and defied the
wrath of the priests.

The two girls at Ladice’s side, Tachot and Nitetis, were called
twin-sisters, but showed no signs of that resemblance usually to be found
in twins.

Tachot was a fair, blue-eyed girl, small, and delicately built; Nitetis,
on the other hand, tall and majestic, with black hair and eyes, evinced in
every action that she was of royal blood.

“How pale thou look’st, my child!” said Ladice, kissing Nitetis’ cheek.
“Be of good courage, and meet thy future bravely. Here is the noble
Bartja, the brother of thy future husband.”

Nitetis raised her dark, thoughtful eyes and fixed them long and
enquiringly on the beautiful youth. He bowed low before the blushing
maiden, kissed her garment, and said:

“I salute thee, as my future queen and sister! I can believe that thy
heart is sore at parting from thy home, thy parents, brethren and sisters;
but be of good courage; thy husband is a great hero, and a powerful king;
our mother is the noblest of women, and among the Persians the beauty and
virtue of woman is as much revered as the life-giving light of the sun. Of
thee, thou sister of the lily Nitetis, whom, by her side I might venture
to call the rose, I beg forgiveness, for robbing thee of thy dearest
friend.”

As he said these words he looked eagerly into Tachot’s beautiful blue
eyes; she bent low, pressing her hand upon her heart, and gazed on him
long after Amasis had drawn him away to a seat immediately opposite the
dancing-girls, who were just about to display their skill for the
entertainment of the guests. A thin petticoat was the only clothing of
these girls, who threw and wound their flexible limbs to a measure played
on harp and tambourine. After the dance appeared Egyptian singers and
buffoons for the further amusement of the company.

At length some of the courtiers forsook the hall, their grave demeanor
being somewhat overcome by intoxication.

The women were carried home in gay litters by slaves with torches; and
only the highest military commanders, the Persian ambassadors and a few
officials, especial friends of Amasis, remained behind. These were
retained by the master of the ceremonies, and conducted to a
richly-ornamented saloon, where a gigantic wine-bowl standing on a table
adorned in the Greek fashion, invited to a drinking-bout.

Amasis was seated on a high arm-chair at the head of the table; at his
left the youthful Bartja, at his right the aged Croesus. Besides these and
the other Persians, Theodorus and Ibykus, the friends of Polykrates,
already known to us, and Aristomachus, now commander of the Greek
body-guard, were among the king’s guests.

Amasis, whom we have just heard in such grave discourse with Croesus, now
indulged in jest and satire. He seemed once more the wild officer, the
bold reveller of the olden days.

His sparkling, clever jokes, at times playful, at times scornful, flew
round among the revellers. The guests responded in loud, perhaps often
artificial laughter, to their king’s jokes, goblet after goblet was
emptied, and the rejoicings had reached their highest point, when suddenly
the master of the ceremonies appeared, bearing a small gilded mummy; and
displaying it to the gaze of the assembly, exclaimed. “Drink, jest, and be
merry, for all too soon ye shall become like unto this!”

“Is it your custom thus to introduce death at all your banquets?” said
Bartja, becoming serious, “or is this only a jest devised for to-day by
your master of the ceremonies?”

“Since the earliest ages,” answered Amasis, “it has been our custom to
display these mummies at banquets, in order to increase the mirth of the
revellers, by reminding them that one must enjoy the time while it is
here. Thou, young butterfly, hast still many a long and joyful year before
thee; but we, Croesus, we old men, must hold by this firmly. Fill the
goblets, cup-bearer, let not one moment of our lives be wasted! Thou canst
drink well, thou golden-haired Persian! Truly the great gods have endowed
thee not only with beautiful eyes, and blooming beauty, but with a good
throat! Let me embrace thee, thou glorious youth, thou rogue! What
thinkest thou Croesus? my daughter Tachot can speak of nothing else than
of this beardless youth, who seems to have quite turned her little head
with his sweet looks and words. Thou needest not to blush, young madcap! A
man such as thou art, may well look at king’s daughters; but wert thou thy
father Cyrus himself, I could not allow my Tachot to leave me for Persia!”

“Father!” whispered the crown-prince Psamtik, interrupting this
conversation. “Father, take care what you say, and remember Phanes.” The
king turned a frowning glance on his son; but following his advice, took
much less part in the conversation, which now became more general.

The seat at the banquet-table, occupied by Aristomachus, placed him nearly
opposite to Croesus, on whom, in total silence and without once indulging
in a smile at the king’s jests, his eyes had been fixed from the beginning
of the revel. When the Pharaoh ceased to speak, he accosted Croesus
suddenly with the following question: “I would know, Lydian, whether the
snow still covered the mountains, when ye left Persia.”

Smiling, and a little surprised at this strange speech, Croesus answered:
“Most of the Persian mountains were green when we started for Egypt four
months ago; but there are heights in the land of Cambyses on which, even
in the hottest seasons, the snow never melts, and the glimmer of their
white crests we could still perceive, as we descended into the plains.”

The Spartan’s face brightened visibly, and Croesus, attracted by this
serious, earnest man, asked his name. “My name is Aristomachus.”

“That name seems known to me.”

“You were acquainted with many Hellenes, and my name is common among
them.”

“Your dialect would bespeak you my opinion a Spartan.”

“I was one once.”

“And now no more?”

“He who forsakes his native land without permission, is worthy of death.”

“Have you forsaken it with your own free-will?”

“Yes.”

“For what reason?”

“To escape dishonor.”

“What was your crime?”

“I had committed none.”

“You were accused unjustly?”

“Yes.”

“Who was the author of your ill-fortune?”

“Yourself.”

Croesus started from his seat. The serious tone and gloomy face of the
Spartan proved that this was no jest, and those who sat near the speakers,
and had been following this strange dialogue, were alarmed and begged
Aristomachus to explain his words.

He hesitated and seemed unwilling to speak; at last, however, at the
king’s summons, he began thus:

“In obedience to the oracle, you, Croesus, had chosen us Lacedaemonians,
as the most powerful among the Hellenes, to be your allies against the
might of Persia; and you gave us gold for the statue of Apollo on Mount
Thornax. The ephori, on this, resolved to present you with a gigantic
bronze wine-bowl, richly wrought. I was chosen as bearer of this gift.
Before reaching Sardis our ship was wrecked in a storm. The wine-cup sank
with it, and we reached Samos with nothing but our lives. On returning
home I was accused by enemies, and those who grudged my good fortune, of
having sold both ship and wine-vessel to the Samians. As they could not
convict me of the crime, and had yet determined on my ruin, I was
sentenced to two days’ and nights’ exposure on the pillory. My foot was
chained to it during the night; but before the morning of disgrace dawned,
my brother brought me secretly a sword, that my honor might be saved,
though at the expense of my life. But I could not die before revenging
myself on the men who had worked my ruin; and therefore, cutting the
manacled foot from my leg, I escaped, and hid in the rushes on the banks
of the Furotas. My brother brought me food and drink in secret; and after
two months I was able to walk on the wooden leg you now see. Apollo
undertook my revenge; he never misses his mark, and my two worst opponents
died of the plague. Still I durst not return home, and at length took ship
from Gythium to fight against the Persians under you, Croesus. On landing
at Teos, I heard that you were king no longer, that the mighty Cyrus, the
father of yonder beautiful youth, had conquered the powerful province of
Lydia in a few weeks, and reduced the richest of kings to beggary.”

Every guest gazed at Aristomachus in admiration. Croesus shook his hard
hand; and Bartja exclaimed: “Spartan, I would I could take you back with
me to Susa, that my friends there might see what I have seen myself, the
most courageous, the most honorable of men!”

“Believe me, boy,” returned Aristomachus smiling, “every Spartan would
have done the same. In our country it needs more courage to be a coward
than a brave man.”

“And you, Bartja,” cried Darius, the Persian king’s cousin, “could you
have borne to stand at the pillory?” Bartja reddened, but it was easy to
see that he too preferred death to disgrace.

“Zopyrus, what say you?” asked Darius of the third young Persian.

“I could mutilate my own limbs for love of you two,” answered he, grasping
unobserved the hands of his two friends.

With an ironical smile Psamtik sat watching this scene—the pleased
faces of Amasis, Croesus and Gyges, the meaning glances of the Egyptians,
and the contented looks with which Aristomachus gazed on the young heroes.

Ibykus now told of the oracle which had promised Aristomachus a return to
his native land, on the approach of the men from the snowy mountains, and
at the same time, mentioned the hospitable house of Rhodopis.

On hearing this name Psamtik grew restless; Croesus expressed a wish to
form the acquaintance of the Thracian matron, of whom AEsop had related so
much that was praiseworthy; and, as the other guests, many of whom had
lost consciousness through excessive drinking, were leaving the hall, the
dethroned monarch, the poet, the sculptor and the Spartan hero made an
agreement to go to Naukratis the next day, and there enjoy the
conversation of Rhodopis.


CHAPTER VI.

On the night following the banquet just described, Amasis allowed himself
only three hours’ rest. On this, as on every other morning, the young
priests wakened him at the first cock-crow, conducted him as usual to the
bath, arrayed him in the royal vestments and led him to the altar in the
court of the palace, where in presence of the populace he offered
sacrifice. During the offering the priests sang prayers in a loud voice,
enumerated the virtues of their king, and, that blame might in no case
light on the head of their ruler, made his bad advisers responsible for
every deadly sin committed in ignorance.

They exhorted him to the performance of good deeds, while extolling his
virtues; read aloud profitable portions of the holy writings, containing
the deeds and sayings of great men, and then conducted him to his
apartments, where letters and information from all parts of the kingdom
awaited him.

Amasis was in the habit of observing most faithfully these daily-repeated
ceremonies and hours of work; the remaining portion of the day he spent as
it pleased him, and generally in cheerful society.

The priests reproached him with this, alleging that such a life was not
suited to a monarch; and on one occasion he had thus replied to the
indignant high-priest: “Look at this bow! if always bent it must lose its
power, but, if used for half of each day and then allowed to rest, it will
remain strong and useful till the string breaks.”

Amasis had just signed his name to the last letter, granting the petition
of a Nornarch—[Administrator of a Province]—for money to carry
on different embankments rendered necessary by the last inundation, when a
servant entered, bringing a request from the crown-prince Psamtik for an
audience of a few minutes.

Amasis, who till this moment had been smiling cheerfully at the cheering
reports from all parts of the country, now became suddenly serious and
thoughtful. After long delay he answered: “Go and inform the prince that
he may appear.”

Psamtik appeared, pale and gloomy as ever; he bowed low and reverentially,
on entering his father’s presence.

Amasis nodded silently in return, and then asked abruptly and sternly:
“What is thy desire? my time is limited.”

“For your son, more than for others,” replied the prince with quivering
lips. “Seven times have I petitioned for the great favor, which thou
grantest for the first time to-day.”

“No reproaches! I suspect the reason of thy visit. Thou desirest an answer
to thy doubts as to the birth of thy sister Nitetis.”

“I have no curiosity; I come rather to warn thee, and to remind thee that
I am not the only one who is acquainted with this mystery.”

“Speakest thou of Phanes?”

“Of whom else should I speak? He is banished from Egypt and from his own
country, and must leave Naukratis in a few days. What guarantee hast thou,
that he will not betray us to the Persians?”

“The friendship and kindness which I have always shown him.”

“Dost thou believe in the gratitude of men?”

“No! but I rely on my own discernment of character. Phanes will not betray
us! he is my friend, I repeat it!”

“Thy friend perhaps, but my mortal enemy!”

“Then stand on thy guard! I have nothing to fear from him.”

“For thyself perhaps nought, but for our country! O father, reflect that
though as thy son I may be hateful in thine eyes, yet as Egypt’s future I
ought to be near thy heart. Remember, that at thy death, which may the
gods long avert, I shall represent the existence of this glorious land as
thou dost now; my fall will be the ruin of thine house, of Egypt!”

Amasis became more and more serious, and Psamtik went on eagerly: “Thou
knowest that I am right! Phanes can betray our land to any foreign enemy;
he is as intimately acquainted with it as we are; and beside this, he
possesses a secret, the knowledge of which would convert our most powerful
ally into a most formidable enemy.”

“There thou art in error. Though not mine, Nitetis is a king’s daughter
and will know how to win the love of her husband.”

“Were she the daughter of a god, she could not save thee from Cambyses’
wrath, if he discovers the treachery; lying is to a Persian the worst of
crimes, to be deceived the greatest disgrace; thou hast deceived the
highest and proudest of the nation, and what can one inexperienced girl
avail, when hundreds of women, deeply versed in intrigue and artifice, are
striving for the favor of their lord?”

“Hatred and revenge are good masters in the art of rhetoric,” said Amasis
in a cutting tone. “And think’st thou then, oh, foolish son, that I should
have undertaken such a dangerous game without due consideration? Phanes
may tell the Persians what he likes, he can never prove his point. I, the
father, Ladice the mother must know best whether Nitetis is our child or
not. We call her so, who dare aver the contrary? If it please Phanes to
betray our land to any other enemy beside the Persians, let him; I fear
nothing! Thou wouldst have me ruin a man who has been my friend, to whom I
owe much gratitude, who has served me long and faithfully; and this
without offence from his side. Rather will I shelter him from thy revenge,
knowing as I do the impure source from which it springs.”

“My father!”

“Thou desirest the ruin of this man, because he hindered thee from taking
forcible possession of the granddaughter of Rhodopis, and because thine
own incapacity moved me to place him in thy room as commander of the
troops. Ah! thou growest pale! Verily, I owe Phanes thanks for confiding
to me your vile intentions, and so enabling me to bind my friends and
supporters, to whom Rhodopis is precious, more firmly to my throne.”

“And is it thus thou speakest of these strangers, my father? dost thou
thus forget the ancient glory of Egypt? Despise me, if thou wilt; I know
thou lovest me not; but say not that to be great we need the help of
strangers! Look back on our history! Were we not greatest when our gates
were closed to the stranger, when we depended on ourselves and our own
strength, and lived according to the ancient laws of our ancestors and our
gods? Those days beheld the most distant lands subjugated by Rameses, and
heard Egypt celebrated in the whole world as its first and greatest
nation. What are we now? The king himself calls beggars and foreigners the
supporters of his throne, and devises a petty stratagem to secure the
friendship of a power over whom we were victorious before the Nile was
infested by these strangers. Egypt was then a mighty Queen in glorious
apparel; she is now a painted woman decked out in tinsel!”

“Have a care what thou sayest!” shouted Amasis stamping on the floor.
“Egypt was never so great, so flourishing as now! Rameses carried our arms
into distant lands and earned blood; through my labors the products of our
industry have been carried to all parts of the world and instead of blood,
have brought us treasure and blessing. Rameses caused the blood and sweat
of his subjects to flow in streams for the honor of his own great name;
under my rule their blood flows rarely, and the sweat of their brow only
in works of usefulness. Every citizen can now end his days in prosperity
and comfort. Ten thousand populous cities rise on the shores of the Nile,
not a foot of the soil lies untilled, every child enjoys the protection of
law and justice, and every ill-doer shuns the watchful eye of the
authorities.

“In case of attack from without, have we not, as defenders of those
god-given bulwarks, our cataracts, our sea and our deserts, the finest
army that ever bore arms? Thirty thousand Hellenes beside our entire
Egyptian military caste? such is the present condition of Egypt! Rameses
purchased the bright tinsel of empty fame with the blood and tears of his
people. To me they are indebted for the pure gold of a peaceful welfare as
citizens—to me and to my predecessors, the Saitic kings!”

“And yet I tell thee,” cried the prince, “that a worm is gnawing at the
root of Egypt’s greatness and her life. This struggle for riches and
splendor corrupts the hearts of the people, foreign luxury has given a
deadly blow to the simple manners of our citizens, and many an Egyptian
has been taught by the Greeks to scoff at the gods of his fathers. Every
day brings news of bloody strife between the Greek mercenaries and our
native soldiery, between our own people and the strangers. The shepherd
and his flock are at variance; the wheels of the state machinery are
grinding one another and thus the state itself, into total ruin. This
once, father, though never again, I must speak out clearly what is
weighing on my heart. While engaged in contending with the priests, thou
hast seen with calmness the young might of Persia roll on from the East,
consuming the nations on its way, and, like a devouring monster, growing
more and more formidable from every fresh prey. Thine aid was not, as thou
hadst intended, given to the Lydians and Babylonians against the enemy,
but to the Greeks in the building of temples to their false gods. At last
resistance seemed hopeless; a whole hemisphere with its rulers lay in
submission at the feet of Persia; but even then the gods willed Egypt a
chance of deliverance. Cambyses desired thy daughter in marriage. Thou,
however, too weak to sacrifice thine own flesh and blood for the good of
all, hast substituted another maiden, not thine own child, as an offering
to the mighty monarch; and at the same time, in thy soft-heartedness, wilt
spare the life of a stranger in whose hand he the fortunes of this realm,
and who will assuredly work its ruin; unless indeed, worn out by internal
dissension, it perish even sooner from its own weakness!”

Thus far Amasis had listened to these revilings of all he held dearest in
silence, though pale, and trembling with rage; but now he broke forth in a
voice, the trumpet-like sound of which pealed through the wide hall:
“Know’st thou not then, thou boasting and revengeful son of evil, thou
future destroyer of this ancient and glorious kingdom, know’st thou not
whose life must be the sacrifice, were not my children, and the dynasty
which I have founded, dearer to me than the welfare of the whole realm?
Thou, Psamtik, thou art the man, branded by the gods, feared by men—the
man to whose heart love and friendship are strangers, whose face is never
seen to smile, nor his soul known to feel compassion! It is not, however,
through thine own sin that thy nature is thus unblessed, that all thine
undertakings end unhappily. Give heed, for now I am forced to relate what
I had hoped long to keep secret from thine ears. After dethroning my
predecessor, I forced him to give me his sister Tentcheta in marriage. She
loved me; a year after marriage there was promise of a child. During the
night preceding thy birth I fell asleep at the bedside of my wife. I
dreamed that she was lying on the shores of the Nile, and complained to me
of pain in the breast. Bending down, I beheld a cypress-tree springing
from her heart. It grew larger and larger, black and spreading, twined its
roots around thy mother and strangled her. A cold shiver seized me, and I
was on the point of flying from the spot, when a fierce hurricane came
from the East, struck the tree and overthrew it, so that its spreading
branches were cast into the Nile. Then the waters ceased to flow; they
congealed, and, in place of the river, a gigantic mummy lay before me. The
towns on its banks dwindled into huge funereal urns, surrounding the vast
corpse of the Nile as in a tomb. At this I awoke and caused the
interpreters of dreams to be summoned. None could explain the vision, till
at last the priests of the Libyan Ammon gave me the following
interpretation ‘Tentcheta will die in giving birth to a son. The cypress,
which strangled its mother, is this gloomy, unhappy man. In his days a
people shall come from the East and shall make of the Nile, that is of the
Egyptians, dead bodies, and of their cities ruinous heaps; these are the
urns for the dead, which thou sawest.”

Psamtik listened as if turned into stone; his father continued; “Thy
mother died in giving birth to thee; fiery-red hair, the mark of the sons
of Typhon, grew around thy brow; thou becam’st a gloomy man. Misfortune
pursued thee and robbed thee of a beloved wife and four of thy children.
The astrologers computed that even as I had been born under the fortunate
sign of Amman, so thy birth had been watched over by the rise of the awful
planet Seb. Thou…” But here Amasis broke off, for Psamtik, in the
anguish produced by these fearful disclosures had given way, and with sobs
and groans, cried:

“Cease, cruel father! spare me at least the bitter words, that I am the
only son in Egypt who is hated by his father without cause!”

Amasis looked down on the wretched man who had sunk to the earth before
him, his face hidden in the folds of his robe, and the father’s wrath was
changed to compassion. He thought of Psamtik’s mother, dead forty years
before, and felt he had been cruel in inflicting this poisonous wound on
her son’s soul. It was the first time for years, that he had been able to
feel towards this cold strange man, as a father and a comforter. For the
first time he saw tears in the cold eyes of his son, and could feel the
joy of wiping them away. He seized the opportunity at once, and bending
clown over the groaning form, kissed his forehead, raised him from the
ground and said gently:

“Forgive my anger, my son! the words that have grieved thee came not from
my heart, but were spoken in the haste of wrath. Many years hast thou
angered me by thy coldness, hardness and obstinacy; to-day thou hast
wounded me again in my most sacred feelings; this hurried me into an
excess of wrath. But now all is right between us. Our natures are so
diverse that our innermost feelings will never be one, but at least we can
act in concert for the future, and show forbearance one towards the
other.”

In silence Psamtik bowed down and kissed his father’s robe “Not so,”
exclaimed the latter; “rather let my lips receive thy kiss, as is meet and
fitting between father and son! Thou needest not to think again of the
evil dream I have related. Dreams are phantoms, and even if sent by the
gods, the interpreters thereof are human and erring. Thy hand trembles
still, thy cheeks are white as thy robe. I was hard towards thee, harder
than a father….”

“Harder than a stranger to strangers,” interrupted his son. “Thou hast
crushed and broken me, and if till now my face has seldom worn a smile,
from this day forward it can be naught but a mirror of my inward misery.”

“Not so,” said Amasis, laying his hand on his son’s shoulder. “If I wound,
I can also heal. Tell me the dearest wish of thy heart, it shall be
granted thee!”

Psamtik’s eyes flashed, his sallow cheeks glowed for a moment, and he
answered without consideration, though in a voice still trembling from the
shock he had just received: “Deliver Phanes, my enemy, into my power!”

The king remained a few moments in deep thought, then answered: “I knew
what thou wouldst ask, and will fulfil thy desire: but I would rather thou
hadst asked the half of my treasures. A thousand voices within warn me
that I am about to do an unworthy deed and a ruinous—ruinous for
myself, for thee, the kingdom and our house. Reflect before acting, and
remember, whatever thou mayst meditate against Phanes, not a hair of
Rhodopis’ head shall be touched. Also, that the persecution of my poor
friend is to remain a secret from the Greeks. Where shall I find his equal
as a commander, an adviser and a companion? He is not yet in thy power,
however, and I advise thee to remember, that though thou mayst be clever
for an Egyptian, Phanes is a clever Greek. I will remind thee too of thy
solemn oath to renounce the grandchild of Rhodopis. Methinks vengeance is
dearer to thee than love, and the amends I offer will therefore be
acceptable! As to Egypt, I repeat once again, she was never more
flourishing than now; a fact which none dream of disputing, except the
priests, and those who retail their foolish words. And now give ear, if
thou wouldst know the origin of Nitetis. Self-interest will enjoin
secrecy.”

Psamtik listened eagerly to his father’s communication, indicating his
gratitude at the conclusion by a warm pressure of the hand.

“Now farewell,” said Amasis. “Forget not my words, and above all shed no
blood! I will know nothing of what happens to Phanes, for I hate cruelty
and would not be forced to stand in horror of my own son. But thou, thou
rejoicest! My poor Athenian, better were it for thee, hadst thou never
entered Egypt!”

Long after Psamtik had left, his father continued to pace the hall in deep
thought. He was sorry he had yielded; it already seemed as if he saw the
bleeding Phanes lying massacred by the side of the dethroned Hophra. “It
is true, he could have worked our ruin,” was the plea he offered to the
accuser within his own breast, and with these words, he raised his head,
called his servants and left the apartment with a smiling countenance.

Had this sanguine man, this favorite of fortune, thus speedily quieted the
warning voice within, or was he strong enough to cloak his torture with a
smile?


CHAPTER VII.

Psamtik went at once from his father’s apartments to the temple of the
goddess Neith. At the entrance he asked for the high-priest and was begged
by one of the inferior priests to wait, as the great Neithotep was at that
moment praying in the holiest sanctuary of the exalted Queen of Heaven.

After a short time a young priest appeared with the intelligence that his
superior awaited the Prince’s visit. Psamtik had seated himself under the
shadow of the sacred grove of silver poplars bordering the shores of the
consecrated lake, holy to the great Neith. He rose immediately, crossed
the temple-court, paved with stone and asphalte, on which the sun’s rays
were darting like fiery arrows, and turned into one of the long avenues of
Sphinxes which led to the isolated Pylons before the gigantic temple of
the goddess. He then passed through the principal gate, ornamented, as
were all Egyptian temple-entrances, with the winged sun’s disc. Above its
widely-opened folding doors arose on either side, tower-like buildings,
slender obelisks and waving flags. The front of the temple, rising from
the earth in the form of an obtuse angle, had somewhat the appearance of a
fortress, and was covered with colored pictures and inscriptions. Through
the porch Psamtik passed on into a lofty entrance-chamber, and from thence
into the great hall itself, the ceiling of which was strewn with thousands
of golden stars, and supported by four rows of lofty pillars. Their
capitals were carved in imitation of the lotus-flower, and these, the
shafts of the columns, the walls of this huge hall, and indeed every niche
and corner that met the eye were covered with brilliant colors and
hieroglyphics. The columns rose to a gigantic height, the eye seemed to
wander through immeasurable space, and the air breathed by the worshippers
was heavy with the fragrance of Kyphi and incense, and the odors which
arose from the laboratory attached to the temple. Strains of soft music,
proceeding from invisible hands, flowed on unceasingly, only occasionally
interrupted by the deep lowing of the sacred cows of Isis, or the shrill
call of the sparrow-hawk of Horus, whose habitations were in one of the
adjoining halls. No sooner did the prolonged low of a cow break like
distant thunder on the ear, or the sharp cry of the sparrow-hawk shoot
like a flash of lightning through the nerves of the worshippers, than each
crouching form bent lower still, and touched the pavement with his
forehead. On a portion of this pavement, raised above the rest, stood the
priests, some wearing ostrich-feathers on their bald and shining heads;
others panther-skins over their white-robed shoulders. Muttering and
singing, bowing low and rising again, they swung the censers and poured
libations of pure water to the gods out of golden vessels. In this immense
temple man seemed a dwarf in his own eyes. All his senses even to the
organs of respiration, were occupied by objects far removed from daily
life, objects that thrilled and almost oppressed him. Snatched from all
that was familiar in his daily existence, he seemed to grow dizzy and seek
support beyond himself. To this the voice of the priests directed him and
the cries of the sacred animals were believed to prove a divinity at hand.

Psamtik assumed the posture of a worshipper on the low, gilded and
cushioned couch set apart for him, but was unable to pay any real
devotion, and passed on to the adjoining apartment before mentioned, where
the sacred cows of Isis-Neith and the sparrow-hawk of Horus were kept.
These creatures were concealed from the gaze of the worshippers by a
curtain of rich fabric embroidered with gold; the people were only allowed
an occasional and distant glimpse of the adorable animals. When Psamtik
passed they were just being fed; cakes soaked in milk, salt and
clover-blossoms were placed in golden cribs for the cows, and small birds
of many-colored plumage in the beautifully-wrought and ornamented cage of
the sparrow-hawk. But, in his present mood, the heir to the throne of
Egypt had no eye for these rare sights; but ascended at once, by means of
a hidden staircase, to the chambers lying near the observatory, where the
high-priest was accustomed to repose after the temple-service.

Neithotep, a man of seventy years, was seated in a splendid apartment.
Rich Babylonian carpets covered the floor and his chair was of gold,
cushioned with purple. A tastefully-carved footstool supported his feet,
his hands held a roll covered with hieroglyphics, and a boy stood behind
him with a fan of ostrich-feathers to keep away the insects.

The face of the old man was deeply lined now, but it might once have been
handsome, and in the large blue eyes there still lay evidence of a quick
intellect and a dignified self-respect.

His artificial curls had been laid aside, and the bald, smooth head formed
a strange contrast to the furrowed countenance, giving an appearance of
unusual height to the forehead, generally so very low among the Egyptians.
The brightly-colored walls of the room, on which numerous sentences in
hieroglyphic characters were painted, the different statues of the goddess
painted likewise in gay colors, and the snow-white garments of the aged
priest, were calculated to fill a stranger not only with wonder, but with
a species of awe.

The old man received the prince with much affection, and asked:

“What brings my illustrious son to the poor servant of the Deity?”

“I have much to report to thee, my father;” answered Psamtik with a
triumphant smile, “for I come in this moment from Amasis.”

“Then he has at length granted thee an audience?”

“At length!”

“Thy countenance tells me that thou hast been favorably received by our
lord, thy father.”

“After having first experienced his wrath. For, when I laid before him the
petition with which thou hadst entrusted me, he was exceeding wroth and
nearly crushed me by his awful words.”

“Thou hadst surely grieved him by thy language. Didst thou approach him as
I advised thee, with lowliness, as a son humbly beseeching his father?”

“No, my father, I was irritated and indignant.”

“Then was Amasis right to be wrathful, for never should a son meet his
father in anger; still less when he hath a request to bring before him.
Thou know’st the promise, ‘The days of him that honoreth his father shall
be many.’

In this one thing, my scholar, thou errest always; to gain thine ends thou
usest violence and roughness, where good and gentle words would more
surely prevail. A kind word hath far more power than an angry one, and
much may depend on the way in which a man ordereth his speech. Hearken to
that which I will now relate. In former years there was a king in Egypt
named Snefru, who ruled in Memphis. And it came to pass that he dreamed,
and in his dream his teeth fell out of his mouth. And he sent for the
soothsayers and told them the dream. The first interpreter answered: ‘Woe
unto thee, O king, all thy kinsmen shall die before thee!’ Then was Snefru
wroth, caused this messenger of evil to be scourged, and sent for a second
interpreter. He answered: ‘O king, live for ever, thy life shall be longer
than the life of thy kinsmen and the men of thy house!’ Then the king
smiled and gave presents unto this interpreter, for though the
interpretations were one, yet he had understood to clothe his message in a
web of fair and pleasant words. Apprehendest thou? then hearken to my
voice, and refrain from harsh words, remembering that to the ear of a
ruler the manner of a man’s speech is weightier than its matter.”

“Oh my father, how often hast thou thus admonished me! how often have I
been convinced of the evil consequences of my rough words and angry
gestures! but I cannot change my nature, I cannot…”

“Say rather: I will not; for he that is indeed a man, dare never again
commit those sins of which he has once repented. But I have admonished
sufficiently. Tell me now how thou didst calm the wrath of Amasis.”

“Thou knowest my father. When he saw that he had wounded me in the depths
of my soul by his awful words, he repented him of his anger. He felt he
had been too hard, and desired to make amends at any price.”

“He hath a kindly heart, but his mind is blinded, and his senses taken
captive,” cried the priest. “What might not Amasis do for Egypt, would he
but hearken to our counsel, and to the commandments of the gods!”

“But hear me, my father! in his emotion he granted me the life of Phanes!”

“Thine eyes flash, Psamtik! that pleaseth me not. The Athenian must die,
for he has offended the gods; but though he that condemns must let justice
have her way, he should have no pleasure in the death of the condemned;
rather should he mourn. Now speak; didst thou obtain aught further?”

“The king declared unto me to what house Nitetis belongs.”

“And further naught?”

“No, my father; but art thou not eager to learn?… ”

“Curiosity is a woman’s vice; moreover, I have long known all that thou
canst tell me.”

“But didst thou not charge me but yesterday to ask my father this
question?”

“I did do so to prove thee, and know whether thou wert resigned to the
Divine will, and wert walking in those ways wherein alone thou canst
become worthy of initiation into the highest grade of knowledge. Thou hast
told us faithfully all that thou hast heard, and thereby proved that thou
canst obey—the first virtue of a priest.”

“Thou knewest then the father of Nitetis?”

“I myself pronounced the prayer over king Hophra’s tomb.”

“But who imparted the secret to thee?”

“The eternal stars, my son, and my skill in reading them.”

“And do these stars never deceive?”

“Never him that truly understands them.”

Psamtik turned pale. His father’s dream and his own fearful horoscope
passed like awful visions through his mind. The priest detected at once
the change in his features and said gently: “Thou deem’st thyself a lost
man because the heavens prognosticated evil at thy birth; but take
comfort, Psamtik; I observed another sign in the heavens at that moment,
which escaped the notice of the astrologers. Thy horoscope was a
threatening, a very threatening one, but its omens may be averted, they
may…”

“O tell me, father, tell me how!”

“They must turn to good, if thou, forgetful of all else, canst live alone
to the gods, paying a ready obedience to the Divine voice audible to us
their priests alone in the innermost and holiest sanctuary.”

“Father, I am ready to obey thy slightest word.”

“The great goddess Neith, who rules in Sais, grant this, my son!” answered
the priest solemnly. “But now leave me alone,” he continued kindly,
“lengthened devotions and the weight of years bring weariness. If
possible, delay the death of Phanes, I wish to speak with him before he
dies. Yet one more word. A troop of Ethiopians arrived yesterday. These
men cannot speak a word of Greek, and under a faithful leader, acquainted
with the Athenians and the locality, they would be the best agents for
getting rid of the doomed man, as their ignorance of the language and the
circumstances render treachery or gossip impossible. Before starting for
Naukratis, they must know nothing of the design of their journey; the deed
once accomplished, we can send them back to Kush.—[The Egyptian name
for Ethiopia.] Remember, a secret can never be too carefully kept!
Farewell.” Psamtik had only left the room a few moments, when a young
priest entered, one of the king’s attendants.

“Have I listened well, father?” he enquired of the old man.

“Perfectly, my son. Nothing of that which passed between Amasis and
Psamtik has escaped thine ears. May Isis preserve them long to thee!”

“Ah, father, a deaf man could have heard every word in the ante-chamber
to-day, for Amasis bellowed like an ox.”

“The great Neith has smitten him with the lack of prudence, yet I command
thee to speak of the Pharaoh with more reverence. But now return, keep
thine eyes open and inform me at once if Amasis, as is possible, should
attempt to thwart the conspiracy against Phanes. Thou wilt certainly find
me here. Charge the attendants to admit no one, and to say I am at my
devotions in the Holy of holies. May the ineffable One protect thy
footsteps!”

While Psamtik was making every preparation for the capture of Phanes,
Croesus, accompanied by his followers, had embarked on board a royal bark,
and was on his way down the Nile to spend the evening with Rhodopis.

His son Gyges and the three young Persians remained in Sais, passing the
time in a manner most agreeable to them.

Amasis loaded them with civilities, allowed them, according to Egyptian
custom, the society of his queen and of the twin-sisters, as they were
called, taught Gyges the game of draughts, and looking on while the
strong, dexterous, young heroes joined his daughters in the game of
throwing balls and hoops, so popular among Egyptian maidens, enlivened
their amusements with an inexhaustible flow of wit and humor.

“Really,” said Bartja, as he watched Nitetis catching the slight hoop,
ornamented with gay ribbons, for the hundredth time on her slender ivory
rod, “really we must introduce this game at home. We Persians are so
different from you Egyptians. Everything new has a special charm for us,
while to you it is just as hateful. I shall describe the game to Our
mother Kassandane, and she will be delighted to allow my brother’s wives
this new amusement.”

“Yes, do, do!” exclaimed the fair Tachot blushing deeply. “Then Nitetis
can play too, and fancy herself back again at home and among those she
loves; and Bartja,” she added in a low voice, “whenever you watch the
hoops flying, you too must remember this hour.”

“I shall never forget it,” answered he with a smile, and then, turning to
his future sister-in-law, he called out cheerfully, “Be of good courage,
Nitetis, you will be happier than you fancy with us. We Asiatics know how
to honor beauty; and prove it by taking many wives.”

Nitetis sighed, and the queen Ladice exclaimed, “On the contrary, that
very fact proves that you understand but poorly how to appreciate woman’s
nature! You can have no idea, Bartja, what a woman feels on finding that
her husband—the man who to her is more than life itself, and to whom
she would gladly and without reserve give up all that she treasures as
most sacred—looks down on her with the same kind of admiration that
he bestows on a pretty toy, a noble steed, or a well-wrought wine-bowl.
But it is yet a thousand-fold more painful to feel that the love which
every woman has a right to possess for herself alone, must be shared with
a hundred others!”

“There speaks the jealous wife!” exclaimed Amasis. “Would you not fancy
that I had often given her occasion to doubt my faithfulness?”

“No, no, my husband,” answered Ladice, “in this point the Egyptian men
surpass other nations, that they remain content with that which they have
once loved; indeed I venture to assert that an Egyptian wife is the
happiest of women.

Even the Greeks, who in so many things may serve as patterns to us, do not
know how to appreciate woman rightly. Most of the young Greek girls pass
their sad childhood in close rooms, kept to the wheel and the loom by
their mothers and those who have charge of them, and when marriageable,
are transferred to the quiet house of a husband they do not know, and
whose work in life and in the state allows him but seldom to visit his
wife’s apartments. Only when the most intimate friends and nearest
relations are with her husband, does she venture to appear in their midst,
and then shyly and timidly, hoping to hear a little of what is going on in
the great world outside. Ah, indeed! we women thirst for knowledge too,
and there are certain branches of learning at least, which it cannot be
right to withhold from those who are to be the mothers and educators of
the next generation. What can an Attic mother, without knowledge, without
experience, give to her daughters? Naught but her own ignorance. And so it
is, that a Hellene, seldom satisfied with the society of his lawful, but,
mentally, inferior wife, turns for satisfaction to those courtesans, who,
from their constant intercourse with men, have acquired knowledge, and
well understand how to adorn it with the flowers of feminine grace, and to
season it with the salt of a woman’s more refined and delicate wit. In
Egypt it is different. A young girl is allowed to associate freely with
the most enlightened men. Youths and maidens meet constantly on festive
occasions, learn to know and love one another. The wife is not the slave,
but the friend of her husband; the one supplies the deficiencies of the
other. In weighty questions the stronger decides, but the lesser cares of
life are left to her who is the greater in small things. The daughters
grow up under careful guidance, for the mother is neither ignorant nor
inexperienced. To be virtuous and diligent in her affairs becomes easy to
a woman, for she sees that it increases his happiness whose dearest
possession she boasts of being, and who belongs to her alone. The women
only do that which pleases us! but the Egyptian men understand the art of
making us pleased with that which is really good, and with that alone. On
the shores of the Nile, Phocylides of Miletus and Hipponax of Ephesus
would never have dared to sing their libels on women, nor could the fable
of Pandora have been possibly invented here!”

“How beautifully you speak!” exclaimed Bartja. “Greek was not easy to
learn, but I am very glad now that I did not give it up in despair, and
really paid attention to Croesus’ lessons.”

“Who could those men have been,” asked Darius, “who dared to speak evil of
women?”

“A couple of Greek poets,” answered Amasis, “the boldest of men, for I
confess I would rather provoke a lioness than a woman. But these Greeks do
not know what fear is. I will give you a specimen of Hipponax’s Poetry:

“Cease, cease,” cried Ladice stopping her ears, that is too had. Now,
Persians, you can see what manner of man Amasis is. For the sake of a
joke, he will laugh at those who hold precisely the same opinion as
himself. There could not be a better husband.

“Nor a worse wife,” laughed Amasis. “Thou wilt make men think that I am a
too obedient husband. But now farewell, my children; our young heroes must
look at this our city of Sais; before parting, however, I will repeat to
them what the malicious Siuionides has sung of a good wife:

“Such is my Ladice! now farewell!”

“Not yet!” cried Bartja. “Let me first speak in defence of our poor Persia
and instil fresh courage into my future sister-in-law; but no! Darius,
thou must speak, thine eloquence is as great as thy skill in figures and
swordsmanship!”

“Thou speakst of me as if I were a gossip or a shopkeeper,”—[This
nickname, which Darius afterwards earned, is more fully spoken of]—answered
the son of Hystaspes. “Be it so; I have been burning all this time to
defend the customs of our country. Know then, Ladice, that if Auramazda
dispose the heart of our king in his own good ways, your daughter will not
be his slave, but his friend. Know also, that in Persia, though certainly
only at high festivals, the king’s wives have their places at the men’s
table, and that we pay the highest reverence to our wives and mothers. A
king of Babylon once took a Persian wife; in the broad plains of the
Euphrates she fell sick of longing for her native mountains; he caused a
gigantic structure to be raised on arches, and the summit thereof to be
covered with a depth of rich earth; caused the choicest trees and flowers
to be planted there, and watered by artificial machinery. This wonder
completed, he led his wife thither; from its top she could look down into
the plains below, as from the heights of Rachined, and with this costly
gift he presented her. Tell me, could even an Egyptian give more?”

“And did she recover?” asked Nitetis, without raising her eyes.

“She recovered health and happiness; and you too will soon feel well and
happy in our country.”

“And now,” said Ladice with a smile, “what, think you, contributed most to
the young queen’s recovery? the beautiful mountain or the love of the
husband, who erected it for her sake?”

“Her husband’s love,” cried the young girls.

“But Nitetis would not disdain the mountain either,” maintained Bartja,
“and I shall make it my care that whenever the court is at Babylon, she
has the hanging-gardens for her residence.”

“But now come,” exclaimed Amasis, “unless you wish to see the city in
darkness. Two secretaries have been awaiting me yonder for the last two
hours. Ho! Sachons! give orders to the captain of the guard to accompany
our noble guests with a hundred men.”

“But why? a single guide, perhaps one of the Greek officers, would be
amply sufficient.”

“No, my young friends, it is better so. Foreigners can never be too
prudent in Egypt. Do not forget this, and especially be careful not to
ridicule the sacred animals. And now farewell, my young heroes, till we
meet again this evening over a merry wine-cup.”

The Persians then quitted the palace, accompanied by their interpreter, a
Greek, but who had been brought up in Egypt, and spoke both languages with
equal facility.

Those streets of Sais which lay near the palace wore a pleasant aspect.
The houses, many of which were five stories high, were generally covered
with pictures or hieroglyphics; galleries with balustrades of carved and
gaily-painted wood-work, supported by columns also brightly painted, ran
round the walls surrounding the courts. In many cases the proprietor’s
name and rank was to be read on the door, which was, however, well closed
and locked. Flowers and shrubs ornamented the flat roofs, on which the
Egyptians loved to spend the evening hours, unless indeed, they preferred
ascending the mosquito-tower with which nearly every house was provided.
These troublesome insects, engendered by the Nile, fly low, and these
little watch-towers were built as a protection from them.

The young Persians admired the great, almost excessive cleanliness, with
which each house, nay, even the streets themselves, literally shone. The
door-plates and knockers sparkled in the sun; paintings, balconies and
columns all had the appearance of having been only just finished, and even
the street-pavement looked as if it were often scoured.

But as the Persians left the neighborhood of the Nile and the palace, the
streets became smaller. Sais was built on the slope of a moderately high
hill, and had only been the residence of the Pharaohs for two centuries
and a half, but, during that comparatively short interval, had risen from
an unimportant place into a town of considerable magnitude.

On its river-side the houses and streets were brilliant, but on the
hill-slope lay, with but few more respectable exceptions, miserable,
poverty-stricken huts constructed of acacia-boughs and Nile-mud. On the
north-west rose the royal citadel.

“Let us turn back here,” exclaimed Gyges to his young companions. During
his father’s absence he was responsible as their guide and protector, and
now perceived that the crowd of curious spectators, which had hitherto
followed them, was increasing at every step.

“I obey your orders,” replied the interpreter, “but yonder in the valley,
at the foot of that hill, lies the Saitic city of the dead, and for
foreigners I should think that would be of great interest.”

“Go forward!” cried Bartja. “For what did we leave Persia, if not to
behold these remarkable objects?”

On arriving at an open kind of square surrounded by workmen’s booths, and
not far from the city of the dead, confused cries rose among the crowd
behind them.

The children shouted for joy, the women called out, and one voice louder
than the rest was heard exclaiming: “Come hither to the fore-court of the
temple, and see the works of the great magician, who comes from the
western oases of Libya and is endowed with miraculous gifts by Chunsu, the
giver of good counsels, and by the great goddess Hekt.”

“Follow me to the small temple yonder,” said the interpreter, “and you
will behold a strange spectacle.” He pushed a way for himself and the
Persians through the crowd, obstructed in his course by many a sallow
woman and naked child; and at length came back with a priest, who
conducted the strangers into the fore-court of the temple. Here,
surrounded by various chests and boxes, stood a man in the dress of a
priest; beside him on the earth knelt two negroes. The Libyan was a man of
gigantic stature, with great suppleness of limb and a pair of piercing
black eyes. In his hand he held a wind-instrument resembling a modern
clarionet, and a number of snakes, known in Egypt to be poisonous, lay
coiling themselves over his breast and arms.

On finding himself in the presence of the Persians he bowed low, inviting
them by a solemn gesture to gaze at his performances; he then cast off his
white robe and began all kinds of tricks with the snakes.

He allowed them to bite him, till the blood trickled down his cheeks;
compelled them by the notes of his flute to assume an erect position and
perform a kind of dancing evolution; by spitting into their jaws he
transformed them to all appearance into motionless rods; and then, dashing
them all on to the earth, performed a wild dance in their midst, yet
without once touching a single snake.

Like one possessed, he contorted his pliant limbs until his eyes seemed
starting from his head and a bloody foam issued from his lips.

Suddenly he fell to the ground, apparently lifeless. A slight movement of
the lips and a low hissing whistle were the only signs of life; but, on
hearing the latter, the snakes crept up and twined themselves like living
rings around his neck, legs and body. At last he rose, sang a hymn in
praise of the divine power which had made him a magician, and then laid
the greater number of his snakes in one of the chests, retaining a few,
probably his favorites, to serve as ornaments for his neck and arms.

The second part of this performance consisted of clever conjuring-tricks,
in which he swallowed burning flax, balanced swords while dancing, their
points standing in the hollow of his eye; drew long strings and ribbons
out of the noses of the Egyptian children, exhibited the well-known
cup-and-ball trick, and, at length, raised the admiration of the
spectators to its highest pitch, by producing five living rabbits from as
many ostrich-eggs.

The Persians formed no unthankful portion of the assembled crowd; on the
contrary, this scene, so totally new, impressed them deeply.

They felt as if in the realm of miracles, and fancied they had now seen
the rarest of all Egyptian rarities. In silence they took their way back
to the handsomer streets of Sais, without noticing how many mutilated
Egyptians crossed their path. These poor disfigured creatures were indeed
no unusual sight for Asiatics, who punished many crimes by the amputation
of a limb. Had they enquired however, they would have heard that, in
Egypt, the man deprived of his hand was a convicted forger, the woman of
her nose, an adulteress; that the man without a tongue had been found
guilty of high treason or false witness; that the loss of the ears denoted
a spy, and that the pale, idiotic-looking woman yonder had been guilty of
infanticide, and had been condemned to hold the little corpse three days
and three nights in her arms. What woman could retain her senses after
these hours of torture?—[Diodorus I. 77.]

The greater number of the Egyptian penal laws not only secured the
punishment of the criminal, but rendered a repetition of the offence
impossible.

The Persian party now met with a hindrance, a large crowd having assembled
before one of the handsomest houses in the street leading to the temple of
Neith. The few windows of this house that could be seen (the greater
number opening on the garden and court) were closed with shutters, and at
the door stood an old man, dressed in the plain white robe of a priest’s
servant. He was endeavoring, with loud cries, to prevent a number of men
of his own class from carrying a large chest out of the house.

“What right have you to rob my master?” he shrieked indignantly. “I am the
guardian of this house, and when my master left for Persia (may the gods
destroy that land!) he bade me take especial care of this chest in which
his manuscripts lay.”

“Compose yourself, old Hib!” shouted one of these inferior priests, the
same whose acquaintance we made on the arrival of the Asiatic Embassy. “We
are here in the name of the high-priest of the great Neith, your master’s
master. There must be queer papers in this box, or Neithotep would not
have honored us with his commands to fetch them.”

“But I will not allow my master’s papers to be stolen,” shrieked the old
man. “My master is the great physician Nebenchari, and I will secure his
rights, even if I must appeal to the king himself.”

“There,” cried the other, “that will do; out with the chest, you fellows.
Carry it at once to the high-priest; and you, old man, would do more
wisely to hold your tongue and remember that the high-priest is your
master as well as mine. Get into the house as quick as you can, or
to-morrow we shall have to drag you off as we did the chest to-day!” So
saying, he slammed the heavy door, the old man was flung backward into the
house and the crowd saw him no more.

The Persians had watched this scene and obtained an explanation of its
meaning from their interpreter. Zopyrus laughed on hearing that the
possessor of the stolen chest was the oculist Nebenchari, the same who had
been sent to Persia to restore the sight of the king’s mother, and whose
grave, even morose temper had procured him but little love at the court of
Cambyses.

Bartja wished to ask Amasis the meaning of this strange robbery, but Gyges
begged him not to interfere in matters with which he had no concern. Just
as they reached the palace, and darkness, which in Egypt so quickly
succeeds the daylight, was already stealing over the city, Gyges felt
himself hindered from proceeding further by a firm hand on his robe, and
perceived a stranger holding his finger on his lips in token of silence.

“When can I speak with you alone and unobserved?” he whispered.

“What do you wish from me?”

“Ask no questions, but answer me quickly. By Mithras, I have weighty
matters to disclose.”

“You speak Persian, but your garments would proclaim you an Egyptian.”

“I am a Persian, but answer me quickly or we shall be noticed. When can I
speak to you alone?”

“To-morrow morning.”

“That is too late.”

“Well then, in a quarter of an hour, when it is quite dark, at this gate
of the palace.”

“I shall expect you.”

So saying the man vanished. Once within the palace, Gyges left Bartja and
Zopyrus, fastened his sword into his girdle, begged Darius to do the same
and to follow him, and was soon standing again under the great portico
with the stranger, but this time in total darkness.

“Auramazda be praised that you are there!” cried the latter in Persian to
the young Lydian; “but who is that with you?”

“Darius, the son of Hystaspes, one of the Achaemenidae; and my friend.”

The stranger bowed low and answered, “It is well, I feared an Egyptian had
accompanied you.”

“No, we are alone and willing to hear you; but be brief. Who are you and
what do you want?”

“My name is Bubares. I served as a poor captain under the great Cyrus. At
the taking of your father’s city, Sardis, the soldiers were at first
allowed to plunder freely; but on your wise father’s representing to Cyrus
that to plunder a city already taken was an injury to the present, and not
to the former, possessor, they were commanded on pain of death to deliver
up their booty to their captains, and the latter to cause everything of
worth, when brought to them, to be collected in the market-place. Gold and
silver trappings lay there in abundance, costly articles of attire studded
with precious stones…”

“Quick, quick, our time is short,” interrupted Gyges.

“You are right. I must be more brief. By keeping for myself an
ointment-box sparkling with jewels, taken from your father’s palace, I
forfeited my life. Croesus, however, pleaded for me with his conqueror
Cyrus; my life and liberty were granted me, but I was declared a
dishonored man. Life in Persia became impossible with disgrace lying
heavily on my soul; I took ship from Smyrna to Cyprus, entered the army
there, fought against Amasis, and was brought hither by Phanes as a
prisoner-of-war. Having always served as a horse-soldier, I was placed
among those slaves who had charge of the king’s horses, and in six years
became an overseer. Never have I forgotten the debt of gratitude I owe to
your father; and now my turn has come to render him a service.”

“The matter concerns my father? then speak—tell me, I beseech you!”

“Immediately. Has Croesus offended the crown prince?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Your father is on a visit to Rhodopis this evening, at Naukratis?”

“How did you hear this?”

“From himself. I followed him to the boat this morning and sought to cast
myself at his feet.”

“And did you succeed?”

“Certainly. He spoke a few gracious words with me, but could not wait to
hear what I would say, as his companions were already on board when he
arrived. His slave Sandon, whom I know, told me that they were going to
Naukratis, and would visit the Greek woman whom they call Rhodopis.”

“He spoke truly.”

“Then you must speed to the rescue. At the time that the market-place was
full.”

“Ten carriages and two boats, full of Ethiopian soldiers under the command
of an Egyptian captain, were sent off to Naukratis to surround the house
of Rhodopis and make captives of her guests.”

“Ha, treachery!” exclaimed Gyges.

“But how can they wish to injure your father?” said Darius. “They know
that the vengeance of Cambyses—”

“I only know,” repeated Bubares, “that this night the house of Rhodopis,
in which your father is, will be surrounded by Ethiopian soldiers. I
myself saw to the horses which transport them thither and heard Pentaur,
one of the crown-prince’s fan-bearers, call to them, ‘Keep eyes and ears
open, and let the house of Rhodopis be surrounded, lest he should escape
by the back door. If possible spare his life, and kill him only if he
resist. Bring him alive to Sais, and you shall receive twenty rings of
gold.’”

“But could that allude to my father?”

“Certainly not,” cried Darius.

“It is impossible to say,” murmured Bubares. “In this country one can
never know what may happen.”

“How long does it take for a good horse to reach Naukratis?”

“Three hours, if he can go so long, and the Nile has not overflowed the
road too much.”

“I will be there in two.”

“I shall ride with you,” said Darius.

“No, you must remain here with Zopyrus for Bartja’s protection. Tell the
servants to get ready.”

“But Gyges—”

“Yes, you will stay here and excuse me to Amasis. Say I could not come to
the evening revel on account of headache, toothache, sickness, anything
you like.”

“I shall ride Bartja’s Nicaean horse; and you, Bubares, will follow me on
Darius’s. You will lend him, my brother?”

“If I had ten thousand, you should have them all.”

“Do you know the way to Naukratis, Bubares?”

“Blindfold.”

“Then go, Darius, and tell them to get your horse and Bartja’s ready! To
linger would be sin. Farewell Darius, perhaps forever! Protect Bartja!
Once more, farewell!”


CHAPTER VIII.

It wanted two hours of midnight. Bright light was streaming through the
open windows of Rhodopis’ house, and sounds of mirth and gaiety fell on
the ear. Her table had been adorned with special care in Croesus’ honor.

On the cushions around it lay the guests with whom we are already
acquainted: Theodorus, Ibykus, Phanes, Aristomachus, the merchant
Theopompus of Miletus, Croesus and others, crowned with chaplets of poplar
and roses.

Theodorus the sculptor was speaking: “Egypt seems to me,” he said, “like a
girl who persists in wearing a tight and painful shoe only because it is
of gold, while within her reach he beautiful and well-fitting slippers in
which she could move at ease, if she only would.”

“You refer to the Egyptians’ pertinacity in retaining traditional forms
and customs?” asked Croesus.

“Certainly I do,” answered the sculptor. “Two centuries ago Egypt was
unquestionably the first of the nations. In Art and Science she far
excelled us; but we learnt their methods of working, improved on them,
held firm to no prescribed proportions, but to the natural types alone,
gave freedom and beauty to their unbending outlines, and now have left our
masters far behind us. But how was this possible? simply because the
Egyptians, bound by unalterable laws, could make no progress; we, on the
contrary, were free to pursue our course in the wide arena of art as far
as will and power would allow.”

“But how can an artist be compelled to fashion statues alike, which are
meant to differ from each other in what they represent?”

“In this case that can be easily explained. The entire human body is
divided by the Egyptians into 21 1/4 parts, in accordance with which
division the proportion of each separate limb is regulated. I, myself,
have laid a wager with Amasis, in presence of the first Egyptian sculptor,
(a priest of Thebes), that, if I send my brother Telekles, in Ephesus,
dimensions, proportion and attitude, according to the Egyptian method, he
and I together can produce a statue which shall look as if sculptured from
one block and by one hand, though Telekles is to carve the lower half at
Ephesus, and I the upper here in Sais, and under the eye of Amasis.”

“And shall you win your wager?”

“Undoubtedly. I am just going to begin this trick of art; it will as
little deserve the name of a work of art, as any Egyptian statue.”

“And yet there are single sculptures here which are of exquisite
workmanship; such, for instance, as the one Amasis sent to Samos as a
present to Polykrates. In Memphis I saw a statue said to be about three
thousand years old, and to represent a king who built the great Pyramid,
which excited my admiration in every respect. With what certainty and
precision that unusually hard stone has been wrought! the muscles, how
carefully carved! especially in the breast, legs and feet; the harmony of
the features too, and, above all, the polish of the whole, leave nothing
to be desired.”

“Unquestionably. In all the mechanism of art, such as precision and
certainty in working even the hardest materials, the Egyptians, though
they have so long stood still in other points, are still far before us;
but to model form with freedom, to breathe, like Prometheus, a soul into
the stone, they will never learn until their old notions on this subject
have been entirely abandoned. Even the pleasing varieties of corporeal
life cannot be represented by a system of mere proportions, much less
those which are inner and spiritual. Look at the countless statues which
have been erected during the last three thousand years, in all the temples
and palaces from Naukratis up to the Cataracts. They are all of one type,
and represent men of middle age, with grave but benevolent countenances.
Yet they are intended, some as statues of aged monarchs, others to
perpetuate the memory of young princes. The warrior and the lawgiver, the
blood-thirsty tyrant and the philanthropist are only distinguished from
each other by a difference in size, by which the Egyptian sculptor
expresses the idea of power and strength. Amasis orders a statue just as I
should a sword. Breadth and length being specified, we both of us know
quite well, before the master has begun his work, what we shall receive
when it is finished. How could I possibly fashion an infirm old man like
an eager youth? a pugilist like a runner in the foot-race? a poet like a
warrior? Put Ibykus and our Spartan friend side by side, and tell me what
you would say, were I to give to the stern warrior the gentle features and
gestures of our heart-ensnaring poet.”

“Well, and how does Amasis answer your remarks on this stagnation in art?”

“He deplores it; but does not feel himself strong enough to abolish the
restrictive laws of the priests.”

“And yet,” said the Delphian, “he has given a large sum towards the
embellishment of our new temple, expressly, (I use his own words) for the
promotion of Hellenic art!”

“That is admirable in him,” exclaimed Croesus. “Will the Alkmaeonidae soon
have collected the three hundred talents necessary for the completion of
the temple? Were I as rich as formerly I would gladly undertake the entire
cost; notwithstanding that your malicious god so cruelly deceived me,
after all my offerings at his shrine. For when I sent to ask whether I
should begin the war with Cyrus, he returned this answer: I should destroy
a mighty kingdom by crossing the river Halys. I trusted the god, secured
the friendship of Sparta according to his commands, crossed the boundary
stream, and, in so doing, did indeed destroy a mighty kingdom; not however
that of the Medes and Persians, but my own poor Lydia, which, as a satrapy
of Cambyses, finds its loss of independence a hard and uncongenial yoke.”

“You blame the god unjustly,” answered Phryxus. “It cannot be his fault
that you, in your human conceit, should have misinterpreted his oracle.
The answer did not say ‘the kingdom of Persia,’ but ‘a kingdom’ should be
destroyed through your desire for war. Why did you not enquire what
kingdom was meant? Was not your son’s fate truly prophesied by the oracle?
and also that on the day of misfortune he would regain his speech? And
when, after the fall of Sardis, Cyrus granted your wish to enquire at
Delphi whether the Greek gods made a rule of requiting their benefactors
by ingratitude, Loxias answered that he had willed the best for you, but
was controlled by a mightier power than himself, by that inexorable fate
which had foretold to thy great ancestor, that his fifth successor was
doomed to destruction.”

“In the first days of my adversity I needed those words far more than
now,” interrupted Croesus. “There was a time when I cursed your god and
his oracles; but later, when with my riches my flatterers had left me, and
I became accustomed to pronounce judgment on my own actions, I saw clearly
that not Apollo, but my own vanity had been the cause of my ruin. How
could ‘the kingdom to be destroyed’ possibly mean mine, the mighty realm
of the powerful Croesus, the friend of the gods, the hitherto unconquered
leader? Had a friend hinted at this interpretation of the ambiguous
oracle, I should have derided, nay, probably caused him to be punished.
For a despotic ruler is like a fiery steed; the latter endeavors to kick
him who touches his wounds with intent to heal; the former punishes him
who lays a hand on the weak or failing points of his diseased mind. Thus I
missed what, if my eyes had not been dazzled, I might easily have seen;
and now that my vision is clearer, though I have nothing to lose, I am far
more often anxious than in the days when none could possibly lose more
than I. In comparison with those days, Phryxus, I may be called a poor man
now, but Cambyses does not leave me to famish, and I can still raise a
talent for your temple.”

Phryxus expressed his thanks, and Phanes remarked “The Alkmaeonida; will
be sure to erect a beautiful edifice, for they are rich and ambitious, and
desirous of gaining favor with the Amphiktyons, in order, by their aid, to
overthrow the tyrants, secure to themselves a higher position than that of
the family to which I belong, and with this, the guidance of
state-affairs.”

“Is it true, as people say,” asked Ibykus, “that next to Agarista with
whom Megakles received so rich a dowry, you, Croesus, have been the
largest contributor to the wealth of the Alkmaeonidae?”

“True enough,” answered Croesus laughing.

“Tell us the story, I beg,” said Rhodopis.

“Well,” answered Croesus, “Alkmaeon of Athens once appeared at my court;
his cheerfulness and cultivation pleased me well, and I retained him near
me for some time. One day I showed him my treasure-chambers, at the sight
of which he fell into despair, called himself a common beggar and declared
that one good handful of these precious things would make him a happy man.
I at once allowed him to take as much gold away as he could carry. What
think you did Alkaemmon on this? sent for high Lydian riding-boots, an
apron and a basket, had the one secured behind him, put the others on, and
filled them all with gold, till they could hold no more. Not content with
this, he strewed gold-dust in his hair and beard and filled his mouth to
that extent that he appeared in the act of choking. In each hand he
grasped a golden dish, and thus laden dragged himself out of the
treasure-house, falling exhausted as he crossed the threshold. Never have
I laughed so heartily as at this sight.”

“But did you grant him all these treasures?” said Rhodopis.

“Yes, yes, my friend; and did not think even then, that I had paid too
dearly for the experience that gold can make fools even of clever men.”

“You were the most generous of monarchs,” cried Phanes.

“And make a tolerably contented beggar,” answered Croesus. “But tell me,
Phryxus, how much has Amasis contributed to your collection?”

“He gave fifty tons of alum.”

“A royal gift!”

“And the prince Psamtik?”

“On my appealing to him by his father’s munificence, he turned his back on
me, and answered with a bitter laugh: ‘Collect money for the destruction
of your temple, and I am ready to double my father’s donation!’”

“The wretch!”

“Say rather: the true Egyptian! to Psamtik everything foreign is an
abomination.”

“How much have the Greeks in Naukratis contributed?”

“Beside munificent private donations, each community has given twenty
minae.”

“That is much.”

“Philoinus, the Sybarite, alone sent me a thousand drachmm, and
accompanied his gift with a most singular epistle. May I read it aloud,
Rhodopis?”

“Certainly,” answered she, “it will show you that the drunkard has
repented of his late behaviour.”

The Delphian began: “Philoinus to Phryxus: It grieves me that at Rhodopis’
house the other night I did not drink more; for had I done so I should
have lost consciousness entirely, and so have been unable to offend even
the smallest insect. My confounded abstemiousness is therefore to blame,
that I can no longer enjoy a place at the best table in all Egypt. I am
thankful, however, to Rhodopis for past enjoyment, and in memory of her
glorious roast-beef (which has bred in me the wish to buy her cook at any
price) I send twelve large spits for roasting oxen,—[Rhodopis is
said to have sent such a gift to Delphi. Herod.]—and beg they may be
placed in some treasure-house at Delphi as an offering from Rhodopis. As
for myself, being a rich man, I sign my name for a thousand drachmae, and
beg that my gift may be publicly announced at the next Pythian games. To
that rude fellow, Aristomachus of Sparta, express my thanks for the
effectual manner in which he fulfilled my intention in coming to Egypt. I
came hither for the purpose of having a tooth extracted by an Egyptian
dentist said to take out teeth without causing much pain.

Aristomachus, however, knocked out the defective tooth and so saved me
from an operation, the thought of which had often made me tremble. On
recovering consciousness, I found that three teeth had been knocked into
my mouth, the diseased one and two others, which though healthy, would
probably at some future time have caused me pain. Salute Rhodopis and the
handsome Phanes from me. You I invite to an entertainment at my house in
Sybaris, this day year. We are accustomed to issue invitations somewhat
early, on account of my necessary preparations. I have caused this epistle
to be written by my slave Sophotatus in an adjoining chamber, as merely to
behold the labor of writing causes cramp in my fingers.”

A burst of laughter arose at these words, but Rhodopis said: “This letter
gives me pleasure; it proves that Philoinus is not bad at heart. Brought
up a Sybarite.”… She was suddenly interrupted by the voice of a
stranger, who had entered unperceived, and, after apologizing to the
venerable hostess and her guests for appearing without invitation among
them, continued thus: “I am Gyges the son of Croesus; and it has not been
merely for pastime, that I have ridden over from Sais in two hours lest I
should arrive too late!”

“Menon, a cushion for our guest!” cried Rhodopis. “Be welcome to my house
and take some repose after your wild, thoroughly Lydian, ride.”

“By the dog, Gyges!” exclaimed Croesus.

“What brings thee here at this hour? I begged thee not to quit Bartja’s
side…. But how thou look’st! what is the matter? has aught happened?
speak, speak!”

In the first moment Gyges could not answer a word. To see his beloved
father, for whose very life he had been in such anxiety, a safe and happy
guest at this rich banquet, seemed to rob him of his speech a second time.
At last, however, he was able to say: “The gods be praised, my father,
that I see thee safe once more! Think not I forsook my post thoughtlessly.
Alas! I am forced to appear as a bird of evil omen in this cheerful
assembly. Know at once, ye guests, for I dare not lose time in preparing
my words, that a treacherous assault awaits ye!”

They all sprang up as if struck by lightning. Aristomachus silently
loosened his sword in its scabbard; Phanes extended his arms as if to
discern whether the old athletic elasticity still dwelt there.

“What can it be?—what is their design?” echoed from all sides.

“This house is surrounded by Ethiopian soldiers!” answered Gyges. “A
faithful fellow confided to me that the crown-prince had designs on one of
your number; he was to be taken alive if possible, but killed if he
resisted. Dreading lest thou shouldst be this victim, my father, I sped
hither. The fellow had not lied. This house is surrounded. My horse shied
on reaching your garden-gate, Rhodopis, jaded as he was. I dismounted, and
could discern behind every bush the glitter of weapons and the eager eyes
of men lying in ambush. They allowed us, however, to enter unmolested.”

At this moment Knakias rushed in crying, “Important news! On my way to the
Nile to fetch water with which to prepare the wine-cup, I have just met a
man who, in his haste, nearly ran over me.

It was an Ethiop, one of Phanes’ boatmen, and he tells that just as he
sprang out of the boat to bathe, a royal bark came alongside and a soldier
asked the rest of the crew in whose service they were. On the helmsman
answering, ‘in Phanes’ service,’ the royal boat passed on slowly. He,
however, (the rower who was bathing), seated himself in fun on the rudder
of the royal boat, and heard one Ethiopian soldier on board say to
another, ‘Keep that craft well in sight; now we know where the bird sits,
and it will be easy to catch him. Remember, Psamtik has promised us fifty
gold rings if we bring the Athenian to Sais dead or alive.’ This is the
report of Sebek, who has been in your service seven years, O Phanes.”

To both these accounts Phanes listened calmly. Rhodopis trembled.
Aristomachus exclaimed, “Not a hair of your head shall be touched, if
Egypt perish for it!” Croesus advised prudence. A tremendous excitement
had mastered the whole party.

At last Phanes broke silence, saying: “Reflection is never more necessary
than in a time of danger. I have thought the matter over, and see clearly
that escape will be difficult. The Egyptians will try to get rid of me
quietly. They know that I intend going on board a Phoecean trireme, which
sets sail for Sigeum at a very early hour to-morrow morning, and have
therefore no time to lose, if they will seize me. Your garden, Rhodopis,
is entirely surrounded, and were I to remain here, your house would no
longer be respected as a sanctuary; it would be searched and I taken in
it. There can be no doubt that a watch has been set over the Phoecean ship
also. Blood shall not be shed in vain on my account.”

“But you dare not surrender!” cried Aristomachus.

“No, no, I have a plan,” shouted Theopompus the Milesian merchant. “At
sunrise to-morrow a ship sails for Miletus laden with Egyptian corn, but
not from Naukratis, from Canopus. Take the noble Persian’s horse and ride
thither. We will cut a way for you through the garden.”

“But,” said Gyges, “our little band is not strong enough to carry out such
an attempt. We number in all ten men, and of these only three have swords;
our enemies, on the other hand, number at least a hundred, and are armed
to the teeth.”

“Lydian!” cried Aristomachus, “wert thou ten times more fainthearted than
thou art, and were our enemies double their number, I at least, will fight
them!”

Phanes grasped his friend’s hand. Gyges turned pale. This brave warrior
had called him fainthearted; and again he could find no words to answer;
for at every stirring emotion his tongue failed him. Suddenly the blood
mounted to his face; his words came quickly and with decision: “Athenian,
follow me! and thou, Spartan, who art not wont to use words heedlessly,
call no man fainthearted again before thou knowest him. Friends, Phanes is
safe, Farewell, father!”

The remaining guests surveyed these two departing men in silent wonder. As
they stood there, silently listening, the sound of two horses galloping
swiftly away fell on their ear, and after a longer interval a prolonged
whistle from the Nile and a cry of distress.

“Where is Knakias?” said Rhodopis to one of her slaves.

“He went into the garden with Phanes and the Persian,” was the answer, and
as it was being spoken, the old slave re-entered, pale and trembling.

“Have you seen my son?” cried Croesus. “Where is Phanes?”

“I was to bid you farewell from them both.”

“Then they are gone.—Whither? How was it possible?”…

“The Athenian and the Persian,” began the slave, “had a slight dispute in
the anteroom. This over, I was told to divest both of their robes. Phanes
then put on the stranger’s trousers, coat and girdle; on his own curls he
placed the pointed Persian cap. The stranger wrapped himself in the
Athenian’s chiton and mantle, placed the golden circlet above his brow,
caused the hair to be shaved from his upper lip, and ordered me to follow
him into the garden. Phanes, whom in his present dress, none could imagine
to be other than a Persian, mounted one of the horses still waiting before
the gate; the stranger called after him, ‘Farewell Gyges, farewell beloved
Persian, a pleasant journey to thee, Gyges!’ The servant, who had been
waiting, followed on the other horse. I could hear the clatter of arms
among the bushes, but the Athenian was allowed to depart unmolested, the
soldiers, without doubt, believing him to be a Persian.

“On returning to the house the stranger’s orders were: ‘Accompany me to
Phanes’ bark, and cease not to call me by the Athenian’s name.’ ‘But the
boatmen will betray you,’ I said. ‘Then go alone to them,’ he answered,
‘and command them to receive me as their master, Phanes.’ Then I prayed
him to allow me to take the dress of the fugitive and become a prey to the
pursuers; but he would by no means allow this, and said my gait and
carriage would betray me. There alas! he spoke truly, for only the free
man can walk erect; the neck of the slave is bent; the schools in which
the noble and the freeborn learn grace and beauty of movement are not for
him. And so it must remain, the children must be even as the fathers; can
the unclean onion-root produce a rose, or the unsightly radish a hyacinth?
Constant bondage bows the neck of the slave, but the consciousness of
freedom gives dignity to the stature.”

“But what has become of my son?” interrupted Croesus.

“He would not accept my poor offer, and took his seat in the bark, sending
a thousand greetings unto thee, O king! I cried after him, ‘Farewell
Phanes! I wish thee a prosperous journey, Phanes!’ At that moment a cloud
crossed the moon; and from out the thick darkness I heard screams, and
cries for help; they did not, however, last long, a shrill whistle
followed, then all was silent; and the measured strokes of oars were the
only sounds that fell on my ear. I was on the point of returning to relate
what I had seen, when the boatman Sebek swam up once more and told as
follows: The Egyptians had caused a leak to be made in Phanes’ boat, and
at a short distance from land it had filled and began to sink. On the
boatmen crying for help, the royal bark, which was following, had come up
and taken the supposed Phanes on board, but had prevented the rowers from
leaving their benches. They all went down with the leaking boat, the
daring Sebek alone excepted. Gyges is on board the royal boat; Phanes has
escaped, for that whistle must have been intended for the soldiers in
ambush at the garden-gate. I searched the bushes, the soldiers were gone,
and I could hear the sound of their voices and weapons on their way back
to Sais.”

The guests listened with eager attention to this tale. At its close a
mingled feeling of relief and anxiety was felt by all; relief that their
favorite companion had escaped so fearful a danger, anxiety for the brave
young Lydian who had risked his life to save him. They praised his
generosity, congratulated Croesus on possessing such a son, and finally
agreed in the conclusion, that, when the crown-prince discovered the error
into which his emissaries had fallen, he must certainly release Gyges, and
even make him compensation for what he had suffered at their hands.

The friendship already shown by Amasis, and the fear in which he evidently
stood of the Persian power, were the thoughts which had power to calm
Croesus, who soon left, in order to pass the night at the house of
Theopompus, the Milesian merchant. At parting, Aristomachus said: “Salute
Gyges in my name; tell him I ask his forgiveness, and hope one day either
to enjoy his friendship, or, if that cannot be, to meet him as a fair foe
on the field of battle.”

“Who knows what the future may bring?” answered Croesus giving his hand to
the Spartan.


CHAPTER IX.

The sun of a new day had risen over Egypt, but was still low in the east;
the copious dew, which, on the Nile, supplies the place of rain, lay
sparkling like jewels on the leaves and blossoms, and the morning air,
freshened by a north-west wind, invited those to enjoy it who could not
bear the heat of mid-day.

Through the door of the country-house, now so well known to us, two female
figures have just passed; Melitta, the old slave, and Sappho, the
grandchild of Rhodopis.

The latter is not less lovely now, than when we saw her last, asleep. She
moves through the garden with a light quick step, her white morning robe
with its wide sleeves falling in graceful drapery over her lithe limbs,
the thick brown hair straying from beneath the purple kerchief over her
head, and a merry, roguish smile lurking round her rosy mouth and in the
dimples of her cheeks and chin.

She stooped to pick a rose, dashed the dew from it into the face of her
old nurse, laughing at her naughty trick till the clear bell-like tones
rang through the garden; fixed the flower in her dress and began to sing
in a wonderfully rich and sweet voice—

“Isn’t that a very pretty song?” asked the laughing girl. “How stupid of
little Eros to mistake a bee for a winged snake! Grandmother says that the
great poet Anacreon wrote another verse to this song, but she will not
teach it me. Tell me, Melitta, what can there be in that verse? There, you
are smiling; dear, darling Melitta, do sing me that one verse. Perhaps
though, you don’t know it yourself? No? then certainly you can’t teach it
me.”

“That is a new song,” answered the old woman, evading her darling’s
question, “I only know the songs of the good old times. But hark! did not
you hear a knock at the gate?”

“Yes, of course I did, and I think the sound of horses’ hoofs too. Go and
see who seeks admission so early. Perhaps, after all, our kind Phanes did
not go away yesterday, and has come to bid us farewell once more.”

“Phanes is gone,” said Melitta, becoming serious, “and Rhodopis has
ordered me to send you in when visitors arrive. Go child, that I may open
the gate. There, they have knocked again.”

Sappho pretended to run in, but instead of obeying her nurse’s orders,
stopped and hid herself behind a rose-bush, hoping to catch sight of these
early guests. In the fear of needlessly distressing her, she had not been
told of the events of the previous evening, and at this early hour could
only expect to see some very intimate friend of her grandmother’s.

Melitta opened the gate and admitted a youth splendidly apparelled, and
with fair curling hair.

It was Bartja, and Sappho was so lost in wonder at his beauty, and the
Persian dress, to her so strange, that she remained motionless in her
hiding-place, her eyes fixed on his face. Just so she had pictured to
herself Apollo with the beautiful locks, guiding the sun-chariot.

As Melitta and the stranger came nearer she thrust her little head through
the roses to hear what the handsome youth was saying so kindly in his
broken Greek.

She heard him ask hurriedly after Croesus and his son; and then, from
Melitta’s answer, she gathered all that had passed the evening before,
trembled for Phanes, felt so thankful to the generous Gyges, and again
wondered who this youth in royal apparel could possibly be. Rhodopis had
told her about Cyrus’s heroic deeds, the fall of Croesus and the power and
wealth of the Persians, but still she had always fancied them a wild,
uncultivated people. Now, however, her interest in Persia increased with
every look at the handsome Bartja. At last Melitta went in to wake her
grandmother and announce the guest, and Sappho tried to follow her, but
Eros, the foolish boy whose ignorance she had been mocking a moment
before, had other intentions. Her dress caught in the thorns, and before
she could disengage it, the beautiful Bartja was standing before her,
helping her to get free from the treacherous bush.

Sappho could not speak a word even of thanks; she blushed deeply, and
stood smiling and ashamed, with downcast eyes.

Bartja, too, generally so full of fun and spirit, looked down at her
without speaking, the color mounting to his cheeks.

The silence, however, did not last long, for Sappho, recovering from her
fright, burst into a laugh of childish delight at the silent stranger and
the odd scene, and fled towards the house like a timid fawn.

In a moment Bartja was himself again; in two strides he reached the young
girl, quick as thought seized her hand and held it fast, notwithstanding
all her struggles.

“Let me go!” she cried half in earnest and half laughing, raising her dark
eyes appealingly to him.

“Why should I?” he answered. “I took you from the rose-bush and shall hold
you fast until you give me your sister there, the other rose, from your
bosom, to take home with me as a keepsake.”

“Please let me go,” repeated Sappho, “I will promise nothing unless you
let my hand go.”

“But if I do, you will not run away again?”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, then, I will give you your liberty, but now you must give me your
rose.”

“There are plenty on the bush yonder, and more beautiful ones; choose
whichever you like. Why do you want just this one?”

“To keep it carefully in remembrance of the most beautiful maiden I ever
saw.”

“Then I shall certainly not give it to you; for those are not my real
friends who tell me I am beautiful, only those who tell me I am good.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“From my grandmother Rhodopis.”

“Very well, then I will tell you you are better than any other maiden in
the whole world.”

“How can you say such things, when you don’t know me at all? Oh, sometimes
I am very naughty and disobedient. If I were really good I should be
indoors now instead of talking to you here. My grandmother has forbidden
me ever to stay in the garden when visitors are here, and indeed I don’t
care for all those strange men who always talk about things I cannot
understand.”

“Then perhaps you would like me to go away too?”

“Oh no, I can understand you quite well; though you cannot speak half so
beautifully as our poor Phanes for example, who was obliged to escape so
miserably yesterday evening, as I heard Melitta saying just this minute.”

“Did you love Phanes?”

“Love him? Oh yes,—I was very fond of him. When I was little he
always brought me balls, dolls ninepins from Memphis and Sais; and now
that I am older he teaches me beautiful new songs.”

“As a parting gift he brought me a tiny Sicilian lapdog, which I am going
to call Argos, because he is so white and swiftfooted. But in a few days
we are to have another present from the good Phanes, for…. There, now
you can see what I am; I was just going to let out a great secret. My
grandmother has strictly forbidden me to tell any one what dear little
visitors we are expecting; but I feel as if I had known you a long time
already, and you have such kind eyes that I could tell you everything. You
see, when I am very happy, I have no one in the whole world to talk to
about it, except old Melitta and my grandmother, and, I don’t know how it
is, that, though they love me so much, they sometimes cannot understand
how trifles can make me so happy.”

“That is because they are old, and have forgotten what made them happy in
their youth. But have you no companions of your own age that you are fond
of?”

“Not one. Of course there are many other young girls beside me in
Naukratis, but my grandmother says I am not to seek their acquaintance,
and if they will not come to us I am not to go to them.”

“Poor child! if you were in Persia, I could soon find you a friend. I have
a sister called Atossa, who is young and good, like you.”

“Oh, what a pity that she did not come here with you!—But now you
must tell me your name.”

“My name is Bartja.”

“Bartja! that is a strange name! Bartja-Bartja. Do you know, I like it.
How was the son of Croesus called, who saved our Phanes so generously?”

“Gyges. Darius, Zopyrus and he are my best friends. We have sworn never to
part, and to give up our lives for one another, and that is why I came
to-day, so early and quite in secret, to help my friend Gyges, in case he
should need me.”

“Then you rode here for nothing.”

“No, by Mithras, that indeed I did not, for this ride brought me to you.
But now you must tell me your name.”

“I am called Sappho.”

“That is a pretty name, and Gyges sings me sometimes beautiful songs by a
poetess called Sappho. Are you related to her?”

“Of course. She was the sister of my grandfather Charaxus, and is called
the tenth muse or the Lesbian swan. I suppose then, your friend Gyges
speaks Greek better than you do?”

“Yes, he learnt Greek and Lydian together as a little child, and speaks
them both equally well. He can speak Persian too, perfectly; and what is
more, he knows and practises all the Persian virtues.”

“Which are the highest virtues then according to you Persians?”

“Truth is the first of all; courage the second, and the third is
obedience; these three, joined with veneration for the gods, have made us
Persians great.”

“But I thought you worshipped no gods?”

“Foolish child! who could live without a god, without a higher ruler?
True, they do not dwell in houses and pictures like the gods of the
Egyptians, for the whole creation is their dwelling. The Divinity, who
must be in every place, and must see and hear everything, cannot be
confined within walls.”

“Where do you pray then and offer sacrifice, if you have no temples?”

“On the grandest of all altars, nature herself; our favorite altar is the
summit of a mountain. There we are nearest to our own god, Mithras, the
mighty sun, and to Auramazda, the pure creative light; for there the light
lingers latest and returns earliest.”

“Light alone is pure and good; darkness is unclean and evil. Yes, maiden,
believe me, God is nearest to us on the mountains; they are his favorite
resting-place. Have you never stood on the wooded summit of a high
mountain, and felt, amid the solemn silence of nature, the still and soft,
but awful breath of Divinity hovering around you? Have you prostrated
yourself in the green forest, by a pure spring, or beneath the open sky,
and listened for the voice of God speaking from among the leaves and
waters? Have you beheld the flame leaping up to its parent the sun, and
bearing with it, in the rising column of smoke, our prayers to the radiant
Creator? You listen now in wonder, but I tell you, you would kneel and
worship too with me, could I but take you to one of our mountain-altars.”

“Oh! if I only could go there with you! if I might only once look down
from some high mountain over all the woods and meadows, rivers and
valleys. I think, up there, where nothing could be hidden from my eyes, I
should feel like an all-seeing Divinity myself. But hark, my grandmother
is calling. I must go.”

“Oh, do not leave me yet!”

“Is not obedience one of the Persian virtues?”

“But my rose?”

“Here it is.”

“Shall you remember me?”

“Why should I not?”

“Sweet maiden, forgive me if I ask one more favor.”

“Yes, but ask it quickly, for my grandmother has just called again.”

“Take my diamond star as a remembrance of this hour.”

“No, I dare not.”

“Oh, do, do take it. My father gave it me as a reward, the first time that
I killed a bear with my own hand, and it has been my dearest treasure till
to-day, but now you shall have it, for you are dearer to me than anything
else in the world.”

Saying this, he took the chain and star from his breast, and tried to hang
it round Sappho’s neck. She resisted, but Bartja threw his arms round her,
kissed her forehead, called her his only love, and looking down deep into
the eyes of the trembling child, placed it round her neck by gentle force.

Rhodopis called a third time. Sappho broke from the young prince’s
embrace, and was running away, but turned once more at his earnest
entreaty and the question, “When may I see you again?” and answered
softly, “To-morrow morning at this rose-bush.”

“Which held you fast to be my friend.”

Sappho sped towards the house. Rhodopis received Bartja, and communicated
to him all she knew of his friend’s fate, after which the young Persian
departed for Sais.

When Rhodopis visited her grandchild’s bed that evening, she did not find
her sleeping peacefully as usual; her lips moved, and she sighed deeply,
as if disturbed by vexing dreams.

On his way back, Bartja met Darius and Zopyrus, who had followed at once
on hearing of their friend’s secret departure. They little guessed that
instead of encountering an enemy, Bartja had met his first love. Croesus
reached Sais a short time before the three friends. He went at once to the
king and informed him without reserve of the events of the preceding
evening. Amasis pretended much surprise at his son’s conduct, assured his
friend that Gyges should be released at once, and indulged in some
ironical jokes at the discomfiture of Psamtik’s attempt to revenge
himself.

Croesus had no sooner quitted the king than the crown-prince was
announced.


CHAPTER X.

Amasis received his son with a burst of laughter, and without noticing
Psamtik’s pale and troubled countenance, shouted: “Did not I tell thee,
that a simple Egyptian would find it no easy task to catch such a Greek
fox? I would have given ten cities to have been by, when thy captive
proved to be the stammering Lydian instead of the voluble Athenian.”

Psamtik grew paler and paler, and trembling with rage, answered in a
suppressed voice: “Is it well, my father, thus to rejoice at an affront
offered to thy son? I swear, by the eternal gods, that but for Cambyses’
sake that shameless Lydian had not seen the light of another day. But what
is it to thee, that thy son becomes a laughing-stock to these beggarly
Greeks!”

“Abuse not those who have outwitted thee.”

“Outwitted! my plan was so subtly laid, that…

“The finer the web, the sooner broken.”

“That that intriguing Greek could not possibly have escaped, if, in
violation of all established precedents; the envoy of a foreign power had
not taken it upon himself to rescue a man whom we had condemned.”

“There thou art in error, my son. We are not speaking of the execution of
a judicial sentence, but of the success or failure of an attempt at
personal revenge.”

“The agents employed were, however, commissioned by the king, and
therefore the smallest satisfaction that I can demand of thee, is to
solicit from Cambyses the punishment of him who has interfered in the
execution of the royal decrees. In Persia, where men bow to the king’s
will as to the will of a god, this crime will be seen in all its
heinousness. The punishment of Gyges is a debt which Cambyses owes us.”

“But I have no intention of demanding the payment of this debt,” answered
Amasis. “On the contrary, I am thankful that Phanes has escaped. Gyges has
saved my soul from the guilt of shedding innocent blood, and thine from
the reproach of having revenged thyself meanly on a man, to whom thy
father is indebted.”

“Wilt thou then conceal the whole affair from Cambyses?”

“No, I shall mention it jestingly in a letter, as my manner is, and at the
same time caution him against Phanes. I shall tell him that he has barely
escaped my vengeance, and will therefore certainly endeavor to stir up the
power of Persia against Egypt; and shall entreat my future son-in-law to
close his ears to this false accuser. Croesus and Gyges can help us by
their friendship more than Phanes can injure by his hatred.”

“Is this then thy final resolve? Can I expect no satisfaction?”

“None. I abide by what I have said.”

“Then tremble, not alone before Phanes, but before another—before
one who holds thee in his power, and who himself is in ours.”

“Thou thinkest to alarm me; thou wouldst rend the bond formed only
yesterday? Psamtik, Psamtik, I counsel thee to remember, that thou
standest before thy father and thy king.”

“And thou, forget not that I am thy son! If thou compell’st me to forget
that the gods appointed thee to be my father—if I can hope for no
help from thee, then I will resort to my own weapons.”

“I am curious to learn what these may be.”

“And I need not conceal them. Know then that the oculist Nebenchari is in
our power.”

Amasis turned pale.

“Before thou couldst possibly imagine that Cambyses would sue for the hand
of thy daughter, thou sentest this man to the distant realm of Persia, in
order to rid thyself of one who shared thy knowledge of the real descent
of my so-called, sister Nitetis. He is still there, and at a hint from the
priests will disclose to Cambyses that he has been deceived, and that thou
hast ventured to send him, instead of thine own, the child of thy
dethroned predecessor Hophra. All Nebenchari’s papers are in our
possession, the most important being a letter in thine own hand promising
his father, who assisted at Nitetis’ birth, a thousand gold rings, as an
inducement to secrecy even from the priests.”

“In whose hands are these papers?” asked Amasis in a freezing tone.

“In the hands of the priesthood.”

“Who speak by thy mouth?”

“Thou hast said it.”

“Repeat then thy requests.”

“Entreat Cambyses to punish Gyges, and grant me free powers to pursue the
escaped Phanes as it shall seem good in mine eyes.”

“Is that all?”

“Bind thyself by a solemn oath to the priests, that the Greeks shall be
prevented from erecting any more temples to their false gods in Egypt, and
that the building of the temple to Apollo, in Memphis, shall be
discontinued.”

“I expected these demands. The priests have discovered a sharp weapon to
wield against me. Well, I am prepared to yield to the wishes of my
enemies, with whom thou hast leagued thyself, but only on two conditions.
First, I insist that the letter, which I confess to have written to the
father of Nebenchari in a moment of inconsideration, be restored to me. If
left in the hands of thy party, it could reduce me from a king to the
contemptible slave of priestly intrigue.”

“That wish is reasonable. The letter shall be returned to thee, if…. ”

“Not another if! on the contrary, know that I consider thy petition for
the punishment of Gyges so imprudent, that I refuse to grant it. Now leave
me and appear not again before mine eyes until I summon thee! Yesterday I
gained a son, only to lose him to-day. Rise! I demand no tokens of a love
and humility, which thou hast never felt. Go to the priests when thou
needest comfort and counsel, and see if they can supply a father’s place.
Tell Neithotep, in whose hands thou art as wax, that he has found the best
means of forcing me to grant demands, which otherwise I should have
refused. Hitherto I have been willing to make every sacrifice for the sake
of upholding Egypt’s greatness; but now, when I see that, to attain their
own ends, the priests can strive to move me by the threat of treachery to
their own country, I feel inclined to regard this privileged caste as a
more dangerous enemy to Egypt, than even the Persians. Beware, beware!
This once, having brought danger upon Egypt through my own fatherly
weakness, I give way to the intrigues of my enemies; but, for the future,
I swear by the great goddess Neith, that men shall see and feel I am king;
the entire priesthood shall be sacrificed rather than the smallest
fraction of my royal will! Silence—depart!”

The prince left, but this time a longer interval was necessary, before the
king could regain even outward cheerfulness sufficient to enable him to
appear before his guests.

Psamtik went at once to the commander of the native troops, ordered him to
banish the Egyptian captain who had failed in executing his revengeful
plans, to the quarries of Thebais, and to send the Ethiopians back to
their native country. He then hurried to the high-priest of Neith, to
inform him how much he had been able to extort from the king.

Neithotep shook his head doubtfully on hearing of Amasis’ threats, and
dismissed the prince with a few words of exhortation, a practice he never
omitted.

Psamtik returned home, his heart oppressed and his mind clouded with a
sense of unsatisfied revenge, of a new and unhappy rupture with his
father, a fear of foreign derision, a feeling of his subjection to the
will of the priests, and of a gloomy fate which had hung over his head
since his birth.

His once beautiful wife was dead; and, of five blooming children, only one
daughter remained to him, and a little son, whom he loved tenderly, and to
whom in this sad moment he felt drawn. For the blue eyes and laughing
mouth of his child were the only objects that ever thawed this man’s icy
heart, and from these he now hoped for consolation and courage on his
weary road through life.

“Where is my son?” he asked of the first attendant who crossed his path.

“The king has just sent for the Prince Necho and his nurse,” answered the
man.

At this moment the high-steward of the prince’s household approached, and
with a low obeisance delivered to Psamtik a sealed papyrus letter, with
the words: “From your father, the king.”

In angry haste he broke the yellow wax of the seal bearing the king’s
name, and read: “I have sent for thy son, that he may not become, like his
father, a blind instrument in the hands of the priesthood, forgetful of
what is due to himself and his country. His education shall be my care,
for the impressions of childhood affect the whole of a man’s later life.
Thou canst see him if thou wilt, but I must be acquainted with thy
intention beforehand.”

Psamtik concealed his indignation from the surrounding attendants with
difficulty. The mere wish of a royal father had, according to Egyptian
custom, as much weight as the strictest command. After reflecting a few
moments, he called for huntsmen, dogs, bows and lances, sprang into a
light chariot and commanded the charioteer to drive him to the western
marshes, where, in pursuing the wild beasts of the desert, he could forget
the weight of his own cares and wreak on innocent creatures his hitherto
baffled vengeance.

Gyges was released immediately after the conversation between his father
and Amasis, and welcomed with acclamations of joy by his companions. The
Pharaoh seemed desirous of atoning for the imprisonment of his friend’s
son by doubling his favors, for on the same day Gyges received from the
king a magnificent chariot drawn by two noble brown steeds, and was begged
to take back with him to Persia a curiously-wrought set of draughts, as a
remembrance of Sais. The separate pieces were made of ebony and ivory,
some being curiously inlaid with sentences, in hieroglyphics of gold and
silver.

Amasis laughed heartily with his friends at Gyges’ artifice, allowed the
young heroes to mix freely with his family, and behaved towards them
himself as a jovial father towards his merry sons. That the ancient
Egyptian was not quite extinguished in him could only be discerned at
meal-times, when a separate table was allotted to the Persians. The
religion of his ancestors would have pronounced him defiled, had he eaten
at the same table with men of another nation.

When Amasis, at last, three days after the release of Gyges, declared that
his daughter Nitetis would be prepared to depart for Asia in the course of
two more weeks, all the Persians regretted that their stay in Egypt was so
near its close.

Croesus had enjoyed the society of the Samian poets and sculptors. Gyges
had shared his father’s preference for Greek art and artists. Darius, who
had formerly studied astronomy in Babylon, was one evening observing the
heavens, when, to his surprise, he was addressed by the aged Neithotep and
invited to follow him on to the temple-roof. Darius, ever eager to acquire
knowledge, did not wait to be asked twice, and was to be found there every
night in earnest attention to the old priest’s lessons.

On one occasion Psamtik met him thus with his master, and asked the latter
what could have induced him to initiate a Persian in the Egyptian
mysteries.

“I am only teaching him,” answered the high-priest, “what is as well known
to every learned Chaldee in Babylon as to ourselves, and am thereby
gaining the friendship of a man, whose stars as far outshine those of
Cambyses as the sun outshines the moon. This Darius, I tell thee, will be
a mighty ruler. I have even seen the beams of his planet shining over
Egypt. The truly wise man extends his gaze into the future, regards the
objects lying on either side of his road, as well as the road itself. Thou
canst not know in which of the many houses by which thou passest daily, a
future benefactor may not have been reared for thee. Leave nought
unnoticed that lies in thy path, but above all direct thy gaze upward to
the stars. As the faithful dog lies in wait night after night for thieves,
so have I watched these pilgrims of the heavens fifty years long—these
foretellers of the fates of men, burning in ethereal space, and
announcing, not only the return of summer and winter, but the arrival of
good and bad fortune, honor and disgrace. These are the unerring guides,
who have pointed out to me in Darius a plant, that will one day wax into a
mighty tree.”

To Bartja, Darius’ nightly studies were especially welcome; they
necessitated more sleep in the morning, and so rendered Bartja’s stolen
early rides to Naukratis, (on which Zopyrus, to whom he had confided his
secret, accompanied him), easier of accomplishment. During the interviews
with Sappho, Zopyrus and the attendants used all their endeavors to kill a
few snipes, jackals or jerboas. They could then, on their return, maintain
to their Mentor Croesus, that they had been pursuing fieldsports, the
favorite occupation of the Persian nobility.

The change which the power of a first love had wrought in the innermost
character of Bartja, passed unnoticed by all but Tachot, the daughter of
Amasis. From the first day on which they had spoken together she had loved
him, and her quick feelings told her at once that something had happened
to estrange him from herself. Formerly his behavior had been that of a
brother, and he had sought her companionship; but now he carefully avoided
every approach to intimacy, for he had guessed her secret and felt as if
even a kind look would have been an offence against his loyalty to Sappho.

In her distress at this change Tachot confided her sorrows to Nitetis. The
latter bade her take courage, and the two girls built many a castle in the
air, picturing to themselves the happiness of being always together at one
court, and married to two royal brothers. But as the days went by, the
visits of the handsome prince became more and more rare, and when he did
come, his behavior to Tachot was cold and distant. Yet the poor girl could
not but confess that Bartja had grown handsomer and more manly during his
stay in Egypt. An expression of proud and yet gentle consciousness lay
beaming in his large eyes, and a strange dreamy air of rest often took the
place of his former gay spirits. His cheeks had lost their brilliant
color, but that added to his beauty, while it lessened hers, who, like
him, became paler from day to day.

Melitta, the old slave, had taken the lovers under her protection. She had
surprised them one morning, but the prince had given her such rich
presents, and her darling had begged, flattered and coaxed so sweetly,
that at last Melitta promised to keep their secret, and later, yielding to
that natural impulse which moves all old women to favor lovers, had even
given them every assistance in her power. She already saw her “sweet
child” mistress of a hemisphere, often addressed her as “my Princess” and
“my Queen” when none were by to hear, and in many a weak moment imagined a
brilliant future for herself in some high office at the Persian court.


CHAPTER XI.

Three days before the time fixed for the departure of Nitetis, Rhodopis
had invited a large number of guests to her house at Naukratis, amongst
whom Croesus and Gyges were included.

The two lovers had agreed to meet in the garden, protected by the darkness
and the old slave, while the guests were occupied at the banquet. Melitta,
therefore, having convinced herself that the guests were thoroughly
absorbed in conversation, opened the garden-gate, admitted the prince,
brought Sappho to him, and then retired, promising to warn them of any
intruder by clapping her hands.

“I shall only have you near me three days longer,” whispered Sappho. “Do
you know, sometimes it seems to me as if I had only seen you yesterday for
the first time; but generally I feel as if you had belonged to me for a
whole eternity, and I had loved you all my life.”

“To me too it seems as if you had always been mine, for I cannot imagine
how I could ever have existed without you. If only the parting were over
and we were together again!”

“Oh, believe me, that will pass more quickly than you fancy. Of course it
will seem long to wait—very long; but when it is over, and we are
together again, I think it will seem as if we had never been parted. So it
has been with me every day. How I have longed for the morning to come and
bring you with it! but when it came and you were sitting by my side, I
felt as if I had had you all the time and your hand had never left my
head.”

“And yet a strange feeling of fear comes over me, when I think of our
parting hour.”

“I do not fear it so very much. I know my heart will bleed when you say
farewell, but I am sure you will come back and will not have forgotten me.
Melitta wanted to enquire of the Oracle whether you would remain faithful;
and to question an old woman who has just come from Phrygia and can
conjure by night from drawn cords, with incense, styrax, moon-shaped
cakes, and wild-briar leaves; but I would have none of this, for my heart
knows better than the Pythia, the cords, or the smoke of sacrifice, that
you will be true to me, and love me always.”

“And your heart speaks the truth.”

“But I have sometimes been afraid; and have blown into a poppy-leaf, and
struck it, as the young girls here do. If it broke with a loud crack I was
very happy, and cried, ‘Ah! he will not forget!’ but if the leaf tore
without a sound I felt sad. I dare say I did this a hundred times, but
generally the leaf gave the wished-for sound, and I had much oftener
reason to be joyful than sad.”

“May it be ever thus!”

“It must be! but dearest, do not speak so loudly; I see Knakias going down
to the Nile for water and he will hear us.”

“Well, I will speak low. There, I will stroke back your silky hair and
whisper in your ear ‘I love you.’ Could you understand?”

“My grandmother says that it is easy to understand what we like to hear;
but if you had just whispered, ‘I hate you,’ your eyes would have told me
with a thousand glad voices that you loved me. Silent eyes are much more
eloquent than all the tongues in the world.”

“If I could only speak the beautiful Greek language as you do, I would..”

“Oh, I am so glad you cannot, for if you could tell me all you feel, I
think you would not look into my eyes so lovingly. Words are nothing.
Listen to the nightingale yonder! She never had the gift of speech and yet
I think I can understand her.”

“Will you confide her secret to me? I should like to know what Gulgul, as
we Persians call the nightingale, has to talk about to her mate in the
rose-bush. May you betray her secret?”

“I will whisper it softly. Philomel sings to her mate ‘I love thee,’ and
he answers, (don’t you hear him?), ‘Itys, ito, itys.’”

“And what does that mean, ‘Ito, ito?’”

“I accept it.”

“And Itys?”

“Oh, that must be explained, to be rightly understood. Itys is a circle;
and a circle, I was always taught, is the symbol of eternity, having
neither beginning nor end; so the nightingale sings, ‘I accept it for
eternity.’”

“And if I say to you, ‘I love thee?’”

“Then I shall answer gladly, like the sweet nightingale, ‘I accept it for
to-day, to-morrow, for all eternity!’”

“What a wonderful night it is! everything so still and silent; I do not
even hear the nightingale now; she is sitting in the acacia-tree among the
bunches of sweet blossoms. I can see the tops of the palm-trees in the
Nile, and the moon’s reflection between them, glistening like a white
swan.”

“Yes, her rays are over every living thing like silver fetters, and the
whole world lies motionless beneath them like a captive woman. Happy as I
feel now, yet I could not even laugh, and still less speak in a loud
voice.”

“Then whisper, or sing!”

“Yes, that is the best. Give me a lyre. Thank you. Now I will lean my head
on your breast, and sing you a little, quiet, peaceful song. It was
written by Alkman, the Lydian, who lived in Sparta, in praise of night and
her stillness. You must listen though, for this low, sweet slumber-song
must only leave the lips like a gentle wind. Do not kiss me any more,
please, till I have finished; then I will ask you to thank me with a kiss:

“Now, dearest, where is my kiss?”

“I had forgotten it in listening, just as before I forgot to listen in
kissing.”

“You are too bad. But tell me, is not my song lovely?”

“Yes, beautiful, like everything else you sing.”

“And the Greek poets write?”

“Yes, there you are right too, I admit.”

“Are there no poets in Persia?”

“How can you ask such a question? How could a nation, who despised song,
pretend to any nobility of feeling?”

“But you have some very bad customs.”

“Well?”

“You take so many wives.”

“My Sappho…”

“Do not misunderstand me. I love you so much, that I have no other wish
than to see you happy and be allowed to be always with you. If, by taking
me for your only wife, you would outrage the laws of your country, if you
would thereby expose yourself to contempt, or even blame, (for who could
dare to despise my Bartja!) then take other wives; but let me have you,
for myself alone, at least two, or perhaps even three years. Will you
promise this, Bartja?”

“I will.”

“And then, when my time has passed, and you must yield to the customs of
your country (for it will not be love that leads you to bring home a
second wife), then let me be the first among your slaves. Oh! I have
pictured that so delightfully to myself. When you go to war I shall set
the tiara on your head, gird on the sword, and place the lance in your
hand; and when you return a conqueror, I shall be the first to crown you
with the wreath of victory. When you ride out to the chase, mine will be
the duty of buckling on your spurs, and when you go to the banquet, of
adorning and anointing you, winding the garlands of poplar and roses and
twining them around your forehead and shoulders. If wounded, I will be
your nurse; will never stir from your side if you are ill, and when I see
you happy will retire, and feast my eyes from afar on your glory and
happiness. Then perchance you will call me to your side, and your kiss
will say, ‘I am content with my Sappho, I love her still.’”

“O Sappho, wert thou only my wife now!—to-day! The man who possesses
such a treasure as I have in thee, will guard it carefully, but never care
to seek for others which, by its side, can only show their miserable
poverty. He who has once loved thee, can never love another: I know it is
the custom in my country to have many wives, but this is only allowed;
there is no law to enjoin it. My father had, it is true, a hundred female
slaves, but only one real, true wife, our mother Kassandane.”

“And I will be your Kassandane.”

“No, my Sappho, for what you will be to me, no woman ever yet was to her
husband.”

“When shall you come to fetch me?”

“As soon as I can, and am permitted to do so.”

“Then I ought to be able to wait patiently.”

“And shall I ever hear from you?”

“Oh, I shall write long, long letters, and charge every wind with loving
messages for you.”

“Yes, do so, my darling; and as to the letters, give them to the messenger
who will bring Nitetis tidings from Egypt from time to time.”

“Where shall I find him?”

“I will see that a man is stationed at Naukratis, to take charge of
everything you send to him. All this I will settle with Melitta.”

“Yes, we can trust her, she is prudent and faithful; but I have another
friend, who is dearer to me than any one else excepting you, and who loves
me too better than any one else does, but you—”

“You mean your grandmother Rhodopis.”

“Yes, my faithful guardian and teacher.”

“Ah, she is a noble woman. Croesus considers her the most excellent among
women, and he has studied mankind as the physicians do plants and herbs.
He knows that rank poison lies hidden in some, in others healing cordials,
and often says that Rhodopis is like a rose which, while fading away
herself, and dropping leaf after leaf, continues to shed perfume and
quickening balsam for the sick and weak, and awaits in patience the wind
which at last shall waft her from us.”

“The gods grant that she may be with us for a long time yet! Dearest, will
you grant me one great favor?”

“It is granted before I hear it.”

“When you take me home, do not leave Rhodopis here. She must come with us.
She is so kind and loves me so fervently, that what makes me happy will
make her so too, and whatever is dear to me, will seem to her worthy of
being loved.”

“She shall be the first among our guests.”

“Now I am quite happy and satisfied, for I am necessary to my grandmother;
she could not live without her child. I laugh her cares and sorrows away,
and when she is singing to me, or teaching me how to guide the style, or
strike the lute, a clearer light beams from her brow, the furrows ploughed
by grief disappear, her gentle eyes laugh, and she seems to forget the
evil past in the happy present.”

“Before we part, I will ask her whether she will follow us home.”

“Oh, how glad that makes me! and do you know, the first days of our
absence from each other do not seem so very dreadful to me. Now you are to
be my husband, I may surely tell you everything that pains or pleases me,
even when I dare not tell any one else, and so you must know, that, when
you leave, we expect two little visitors; they are the children of the
kind Phanes, whom your friend Gyges saved so nobly. I mean to be like a
mother to the little creatures, and when they have been good I shall sing
them a story of a prince, a brave hero, who took a simple maiden to be his
wife; and when I describe the prince I shall have you in my mind, and
though my little listeners will not guess it, I shall be describing you
from head to foot. My prince shall be tall like you, shall have your
golden curls and blue eyes, and your rich, royal dress shall adorn his
noble figure. Your generous heart, your love of truth, and your beautiful
reverence for the gods, your courage and heroism, in short, every thing
that I love and honor in you, I shall give to the hero of my tale. How the
children will listen! and when they cry, ‘Oh, how we love the prince, how
good and beautiful he must be! if we could only see him? then I shall
press them close to my heart and kiss them as I kiss you now, and so they
will have gained their wish, for as you are enthroned in my heart, you
must be living within me and therefore near to them, and when they embrace
me they will embrace you too.”

“And I shall go to my little sister Atossa and tell her all I have seen on
my journey, and when I speak of the Greeks, their grace, their glorious
works of art, and their beautiful women, I shall describe the golden
Aphrodite in your lovely likeness. I shall tell her of your virtue, your
beauty and modesty, of your singing, which is so sweet that even the
nightingale is silent in order to listen to it, of your love and
tenderness. But all this I shall tell her belongs to the divine Cypris,
and when she cries, ‘O Aphrodite, could I but see thee!’ I too shall kiss
my sister.”

“Hark, what was that? Melitta surely clapped her hands. Farewell, we must
not stay! but we shall soon see each other again.”

“One more kiss!”

“Farewell!”

Melitta had fallen asleep at her post, overcome by age and weariness. Her
dreams were suddenly disturbed by a loud noise, and she clapped her hands
directly to warn the lovers and call Sappho, as she perceived by the stars
that the dawn was not far off.

As the two approached the house, they discovered that the noise which had
awakened the old slave, proceeded from the guests, who were preparing for
departure.

Urging her to make the greatest haste, Melitta pushed the frightened girl
into the house, took her at once to her sleeping-room, and was beginning
to undress her when Rhodopis entered.

“You are still up, Sappho?” she asked.

“What is this, my child?”

Melitta trembled and had a falsehood ready on her lips, but Sappho,
throwing herself into her grandmother’s arms, embraced her tenderly and
told the whole story of her love.

Rhodopis turned pale, ordered Melitta to leave the chamber, and, placing
herself in front of her grandchild, laid both hands on her shoulders and
said earnestly, “Look into my eyes, Sappho. Canst thou look at me as
happily and as innocently, as thou couldst before this Persian came to
us?”

The girl raised her eyes at once with a joyful smile; then Rhodopis
clasped her to her bosom, kissed her and continued: “Since thou wert a
little child my constant effort has been to train thee to a noble
maidenhood and guard thee from the approach of love. I had intended, in
accordance with the customs of our country, to choose a fitting husband
for thee shortly myself, to whose care I should have committed thee; but
the gods willed differently.

Eros mocks all human efforts to resist or confine him; warm AEolian blood
runs in thy veins and demands love; the passionate heart of thy Lesbian
forefathers beats in thy breast.

What has happened cannot now be undone. Treasure these happy hours of a
first, pure love; hold them fast in the chambers of memory, for to every
human being there must come, sooner or later, a present so sad and
desolate, that the beautiful past is all he has to live upon. Remember
this handsome prince in silence, bid him farewell when he departs to his
native country, but beware of hoping to see him again. The Persians are
fickle and inconstant, lovers of everything new and foreign. The prince
has been fascinated by thy sweetness and grace. He loves thee ardently
now, but remember, he is young and handsome, courted by every one, and a
Persian. Give him up that he may not abandon thee!”

“But how can I, grandmother? I have sworn to be faithful to him for ever.”

“Oh, children! Ye play with eternity as if it were but a passing moment! I
could blame thee for thus plighting thy troth, but I rejoice that thou
regardest the oath as binding. I detest the blasphemous proverb: ‘Zeus
pays no heed to lovers’ oaths.’ Why should an oath touching the best and
holiest feelings of humanity be regarded by the Deity, as inferior in
importance to asseverations respecting the trifling questions of mine and
thine? Keep thy promise then,—hold fast thy love, but prepare to
renounce thy lover.”

“Never, grandmother! could I ever have loved Bartja, if I had not trusted
him? Just because he is a Persian and holds truth to be the highest
virtue, I may venture to hope that he will remember his oath, and,
notwithstanding those evil customs of the Asiatics, will take and keep me
as his only wife.”

“But if he should forget, thy youth will be passed in mourning, and with
an embittered heart…”

“O, dear kind grandmother, pray do not speak of such dreadful things. If
you knew him as well as I do, you would rejoice with me, and would tell me
I was right to believe that the Nile may dry up and the Pyramids crumble
into ruins, before my Bartja can ever deceive me!”

The girl spoke these words with such a joyful, perfect confidence, and her
eyes, though filled with tears, were so brilliant with happiness and
warmth of feeling, that Rhodopis’ face grew cheerful too.

Sappho threw her arms again round her grandmother, told her every word
that Bartja had said to her, and ended the long account by exclaiming:
“Oh, grandmother, I am so happy, so very happy, and if you will come with
us to Persia, I shall have nothing more to wish from the Immortals.”

“That will not last long,” said Rhodopis. “The gods cast envious glances
at the happiness of mortals; they measure our portion of evil with lavish
hands, and give us but a scanty allowance of good. But now go to bed, my
child, and let us pray together that all may end happily. I met thee this
morning as a child, I part from thee to-night a woman; and, when thou art
a wife, may thy kiss be as joyful as the one thou givest me now. To-morrow
I will talk the matter over with Croesus. He must decide whether I dare
allow thee to await the return of the Persian prince, or whether I must
entreat thee to forget him and become the domestic wife of a Greek
husband. Sleep well, my darling, thy grandmother will wake and watch for
thee.”

Sappho’s happy fancies soon cradled her to sleep; but Rhodopis remained
awake watching the day dawn, and the sun rise, her mind occupied with
thoughts which brought smiles and frowns across her countenance in rapid
succession.

The next morning she sent to Croesus, begging him to grant her an hour’s
interview, acquainted him with every particular she had heard from Sappho,
and concluded her tale with these words: “I know not what demands may be
made on the consort of a Persian king, but I can truly say that I believe
Sappho to be worthy of the first monarch of the world. Her father was free
and of noble birth, and I have heard that, by Persian law, the descent of
a child is determined by the rank of the father only. In Egypt, too, the
descendants of a female slave enjoy the same rights as those of a
princess, if they owe their existence to the same father.”

“I have listened to you in silence,” answered Croesus, “and must confess,
that, like yourself, I do not know in this moment whether to be glad or
sorry for this attachment. Cambyses and Kassandane (the king’s and
Bartja’s mother) wished to see the prince married before we left Persia,
for the king has no children, and should he remain childless, the only
hope for the family of Cyrus rests on Bartja, as the great founder of the
Persian empire left but two sons,—Cambyses, and him who is now the
suitor of your granddaughter. The latter is the hope and pride of the
entire Persian nation, high and low; the darling of the people; generous,
and noble, handsome, virtuous, and worthy of their love. It is indeed
expected that the princes shall marry in their own family, the
Achaemenidae; but the Persians have an unbounded predilection for
everything foreign. Enchanted with the beauty of your granddaughter, and
rendered indulgent by their partiality for Bartja, they would easily
forgive this breach of an ancient custom. Indeed, if the king gives his
approval, no objection on the part of his subjects can be entertained. The
history of Iran too offers a sufficient number of examples, in which even
slaves became the mothers of kings. The queen mother, whose position, in
the eyes of the people, is nearly as high as that of the monarch himself,
will do nothing to thwart the happiness of her youngest and favorite son.
When she sees that he will not give up Sappho,—that his smiling
face, in which she adores the image of her great husband Cyrus, becomes
clouded, I verily believe she would be ready to sanction his taking even a
Scythian woman to wife, if it could restore him to cheerfulness. Neither
will Cambyses himself refuse his consent if his mother press the point at
a right moment.”

“In that case every difficulty is set aside,” cried Rhodopis joyfully.

“It is not the marriage itself, but the time that must follow, which
causes me uneasiness,” answered Croesus.

“Do you think then that Bartja…?”

“From him I fear nothing. He has a pure heart, and has been so long proof
against love, that now he has once yielded, he will love long and
ardently.”

“What then do you fear?”

“You must remember that, though the charming wife of their favorite will
be warmly received by all his friends of his own sex, there are thousands
of idle women in the harems of the Persian nobles, who will endeavor, by
every artifice and intrigue in their power, to injure the newly-risen
star; and whose greatest joy it will be to ruin such an inexperienced
child and make her unhappy.”

“You have a very bad opinion of the Persian women.”

“They are but women, and will naturally envy her, who has gained the
husband they all desired either for themselves or for their daughters. In
their monotonous life, devoid of occupation, envy easily becomes hatred,
and the gratification of these evil passions is the only compensation
which the poor creatures can obtain for the total absence of love and loss
of freedom. I repeat, the more beautiful Sappho is, the more malicious
they will feel towards her, and, even if Bartja should love her so
fervently as not to take a second wife for two or three years, she will
still have such heavy hours to encounter, that I really do not know
whether I dare congratulate you on her apparently brilliant future.”

“That is quite my own feeling. A simple Greek would be more welcome to me
than this son of a mighty monarch.”

In this moment Knakias brought Bartja into the room. He went to Rhodopis
at once, besought her not to refuse him the hand of her granddaughter,
spoke of his ardent love, and assured her that his happiness would be
doubled, if she would consent to accompany them to Persia. Then turning to
Croesus, he seized his hand and entreated forgiveness for having so long
concealed his great happiness from one who had been like a father to him,
at the same time begging him to second his suit with Rhodopis.

The old man listened to the youth’s passionate language with a smile, and
said: “Ah, Bartja, how often have I warned thee against love! It is a
scorching fire.”

“But its flame is bright and beautiful.”

“It causes pain.”

“But such pain is sweet.”

“It leads the mind astray.”

“But it strengthens the heart.”

“Oh, this love!” cried Rhodopis. “Inspired by Eros, the boy speaks as if
he had been all his life studying under an Attic orator!”

“And yet,” answered Croesus, “these lovers are the most unteachable of
pupils. Convince them as clearly as you will, that their passion is only
another word for poison, fire, folly, death, they still cry, ‘Tis sweet,’
and will not be hindered in their course.”

As he was speaking Sappho came in. A white festal robe, with wide sleeves,
and borders of purple embroidery, fell in graceful folds round her
delicate figure, and was confined at the waist by a golden girdle. Her
hair was adorned with fresh roses, and on her bosom lay her lover’s first
gift, the flashing diamond star.

She came up modestly and gracefully, and made a low obeisance to the aged
Croesus. His eyes rested long on the maidenly and lovely countenance, and
the longer he gazed the kindlier became his gaze. For a moment he seemed
to grow young again in the visions conjured up by memory, and
involuntarily he went up to the young girl, kissed her affectionately on
the forehead, and, taking her by the hand, led her to Bartja with the
words: “Take her, thy wife she must be, if the entire race of the
Achaemenidae were to conspire against us!”

“Have I no voice in the matter?” said Rhodopis, smiling through her tears.

On hearing these words, Bartja and Sappho each took one of her hands, and
gazed entreatingly into her face. She rose to her full stature, and like a
prophetess exclaimed: “Eros, who brought you to each other, Zeus and
Apollo defend and protect you. I see you now like two fair roses on one
stem, loving and happy in the spring of life. What summer, autumn and
winter may have in store for you, lies hidden with the gods. May the
shades of thy departed parents, Sappho, smile approvingly when these
tidings of their child shall reach them in the nether world.”

Three days later a densely packed crowd was once more surging round the
Sais landing-place. This time they had assembled to bid a last farewell to
their king’s daughter, and in this hour the people gave clear tokens that,
in spite of all the efforts of the priestly caste, their hearts remained
loyal to their monarch and his house. For when Amasis and Ladice embraced
Nitetis for the last time with tears—when Tachot, in presence of all
the inhabitants of Sais, following her sister down the broad flight of
steps that led to the river, threw her arms round her neck once more and
burst into sobs—when at last the wind filled the sails of the royal
boat and bore the princess, destined to be the great king’s bride, from
their sight, few eyes among that vast crowd remained dry.

The priests alone looked on at this sad scene with unmoved gravity and
coldness; but when the south wind at last bore away the strangers who had
robbed them of their princess, many a curse and execration followed from
the Egyptians on the shore; Tachot alone stood weeping there and waving
her veil to them. For whom were these tears? for the play-fellow of her
youth, or for the handsome, beloved prince?

Amasis embraced his wife and daughter in the eyes of all his people; and
held up his little grandson, Prince Necho, to their gaze, the sight
eliciting cries of joy on all sides. But Psamtik, the child’s own father,
stood by the while, tearless and motionless. The king appeared not to
observe him, until Neithotep approached, and leading him to his father,
joined their hands and called down the blessing of the gods upon the royal
house.

At this the Egyptians fell on their knees with uplifted hands. Amasis
clasped his son to his heart, and when the high-priest had concluded his
prayer, the following colloquy between the latter and Amasis took place in
low tones:

“Let peace be between us for our own and Egypt’s sake!”

“Hast thou received Nebenchari’s letter?”

“A Samian pirate-vessel is in pursuit of Phanes’ trireme.”

“Behold the child of thy predecessor Hophra, the rightful heiress of the
Egyptian throne, departing unhindered to a distant land!”

“The works of the Greek temple now building in Memphis shall be
discontinued.”

“May Isis grant us peace, and may prosperity and happiness increase in our
land!”

The Greek colonists in Naukratis had prepared a feast to celebrate the
departure of their protector’s daughter.

Numerous animals had been slaughtered in sacrifice on the altars of the
Greek divinities, and the Nile-boats were greeted with a loud cry of
“Ailinos” on their arrival in the harbor.

A bridal wreath, composed of a hoop of gold wound round with scented
violets, was presented to Nitetis by a troop of young girls in holiday
dresses, the act of presentation being performed by Sappho, as the most
beautiful among the maidens of Naukratis.

On accepting the gift Nitetis kissed her forehead in token of gratitude.
The triremes were already waiting; she went on board, the rowers took
their oars and began the Keleusma.

Ailinos rang across the water from a thousand voices. Bartja stood on the
deck, and waved a last loving farewell to his betrothed; while Sappho
prayed in silence to Aphrodite Euploia, the protectress of those who go
down to the sea in ships. A tear rolled down her cheek, but around her
lips played a smile of love and hope, though her old slave Melitta, who
accompanied her to carry her parasol, was weeping as if her heart would
break. On seeing, however, a few leaves fall from her darling’s wreath,
she forgot her tears for a moment and whispered softly: “Yes, dear heart,
it is easy to see that you are in love; when the leaves fall from a
maiden’s wreath, ‘tis a sure sign that her heart has been touched by Eros.


CHAPTER XII.

Seven weeks after Nitetis had quitted her native country, a long train of
equipages and horsemen was to be seen on the king’s highway from the west
to Babylon, moving steadily towards that gigantic city, whose towers might
already be descried in the far distance.

The principal object in this caravan was a richly-gilded, four-wheeled
carriage, closed in at the sides by curtains, and above by a roof
supported on wooden pillars. In this vehicle, called the Harmamaxa,
resting on rich cushions of gold brocade, sat our Egyptian Princess.

On either side rode her escort, viz.: the Persian princes and nobles whom
we have already learnt to know during their visit to Egypt, Croesus and
his son.

Behind these, a long train, consisting of fifty vehicles of different
kinds and six hundred beasts of burden, stretched away into the distance,
and the royal carriage was preceded by a troop of splendidly-mounted
Persian cavalry.

The high-road followed the course of the Euphrates, passing through
luxuriant fields of wheat, barley and sesame yielding fruit two, and
sometimes even three, hundred-fold. Slender date-palms covered with golden
fruit were scattered in every direction over the fields, which were
thoroughly irrigated by means of canals and ditches.

It was winter, but the sun shone warm and bright from a cloudless sky. The
mighty river swarmed with craft of all sizes, either transporting the
products of Upper Armenia to the plains of Mesopotamia, or the wares of
Greece and Asia Minor from Thapsakus to Babylon.

Pumps and water-wheels poured refreshing streams over the thirsty land,
and pretty villages ornamented the shores of the river. Indeed every
object gave evidence that our caravan was approaching the metropolis of a
carefully governed and civilized state.

Nitetis and her retinue now halted at a long brick house, roofed with
asphalte, and surrounded by a grove of plane-trees.

Here Croesus was lifted from his horse, and approaching the carriage,
exclaimed: “Here we are at length at the last station! That high tower
which you see on the horizon is the celebrated temple of Bel, next to the
Pyramids, one of the most gigantic works ever constructed by human hands.
Before sunset we shall have reached the brazen gates of Babylon. And now I
would ask you to alight, and let me send your maidens into the house; for
here you must put on Persian apparel, to appear well-pleasing in the eyes
of Cambyses. In a few hours you will stand before your future husband. But
you are pale! Permit your maidens to adorn your cheeks with a color that
shall look like the excitement of joy. A first impression is often a final
one, and this is especially true with regard to Cambyses. If, which I
doubt not, you are pleasing in his eyes at first, then you have won his
love for ever; but if you should displease him to-day he will never look
kindly on you again, for he is rough and harsh. But take courage, my
daughter, and above all, do not forget the advice I have given you.”
Nitetis dried her tears as she answered: “How can I ever thank you, O
Croesus, my second father, my protector and adviser, for all your
goodness? Oh, forsake me not in the days to come! and if the path of my
life should lead through grief and care, be near to help and guide me as
you did on the mountain-passes of this long and dangerous journey. A
thousand times I thank thee, O my father!”

And, as she said these words, the young girl threw her arms around the old
man’s neck and kissed him tenderly.

On entering the court-yard, a tall stout man, followed by a train of
Asiatic serving-maidens, came forward to meet them. This was Boges, the
chief of the eunuchs, an important official at the Persian court. His
beardless face wore a smile of fulsome sweetness; in his ears hung costly
jewelled pendents; his neck, arms, legs and his effeminately long garments
glittered all over with gold chains and rings, and his crisp, stiff curls,
bound round by a purple fillet, streamed with powerful and penetrating
perfumes.

Making a low and reverential obeisance before Nitetis, and holding, the
while, his fat hands overloaded with rings before his mouth, he thus
addressed her: “Cambyses, lord of the world, hath sent me to thee, O
Queen, that I may refresh thy heart with the dew of his salutations. He
sendeth thee likewise by me, even by me the lowest of his servants,
Persian raiment, that thou, as befitteth the consort of the mightiest of
all rulers, mayest approach the gates of the Achaemenidae in Median
garments. These women whom thou seest are thy handmaidens, and only await
thy bidding to transform thee from an Egyptian jewel into a Persian
pearl.”

The master of the caravansary then appeared, bearing, in token of welcome,
a basket of fruits arranged with great taste.

Nitetis returned her thanks to both these men in kind and friendly words;
then entering the house laid aside the dress and ornaments of her native
land, weeping as she did so, allowed the strangers to unloose the plait of
hair which hung down at the left side of her head, and was the distinctive
mark of an Egyptian princess, and to array her in Median garments.

In the meantime, a repast had been commanded by the princes who
accompanied her. Eager and agile attendants rushed to the baggage-waggons,
fetching thence, in a few moments, seats, tables, and golden utensils of
all kinds. The cooks vied with them and with each other, and as if by
magic, in a short space of time a richly-adorned banquet for the hungry
guests appeared, at which even the flowers were not wanting.

During the entire journey our travellers had lived in a similar luxury, as
their beasts of burden carried every imaginable convenience, from tents of
water-proof materials inwrought with gold, down to silver foot-stools; and
in the vehicles which composed their train were not only bakers, cooks,
cup-bearers and carvers, but perfumers, hair-dressers and weavers of
garlands. Beside these conveniences, a well-fitted up caravansary, or inn,
was to be found about every eighteen miles along the whole route, where
disabled horses could be replaced, the plantations around which afforded a
refreshing shelter from the noonday heat, or their hearths a refuge from
the snow and cold on the mountain-passes.

The kingdom of Persia was indebted for these inns (similar to the
post-stations of modern days) to Cyrus, who had endeavored to connect the
widely-distant provinces of his immense dominions by a system of well-kept
roads, and a regular postal service. At each of these stations the
horseman carrying the letter-bag was relieved by a fresh man on a fresh
steed, to whom the letters were transferred, and who, in his turn, darted
off like the wind, to be again replaced at a similar distance by another
rider. These couriers, called Angari, were considered the swiftest
horsemen in the world.

Just as the banqueters, amongst whom Boges had taken his seat, were rising
from table, the door opened, and a vision appeared, which drew prolonged
exclamation of surprise from all the Persians present. Nitetis, clad in
the glorious apparel of a Median princess, proud in the consciousness of
her triumphant beauty, and yet blushing like a young girl at the wondering
admiration of her friends, stood before them.

The attendants involuntarily fell on their faces before her, according to
the custom of the Asiatics, and the noble Achaemenidae bowed low and
reverentially; for it seemed as if Nitetis has laid aside all her former
bashfulness and timidity with her simple Egyptian dress, and with the
splendid silken garments of a Persian princess, flashing as they were with
gold and jewels, had clothed herself in the majesty of a queen.

The deep reverence paid by all present seemed agreeable to her, and
thanking her admiring friends by a gracious wave of the hand, she turned
to the chief of the eunuchs and said in a kind tone but mingled with a
touch of pride; “Thou hast performed thy mission well; I am content with
the raiment and the slaves that thou hast provided and shall commend thy
circumspection to the king, my husband. Receive this gold chain in the
meanwhile, as a token of my gratitude.”

The eunuch kissed the hem of her garment, and accepted the gift in
silence. This man, hitherto omnipotent in his office, had never before
encountered such pride in any of the women committed to his charge. Up to
the present time all Cambyses’ wives had been Asiatics, and, well aware of
the unlimited power of the chief of the eunuchs, had used every means
within their reach to secure his favor by flattery and submission.

Boges now made a second obeisance before Nitetis, of which, however, she
took no notice, and turning to Croesus said: “Neither words nor gifts
could ever suffice to express my gratitude to you, kindest of friends,
for, if my future life at the court of Persia prove, I will not venture to
say a happy, but even a peaceful one, it is to you alone that I shall owe
it. Still, take this ring. It has never left my finger since I quitted
Egypt, and it has a significance far beyond its outward worth. Pythagoras,
the noblest of the Greeks, gave it to my mother, when he was tarrying in
Egypt to learn the wisdom of our priests, and it was her parting gift to
me. The number seven is engraved upon the simple stone. This indivisible
number represents perfect health, both to soul and body for health is
likewise one and indivisible.

The sickness of one member is the sickness of all; one evil thought,
allowed to take up its abode within our heart, destroys the entire harmony
of the soul. When you see this seven therefore, let it recall my heart’s
wish that you may ever enjoy undisturbed bodily health, and long retain
that loving gentleness which has made you the most virtuous, and therefore
the healthiest of men. No thanks, my father, for even if I could restore
to Croesus all the treasures that he once possessed, I should still
retrain his debtor. Gyges, to you I give this Lydian lyre; let its tones
recall the giver to your memory. For you, Zopyrus, I have a golden chain;
I have witnessed that you are the most faithful of friends; and we
Egyptians are accustomed to place cords and bands in the hands of our
lovely Hathor, the goddess of love and friendship, as symbols of her
captivating and enchaining attributes. As Darius has studied the wisdom of
Egypt and the signs of the starry heavens, I beg him to take this circlet
of gold, on which a skilful hand has traced the signs of the Zodiac.

And lastly, to my dear brother-in-law Bartja I commit the most precious
jewel in my possession—this amulet of blue stone. My sister Tachot
hung it round my neck as I kissed her on the last night before we parted;
she told me it could bring to its wearer the sweet bliss of love. And
then, Bartja, she wept! I do not know of whom she was thinking in that
moment, but I hope I am acting according to her wishes in giving you her
precious jewel. Take it as a gift from Tachot, and sometimes call to mind
our games in the Sais gardens.”

Thus far she had been speaking Greek, but now, addressing the attendants
who remained standing in an attitude of deep reverence, she began in
broken Persian: “Accept my thanks also. In Babylon you shall receive a
thousand gold staters.” Then turning to Boges, she added: “Let this sum be
distributed among the attendants at latest by the day after to-morrow.
Take me to my carriage, Croesus.”

The old king hastened to do her bidding, and as he was leading her thither
she pressed his arm and whispered gently, “Are you pleased with me, my
father?”

“I tell you, girl,” the old man answered, “that no one but the king’s
mother can ever be your equal at this court, for a true and queenly pride
reigns on your brow, and you have the power of using small means to effect
great ends. Believe me, the smallest gift, chosen and bestowed as you can
choose and bestow, gives more pleasure to a noble mind than heaps of
treasure merely cast down at his feet. The Persians are accustomed to
present and receive costly gifts. They understand already how to enrich
their friends, but you can teach them to impart a joy with every gift. How
beautiful you are to-day! Are your cushions to your mind, or would you
like a higher seat? But what is that? There are clouds of dust in the
direction of the city. Cambyses is surely coming to meet you! Courage, my
daughter. Above all try to meet his gaze and respond to it. Very few can
bear the lightning glance of those eyes, but, if you can return it freely
and fearlessly, you have conquered. Fear nothing, my child, and may
Aphrodite adorn you with her most glorious beauty! My friends, we must
start, I think the king himself is coming.” Nitetis sat erect in her
splendid, gilded carriage; her hands were pressed on her throbbing heart.
The clouds of dust came nearer and nearer, her eye caught the flash of
weapons like lightning across a stormy sky. The clouds parted, she could
see single figures for a moment, but soon lost them as the road wound
behind some thickets and shrubs. Suddenly the troop of horsemen appeared
in full gallop only a hundred paces before her, and distinctly visible.

Her first impression was of a motley mass of steeds and men, glittering in
purple, gold, silver and jewels. It consisted in reality of a troop of
more than two hundred horsemen mounted on pure white Nicaean horses, whose
bridles and saddle-cloths were covered with bells and bosses, feathers,
fringes, and embroidery. Their leader rode a powerful coal-black charger,
which even the strong will and hand of his rider could not always curb,
though in the end his enormous strength proved him the man to tame even
this fiery animal. This rider, beneath whose weight the powerful steed
trembled and panted, wore a vesture of scarlet and white, thickly
embroidered with eagles and falcons in silver.

The lower part of his dress was purple, and his boots of yellow leather.
He wore a golden girdle; in this hung a short dagger-like sword, the hilt
and scabbard of which were thickly studded with jewels. The remaining
ornaments of his dress resembled those we have described as worn by
Bartja, and the blue and white fillet of the Achaemenidae was bound around
the tiara, which surmounted a mass of thick curls, black as ebony. The
lower part of his face was concealed by an immense beard. His features
were pale and immovable, but the eyes, (more intensely black, if possible,
than either hair or beard), glowed with a fire that was rather scorching
than warming. A deep, fiery-red scar, given by the sword of a Massagetan
warrior, crossed his high forehead, arched nose and thin upper lip. His
whole demeanor expressed great power and unbounded pride.

Nitetis’ gaze was at once riveted by this man. She had never seen any one
like him before, and he exercised a strange fascination over her. The
expression of indomitable pride, worn by his features, seemed to her to
represent a manly nature which the whole world, but she herself above all
others, was created to serve. She felt afraid, and yet her true woman’s
heart longed to lean upon his strength as the vine upon the elm. She could
not be quite sure whether she had thus pictured to herself the father of
all evil, the fearful Seth, or the great god Ammon, the giver of light.

The deepest pallor and the brightest color flitted by turns across her
lovely face, like the light and shadow when clouds pass swiftly over a
sunny noonday sky. She had quite forgotten the advice of her fatherly old
friend, and yet, when Cambyses brought his unruly, chafing steed to a
stand by the side of her carriage, she gazed breathless into the fiery
eyes of this man and felt at once that he was the king, though no one had
told her so.

The stern face of this ruler of half the known world relaxed, as Nitetis,
moved by an unaccountable impulse, continued to bear his piercing gaze. At
last he waved his hand to her in token of welcome, and then rode on to her
escort, who had alighted from their horses and were awaiting him, some
having cast themselves down in the dust, and others, after the Persian
manner, standing in an attitude of deep reverence, their hands concealed
in the wide sleeves of their robes.

He sprang from his horse, an example which was followed at once by his
entire suite. The attendants, with the speed of thought, spread a rich
purple carpet on the highway, lest the foot of the king should come in
contact with the dust of the earth, and then Cambyses proceeded to salute
his friends and relations by offering them his mouth to kiss.

He shook Croesus by the right hand, commanding him to remount and
accompany him to the carriage, as interpreter between himself and Nitetis.

In an instant his highest office-bearers were at hand to lift the king
once more on to his horse, and at a single nod from their lord, the train
was again in motion.

Cambyses and Croesus rode by the side of the carriage.

“She is beautiful, and pleases me well,” began the king. “Interpret
faithfully all her answers, for I understand only the Persian, Assyrian
and Median tongues.”

Nitetis caught and understood these words. A feeling of intense joy stole
into her heart, and before Croesus could answer, she began softly in
broken Persian and blushing deeply: “Blessed be the gods, who have caused
me to find favor in thine eyes. I am not ignorant of the speech of my
lord, for the noble Croesus has instructed me in the Persian language
during our long journey. Forgive, if my sentences be broken and imperfect;
the time was short, and my capacity only that of a poor and simple
maiden.”

A smile passed over the usually serious mouth of Cambyses. His vanity was
flattered by Nitetis’ desire to win his approbation, and, accustomed as he
was to see women grow up in idleness and ignorance, thinking of nothing
but finery and intrigue, her persevering industry seemed to him both
wonderful and praise worthy. So he answered with evident satisfaction: “I
rejoice that we can speak without an interpreter. Persevere in learning
the beautiful language of my forefathers. Croesus, who sits at my table,
shall still remain your instructor.”

“Your command confers happiness!” exclaimed the old man. “No more eager or
thankful pupil could be found, than the daughter of Amasis.”

“She justifies the ancient report of the wisdom of Egypt,” answered the
king, “and I can believe that she will quickly understand and receive into
her soul the religious instructions of our Magi.”

Nitetis dropped her earnest gaze. Her fears were being realized. She would
be compelled to serve strange gods.

But her emotion passed unnoticed by Cambyses, who went on speaking: “My
mother Kassandane will tell you the duties expected from my wives.
To-morrow I myself will lead you to her. The words, which you innocently
chanced to hear, I now repeat; you please me well. Do nothing to alienate
my affection. We will try to make our country agreeable, and, as your
friend, I counsel you to treat Boges whom I sent as my forerunner, in a
kind and friendly manner. As head over the house of the women, you will
have to conform to his will in many things.”

“Though he be head over the house of the women,” answered Nitetis, “surely
your wife is bound to obey no other earthly will than yours. Your
slightest look shall be for me a command; but remember that I am a king’s
daughter, that in my native land the weaker and the stronger sex have
equal rights, and that the same pride reigns in my breast, which I see
kindling in your eyes, my lord and king! My obedience to you, my husband
and my ruler, shall be that of a slave, but I can never stoop to sue for
the favor, or obey the orders of a venal servant, the most unmanly of his
kind!”

Cambyses’ wonder and satisfaction increased. He had never heard any woman
speak in this way before, except his mother; the clever way in which
Nitetis acknowledged, and laid stress on, his right to command her every
act, was very flattering to his self-love, and her pride found an echo in
his own haughty disposition. He nodded approvingly and answered: “You have
spoken well. A separate dwelling shall be appointed you. I, and no one
else, will prescribe your rules of life and conduct. This day the pleasant
palace on the hanging-gardens shall be prepared for your reception.”

“A thousand, thousand thanks,” cried Nitetis. “You little know the
blessing you are bestowing in this permission. Again and again I have
begged your brother Bartja to repeat the story of these gardens, and the
love of the king who raised that verdant and blooming hill, pleased us
better than all the other glories of your vast domains.”

“To-morrow,” answered the king, “you can enter your new abode. But tell me
now how my messengers pleased you and your countrymen.”

“How can you ask? Who could know the noble Croesus without loving him? Who
could fail to admire the beauty of the young heroes, your friends? They
have all become dear to us, but your handsome brother Bartja especially,
won all hearts. The Egyptians have no love for strangers, and yet the
gaping crowd would burst into a murmur of admiration, when his beautiful
face appeared among them.”

At these words the king’s brow darkened; he struck his horse so sharply
that the creature reared, and then turning it quickly round he gallopped
to the front and soon reached the walls of Babylon.

Though Nitetis had been brought up among the huge temples and palaces of
Egypt, she was still astonished at the size and grandeur of this gigantic
city.

Its walls seemed impregnable; they measured more than seventy-five feet—[Fifty
ells. The Greek ell is equal to one foot and a half English.]—in
height and their breadth was so great, that two chariots could
conveniently drive abreast upon them. These mighty defences were crowned
and strengthened by two hundred and fifty high towers, and even these
would have been insufficient, if Babylon had not been protected on one
side by impassable morasses. The gigantic city lay on both shores of the
Euphrates. It was more than forty miles in circumference, and its walls
enclosed buildings surpassing in size and grandeur even the Pyramids and
the temples of Thebes.

The mighty gates of brass, through which the royal train entered the city,
had opened wide to receive this noble company. This entrance was defended
on each side by a strong tower, and before each of these towers lay, as
warder, a gigantic winged bull carved in stone, with a human head, bearded
and solemn. Nitetis gazed at these gates in astonishment, and then a
joyful smile lighted up her face, as she looked up the long broad street
so brightly and beautifully decorated to welcome her.

The moment they beheld the king and the gilded carriage, the multitude
burst into loud shouts of joy, but when Bartja, the people’s darling, came
in sight, the shouts rose to thunder-peals and shrieks of delight, which
seemed as if they would never end. It was long since the populace had seen
Cambyses, for in accordance with Median customs the king seldom appeared
in public. Like the Deity, he was to govern invisibly, and his occasional
appearance before the nation to be looked upon as a festival and occasion
of rejoicing. Thus all Babylon had come out to-day to look upon their
awful ruler and to welcome their favorite Bartja on his return. The
windows were crowded with eager, curious women, who threw flowers before
the approaching train, or poured sweet perfumes from above as they passed
by. The pavement was thickly strewn with myrtle and palm branches, trees
of different kinds had been placed before the house-doors, carpets and gay
cloths hung from the windows, garlands of flowers were wreathed from house
to house, fragrant odors of incense and sandal-wood perfumed the air, and
the way was lined with thousands of gaping Babylonians dressed in white
linen shirts, gaily-colored woollen petticoats and short cloaks, and
carrying long staves headed with pomegranates, birds, or roses, of gold or
silver.

The streets through which the procession moved were broad and straight,
the houses on either side, built of brick, tall and handsome. Towering
above every thing else, and visible from all points, rose the gigantic
temple of Bel. Its colossal staircase, like a huge serpent, wound round
and round the ever-diminishing series of stories composing the tower,
until it reached the summit crowned by the sanctuary itself.

The procession approached the royal palace. This corresponded in its
enormous size to the rest of the vast city. The walls surrounding it were
covered with gaily-colored and glazed representations of strange figures
made up of human beings, birds, quadrupeds and fishes; hunting-scenes,
battles and solemn processions. By the side of the river towards the
north, rose the hanging-gardens, and the smaller palace lay toward the
east on the other bank of the Euphrates, connected with the larger one by
the wondrous erection, a firm bridge of stone.

Our train passed on through the brazen gates of three of the walls
surrounding the palace, and then halted. Nitetis was lifted from her
carriage by bearers; she was at last in her new home, and soon after in
the apartments of the women’s house assigned to her temporary use.

Cambyses, Bartja and their friends already known to us, were still
standing in the gaily-carpeted court of the palace, surrounded by at least
a hundred splendid dignitaries in magnificent dresses, when suddenly a
sound of loud female voices was heard, and a lovely Persian girl richly
dressed, her thick fair hair profusely wreathed with pearls, rushed into
the court, pursued by several women older than herself. She ran up to the
group of men; Cambyses with a smile placed himself in her path, but the
impetuous girl slipped adroitly past him, and in another moment was
hanging on Bartja’s neck, crying and laughing by turns.

The attendants in pursuit prostrated themselves at a respectful distance,
but Cambyses, on seeing the caresses lavished by the young girl on her
newly-returned brother, cried: “For shame, Atossa! remember that since you
began to wear ear-rings you have ceased to be a child!

It is right that you should rejoice to see your brother again, but a
king’s daughter must never forget what is due to her rank, even in her
greatest joy. Go back to your mother directly. I see your attendants
waiting yonder. Go and tell them, that as this is a day of rejoicing I
will allow your heedless conduct to pass unpunished, but the next time you
appear unbidden in these apartments, which none may enter without
permission, I shall tell Boges to keep you twelve days in confinement.
Remember this, thoughtless child, and tell our mother, Bartja and I are
coming to visit her. Now give me a kiss. You will not? We shall see,
capricious little one!” And so saying the king sprang towards his
refractory little sister, and seizing both her hands in one of his own,
bent back her charming head with the other and kissed her in spite of her
resistance. She screamed from the violence of his grasp, and ran away
crying to her attendants, who took her back to her apartments.

When Atossa had disappeared, Bartja said; “You were too rough with the
little one, Cambyses. She screamed with pain!”

Once more the king’s face clouded, but suppressing the harsh words which
trembled on his lips, he only answered, turning towards the house: “Let us
come to our mother now; she begged me to bring you as soon as you arrived.
The women, as usual, are all impatience. Nitetis told me your rosy cheeks
and fair curls had bewitched the Egyptian women too. I would advise you to
pray betimes to Mithras for eternal youth, and for his protection against
the wrinkles of age!”

“Do you mean to imply by these words that I have no virtues which could
make an old age beautiful?” asked Bartja.

“I explain my words to no one. Come.”

“But I ask for an opportunity of proving, that I am inferior to none of my
nation in manly qualities.”

“For that matter, the shouts of the Babylonians today will have been proof
enough, that deeds are not wanted from you, in order to win their
admiration.”

“Cambyses!”

“Now come! We are just on the eve of a war with the Massagetae; there you
will have a good opportunity of proving what you are worth.”

A few minutes later, and Bartja was in the arms of his blind mother. She
had been waiting for her darling’s arrival with a beating heart, and in
the joy of hearing his voice once more, and of being able to lay her hands
again on that beloved head, she forgot everything else—even her
first-born son who stood by smiling bitterly, as he watched the rich and
boundless stream of a mother’s love flowing out to his younger brother.

Cambyses had been spoiled from his earliest infancy. Every wish had been
fulfilled, every look regarded as a command; and thus he grew up totally
unable to brook contradiction, giving way to the most violent anger if any
of his subjects (and he knew no human beings who were not his subjects)
dared to oppose him.

His father Cyrus, conqueror of half the world—the man whose genius
had raised Persia from a small nation to the summit of earthly greatness—who
had secured for himself the reverence and admiration of countless
subjugated tribes—this great king was incapable of carrying out in
his own small family-circle the system of education he had so successfully
adopted towards entire countries. He could see nought else in Cambyses but
the future king of Persia, and commanded his subjects to pay him an
unquestioning obedience, entirely forgetful of the fact that he who is to
govern well must begin by learning to obey.

Cambyses had been the first-born son of Kassandane, the wife whom Cyrus
had loved and married young; three daughters followed, and at last,
fifteen years later, Bartja had come into the world. Their eldest son had
already outgrown his parents’ caresses, when this little child appeared to
engross all their care and love. His gentle, affectionate and clinging
nature made him the darling of both father and mother: Cambyses was
treated with consideration by his parents, but their love was for Bartja.
Cambyses was brave; he distinguished himself often in the field, but his
disposition was haughty and imperious; men served him with fear and
trembling, while Bartja, ever sociable and sympathizing, converted all his
companions into loving friends. As to the mass of the people, they feared
the king, and trembled when he drew near, notwithstanding the lavish
manner in which he showered rich gifts around him; but they loved Bartja,
and believed they saw in him the image of the great Cyrus the “Father of
his people.”

Cambyses knew well that all this love, so freely given to Bartja, was not
to be bought. He did not hate his younger brother, but he felt annoyed
that a youth who had as yet done nothing to distinguish himself, should be
honored and revered as if he were already a hero and public benefactor.
Whatever annoyed or displeased him he considered must be wrong; where he
disapproved he did not spare his censures, and from his very childhood,
Cambyses’ reproofs had been dreaded even by the mighty.

The enthusiastic shouts of the populace, the overflowing love of his
mother and sister, and above all, the warm encomiums expressed by Nitetis,
had excited a jealousy which his pride had never allowed hitherto. Nitetis
had taken his fancy in a remarkable degree. This daughter of a powerful
monarch, like himself disdaining everything mean and inferior, had yet
acknowledged him to be her superior, and to win his favor had not shrunk
from the laborious task of mastering his native language. These qualities,
added to her peculiar style of beauty, which excited his admiration from
its rare novelty, half Egyptian half Greek, (her mother having been a
Greek), had not failed to make a deep impression on him. But she had been
liberal in her praise of Bartja; that was enough to disturb Cambyses’ mind
and prepare the way for jealousy.

As he and his brother were leaving the women’s apartments, Cambyses
adopted a hasty resolution and exclaimed: “You asked me just now for an
opportunity of proving your courage. I will not refuse. The Tapuri have
risen; I have sent troops to the frontier. Go to Rhagae, take the command
and show what you are worth.”

“Thanks, brother,” cried Bartja. “May I take my friends, Darius, Gyges and
Zopyrus with me?”

“That favor shall be granted too. I hope you will all do your duty bravely
and promptly, that you may be back in three months to join the main army
in the expedition of revenge on the Massagetae. It will take place in
spring.”

“I will start to-morrow.”

“Then farewell.”

“If Auramazda should spare my life and I should return victorious, will
you promise to grant me one favor?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Now, then, I feel confident of victory, even if I should have to stand
with a thousand men against ten thousand of the enemy.” Bartja’s eyes
sparkled, he was thinking of Sappho.

“Well,” answered his brother, “I shall be very glad if your actions bear
out these glowing words. But stop; I have something more to say. You are
now twenty years of age; you must marry. Roxana, daughter of the noble
Hydarnes, is marriageable, and is said to be beautiful. Her birth makes
her a fitting bride for you.”

“Oh! brother, do not speak of marriage; I…” “You must marry, for I have
no children.”

“But you are still young; you will not remain childless. Besides, I do not
say that I will never marry. Do not be angry, but just now, when I am to
prove my courage, I would rather hear nothing about women.”

“Well, then, you must marry Roxana when you return from the North. But I
should advise you to take her with you to the field. A Persian generally
fights better if he knows that, beside his most precious treasures, he has
a beautiful woman in his tent to defend.”

“Spare me this one command, my brother. I conjure thee, by the soul of our
father, not to inflict on me a wife of whom I know nothing, and never wish
to know. Give Roxana to Zopyrus, who is so fond of women, or to Darius or
Bessus, who are related to her father Hydarnes. I cannot love her, and
should be miserable…”

Cambyses interrupted him with a laugh, exclaiming: “Did you learn these
notions in Egypt, where it is the custom to be contented with one wife? In
truth, I have long repented having sent a boy like you abroad. I am not
accustomed to bear contradiction, and shall listen to no excuses after the
war. This once I will allow you to go to the field without a wife. I will
not force you to do what, in your opinion, might endanger your valor. But
it seems to me that you have other and more secret reasons for refusing my
brotherly proposal. If that is the case, I am sorry for you. However, for
the present, you can depart, but after the war I will hear no
remonstrances. You know me.”

“Perhaps after the war I may ask for the very thing, which I am refusing
now—but never for Roxana! It is just as unwise to try to make a man
happy by force as it is wicked to compel him to be unhappy, and I thank
you for granting my request.”

“Don’t try my powers of yielding too often!—How happy you look! I
really believe you are in love with some one woman by whose side all the
others have lost their charms.”

Bartja blushed to his temples, and seizing his brother’s hand, exclaimed:
“Ask no further now, accept my thanks once more, and farewell. May I bid
Nitetis farewell too, when I have taken leave of our mother and Atossa?”

Cambyses bit his lip, looked searchingly into Bartja’s face, and finding
that the boy grew uneasy under his glance, exclaimed abruptly and angrily:
“Your first business is to hasten to the Tapuri. My wife needs your care
no longer; she has other protectors now.” So saying he turned his back on
his brother and passed on into the great hall, blazing with gold, purple
and jewels, where the chiefs of the army, satraps, judges, treasurers,
secretaries, counsellors, eunuchs, door-keepers, introducers of strangers,
chamberlains, keepers of the wardrobe, dressers, cup-bearers, equerries,
masters of the chase, physicians, eyes and ears of the king, ambassadors
and plenipotentiaries of all descriptions—were in waiting for him.

The king was preceded by heralds bearing staves, and followed by a host of
fan, sedan and footstool-bearers, men carrying carpets, and secretaries
who the moment he uttered a command, or even indicated a concession, a
punishment or a reward, hastened to note it down and at once hand it over
to the officials empowered to execute his decrees.

In the middle of the brilliantly-lighted hall stood a gilded table, which
looked as if it must give way beneath the mass of gold and silver vessels,
plates, cups and bowls which were arranged with great order upon it. The
king’s private table, the service on which was of immense worth and
beauty, was placed in an apartment opening out of the large hall, and
separated from it by purple hangings. These concealed him from the gaze of
the revellers, but did not prevent their every movement from being watched
by his eye. It was an object of the highest ambition to be one of those
who ate at the king’s table, and even he to whom a portion was sent might
deem himself a highly-favored man.

As Cambyses entered the hall, nearly every one present prostrated
themselves before him; his relations alone, distinguished by the blue and
white fillet on the tiara, contented themselves with a deferential
obeisance.

After the king had seated himself in his private apartment, the rest of
the company took their places, and then a tremendous revel began. Animals,
roasted whole, were placed on the table, and, when hunger was appeased,
several courses of the rarest delicacies followed, celebrated in later
times even among the Greeks under the name of “Persian dessert.”

Slaves then entered to remove the remains of the food. Others brought in
immense jugs of wine, the king left his own apartment, took his seat at
the head of the table, numerous cup-bearers filled the golden
drinking-cups in the most graceful manner, first tasting the wine to prove
that it was free from poison, and soon one of those drinking-bouts had
begun under the best auspices, at which, a century or two later, Alexander
the Great, forgot not only moderation but even friendship itself.

Cambyses was unwontedly silent. The suspicion had entered his mind, that
Bartja loved Nitetis. Why had he, contrary to all custom, so decidedly
refused to marry a noble and beautiful girl, when his brother’s
childlessness rendered marriage an evident and urgent duty for him? Why
had he wished to see the Egyptian princess again before leaving Babylon?
and blushed as he expressed that wish? and why had she, almost without
being asked, praised him so warmly?

It is well that he is going, thought the king; at least he shall not rob
me of her love. If he were not my brother I would send him to a place from
whence none can return.

After midnight he broke up the banquet. Boges appeared to conduct him to
the Harem, which he was accustomed to visit at this hour, when
sufficiently sober.

“Phaedime awaits you with impatience,” said the eunuch.

“Let her wait!” was the king’s answer. “Have you given orders that the
palace on the hanging-gardens shall be set in order?”

“It will be ready for occupation to-morrow.”

“What apartments have been assigned to the Egyptian Princess?”

“Those formerly occupied by the second wife of your father Cyrus, the
deceased Amytis.”

“That is well. Nitetis is to be treated with the greatest respect, and to
receive no commands even from yourself, but such as I give you for her.”

Boges bowed low.

“See that no one, not even Croesus, has admission to her before my….
before I give further orders.”

“Croesus was with her this evening.”

“What may have been his business with my wife?”

“I do not know, for I do not understand the Greek language, but I heard
the name of Bartja several times, and it seemed to me that the Egyptian
had received sorrowful intelligence. She was looking very sad when I came,
after Croesus had left, to inquire if she had any commands for me.”

“May Ahriman blast thy tongue,” muttered the king, and then turning his
back on the eunuch he followed the torch-bearers and attendants, who were
in waiting to disrobe him, to his own private apartments.

At noon on the following clay, Bartja, accompanied by his friends and a
troop of attendants, started on horseback for the frontier. Croesus went
with the young warriors as far as the city gates, and as their last
farewells and embraces were being exchanged, Bartja whispered to his old
friend: “If the messenger from Egypt should have a letter for me in his
bag, will you send it on?”

“Shall you be able to decipher the Greek writing?”

“Gyges and love will help me!”

“When I told Nitetis of your departure she begged me to wish you farewell,
and tell you not to forget Egypt.”

“I am not likely to do that.”

“The gods take thee into their care, my son. Be prudent, do not risk your
life heedlessly, but remember that it is no longer only your own. Exercise
the gentleness of a father towards the rebels; they did not rise in mere
self-will, but to gain their freedom, the most precious possession of
mankind. Remember, too, that to shew mercy is better than to shed blood;
the sword killeth, but the favor of the ruler bringeth joy and happiness.
Conclude the war as speedily as possible, for war is a perversion of
nature; in peace the sons outlive the fathers, but in war the fathers live
to mourn for their slain sons. Farewell, my young heroes, go forward and
conquer!”


CHAPTER XIII.

Cambyses passed a sleepless night. The feeling of jealousy, so totally new
to him, increased his desire to possess Nitetis, but he dared not take her
as his wife yet, as the Persian law forbade the king to marry a foreign
wife, until she had become familiar with the customs of Iran and confessed
herself a disciple of Zoroaster.

According to this law a whole year must pass before Nitetis could become
the wife of a Persian monarch? but what was the law to Cambyses? In his
eyes the law was embodied in his own person, and in his opinion three
months would be amply sufficient to initiate Nitetis in the Magian
mysteries, after which process she could become his bride.

To-day his other wives seemed hateful, even loathsome, to him. From
Cambyses’ earliest youth his house had been carefully provided with women.
Beautiful girls from all parts of Asia, black-eyed Armenians, dazzlingly
fair maidens from the Caucasus, delicate girls from the shores of the
Ganges, luxurious Babylonian women, golden-haired Persians and the
effeminate daughters of the Median plains; indeed many of the noblest
Achaemenidae had given him their daughters in marriage.

Phaedime, the daughter of Otanes, and niece of his own mother Kassandane,
had been Cambyses’ favorite wife hitherto, or at least the only one of
whom it could be said that she was more to him than a purchased slave
would have been. But even she, in his present sated and disgusted state of
feeling, seemed vulgar and contemptible, especially when he thought of
Nitetis.

The Egyptian seemed formed of nobler, better stuff than they all. They
were flattering, coaxing girls; Nitetis was a queen. They humbled
themselves in the dust at his feet; but when he thought of Nitetis, he
beheld her erect, standing before him, on the same proud level as himself.
He determined that from henceforth she should not only occupy Phaedime’s
place, but should be to him what Kassandane had been to his father Cyrus.

She was the only one of his wives who could assist him by her knowledge
and advice; the others were all like children, ignorant, and caring for
nothing but dress and finery: living only for petty intrigues and useless
trifles. This Egyptian girl would be obliged to love him, for he would be
her protector, her lord, her father and brother in this foreign land.

“She must,” he said to himself, and to this despot to wish for a thing and
to possess it seemed one and the same. “Bartja had better take care,” he
murmured, “or he shall know what fate awaits the man who dares to cross my
path.”

Nitetis too had passed a restless night.

The common apartment of the women was next to her own, and the noise and
singing there had not ceased until nearly midnight. She could often
distinguish the shrill voice of Boges joking and laughing with these
women, who were under his charge. At last all was quiet in the wide palace
halls and then her thoughts turned to her distant home and her poor sister
Tachot, longing for her and for the beautiful Bartja, who, Croesus had
told her, was going to-morrow to the war and possibly to death. At last
she fell asleep, overcome by the fatigue of the journey and dreaming of
her future husband. She saw him on his black charger. The foaming animal
shied at Bartja who was lying in the road, threw his rider and dragged him
into the Nile, whose waves became blood-red. In her terror she screamed
for help; her cries were echoed back from the Pyramids in such loud and
fearful tones that she awoke.

But hark! what could that be? That wailing, shrill cry which she had heard
in her dream,—she could hear it still.

Hastily drawing aside the shutters from one of the openings which served
as windows, she looked out. A large and beautiful garden, laid out with
fountains and shady avenues, lay before her, glittering with the early
dew.

No sound was to be heard except the one which had alarmed her, and this
too died away at last on the morning breeze. After a few minutes she heard
cries and noise in the distance, then the great city awaking to its daily
work, which soon settled down into a deep, dull murmur like the roaring of
the sea.

Nitetis was by this time so thoroughly awakened from the effect of the
fresh morning air, that she did not care to lie down again. She went once
more to the window and perceived two figures coming out of the house. One
she recognized as the eunuch Boges; he was talking to a beautiful Persian
woman carelessly dressed. They approached her window. Nitetis hid herself
behind the half-opened shutter and listened, for she fancied she heard her
own name.

“The Egyptian is still asleep.” said Boges. “She must be much fatigued by
the journey. I see too that one of her windows is still firmly closed.”

“Then tell me quickly,” said the Persian. “Do you really think that this
stranger’s coming can injure me in any way?”

“Certainly, I do, my pretty one.”

“But what leads you to suppose this?”

“She is only to obey the king’s commands, not mine.”

“Is that all?”

“No, my treasure. I know the king. I can read his features as the Magi
read the sacred books.”

“Then we must ruin her.”

“More easily said than done, my little bird.”

“Leave me alone! you are insolent.”

“Well, but nobody can see us, and you know you can do nothing without my
help.”

“Very well then, I don’t care. But tell me quickly what we can do.”

“Thanks, my sweet Phaedime. Well, for the present we must be patient and
wait our time. That detestable hypocrite Croesus seems to have established
himself as protector of the Egyptian; when he is away, we must set our
snares.”

The speakers were by this time at such a distance, that Nitetis could not
understand what they said. In silent indignation she closed the shutter,
and called her maidens to dress her. She knew her enemies now—she
knew that a thousand dangers surrounded her, and yet she felt proud and
happy, for was she not chosen to be the real wife of Cambyses? Her own
worth seemed clearer to her than ever before, from a comparison with these
miserable creatures, and a wonderful certainty of ultimate victory stole
into her heart, for Nitetis was a firm believer in the magic power of
virtue.

“What was that dreadful sound I heard so early?” she asked of her
principal waiting-woman, who was arranging her hair.

“Do you mean the sounding brass, lady?”

“Scarcely two hours ago I was awakened by a strange and frightful sound.”

“That was the sounding brass, lady. It is used to awaken the young sons of
the Persian nobles, who are brought up at the gate of the king. You will
soon become accustomed to it. We have long ceased even to hear it, and
indeed on great festivals, when it is not sounded, we awake from the
unaccustomed stillness. From the hanging-gardens you will be able to see
how the boys are taken to bathe every morning, whatever the weather may
be. The poor little ones are taken from their mothers when they are six
years old, to be brought up with the other boys of their own rank under
the king’s eye.”

“Are they to begin learning the luxurious manners of the court so early?”

“Oh no! the poor boys lead a terrible life. They are obliged to sleep on
the hard ground, to rise before the sun. Their food is bread and water,
with very little meat, and they are never allowed to taste wine or
vegetables. Indeed at times they are deprived of food and drink for some
days, simply to accustom them to privations. When the court is at Ecbatana
or Pasargadae, and the weather is bitterly cold, they are sure to be taken
out to bathe, and here in Susa, the hotter the sun, the longer and more
difficult the marches they are compelled to take.”

“And these boys, so simply and severely brought up, become in after life
such luxurious men?”

“Yes, that is always the case. A meal that has been waited for is all the
more relished when it comes. These boys see splendor and magnificence
around them daily; they know how rich they are in reality, and yet have to
suffer from hunger and privation. Who can wonder, if, when at last they
gain their liberty, they plunge into the pleasures of life with a tenfold
eagerness? But on the other hand, in time of war, or when going to the
chase, they never murmur at hunger or thirst, spring with a laugh into the
mud regardless of their thin boots and purple trousers, and sleep as
soundly on a rock as on their beds of delicate Arabian wool. You must see
the feats these boys perform, especially when the king is watching them!
Cambyses will certainly take you if you ask him.”

“I know those exercises already. In Egypt the girls as well as the boys
are kept to such gymnastic exercises. My limbs were trained to flexibility
by running, postures, and games with hoops and balls.

“How strange! Here, we women grow up just as we please, and are taught
nothing but a little spinning and weaving. Is it true that most of the
Egyptian women can read and write?”

“Yes, nearly all.”

“By Mithras, you must be a clever people! Scarcely any of the Persians,
except the Magi and the scribes, learn these difficult arts. The sons of
the nobles are taught to speak the truth, to be courageous, obedient, and
to reverence the gods; to hunt, ride, plant trees and discern between
herbs; but whoever, like the noble Darius, wishes to learn the art of
writing, must apply to the Magi. Women are forbidden to turn their minds
to such studies.—Now your dress is complete. This string of pearls,
which the king sent this morning, looks magnificent in your raven-black
hair, but it is easy to see that you are not accustomed to the full silk
trousers and high-heeled boots. If, however, you walk two or three times
up and down the room you will surpass all the Persian ladies even in your
walk!”

At this moment a knock was heard and Boges entered. He had come to conduct
Nitetis to Kassandane’s apartments, where Cambyses was waiting for her.

The eunuch affected an abject humility, and poured forth a stream of
flattering words, in which he likened the princess to the sun, the starry
heavens, a pure fount of happiness, and a garden of roses. Nitetis deigned
him not a word in reply, but followed, with a beating heart, to the
queen’s apartment.

In order to keep out the noonday sun and produce a salutary half-light for
the blind queen’s eyes, her windows were shaded by curtains of green
Indian silk. The floor was covered with a thick Babylonian carpet, soft as
moss under the foot. The walls were faced with a mosaic of ivory,
tortoise-shell, gold, silver, malachite, lapis-lazuli, ebony and amber.
The seats and couches were of gold covered with lions’ skins, and a table
of silver stood by the side of the blind queen. Kassandane was seated in a
costly arm-chair. She wore a robe of violet-blue, embroidered with silver,
and over her snow-white hair lay a long veil of delicate lace, woven in
Egypt, the ends of which were wound round her neck and tied in a large bow
beneath her chin. She was between sixty and seventy years old; her face,
framed, as it were, into a picture by the lace veil, was exquisitely
symmetrical in its form, intellectual, kind and benevolent in its
expression.

The blind eyes were closed, but those who gazed on her felt that, if open,
they would shine with the gentle light of stars. Even when sitting, her
attitude and height showed a tall and stately figure. Indeed her entire
appearance was worthy the widow of the great and good Cyrus.

On a low seat at her feet, drawing long threads from a golden spindle, sat
the queen’s youngest child Atossa, born to her late in life. Cambyses was
standing before her, and behind, hardly visible in the dim light,
Nebenchari, the Egyptian oculist.

As Nitetis entered, Cambyses came towards her and led her to his mother.
The daughter of Amasis fell on her knees before this venerable woman, and
kissed her hand with real affection.

“Be welcome here!” exclaimed the blind queen, feeling her way to the young
girl’s head, on which she laid her hand, “I have heard much in your
praise, and hope to gain in you a dear and loving daughter.”

Nitetis kissed the gentle, delicate hand again, saying in a low voice: “O
how I thank you for these words! Will you, the wife of the great Cyrus,
permit me to call you mother? My tongue has been so long accustomed to
this sweet word; and now after long weeks of silence, I tremble with joy
at the thought that I may say ‘my mother’ once more! I will indeed try to
deserve your love and kindness; and you—you will be to me all that
your loving countenance seems to promise? Advise and teach me; let me find
a refuge at your feet, if sometimes the longing for home becomes too
strong, and my poor heart too weak to bear its grief or joy alone. Oh, be
my mother! that one word includes all else!”

The blind queen felt the warm tears fall on her hand; she pressed her lips
kindly on the weeping girl’s forehead, and answered: “I can understand
your feelings. My apartments shall be always open to you, my heart ready
to welcome you here. Come when you will, and call me your mother with the
same perfect confidence with which I, from my whole heart, name you my
daughter. In a few months you will be my son’s wife, and then the gods may
grant you that gift, which, by implanting within you the feelings of a
mother, will prevent you from feeling the need of one.”

“May Ormuszd hear and give his blessing!” said Cambyses. “I rejoice,
mother, that my wife pleases you, and I know that when once she becomes
familiar with our manners and customs she will be happy here. If Nitetis
pay due heed, our marriage can be celebrated in four months.”

“But the law—” began his mother.

“I command—in four months, and should like to see him who dare raise
an objection. Farewell! Nebenchari, use your best skill for the queen’s
eyes, and if my wife permit, you, as her countryman, may visit her
to-morrow. Farewell! Bartja sends his parting greetings. He is on the road
to the Tapuri.”

Atossa wiped away a tear in silence, but Kassandane answered: “You would
have done well to allow the boy to remain here a few months longer. Your
commander, Megabyzus, could have subdued that small nation alone.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” replied the king, “but Bartja desired an
opportunity of distinguishing himself in the field; and for that reason I
sent him.”

“Would he not gladly have waited until the war with the Massageta; where
more glory might be gained?” asked the blind woman.

“Yes,” said Atossa, “and if he should fall in this war, you will have
deprived him of the power of fulfilling his most sacred duty, of avenging
the soul of our father!”

“Be silent!” cried Cambyses in an overbearing tone, “or I shall have to
teach you what is becoming in women and children. Bartja is on far too
good terms with fortune to fall in the war. He will live, I hope, to
deserve the love which is now so freely flung into his lap like an alms.”

“How canst thou speak thus?” cried Kassandane. “In what manly virtue is
Bartja wanting? Is it his fault, that he has had no such opportunity of
distinguishing himself in the field as thou hast had? You are the king and
I am bound to respect your commands, but I blame my son for depriving his
blind mother of the greatest joy left to her in her old age. Bartja would
have gladly remained here until the Massagetan war, if your self-will had
not determined otherwise.”

“And what I will is good!” exclaimed Cambyses interrupting his mother, and
pale with anger, “I desire that this subject be not mentioned again.”

So saying, he left the room abruptly and went into the reception-hall,
followed by the immense retinue which never quitted him, whithersoever he
might direct his steps.

An hour passed, and still Nitetis and the lovely Atossa were sitting side
by side, at the feet of the queen. The Persian women listened eagerly to
all their new friend could tell them about Egypt and its wonders.

“Oh! how I should like to visit your home!” exclaimed Atossa. “It must be
quite, quite different from Persia and everything else that I have seen
yet. The fruitful shores of your great river, larger even than the
Euphrates, the temples with their painted columns, those huge artificial
mountains, the Pyramids, where the ancient kings be buried—it must
all be wonderfully beautiful. But what pleases me best of all is your
description of the entertainments, where men and women converse together
as they like. The only meals we are allowed to take in the society of men
are on New Year’s Day and the king’s birthday, and then we are forbidden
to speak; indeed it is not thought right for us even to raise our eyes.
How different it is with you! By Mithras! mother, I should like to be an
Egyptian, for we poor creatures are in reality nothing but miserable
slaves; and yet I feel that the great Cyrus was my father too, and that I
am worth quite as much as most men. Do I not speak the truth? can I not
obey as well as command? have I not the same thirst and longing for glory?
could not I learn to ride, to string a bow, to fight and swim, if I were
taught and inured to such exercises?”

The girl had sprung from her seat while speaking, her eyes flashed and she
swung her spindle in the air, quite unconscious that in so doing she was
breaking the thread and entangling the flax.

“Remember what is fitting,” reminded Kassandane. “A woman must submit with
humility to her quiet destiny, and not aspire to imitate the deeds of
men.”

“But there are women who lead the same lives as men,” cried Atossa. “There
are the Amazons who live on the shores of the Thermodon in Themiscyra, and
at Comana on the Iris; they have waged great wars, and even to this day
wear men’s armor.”

“Who told you this?”

“My old nurse, Stephanion, whom my father brought a captive from Sinope to
Pasargadae.”

“But I can teach you better,” said Nitetis. “It is true that in Themiscyra
and Comana there are a number of women who wear soldier’s armor; but they
are only priestesses, and clothe themselves like the warlike goddess they
serve, in order to present to the worshippers a manifestation of the
divinity in human form. Croesus says that an army of Amazons has never
existed, but that the Greeks, (always ready and able to turn anything into
a beautiful myth), having seen these priestesses, at once transformed the
armed virgins dedicated to the goddess into a nation of fighting women.”

“Then they are liars!” exclaimed the disappointed girl.

“It is true, that the Greeks have not the same reverence for truth as you
have,” answered Nitetis, “but they do not call the men who invent these
beautiful stories liars; they are called poets.”

“Just as it is with ourselves,” said Kassandane. “The poets, who sing the
praises of my husband, have altered and adorned his early life in a
marvellous manner; yet no one calls them liars. But tell me, my daughter,
is it true that these Greeks are more beautiful than other men, and
understand art better even than the Egyptians?”

“On that subject I should not venture to pronounce a judgment. There is
such a great difference between the Greek and Egyptian works of art. When
I went into our own gigantic temples to pray, I always felt as if I must
prostrate myself in the dust before the greatness of the gods, and entreat
them not to crush so insignificant a worm; but in the temple of Hera at
Samos, I could only raise my hands to heaven in joyful thanksgiving, that
the gods had made the earth so beautiful. In Egypt I always believed as I
had been taught: ‘Life is asleep; we shall not awake to our true existence
in the kingdom of Osiris till the hour of death;’ but in Greece I thought:
‘I am born to live and to enjoy this cheerful, bright and blooming
world.’”

“Ah! tell us something more about Greece,” cried Atossa; “but first
Nebenchari must put a fresh bandage on my mother’s eyes.”

The oculist, a tall, grave man in the white robes of an Egyptian priest,
came forward to perform the necessary operation, and after being kindly
greeted by Nitetis, withdrew once more silently into the background. At
the same time a eunuch entered to enquire whether Croesus might be allowed
to pay his respectful homage to the king’s mother.

The aged king soon appeared, and was welcomed as the old and tried friend
of the Persian royal family. Atossa, with her usual impetuosity, fell on
the neck of the friend she had so sorely missed during his absence; the
queen gave him her hand, and Nitetis met him like a loving daughter.

“I thank the gods, that I am permitted to see you again,” said Croesus.
“The young can look at life as a possession, as a thing understood and
sure, but at my age every year must be accepted as an undeserved gift from
the gods, for which a man must be thankful.”

“I could envy you for this happy view of life,” sighed Kassandane. “My
years are fewer than yours, and yet every new day seems to me a punishment
sent by the Immortals.”

“Can I be listening to the wife of the great Cyrus?” asked Croesus. “How
long is it since courage and confidence left that brave heart? I tell you,
you will recover sight, and once more thank the gods for a good old age.
The man who recovers, after a serious illness, values health a
hundred-fold more than before; and he who regains sight after blindness,
must be an especial favorite of the gods. Imagine to yourself the delight
of that first moment when your eyes behold once more the bright shining of
the sun, the faces of your loved ones, the beauty of all created things,
and tell me, would not that outweigh even a whole life of blindness and
dark night? In the day of healing, even if that come in old age, a new
life will begin and I shall hear you confess that my friend Solon was
right.”

“In what respect?” asked Atossa.

“In wishing that Mimnermos, the Colophonian poet, would correct the poem
in which he has assigned sixty years as the limit of a happy life, and
would change the sixty into eighty.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Kassandane. “Even were Mithras to restore my sight,
such a long life would be dreadful. Without my husband I seem to myself
like a wanderer in the desert, aimless and without a guide.”

“Are your children then nothing to you, and this kingdom, of which you
have watched the rise and growth?”

“No indeed! but my children need me no longer, and the ruler of this
kingdom is too proud to listen to a woman’s advice.”

On hearing these words Atossa and Nitetis seized each one of the queen’s
hands, and Nitetis cried: “You ought to desire a long life for our sakes.
What should we be without your help and protection?”

Kassandane smiled again, murmuring in a scarcely audible voice: “You are
right, my children, you will stand in need of your mother.”

“Now you are speaking once more like the wife of the great Cyrus,” cried
Croesus, kissing the robe of the blind woman. “Your presence will indeed
be needed, who can say how soon? Cambyses is like hard steel; sparks fly
wherever he strikes. You can hinder these sparks from kindling a
destroying fire among your loved ones, and this should be your duty. You
alone can dare to admonish the king in the violence of his passion. He
regards you as his equal, and, while despising the opinion of others,
feels wounded by his mother’s disapproval. Is it not then your duty to
abide patiently as mediator between the king, the kingdom and your loved
ones, and so, by your own timely reproofs, to humble the pride of your
son, that he may be spared that deeper humiliation which, if not thus
averted, the gods will surely inflict.”

“You are right,” answered the blind woman, “but I feel only too well that
my influence over him is but small. He has been so much accustomed to have
his own will, that he will follow no advice, even if it come from his
mother’s lips.”

“But he must at least hear it,” answered Croesus, “and that is much, for
even if he refuse to obey, your counsels will, like divine voices,
continue to make themselves heard within him, and will keep him back from
many a sinful act. I will remain your ally in this matter; for, as
Cambyses’ dying father appointed me the counsellor of his son in word and
deed, I venture occasionally a bold word to arrest his excesses. Ours is
the only blame from which he shrinks: we alone can dare to speak our
opinion to him. Let us courageously do our duty in this our office: you,
moved by love to Persia and your son, and I by thankfulness to that great
man to whom I owe life and freedom, and whose son Cambyses is. I know that
you bemoan the manner in which he has been brought up; but such late
repentance must be avoided like poison. For the errors of the wise the
remedy is reparation, not regret; regret consumes the heart, but the
effort to repair an error causes it to throb with a noble pride.”

“In Egypt,” said Nitetis, “regret is numbered among the forty-two deadly
sins. One of our principal commandments is, ‘Thou shalt not consume thine
heart.’”

“There you remind me,” said Croesus “that I have undertaken to arrange for
your instruction in the Persian customs, religion and language. I had
intended to withdraw to Barene, the town which I received as a gift from
Cyrus, and there, in that most lovely mountain valley, to take my rest;
but for your sake and for the king’s, I will remain here and continue to
give you instruction in the Persian tongue. Kassandane herself will
initiate you in the customs peculiar to women at the Persian court, and
Oropastes, the high-priest, has been ordered by the king to make you
acquainted with the religion of Iran. He will be your spiritual, and I
your secular guardian.”

At these words Nitetis, who had been smiling happily, cast down her eyes
and asked in a low voice: “Am I to become unfaithful to the gods of my
fathers, who have never failed to hear my prayers? Can I, ought I to
forget them?”

“Yes,” said Kassandane decidedly, “thou canst, and it is thy bounden duty,
for a wife ought to have no friends but those her husband calls such. The
gods are a man’s earliest, mightiest and most faithful friends, and it
therefore becomes thy duty, as a wife, to honor them, and to close thine
heart against strange gods and superstitions, as thou wouldst close it
against strange lovers.”

“And,” added Croesus, “we will not rob you of your deities; we will only
give them to you under other names. As Truth remains eternally the same,
whether called ‘maa’, as by the Egyptians, or ‘Aletheia’ as by the Greeks,
so the essence of the Deity continues unchanged in all places and times.
Listen, my daughter: I myself, while still king of Lydia, often sacrificed
in sincere devotion to the Apollo of the Greeks, without a fear that in so
doing I should offend the Lydian sun-god Sandon; the Ionians pay their
worship to the Asiatic Cybele, and, now that I have become a Persian, I
raise my hands adoringly to Mithras, Ormuzd and the lovely Anahita.
Pythagoras too, whose teaching is not new to you, worships one god only,
whom he calls Apollo; because, like the Greek sun-god, he is the source of
light and of those harmonies which Pythagoras holds to be higher than all
else. And lastly, Xenophanes of Colophon laughs at the many and divers
gods of Homer and sets one single deity on high—the ceaselessly
creative might of nature, whose essence consists of thought, reason and
eternity.

“In this power everything has its rise, and it alone remains unchanged,
while all created matter must be continually renewed and perfected. The
ardent longing for some being above us, on whom we can lean when our own
powers fail,—the wonderful instinct which desires a faithful friend
to whom we can tell every joy and sorrow without fear of disclosure, the
thankfulness with which we behold this beautiful world and all the rich
blessings we have received—these are the feelings which we call
piety—devotion.

“These you must hold fast; remembering, however, at the same time, that
the world is ruled neither by the Egyptian, the Persian, nor the Greek
divinities apart from each other, but that all these are one; and that one
indivisible Deity, how different soever may be the names and characters
under which He is represented, guides the fate of men and nations.”

The two Persian women listened to the old man in amazement. Their
unpractised powers were unable to follow the course of his thoughts.
Nitetis, however, had understood him thoroughly, and answered: “My mother
Ladice was the pupil of Pythagoras, and has told me something like this
already; but the Egyptian priests consider such views to be sacrilegious,
and call their originators despisers of the gods. So I tried to repress
such thoughts; but now I will resist them no longer. What the good and
wise Croesus believes cannot possibly be evil or impious! Let Oropastes
come! I am ready to listen to his teaching. The god of Thebes, our Ammon,
shall be transformed into Ormuzd,—Isis or Hathor, into Anahita, and
those among our gods for whom I can find no likeness in the Persian
religion, I shall designate by the name of ‘the Deity.’”

Croesus smiled. He had fancied, knowing how obstinately the Egyptians
clung to all they had received from tradition and education, that it would
have been more difficult for Nitetis to give up the gods of her native
land. He had forgotten that her mother was a Greek, and that the daughters
of Amasis had studied the doctrines of Pythagoras. Neither was he aware
how ardently Nitetis longed to please her proud lord and master. Even
Amasis, who so revered the Samian philosopher, who had so often yielded to
Hellenic influence, and who with good reason might be called a
free-thinking Egyptian, would sooner have exchanged life for death, than
his multiform gods for the one idea “Deity.”

“You are a teachable pupil,” said Croesus, laying his hand on her head,
“and as a reward, you shall be allowed either to visit Kassandane, or to
receive Atossa in the hanging-gardens, every morning, and every afternoon
until sunset.”

This joyful news was received with loud rejoicings by Atossa, and with a
grateful smile by the Egyptian girl.

“And lastly,” said Croesus, “I have brought some balls and hoops with me
from Sais, that you may be able to amuse yourselves in Egyptian fashion.”

“Balls?” asked Atossa in amazement; “what can we do with the heavy wooden
things?”

“That need not trouble you,” answered Croesus, laughing. “The balls I
speak of are pretty little things made of the skins of fish filled with
air, or of leather. A child of two years old can throw these, but you
would find it no easy matter even to lift one of those wooden balls with
which the Persian boys play. Are you content with me, Nitetis?”

“How can I thank you enough, my father?”

“And now listen to my plan for the division of your time. In the morning
you will visit Kassandane, chat with Atossa, and listen to the teaching of
your noble mother.”

Here the blind woman bent her head in approval. “Towards noon I shall come
to teach you, and we can talk sometimes about Egypt and your loved ones
there, but always in Persian. You would like this, would you not?”

Nitetis smiled.

“Every second day, Oropastes will be in attendance to initiate you in the
Persian religion.”

“I will take the greatest pains to comprehend him quickly.”

“In the afternoon you can be with Atossa as long as you like. Does that
please you too?”

“O Croesus!” cried the young girl and kissed the old man’s hand.


CHAPTER XIV.

The next day Nitetis removed to the country-house in the hanging-gardens,
and began a monotonous, but happy and industrious life there, according to
the rules laid down by Croesus. Every day she was carried to Kassandane
and Atossa in a closely shut-up litter. Nitetis soon began to look upon
the blind queen as a beloved and loving mother, and the merry, spirited
Atossa nearly made up to her for the loss of her sister Tachot, so far
away on the distant Nile. She could not have desired a better companion
than this gay, cheerful girl, whose wit and merriment effectually
prevented homesickness or discontent from settling in her friend’s heart.
The gravity and earnestness of Nitetis’ character were brightened by
Atossa’s gaiety, and Atossa’s exuberant spirits calmed and regulated by
the thoughtful nature of Nitetis.

Both Croesus and Kassandane were pleased and satisfied with their new
daughter and pupil, and Oropastes extolled her talents and industry daily
to Cambyses. She learnt the Persian language unusually well and quickly;
Cambyses only visited his mother when he hoped to find Nitetis there, and
presented her continually with rich dresses and costly jewels. But the
highest proof of his favor consisted in his abstaining from visiting her
at her house in the hanging-gardens, a line of conduct which proved that
he meant to include Nitetis in the small number of his real and lawful
wives, a privilege of which many a princess in his harem could not boast.

The grave, beautiful girl threw a strange spell over this strong,
turbulent man. Her presence alone seemed enough to soften his stubborn
will, and he would watch their games for hours, his eyes fixed on her
graceful movements. Once, when the ball had fallen into the water, the
king sprang in after it, regardless of his costly apparel. Nitetis
screamed on seeing his intention, but Cambyses handed her the dripping toy
with the words: “Take care or I shall be obliged to frighten you again.”
At the same time he drew from his neck a gold chain set with jewels and
gave it to the blushing girl, who thanked him with a look which fully
revealed her feelings for her future husband.

Croesus, Kassandane and Atossa soon noticed that Nitetis loved the king.
Her former fear of this proud and powerful being had indeed changed into a
passionate admiration. She felt as if she must die if deprived of his
presence. He seemed to her like a glorious and omnipotent divinity, and
her wish to possess him presumptuous and sacrilegious; but its fulfilment
shone before her as an idea more beautiful even than return to her native
land and reunion with those who, till now, had been her only loved ones.

Nitetis herself was hardly conscious of the strength of her feelings, and
believed that when she trembled before the king’s arrival it was from
fear, and not from her longing to behold him once more. Croesus, however,
had soon discovered the truth, and brought a deep blush to his favorite’s
cheek by singing to her, old as he was, Anacreon’s newest song, which he
had learnt at Sais from Ibykus

And thus, in work and amusement, jest, earnest, and mutual love, the weeks
and months passed with Nitetis. Cambyses’ command that she was to be happy
in his land had fulfilled itself, and by the time the Mesopotamian
spring-tide (January, February and March), which succeeds the rainy month
of December, was over, and the principal festival of the Asiatics, the New
Year, had been solemnized at the equinox, and the May sun had begun to
glow in the heavens, Nitetis felt quite at home in Babylon, and all the
Persians knew that the young Egyptian princess had quite displaced
Phaedime, the daughter of Otanes, in the king’s favor, and would certainly
become his first and favorite wife.

Boges sank considerably in public estimation, for it was known that
Cambyses had ceased to visit the harem, and the chief of the eunuchs had
owed all his importance to the women, who were compelled to coax from
Cambyses whatever Boges desired for himself or others. Not a day passed on
which the mortified official did not consult with the supplanted favorite
Phaedime, as to the best means of ruining Nitetis, but their most finely
spun intrigues and artifices were baffled by the strength of king’s love
and the blameless life of his royal bride.

Phaedime, impatient, mortified, and thirsting for vengeance, was
perpetually urging Boges to some decided act; he, on the contrary, advised
patience.

At last, however, after many weeks, he came to her full of joy,
exclaiming: “I have devised a little plan which must ruin the Egyptian
woman as surely as my name is Boges. When Bartja comes back, my treasure,
our hour will have arrived.”

While saying this the creature rubbed his fat, soft hands, and, with his
perpetual fulsome smile, looked as if he were feasting on some good deed
performed. He did not, however, give Phaedime the faintest idea of the
nature of his “little plan,” and only answered her pressing questions with
the words: “Better lay your head in a lion’s jaws, than your secret in the
ears of a woman. I fully acknowledge your courage, but at the same time
advise you to remember that, though a man proves his courage in action, a
woman’s is shown in obedience. Obey my words and await the issue in
patience.” Nebenchari, the oculist, continued to attend the queen, but so
carefully abstained from all intercourse with the Persians, that he became
a proverb among them for his gloomy, silent ways. During the day he was to
be found in the queen’s apartments, silently examining large rolls of
papyri, which he called the book of Athotes and the sacred Ambres; at
night, by permission of the king and the satraps of Babylon, he often
ascended one of the high towers on the walls, called Tritantaechmes, in
order to observe the stars.

The Chaldaean priests, the earliest astronomers, would have allowed him to
take his observations from the summit of the great temple of Bel, their
own observatory, but he refused this offer decidedly, and persisted in his
haughty reserve. When Oropastes attempted to explain to him the celebrated
Babylonian sun-dial, introduced by Anaximander of Miletus into Greece, he
turned from the Magian with a scornful laugh, saying: “We knew all this,
before you knew the meaning of an hour.”

Nitetis had shown Nebenchari much kindness, yet he took no interest in
her, seemed indeed to avoid her purposely, and on her asking whether she
had displeased or offended him, answered: “For me you are a stranger. How
can I reckon those my friends, who can so gladly and so quickly forget
those they loved best, their gods, and the customs of their native land?”

Boges quickly discovered this state of feeling on the part of Nebenchari,
and took much pains to secure him as an ally, but the physician rejected
the eunuch’s flatteries, gifts, and attentions with dignity.

No sooner did an Angare appear in the court of the palace with despatches
for the king, than Boges hastened to enquire whether news from the Tapuri
had arrived.

At length the desired messenger appeared, bringing word that the rebels
were subdued, and Bartja on the point of returning.

Three weeks passed—fresh messengers arrived from day to day
announcing the approach of the victorious prince; the streets glittered
once more in festal array, the army entered the gates of Babylon, Bartja
thanked the rejoicing multitude, and a short time after was in the arms of
his blind mother.

Cambyses received his brother with undisguised warmth, and took him to the
queen’s apartments, when he knew that Nitetis would be there.

For he was sure the Egyptian girl loved him; his previous jealousy seemed
a silly fancy now, and he wished to give Bartja an opportunity of seeing
how entirely he trusted his bride.

Cambyses’ love had made him mild and gentle, unwearied in giving and in
doing good. His wrath slumbered for a season, and around the spot where
the heads of those who had suffered capital punishment were exhibited as a
warning to their fellow-men, the hungry, screeching crows now wheeled, in
vain.

The influence of the insinuating eunuchs (a race who had never been seen
within the gates of Cyrus until the incorporation of Media, Lydia and
Babylon, in which countries they had filled many of the highest offices at
court and in the state), was now waning, and the importance of the noble
Achaemenidae increasing in proportion; for Cambyses applied oftener to the
latter than to the former for advice in matters relating to the welfare of
the country.

The aged Hystaspes, father of Darius, governor of Persia proper and cousin
to the king; Pharnaspes, Cambyses’ grandfather on the mother’s side;
Otanes, his uncle and father-in-law. Intaphernes, Aspathines, Gobryas,
Hydarnes, the general Megabyzus, father of Zopyrus, the envoy Prexaspes,
the noble Croesus, and the old warrior Araspes; in short, the flower of
the ancient Persian aristocracy, were now at the court of Cambyses.

To this must be added that the entire nobility of the realm, the satraps
or governors of the provinces, and the chief priests from every town were
also assembled at Babylon to celebrate the king’s birthday.

The entire body of officials and deputies streamed from the provinces up
to the royal city, bringing presents to their ruler and good wishes; they
came also to take part in the great sacrifices at which horses, stags,
bulls and asses were slaughtered in thousands as offerings to the gods.

At this festival all the Persians received gifts, every man was allowed to
ask a petition of the king, which seldom remained unfulfilled, and in
every city the people were feasted at the royal expense. Cambyses had
commanded that his marriage with Nitetis should be celebrated eight days
after the birthday, and all the magnates of the realms should be invited
to the ceremony.

The streets of Babylon swarmed with strangers, the colossal palaces on
both shores of the Euphrates were overfilled, and all the houses stood
adorned in festal brightness.

The zeal thus displayed by his people, this vast throng of human beings,—representing
and bringing around him, as it were, his entire kingdom, contributed not a
little to raise the king’s spirits.

His pride was gratified; and the only longing left in his heart had been
stilled by Nitetis’ love. For the first time in his life he believed
himself completely happy, and bestowed his gifts, not only from a sense of
his duty as king of Persia, but because the act of giving was in itself a
pleasure.

Megabyzus could not extol the deeds of Bartja and his friends too highly.
Cambyses embraced the young warriors, gave them horses and gold chains,
called them “brothers” and reminded Bartja, that he had promised to grant
him a petition if he returned victorious.

At this Bartja cast down his eyes, not knowing at first in what form to
begin his request, and the king answered laughing: “Look, my friends; our
young hero is blushing like a girl! It seems I shall have to grant
something important; so he had better wait until my birthday, and then, at
supper, when the wine has given him courage, he shall whisper in my ear
what he is now afraid to utter. Ask much, Bartja, I am happy myself, and
wish all my friends to be happy too.” Bartja only smiled in answer and
went to his mother; for he had not yet opened his heart to her on the
matter which lay so near it.

He was afraid of meeting with decided opposition; but Croesus had cleared
the way far him by telling Kassandane so much in praise of Sappho, her
virtues and her graces, her talents and skill, that Nitetis and Atossa
maintained she must have given the old man a magic potion, and Kassandane,
after a short resistance, yielded to her darling’s entreaties.

“A Greek woman the lawful wife of a Persian prince of the blood!” cried
the blind woman. “Unheard of! What will Cambyses say? How can we gain his
consent?”

“On that matter you may be at ease, my mother,” answered Bartja, “I am as
certain that my brother will give his consent, as I am that Sappho will
prove an ornament and honor to our house.”

“Croesus has already told me much in favor of this maiden,” answered
Kassandane, “and it pleases me that thou hast at last resolved to marry;
but never-the-less this alliance does not seem suitable for a son of
Cyrus. And have you forgotten that the Achaemenidae; will probably refuse
to recognize the child of a Greek mother as their future king, if Cambyses
should remain childless?”

“Mother, I fear nothing; for my heart is not set upon the crown. And
indeed many a king of Persia has had a mother of far lower parentage than
my Sappho. I feel persuaded that when my relations see the precious jewel
I have won on the Nile, not one of them will chide me.”

“The gods grant that Sappho may be equal to our Nitetis!” answered
Kassandane, “I love her as if she were my own child, and bless the day
which brought her to Persia. The warm light of her eyes has melted your
brother’s hard heart; her kindness and gentleness bring beauty into the
night of my blind old age, and her sweet earnestness and gravity have
changed your sister Atossa from an unruly child into a gentle maiden. But
now call them, (they are playing in the garden), and we will tell them of
the new friend they are to gain through you.”

“Pardon me, my mother,” answered Bartja, “but I must beg you not to tell
my sister until we are sure of the king’s consent.”

“You are right, my son. We must conceal your wish, to save Nitetis and
Atossa from a possible disappointment. A bright hope unfulfilled is harder
to bear than an unexpected sorrow. So let us wait for your brother’s
consent, and may the gods give their blessing!” Early in the morning of
the king’s birthday the Persians offered their sacrifices on the shores of
the Euphrates. A huge altar of silver had been raised on an artificial
hill. On this a mighty fire had been kindled, from which flames and sweet
odors rose towards heaven. White-robed magi fed the fire with pieces of
daintily-cut sandal-wood, and stirred it with bundles of rods.

A cloth, the Paiti-dhana, was bound round the heads of the priests, the
ends of which covered the mouth, and thus preserved the pure fire from
pollution by human breath.

The victims had been slaughtered in a meadow near the river, the flesh cut
into pieces, sprinkled with salt, and laid out on tender grasses, sprouts
of clover, myrtle-blossoms, and laurel-leaves, that the beautiful daughter
of Ormuzd, the patient, sacred Earth, might not be touched by aught that
was dead or bleeding.

Oropastes, the chief Destur,—[Priest]—now drew near the fire
and cast fresh butter into it. The flames leapt up into the air and all
the Persians fell on their knees and hid their faces, in the belief that
the fire was now ascending to their great god and father. The Magian then
took a mortar, laid some leaves and stalks of the sacred herb Haomas
within it, crushed them and poured the ruddy juice, the food of the gods,
into the flames.

After this he raised his hands to heaven, and, while the other priests
continually fed the flames into a wilder blaze by casting in fresh butter,
sang a long prayer out of the sacred books. In this prayer the blessing of
the gods was called down on everything pure and good, but principally on
the king and his entire realm. The good spirits of light, life and truth;
of all noble deeds; of the Earth, the universal giver; of the refreshing
waters, the shining metals, the pastures, trees and innocent creatures,
were praised: the evil spirits of darkness; of lying, the deceiver of
mankind; of disease, death and sin; of the rigid cold; the desolating
heat; of all odious dirt and vermin, were cursed, together with their
father the malignant Ahriman. At the end all present joined in singing the
festival prayer: “Purity and glory are sown for them that are pure and
upright in heart.”

The sacrificial ceremony was concluded with the king’s prayer, and then
Cambyses, arrayed in his richest robes, ascended a splendid chariot drawn
by four snow-white Nicoean horses, and studded with topazes, cornelian and
amber, and was conveyed to the great reception-hall, where the deputies
and officers from the provinces awaited him.

As soon as the king and his retinue had departed, the priests selected,
for themselves, the best pieces of the flesh which had been offered in
sacrifice, and allowed the thronging crowd to take the rest.

The Persian divinities disdained sacrifices in the light of food,
requiring only the souls of the slaughtered animals, and many a poor man,
especially among the priests, subsisted on the flesh of the abundant royal
sacrifices.

The prayer offered up by the Magian was a model for those of the Persian
people. No man was allowed to ask anything of the gods for himself alone.
Every pious soul was rather to implore blessings for his nation; for was
not each only a part of the whole? and did not each man share in the
blessings granted to the whole kingdom? But especially they were commanded
to pray for the king, in whom the realm was embodied and shadowed forth.
It was this beautiful surrender of self for the public weal, that had made
the Persians great. The doctrines of the Egyptian priesthood represented
the Pharaohs as actual divinities, while the Persian monarchs were only
called “sons of the gods;” yet the power of the latter was far more
absolute and unfettered than that of the former; the reason for this being
that the Persians had been wise enough to free themselves from priestly
domination, while the Pharaohs, as we have seen, if not entirely under the
dominion of the priestly caste, were yet under its influence in the most
important matters.

The Egyptian intolerance of all strange religions was unknown in Asia. The
conquered Babylonians were allowed by Cyrus to retain their own gods,
after their incorporation in the great Asiatic kingdom. The Jews, Ionians
and inhabitants of Asia Minor, in short, the entire mass of nations
subject to Cambyses remained unmolested in possession of their hereditary
religions and customs.

Beside the great altar, therefore, might be seen many a smaller
sacrificial flame, kindled in honor of their own divinities, by the envoys
from the conquered provinces to this great birthday feast.

Viewed from a distance, the immense city looked like a gigantic furnace.
Thick clouds of smoke hovered over its towers, obscuring the light of the
burning May sun.

By the time the king had reached the palace, the multitude who had come to
take part in the festival had formed themselves into a procession of
interminable length, which wandered on through the straight streets of
Babylon towards the royal palace.

Their road was strewn with myrtle and palm-branches, roses, poppy and
oleander-blossoms, and with leaves of the silver poplar, palm and laurel;
the air perfumed with incense, myrrh, and a thousand other sweet odors.
Carpets and flags waved and fluttered from the houses.

Music too was there; the shrill peal of the Median trumpet, and soft tone
of the Phrygian flute; the Jewish cymbal and harp, Paphlagonian
tambourines and the stringed instruments of Ionia; Syrian kettle-drums and
cymbals, the shells and drums of the Arians from the mouth of the Indus,
and the loud notes of the Bactrian battle-trumpets. But above all these
resounded the rejoicing shouts of the Babylonian multitude, subjugated by
the Persians only a few short years before, and yet, like all Asiatics,
wearing their fetters with an air of gladness so long as the fear of their
tyrant was before their eyes.

The fragrant odors, the blaze of color and sparkling of gold and jewels,
the neighing of the horses, and shouts and songs of human beings, all
united to produce a whole, at once bewildering and intoxicating to the
senses and the feelings.

The messengers had not been sent up to Babylon empty-handed. Beautiful
horses, huge elephants and comical monkeys; rhinoceroses and buffaloes
adorned with housings and tassels; double-humped Bactrian camels with gold
collars on their shaggy necks; waggon-loads of rare woods and ivory, woven
goods of exquisite texture, casks of ingots and gold-dust, gold and silver
vessels, rare plants for the royal gardens, and foreign animals for the
preserves, the most remarkable of which were antelopes, zebras, and rare
monkeys and birds, these last being tethered to a tree in full leaf and
fluttering among the branches. Such were the offerings sent to the great
king of Persia.

They were the tribute of the conquered nations and, after having been
shown to the king, were weighed and tested by treasurers and secretaries,
either declared satisfactory, or found wanting and returned, in which case
the niggardly givers were condemned to bring a double tribute later.

The palace-gates were reached without hindrance, the way being kept clear
by lines of soldiers and whipbearers stationed on either side of the
street.

If the royal progress to the place of sacrifice, when five hundred
richly-caprisoned horses had been led behind the king’s chariot, could be
called magnificent, and the march of the envoys a brilliant spectacle, the
great throne-room presented a vision of dazzling and magic beauty.

In the background, raised on six steps, each of which was guarded, as it
were, by two golden clogs, stood the throne of gold; above it, supported
by four golden pillars studded with precious stones, was a purple canopy,
on which appeared two winged discs, the king’s Feruer.

Fan-bearers, high in office at the court, stood behind the throne, and, on
either side, those who sat at the king’s table, his relations and friends,
and the most important among the officers of state, the priestly caste and
the eunuchs.

The walls and ceiling of the entire hall were covered with plates of
burnished gold, and the floor with purple carpets.

Before the silver gates lay winged bulls, and the king’s body-guard-their
dress consisting of a gold cuirass under a purple overcoat, and the high
Persian cap, their swords in golden scabbards glittering with jewels, and
their lances ornamented with gold and silver apples, were stationed in the
court of the palace. Among them the band of the “Immortals” was easily to
be distinguished by their stately forms and dauntless bearing.

Officers, whose duty consisted in announcing and presenting strangers, and
who carried short ivory staves, led the deputies into the hall, and up to
the throne, where they cast themselves on the ground as though they would
kiss the earth, concealing their hands in the sleeves of their robes. A
cloth was bound over the mouth of every man before he was allowed to
answer the king’s questions, lest the pure person of the king should be
polluted by the breath of common men.

Cambyses’ severity or mildness towards the deputations with whose chiefs
he spoke, was proportioned to the obedience of their province and the
munificence of their tribute-offerings. Near the end of the train appeared
an embassy from the Jews, led by two grave men with sharply-cut features
and long beards. Cambyses called on them in a friendly tone to stop.

The first of these men was dressed in the fashion of the Babylonian
aristocracy. The other wore a purple robe woven without seam, trimmed with
bells and tassels, and held in at the waist by a girdle of blue, red and
white. A blue garment was thrown over his shoulders and a little bag
suspended around his neck containing the sacred lots, the Urim and
Thummin, adorned with twelve precious stones set in gold, and bearing the
names of the tribes of Israel. The high-priest’s brow was grave and
thoughtful. A white cloth was wound round his head, the ends of which hung
down to the shoulders.

“I rejoice to behold you once more, Belteshazzar,” exclaimed the king to
the former of the two men. “Since the death of my father you have not been
seen at my gate.”

The man thus addressed bowed humbly and answered: “The favor of the king
rejoices his servant! If it seem good unto thee, to cause the sun of thy
favor to shine on me, thine unworthy servant, so hearken unto my petition
for my nation, which thy great father caused to return unto the land of
their fathers’ sepulchres. This old man at my side, Joshua, the
high-priest of our God, hath not feared the long journey to Babylon, that
he might bring his request before thy face. Let his speech be pleasing in
thine ears and his words bring forth fruit in thine heart.”

“I foresee what ye desire of me,” cried the king. “Am I wrong, priest, in
supposing that your petition refers to the building of the temple in your
native land?”

“Nothing can be hidden from the eyes of my lord,” answered the priest,
bowing low. “Thy servants in Jerusalem desire to behold the face of their
ruler, and beseech thee by my mouth to visit the land of their fathers,
and to grant them permission to set forward the work of the temple,
concerning which thine illustrious father (the favor of our God rest upon
him), made a decree.”

The king answered with a smile: “You have the craft of your nation, and
understand how to choose the right time and words for your petition. On my
birthday it is difficult for me to refuse my faithful people even one
request. I promise you, therefore, so soon as possible to visit Jerusalem
and the land of your fathers.”

“By so doing thou wilt make glad the hearts of thy servants,” answered the
priest; “our vines and olives will bear more fruit at thine approach, our
gates will lift up their heads to receive thee, and Israel rejoice with
shouts to meet his lord doubly blessed if as lord of the building—”

“Enough, priest, enough!” cried Cambyses. “Your first petition, I have
said it, shall not remain unfulfilled; for I have long desired to visit
the wealthy city of Tyre, the golden Sidon, and Jerusalem with its strange
superstitions; but were I to give permission for the building now, what
would remain for me to grant you in the coming year?”

“Thy servants will no more molest thee by their petitions, if thou grant
unto them this one, to finish the temple of the Lord their God,” answered
the priest.

“Strange beings, these men of Palestine!” exclaimed Cambyses. “I have
heard it said that ye believe in one God alone, who can be represented by
no likeness, and is a spirit. Think ye then that this omnipresent Being
requires a house? Verily, your great spirit can be but a weak and
miserable creature, if he need a covering from the wind and rain, and a
shelter from the heat which he himself has created. If your God be like
ours, omnipresent, fall down before him and worship as we do, in every
place, and feel certain that everywhere ye will be heard of him!”

“The God of Israel hears his people in every place,” exclaimed the
high-priest. “He heard us when we pined in captivity under the Pharaohs
far from our land; he heard us weeping by the rivers of Babylon. He chose
thy father to be the instrument of our deliverance, and will hear my
prayer this day and soften thine heart like wise. O mighty king, grant
unto thy servants a common place of sacrifice, whither our twelve tribes
may repair, an altar on the steps of which they can pray together, a house
in which to keep their holy feasts! For this permission we will call down
the blessing of God upon thine head and his curse upon thine enemies.”

“Grant unto my brethren the permission to build their temple!” added
Belteshazzar, who was the richest and most honorable and respected of the
Jews yet remaining in Babylon; a man whom Cyrus had treated with much
consideration, and of whom he had even taken counsel from time to time.

“Will ye then be peaceable, if I grant your petition?” asked the king. “My
father allowed you to begin the work and granted the means for its
completion. Of one mind, happy and content, ye returned to your native
land, but while pursuing your work strife and contention entered among
you. Cyrus was assailed by repeated letters, signed by the chief men of
Syria, entreating him to forbid the work, and I also have been lately
besought to do the same. Worship your God when and where ye will, but just
because I desire your welfare, I cannot consent to the prosecution of a
work which kindles discord among you.”

“And is it then thy pleasure on this day to take back a favor, which thy
father made sure unto us by a written decree?” asked Belteshazzar.

“A written decree?”

“Which will surely be found even to this day laid up in the archives of
thy kingdom.”

“Find this decree and show it me, and I will not only allow the building
to be continued, but will promote the same,” answered the king; “for my
father’s will is as sacred to me as the commands of the gods.”

“Wilt thou allow search to be made in the house of the rolls at Ecbatana?”
asked Belteshazzar. “The decree will surely be found there.”

“I consent, but I fear ye will find none. Tell thy nation, priest, that I
am content with the equipment of the men of war they have sent to take the
field against the Massagetae. My general Megabyzus commends their looks
and bearing. May thy people prove as valiant now as in the wars of my
father! You, Belteshazzar, I bid to my marriage feast, and charge you to
tell your fellows, Meshach and Abednego, next unto you the highest in the
city of Babylon, that I expect them this evening at my table.”

“The God of my people Israel grant thee blessing and happiness,” answered
Belteshazzar bowing low before the king.

“A wish which I accept!” answered the king, “for I do not despise the
power of your wonder-working great Spirit. But one word more,
Belteshazzar. Many Jews have lately been punished for reviling the gods of
the Babylonians. Warn your people! They bring down hatred on themselves by
their stiff-necked superstition, and the pride with which they declare
their own great spirit to be the only true God. Take example by us; we are
content with our own faith and leave others to enjoy theirs in peace.
Cease to look upon yourselves as better than the rest of the world. I wish
you well, for a pride founded on self-respect is pleasing in mine eyes;
but take heed lest pride degenerate into vainglory. Farewell! rest assured
of my favor.”

The Jews then departed. They were disappointed, but not hopeless; for
Belteshazzar knew well that the decree, relative to the building of the
temple, must be in the archives at Ecbatana.

They were followed by a deputation from Syria, and by the Greeks of Ionia;
and then, winding up the long train, appeared a band of wild-looking men,
dressed in the skins of animals, whose features bespoke them foreigners in
Babylon. They wore girdles and shoulderbands of solid, unwrought gold; and
of the same precious metal were their bow-cases, axes, lance-points, and
the ornaments on their high fur caps. They were preceded by a man in
Persian dress, whose features proved him, however, to be of the same race
as his followers.

The king gazed at first on these envoys with wonder; then his brow
darkened, and beckoning the officer whose duty it was to present
strangers, he exclaimed “What can these men have to crave of me? If I
mistake not they belong to the Massagetae, to that people who are so soon
to tremble before my vengeance. Tell them, Gobryas, that an armed host is
standing on the Median plains ready to answer their demands with the
sword.”

Gobryas answered, bowing low: “These men arrived this morning during the
sacrifice bringing huge burdens of the purest gold to purchase your
forbearance. When they heard that a great festival was being celebrated in
your honor, they urgently besought to be admitted into your presence, that
they might declare the message entrusted to them by their country.”

The king’s brow cleared and, after sharply scrutinizing the tall, bearded
Massageta, he said: “Let them come nearer. I am curious to know what
proposals my father’s murderers are about to make me.”

Gobryas made a sign, and the tallest and eldest of the Massagetae came up
close to the throne and began to speak loudly in his native tongue. He was
accompanied by the man in a Persian dress, who, as one of Cyrus’ prisoners
of war, had learnt the Persian language, and now interpreted one by one
the sentences uttered by the spokesman of this wandering tribe.

“We know,” began the latter, “that thou, great king, art wroth with the
Massagetae because thy father fell in war with our tribe—a war which
he alone had provoked with a people who had done naught to offend him.”

“My father was justified in punishing your nation,” interrupted the king.
“Your Queen Tomyris had dared to refuse him her hand in marriage.”

“Be not wroth, O King,” answered the Massagetan, “when I tell thee that
our entire nation approved of that act. Even a child could see that the
great Cyrus only desired to add our queen to the number of his wives,
hoping, in his insatiable thirst for more territories, to gain our land
with her.”

Cambyses was silent and the envoy went on. “Cyrus caused a bridge to be
made over our boundary river, the Araxes. We were not dismayed at this,
and Tomyris sent word that he might save himself this trouble, for that
the Massagetae were willing either to await him quietly in their own land,
leaving the passage of the river free, or to meet him in his. Cyrus
decided, by the advice of the dethroned king of Lydia, (as we learnt
afterwards, through some prisoners of war) on meeting us in our own land
and defeating us by a stratagem. With this intention he sent at first only
a small body of troops, which could be easily dispersed and destroyed by
our arrows and lances, and allowed us to seize his camp without striking a
blow. Believing we had defeated this insatiable conqueror, we feasted on
his abundant stores, and, poisoned by the sweet unknown drink which you
call wine, fell into a stupefied slumber, during which his soldiers fell
upon us, murdered the greater number of our warriors and took many
captives. Among the latter was the brave, young Spargapises, our queen’s
son.

“Hearing in his captivity, that his mother was willing to conclude peace
with your nation as the price of his liberty, he asked to have his chains
taken off. The request was granted, and on obtaining the use of his hands
he seized a sword and stabbed himself, exclaiming: ‘I sacrifice my life
for the freedom of my nation.’”

“No sooner did we hear the news that the young prince we loved so well had
died thus, than we assembled all the forces yet left to us from your
swords and fetters. Even old men and boys flew to arms to revenge our
noble Spargapises, and sacrifice themselves, after his example, for
Massagetaen freedom. Our armies met; ye were worsted and Cyrus fell. When
Tomyris found his body lying in a pool of human blood, she cried:
‘Methinks, insatiable conqueror, thou art at last sated with blood!’ The
troop, composed of the flower of your nobility, which you call the
Immortals, drove us back and carried your father’s dead body forth from
our closest ranks. You led them on, fighting like a lion. I know you well,
and that wound across your manly face, which adorns it like a purple badge
of honor, was made by the sword now hanging at my side.”

A movement passed through the listening crowd; they trembled for the bold
speaker’s life. Cambyses, however, looked pleased, nodded approvingly to
the man and answered: “Yes, I recognize you too now; you rode a red horse
with golden trappings. You shall see that the Persians know how to honor
courage. Bow down before this man, my friends, for never did I see a
sharper sword nor a more unwearied arm than his; and such heroic courage
deserves honor from the brave, whether shown by friend or foe. As for you,
Massagetae, I would advise you to go home quickly and prepare for war; the
mere recollection of your strength and courage increases my longing to
test it once more. A brave foe, by Mithras, is far better than a feeble
friend. You shall be allowed to return home in peace; but beware of
remaining too long within my reach, lest the thought of the vengeance I
owe my father’s soul should rouse my anger, and your end draw suddenly
nigh.”

A bitter smile played round the bearded mouth of the warrior as he made
answer to this speech. “The Massagetae deem your father’s soul too well
avenged already. The only son of our queen, his people’s pride, and in no
way inferior to Cyrus, has bled for him. The shores of the Araxes have
been fertilized by the bodies of fifty thousand of my countrymen, slain as
offerings for your dead king, while only thirty thousand fell there on
your own side. We fought as bravely as you, but your armor is better able
to resist the arrows which pierce our clothing of skins. And lastly, as
the most cruel blow of all, ye slew our queen.”

“Tomyris is dead?” exclaimed Cambyses interrupting him. “You mean to tell
me that the Persians have killed a woman? Answer at once, what has
happened to your queen?”

“Tomyris died ten months ago of grief for the loss of her only son, and I
have therefore a right to say that she too fell a sacrifice to the war
with Persia and to your father’s spirit.”

“She was a great woman,” murmured Cambyses, his voice unsteady from
emotion. “Verily, I begin to think that the gods themselves have
undertaken to revenge my father’s blood on your nation. Yet I tell you
that, heavy as your losses may seem, Spargapises, Tomyris and fifty
thousand Massagetae can never outweigh the spirit of one king of Persia,
least of all of a Cyrus.”

“In our country,” answered the envoy, “death makes all men equal. The
spirits of the king and the slave are of equal worth. Your father was a
great man, but we have undergone awful sufferings for his sake. My tale is
not yet ended. After the death of Tomyris discord broke out among the
Massagetae. Two claimants for the crown appeared; half our nation fought
for the one, half for the other, and our hosts were thinned, first by this
fearful civil war and then by the pestilence which followed in its track.
We can no longer resist your power, and therefore come with heavy loads of
pure gold as the price of peace.”

“Ye submit then without striking a blow?” asked Cambyses. “Verily, I had
expected something else from such heroes; the numbers of my host, which
waits assembled on the plains of Media, will prove that. We cannot go to
battle without an enemy. I will dismiss my troops and send a satrap. Be
welcome as new subjects of my realm.”

The red blood mounted into the cheeks of the Massagetan warrior on hearing
these words, and he answered in a voice trembling with excitement: “You
err, O King, if you imagine that we have lost our old courage, or learnt
to long for slavery. But we know your strength; we know that the small
remnant of our nation, which war and pestilence have spared, cannot resist
your vast and well-armed hosts. This we admit, freely and honestly as is
the manner of the Massagetae, declaring however at the same time, that we
are determined to govern ourselves as of yore, and will never receive laws
or ordinances from a Persian satrap. You are wroth, but I can bear your
angry gaze and yet repeat my declaration.”

“And my answer,” cried Cambyses, “is this: Ye have but one choice: either
to submit to my sceptre, become united to the kingdom of Persia under the
name of the Massagetan province, and receive a satrap as my representative
with due reverence, or to look upon yourselves as my enemies, in which
case you will be forced by arms to conform to those conditions which I now
offer you in good part. To-day you could secure a ruler well-affected to
your cause, later you will find in me only a conqueror and avenger.
Consider well before you answer.”

“We have already weighed and considered all,” answered the warrior, “and,
as free sons of the desert, prefer death to bondage. Hear what the council
of our old men has sent me to declare to you:—The Massageta; have
become too weak to oppose the Persians, not through their own fault, but
through the heavy visitation of our god, the sun. We know that you have
armed a vast host against us, and we are ready to buy peace and liberty by
a yearly tribute. But if you persist in compelling us to submit by force
of arms, you can only bring great damage on yourselves. The moment your
army nears the Araxes, we shall depart with our wives and children and
seek another home, for we have no fixed dwellings like yours, but are
accustomed to rove at will on our swift horses, and to rest in tents. Our
gold we shall take with us, and shall fill up, destroy, and conceal the
pits in which you could find new treasures. We know every spot where gold
is to be found, and can give it in abundance, if you grant us peace and
leave us our liberty; but, if you venture to invade our territory, you win
nothing but an empty desert and an enemy always beyond your reach,—an
enemy who may become formidable, when he has had time to recover from the
heavy losses which have thinned his ranks. Leave us in peace and freedom
and we are ready to give every year five thousand swift horses of the
desert, besides the yearly tribute of gold; we will also come to the help
of the Persian nation when threatened by any serious danger.”

The envoy ceased speaking. Cambyses did not answer at once; his eyes were
fixed on the ground in deep thought. At last he said, rising at the same
time from his throne: “We will take counsel on this matter over the wine
to-night, and to-morrow you shall hear what answer you can bring to your
people. Gobryas, see that these men are well cared for, and send the
Massagetan, who wounded me in battle, a portion of the best dishes from my
own table.”


CHAPTER XV.

During these events Nitetis had been sitting alone in her house on the
hanging-gardens, absorbed in the saddest thoughts. To-day, for the first
time, she had taken part in the general sacrifice made by the king’s
wives, and had tried to pray to her new gods in the open air, before the
fire-altars and amidst the sound of religious songs strange to her ears.

Most of the inhabitants of the harem saw her to-day for the first time,
and instead of raising their eyes to heaven, had fixed them on her during
the ceremony. The inquisitive, malevolent gaze of her rivals, and the loud
music resounding from the city, disquieted and distracted her mind. Her
thoughts reverted painfully to the solemn, sultry stillness of the
gigantic temples in her native land where she had worshipped the gods of
her childhood so earnestly at the side of her mother and sister; and much
as she longed, just on this day, to pray for blessings on her beloved
king, all her efforts were in vain; she could arouse no devotional
feeling. Kassandane and Atossa knelt at her side, joining heartily in the
very hymns which to Nitetis were an empty sound.

It cannot be denied, that many parts of these hymns contain true poetry;
but they become wearisome through the constant repetition and invocation
of the names of good and bad spirits. The Persian women had been taught
from childhood, to look upon these religious songs as higher and holier
than any other poetry. Their earliest prayers had been accompanied by such
hymns, and, like everything else which has come down to us from our
fathers, and which we have been told in the impressionable time of
childhood is divine and worthy of our reverence, they were still sacred
and dear to them and stirred their most devotional feelings.

But for Nitetis, who had been spoilt for such things by an intimate
acquaintance with the best Greek poets, they could have but little charm.
What she had lately been learning in Persia with difficulty had not yet
become a part of herself, and so, while Kassandane and Atossa went through
all the outward rites as things of course and perfectly natural to them,
Nitetis could only prevent herself from forgetting the prescribed
ceremonials by a great mental effort, and dreaded lest she should expose
her ignorance to the jealous, watchful gaze of her rivals.

And then, too, only a few minutes before the sacrifice, she had received
her first letter from Egypt. It lay unread on her dressing-table, and came
into her mind whenever she attempted to pray. She could not help wondering
what news it might bring her. How were her parents? and how had Tachot
borne the parting from herself, and from the prince she loved so well?

The ceremony over, Nitetis embraced Kassandane and Atossa, and drew a
long, deep breath, as if delivered from some threatening danger. Then
ordering her litter, she was carried back to her dwelling, and hastened
eagerly to the table where her letter lay. Her principal attendant, the
young girl who on the journey had dressed her in her first Persian robes,
received her with a smile full of meaning and promise, which changed
however, into a look of astonishment, on seeing her mistress seize the
letter, without even glancing at the articles of dress and jewelery which
lay on the table.

Nitetis broke the seal quickly and was sitting down, in order to begin the
difficult work of reading her letter, when the girl came up, and with
clasped hands, exclaimed: “By Mithras, my mistress, I cannot understand
you. Either you are ill, or that ugly bit of grey stuff must contain some
magic which makes you blind to everything else. Put that roll away and
look at the splendid presents that the great king (Auramazda grant him
victory!) has sent while you were at the sacrifice. Look at this wonderful
purple robe with the white stripe and the rich silver embroidery; and then
the tiara with the royal diamonds! Do not you know the high meaning of
these gifts? Cambyses begs, (the messenger said ‘begs,’ not ‘commands’)
you to wear these splendid ornaments at the banquet to-day. How angry
Phaedime will be! and how the others will look, for they have never
received such presents. Till now only Kassandane has had a right to wear
the purple and diamonds; so by sending you these gifts, Cambyses places
you on a level with his mother, and chooses you to be his favorite wife
before the whole world.’ O pray allow me to dress you in these new and
beautiful things. How lovely you will look! How angry and envious the
others will feel! If I could only be there when you enter the hall! Come,
my mistress, let me take off your simple dress, and array you, (only as a
trial you know,) in the robes that as the new queen you ought to wear.”

Nitetis listened in silence to the chattering girl, and admired the gifts
with a quiet smile. She was woman enough to rejoice at the sight, for he,
whom she loved better than life itself, had sent them; and they were a
proof that she was more to the king than all his other wives;—that
Cambyses really loved her. The long wished-for letter fell unread to the
ground, the girl’s wish to dress her was granted without a word, and in a
short time the splendid toilette was completed. The royal purple added to
her beauty, the high flashing tiara made her slender, perfect figure seem
taller than it really was, and when, in the metal mirror which lay on her
dressing table, she beheld herself for the first time in the glorious
likeness of a queen, a new expression dawned on her features. It seemed as
if a portion of her lord’s pride were reflected there. The frivolous
waiting-woman sank involuntarily on her knees, as her eyes, full of
smiling admiration, met the radiant glance of Nitetis,—of the woman
who was beloved by the most powerful of men.

For a few moments Nitetis gazed on the girl, lying in the dust at her
feet; but soon shook her beautiful head, and blushing for shame, raised
her kindly, kissed her forehead, gave her a gold bracelet, and then,
perceiving her letter on the ground, told her she wished to be alone.
Mandane ran, rather than walked, out of the room in her eagerness to show
the splendid present she had just received to the inferior attendants and
slaves; and Nitetis, her eyes glistening and her heart beating with excess
of happiness, threw herself on to the ivory chair which stood before her
dressing-table, uttered a short prayer of thanksgiving to her favorite
Egyptian goddess, the beautiful Hathor, kissed the gold chain which
Cambyses had given her after plunging into the water for her ball, then
her letter from home, and rendered almost over-confident by her great
happiness, began to unroll it, slowly sinking back into the purple
cushions as she did so and murmuring: “How very, very happy I am! Poor
letter, I am sure your writer never thought Nitetis would leave you a
quarter of an hour on the ground unread.”

In this happy mood she began to read, but her face soon grew serious and
when she had finished, the letter fell once more to the ground.

Her eyes, whose proud glance had brought the waiting-maid to her feet,
were dimmed by tears; her head, carried so proudly but a few minutes
before, now lay on the jewels which covered the table. Tears rolled down
among the pearls and diamonds, as strange a contrast as the proud tiara
and its unhappy, fainting wearer.

The letter read as follows:

“Ladice the wife of Amasis and Queen of Upper and Lower Egypt, to her
daughter Nitetis, consort of the great King of Persia.

“It has not been our fault, my beloved daughter, that you have remained so
long without news from home. The trireme by which we sent our letters for
you to AEgae was detained by Samian ships of war, or rather pirate
vessels, and towed into the harbor of Astypalaea.

“Polykrates’ presumption increases with the continual success of his
undertakings, and since his victory over the Lesbians and Milesians, who
endeavored to put a stop to his depredations, not a ship is safe from the
attacks of his pirate vessels.

“Pisistratus is dead,” but his sons are friendly to Polykrates. Lygdamis
is under obligations to him, and cannot hold his own in Naxos without
Samian help. He has won over the Amphiktyonic council to his side by
presenting the Apollo of Delos with the neighboring island of Rhenea. His
fifty-oared vessels, requiring to be manned by twenty-thousand men, do
immense damage to all the seafaring nations; yet not one dares to attack
him, as the fortifications of his citadel and his splendid harbor are
almost impregnable, and he himself always surrounded by a well-drilled
body-guard.

“Through the traders, who followed the fortunate Kolxus to the far west,
and these pirate ships, Samos will become the richest of islands and
Polykrates the most powerful of men, unless, as your father says, the gods
become envious of such unchanging good fortune and prepare him a sudden
and speedy downfall.

“In this fear Amasis advised Polykrates as his old friend, to put away
from him the thing he held dearest, and in such a manner that he might be
sure of never receiving it again. Polykrates adopted this advice and threw
into the sea, from the top of the round tower on his citadel, his most
valuable signet-ring, an unusually large sardonyx held by two dolphins.
This ring was the work of Theodorus, and a lyre, the symbol of the ruler,
was exquisitely engraved on the stone.”

“Six days later, however, the ring was found by Polykrates’ cooks in the
body of a fish. He sent us news at once of this strange occurrence, but
instead of rejoicing your father shook his grey head sadly, saying: ‘he
saw now it was impossible for any one to avoid his destiny!’ On the same
day he renounced the friendship of Polykrates and wrote him word, that he
should endeavor to forget him in order to avoid the grief of seeing his
friend in misfortune.

“Polykrates laughed at this message and returned the letters his pirates
had taken from our trireme, with a derisive greeting. For the future all
your letters will be sent by Syria.

“You will ask me perhaps, why I have told you this long story, which has
so much less interest for you than any other home news. I answer: to
prepare you for your father’s state. Would you have recognized the
cheerful, happy, careless Amasis in that gloomy answer to his Samian
friend?

“Alas, my husband has good reason to be sad, and since you left us, my own
eyes have seldom been free from tears. My time is passed either at the
sick-bed of your sister or in comforting your father and guiding his
steps; and though much in need of sleep I am now taking advantage of night
to write these lines.

“Here I was interrupted by the nurses, calling me to your sister Tachot,
your own true friend.

“How often the dear child has called you in her feverish delirium; and how
carefully she treasures your likeness in wax, that wonderful portrait
which bears evidence not only of the height to which Greek art has risen,
but of the master hand of the great Theodorus. To-morrow it will be sent
to AEgina, to be copied in gold, as the soft wax becomes injured from
frequent contact with your sister’s burning hands and lips.

“And now, my daughter, you must summon all your courage to hear what I
need all my strength of mind to tell-the sad story of the fate which the
gods have decreed for our house.

“For three days after you left us Tachot wept incessantly. Neither our
comforting words nor your father’s good advice—neither offerings nor
prayers—could avail to lessen her grief or divert her mind. At last
on the fourth day she ceased to weep and would answer our questions in a
low voice, as if resigned; but spent the greater part of every day sitting
silently at her wheel. Her fingers, however, which used to be so skilful,
either broke the threads they tried to spin, or lay for hours idle in her
lap, while she was lost in dreams. Your father’s jokes, at which she used
to laugh so heartily, made no impression on her, and when I endeavored to
reason with her she listened in anxious suspense.

“If I kissed her forehead and begged her to control herself, she would
spring up, blushing deeply, and throw herself into my arms, then sit down
again to her wheel and begin to pull at the threads with almost frantic
eagerness; but in half an hour her hands would be lying idle in her lap
again and her eyes dreamily fixed, either on the ground, or on some spot
in the air. If we forced her to take part in any entertainment, she would
wander among the guests totally uninterested in everything that was
passing.

“We took her with us on the great pilgrimage to Bubastis, during which the
Egyptians forget their usual gravity, and the shores of the Nile look like
a great stage where the wild games of the satyrs are being performed by
choruses, hurried on in the unrestrained wantonness of intoxication. When
she saw thus for the first time an entire people given up to the wildest
and most unfettered mirth and enjoyment, she woke up from her silent
brooding thoughts and began to weep again, as in the first days after you
went away.

“Sad and perplexed, we brought our poor child back to Sais.

“Her looks were not those of a common mortal. She grew thinner, and we all
fancied, taller; her complexion was white, and almost transparent, with a
tender bloom on her cheek, which I can only liken to a young rose-leaf or
the first faint blush of sunrise. Her eyes are still wonderfully clear and
bright. It always seems to me as if they looked beyond the heaven and
earth which we see.

“As she continued to suffer more and more from heat in the head and hands,
while her tender limbs often shivered with a slight chill, we sent to
Thebes for Thutmes, the most celebrated physician for inward complaints.

“The experienced priest shook his head on seeing your sister and foretold
a serious illness. He forbade her to spin or to speak much. Potions of all
kinds were given her to drink, her illness was discussed and exorcised,
the stars and oracles consulted, rich presents and sacrifices made to the
gods. The priest of Hathor from the island of Philae sent us a consecrated
amulet, the priest of Osiris in Abydos a lock of hair from the god himself
set in gold, and Neithotep, the high-priest of our own guardian goddess,
set on foot a great sacrifice, which was to restore your sister to health.

“But neither physicians nor charms were of any avail, and at last
Neithotep confessed that Tachot’s stars gave but little ground for hope.
Just then, too, the sacred bull at Memphis died and the priests could
discover no heart in his entrails, which they interpreted as
prognosticating evil to our country. They have not yet succeeded in
finding a new Apis, and believe that the gods are wroth with your father’s
kingdom. Indeed the oracle of Buto has declared that the Immortals will
show no favor to Egypt, until all the temples that have been built in the
black land for the worship of false gods are destroyed and their
worshippers banished.

“These evil omens have proved, alas, only too true. Tachot fell ill of a
dreadful fever and lay for nine days hovering between life and death; she
is still so weak that she must be carried, and can move neither hand nor
foot.

“During the journey to Bubastis, Amasis’ eyes, as so often happens here,
became inflamed. Instead of sparing them, he continued to work as usual
from sunrise until mid-day, and while your sister was so ill he never left
her bed, notwithstanding all our entreaties. But I will not enter into
particulars, my child. His eyes grew worse, and on the very day which
brought us the news of your safe arrival in Babylon, Amasis became totally
blind.

“The cheerful, active man has become old, gloomy and decrepit since that
day. The death of Apis, and the unfavorable constellations and oracles
weigh on his mind; his happy temper is clouded by the unbroken night in
which he lives; and the consciousness that he cannot stir a step alone
causes indecision and uncertainty. The daring and independent ruler will
soon become a mere tool, by means of which the priests can work their
will.

“He spends hours in the temple of Neith, praying and offering sacrifices;
a number of workmen are employed there in building a tomb for his mummy,
and the same number at Memphis in levelling the temple which the Greeks
have begun building to Apollo. He speaks of his own and Tachot’s
misfortunes as a just punishment from the Immortals.

“His visits to Tachot’s sick-bed are not the least comfort to her, for
instead of encouraging her kindly, he endeavors to convince her that she
too deserves punishment from the gods. He spends all his remarkable
eloquence in trying to persuade her, that she must forget this world
entirely and only try to gain the favor of Osiris and the judges of the
nether world by ceaseless prayers and sacrifices. In this manner he only
tortures our poor sick child, for she has not lost her love of life.
Perhaps I have still too much of the Greek left in me for a queen of
Egypt; but really, death is so long and life so short, that I cannot help
calling even wise men foolish, when they devote the half of even this
short term to a perpetual meditation on the gloomy Hades.

“I have just been interrupted again. Our great physician, Thutmes, came to
enquire after his patient. He gives very little hope, and seems surprised
that her delicate frame has been able to resist death so long. He said
yesterday: ‘She would have sunk long ago if not kept up by her determined
will, and a longing which gives her no rest. If she ceased to care for
life, she could allow death to take her, just as we dream ourselves
asleep. If, on the other hand, her wish could be gratified, she might,
(though this is hardly probable) live some years yet, but if it remain but
a short time longer unfulfilled, it will certainly wear her to death.

“Have you any idea for whom she longs so eagerly? Our Tachot has allowed
herself to be fascinated by the beautiful Bartja, the brother of your
future husband. I do not mean to say by this that he has employed magic,
as the priest Ameneman believes, to gain her love; for a youth might be
far less handsome and agreeable than Bartja, and yet take the heart of an
innocent girl, still half a child. But her passionate feeling is so
strong, and the change in her whole being so great, that sometimes I too
am tempted to believe in the use of supernatural influence. A short time
before you left I noticed that Tachot was fond of Bartja. Her distress at
first we thought could only be for you, but when she sank into that dreamy
state, Ibykus, who was still at our court, said she must have been seized
by some strong passion.

“Once when she was sitting dreaming at her wheel, I heard him singing
softly Sappho’s little love-song to her:

“She turned pale and asked him: ‘Is that your own song?’

“‘No,’ said he, ‘Sappho wrote it fifty years ago.’

“‘Fifty years ago,’ echoed Tachot musingly.

“‘Love is always the same,’ interrupted the poet; ‘women loved centuries
ago, and will love thousands of years to come, just as Sappho loved fifty
years back.’

“The sick girl smiled in assent, and from that time I often heard her
humming the little song as she sat at her wheel. But we carefully avoided
every question, that could remind her of him she loved. In the delirium of
fever, however, Bartja’s name was always on her burning lips. When she
recovered consciousness we told her what she had said in her delirium;
then she opened her heart to me, and raising her eyes to heaven like a
prophetess, exclaimed solemnly: ‘I know, that I shall not die till I have
seen him again.’

“A short time ago we had her carried into the temple, as she longed to
worship there again. When the service was over and we were crossing the
temple-court, we passed some children at play, and Tachot noticed a little
girl telling something very eagerly to her companions. She told the
bearers to put down the litter and call the child to her.

“‘What were you saying?’ she asked the little one.

“I was telling the others something about my eldest sister.’

“‘May I hear it too?’” said Tachot so kindly, that the little girl began
at once without fear: “Batau, who is betrothed to my sister, came back
from Thebes quite unexpectedly yesterday evening. Just as the Isis-star
was rising, he came suddenly on to our roof where Kerimama was playing at
draughts with my father; and he brought her such a beautiful golden bridal
wreath.”

“Tachot kissed the child and gave her her own costly fan. When we were at
home again she smiled archly at me and said: ‘You know, mother dear, that
the words children say in the temple-courts are believed to be oracles.’
So, if the little one spoke the truth, he must come; and did not you hear
that he is to bring the bridal-wreath? O mother, I am sure, quite sure,
that I shall see him again.’

“I asked her yesterday if she had any message for you, and she begged me
to say that she sent you thousands of kisses, and messages of love, and
that when she was stronger she meant to write, as she had a great deal to
tell you. She has just brought me the little note which I enclose; it is
for you alone, and has cost her much fatigue to write.

“But now I must finish my letter, as the messenger has been waiting for it
some time.

“I wish I could give you some joyful news, but sadness and sorrow meet me
whichever way I turn. Your brother yields more and more to the priests’
tyranny, and manages the affairs of state for your poor blind father under
Neithotep’s guidance.

“Amasis does not interfere, and says it matters little whether his place
be filled a few days sooner or later by his successor.

“He did not attempt to prevent Psamtik from seizing the children of Phanes
in Rhodopis’ house, and actually allowed his son to enter into a
negotiation with the descendants of those two hundred thousand soldiers,
who emigrated to Ethiopia in the reign of Psamtik I. on account of the
preference shown to the Greek mercenaries. In case they declared
themselves willing to return to their native land, the Greek mercenaries
were to have been dismissed. The negotiation failed entirely, but
Psamtik’s treatment of the children of Phanes has given bitter offence to
the Greeks. Aristomachus threatened to leave Egypt, taking with him ten
thousand of his best troops, and on hearing that Phanes’ son had been
murdered at Psamtik’s command applied for his discharge. From that time
the Spartan disappeared, no one knows whither; but the Greek troops
allowed themselves to be bribed by immense sums and are still in Egypt.

“Amasis said nothing to all this, and looked on silently from the midst of
his prayers and sacrifices, while your brother was either offending every
class of his subjects or attempting to pacify them by means beneath the
dignity of a ruler. The commanders of the Egyptian and Greek troops, and
the governors of different provinces have all alike assured me that the
present state of things is intolerable. No one knows what to expect from
this new ruler; he commands today the very thing, which he angrily forbade
the day before. Such a government must soon snap the beautiful bond, which
has hitherto united the Egyptian people to their king.

“Farewell, my child, think of your poor friend, your mother; and forgive
your parents when you hear what they have so long kept secret from you.
Pray for Tachot, and remember us to Croesus and the young Persians whom we
know. Give a special message too from Tachot to Bartja; I beg him to think
of it as the last legacy of one very near death. If you could only send
her some proof, that he has not forgotten her! Farewell, once more
farewell and be happy in your new and blooming home.”


CHAPTER XVI.

Sad realities follow bright anticipations nearly as surely as a rainy day
succeeds a golden sunrise. Nitetis had been so happy in the thought of
reading the very letter, which poured such bitter drops of wormwood into
her cup of happiness.

One beautiful element in her life, the remembrance of her dear home and
the companions of her happy childhood, had been destroyed in one moment,
as if by the touch of a magician’s wand.

She sat there in her royal purple, weeping, forgetful of everything but
her mother’s grief, her father’s misfortunes and her sister’s illness. The
joyful future, full of love, joy, and happiness, which had been beckoning
her forward only a few minutes before, had vanished. Cambyses’ chosen
bride forgot her waiting, longing lover, and the future queen of Persia
could think of nothing but the sorrows of Egypt’s royal house.

It was long past mid-day, when the attendant Mandane came to put a last
touch to Nitetis’ dress and ornaments.

“She is asleep,” thought the girl. “I can let her rest another quarter of
an hour; the sacrifice this morning has tired her, and we must have her
fresh and beautiful for the evening banquet; then she will outshine the
others as the moon does the stars.”

Unnoticed by her mistress she slipped out of the room, the windows of
which commanded a splendid view over the hanging-gardens, the immense city
beneath, the river, and the rich and fruitful Babylonian plain, and went
into the garden.

Without looking round she ran to a flower-bed, to pluck some roses. Her
eyes were fixed on her new bracelet, the stones of which sparkled in the
sun, and she did not notice a richly-dressed man peering in at one of the
windows of the room where Nitetis lay weeping. On being disturbed in his
watching and listening, he turned at once to the girl and greeted her in a
high treble voice.

She started, and on recognizing the eunuch Boges, answered: “It is not
polite, sir, to frighten a poor girl in this way. By Mithras, if I had
seen you before I heard you, I think I should have fainted. A woman’s
voice does not take me by surprise, but to see a man here is as rare as to
find a swan in the desert.”

Boges laughed good-humoredly, though he well understood her saucy allusion
to his high voice, and answered, rubbing his fat hands: “Yes, it is very
hard for a young and pretty bird like you, to have to live in such a
lonely corner, but be patient, sweetheart. Your mistress will soon be
queen, and then she will look out a handsome young husband for you. Ah,
ha! you will find it pleasanter to live here alone with him, than with
your beautiful Egyptian.”

“My mistress is too beautiful for some people’s fancy, and I have never
asked any one to look out a husband for me,” she answered pertly. “I can
find one without your help either.”

“Who could doubt it? Such a pretty face is as good a bait for a man, as a
worm for a fish.”

“But I am not trying to catch a husband, and least of all one like you.”

“That I can easily believe,” he answered laughing. “But tell me, my
treasure, why are you so hard on me? Have I done anything to vex you?
Wasn’t it through me, that you obtained this good appointment, and are not
we both Medes?”

“You might just as well say that we are both human beings, and have five
fingers on each hand and a nose in the middle of our faces. Half the
people here are Medes, and if I had as many friends as I have countrymen,
I might be queen to-morrow. And as to my situation here, it was not you,
but the high-priest Oropastes who recommended me to the great queen
Kassandane. Your will is not law here.”

“What are you talking about, my sweet one? don’t you know, that not a
single waiting-woman can be engaged without my consent?”

“Oh, yes, I know that as well as you do, but…”

“But you women are an unthankful race, and don’t deserve our kindness.”

“Please not to forget, that you are speaking to a girl of good family.”

“I know that very well, my little one. I know that your father was a
Magian and your mother a Magian’s daughter; that they both died early and
you were placed under the care of the Destur Ixabates, the father of
Oropastes, and grew up with his children. I know too that when you had
received the ear-rings, Oropastes’ brother Gaumata, (you need not blush,
Gaumata is a pretty name) fell in love with your rosy face, and wanted to
marry you, though he was only nineteen. Gaumata and Mandane, how well the
two names sound together! Mandane and Gaumata! If I were a poet I should
call my hero Gaumata and his lady-love Mandane.”

“I insist on your ceasing to jest in this way,” cried Mandane, blushing
deeply and stamping her foot.

“What, are you angry because I say the names sound well together? You
ought rather to be angry with the proud Oropastes, who sent his younger
brother to Rhagar and you to the court, that you might forget one
another.”

“That is a slander on my benefactor.”

“Let my tongue wither away, if I am not speaking the truth and nothing but
the truth! Oropastes separated you and his brother because he had higher
intentions for the handsome Gaumata, than a marriage with the orphan
daughter of an inferior Magian. He would have been satisfied with Amytis
or Menische for a sister-in-law, but a poor girl like you, who owed
everything to his bounty, would only have stood in the way of his
ambitious plans. Between ourselves, he would like to be appointed regent
of Persia while the king is away at the Massagetan war, and would
therefore give a great deal to connect himself by marriage in some way or
other with the Archemenidae. At his age a new wife is not to be thought
of; but his brother is young and handsome, indeed people go so far as to
say, that he is like the Prince Bartja.”

“That is true,” exclaimed the girl. “Only think, when we went out to meet
my mistress, and I saw Bartja for the first time from the window of the
station-house, I thought he was Gaumata. They are so like one another that
they might be twins, and they are the handsomest men in the kingdom.”

“How you are blushing, my pretty rose-bud! But the likeness between them
is not quite so great as all that. When I spoke to the high-priest’s
brother this morning…”

“Gaumata is here?” interrupted the girl passionately. “Have you really
seen him or are you trying to draw me out and make fun of me?”

“By Mithras! my sweet one, I kissed his forehead this very morning, and he
made me tell him a great deal about his darling. Indeed his blue eyes, his
golden curls and his lovely complexion, like the bloom on a peach, were so
irresistible that I felt inclined to try and work impossibilities for him.
Spare your blushes, my little pomegranate-blossom, till I have told you
all; and then perhaps in future you will not be so hard upon poor Boges;
you will see that he has a good heart, full of kindness for his beautiful,
saucy little countrywoman.”

“I do not trust you,” she answered, interrupting these assurances. “I have
been warned against your smooth tongue, and I do not know what I have done
to deserve this kind interest.”

“Do you know this?” he asked, showing her a white ribbon embroidered all
over with little golden flames.

“It is the last present I worked for him,” exclaimed Mandane.

“I asked him for this token, because I knew you would not trust me. Who
ever heard of a prisoner loving his jailer?”

“But tell me at once, quickly—what does my old playfellow want me to
do? Look, the-western sky is beginning to glow. Evening is coming on, and
I must arrange my mistress’s dress and ornaments for the banquet.”

“Well, I will not keep you long,” said the eunuch, becoming so serious
that Mandane was frightened. “If you do not choose to believe that I would
run into any risk out of friendship to you, then fancy that I forward your
love affair to humble the pride of Oropastes. He threatens to supplant me
in the king’s favor, and I am determined, let him plot and intrigue as he
likes, that you shall marry Gaumata. To-morrow evening, after the
Tistar-star has risen, your lover shall come to see you. I will see that
all the guards are away, so that he can come without danger, stay one hour
and talk over the future with you; but remember, only one hour. I see
clearly that your mistress will be Cambyses’ favorite wife, and will then
forward your marriage, for she is very fond of you, and thinks no praise
too high for your fidelity and skill. So to-morrow evening,” he continued,
falling back into the jesting tone peculiar to him, “when the Tistar-star
rises, fortune will begin to shine on you. Why do you look down? Why don’t
you answer? Gratitude stops your pretty little mouth, eh? is that the
reason? Well, my little bird, I hope you won’t be quite so silent, if you
should ever have a chance of praising poor Boges to your powerful
mistress. And what message shall I bring to the handsome Gaumata? May I
say that you have not forgotten him and will be delighted to see him
again? You hesitate? Well, I am very sorry, but it is getting dark and I
must go. I have to inspect the women’s dresses for the birthday banquet.
Ah! one thing I forgot to mention. Gaumata must leave Babylon to-morrow.
Oropastes is afraid, that he may chance to see you, and told him to return
to Rhage directly the festival was over. What! still silent? Well then, I
really cannot help you or that poor fellow either. But I shall gain my
ends quite as well without you, and perhaps after all it is better that
you should forget one another. Good-bye.”

It was a hard struggle for the girl. She felt nearly sure that Boges was
deceiving her, and a voice within warned her that it would be better to
refuse her lover this meeting. Duty and prudence gained the upper hand,
and she was just going to exclaim: “Tell him I cannot see him,” when her
eye caught the ribbon she had once embroidered for her handsome
playfellow. Bright pictures from her childhood flashed through her mind,
short moments of intoxicating happiness; love, recklessness and longing
gained the day in their turn over her sense of right, her misgivings and
her prudence, and before Boges could finish his farewell, she called out,
almost in spite of herself and flying towards the house like a frightened
fawn: “I shall expect him.”

Boges passed quickly through the flowery paths of the hanging-gardens. He
stopped at the parapet end cautiously opened a hidden trap-door, admitting
to a secret staircase which wound down through one of the huge pillars
supporting the hanging-gardens, and which had probably been intended by
their original designer as a means of reaching his wife’s apartments
unobserved from the shores of the river. The door moved easily on its
hinges, and when Boges had shut it again and strewed a few of the
river-shells from the garden walks over it, it would have been difficult
to find, even for any one who had come with that purpose. The eunuch
rubbed his jeweled hands, smiling the while as was his custom, and
murmured: “It can’t fail to succeed now; the girl is caught, her lover is
at my beck and call, the old secret flight of steps is in good order,
Nitetis has been weeping bitterly on a day of universal rejoicing, and the
blue lily opens to-morrow night. Ah, ha! my little plan can’t possibly
fail now. And to-morrow, my pretty Egyptian kitten, your little velvet paw
will be fast in a trap set by the poor despised eunuch, who was not
allowed, forsooth, to give you any orders.”

His eyes gleamed maliciously as he said these words and hurried from the
garden.

At the great flight of steps he met another eunuch, named Neriglissar, who
held the office of head-gardener, and lived at the hanging-gardens.

“How is the blue lily going on?” asked Boges.

“It is unfolding magnificently!” cried the gardener, in enthusiasm at the
mere mention of his cherished flower. “To-morrow, as I promised, when the
Tistar-star rises, it will be in all its beauty. My Egyptian mistress will
be delighted, for she is very fond of flowers, and may I ask you to tell
the king and the Achaemenidae, that under my care this rare plant has at
last flowered? It is to be seen in full beauty only once in every ten
years. Tell the noble Achaemenidae; this, and bring them here.”

“Your wish shall be granted,” said Boges smiling, “but I think you must
not reckon on the king, as I do not expect he will visit the
hanging-gardens before his marriage with the Egyptian. Some of the
Archimenidae, however, will be sure to come; they are such lovers of
horticulture that they would not like to miss this rare sight. Perhaps,
too, I may succeed in bringing Croesus. It is true that he does not
understand flowers or doat on them as the Persians do, but he makes amends
for this by his thorough appreciation of everything beautiful.”

“Yes, yes, bring him too,” exclaimed the gardener. “He will really be
grateful to you, for my queen of the night is the most beautiful flower,
that has ever bloomed in a royal garden. You saw the bud in the clear
waters of the reservoir surrounded by its green leaves; that bud will open
into a gigantic rose, blue as the sky. My flower…”

The enthusiastic gardener would have said much more in praise of his
flower, but Boges left him with a friendly nod, and went down the flight
of steps. A two-wheeled wooden carriage was waiting for him there; he took
his seat by the driver, the horses, decked out with bells and tassels,
were urged into a sharp trot and quickly brought him to the gate of the
harem-garden.

That day was a busy, stirring one in Cambyses’ harem. In order that the
women might look their very best, Boges had commanded that they should all
be taken to the bath before the banquet. He therefore went at once to that
wing of the palace, which contained the baths for the women.

While he was still at some distance a confused noise of screaming,
laughing, chattering and tittering reached his ears. In the broad porch of
the large bathing-room, which had been almost overheated, more than three
hundred women were moving about in a dense cloud of steam.

The half-naked forms floated over the warm pavement like a motley crowd of
phantoms. Their thin silken garments were wet through and clung to their
delicate figures, and a warm rain descended upon them from the roof of the
bath, rising up again in vapor when it reached the floor.

Groups of handsome women, ten or twenty together, lay gossiping saucily in
one part of the room; in another two king’s wives were quarrelling like
naughty children. One beauty was screaming at the top of her voice because
she had received a blow from her neighbor’s dainty little slipper, while
another was lying in lazy contemplation, still as death, on the damp, warm
floor. Six Armenians were standing together, singing a saucy love-song in
their native language with clear-toned voices, and a little knot of
fair-haired Persians were slandering Nitetis so fearfully, that a
by-stander would have fancied our beautiful Egyptian was some awful
monster, like those nurses used to frighten children.

Naked female slaves moved about through the crowd, carrying on their heads
well-warmed cloths to throw over their mistresses. The cries of the
eunuchs, who held the office of door-keepers, and were continually urging
the women to greater haste,—the screeching calls of those whose
slaves had not yet arrived,—the penetrating perfumes and the warm
vapor combined to produce a motley, strange and stupefying scene.

A quarter of an hour later, however, the king’s wives presented a very
different spectacle.

They lay like roses steeped in dew, not asleep, but quite still and
dreaming, on soft cushions placed along the walls of an immense room. The
wet perfumes still lay on their undried and flowing hair, and nimble
female slaves were busied in carefully wiping away, with little bags made
of soft camels’ hair, the slightest outward trace of the moisture which
penetrated deep into the pores of the skin.

Silken coverlets were spread over their weary, beautiful limbs, and a
troop of eunuchs took good care that the dreamy repose of the entire body
should not be disturbed by quarrelsome or petulant individuals. Their
efforts, however, were seldom so successful as to-day, when every one knew
that a disturbance of the peace would be punished by exclusion from the
banquet. They had probably been lying a full hour in this dreamy silence,
when the sound of a gong produced another transformation.

The reposing figures sprang from their cushions, a troop of female slaves
pressed into the hall, the beauties were annointed and perfumed, their
luxuriant hair ingeniously braided, plaited, and adorned with precious
stones. Costly ornaments and silken and woolen robes in all the colors of
the rainbow were brought in, shoes stiff with rich embroidery of pearls
and jewels were tied on to their tender feet, and golden girdles fastened
round their waists.

By the time Boges came in, the greater number of the women were already
fully adorned in their costly jewelry, which would have represented
probably, when taken together, the riches of a large kingdom.

He was greeted by a shrill cry of joy from many voices. Twenty of the
women joined hands and danced round their smiling keeper, singing a simple
song which had been composed in the harem in praise of his virtues. On
this day it was customary for the king to grant each of his wives one
reasonable petition. So when the ring of dancers had loosed hands, a troop
of petitioners rushed in upon Boges, kissing his hands, stroking his
cheeks, whispering in his ear all kinds of requests, and trying by
flattery to gain his intercession with the king. The woman’s tyrant smiled
at it all, stopped his ears and pushed them all back with jests and
laughter, promising Amytis the Median that Esther the Phoenician should be
punished, and Esther the same of Amytis,—that Parmys should have a
handsomer set of jewels than Parisatys, and Parisatys a more costly one
than Parmys, but finding it impossible to get rid of these importunate
petitioners, he blew a little golden whistle. Its shrill tones acted like
magic on the eager crowd; the raised hands fell in a moment, the little
tripping feet stood still, the opening lips closed and the eager tumult
was turned into a dead silence.

Whoever disobeyed the sound of this little whistle, was certain of
punishment. It was as important as the words “Silence, in the king’s
name!” or the reading of the riot-act. To-day it worked even more
effectually than usual. Boges’ self-satisfied smile showed that he had
noticed this; he then favored the assembly with a look expressive of his
contentment with their conduct, promised in a flowery speech to exert all
his influence with the king in behalf of his dear little white doves, and
wound up by telling them to arrange themselves in two long rows.

The women obeyed and submitted to his scrutiny like soldiers on drill, or
slaves being examined by their buyer.

With the dress and ornaments of most he was satisfied, ordering, however,
to one a little more rouge, to another a little white powder to subdue a
too healthy color, here a different arrangement of the hair—there a
deeper tinge to the eyebrows, or more pains to be taken in anointing the
lips.

When this was over he left the hall and went to Phaedime, who as one of
the king’s lawful wives, had a private room, separated from those allotted
to the concubines.

This former favorite,—this humbled daughter of the Achaemenidae, had
been expecting him already some time.

She was magnificently dressed, and almost overloaded with jewels. A thick
veil of gauze inwrought with gold hung from her little tiara, and
interlaced with this was the blue and white band of the Achaemenidae.
There could be no question that she was beautiful, but her figure was
already too strongly developed, a frequent result of the lazy harem life
among Eastern women. Fair golden hair, interwoven with little silver
chains and gold pieces, welled out almost too abundantly from beneath her
tiara, and was smoothed over her white temples.

She sprang forward to meet Boges, trembling with eagerness, caught a hasty
glance at herself in the looking-glass, and then, fixing her eyes on the
eunuch, asked impetuously: “Are you pleased with me? Will he admire me?”

Boges smiled his old, eternal smile and answered: “You always please me,
my golden peacock, and the king would admire you too if he could see you
as you were a moment ago. You were really beautiful when you called out,
‘Will he admire me?’ for passion had turned your blue eyes black as night,
and your lip was curled with hatred so as to show two rows of teeth white
as the snow on the Demawend!”

Phaedime was flattered and forced her face once more into the admired
expression, saying: “Then take us at once to the banquet, for I know my
eyes will be darker and more brilliant, and my teeth will gleam more
brightly, when I see that Egyptian girl sitting where I ought to sit.”

“She will not be allowed to sit there long.”

“What! is your plan likely to succeed then? Oh, Boges, do not hide it any
longer from me—I will be as silent as the grave—I will help
you—I will—”

“No, I cannot, I dare not tell you about it, but this much I will say in
order to sweeten this bitter evening: we have dug the pit for our enemy,
and if my golden Phaedime will only do what I tell her, I hope to give her
back her old place, and not only that, but even a higher one.”

“Tell me what I am to do; I am ready for anything and everything.”

“That was well and bravely spoken; like a true lioness. If you obey me we
must succeed; and the harder the task, the higher the reward. Don’t
dispute what I am going to say, for we have not a minute to lose. Take off
all your useless ornaments and only wear the chain the king gave you on
your marriage. Put on a dark simple dress instead of this bright one; and
when you have prostrated yourself before Kassandane, bow down humbly
before the Egyptian Princess too.”

“Impossible!”

“I will not be contradicted. Take off those ornaments at once, I entreat
you. There, that is right. We cannot succeed unless you obey me. How white
your neck is! The fair Peri would look dark by your side.”

“But—”

“When your turn comes to ask a favor of the king, tell him you have no
wishes, now that the sun of your life has withdrawn his light.”

“Yes, that I will do.”

“When your father asks after your welfare, you must weep.”

“I will do that too.”

“And so that all the Achaemenidae can see that you are weeping.”

“That will be a fearful humiliation!”

“Not at all; only a means by which to rise the more surely. Wash the red
color from your cheeks and put on white powder. Make yourself pale—paler
still.”

“Yes, I shall need that to hide my blushes. Boges, you are asking
something fearful of me, but I will obey you if you will only give me a
reason.”

“Girl, bring your mistress’s new dark green robe.”

“I shall look like a slave.”

“True grace is lovely even in rags.”

“The Egyptian will completely eclipse me.”

“Yes, every one must see that you have not the slightest intention of
comparing yourself with her. Then people will say: ‘Would not Phaedime be
as beautiful as this proud woman, if she had taken the same pains to make
herself so?”’

“But I cannot bow down to her.”

“You must.”

“You only want to humble and ruin me.”

“Short-sighted fool! listen to my reasons and obey. I want especially to
excite the Achaemenidae against our enemy. How it will enrage your
grandfather Intaphernes, and your father Otanes to see you in the dust
before a stranger! Their wounded pride will bring them over to our side,
and if they are too ‘noble,’ as they call it, to undertake anything
themselves against a woman, still they will be more likely to help than to
hinder us, if I should need their assistance. Then, when the Egyptian is
ruined, if you have done as I wish, the king will remember your sad pale
face, your humility and forgetfulness of self. The Achaemenidae, and even
the Magi, will beg him to take a queen from his own family; and where in
all Persia is there a woman who can boast of better birth than you? Who
else can wear the royal purple but my bright bird of Paradise, my
beautiful rose Phaedime? With such a prize in prospect we must no more
fear a little humiliation than a man who is learning to ride fears a fall
from his horse.”

And she, princess as she was, answered: “I will obey you.”

“Then we are certain of victory,” said the eunuch. “There, now your eyes
are flashing darkly again as I like to see them, my queen. And so Cambyses
shall see you when the tender flesh of the Egyptian shall have become food
for dogs and the birds of the air, and when for the first time after long
months of absence, I bring him once more to the door of your apartments.
Here, Armorges! tell the rest of the women to get ready and enter their
litters. I will go on and be there to show them their places.”

The great banqueting-hall was bright as day—even brighter, from the
light of thousands of candles whose rays were reflected in the gold plates
forming the panelling of the walls. A table of interminable length stood
in the middle of the hall, overloaded with gold and silver cups, plates,
dishes, bowls, jugs, goblets, ornaments and incense-altars, and looked
like a splendid scene from fairy-land.

“The king will soon be here,” called out the head-steward of the table, of
the great court-lords, to the king’s cup-bearer, who was a member of the
royal family. “Are all the wine-jugs full, has the wine been tasted, are
the goblets ranged in order, and the skins sent by Polykrates, have they
been emptied?”

“Yes,” answered the cup-bearer, “everything is ready, and that Chian wine
is better than any I ever tasted; indeed, in my opinion, even the Syrian
is not to be compared to it. Only taste it.”

So saying he took a graceful little golden goblet from the table in one
hand, raised a wine-pitcher of the same costly metal with the other, swung
the latter high into the air and poured the wine so cleverly into the
narrow neck of the little vessel that not a drop was lost, though the
liquid formed a wide curve in its descent. He then presented the goblet to
the head-steward with the tips of his fingers, bowing gracefully as he did
so.

The latter sipped the delicious wine, testing its flavor with great
deliberation, and said, on returning the cup: “I agree with you, it is
indeed a noble wine, and tastes twice as well when presented with such
inimitable grace. Strangers are quite right in saying that there are no
cupbearers like the Persian.”

“Thanks for this praise,” replied the other, kissing his friend’s
forehead. “Yes, I am proud of my office, and it is one which the king only
gives to his friends. Still it is a great plague to have to stay so long
in this hot, suffocating Babylon. Shall we ever be off for the summer, to
Ecbatana or Pasargada?”

“I was talking to the king about it to-day. He had intended not to leave
before the Massagetan war, and to go straight from Babylon into the field,
but to-day’s embassy has changed matters; it is probable that there may be
no war, and then we shall go to Susa three days after the king’s marriage—that
is, in one week from the present time.”

“To Susa?” cried the cup-bearer. “It’s very little cooler there than here,
and besides, the old Memnon’s castle is being rebuilt.”

“The satrap of Susa has just brought word that the new palace is finished,
and that nothing so brilliant has ever been seen. Directly Cambyses heard,
it he said: Then we will start for Susa three days after our marriage. I
should like to show the Egyptian Princess that we understand the art of
building as well as her own ancestors. She is accustomed to hot weather on
the Nile, and will not find our beautiful Susa too warm.’ The king seems
wonderfully fond of this woman.”

“He does indeed! All other women have become perfectly indifferent to him,
and he means soon to make her his queen.”

“That is unjust; Phaedime, as daughter of the Achaemenidae, has an older
and better right.”

“No doubt, but whatever the king wishes, must be right.”

“The ruler’s will is the will of God.”

“Well said! A true Persian will kiss his king’s hand, even when dripping
with the blood of his own child.”

“Cambyses ordered my brother’s execution, but I bear him no more ill-will
for it than I should the gods for depriving me of my parents. Here, you
fellows! draw the curtains back; the guests are coming. Look sharp, you
dogs, and do your duty! Farewell, Artabazos, we shall have warm work
to-night.”


BOOK 2.


CHAPTER I.

The principal steward of the banquet went forward to meet the guests as
they entered, and, assisted by other noble staff-bearers (chamberlains and
masters of the ceremonies), led them to their appointed places.

When they were all seated, a flourish of trumpets announced that the king
was near. As he entered the hall every one rose, and the multitude
received him with a thundering shout of “Victory to the king!” again and
again repeated.

The way to his seat was marked by a purple Sardian carpet, only to be
trodden by himself and Kassandane. His blind mother, led by Croesus, went
first and took her seat at the head of the table, on a throne somewhat
higher than the golden chair for Cambyses, which stood by it. The king’s
lawful wives sat on his left hand; Nitetis next to him, then Atossa, and
by her side the pale, plainly-dressed Phaedime; next to this last wife of
Cambyses sat Boges, the eunuch. Then came the high-priest Oropastes, some
of the principal Magi, the satraps of various provinces (among them the
Jew Belteshazzar), and a number of Persians, Medes and eunuchs, all
holding high offices under the crown.

Bartja sat at the king’s right hand, and after him Croesus, Hystaspes,
Gobryas, Araspes, and others of the Achaemenidae, according to their rank
and age. Of the concubines, the greater number sat at the foot of the
table; some stood opposite to Cambyses, and enlivened the banquet by songs
and music. A number of eunuchs stood behind them, whose duty it was to see
that they did not raise their eyes towards the men.

Cambyses’ first glance was bestowed on Nitetis; she sat by him in all the
splendor and dignity of a queen, but looking very, very pale in her new
purple robes.

Their eyes met, and Cambyses felt that such a look could only come from
one who loved him very dearly. But his own love told him that something
had troubled her. There was a sad seriousness about her mouth, and a
slight cloud, which only he could see, seemed to veil the usually calm,
clear and cheerful expression of her eyes. “I will ask her afterwards what
has happened,” thought he, “but it will not do to let my subjects see how
much I love this girl.”

He kissed his mother, sister, brother and his nearest relations on the
forehead—said a short prayer thanking the gods for their mercies and
entreating a happy new year for himself and the Persians—named the
immense sum he intended to present to his countrymen on this day, and then
called on the staff bearers to bring the petitioners before his face, who
hoped to obtain some reasonable request from the king on this day of
grace.

As every petitioner had been obliged to lay his request before the
principal staff bearer the day before, in order to ascertain whether it
was admissible, they all received satisfactory answers. The petitions of
the women had been enquired into by the eunuchs in the same manner, and
they too were now conducted before their lord and master by Boges,
Kassandane alone remaining seated.

The long procession was opened by Nitetis and Atossa, and the two
princesses were immediately followed by Phaedime and another beauty. The
latter was magnificently dressed and had been paired with Phaedime by
Boges, in order to make the almost poverty-stricken simplicity of the
fallen favorite more apparent.

Intaphernes and Otanes looked as annoyed as Boges had expected, on seeing
their grandchild and daughter so pale, and in such miserable array, in the
midst of all this splendor and magnificence.

Cambyses had had experience of Phaedime’s former extravagance in matters
of dress, and, when he saw her standing before him so plainly dressed and
so pale, looked both angry and astonished. His brow darkened, and as she
bent low before him, he asked her in an angry and tyrannical tone: “What
is the meaning of this beggarly dress at my table, on the day set apart in
my honor? Have you forgotten, that in our country it is the custom never
to appear unadorned before the king? Verily, if it were not my birthday,
and if I did not owe you some consideration as the daughter of our dearest
kinsman, I should order the eunuchs to take you back to the harem, that
you might have time to think over your conduct in solitude.”

These words rendered the mortified woman’s task much easier…. She began
to weep loud and bitterly, raising her hands and eyes to her angry lord in
such a beseeching manner that his anger was changed into compassion, and
he raised her from the ground with the question: “Have you a petition to
ask of me?”

“What can I find to wish for, now that the sun of my life has withdrawn
his light?” was her faltering answer, hindered by sobs.

Cambyses shrugged his shoulders, and asked again “Is there nothing then
that you wish for? I used to be able to dry your tears with presents; ask
me for some golden comfort to-day.”

“Phaedime has nothing left to wish for now. For whom can she put on jewels
when her king, her husband, withdraws the light of his countenance?”

“Then I can do nothing for you,” exclaimed Cambyses, turning away angrily
from the kneeling woman. Boges had been quite right in advising Phaedime
to paint herself with white, for underneath the pale color her cheeks were
burning with shame and anger. But, in spite of all, she controlled her
passionate feelings, made the same deep obeisance to Nitetis as to the
queen-mother, and allowed her tears to flow fast and freely in sight of
all the Achaemenidae.

Otanes and Intaphernes could scarcely suppress their indignation at seeing
their daughter and grandchild thus humbled, and many an Achaemenidae
looked on, feeling deep sympathy with the unhappy Phaedime and a hidden
grudge against the favored, beautiful stranger.

The formalities were at last at an end and the feast began. Just before
the king, in a golden basket, and gracefully bordered round with other
fruits, lay a gigantic pomegranate, as large as a child’s head.

Cambyses noticed it now for the first time, examined its enormous size and
rare beauty with the eye of a connoisseur, and said: “Who grew this
wonderful pomegranate?”

“Thy servant Oropastes,” answered the chief of the Magi, with a low
obeisance. “For many years I have studied the art of gardening, and have
ventured to lay this, the most beautiful fruit of my labors, at the feet
of my king.”

“I owe you thanks,” cried the king: “My friends, this pomegranate will
assist me in the choice of a governor at home when we go out to war, for,
by Mithras, the man who can cherish and foster a little tree so carefully
will do greater things than these. What a splendid fruit! Surely it’s like
was never seen before. I thank you again, Oropastes, and as the thanks of
a king must never consist of empty words alone, I name you at once
vicegerent of my entire kingdom, in case of war. For we shall not dream
away our time much longer in this idle rest, my friends. A Persian gets
low-spirited without the joys of war.”

A murmur of applause ran through the ranks of the Achaemenidae and fresh
shouts of “Victory to the king” resounded through the hall. Their anger on
account of the humiliation of a woman was quickly forgotten; thoughts of
coming battles, undying renown and conqueror’s laurels to be won by deeds
of arms, and recollections of their former mighty deeds raised the spirits
of the revellers.

The king himself was more moderate than usual to-day, but he encouraged
his guests to drink, enjoying their noisy merriment and overflowing mirth;
taking, however, far more pleasure still in the fascinating beauty of the
Egyptian Princess, who sat at his side, paler than usual, and thoroughly
exhausted by the exertions of the morning and the unaccustomed weight of
the high tiara. He had never felt so happy as on this day. What indeed
could he wish for more than he already possessed? Had not the gods given
him every thing that a man could desire? and, over and above all this, had
not they flung into his lap the precious gift of love? His usual
inflexibility seemed to have changed into benevolence, and his stern
severity into good-nature, as he turned to his brother Bartja with the
words: “Come brother, have you forgotten my promise? Don’t you know that
to-day you are sure of gaining the dearest wish of your heart from me?
That’s right, drain the goblet, and take courage! but do not ask anything
small, for I am in the mood to give largely to-day. Ah, it is a secret!
come nearer then. I am really curious to know what the most fortunate
youth in my entire kingdom can long for so much, that he blushes like a
girl when his wish is spoken of.”

Bartja, whose cheeks were really glowing from agitation, bent his head
close to his brother’s ear, and whispered shortly the story of his love.
Sappho’s father had helped to defend his native town Phocaea against the
hosts of Cyrus, and this fact the boy cleverly brought forward, speaking
of the girl he loved as the daughter of a Greek warrior of noble birth. In
so saying he spoke the truth, but at the same time he suppressed the facts
that this very father had acquired great riches by mercantile
undertakings.

He then told his brother how charming, cultivated and loving his Sappho
was, and was just going to call on Croesus for a confirmation of his
words, when Cambyses interrupted him by kissing his forehead and saying:
“You need say no more, brother; do what your heart bids you. I know the
power of love too, and I will help you to gain our mother’s consent.”
Bartja threw himself at his brother’s feet, overcome with gratitude and
joy, but Cambyses raised him kindly and, looking especially at Nitetis and
Kassandane, exclaimed: “Listen, my dear ones, the stem of Cyrus is going
to blossom afresh, for our brother Bartja has resolved to put an end to
his single life, so displeasing to the gods.

In a few days the young lover will leave us for your country, Nitetis, and
will bring back another jewel from the shores of the Nile to our mountain
home.”

“What is the matter, sister?” cried Atossa, before her brother had
finished speaking. Nitetis had fainted, and Atossa was sprinkling her
forehead with wine as she lay in her arms.

“What was it?” asked the blind Kassandane, when Nitetis had awakened to
consciousness a few moments later.

“The joy—the happiness—Tachot,” faltered Nitetis. Cambyses, as
well as his sister, had sprung to the fainting girl’s help. When she had
recovered consciousness, he asked her to take some wine to revive her
completely, gave her the cup with his own hand, and then went on at the
point at which he had left off in his account: “Bartja is going to your
own country, my wife—to Naukratis on the Nile—to fetch thence
the granddaughter of a certain Rhodopis, and daughter of a noble warrior,
a native of the brave town of Phocaea, as his wife.”

“What was that?” cried the blind queen-mother.

“What is the matter with you?” exclaimed Atossa again, in an anxious,
almost reproachful tone.

“Nitetis!” cried Croesus admonishingly. But the warning came too late; the
cup which her royal lover had given her slipped from her hands and fell
ringing on the floor. All eyes were fixed on the king’s features in
anxious suspense. He had sprung from his seat pale as death; his lips
trembled and his fist was clenched. Nitetis looked up at her lover
imploringly, but he was afraid of meeting those wonderful, fascinating
eyes, and turned his head away, saying in a hoarse voice: “Take the women
back to their apartments, Boges. I have seen enough of them—let us
begin our drinking-bout—good-night, my mother; take care how you
nourish vipers with your heart’s blood. Sleep well, Egyptian, and pray to
the gods to give you a more equal power of dissembling your feelings.
To-morrow, my friends, we will go out hunting. Here, cup-bearer, give me
some wine! fill the large goblet, but taste it well—yes, well—for
to-day I am afraid of poison; to-day for the first time. Do you hear,
Egyptian? I am afraid of poison! and every child knows—ah-ha—that
all the poison, as well as the medicine comes from Egypt.”

Nitetis left the hall,—she hardly knew how,—more staggering
than walking. Boges accompanied her, telling the bearers to make haste.

When they reached the hanging-gardens he gave her up to the care of the
eunuch in attendance, and took his leave, not respectfully as usual, but
chuckling, rubbing his hands, and speaking in an intimate and confidential
tone: “Dream about the handsome Bartja and his Egyptian lady-love, my
white Nile-kitten! Haven’t you any message for the beautiful boy, whose
love-story frightened you so terribly? Think a little. Poor Boges will
very gladly play the go-between; the poor despised Boges wishes you so
well—the humble Boges will be so sorry when he sees the proud
palm-tree from Sais cut down. Boges is a prophet; he foretells you a
speedy return home to Egypt, or a quiet bed in the black earth in Babylon,
and the kind Boges wishes you a peaceful sleep. Farewell, my broken
flower, my gay, bright viper, wounded by its own sting, my pretty
fir-cone, fallen from the tall pine-tree!”

“How dare you speak in this impudent manner?” said the indignant princess.

“Thank you,” answered the wretch, smiling.

“I shall complain of your conduct,” threatened Nitetis.

“You are very amiable,” answered Boges. “Go out of my sight,” she cried.

“I will obey your kind and gentle hints;” he answered softly, as if
whispering words of love into her ear. She started back in disgust and
fear at these scornful words; she saw how full of terror they were for
her, turned her back on him and went quickly into the house, but his voice
rang after her: “Don’t forget my lovely queen, think of me now and then;
for everything that happens in the next few days will be a keepsake from
the poor despised Boges.”

As soon as she had disappeared he changed his tone, and commanded the
sentries in the severest and most tyrannical manner, to keep a strict
watch over the hanging-gardens. “Certain death,” said he, “to whichever of
you allows any one but myself to enter these gardens. No one, remember—no
one—and least of all messengers from the queen-mother, Atossa or any
of the great people, may venture to set foot on these steps. If Croesus or
Oropastes should wish to speak to the Egyptian Princess, refuse them
decidedly. Do you understand? I repeat it, whoever is begged or bribed
into disobedience will not see the light of to-morrow’s sun. Nobody may
enter these gardens without express permission from my own mouth. I think
you know me. Here, take these gold staters, your work will be heavier now;
but remember, I swear by Plithras not to spare one of you who is careless
or disobedient.”

The men made a due obeisance and determined to obey; they knew that Boges’
threats were never meant in joke, and fancied something great must be
coming to pass, as the stingy eunuch never spent his staters without good
reason.

Boges was carried back to the banqueting-hall in the same litter, which
had brought Nitetis away.

The king’s wives had left, but the concubines were all standing in their
appointed place, singing their monotonous songs, though quite unheard by
the uproarious men.

The drinkers had already long forgotten the fainting woman. The uproar and
confusion rose with every fresh wine-cup. They forgot the dignity of the
place where they were assembled, and the presence of their mighty ruler.

They shouted in their drunken joy; warriors embraced one another with a
tenderness only excited by wine, here and there a novice was carried away
in the arms of a pair of sturdy attendants, while an old hand at the work
would seize a wine-jug instead of a goblet, and drain it at a draught amid
the cheers of the lookers-on.

The king sat on at the head of the table, pale as death, staring into the
wine-cup as if unconscious of what was going on around hint. But at the
sight of his brother his fist clenched.

He would neither speak to him, nor answer his questions. The longer he sat
there gazing into vacancy, the firmer became his conviction that Nitetis
had deceived him,—that she had pretended to love him while her heart
really belonged to Bartja. How shamefully they had made sport of him! How
deeply rooted must have been the faithlessness of this clever hypocrite,
if the mere news that his brother loved some one else could not only
destroy all her powers of dissimulation, but actually deprive her of
consciousness!

When Nitetis left the hall, Otanes, the father of Phaedime had called out:
“The Egyptian women seem to take great interest in the love-affairs of
their brothers-in-law. The Persian women are not so generous with their
feelings; they keep them for their husbands.”

Cambyses was too proud to let it be seen that he had heard these words;
like the ostrich, he feigned deafness and blindness in order not to seem
aware of the looks and murmurs of his guests, which all went to prove that
he had been deceived.

Bartja could have had no share in her perfidy; she had loved this handsome
youth, and perhaps all the more because she had not been able to hope for
a return of her love. If he had had the slightest suspicion of his
brother, he would have killed him on the spot. Bartja was certainly
innocent of any share in the deception and in his brother’s misery, but
still he was the cause of all; so the old grudge, which had only just been
allowed to slumber, woke again; and, as a relapse is always more dangerous
than the original illness, the newly-roused anger was more violent than
what he had formerly felt.

He thought and thought, but he could not devise a fitting punishment for
this false woman. Her death would not content his vengeance, she must
suffer something worse than mere death!

Should he send her back to Egypt, disgraced and shamed? Oh, no! she loved
her country, and she would be received by her parents with open arms.
Should he, after she had confessed her guilt, (for he was determined to
force a confession from her) shut her up in a solitary dungeon? or should
he deliver her over to Boges, to be the servant of his concubines? Yes!
now he had hit upon the right punishment. Thus the faithless creature
should be disciplined, and the hypocrite, who had dared to make sport of
him—the All-powerful—forced to atone for her crimes.

Then he said to himself: “Bartja must not stay here; fire and water have
more in common than we two—he always fortunate and happy, and I so
miserable. Some day or other his descendants will divide my treasures, and
wear my crown; but as yet I am king, and I will show that I am.”

The thought of his proud, powerful position flashed through him like
lightning. He woke from his dreams into new life, flung his golden goblet
far into the hall, so that the wine flew round like rain, and cried: “We
have had enough of this idle talk and useless noise. Let us hold a council
of war, drunken as we are, and consider what answer we ought to give the
Massagetae. Hystaspes, you are the eldest, give us your opinion first.”

Hystaspes, the father of Darius, was an old man. He answered: “It seems to
me, that the messengers of this wandering tribe have left us no choice. We
cannot go to war against desert wastes; but as our host is already under
arms and our swords have lain long in their scabbards, war we must have.
We only want a few good enemies, and I know no easier work than to make
them.”

At these words the Persians broke into loud shouts of delight; but Croesus
only waited till the noise had ceased to say: “Hystaspes, you and I are
both old men; but you are a thorough Persian and fancy you can only be
happy in battle and bloodshed. You are now obliged to lean for support on
the staff, which used to be the badge of your rank as commander, and yet
you speak like a hot-blooded boy. I agree with you that enemies are easy
enough to find, but only fools go out to look for them. The man who tries
to make enemies is like a wretch who mutilates his own body. If the
enemies are there, let us go out to meet them like wise men who wish to
look misfortune boldly in the face; but let us never try to begin an
unjust war, hateful to the gods. We will wait until wrong has been done
us, and then go to victory or death, conscious that we have right on our
side.”

The old man was interrupted by a low murmur of applause, drowned however
quickly by cries of “Hystaspes is right! let us look for an enemy!”

It was now the turn of the envoy Prexaspes to speak, and he answered
laughing: “Let us follow the advice of both these noble old men. We will
do as Croesus bids us and not go out to seek an enemy, but at the same
time we will follow Hystaspes’ advice by raising our claims and
pronouncing every one our enemy, who does not cheerfully consent to become
a member of the kingdom founded by our great father Cyrus. For instance,
we will ask the Indians if they would feel proud to obey your sceptre,
Cambyses. If they answer no, it is a sign that they do not love us, and
whoever does not love us, must be our enemy.”

“That won’t do,” cried Zopyrus. “We must have war at any price.”

“I vote for Croesus,” said Gobryas. “And I too,” said the noble Artabazus.

“We are for Hystaspes,” shouted the warrior Araspes, the old Intaphernes,
and some more of Cyrus’s old companions-in-arms.

“War we must have at any price,” roared the general Megabyzus, the father
of Zopyrus, striking the table so sharply with his heavy fist, that the
golden vessels rang again, and some goblets even fell; “but not with the
Massagetac—not with a flying foe.”

“There must be no war with the Massagetae,” said the high-priest
Oropastes. “The gods themselves have avenged Cyrus’s death upon them.”

Cambyses sat for some moments, quietly and coldly watching the
unrestrained enthusiasm of his warriors, and then, rising from his seat,
thundered out the words: “Silence, and listen to your king!”

The words worked like magic on this multitude of drunken men. Even those
who were most under the influence of wine, listened to their king in a
kind of unconscious obedience. He lowered his voice and went on: “I did
not ask whether you wished for peace or war—I know that every
Persian prefers the labor of war to an inglorious idleness—but I
wished to know what answer you would give the Massagetan warriors. Do you
consider that the soul of my father—of the man to whom you owe all
your greatness—has been sufficiently avenged?”

A dull murmur in the affirmative, interrupted by some violent voices in
the negative, was the answer. The king then asked a second question:
“Shall we accept the conditions proposed by their envoys, and grant peace
to this nation, already so scourged and desolated by the gods?” To this
they all agreed eagerly.

“That is what I wished to know,” continued Cambyses. “To-morrow, when we
are sober, we will follow the old custom and reconsider what has been
resolved on during our intoxication. Drink on, all of you, as long as the
night lasts. To-morrow, at the last crow of the sacred bird Parodar, I
shall expect you to meet me for the chase, at the gate of the temple of
Bel.”

So saying, the king left the hall, followed by a thundering “Victory to
the king!” Boges had slipped out quietly before him. In the forecourt he
found one of the gardener’s boys from the hanging-gardens.

“What do you want here?” asked Boges. “I have something for the prince
Bartja.”

“For Bartja? Has he asked your master to send him some seeds or slips?”

The boy shook his sunburnt head and smiled roguishly.

“Some one else sent you then?” said Boges becoming more attentive.

“Yes, some one else.”

“Ah! the Egyptian has sent a message to her brother-in-law?”

“Who told you that?”

“Nitetis spoke to me about it. Here, give me what you have; I will give it
to Bartja at once.”

“I was not to give it to any one but the prince himself.”

“Give it to me; it will be safer in my hands than in yours.”

“I dare not.”

“Obey me at once, or—”

At this moment the king came up. Boges thought a moment, and then called
in a loud voice to the whip-bearers on duty at the palace-gate, to take
the astonished boy up.

“What is the matter here?” asked Cambyses.

“This fellow,” answered the eunuch, “has had the audacity to make his way
into the palace with a message from your consort Nitetis to Bartja.”

At sight of the king, the boy had fallen on his knees, touching the ground
with his forehead.

Cambyses looked at him and turned deadly pale. Then, turning to the
eunuch, he asked: “What does the Egyptian Princess wish from my brother?”

“The boy declares that he has orders to give up what has been entrusted to
him to no one but Bartja.” On hearing this the boy looked imploringly up
at the king, and held out a little papyrus roll.

Cambyses snatched it out of his hand, but the next moment stamped
furiously on the ground at seeing that the letter was written in Greek,
which he could not read.

He collected himself, however, and, with an awful look, asked the boy who
had given him the letter. “The Egyptian lady’s waiting-woman Mandane,” he
answered; “the Magian’s daughter.”

“For my brother Bartja?”

“She said I was to give the letter to the handsome prince, before the
banquet, with a greeting from her mistress Nitetis, and I was to tell him
…”

Here the king stamped so furiously, that the boy was frightened and could
only stammer: “Before the banquet the prince was walking with you, so I
could not speak to him, and now I am waiting for him here, for Mandane
promised to give me a piece of gold if I did what she told me cleverly.”

“And that you have not done,” thundered the king, fancying himself
shamefully deceived. “No, indeed you have not. Here, guards, seize this
fellow!”

The boy begged and prayed, but all in vain; the whip-bearers seized him
quick as thought, and Cambyses, who went off at once to his own
apartments, was soon out of reach of his whining entreaties for mercy.

Boges followed his master, rubbing his fat hands, and laughing quietly to
himself.

The king’s attendants began their work of disrobing him, but he told them
angrily to leave him at once. As soon as they were gone, he called Boges
and said in a low voice: “From this time forward the hanging-gardens and
the Egyptian are under your control. Watch her carefully! If a single
human being or a message reaches her without my knowledge, your life will
be the forfeit.”

“But if Kassandane or Atossa should send to her?”

“Turn the messengers away, and send word that every attempt to see or
communicate with Nitetis will be regarded by me as a personal offence.”

“May I ask a favor for myself, O King?”

“The time is not well chosen for asking favors.”

“I feel ill. Permit some one else to take charge of the hanging-gardens
for to-morrow only.”

“No!—now leave me.”

“I am in a burning fever and have lost consciousness three times during
the day—if when I am in that state any one should…”

“But who could take your place?”

“The Lydian captain of the eunuchs, Kandaules. He is true as gold, and
inflexibly severe. One day of rest would restore me to health. Have mercy,
O King!”

“No one is so badly served as the king himself. Kandaules may take your
place to-morrow, but give hum the strictest orders, and say that the
slightest neglect will put his life in danger.—Now depart.”

“Yet one word, my King: to-morrow night the rare blue lily in the
hanging-gardens will open. Hystaspes, Intaphernes, Gobyras, Croesus and
Oropastes, the greatest horticulturists at your court, would very much
like to see it. May they be allowed to visit the gardens for a few
minutes? Kandaules shall see that they enter into no communication with
the Egyptian.”

“Kandaules must keep his eyes open, if he cares for his own life.—Go!”

Boges made a deep obeisance and left the king’s apartment. He threw a few
gold pieces to the slaves who bore the torches before him. He was so very
happy. Every thing had succeeded beyond his expectations:—the fate
of Nitetis was as good as decided, and he held the life of Kandaules, his
hated colleague, in his own hands.

Cambyses spent the night in pacing up and down his apartment. By cock-crow
he had decided that Nitetis should be forced to confess her guilt, and
then be sent into the great harem to wait on the concubines. Bartja, the
destroyer of his happiness, should set off at once for Egypt, and on his
return become the satrap of some distant provinces. He did not wish to
incur the guilt of a brother’s murder, but he knew his own temper too well
not to fear that in a moment of sudden anger, he might kill one he hated
so much, and therefore wished to remove him out of the reach of his
passion.

Two hours after the sun had risen, Cambyses was riding on his fiery steed,
far in front of a Countless train of followers armed with shields, swords,
lances, bows and lassos, in pursuit of the game which was to be found in
the immense preserves near Babylon, and was to be started from its lair by
more than a thousand dogs.


CHAPTER II.

The hunt was over. Waggons full of game, amongst which were several
enormous wild boars killed by the king’s own hand, were driven home behind
the sports men. At the palace-gates the latter dispersed to their several
abodes, in order to exchange the simple Persian leather hunting-costume
for the splendid Median court-dress.

In the course of the day’s sport Cambyses had (with difficulty restraining
his agitation) given his brother the seemingly kind order to start the
next day for Egypt in order to fetch Sappho and accompany her to Persia.
At the same time he assigned him the revenues of Bactra, Rhagae and Sinope
for the maintenance of his new household, and to his young wife, all the
duties levied from her native town Phocaea, as pin-money.

Bartja thanked his generous brother with undisguised warmth, but Cambyses
remained cold as ice, uttered a few farewell words, and then, riding off
in pursuit of a wild ass, turned his back upon him.

On the way home from the chase the prince invited his bosom-friends
Croesus, Darius, Zopyrus and Gyges to drink a parting-cup with him.

Croesus promised to join them later, as he had promised to visit the blue
lily at the rising of the Tistarstar.

He had been to the hanging-gardens that morning early to visit Nitetis,
but had been refused entrance by the guards, and the blue lily seemed now
to offer him another chance of seeing and speaking to his beloved pupil.
He wished for this very much, as he could not thoroughly understand her
behavior the day before, and was uneasy at the strict watch set over her.

The young Achaemenidae sat cheerfully talking together in the twilight in
a shady bower in the royal gardens, cool fountains plashing round them.
Araspes, a Persian of high rank, who had been one of Cyrus’s friends, had
joined them, and did full justice to the prince’s excellent wine.

“Fortunate Bartja!” cried the old bachelor, “going out to a golden country
to fetch the woman you love; while I, miserable old fellow, am blamed by
everybody, and totter to my grave without wife or children to weep for me
and pray the gods to be merciful to my poor soul.”

“Why think of such things?” cried Zopyrus, flourishing the wine-cup.
“There’s no woman so perfect that her husband does not, at least once a
day, repent that he ever took a wife. Be merry, old friend, and remember
that it’s all your own fault. If you thought a wife would make you happy,
why did not you do as I have done? I am only twenty-two years old and have
five stately wives and a troop of the most beautiful slaves in my house.”

Araspes smiled bitterly.

“And what hinders you from marrying now?” said Gyges. “You are a match for
many a younger man in appearance, strength, courage and perseverance. You
are one of the king’s nearest relations too—I tell you, Araspes, you
might have twenty young and beautiful wives.”

“Look after your own affairs,” answered Araspes. “In your place, I
certainly should not have waited to marry till I was thirty.”

“An oracle has forbidden my marrying.”

“Folly? how can a sensible man care for what an oracle says? It is only by
dreams, that the gods announce the future to men. I should have thought
that your own father was example enough of the shameful way in which those
lying priests deceive their best friends.”

“That is a matter which you do not understand, Araspes.”

“And never wish to, boy, for you only believe in oracles because you don’t
understand them, and in your short-sightedness call everything that is
beyond your comprehension a miracle. And you place more confidence in
anything that seems to you miraculous, than in the plain simple truth that
lies before your face. An oracle deceived your father and plunged him into
ruin, but the oracle is miraculous, and so you too, in perfect confidence,
allow it to rob you of happiness!”

“That is blasphemy, Araspes. Are the gods to be blamed because we
misunderstand their words?”

“Certainly: for if they wished to benefit us they would give us, with the
words, the necessary penetration for discovering their meaning. What good
does a beautiful speech do me, if it is in a foreign language that I do
not understand?”

“Leave off this useless discussion,” said Darius, “and tell us instead,
Araspes, how it is that, though you congratulate every man on becoming a
bridegroom, you yourself have so long submitted to be blamed by the
priests, slighted at all entertainments and festivals, and abused by the
women, only because you choose to live and die a bachelor?”

Araspes looked down thoughtfully, then shook himself, took a long draught
from the wine-cup, and said, “I have my reasons, friends, but I cannot
tell them now.”

“Tell them, tell them,” was the answer.

“No, children, I cannot, indeed I cannot. This cup I drain to the health
of the charming Sappho, and this second to your good fortune, my favorite,
Darius.”

“Thanks, Araspes!” exclaimed Bartja, joyfully raising his goblet to his
lips.

“You mean well, I know,” muttered Darius, looking down gloomily.

“What’s this, you son of Hystaspes?” cried the old man, looking more
narrowly at the serious face of the youth. “Dark looks like these don’t
sit well on a betrothed lover, who is to drink to the health of his
dearest one. Is not Gobryas’ little daughter the noblest of all the young
Persian girls after Atossa? and isn’t she beautiful?”

“Artystone has every talent and quality that a daughter of the
Achaemenidae ought to possess,” was Darius’s answer, but his brow did not
clear as he said the words.

“Well, if you want more than that, you must be very hard to please.”

Darius raised his goblet and looked down into the wine.

“The boy is in love, as sure as my name is Araspes!” exclaimed the elder
man.

“What a set of foolish fellows you are,” broke in Zopyrus at this
exclamation. “One of you has remained a bachelor in defiance of all
Persian customs; another has been frightened out of marrying by an oracle;
Bartja has determined to be content with only one wife; and Darius looks
like a Destur chanting the funeral-service, because his father has told
him to make himself happy with the most beautiful and aristocratic girl in
Persia!”

“Zopyrus is right,” cried Araspes. “Darius is ungrateful to fortune.”

Bartja meanwhile kept his eyes fixed on the friend, who was thus blamed by
the others. He saw that their jests annoyed him, and feeling his own great
happiness doubly in that moment, pressed Darius’s hand, saying: “I am so
sorry that I cannot be present at your wedding. By the time I come back, I
hope you will be reconciled to your father’s choice.”

“Perhaps,” said Darius, “I may be able to show a second and even a third
wife by that time.”

“‘Anahita’ grant it!” exclaimed Zopyrus. “The Achaemenidae would soon
become extinct, if every one were to follow such examples as Gyges and
Araspes have set us. And your one wife, Bartja, is really not worth
talking about. It is your duty to marry three wives at once, in order to
keep up your father’s family—the race of Cyrus.”

“I hate our custom of marrying many wives,” answered Bartja. “Through
doing this, we make ourselves inferior to the women, for we expect them to
remain faithful to us all our lives, and we, who are bound to respect
truth and faithfulness above every thing else, swear inviolable love to
one woman to-day, and to another to-morrow.”

“Nonsense!” cried Zopyrus. “I’d rather lose my tongue than tell a he to a
man, but our wives are so awfully deceitful, that one has no choice but to
pay them back in their own coin.”

“The Greek women are different,” said Bartja, “because they are
differently treated. Sappho told me of one, I think her name was Penelope,
who waited twenty years faithfully and lovingly for her husband, though
every one believed he was dead, and she had fifty lovers a day at her
house.”

“My wives would not wait so long for me,” said Zopyrus laughing. “To tell
the truth, I don’t think I should be sorry to find an empty house, if I
came back after twenty years. For then I could take some new wives into my
harem, young and beautiful, instead of the unfaithful ones, who, besides,
would have grown old. But alas! every woman does not find some one to run
away with her, and our women would rather have an absent husband than none
at all.”

“If your wives could hear what you are saying!” said Araspes.

“They would declare war with me at once, or, what is still worse, conclude
a peace with one another.”

“How would that be worse?”

“How? it is easy to see, that you have had no experience.”

“Then let us into the secrets of your married life.”

“With pleasure. You can easily fancy, that five wives in one house do not
live quite so peacefully as five doves in a cage; mine at least carry on
an uninterrupted, mortal warfare. But I have accustomed myself to that,
and their sprightliness even amuses me. A year ago, however, they came to
terms with one another, and this day of peace was the most miserable in my
life.”

“You are jesting.”

“No, indeed, I am quite in earnest. The wretched eunuch who had to keep
watch over the five, allowed them to see an old jewel-merchant from Tyre.
Each of them chose a separate and expensive set of jewels. When I came
home Sudabe came up and begged for money to pay for these ornaments. The
things were too dear, and I refused. Every one of the five then came and
begged me separately for the money; I refused each of them point blank and
went off to court. When I came back, there were all my wives weeping side
by side, embracing one another and calling each other fellow-sufferers.
These former enemies rose up against me with the most touching unanimity,
and so overwhelmed me with revilings and threats that I left the room.
They closed their doors against me. The next morning the lamentations of
the evening before were continued. I fled once more and went hunting with
the king, and when I came back, tired, hungry and half-frozen—for it
was in spring, we were already at Ecbatana, and the snow was lying an ell
deep on the Orontes—there was no fire on the hearth and nothing to
eat. These noble creatures had entered into an alliance in order to punish
me, had put out the fire, forbidden the cooks to do their duty and, which
was worse than all—had kept the jewels! No sooner had I ordered the
slaves to make a fire and prepare food, than the impudent jewel-dealer
appeared and demanded his money. I refused again, passed another solitary
night, and in the morning sacrificed ten talents for the sake of peace.
Since that time harmony and peace among my beloved wives seems to me as
much to be feared as the evil Divs themselves, and I see their little
quarrels with the greatest pleasure.”

“Poor Zopyrus!” cried Bartja.

“Why poor?” asked this five-fold husband. “I tell you I am much happier
than you are. My wives are young and charming, and when they grow old,
what is to hinder me from taking others, still handsomer, and who, by the
side of the faded beauties, will be doubly charming. Ho! slave—bring
some lamps. The sun has gone down, and the wine loses all its flavor when
the table is not brightly lighted.”

At this moment the voice of Darius, who had left the arbor and gone out
into the garden, was heard calling: “Come and hear how beautifully the
nightingale is singing.”

“By Mithras, you son of Hystaspes, you must be in love,” interrupted
Araspes. “The flowery darts of love must have entered the heart of him,
who leaves his wine to listen to the nightingale.”

“You are right there, father,” cried Bartja. “Philomel, as the Greeks call
our Gulgul, is the lovers’ bird among all nations, for love has given her
her beautiful song. What beauty were you dreaming of, Darius, when you
went out to listen to the nightingale?”

“I was not dreaming of any,” answered he. “You know how fond I am of
watching the stars, and the Tistar-star rose so splendidly to-night, that
I left the wine to watch it. The nightingales were singing so loudly to
one another, that if I had not wished to hear them I must have stopped my
ears.”

“You kept them wide open, however,” said Araspes laughing. “Your
enraptured exclamation proved that.”

“Enough of this,” cried Darius, to whom these jokes were getting
wearisome. “I really must beg you to leave off making allusions to
matters, which I do not care to hear spoken of.”

“Imprudent fellow!” whispered the older man; “now you really have betrayed
yourself. If you were not in love, you would have laughed instead of
getting angry. Still I won’t go on provoking you—tell me what you
have just been reading in the stars.”

At these words Darius looked up again into the starry sky and fixed his
eyes on a bright constellation hanging over the horizon. Zopyrus watched
him and called out to his friends, “Something important must be happening
up there. Darius, tell us what’s going on in the heavens just now.”

“Nothing good,” answered the other. “Bartja, I have something to say to
you alone.”

“Why to me alone? Araspes always keeps his own counsel, and from the rest
of you I never have any secrets.”

“Still—”

“Speak out.”

“No, I wish you would come into the garden with me.”

Bartja nodded to the others, who were still sitting over their wine, laid
his hand on Darius’ shoulder and went out with him into the bright
moonlight. As soon as they were alone, Darius seized both his friend’s
hands, and said: “To-day is the third time that things have happened in
the heavens, which bode no good for you. Your evil star has approached
your favorable constellation so nearly, that a mere novice in astrology
could see some serious danger was at hand. Be on your guard, Bartja, and
start for Egypt to-day; the stars tell me that the danger is here on the
Euphrates, not abroad.”

“Do you believe implicitly in the stars?”

“Implicitly. They never lie.”

“Then it would be folly to try and avoid what they have foretold.”

“Yes, no man can run away from his destiny; but that very destiny is like
a fencing-master—his favorite pupils are those who have the courage
and skill to parry his own blows. Start for Egypt to-day, Bartja.”

“I cannot—I haven’t taken leave of my mother and Atossa.”

“Send them a farewell message, and tell Croesus to explain the reason of
your starting so quickly.”

“They would call me a coward.”

“It is cowardly to yield to any mortal, but to go out of the way of one’s
fate is wisdom.”

“You contradict yourself, Darius. What would the fencing-master say to a
runaway-pupil?”

“He would rejoice in the stratagem, by which an isolated individual tried
to escape a superior force.”

“But the superior force must conquer at last.—What would be the use
of my trying to put off a danger which, you say yourself, cannot be
averted? If my tooth aches, I have it drawn at once, instead of tormenting
and making myself miserable for weeks by putting off the painful operation
as a coward or a woman would, till the last moment. I can await this
coming danger bravely, and the sooner it comes the better, for then I
shall have it behind me.”

“You do not know how serious it is.”

“Are you afraid for my life?”

“No.”

“Then tell me, what you are afraid of.”

“That Egyptian priest with whom I used to study the stars, once cast your
horoscope with me. He knew more about the heavens, than any man I ever
saw. I learnt a great deal from him, and I will not hide from you that
even then he drew my attention to dangers that threaten you now.”

“And you did not tell me?”

“Why should I have made you uneasy beforehand? Now that your destiny is
drawing near, I warn you.”

“Thank you,—I will be careful. In former times I should not have
listened to such a warning, but now that I love Sappho, I feel as if my
life were not so much my own to do what I like with, as it used to be.”

“I understand this feeling…”

“You understand it? Then Araspes was right? You don’t deny?”

“A mere dream without any hope of fulfilment.”

“But what woman could refuse you?”

“Refuse!”

“I don’t understand you. Do you mean to say that you—the boldest
sportsman, the strongest wrestler—the wisest of all the young
Persians—that you, Darius, are afraid of a woman?”

“Bartja, may I tell you more, than I would tell even to my own father?”

“Yes.”

“I love the daughter of Cyrus, your sister and the king’s, Atossa.”

“Have I understood you rightly? you love Atossa? Be praised for this, O ye
pure Amescha cpenta! Now I shall never believe in your stars again, for
instead of the danger with which they threatened me, here comes an
unexpected happiness. Embrace me, my brother, and tell me the whole story,
that I may see whether I can help you to turn this hopeless dream, as you
call it, into a reality.”

“You will remember that before our journey to Egypt, we went with the
entire court from Ecbatana to Susa. I was in command of the division of
the ‘Immortals’ appointed to escort the carriages containing the king’s
mother and sister, and his wives. In going through the narrow pass which
leads over the Orontes, the horses of your mother’s carriage slipped. The
yoke to which the horses were harnessed broke from the pole, and the
heavy, four-wheeled carriage fell over the precipice without obstruction.

On seeing it disappear, we were horrified and spurred our horses to the
place as quickly as possible. We expected of course to see only fragments
of the carriages and the dead bodies of its inmates, but the gods had
taken them into their almighty protection, and there lay the carriage,
with broken wheels, in the arms of two gigantic cypresses which had taken
firm root in the fissures of the slate rocks, and whose dark tops reached
up to the edge of the carriage-road.

“As quick as thought I sprang from my horse and scrambled down one of the
cypresses. Your mother and sister stretched their arms to me, crying for
help. The danger was frightful, for the sides of the carriage had been so
shattered by the fall, that they threatened every moment to give way, in
which case those inside it must inevitably have fallen into the black,
unfathomable abyss which looked like an abode for the gloomy Divs, and
stretched his jaws wide to crush its beautiful victims.

“I stood before the shattered carriage as it hung over the precipice ready
to fall to pieces every moment, and then for the first time I met your
sister’s imploring look. From that moment I loved her, but at the time I
was much too intent on saving them, to think of anything else, and had no
idea what had taken place within me. I dragged the trembling women out of
the carriage, and one minute later it rolled down the abyss crashing into
a thousand pieces. I am a strong man, but I confess that all my strength
was required to keep myself and the two women from falling over the
precipice until ropes were thrown to us from above. Atossa hung round my
neck, and Kassandane lay on my breast, supported by my left arm; with the
right I fastened the rope round my waist, we were drawn up, and I found
myself a few minutes later on the high-road—your mother and sister
were saved.

“As soon as one of the Magi had bound up the wounds cut by the rope in my
side, the king sent for me, gave me the chain I am now wearing and the
revenues of an entire satrapy, and then took me to his mother and sister.
They expressed their gratitude very warmly; Kassandane allowed me to kiss
her forehead, and gave me all the jewels she had worn at the time of the
accident, as a present for my future wife. Atossa took a ring from her
finger, put it on mine and kissed my hand in the warmth of her emotion—you
know how eager and excitable she is. Since that happy day—the
happiest in my life—I have never seen your sister, till yesterday
evening, when we sat opposite to each other at the banquet. Our eyes met.
I saw nothing but Atossa, and I think she has not forgotten the man who
saved her. Kassandane…”

“Oh, my mother would be delighted to have you for a son-in-law; I will
answer for that. As to the king, your father must apply to him; he is our
uncle and has a right to ask the hand of Cyrus’s daughter for his son.”

“But have you forgotten your father’s dream? You know that Cambyses has
always looked on me with suspicion since that time.”

“Oh, that has been long forgotten. My father dreamt before his death that
you had wings, and was misled by the soothsayers into the fancy that you,
though you were only eighteen then, would try to gain the crown. Cambyses
thought of this dream too; but, when you saved my mother and sister,
Croesus explained to him that this must have been its fulfilment, as no
one but Darius or a winged eagle could possibly have possessed strength
and dexterity enough to hang suspended over such an abyss.”

“Yes, and I remember too that these words did not please your brother. He
chooses to be the only eagle in Persia; but Croesus does not spare his
vanity—”

“Where can Croesus be all this time?”

“In the hanging-gardens. My father and Gobryas have very likely detained
him.”

Just at that moment the voice of Zopyrus was heard exclaiming, “Well, I
call that polite! Bartja invites us to a wine-party and leaves us sitting
here without a host, while he talks secrets yonder.”

“We are coming, we are coming,” answered Bartja. Then taking the hand of
Darius heartily, he said: “I am very glad that you love Atossa. I shall
stay here till the day after to-morrow, let the stars threaten me with all
the dangers in the world. To-morrow I will find out what Atossa feels, and
when every thing is in the right track I shall go away, and leave my
winged Darius to his own powers.”

So saying Bartja went back into the arbor, and his friend began to watch
the stars again. The longer he looked the sadder and more serious became
his face, and when the Tistar-star set, he murmured, “Poor Bartja!” His
friends called him, and he was on the point of returning to them, when he
caught sight of a new star, and began to examine its position carefully.
His serious looks gave way to a triumphant smile, his tall figure seemed
to grow taller still, he pressed his hand on his heart and whispered: “Use
your pinions, winged Darius; your star will be on your side,” and then
returned to his friends.

A few minutes after, Croesus came up to the arbor. The youths sprang from
their seats to welcome the old man, but when he saw Bartja’s face by the
bright moonlight, he stood as if transfixed by a flash of lightning.

“What has happened, father?” asked Gyges, seizing his hand anxiously.

“Nothing, nothing,” he stammered almost inaudibly, and pushing his son on
one side, whispered in Bartja’s ear: “Unhappy boy, you are still here?
don’t delay any longer,—fly at once! the whip-bearers are close at
my heels, and I assure you that if you don’t use the greatest speed, you
will have to forfeit your double imprudence with your life.”

“But Croesus, I have…”

“You have set at nought the law of the land and of the court, and, in
appearance at least, have done great offence to your brother’s honor. …”

“You are speaking…”

“Fly, I tell you—fly at once; for if your visit to the
hanging-gardens was ever so innocently meant, you are still in the
greatest danger. You know Cambyses’ violent temper so well; how could you
so wickedly disobey his express command?”

“I don’t understand.”

“No excuses,—fly! don’t you know that, Cambyses has long been
jealous of you, and that your visit to the Egyptian to-night…”

“I have never once set foot in the hanging-gardens, since Nitetis has been
here.”

“Don’t add a lie to your offence, I…”

“But I swear to you…”

“Do you wish to turn a thoughtless act into a crime by adding the guilt of
perjury? The whip-bearers are coming, fly!”

“I shall remain here, and abide by my oath.”

“You are infatuated! It is not an hour ago since I myself, Hystaspes, and
others of the Achaemenidae saw you in the hanging-gardens…”

In his astonishment Bartja had, half involuntarily, allowed himself to be
led away, but when he heard this he stood still, called his friends and
said “Croesus says he met me an hour ago in the hanging-gardens, you know
that since the sun set I have not been away from you. Give your testimony,
that in this case an evil Div must have made sport of our friend and his
companions.”

“I swear to you, father,” cried Gyges, “that Bartja has not left this
garden for some hours.”

“And we confirm the same,” added Araspes, Zopyrus and Darius with one
voice.

“You want to deceive me?” said Croesus getting very angry, and looking at
each of them reproachfully: “Do you fancy that I am blind or mad? Do you
think that your witness will outweigh the words of such men as Hystaspes,
Gobryas, Artaphernes and the high priest, Oropastes? In spite of all your
false testimony, which no amount of friendship can justify, Bartja will
have to die unless he flies at once.”

“May Angramainjus destroy me,” said Araspes interrupting the old man, “if
Bartja was in the hanging-gardens two hours ago!” and Gyges added:

“Don’t call me your son any longer, if we have given false testimony.”

Darius was beginning to appeal to the eternal stars, but Bartja put an end
to this confusion of voices by saying in a decided tone: “A division of
the bodyguard is coming into the garden. I am to be arrested; I cannot
escape because I am innocent, and to fly would lay me open to suspicion.
By the soul of my father, the blind eyes of my mother, and the pure light
of the sun, Croesus, I swear that I am not lying.”

“Am I to believe you, in spite of my own eyes which have never yet
deceived me? But I will, boy, for I love you. I do not and I will not know
whether you are innocent or guilty, but this I do know, you must fly, and
fly at once. You know Cambyses. My carriage is waiting at the gate. Don’t
spare the horses, save yourself even if you drive them to death. The
Soldiers seem to know what they have been sent to do; there can be no
question that they delay so long only in order to give their favorite time
to escape. Fly, fly, or it is all over with you.”

Darius, too, pushed his friend forward, exclaiming: “Fly, Bartja, and
remember the warning that the heavens themselves wrote in the stars for
you.”

Bartja, however, stood silent, shook his handsome head, waved his friends
back, and answered: “I never ran away yet, and I mean to hold my ground
to-day. Cowardice is worse than death in my opinion, and I would rather
suffer wrong at the hands of others than disgrace myself. There are the
soldiers! Well met, Bischen. You’ve come to arrest me, haven’t you? Wait
one moment, till I have said good-bye to my friends.”

Bischen, the officer he spoke to, was one of Cyrus’s old captains; he had
given Bartja his first lessons in shooting and throwing the spear, had
fought by his side in the war with the Tapuri, and loved him as if he were
his own son. He interrupted him, saying: “There is no need to take leave
of your friends, for the king, who is raging like a madman, ordered me not
only to arrest you, but every one else who might be with you.”

And then he added in a low voice: “The king is beside himself with rage
and threatens to have your life. You must fly. My men will do what I tell
them blindfold; they will not pursue you; and I am so old that it would be
little loss to Persia, if my head were the price of my disobedience.”

“Thanks, thanks, my friend,” said Bartja, giving him his hand; “but I
cannot accept your offer, because I am innocent, and I know that though
Cambyses is hasty, he is not unjust. Come friends, I think the king will
give us a hearing to-day, late as it is.”


CHAPTER III.

Two hours later Bartja and his friends were standing before the king. The
gigantic man was seated on his golden throne; he was pale and his eyes
looked sunken; two physicians stood waiting behind him with all kinds of
instruments and vessels in their hands. Cambyses had, only a few minutes
before, recovered consciousness, after lying for more than an hour in one
of those awful fits, so destructive both to mind and body, which we call
epileptic.

Since Nitetis’ arrival he had been free from this illness; but it had
seized him to-day with fearful violence, owing to the overpowering mental
excitement he had gone through.

If he had met Bartja a few hours before, he would have killed him with his
own hand; but though the epileptic fit had not subdued his anger it had at
least so far quieted it, that he was in a condition to hear what was to be
said on both sides.

At the right hand of the throne stood Hystaspes, Darius’s grey-haired
father, Gobryas, his future father-in-law, the aged Intaphernes, the
grandfather of that Phaedime whose place in the king’s favor had been
given to Nitetis, Oropastes the high-priest, Croesus, and behind them
Boges, the chief of the eunuchs. At its left Bartja, whose hands were
heavily fettered, Araspes, Darius, Zopyrus and Gyges. In the background
stood some hundred officials and grandees.

After a long silence Cambyses raised his eyes, fixed a withering look on
his fettered brother, and said in a dull hollow voice: “High-priest, tell
us what awaits the man who deceives his brother, dishonors and offends his
king, and darkens his own heart by black lies.”

Oropastes came forward and answered: “As soon as such a one is proved
guilty, a death full of torment awaits him in this world, and an awful
sentence on the bridge Chinvat; for he has transgressed the highest
commands, and, by committing three crimes, has forfeited the mercy of our
law, which commands that his life shall be granted to the man who has
sinned but once, even though he be only a slave.”

“Then Bartja has deserved death. Lead him away, guards, and strangle him!
Take him away! Be silent, wretch! never will I listen to that smooth,
hypocritical tongue again, or look at those treacherous eyes. They come
from the Divs and delude every one with their wanton glances. Off with
him, guards!”

Bischen, the captain, came up to obey the order, but in the same moment
Croesus threw himself at the king’s feet, touched the floor with his
forehead, raised his hands and cried: “May thy days and years bring nought
but happiness and prosperity; may Auramazda pour down all the blessings of
this life upon thee, and the Amescha cpenta be the guardians of thy
throne!

Do not close thine ear to the words of the aged, but remember that thy
father Cyrus appointed me to be thy counsellor. Thou art about to slay thy
brother; but I say unto thee, do not indulge anger; strive to control it.
It is the duty of kings and of the wise, not to act without due enquiry.
Beware of shedding a brother’s blood; the smoke thereof will rise to
heaven and become a cloud that must darken the days of the murderer, and
at last cast down the lightnings of vengeance on his head. But I know that
thou desirest justice, not murder. Act then as those who have to pronounce
a sentence, and hear both sides before deciding. When this has been done,
if the criminal is proved guilty and confesses his crime, the smoke of his
blood will rise to heaven as a friendly shadow, instead of a darkening
cloud, and thou wilt have earned the fame of a just judge instead of
deserving the divine judgments.”

Cambyses listened in silence, made a sign to Bischen to retire, and
commanded Boges to repeat his accusation.

The eunuch made an obeisance, and began: “I was ill and obliged to leave
the Egyptian and the Hanging-gardens in the care of my colleague
Kandaules, who has paid for his negligence with his life. Finding myself
better towards evening, I went up to the hanging-gardens to see if
everything was in order there, and also to look at the rare flower which
was to blossom in the night. The king, (Auramazda grant him victory!) had
commanded that the Egyptian should be more strictly watched than usual,
because she had dared to send the noble Bartja…”

“Be silent,” interrupted the king, “and keep to the matter in hand.”

“Just as the Tistar-star was rising, I came into the garden, and staid
some time there with these noble Achaemenidae, the high-priest and the
king Croesus, looking at the blue lily, which was marvellously beautiful.
I then called my colleague Kandaules and asked him, in the presence of
these noble witnesses, if everything was in order. He affirmed that this
was the case and added, that he had just come from Nitetis, that she had
wept the whole day, and neither tasted food nor drink. Feeling anxious
lest my noble mistress should become worse, I commissioned Kandaules to
fetch a physician, and was just on the point of leaving the noble
Achaemenidae, in order in person to ascertain my mistress’s state of
health, when I saw in the moon-light the figure of a man. I was so ill and
weak, that I could hardly stand and had no one near to help me, except the
gardener.

“My men were on guard at the different entrances, some distance from us.

“I clapped my hands to call some of them, but, as they did not come, I
went nearer to the house myself, under the protection of these noblemen.—The
man was standing by the window of the Egyptian Princess’s apartment, and
uttered a low whistle when he heard us coming up. Another figure appeared
directly—clearly recognizable in the bright moonlight—sprang
out of the sleeping-room window and came towards us with her companion.

“I could hardly believe my eyes on discovering that the intruder was no
other than the noble Bartja. A fig-tree concealed us from the fugitives,
but we could distinctly see them, as they passed us at a distance of not
more than four steps. While I was thinking whether I should be justified
in arresting a son of Cyrus, Croesus called to Bartja, and the two figures
suddenly disappeared behind a cypress. No one but your brother himself can
possibly explain the strange way in which he disappeared. I went at once
to search the house, and found the Egyptian lying unconscious on the couch
in her sleeping-room.”

Every one listened to this story in the greatest suspense. Cambyses ground
his teeth and asked in a voice of great emotion: “Can you testify to the
words of the eunuch, Hystaspes?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you not lay hands on the offender?”

“We are soldiers, not policemen.”

“Or rather you care for every knave more than for your king.”

“We honor our king, and abhor the criminal just as we formerly loved the
innocent son of Cyrus.”

“Did you recognize Bartja distinctly?”

“Yes.”

“And you, Croesus, can you too give no other answer?”

“No! I fancied I saw your brother in the moonlight then, as clearly as I
see him now; but I believe we must have been deceived by some remarkable
likeness.” Boges grew pale at these words; Cambyses, however, shook his
head as if the idea did not please him, and said: “Whom am I to believe
then, if the eyes of my best warriors fail them? and who would wish to be
a judge, if testimony such as yours is not to be considered valid?”

“Evidence quite as weighty as ours, will prove that we must have been in
error.”

“Will any one dare to give evidence in favor of such an outrageous
criminal?” asked Cambyses, springing up and stamping his foot.

“We will,” “I,” “we,” shouted Araspes, Darius, Gyges and Zopyrus with one
voice.

“Traitors, knaves!” cried the king. But as he caught sight of Croesus’
warning eye fixed upon him, he lowered his voice, and said: “What have you
to bring forward in favor of this fellow? Take care what you say, and
consider well what punishment awaits perjurers.”

“We know that well enough,” said Araspes, “and yet we are ready to swear
by Mithras, that we have not left Bartja or his garden one moment since we
came back from hunting.”

“As for me,” said Darius, “I, the son of Hystaspes, have especially
convincing evidence to give in favor of your brother’s innocence; I
watched the rising of the Tistar-star with him; and this, according to
Boges, was the very star that shone on his flight.”

Hystaspes gazed on his son in astonishment and doubt at hearing these
words, and Cambyses turned a scrutinizing eye first on the one and then on
the other party of these strange witnesses, who wished so much, and yet
found it so impossible, to believe one another, himself unable to come to
a decision.

Bartja, who till now had remained perfectly silent, looking down sadly at
his chained hands, took advantage of the silence to say, making at the
same time a deep obeisance: “May I be allowed to speak a few words, my
King?”

“Speak!”

“From our father we learnt to strive after that which was pure and good
only; so up to this time my life has been unstained. If you have ever
known me take part in an evil deed, you have a right not to believe me,
but if you find no fault in me then trust to what I say, and remember that
a son of Cyrus would rather die than tell a lie. I confess that no judge
was ever placed in such a perplexing position. The best men in your
kingdom testify against one another, friend against friend, father against
son. But I tell you that were the entire Persian nation to rise up against
you, and swear that Cambyses had committed this or that evil deed, and you
were to say, ‘I did not commit it,’ I, Bartja, would give all Persia the
lie and exclaim, ‘Ye are all false witnesses; sooner could the sea cast up
fire than a son of Cyrus allow his mouth to deal in lies.’ No, Cambyses,
you and I are so high-born that no one but yourself can bear evidence
against me; and you can only be judged out of your own mouth.”

Cambyses’ looks grew a little milder on hearing these words, and his
brother went on: “So I swear to you by Mithras, and by all pure spirits,
that I am innocent. May my life become extinct and my race perish from off
the earth, if I tell you a lie, when I say that I have not once set foot
in the hanging-gardens since my return!”

Bartja’s voice was so firm and his tone so full of assurance, as he
uttered this oath that Cambyses ordered his chains to be loosened, and,
after a few moments’ thought, said: “I should like to believe you, for I
cannot bear to imagine you the worst and most abandoned of men. To-morrow
we will summon the astrologers, soothsayers and priests. Perhaps they may
be able to discover the truth. Can you see any light in this darkness,
Oropastes?”

“Thy servant supposes, that a Div has taken upon him the form of Bartja,
in order to ruin the king’s brother and stain thine own royal soul with
the blood of thy father’s son.”

Cambyses and every one present nodded their assent to this proposition,
and the king was just going to offer his hand to Bartja, when a
staff-bearer came in and gave the king a dagger. A eunuch had found it
under the windows of Nitetis’ sleeping-apartment.

Cambyses examined the weapon carefully. Its costly hilt was thickly set
with rubies and turquoises. As he looked he turned pale, and dashed the
dagger on the ground before Bartja with such violence, that the stones
fell out of their setting.

“This is your dagger, you wretch!” he shrieked, seized by the same violent
passion as before. “This very morning you used it to give the last thrust
to the wild boar, that I had mortally wounded. Croesus, you ought to know
it too, for my father brought it from your treasure-house at Sardis. At
last you are really convicted, you liar!—you impostor! The Divs
require no weapons, and such a dagger as this is not to be picked up
everywhere. Ah, ha! you are feeling in your girdle! You may well turn
pale; your dagger is gone!”

“Yes, it is gone. I must have lost it, and some enemy…”

“Seize him, Bischen, put on his fetters! Take him to prison—the
traitor, the perjurer! He shall be strangled to-morrow. Death is the
penalty of perjury. Your heads for theirs, you guards, if they escape. Not
one word more will I hear; away with you, you perjured villains! Boges, go
at once to the hanging-gardens and bring the Egyptian to me. Yet no, I
won’t see that serpent again. It is very near dawn now, and at noon she
shall be flogged through the streets. Then I’ll…”

But here he was stopped by another fit of epilepsy, and sank down on to
the marble floor in convulsions. At this fearful moment Kassandane was led
into the hall by the old general Megabyzus. The news of what had happened
had found its way to her solitary apartments, and, notwithstanding the
hour, she had risen in order to try and discover the truth and warn her
son against pronouncing a too hasty decision. She believed firmly that
Bartja and Nitetis were innocent, though she could not explain to herself
what had happened. Several times she had tried to put herself in
communication with Nitetis, but without avail. At last she had been
herself to the hanging-gardens, but the guards had actually had the
hardihood to refuse her admission.

Croesus went at once to meet her, told her what had happened, suppressing
as many painful details as possible, confirmed her in her belief of the
innocence of the accused, and then took her to the bedside of the king.

The convulsions had not lasted long this time. He lay on his golden bed
under purple silk coverlets, pale and exhausted. His blind mother seated
herself at his side, Croesus and Oropastes took their station at the foot
of the bell, and in another part of the room, four physicians discussed
the patient’s condition in low whispers.

Kassandane was very gentle with her son; she begged him not to yield to
passionate anger, and to remember what a sad effect every such outburst
had on his health.

“Yes, mother, you are right,” answered the king, smiling bitterly; “I see
that I must get rid of everything that rouses my anger. The Egyptian must
die, and my perfidious brother shall follow his mistress.”

Kassandane used all her eloquence to convince him of the innocence of the
accused, and to pacify his anger, but neither prayers, tears, nor her
motherly exhortations, could in the least alter his resolution to rid
himself of these murderers of his happiness and peace.

At last he interrupted her lamentations by saying: “I feel fearfully
exhausted; I cannot bear these sobs and lamentations any longer. Nitetis
has been proved guilty. A man was seen to leave her sleeping-apartment in
the night, and that man was not a thief, but the handsomest man in Persia,
and one to whom she had dared to send a letter yesterday evening.”

“Do you know the contents of that letter?” asked Croesus, coming up to the
bed.

“No; it was written in Greek. The faithless creature made use of
characters, which no one at this court can read.”

“Will you permit me to translate the letter?” Cambyses pointed to a small
ivory box in which the ominous piece of writing lay, saying: “There it is;
read it; but do not hide or alter a single word, for to-morrow I shall
have it read over again by one of the merchants from Sinope.”

Croesus’ hopes revived; he seemed to breathe again as he took the paper.
But when he had read it over, his eyes filled with tears and he murmured:
“The fable of Pandora is only too true; I dare not be angry any longer
with those poets who have written severely against women. Alas, they are
all false and faithless! O Kassandane, how the Gods deceive us! they grant
us the gift of old age, only to strip us bare like trees in winter, and
show us that all our fancied gold was dross and all our pleasant and
refreshing drinks poison!”

Kassandane wept aloud and tore her costly robes; but Cambyses clenched his
fist while Croesus was reading the following words:

“Nitetis, daughter of Amasis of Egypt, to Bartja, son of the great Cyrus:

“I have something important to tell you; I can tell it to no one but
yourself. To-morrow I hope I shall meet you in your mother’s apartments.
It lies in your power to comfort a sad and loving heart, and to give it
one happy moment before death. I have a great deal to tell you, and some
very sad news; I repeat that I must see you soon.”

The desperate laughter, which burst from her son cut his mother to the
heart. She stooped down and was going to kiss him, but Cambyses resisted
her caresses, saying: “It is rather a doubtful honor, mother, to be one of
your favorites. Bartja did not wait to be sent for twice by that
treacherous woman, and has disgraced himself by swearing falsely. His
friends, the flower of our young men, have covered themselves with
indelible infamy for his sake; and through him, your best beloved
daughter… but no! Bartja had no share in the corruption of that fiend in
Peri’s form. Her life was made up of hypocrisy and deceit, and her death
shall prove that I know how to punish. Now leave me, for I must be alone.”

They had scarcely left the room, when he sprang up and paced backwards and
forwards like a madman, till the first crow of the sacred bird Parodar.
When the sun had risen, he threw himself on his bed again, and fell into a
sleep that was like a swoon.

Meanwhile Bartja had written Sappho a farewell letter, and was sitting
over the wine with his fellow-prisoners and their elder friend Araspes.
“Let us be merry,” said Zopyrus, “for I believe it will soon be up with
all our merriment. I would lay my life, that we are all of us dead by
to-morrow. Pity that men haven’t got more than one neck; if we’d two, I
would not mind wagering a gold piece or two on the chance of our remaining
alive.”

“Zopyrus is quite right,” said Araspes; “we will make merry and keep our
eyes open; who knows how soon they may be closed for ever?”

“No one need be sad who goes to his death as innocently as we do,” said
Gyges. “Here, cup-bearer, fill my goblet!”

“Ah! Bartja and Darius!” cried Zopyrus, seeing the two speaking in a low
voice together, “there you are at your secrets again. Come to us and pass
the wine-cup. By Mithras, I can truly say I never wished for death, but
now I quite look forward to the black Azis, because he is going to take us
all together. Zopyrus would rather die with his friends, than live without
them.”

“But the great point is to try and explain what has really happened,” said
Darius.

“It’s all the same to me,” said Zopyrus, “whether I die with or without an
explanation, so long as I know I am innocent and have not deserved the
punishment of perjury. Try and get us some golden goblets, Bischen; the
wine has no flavor out of these miserable brass mugs. Cambyses surely
would not wish us to suffer from poverty in our last hours, though he does
forbid our fathers and friends to visit us.”

“It’s not the metal that the cup is made of,” said Bartja, “but the
wormwood of death, that gives the wine its bitter taste.”

“No, really, you’re quite out there,” exclaimed Zopyrus. “Why I had nearly
forgotten that strangling generally causes death.” As he said this, he
touched Gyges and whispered: “Be as cheerful as you can! don’t you see
that it’s very hard for Bartja to take leave of this world? What were you
saying, Darius?”

“That I thought Oropastes’ idea the only admissible one, that a Div had
taken the likeness of Bartja and visited the Egyptian in order to ruin
us.”

“Folly! I don’t believe in such things.”

“But don’t you remember the legend of the Div, who took the beautiful form
of a minstrel and appeared before king Kawus?”

“Of course,” cried Araspes. “Cyrus had this legend so often recited at the
banquets, that I know it by heart.

“Kai Kawus hearkened to the words of the disguised Div and went to
Masenderan, and was beaten there by the Divs and deprived of his
eyesight.”

“But,” broke in Darius, “Rustem, the great hero, came and conquered
Erscheng and the other bad spirits, freed the captives and restored sight
to the blind, by dropping the blood of the slaughtered Divs into their
eyes. And so it will be with us, my friends! We shall be set free, and the
eyes of Cambyses and of our blind and infatuated fathers will be opened to
see our innocence. Listen, Bischen; if we really should be executed, go to
the Magi, the Chaldwans, and Nebenchari the Egyptian, and tell them they
had better not study the stars any longer, for that those very stars had
proved themselves liars and deceivers to Darius.”

“Yes,” interrupted Araspes, “I always said that dreams were the only real
prophecies. Before Abradatas fell in the battle of Sardis, the peerless
Panthea dreamt that she saw him pierced by a Lydian arrow.”

“You cruel fellow!” exclaimed Zopyrus. “Why do you remind us, that it is
much more glorious to die in battle than to have our necks wrung off?”

“Quite right,” answered the elder man; “I confess that I have seen many a
death, which I should prefer to our own,—indeed to life itself. Ah,
boys, there was a time when things went better than they do now.”

“Tell us something about those times.”

“And tell us why you never married. It won’t matter to you in the next
world, if we do let out your secret.”

“There’s no secret; any of your own fathers could tell you what you want
to hear from me. Listen then. When I was young, I used to amuse myself
with women, but I laughed at the idea of love. It occurred, however, that
Panthea, the most beautiful of all women, fell into our hands, and Cyrus
gave her into my charge, because I had always boasted that my heart was
invulnerable. I saw her everyday, and learnt, my friends, that love is
stronger than a man’s will. However, she refused all my offers, induced
Cyrus to remove me from my office near her, and to accept her husband
Abradatas as an ally. When her handsome husband went out to the war, this
high-minded, faithful woman decked him out with all her own jewels and
told him that the noble conduct of Cyrus, in treating her like a sister,
when she was his captive, could only be repaid by the most devoted
friendship and heroic courage. Abradatas agreed with her, fought for Cyrus
like a lion, and fell. Panthea killed herself by his dead body. Her
servants, on hearing of this, put an end to their own lives too at the
grave of this best of mistresses. Cyrus shed tears over this noble pair,
and had a stone set up to their memory, which you can see near Sardis. On
it are the simple words: ‘To Panthea, Abradatas, and the most faithful of
servants.’ You see, children, the man who had loved such a woman could
never care for another.”

The young men listened in silence, and remained some time after Araspes
had finished, without uttering a word. At last Bartja raised his hands to
heaven and cried: “O thou great Auramazda! why dost thou not grant us a
glorious end like Abradatas? Why must we die a shameful death like
murderers?”

As he said this Croesus came in, fettered and led by whip-bearers. The
friends rushed to him with a storm of questions, and Bartja too went up to
embrace the man who had been so long his tutor and guide. But the old
man’s cheerful face was severe and serious, and his eyes, generally so
mild, had a gloomy, almost threatening, expression. He waved the prince
coldly back, saying, in a voice which trembled with pain and reproach:
“Let my hand go, you infatuated boy! you are not worth all the love I have
hitherto felt for you. You have deceived your brother in a fourfold
manner, duped your friends, betrayed that poor child who is waiting for
you in Naukratis, and poisoned the heart of Amasis’ unhappy daughter.”

Bartja listened calmly till he heard the word “deceived”; then his hand
clenched, and stamping his foot, he cried: “But for your age and
infirmities, and the gratitude I owe you, old man, these slanderous words
would be your last.”

Croesus beard this outbreak of just indignation unmoved, and answered:
“This foolish rage proves that you and Cambyses have the same blood in
your veins. It would become you much better to repent of your crimes, and
beg your old friend’s forgiveness, instead of adding ingratitude to the
unheard-of baseness of your other deeds.”

At these words Bartja’s anger gave way. His clenched hands sank down
powerless at his side, and his cheeks became pale as death.

These signs of sorrow softened the old man’s indignation. His love was
strong enough to embrace the guilty as well as the innocent Bartja, and
taking the young man’s right hand in both his own, he looked at him as a
father would who finds his son, wounded on the battle-field, and said:
“Tell me, my poor, infatuated boy, how was it that your pure heart fell
away so quickly to the evil powers?”

Bartja shuddered. The blood came back to his face, but these words cut him
to the heart. For the first time in his life his belief in the justice of
the gods forsook him.

He called himself the victim of a cruel, inexorable fate, and felt like a
bunted animal driven to its last gasp and hearing the dogs and sportsmen
fast coming nearer. He had a sensitive, childlike nature, which did not
yet know how to meet the hard strokes of fate. His body and his physical
courage had been hardened against bodily and physical enemies; but his
teachers had never told him how to meet a hard lot in life; for Cambyses
and Bartja seemed destined only to drink out of the cup of happiness and
joy.

Zopyrus could not bear to see his friend in tears. He reproached the old
man angrily with being unjust and severe. Gyges’ looks were full of
entreaty, and Araspes stationed himself between the old man and the youth,
as if to ward off the blame of the elder from cutting deeper into the sad
and grieved heart of the younger man. Darius, however, after having
watched them for some time, came up with quiet deliberation to Croesus,
and said: “You continue to distress and offend one another, and yet the
accused does not seem to know with what offence he is charged, nor will
the accuser hearken to his defence. Tell us, Croesus, by the friendship
which has subsisted between us up to this clay, what has induced you to
judge Bartja so harshly, when only a short time ago you believed in his
innocence?”

The old man told at once what Darius desired to know—that he had
seen a letter, written in Nitetis’ own hand, in which she made a direct
confession of her love to Bartja and asked him to meet her alone. The
testimony of his own eyes and of the first men in the realm, nay, even the
dagger found under Nitetis’ windows, had not been able to convince him
that his favorite was guilty; but this letter had gone like a burning
flash into his heart and destroyed the last remnant of his belief in the
virtue and purity of woman.

“I left the king,” he concluded, “perfectly convinced that a sinful
intimacy must subsist between your friend and the Egyptian Princess, whose
heart I had believed to be a mirror for goodness and beauty alone. Can you
find fault with me for blaming him who so shamefully stained this clear
mirror, and with it his own not less spotless soul?”

“But how can I prove my innocence?” cried Bartja, wringing his hands. “If
you loved me you would believe me; if you really cared for me…. ”

“My boy! in trying to save your life only a few minutes ago, I forfeited
my own. When I heard that Cambyses had really resolved on your death, I
hastened to him with a storm of entreaties; but these were of no avail,
and then I was presumptuous enough to reproach him bitterly in his
irritated state of mind. The weak thread of his patience broke, and in a
fearful passion he commanded the guards to behead me at once. I was seized
directly by Giv, one of the whip-bearers; but as the man is under
obligations to me, he granted me my life until this morning, and promised
to conceal the postponement of the execution. I am glad, my sons, that I
shall not outlive you, and shall die an innocent man by the side of the
guilty.”

These last words roused another storm of contradiction.

Again Darius remained calm and quiet in the midst of the tumult. He
repeated once more the story of the whole evening exactly, to prove that
it was impossible Bartja could have committed the crime laid to his
charge. He then called on the accused himself to answer the charge of
disloyalty and perfidy. Bartja rejected the idea of an understanding with
Nitetis in such short, decided, and convincing words, and confirmed his
assertion with such a fearful oath, that Croesus’ persuasion of his guilt
first wavered, then vanished, and when Bartja had ended, he drew a deep
breath, like a man delivered from a heavy burden, and clasped him in his
arms.

But with all their efforts they could come to no explanation of what had
really happened. In one thing, however, they were all agreed: that Nitetis
loved Bartja and had written the letter with a wrong intention.

“No one who saw her,” cried Darius, “when Cambyses announced that Bartja
had chosen a wife, could doubt for a moment that she was in love with him.
When she let the goblet fall, I heard Phaedime’s father say that the
Egyptian women seemed to take a great interest in the affairs of their
brothers-in-law.”

While they were talking, the sun rose and shone pleasantly into the
prisoners’ room.

“Bartja,” murmured Mithras, “means to make our parting difficult.”

“No,” answered Croesus, “he only means to light us kindly on our way into
eternity.”


CHAPTER IV.

The innocent originator of all this complicated misery had passed many a
wretched hour since the birthday banquet. Since those harsh words with
which Cambyses had sent her from the hall, not the smallest fragment of
news had reached her concerning either her angry lover, or his mother and
sister. Not a day had passed since her arrival in Babylon, that had not
been spent with Kassandane and Atossa; but now, on her desiring to be
carried to them, that she might explain her strange conduct, her new
guard, Kandaules, forbade her abruptly to leave the house. She had thought
that a free and full account of the contents of her letter from home,
would clear up all these misunderstandings. She fancied she saw Cambyses
holding out his hand as if to ask forgiveness for his hastiness and
foolish jealousy. And then a joyful feeling stole into her mind as she
remembered a sentence she had once heard Ibykus say: “As fever attacks a
strong man more violently than one of weaker constitution; so a heart that
loves strongly and deeply can be far more awfully tormented by jealousy,
than one which has been only superficially seized by passion.”

If this great connoisseur in love were right, Cambyses must love her
passionately, or his jealousy could not have caught fire so quickly and
fearfully. Sad thoughts about her home, however, and dark forebodings of
the future would mix with this confidence in Cambyses’ love, and she could
not shut them out. Mid-day came, the sun stood high and burning in the
sky, but no news came from those she loved so well; and a feverish
restlessness seized her which increased as night came on. In the twilight
Boges came to her, and told her, with bitter scorn, that her letter to
Bartja had come into the king’s hands, and that the gardener’s boy who
brought it had been executed. The tortured nerves of the princess could
not resist this fresh blow, and before Boges left, he carried the poor
girl senseless into her sleeping-room, the door of which he barred
carefully.

A few minutes later, two men, one old, the other young, came up through
the trap-door which Boges had examined so carefully two days before. The
old man remained outside, crouching against the palace, wall; a hand was
seen to beckon from the window: the youth obeyed the signal, swung himself
over the ledge and into the room at a bound. Then words of love were
exchanged, the names Gaumata and Mandane whispered softly, kisses and vows
given and received. At last the old man clapped his hands. The youth
obeyed, kissed and embraced Nitetis’ waiting-maid once more, jumped out of
the window into the garden, hurried past the admirers of the blue lily who
were just coming up, slipped with his companion into the trap-door which
had been kept open, closed it carefully, and vanished.

Mandane hurried to the room in which her mistress generally spent the
evening. She was well acquainted with her habits and knew that every
evening, when the stars had risen, Nitetis was accustomed to go to the
window looking towards the Euphrates, and spend hours gazing into the
river and over the plain; and that at that time she never needed her
attendance. So she felt quite safe from fear of discovery in this quarter,
and knowing she was under the protection of the chief of the eunuchs
himself, could wait for her lover calmly.

But scarcely had she discovered that her mistress had fainted, when she
heard the garden filling with people, a confused sound of men’s and
eunuchs’ voices, and the notes of the trumpet used to summon the sentries.
At first she was frightened and fancied her lover had been discovered, but
Boges appearing and whispering: “He has escaped safely,” she at once
ordered the other attendants, whom she had banished to the women’s
apartments during her rendezvous, and who now came flocking back, to carry
their mistress into her sleeping-room, and then began using all the
remedies she knew of, to restore her to consciousness. Nitetis had
scarcely opened her eyes when Boges came in, followed by two eunuchs, whom
he ordered to load her delicate arms with fetters.

Nitetis submitted; she could not utter one word, not even when Boges
called out as he was leaving the room: “Make yourself happy in your cage,
my little imprisoned bird. They’ve just been telling your lord that a
royal marten has been making merry in your dove-cote. Farewell, and think
of the poor tormented Boges in this tremendous heat, when you feel the
cool damp earth. Yes, my little bird, death teaches us to know our real
friends, and so I won’t have you buried in a coarse linen sack, but in a
soft silk shawl. Farewell, my darling!”

The poor, heavily-afflicted girl trembled at these words, and when the
eunuch was gone, begged Mandane to tell her what it all meant. The girl,
instructed by Boges, said that Bartja had stolen secretly into the
hanging-gardens, and had been seen by several of the Achaemenidae as he
was on the point of getting in at one of the windows. The king had been
told of his brother’s treachery, and people were afraid his jealousy might
have fearful consequences. The frivolous girl shed abundant tears of
penitence while she was telling the story, and Nitetis, fancying this a
proof of sincere love and sympathy, felt cheered.

When it was over, however, she looked down at her fetters in despair, and
it was long before she could think of her dreadful position quietly. Then
she read her letter from home again, wrote the words, “I am innocent,” and
told the sobbing girl to give the little note containing them to the
king’s mother after her own death, together with her letter from home.
After doing this she passed a wakeful night which seemed as if it would
never end. She remembered that in her box of ointments there was a
specific for improving the complexion, which, if swallowed in a
sufficiently large quantity, would cause death. She had this poison
brought to her, and resolved calmly and deliberately, to take her own life
directly the executioner should draw near. From that moment she took
pleasure in thinking of her last hour, and said to herself: “It is true he
causes my death; but he does it out of love.” Then she thought she would
write to him, and confess all her love. He should not receive the letter
until she was dead, that he might not think she had written it to save her
life. The hope that this strong, inflexible man might perhaps shed tears
over her last words of love filled her with intense pleasure.

In spite of her heavy fetters, she managed to write the following words:
“Cambyses will not receive this letter until I am dead. It is to tell him
that I love him more than the gods, the world, yes, more than my own young
life. Kassandane and Atossa must think of me kindly. They will see from my
mother’s letter that I am innocent, and that it was only for my poor
sister’s sake that I asked to see Bartja. Boges has told me that my death
has been resolved upon. When the executioner approaches, I shall kill
myself. I commit this crime against myself, Cambyses, to save you from
doing a disgraceful deed.”

This note and her mother’s she gave to the weeping Mandane, and begged her
to give both to Cambyses when she was gone. She then fell on her knees and
prayed to the gods of her fathers to forgive her for her apostasy from
them.

Mandane begged her to remember her weakness and take some rest, but she
answered: “I do not need any sleep, because, you know, I have such little
waking-time still left me.”

As she went on praying and singing her old Egyptian hymns, her heart
returned more and more to the gods of her fathers, whom she had denied
after such a short struggle. In almost all the prayers with which she was
acquainted, there was a reference to the life after death. In the nether
world, the kingdom of Osiris, where the forty-two judges of the dead
pronounce sentence on the worth of the soul after it has been weighed by
the goddess of truth and Thoth, who holds the office of writer in heaven,
she could hope to meet her dear ones again, but only in case her
unjustified soul were not obliged to enter on the career of transmigration
through the bodies of different animals, and her body, to whom the soul
had been entrusted, remained in a state of preservation. This, “if” filled
her with a feverish restlessness. The doctrine that the well-being of the
soul depended on the preservation of the earthly part of every human being
left behind at death, had been impressed on her from childhood. She
believed in this error, which had built pyramids and excavated rocks, and
trembled at the thought that, according to the Persian custom, her body
would be thrown to the dogs and birds of prey, and so given up to the
powers of destruction, that her soul must be deprived of every hope of
eternal life. Then the thought came to her, should she prove unfaithful to
the gods of her fathers again, and once more fall down before these new
spirits of light, who gave the dead body over to the elements and only
judged the soul? And so she raised her hands to the great and glorious
sun, who with his golden sword-like rays was just dispersing the mists
that hung over the Euphrates, and opened her lips to sing her newly-learnt
hymns in praise of Mithras; but her voice failed her, instead of Mithras
she could only see her own great Ra, the god she had so often worshipped
in Egypt, and instead of a Magian hymn could only sing the one with which
the Egyptian priests are accustomed to greet the rising sun.

This hymn brought comfort with it, and as she gazed on the young light,
the rays of which were not yet strong enough to dazzle her, she thought of
her childhood, and the tears gathered in her eyes. Then she looked down
over the broad plain. There was the Euphrates with his yellow waves
looking so like the Nile; the many villages, just as in her own home,
peeping out from among luxuriant cornfields and plantations of fig-trees.
To the west lay the royal hunting-park; she could see its tall cypresses
and nut-trees miles away in the distance. The dew was glistening on every
little leaf and blade of grass, and the birds sang deliciously in the
shrubberies round her dwelling. Now and then a gentle breath of wind
arose, carrying the sweet scent of the roses across to her, and playing in
the tops of the slender, graceful palms which grew in numbers on the banks
of the river and in the fields around.

She had so often admired these beautiful trees, and compared them to
dancing-girls, as she watched the wind seizing their heavy tops and
swaying the slender stems backwards and forwards. And she had often said
to herself that here must be the home of the Phoenix, that wonderful bird
from the land of palms, who, the priests said, came once in every five
hundred years to the temple of Ra in Heliopolis and burnt himself in the
sacred incense-flames, only to rise again from his own ashes more
beautiful than before, and, after three days, to fly back again to his
home in the East. While she was thinking of this bird, and wishing that
she too might rise again from the ashes of her unhappiness to a new and
still more glorious joy, a large bird with brilliant plumage rose out of
the dark cypresses, which concealed the palace of the man she loved and
who had made her so miserable, and flew towards her. It rose higher and
higher, and at last settled on a palmtree close to her window. She had
never seen such a bird before, and thought it could not possibly be a
usual one, for a little gold chain was fastened to its foot, and its tail
seemed made of sunbeams instead of feathers. It must be Benno, the bird of
Ra! She fell on her knees again and sang with deep reverence the ancient
hymn to the Phoenix, never once turning her eyes from the brilliant bird.

The bird listened to her singing, bending his little head with its waving
plumes, wisely and inquisitively from side to side, and flew away directly
she ceased. Nitetis looked after him with a smile. It was really only a
bird of paradise that had broken the chain by which he had been fastened
to a tree in the park, but to her he was the Phoenix. A strange certainty
of deliverance filled her heart; she thought the god Ra had sent the bird
to her, and that as a happy spirit she should take that form. So long as
we are able to hope and wish, we can bear a great deal of sorrow; if the
wished-for happiness does not come, anticipation is at least prolonged and
has its own peculiar sweetness. This feeling is of itself enough, and
contains a kind of enjoyment which can take the place of reality. Though
she was so weary, yet she lay down on her couch with fresh hopes, and fell
into a dreamless sleep almost against her will, without having touched the
poison.

The rising sun generally gives comfort to sad hearts who have passed the
night in weeping, but to a guilty conscience, which longs for darkness,
his pure light is an unwelcome guest. While Nitetis slept, Mandane lay
awake, tormented by fearful remorse. How gladly she would have held back
the sun which was bringing on the day of death to this kindest of
mistresses, and have spent the rest of her own life in perpetual night, if
only her yesterday’s deed could but have been undone!

The good-natured, thoughtless girl called herself a wretched murderess
unceasingly, resolved again and again to confess the whole truth and so to
save Nitetis; but love of life and fear of death gained the victory over
her weak heart every time. To confess was certain death, and she felt as
if she had been made for life; she had so many hopes for the future, and
the grave seemed so dreadful. She thought she could perhaps have confessed
the whole truth, if perpetual imprisonment had been all she had to fear;
but death! no, she could not resolve on that. And besides, would her
confession really save the already condemned Nitetis?

Had she not sent a message to Bartja herself by that unfortunate
gardener’s boy? This secret correspondence had been discovered, and that
was enough of itself to ruin Nitetis, even if she, Mandane, had done
nothing in the matter. We are never so clever as when we have to find
excuses for our own sins.

At sunrise, Mandane was kneeling by her mistress’s couch, weeping bitterly
and wondering that Nitetis could sleep so calmly.

Boges, the eunuch, had passed a sleepless night too, but a very happy one.
His hated colleague, Kandaules, whom he had used as a substitute for
himself, had been already executed, by the king’s command, for negligence,
and on the supposition that he had accepted a bribe; Nitetis was not only
ruined, but certain to die a shameful death. The influence of the king’s
mother had suffered a severe shock; and lastly, he had the pleasure of
knowing, not only that he had outwitted every one and succeeded in all his
plans, but that through his favorite Phaedime he might hope once more to
become the all-powerful favorite of former days. That sentence of death
had been pronounced on Croesus and the young heroes, was by no means an
unwelcome thought either, as they might have been instrumental in bringing
his intrigues to light.

In the grey of the morning he left the king’s apartment and went to
Phaedime. The proud Persian had taken no rest. She was waiting for him
with feverish anxiety, as a rumor of all that had happened had already
reached the harem and penetrated to her apartments. She was lying on a
purple couch in her dressing-room; a thin silken chemise and yellow
slippers thickly sown with turquoises and pearls composed her entire
dress. Twenty attendants were standing round her, but the moment she heard
Boges she sent her slaves away, sprang up to meet him, and overwhelmed him
with a stream of incoherent questions, all referring to her enemy Nitetis.

“Gently, gently, my little bird,” said Boges, laying his hand on her
shoulder. “If you can’t make up your mind to be as quiet as a little mouse
while I tell my story, and not to ask one question, you won’t hear a
syllable of it to-day. Yes, indeed, my golden queen, I’ve so much to tell
that I shall not have finished till to-morrow, if you are to interrupt me
as often as you like. Ah, my little lamb, and I’ve still so much to do
to-day. First I must be present at an Egyptian donkey-ride; secondly, I
must witness an Egyptian execution… but I see I am anticipating my
story; I must begin at the beginning. I’ll allow you to cry, laugh and
scream for joy as much as you will, but you’re forbidden to ask a single
question until I have finished. I think really I have deserved these
caresses. There, now I am quite at my ease, and can begin. Once upon a
time there was a great king in Persia, who had many wives, but he loved
Phaedime better than the rest, and set her above all the others. One day
the thought struck him that he would ask for the hand of the King of
Egypt’s daughter in marriage, and he sent a great embassy to Sais, with
his own brother to do the wooing for him—”

“What nonsense!” cried Phaedime impatiently; “I want to know what has
happened now.”

“Patience, patience, my impetuous March wind. If you interrupt me again, I
shall go away and tell my story to the trees. You really need not grudge
me the pleasure of living my successes over again. While I tell this
story, I feel as happy as a sculptor when he puts down his hammer and
gazes at his finished work.”

“No, no!” said Phaedime, interrupting him again. “I cannot listen now to
what I know quite well already. I am dying of impatience, and every fresh
report that the eunuchs and slave-girls bring makes it worse. I am in a
perfect fever—I cannot wait. Ask whatever else you like, only
deliver me from this awful suspense. Afterwards I will listen to you for
days, if you wish.”

Boges’ smile at these words was one of great satisfaction; he rubbed his
hands and answered: “When I was a child I had no greater pleasure than to
watch a fish writhing on the hook; now I have got you, my splendid golden
carp, at the end of my line, and I can’t let you go until I have sated
myself on your impatience.”

Phaedime sprang up from the couch which she had shared with Boges,
stamping her foot and behaving like a naughty child. This seemed to amuse
the eunuch immensely; he rubbed his hands again and again, laughed till
the tears ran down over his fat cheeks, emptied many a goblet of wine to
the health of the tortured beauty, and then went on with his tale: “It had
not escaped me that Cambyses sent his brother (who had brought Nitetis
from Egypt), out to the war with the Tapuri purely from jealousy. That
proud woman, who was to take no orders from me, seemed to care as little
for the handsome, fair-haired boy as a Jew for pork, or an Egyptian for
white beans. But still I resolved to nourish the king’s jealousy, and use
it as a means of rendering this impudent creature harmless, as she seemed
likely to succeed in supplanting us both in his favor. It was long,
however, before I could hit on a feasible plan.

“At last the new-year’s festival arrived and all the priests in the
kingdom assembled at Babylon. For eight days the city was full of
rejoicing, feasting and merry-making. At court it was just the same, and
so I had very little time to think of my plans. But just then, when I had
hardly any hope of succeeding, the gracious Amescha cpenta sent a youth
across my path, who seemed created by Angramainjus himself to suit my
plan. Gaumata, the brother of Oropastes, came to Babylon to be present at
the great new-year’s sacrifice. I saw him first in his brother’s house,
whither I had been sent on a message from the king, and his likeness to
Bartja was so wonderful, that I almost fancied I was looking at an
apparition. When I had finished my business with Oropastes the youth
accompanied me to my carriage. I showed no signs of astonishment at this
remarkable likeness, treated him however, with immense civility, and
begged him to pay me a visit. He came the very same evening. I sent for my
best wine, pressed him to drink, and experienced, not for the first time,
that the juice of the vine has one quality which outweighs all the rest:
it can turn even a silent man into a chatter-box. The youth confessed that
the great attraction which had brought him to Babylon was, not the
sacrifice, but a girl who held the office of upper attendant to the
Egyptian Princess. He said he had loved her since he was a child; but his
ambitious brother had higher views for him, and in order to get the lovely
Mandane out of his way, had procured her this situation. At last he begged
me to arrange an interview with her. I listened good-naturedly, made a few
difficulties, and at last asked him to come the next day and see how
matters were going on. He came, and I told him that it might be possible
to manage it, but only if he would promise to do what I told him without a
question. He agreed to everything, returned to Rhagae at my wish, and did
not come to Babylon again until yesterday, when he arrived secretly at my
house, where I concealed him. Meanwhile Bartja had returned from the war.
The great point now was to excite the king’s jealousy again, and ruin the
Egyptian at one blow. I roused the indignation of your relations through
your public humiliation, and so prepared the way for my plan. Events were
wonderfully in my favor. You know how Nitetis behaved at the birthday
banquet, but you do not know that that very evening she sent a gardener’s
boy to the palace with a note for Bartja. The silly fellow managed to get
caught and was executed that very night, by command of the king, who was
almost mad with rage; and I took care that Nitetis should be as entirely
cut off from all communication with her friends, as if she lived in the
nest of the Simurg. You know the rest.”

“But how did Gaumata escape?”

“Through a trap-door, of which nobody knows but myself, and which stood
wide open waiting for him. Everything turned out marvellously; I even
succeeded in getting hold of a dagger which Bartja had lost while hunting,
and in laying it under Nitetis’ window. In order to get rid of the prince
during these occurrences, and prevent him from meeting the king or any one
else who might be important as a witness, I asked the Greek merchant
Kolxus, who was then at Babylon with a cargo of Milesian cloth, and who is
always willing to do me a favor, because I buy all the woollen stuffs
required for the harem of him, to write a Greek letter, begging Bartja, in
the name of her he loved best, to come alone to the first station outside
the Euphrates gate at the rising of the Tistar-star. But I had a
misfortune with this letter, for the messenger managed the matter
clumsily. He declares that he delivered the letter to Bartja; but there
can be no doubt that he gave it to some one else, probably to Gaumata, and
I was not a little dismayed to hear that Bartja was sitting over the wine
with his friends on that very evening. Still what had been done could not
be undone, and I knew that the witness of men like your father,
Hystaslies, Croesus and Intaphernes, would far outweigh anything that
Darius, Gyges and Araspes could say. The former would testify against
their friend, the latter for him. And so at last everything went as I
would have had it. The young gentlemen are sentenced to death and Croesus,
who as usual, presumed to speak impertinently to the king, will have lived
his last hour by this time. As to the Egyptian Princess, the secretary in
chief has just been commanded to draw up the following order. Now listen
and rejoice, my little dove! “‘Nitetis, the adulterous daughter of the
King of Egypt, shall be punished for her hideous crimes according to the
extreme rigor of the law, thus: She shall be set astride upon an ass and
led through the streets of Babylon; and all men shall see that Cambyses
knows how to punish a king’s daughter, as severely as his magistrates
would punish the meanest beggar. —To Boges, chief of the eunuchs, is
entrusted the execution of this order.

By command of King Cambyses. Ariabignes, chief of the Secretaries’

“I had scarcely placed these lines in the sleeve of my robe, when the
king’s mother, with her garments rent, and led by Atossa, pressed hastily
into the hall. Weeping and lamentation followed; cries, reproaches,
curses, entreaties and prayers; but the king remained firm, and I verily
believe Kassandane and Atossa would have been sent after Croesus and
Bartja into the other world, if fear of Cyrus’s spirit had not prevented
the son, even in this furious rage, from laying hands on his father’s
widow. Kassandane, however, did not say one word for Nitetis. She seems as
fully convinced of her guilt as you and I can be. Neither have we anything
to fear from the enamored Gaumata. I have hired three men to give him a
cool bath in the Euphrates, before he gets back to Rhagae. Ah, ha! the
fishes and worms will have a jolly time!”

Phaedime joined in Boges’ laughter, bestowed on him all the flattering
names which she had caught from his own smooth tongue, and in token of her
gratitude, hung a heavy chain studded with jewels round his neck with her
own beautiful arms.


CHAPTER V.

Before the sun had reached his mid-day height, the news of what had
happened and of what was still to happen had filled all Babylon. The
streets swarmed with people, waiting impatiently to see the strange
spectacle which the punishment of one of the king’s wives, who had proved
false and faithless, promised to afford. The whip-bearers were forced to
use all their authority to keep this gaping crowd in order. Later on in
the day the news that Bartja and his friends were soon to be executed
arrived among the crowd; they were under the influence of the palm-wine,
which was liberally distributed on the king’s birthday and the following
days, and could not control their excited feelings; but these now took
quite another form.

Bands of drunken men paraded the streets, crying: “Bartja, the good son of
Cyrus, is to be executed!” The women heard these words in their quiet
apartments, eluded their keepers, forgot their veils, and rushing forth
into the streets, followed the excited and indignant men with cries and
yells. Their pleasure in the thought of seeing a more fortunate sister
humbled, vanished at the painful news that their beloved prince was
condemned to death. Men, women and children raged, stormed and cursed,
exciting one another to louder and louder bursts of indignation. The
workshops were emptied, the merchants closed their warehouses, and the
school-boys and servants, who had a week’s holiday on occasion of the
king’s birthday, used their freedom to scream louder than any one else,
and often to groan and yell without in the least knowing why.

At last the tumult was so great that the whip-bearers were insufficient to
cope with it, and a detachment of the body-guard was sent to patrol the
streets. At the sight of their shining armor and long lances, the crowd
retired into the side streets, only, however, to reassemble in fresh
numbers when the troops were out of sight.

At the gate, called the Bel gate, which led to the great western
high-road, the throng was thicker than at any other point, for it was said
that through this gate, the one by which she had entered Babylon, the
Egyptian Princess was to be led out of the city in shame and disgrace. For
this reason a larger number of whipbearers were stationed here, in order
to make way for travellers entering the city. Very few people indeed left
the city at all on this day, for curiosity was stronger than either
business or pleasure; those, on the other hand, who arrived from the
country, took up their stations near the gate on hearing what had drawn
the crowd thither.

It was nearly mid-day, and only wanted a few hours to the time fixed for
Nitetis’ disgrace, when a caravan approached the gate with great speed.
The first carriage was a so-called harmamaxa, drawn by four horses decked
out with bells and tassels; a two-wheeled cart followed, and last in the
train was a baggage-wagon drawn by mules. A fine, handsome man of about
fifty, dressed as a Persian courtier, and another, much older, in long
white robes, occupied the first carriage. The cart was filled by a number
of slaves in simple blouses, and broad-brimmed felt hats, wearing the hair
cut close to the head. An old man, dressed as a Persian servant, rode by
the side of the cart. The driver of the first carriage had great
difficulty in making way for his gaily-ornamented horses through the
crowd; he was obliged to come to a halt before the gate and call some
whip-bearers to his assistance. “Make way for us!” he cried to the captain
of the police who came up with some of his men; “the royal post has no
time to lose, and I am driving some one, who will make you repent every
minute’s delay.”

“Softly, my son,” answered the official. “Don’t you see that it’s easier
to-day to get out of Babylon, than to come in? Whom are you driving?”

“A nobleman, with a passport from the king. Come, be quick and make way
for us.”

“I don’t know about that; your caravan does not look much like royalty.”

“What have you to do with that? The pass…. ”

“I must see it, before I let you into the city.” These words were half
meant for the traveller, whom he was scrutinizing very suspiciously.

While the man in the Persian dress was feeling in his sleeve for the
passport, the whip-bearer turned to some comrades who had just come up,
and pointed out the scanty retinue of the travellers, saying: “Did you
ever see such a queer cavalcade? There’s something odd about these
strangers, as sure as my name’s Giv. Why, the lowest of the king’s
carpet-bearers travels with four times as many people, and yet this man
has a royal pass and is dressed like one of those who sit at the royal
table.”

At this moment the suspected traveller handed him a little silken roll
scented with musk, sealed with the royal seal, and containing the king’s
own handwriting.

The whip-bearer took it and examined the seal. “It is all in order,” he
murmured, and then began to study the characters. But no sooner had he
deciphered the first letters than he looked even more sharply than before
at the traveller, and seized the horses’ bridles, crying out: “Here, men,
form a guard round the carriage! this is an impostor.”

When he had convinced himself that escape was impossible, he went up to
the stranger again and said: “You are using a pass which does not belong
to you. Gyges, the son of Croesus, the man you give yourself out for, is
in prison and is to be executed to-day. You are not in the least like him,
and you will have reason to repent leaving tried to pass for him. Get out
of your carriage and follow me.”

The traveller, however, instead of obeying, began to speak in broken
Persian, and begged the officer rather to take a seat by him in the
carriage, for that he had very important news to communicate. The man
hesitated a moment; but on seeing a fresh band of whip-bearers come up, he
nodded to them to stand before the impatient, chafing horses, and got into
the carriage.

The stranger looked at him with a smile and said: “Now, do I look like an
impostor?”

“No; your language proves that you are not a Persian, but yet you look
like a nobleman.”

“I am a Greek, and have come hither to render Cambyses an important
service. Gyges is my friend, and lent me his passport when he was in
Egypt, in case I should ever come to Persia. I am prepared to vindicate my
conduct before the king, and have no reason for fear. On the contrary, the
news I bring gives me reason to expect much from his favor. Let me be
taken to Croesus, if this is your duty; he will be surety for me, and will
send back your men, of whom you seem to stand in great need to-day.
Distribute these gold pieces among them, and tell me without further delay
what my poor friend Gyges has done to deserve death, and what is the
reason of all this crowd and confusion.”

The stranger said this in bad Persian, but there lay so much dignity and
confidence in his tone, and his gifts were on such a large scale, that the
cringing and creeping servant of despotism felt sure he must be sitting
opposite to a prince, crossed his arms reverentially, and, excusing
himself from his many pressing affairs, began to relate rapidly. He had
been on duty in the great hall during the examination of the prisoners the
night before, and could therefore tell all that had happened with
tolerable accuracy. The Greek followed his tale eagerly, with many an
incredulous shake of his handsome head, however, when the daughter of
Amasis and the son of Cyrus were spoken of as having been disloyal and
false, that sentence of death had been pronounced, especially on Croesus,
distressed him visibly, but the sadness soon vanished from his
quickly-changing features, and gave place to thought; this in its turn was
quickly followed by a joyful look, which could only betoken that the
thinker had arrived at a satisfactory result. His dignified gravity
vanished in a moment; he laughed aloud, struck his forehead merrily,
seized the hand of the astonished captain, and said:

“Should you be glad, if Bartja could be saved?”

“More than I can say.”

“Very well, then I will vouch for it, that you shall receive at least two
talents, if you can procure me an interview with the king before the first
execution has taken place.”

“How can you ask such a thing of me, a poor captain?…”

“Yes, you must, you must!”

“I cannot.”

“I know well that it is very difficult, almost impossible, for a stranger
to obtain an audience of your king; but my errand brooks no delay, for I
can prove that Bartja and his friends are not guilty. Do you hear? I can
prove it. Do you think now, you can procure me admittance?”

“How is it possible?”

“Don’t ask, but act. Didn’t you say Darius was one of the condemned?”

“Yes.”

“I have heard, that his father is a man of very high rank.”

“He is the first in the kingdom, after the sons of Cyrus.”

“Then take me to him at once. He will welcome me when he hears I am able
to save his son.”

“Stranger, you are a wonderful being. You speak with so much confidence
that…”

“That you feel you may believe me. Make haste then, and call some of your
men to make way for us, and escort us to the palace.”

There is nothing, except a doubt, which runs more quickly from mind to
mind, than a hope that some cherished wish may be fulfilled, especially
when this hope has been suggested to us by some one we can trust.

The officer believed this strange traveller, jumped out of the carriage,
flourishing his scourge and calling to his men: “This nobleman has come on
purpose to prove Bartja’s innocence, and must be taken to the king at
once. Follow me, my friends, and make way for him!”

Just at that moment a troop of the guards appeared in sight. The captain
of the whip-bearers went up to their commander, and, seconded by the
shouts of the crowd, begged him to escort the stranger to the palace.

During this colloquy the traveller had mounted his servant’s horse, and
now followed in the wake of the Persians.

The good news flew like wind through the huge city. As the riders
proceeded, the crowd fell back more willingly, and loader and fuller grew
the shouts of joy until at last their march was like a triumphal
procession.

In a few minutes they drew up before the palace; but before the brazen
gates had opened to admit them, another train came slowly into sight. At
the head rode a grey-headed old man; his robes were brown, and rent, in
token of mourning, the mane and tail of his horse had been shorn off and
the creature colored blue.—It was Hystaspes, coming to entreat mercy
for his son.

The whip-bearer, delighted at this sight, threw himself down before the
old man with a cry of joy, and with crossed arms told him what confidence
the traveller had inspired him with.

Hystaspes beckoned to the stranger; he rode up, bowed gracefully and
courteously to the old man, without dismounting, and confirmed the words
of the whip bearer. Hystaspes seemed to feel fresh confidence too after
hearing the stranger, for he begged him to follow him into the palace and
to wait outside the door of the royal apartment, while he himself,
conducted by the head chamberlain, went in to the king.

When his old kinsman entered, Cambyses was lying on his purple couch, pale
as death. A cup-bearer was kneeling on the ground at his feet, trying to
collect the broken fragments of a costly Egyptian drinking-cup which the
king had thrown down impatiently because its contents had not pleased his
taste. At some distance stood a circle of court-officials, in whose faces
it was easy to read that they were afraid of their ruler’s wrath, and
preferred keeping as far from him as possible. The dazzling light and
oppressive heat of a Babylonian May day came in through the open windows,
and not a sound was to be heard in the great room, except the whining of a
large dog of the Epirote breed, which had just received a tremendous kick
from Cambyses for venturing to fawn on his master, and was the only being
that ventured to disturb the solemn stillness. Just before Hystaspes was
led in by the chamberlain, Cambyses had sprung up from his couch. This
idle repose had become unendurable, he felt suffocated with pain and
anger. The dog’s howl suggested a new idea to his poor tortured brain,
thirsting for forgetfulness.

“We will go out hunting!” he shouted to the poor startled courtiers. The
master of the hounds, the equerries, and huntsmen hastened to obey his
orders. He called after them, “I shall ride the unbroken horse Reksch; get
the falcons ready, let all the dogs out and order every one to come, who
can throw a spear. We’ll clear the preserves!”

He then threw himself down on his divan again, as if these words had quite
exhausted his powerful frame, and did not see that Hystaspes had entered,
for his sullen gaze was fixed on the motes playing in the sunbeams that
glanced through the window.

Hystaspes did not dare to address him; but he stationed himself in the
window so as to break the stream of motes and thus draw attention to
himself.

At first Cambyses looked angrily at him and his rent garments, and then
asked with a bitter smile; “What do you want?”

“Victory to the king! Your poor servant and uncle has come to entreat his
ruler’s mercy.”

“Then rise and go! You know that I have no mercy for perjurers and false
swearers. ‘Tis better to have a dead son than a dishonorable one.”

“But if Bartja should not be guilty, and Darius…”

“You dare to question the justice of my sentence?”

“That be far from me. Whatever the king does is good, and cannot be
gainsaid; but still…”

“Be silent! I will not hear the subject mentioned again. You are to be
pitied as a father; but have these last few hours brought me any joy? Old
man, I grieve for you, but I have as little power to rescind his
punishment as you to recall his crime.”

“But if Bartja really should not be guilty—if the gods…”

“Do you think the gods will come to the help of perjurers and deceivers?”

“No, my King; but a fresh witness has appeared.”

“A fresh witness? Verily, I would gladly give half my kingdom, to be
convinced of the innocence of men so nearly related to me.”

“Victory to my lord, the eye of the realm! A Greek is waiting outside, who
seems, to judge by his figure and bearing, one of the noblest of his
race.”

The king laughed bitterly: “A Greek! Ah, ha! perhaps some relation to
Bartja’s faithful fair one! What can this stranger know of my family
affairs? I know these beggarly Ionians well. They are impudent enough to
meddle in everything, and think they can cheat us with their sly tricks.
How much have you had to pay for this new witness, uncle? A Greek is as
ready with a lie as a Magian with his spells, and I know they’ll do
anything for gold. I’m really curious to see your witness. Call him in.
But if he wants to deceive me, he had better remember that where the head
of a son of Cyrus is about to fall, a Greek head has but very little
chance.” And the king’s eyes flashed with anger as he said these words.
Hystaspes, however, sent for the Greek.

Before he entered, the chamberlains fastened the usual cloth before his
mouth, and commanded him to cast himself on the ground before the king.
The Greek’s bearing, as he approached, under the king’s penetrating
glance, was calm and noble; he fell on his face, and, according to the
Persian custom, kissed the ground.

His agreeable and handsome appearance, and the calm and modest manner in
which he bore the king’s gaze, seemed to make a favorable impression on
the latter; he did not allow him to remain long on the earth, and asked
him in a by no means unfriendly tone: “Who are you?”

“I am a Greek nobleman. My name is Phanes, and Athens is my home. I have
served ten years as commander of the Greek mercenaries in Egypt, and not
ingloriously.”

“Are you the man, to whose clever generalship the Egyptians were indebted
for their victories in Cyprus?”

“I am.”

“What has brought you to Persia?”

“The glory of your name, Cambyses, and the wish to devote my arms and
experience to your service.”

“Nothing else? Be sincere, and remember that one single lie may cost your
life. We Persians have different ideas of truth from the Greeks.”

“Lying is hateful to me too, if only, because, as a distortion and
corruption of what is noblest, it seems unsightly in my eyes.”

“Then speak.”

“There was certainly a third reason for my coming hither, which I should
like to tell you later. It has reference to matters of the greatest
importance, which it will require a longer time to discuss; but to-day—”

“Just to-day I should like to hear something new. Accompany me to the
chase. You come exactly at the right time, for I never had more need of
diversion than now.”

“I will accompany you with pleasure, if…”

“No conditions to the king! Have you had much practice in hunting?”

“In the Libyan desert I have killed many a lion.”

“Then come, follow me.”

In the thought of the chase the king seemed to have thrown off all his
weakness and roused himself to action; he was just leaving the hall, when
Hystaspes once more threw himself at his feet, crying with up-raised
hands: “Is my son—is your brother, to die innocent? By the soul of
your father, who used to call me his truest friend, I conjure you to
listen to this noble stranger.”

Cambyses stood still. The frown gathered on his brow again, his voice
sounded like a menace and his eyes flashed as he raised his hand and said
to the Greek: “Tell me what you know; but remember that in every untrue
word, you utter your own sentence of death.”

Phanes heard this threat with the greatest calmness, and answered, bowing
gracefully as he spoke: “From the sun and from my lord the king, nothing
can be hid. What power has a poor mortal to conceal the truth from one so
mighty? The noble Hystaspes has said, that I am able to prove your brother
innocent. I will only say, that I wish and hope I may succeed in
accomplishing anything so great and beautiful. The gods have at least
allowed me to discover a trace which seems calculated to throw light on
the events of yesterday; but you yourself must decide whether my hopes
have been presumptuous and my suspicions too easily aroused. Remember,
however, that throughout, my wish to serve you has been sincere, and that
if I have been deceived, my error is pardonable; that nothing is perfectly
certain in this world, and every man believes that to be infallible which
seems to him the most probable.”

“You speak well, and remind me of… curse her! there, speak and have done
with it! I hear the dogs already in the court.”

“I was still in Egypt when your embassy came to fetch Nitetis. At the
house of Rhodopis, my delightful, clever and celebrated countrywoman, I
made the acquaintance of Croesus and his son; I only saw your brother and
his friends once or twice, casually; still I remembered the young prince’s
handsome face so well, that some time later, when I was in the workshop of
the great sculptor Theodorus at Samos, I recognized his features at once.”

“Did you meet him at Samos?”

“No, but his features had made such a deep and faithful impression on
Theodorus’ memory, that he used them to beautify the head of an Apollo,
which the Achaemenidae had ordered for the new temple of Delphi.”

“Your tale begins, at least, incredibly enough. How is it possible to copy
features so exactly, when you have not got them before you?”

“I can only answer that Theodorus has really completed this master-piece,
and if you wish for a proof of his skill would gladly send you a second
likeness of…”

“I have no desire for it. Go on with your story.”

“On my journey hither, which, thanks to your father’s excellent
arrangements, I performed in an incredibly short time, changing horses
every sixteen or seventeen miles…”

“Who allowed you, a foreigner, to use the posthorses?”

“The pass drawn out for the son of Croesus, which came by chance into my
hands, when once, in order to save my life, he forced me to change clothes
with him.”

“A Lydian can outwit a fox, and a Syrian a Lydian, but an Ionian is a
match for both,” muttered the king, smiling for the first time; “Croesus
told me this story—poor Croesus!” and then the old gloomy expression
came over his face and he passed his hand across his forehead, as if
trying to smooth the lines of care away. The Athenian went on: “I met with
no hindrances on my journey till this morning at the first hour after
midnight, when I was detained by a strange occurrence.”

The king began to listen more attentively, and reminded the Athenian, who
spoke Persian with difficulty, that there was no time to lose.

“We had reached the last station but one,” continued he, “and hoped to be
in Babylon by sunrise. I was thinking over my past stirring life, and was
so haunted by the remembrance of evil deeds unrevenged that I could not
sleep; the old Egyptian at my side, however, slept and dreamt peacefully
enough, lulled by the monotonous tones of the harness bells, the sound of
the horses’ hoofs and the murmur of the Euphrates. It was a wonderfully
still, beautiful night; the moon and stars were so brilliant, that our
road and the landscape were lighted up almost with the brightness of day.
For the last hour we had not seen a single vehicle, foot-passenger, or
horseman; we had heard that all the neighboring population had assembled
in Babylon to celebrate your birthday, gaze with wonder at the splendor of
your court, and enjoy your liberality. At last the irregular beat of
horses’ hoofs, and the sound of bells struck my ear, and a few minutes
later I distinctly heard cries of distress. My resolve was taken at once;
I made my Persian servant dismount, sprang into his saddle, told the
driver of the cart in which my slaves were sitting not to spare his mules,
loosened my dagger and sword in their scabbards, and spurred my horse
towards the place from whence the cries came. They grew louder and louder.
I had not ridden a minute, when I came on a fearful scene. Three
wild-looking fellows had just pulled a youth, dressed in the white robes
of a Magian, from his horse, stunned him with heavy blows, and, just as I
reached them, were on the point of throwing him into the Euphrates, which
at that place washes the roots of the palms and fig-trees bordering the
high-road. I uttered my Greek war-cry, which has made many an enemy
tremble before now, and rushed on the murderers. Such fellows are always
cowards; the moment they saw one of their accomplices mortally wounded,
they fled. I did not pursue them, but stooped down to examine the poor
boy, who was severely wounded. How can I describe my horror at seeing, as
I believed, your brother Bartja? Yes, they were the very same features
that I had seen, first at Naukratis and then in Theodorus’ workshop, they
were…”

“Marvellous!” interrupted Hystaspes.

“Perhaps a little too much so to be credible,” added the king. “Take care,
Hellene! remember my arm reaches far. I shall have the truth of your story
put to the proof.”

“I am accustomed,” answered Phanes bowing low, “to follow the advice of
our wise philosopher Pythagoras, whose fame may perhaps have reached your
ears, and always, before speaking, to consider whether what I am going to
say may not cause me sorrow in the future.”

“That sounds well; but, by Mithras, I knew some one who often spoke of
that great teacher, and yet in her deeds turned out to be a most faithful
disciple of Angramainjus. You know the traitress, whom we are going to
extirpate from the earth like a poisonous viper to-day.”

“Will you forgive me,” answered Phanes, seeing the anguish expressed in
the king’s features, “if I quote another of the great master’s maxims?”

“Speak.”

“Blessings go as quickly as they come. Therefore bear thy lot patiently.
Murmur not, and remember that the gods never lay a heavier weight on any
man than he can bear. Hast thou a wounded heart? touch it as seldom as
thou wouldst a sore eye. There are only two remedies for heart-sickness:—hope
and patience.”

Cambyses listened to this sentence, borrowed from the golden maxims of
Pythagoras, and smiled bitterly at the word “patience.” Still the
Athenian’s way of speaking pleased him, and he told him to go on with his
story.

Phanes made another deep obeisance, and continued: “We carried the
unconscious youth to my carriage, and brought him to the nearest station.
There he opened his eyes, looked anxiously at me, and asked who I was and
what had happened to him? The master of the station was standing by, so I
was obliged to give the name of Gyges in order not to excite his
suspicions by belying my pass, as it was only through this that I could
obtain fresh horses.

“This wounded young man seemed to know Gyges, for he shook his head and
murmured: ‘You are not the man you give yourself out for.’ Then he closed
his eyes again, and a violent attack of fever came on.

“We undressed, bled him and bound up his wounds. My Persian servant, who
had served as overlooker in Amasis’ stables and had seen Bartja there,
assisted by the old Egyptian who accompanied me, was very helpful, and
asserted untiringly that the wounded man could be no other than your
brother. When we had cleansed the blood from his face, the master of the
station too swore that there could be no doubt of his being the younger
son of your great father Cyrus. Meanwhile my Egyptian companion had
fetched a potion from the travelling medicine-chest, without which an
Egyptian does not care to leave his native country.

The drops worked wonders; in a few hours the fever was quieted, and at
sunrise the patient opened his eyes once more. We bowed down before him,
believing him to be your brother, and asked if he would like to be taken
to the palace in Babylon. This he refused vehemently, and asseverated that
he was not the man we took him for, but,…”

“Who can be so like Bartja? tell me quickly,” interrupted the king, “I am
very curious to know this.”

“He declared that he was the brother of your high-priest, that his name
was Gaumata, and that this would be proved by the pass which we should
find in the sleeve of his Magian’s robe. The landlord found this document
and, being able to read, confirmed the statement of the sick youth; he
was, however, soon seized by a fresh attack of fever, and began to speak
incoherently.”

“Could you understand him?”

“Yes, for his talk always ran on the same subject. The hanging-gardens
seemed to fill his thoughts. He must have just escaped some great danger,
and probably had had a lover’s meeting there with a woman called Mandane.”

“Mandane, Mandane,” said Cambyses in a low voice; “if I do not mistake,
that is the name of the highest attendant on Amasis’ daughter.”

These words did not escape the sharp ears of the Greek. He thought a
moment and then exclaimed with a smile; “Set the prisoners free, my King;
I will answer for it with my own head, that Bartja was not in the
hanging-gardens.”

The king was surprised at this speech but not angry. The free,
unrestrained, graceful manner of this Athenian towards himself produced
the same impression, that a fresh sea-breeze makes when felt for the first
time. The nobles of his own court, even his nearest relations, approached
him bowing and cringing, but this Greek stood erect in his presence; the
Persians never ventured to address their ruler without a thousand flowery
and flattering phrases, but the Athenian was simple, open and
straightforward. Yet his words were accompanied by such a charm of action
and expression, that the king could understand them, notwithstanding the
defective Persian in which they were clothed, better than the allegorical
speeches of his own subjects. Nitetis and Phanes were the only human
beings, who had ever made him forget that he was a king. With them he was
a man speaking to his fellow-man, instead of a despot speaking with
creatures whose very existence was the plaything of his own caprice. Such
is the effect produced by real manly dignity, superior culture and the
consciousness of a right to freedom, on the mind even of a tyrant. But
there was something beside all this, that had helped to win Cambyses’
favor for the Athenian. This man’s coming seemed as if it might possibly
give him back the treasure he had believed was lost and more than lost.
But how could the life of such a foreign adventurer be accepted as surety
for the sons of the highest Persians in the realm? The proposal, however,
did not make him angry. On the contrary, he could not help smiling at the
boldness of this Greek, who in his eagerness had freed himself from the
cloth which hung over his mouth and beard, and exclaimed: “By Mithras,
Greek, it really seems as if you were to prove a messenger of good for us!
I accept your offer. If the prisoners, notwithstanding your supposition,
should still prove guilty you are bound to pass your whole life at my
court and in my service, but if, on the contrary, you are able to prove
what I so ardently long for, I will make you richer than any of your
countrymen.”

Phanes answered by a smile which seemed to decline this munificent offer,
and asked: “Is it permitted me to put a few questions to yourself and to
the officers of your court?”

“You are allowed to say and ask whatever you wish.”

At this moment the master of the huntsmen, one of those who daily ate at
the king’s table, entered, out of breath from his endeavors to hasten the
preparations, and announced that all was ready.

“They must wait,” was the king’s imperious answer. “I am not sure, that we
shall hunt at all to-day. Where is Bischen, the captain of police?”

Datis, the so-called “eye of the king,” who held the office filled in
modern days by a minister of police, hurried from the room, returning in a
few minutes with the desired officer. These moments Phanes made use of for
putting various questions on important points to the nobles who were
present.

“What news can you bring of the prisoners?” asked the king, as the man lay
prostrate before him. “Victory to the king! They await death with
calmness, for it is sweet to die by thy will.”

“Have you heard anything of their conversation?”

“Yes, my Ruler.”

“Do they acknowledge their guilt, when speaking to each other?”

“Mithras alone knows the heart; but you, my prince, if you could hear them
speak, would believe in their innocence, even as I the humblest of your
servants.”

The captain looked up timidly at the king, fearing lest these words should
have excited his anger; Cambyses, however, smiled kindly instead of
rebuking him. But a sudden thought darkened his brow again directly, and
in a low voice he asked: “When was Croesus executed?”

The man trembled at this question; the perspiration stood on his forehead,
and he could scarcely stammer the words: “He is… he has … we
thought….”

“What did you think?” interrupted Cambyses, and a new light of hope seemed
to dawn in his mind. “Is it possible, that you did not carry out my orders
at once? Can Croesus still be alive? Speak at once, I must know the whole
truth.”

The captain writhed like a worm at his lord’s feet, and at last stammered
out, raising his hands imploringly towards the king: “Have mercy, have
mercy, my Lord the king! I am a poor man, and have thirty children,
fifteen of whom…”

“I wish to know if Croesus is living or dead.”

“He is alive! He has done so much for me, and I did not think I was doing
wrong in allowing him to live a few hours longer, that he might….”

“That is enough,” said the king breathing freely. “This once your
disobedience shall go unpunished, and the treasurer may give you two
talents, as you have so many children.—Now go to the prisoners,—tell
Croesus to come hither, and the others to be of good courage, if they are
innocent.”

“My King is the light of the world, and an ocean of mercy.”

“Bartja and his friends need not remain any longer in confinement; they
can walk in the court of the palace, and you will keep guard over them.
You, Datis, go at once to the hanging-gardens and order Boges to defer the
execution of the sentence on the Egyptian Princess; and further, I wish
messengers sent to the post-station mentioned by the Athenian, and the
wounded man brought hither under safe escort.”

The “king’s eye” was on the point of departure, but Phanes detained him,
saying: “Does my King allow me to make one remark?”

“Speak.”

“It appears to me, that the chief of the eunuchs could give the most
accurate information. During his delirium the youth often mentioned his
name in connection with that of the girl he seemed to be in love with.”

“Go at once, Datis, and bring him quickly.”

“The high-priest Oropastes, Gaumata’s brother, ought to appear too; and
Mandane, whom I have just been assured on the most positive authority, is
the principal attendant of the Egyptian Princess.”

“Fetch her, Datis.”

“If Nitetis herself could…”

At this the king turned pale and a cold shiver ran through his limbs. How
he longed to see his darling again! But the strong man was afraid of this
woman’s reproachful looks; he knew the captivating power that lay in her
eyes. So he pointed to the door, saying “Fetch Boges and Mandane; the
Egyptian Princess is to remain in the hanging-gardens, under strict
custody.”

The Athenian bowed deferentially; as if he would say: “Here no one has a
right to command but the king.”

Cambyses looked well pleased, seated himself again on the purple divan,
and resting his forehead on his hand, bent his eyes on the ground and sank
into deep thought. The picture of the woman he loved so dearly refused to
be banished; it came again and again, more and more vividly, and the
thought that these features could not have deceived him—that Nitetis
must be innocent—took a firmer root in his mind; he had already
begun to hope. If Bartja could be cleared, there was no error that might
not be conceivable; in that case he would go to the hanging-gardens, take
her hand and listen to her defence. When love has once taken firm hold of
a man in riper years, it runs and winds through his whole nature like one
of his veins, and can only be destroyed with his life.

The entrance of Croesus roused Cambyses from his dream; he raised the old
man kindly from the prostrate position at his feet, into which he had
thrown himself on entering, and said: “You offended me, but I will be
merciful; I have not forgotten that my father, on his dying bed, told me
to make you my friend and adviser. Take your life back as a gift from me,
and forget my anger as I wish to forget your want of reverence. This man
says he knows you; I should like to hear your opinion of his conjectures.”

Croesus turned away much affected, and after having heartily welcomed the
Athenian, asked him to relate his suppositions and the grounds on which
they were founded.

The old man grew more and more attentive as the Greek went on, and when he
had finished raised his hands to heaven, crying: “Pardon me, oh ye eternal
gods, if I have ever questioned the justice of your decrees. Is not this
marvellous, Cambyses? My son once placed himself in great danger to save
the life of this noble Athenian, whom the gods have brought hither to
repay the deed tenfold. Had Phanes been murdered in Egypt, this hour might
have seen our sons executed.”

And as he said this he embraced Hystaspes; both shared one feeling; their
sons had been as dead and were now alive.

The king, Phanes, and all the Persian dignitaries watched the old men with
deep sympathy, and though the proofs of Bartja’s innocence were as yet
only founded on conjecture, not one of those present doubted it one moment
longer. Wherever the belief in a man’s guilt is but slight, his defender
finds willing listeners.


CHAPTER VI.

THE sharp-witted Athenian saw clearly how matters lay in this sad story;
nor did it escape him that malice had had a hand in the affair. How could
Bartja’s dagger have come into the hanging-gardens except through
treachery?

While he was telling the king his suspicions, Oropastes was led into the
hall.

The king looked angrily at him and without one preliminary word, asked:
“Have you a brother?”

“Yes, my King. He and I are the only two left out of a family of six. My
parents…”

“Is your brother younger or older than yourself?”

“I was the eldest of the family; my brother, the youngest, was the joy of
my father’s old age.”

“Did you ever notice a remarkable likeness between him and one of my
relations?”

“Yes, my King. Gaumata is so like your brother Bartja, that in the school
for priests at Rhagae, where he still is, he was always called ‘the
prince.’”

“Has he been at Babylon very lately?”

“He was here for the last time at the New Year’s festival.”

“Are you speaking the truth?”

“The sin of lying would be doubly punishable in one who wears my robes,
and holds my office.”

The king’s face flushed with anger at this answer and he exclaimed:
“Nevertheless you are lying; Gaumata was here yesterday evening. You may
well tremble.”

“My life belongs to the king, whose are all things; nevertheless I swear—the
high-priest-by the most high God, whom I have served faithfully for thirty
years, that I know nothing of my brother’s presence in Babylon yesterday.”

“Your face looks as if you were speaking the truth.”

“You know that I was not absent from your side the whole of that high
holiday.”

“I know it.”

Again the doors opened; this time they admitted the trembling Mandane. The
high-priest cast such a look of astonishment and enquiry on her, that the
king saw she must be in some way connected with him, and therefore, taking
no notice of the trembling girl who lay at his feet, he asked: “Do you
know this woman?”

“Yes, my King. I obtained for her the situation of upper attendant to the—may
Auramazda forgive her!—King of Egypt’s daughter.”

“What led you,—a priest,—to do a favor to this girl?”

“Her parents died of the same pestilence, which carried off my brothers.
Her father was a priest, respected, and a friend of our family; so we
adopted the little girl, remembering the words: ‘If thou withhold help
from the man who is pure in heart and from his widow and orphans, then
shall the pure, subject earth cast thee out unto the stinging-nettles, to
painful sufferings and to the most fearful regions!’ Thus I became her
foster-father, and had her brought up with my youngest brother until he
was obliged to enter the school for priests.”

The king exchanged a look of intelligence with Phanes, and asked: “Why did
not you keep the girl longer with you?”

“When she had received the ear-rings I, as priest, thought it more
suitable to send such a young girl away from my house, and to put her in a
position to earn her own living.”

“Has she seen your brother since she has been grown up?”

“Yes, my King. Whenever Gaumata came to see me I allowed him to be with
her as with a sister; but on discovering later that the passionate love of
youth had begun to mingle with the childish friendship of former days, I
felt strengthened in my resolution to send her away.”

“Now we know enough,” said the king, commanding the high-priest by a nod
to retire. He then looked down on the prostrate girl, and said
imperiously: “Rise!”

Mandane rose, trembling with fear. Her fresh young face was pale as death,
and her red lips were blue from terror.

“Tell all you know about yesterday evening; but remember, a lie and your
death are one and the same.”

The girl’s knees trembled so violently that she could hardly stand, and
her fear entirely took away the power of speaking.

“I have not much patience,” exclaimed Cambyses. Mandane started, grew
paler still, but could not speak. Then Phanes came forward and asked the
angry king to allow him to examine the girl, as he felt sure that fear
alone had closed her lips and that a kind word would open them.

Cambyses allowed this, and the Athenian’s words proved true; no sooner had
he assured Mandane of the good-will of all present, laid his hand on her
head and spoken kindly to her, than the source of her tears was unlocked,
she wept freely, the spell which had seemed to chain her tongue, vanished,
and she began to tell her story, interrupted only by low sobs. She hid
nothing, confessed that Boges had given her his sanction and assistance to
the meeting with Gaumata, and ended by saying: “I know that I have
forfeited my life, and am the worst and most ungrateful creature in the
world; but none of all this would have happened, if Oropastes had allowed
his brother to marry me.”

The serious audience, even the king himself, could not resist a smile at
the longing tone in which these words were spoken and the fresh burst of
sobs which succeeded them.

And this smile saved her life. But Cambyses would not have smiled, after
hearing such a story, if Mandane, with that instinct which always seems to
stand at a woman’s command in the hour of her greatest danger, had not
known how to seize his weak side, and use it for her own interests, by
dwelling much longer than was necessary, on the delight which Nitetis had
manifested at the king’s gifts.

“A thousand times” cried she, “did my mistress kiss the presents which
were brought from you, O King; but oftenest of all did she press her lips
to the nosegay which you plucked with your own hands for her, some days
ago. And when it began to fade, she took every flower separately, spread
out the petals with care, laid them between woollen cloths, and, with her
own hands, placed her heavy, golden ointment-box upon them, that they
might dry and so she might keep them always as a remembrance of your
kindness.”

Seeing Cambyses’ awful features grow a little milder at these words, the
girl took fresh courage, and at last began to put loving words into her
mistress’s mouth which the latter had never uttered; professing that she
herself had heard Nitetis a hundred times murmur the word “Cambyses” in
her sleep with indescribable tenderness. She ended her confession by
sobbing and praying for mercy.

The king looked down at her with infinite contempt, though without anger,
and pushing her away with his foot said: “Out of my sight, you dog of a
woman! Blood like yours would soil the executioner’s axe. Out of my
sight!”

Mandane needed no second command to depart. The words “out of my sight”
sounded like sweet music in her ears. She rushed through the courts of the
palace, and out into the streets, crying like a mad woman “I am free! I am
free!”

She, had scarcely left the hall, when Datis, the “king’s eye” reappeared
with the news that the chief of the eunuchs was nowhere to be found. He
had vanished from the hanging-gardens in an unaccountable manner; but he,
Datis, had left word with his subordinates that he was to be searched for
and brought, dead or alive.

The king went off into another violent fit of passion at this news, and
threatened the officer of police, who prudently concealed the excitement
of the crowd from his lord, with a severe punishment, if Boges were not in
their hands by the next morning.

As he finished speaking, a eunuch was brought into the hall, sent by the
king’s mother to ask an interview for herself with her son.

Cambyses prepared at once to comply with his mother’s wish, at the same
time giving Phanes his hand to kiss, a rare honor, only shown to those
that ate at the king’s table, and saying: “All the prisoners are to be set
at liberty. Go to your sons, you anxious, troubled fathers, and assure
them of my mercy and favor. I think we shall be able to find a satrapy
a-piece for them, as compensation for to-night’s undeserved imprisonment.
To you, my Greek friend, I am deeply indebted. In discharge of this debt,
and as a means of retaining you at my court, I beg you to accept one
hundred talents from my treasury.”

“I shall scarcely be able to use so large a sum,” said Phanes, bowing low.

“Then abuse it,” said the king with a friendly smile, and calling out to
him, “We shall meet again at supper,” he left the hall accompanied by his
court.

In the meantime there had been sadness and mourning in the apartments of
the queen-mother. Judging from the contents of the letter to Bartja,
Kassandane had made up her mind that Nitetis was faithless, and her own
beloved son innocent. But in whom could she ever place confidence again,
now that this girl, whom she had looked upon as the very embodiment of
every womanly virtue, had proved reprobate and faithless—now that
the noblest youths in the realm had proved perjurers?

Nitetis was more than dead for her; Bartja, Croesus, Darius, Gyges,
Araspes, all so closely allied to her by relationship and friendship, as
good as dead. And yet she durst not indulge her sorrow; she had to
restrain the despairing outbursts of grief of her impetuous child.

Atossa behaved like one deprived of her senses when she heard of the
sentences of death. The self-control which she had learnt from Nitetis
gave way, and her old impetuosity burst forth again with double vehemence.

Nitetis, her only friend,—Bartja, the brother whom she loved with
her whole heart,—Darius, whom she felt now she not only looked up to
as her deliverer, but loved with all the warmth of a first affection—Croesus
to whom she clung like a father,—she was to lose every one she loved
in one day.

She tore her dress and her hair, called Cambyses a monster, and every one
who could possibly believe in the guilt of such people, infatuated or
insane. Then her tears would burst out afresh, she would utter imploring
supplications to the gods for mercy, and a few minutes later, begin
conjuring her mother to take her to the hanging-gardens, that they might
hear Nitetis’ defence of her own conduct.

Kassandane tried to soothe the violent girl, and assured her every attempt
to visit the hanging-gardens would be in vain. Then Atossa began to rage
again, until at last her mother was forced to command silence, and as
morning had already began to dawn, sent her to her sleeping-room.

The girl obeyed, but instead of going to bed, seated herself at a tall
window looking towards the hanging-gardens. Her eyes filled with tears
again, as she thought of her friend—her sister-sitting in that
palace alone, forsaken, banished, and looking forward to an ignominious
death. Suddenly her tearful, weary eyes lighted up as if from some strong
purpose, and instead of gazing into the distance, she fixed them on a
black speck which flew towards her in a straight line from Nitetis’ house,
becoming larger and more distinct every moment; and finally settling on a
cypress before her window. The sorrow vanished at once from her lovely
face and with a deep sigh of relief she sprang up, exclaiming:

“Oh, there is the Homai, the bird of good fortune! Now everything will
turn out well.”

It was the same bird of paradise which had brought so much comfort to
Nitetis that now gave poor Atossa fresh confidence.

She bent forward to see whether any one was in the garden; and finding
that she would be seen by no one but the old gardener, she jumped out,
trembling like a fawn, plucked a few roses and cypress twigs and took them
to the old man, who had been watching her performances with a doubtful
shake of the head.

She stroked his cheeks coaxingly, put her flowers in his brown hand, and
said: “Do you love me, Sabaces?”

“O, my mistress!” was the only answer the old man could utter, as he
pressed the hem of her robe to his lips.

“I believe you, my old friend, and I will show you how I trust my
faithful, old Sabaces. Hide these flowers carefully and go quickly to the
king’s palace. Say that you had to bring fruit for the table. My poor
brother Bartja, and Darius, the son of the noble Hystaspes, are in prison,
near the guard-house of the Immortals. You must manage that these flowers
reach them, with a warm greeting from me, but mind, the message must be
given with the flowers.”

“But the guards will not allow me to see the prisoners.”

“Take these rings, and slip them into their hands.”

“I will do my best.”

“I knew you loved me, my good Sabaces. Now make haste, and come back
soon.”

The old man went off as fast as he could. Atossa looked thoughtfully after
him, murmuring to herself: “Now they will both know, that I loved them to
the last. The rose means, ‘I love you,’ and the evergreen cypress, ‘true
and steadfast.’” The old man came back in an hour; bringing her Bartja’s
favorite ring, and from Darius an Indian handkerchief dipped in blood.

Atossa ran to meet him; her eyes filled with tears as she took the tokens,
and seating herself under a spreading plane-tree, she pressed them by
turns to her lips, murmuring: “Bartja’s ring means that he thinks of me;
the blood-stained handkerchief that Darius is ready to shed his heart’s
blood for me.”

Atossa smiled as she said this, and her tears, when she thought of her
friends and their sad fate, were quieter, if not less bitter, than before.

A few hours later a messenger arrived from Croesus with news that the
innocence of Bartja and his friends had been proved, and that Nitetis was,
to all intents and purposes, cleared also.

Kassandane sent at once to the hanging-gardens, with a request that
Nitetis would come to her apartments. Atossa, as unbridled in her joy as
in her grief, ran to meet her friend’s litter and flew from one of her
attendants to the other crying: “They are all innocent; we shall not lose
one of them—not one!”

When at last the litter appeared and her loved one, pale as death, within
it, she burst into loud sobs, threw her arms round Nitetis as she
descended, and covered her with kisses and caresses till she perceived
that her friend’s strength was failing, that her knees gave way, and she
required a stronger support than Atossa’s girlish strength could give.

The Egyptian girl was carried insensible into the queen-mother’s
apartments. When she opened her eyes, her head-more like a marble piece of
sculpture than a living head—was resting on the blind queen’s lap,
she felt Atossa’s warm kisses on her forehead, and Cambyses, who had
obeyed his mother’s call, was standing at her side.

She gazed on this circle, including all she loved best, with anxious,
perplexed looks, and at last, recognizing them one by one, passed her hand
across her pale fore head as if to remove a veil, smiled at each, and
closed her eyes once more. She fancied Isis had sent her a beautiful
vision, and wished to hold it fast with all the powers of her mind.

Then Atossa called her by her name, impetuously and lovingly. She opened
her eyes again, and again she saw those loving looks that she fancied had
only been sent her in a dream. Yes, that was her own Atossa—this her
motherly friend, and there stood, not the angry king, but the man she
loved. And now his lips opened too, his stern, severe eyes rested on her
so beseechingly, and he said: “O Nitetis, awake! you must not—you
cannot possibly be guilty!” She moved her head gently with a look of
cheerful denial and a happy smile stole across her features, like a breeze
of early spring over fresh young roses.

“She is innocent! by Mithras, it is impossible that she can be guilty,”
cried the king again, and forgetful of the presence of others, he sank on
his knees.

A Persian physician came up and rubbed her forehead with a sweet-scented
oil, and Nebenchari approached, muttering spells, felt her pulse, shook
his head, and administered a potion from his portable medicine-chest. This
restored her to perfect consciousness; she raised herself with difficulty
into a sitting posture, returned the loving caresses of her two friends,
and then turning to Cambyses, asked: “How could you believe such a thing
of me, my King?” There was no reproach in her tone, but deep sadness, and
Cambyses answered softly, “Forgive me.”

Kassandane’s blind eyes expressed her gratitude for this self-renunciation
on the part of her son, and she said: “My daughter, I need your
forgiveness too.”

“But I never once doubted you,” cried Atossa, proudly and joyfully kissing
her friend’s lips.

“Your letter to Bartja shook my faith in your innocence,” added
Kassandane.

“And yet it was all so simple and natural,” answered Nitetis. “Here, my
mother, take this letter from Egypt. Croesus will translate it for you. It
will explain all. Perhaps I was imprudent. Ask your mother to tell you
what you would wish to know, my King. Pray do not scorn my poor, ill
sister. When an Egyptian girl once loves, she cannot forget. But I feel so
frightened. The end must be near. The last hours have been so very, very
terrible. That horrible man, Boges, read me the fearful sentence of death,
and it was that which forced the poison into my hand. Ah, my heart!”

And with these words she fell back into the arms of Kassandane.

Nebenchari rushed forward, and gave her some more drops, exclaiming: “I
thought so! She has taken poison and her life cannot be saved, though this
antidote may possibly prolong it for a few days.” Cambyses stood by, pale
and rigid, following the physician’s slightest movements, and Atossa
bathed her friend’s forehead with her tears.

“Let some milk be brought,” cried Nebenchari, “and my large
medicine-chest; and let attendants be called to carry her away, for quiet
is necessary, above all things.”

Atossa hastened into the adjoining room; and Cambyses said to the
physician, but without looking into his face: “Is there no hope?”

“The poison which she has taken results in certain death.”

On hearing this the king pushed Nebenchari away from the sick girl,
exclaiming: “She shall live. It is my will. Here, eunuch! summon all the
physicians in Babylon—assemble the priests and Alobeds! She is not
to die; do you hear? she must live, I am the king, and I command it.”

Nitetis opened her eyes as if endeavoring to obey her lord. Her face was
turned towards the window, and the bird of paradise with the gold chain on
its foot, was still there, perched on the cypress-tree. Her eyes fell
first on her lover, who had sunk down at her side and was pressing his
burning lips to her right hand. She murmured with a smile: “O, this great
happiness!” Then she saw the bird, and pointed to it with her left hand,
crying: “Look, look, there is the Phoenix, the bird of Ra!”

After saying this she closed her eyes and was soon seized by a violent
attack of fever.


CHAPTER VII.

Prexaspes, the king’s messenger, and one of the highest officials at
court, had brought Gaumata, Mandane’s lover, whose likeness to Bartja was
really most wonderful, to Babylon, sick and wounded as he was. He was now
awaiting his sentence in a dungeon, while Boges, the man who had led him
into crime, was nowhere to be found, notwithstanding all the efforts of
the police. His escape had been rendered possible by the trap-door in the
hanging-gardens, and greatly assisted by the enormous crowds assembled in
the streets.

Immense treasures were found in his house. Chests of gold and jewels,
which his position had enabled him to obtain with great ease, were
restored to the royal treasury. Cambyses, however, would gladly have given
ten times as much treasure to secure possession of the traitor.

To Phaedime’s despair the king ordered all the inhabitants of the harem,
except his mother, Atossa and the dying Nitetis, to be removed to Susa,
two days after the accused had been declared innocent. Several eunuchs of
rank were deposed from their offices. The entire caste was to suffer for
the sins of him who had escaped punishment.

Oropastes, who had already entered on his duties as regent of the kingdom,
and had clearly proved his non-participation in the crime of which his
brother had been proved guilty, bestowed the vacant places exclusively on
the Magi. The demonstration made by the people in favor of Bartja did not
come to the king’s ears until the crowd had long dispersed. Still,
occupied as he was, almost entirely, by his anxiety for Nitetis, he caused
exact information of this illegal manifestation to be furnished him, and
ordered the ringleaders to be severely punished. He fancied it was a proof
that Bartja had been trying to gain favor with the people, and Cambyses
would perhaps have shown his displeasure by some open act, if a better
impulse had not told him that he, not Bartja, was the brother who stood in
need of forgiveness. In spite of this, however, he could not get rid of
the feeling that Bartja, had been, though innocent, the cause of the sad
events which had just happened, nor of his wish to get him out of the way
as far as might be; and he therefore gave a ready consent to his brother’s
wish to start at once for Naukratis.

Bartja took a tender farewell of his mother and sister, and started two
days after his liberation. He was accompanied by Gyges, Zopyrus, and a
numerous retinue charged with splendid presents from Cambyses for Sappho.
Darius remained behind, kept back by his love for Atossa. The day too was
not far distant, when, by his father’s wish, he was to marry Artystone,
the daughter of Gobryas.

Bartja parted from his friend with a heavy heart, advising him to be very
prudent with regard to Atossa. The secret had been confided to Kassandane,
and she had promised to take Darius’ part with the king.

If any one might venture to raise his eyes to the daughter of Cyrus,
assuredly it was the son of Hystaspes; he was closely connected by
marriage with the royal family, belonged like Cambyses to the Pasargadae,
and his family was a younger branch of the reigning dynasty. His father
called himself the highest noble in the realm, and as such, governed the
province of Persia proper, the mother-country, to which this enormous
world-empire and its ruler owed their origin. Should the family of Cyrus
become extinct, the descendants of Hystaspes would have a well-grounded
right to the Persian throne. Darius therefore, apart from his personal
advantages, was a fitting claimant for Atossa’s hand. And yet no one dared
to ask the king’s consent. In the gloomy state of mind into which he had
been brought by the late events, it was likely that he might refuse it,
and such an answer would have to be regarded as irrevocable. So Bartja was
obliged to leave Persia in anxiety about the future of these two who were
very dear to him.

Croesus promised to act as mediator in this case also, and before Bartja
left, made him acquainted with Phanes.

The youth had heard such a pleasant account of the Athenian from Sappho,
that he met him with great cordiality, and soon won the fancy of the older
and more experienced man, who gave him many a useful hint, and a letter to
Theopompus, the Milesian, at Naukratis. Phanes concluded by asking for a
private interview.

Bartja returned to his friends looking grave and thoughtful; soon,
however, he forgot his cause of anxiety and joked merrily with them over a
farewell cup. Before he mounted his horse the next morning, Nebenchari
asked to be allowed an audience. He was admitted, and begged Bartja to
take the charge of a large written roll for king Amasis. It contained a
detailed account of Nitetis’ sufferings, ending with these words: “Thus
the unhappy victim of your ambitious plans will end her life in a few
hours by poison, to the use of which she was driven by despair. The
arbitrary caprices of the mighty can efface all happiness from the life of
a human creature, just as we wipe a picture from the tablet with a sponge.
Your servant Nebenchari is pining in a foreign land, deprived of home and
property, and the wretched daughter of a king of Egypt dies a miserable
and lingering death by her own hand. Her body will be torn to pieces by
dogs and vultures, after the manner of the Persians. Woe unto them who rob
the innocent of happiness here and of rest beyond the grave!”

Bartja had not been told the contents of this letter, but promised to take
it with him; he then, amid the joyful shouts of the people, set up outside
the city-gate the stones which, according to a Persian superstition, were
to secure him a prosperous journey, and left Babylon.

Nebenchari, meanwhile, prepared to return to his post by Nitetis’
dying-bed.

Just as he reached the brazen gates between the harem-gardens and the
courts of the large palace, an old man in white robes came up to him. The
sight seemed to fill Nebenchari with terror; he started as if the gaunt
old man had been a ghost. Seeing, however, a friendly and familiar smile
on the face of the other, he quickened his steps, and, holding out his
hand with a heartiness for which none of his Persian acquaintances would
have given him credit, exclaimed in Egyptian: “Can I believe my eyes? You
in Persia, old Hib? I should as soon have expected the sky to fall as to
have the pleasure of seeing you on the Euphrates. But now, in the name of
Osiris, tell me what can have induced you, you old ibis, to leave your
warm nest on the Nile and set out on such a long journey eastward.”

While Nebenchari was speaking, the old man listened in a bowing posture,
with his arms hanging down by his side, and when he had finished, looked
up into his face with indescribable joy, touched his breast with trembling
fingers, and then, falling on the right knee, laying one hand on his heart
and raising the other to heaven, cried: “Thanks be unto thee, great Isis,
for protecting the wanderer and permitting him to see his master once more
in health and safety. Ah, child, how anxious I have been! I expected to
find you as wasted and thin as a convict from the quarries; I thought you
would have been grieving and unhappy, and here you are as well, and
handsome and portly as ever. If poor old Hib had been in your place he
would have been dead long ago.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt that, old fellow. I did not leave home of my own will
either, nor without many a heartache. These foreigners are all the
children of Seth. The good and gracious gods are only to be found in Egypt
on the shores of the sacred, blessed Nile.”

“I don’t know much about its being so blessed,” muttered the old man.

“You frighten me, father Hib. What has happened then?”

“Happened! Things have come to a pretty pass there, and you’ll hear of it
soon enough. Do you think I should have left house and grandchildren at my
age,—going on for eighty,—like any Greek or Phoenician
vagabond, and come out among these godless foreigners (the gods blast and
destroy them!), if I could possibly have staid on in Egypt?”

“But tell me what it’s all about.”

“Some other time, some other time. Now you must take me to your own house,
and I won’t stir out of it as long as we are in this land of Typhon.”

The old man said this with so much emphasis, that Nebenchiari could not
help smiling and saying: “Have they treated you so very badly then, old
man?”

“Pestilence and Khamsin!” blustered the old man.

“There’s not a more good-for-nothing Typhon’s brood on the face of the
earth than these Persians. I only wonder they’re not all red-haired and
leprous. Ah, child, two whole days I have been in this hell already, and
all that time I was obliged to live among these blasphemers. They said no
one could see you; you were never allowed to leave Nitetis’ sick-bed. Poor
child! I always said this marriage with a foreigner would come to no good,
and it serves Amasis right if his children give him trouble. His conduct
to you alone deserves that.”

“For shame, old man!”

“Nonsense, one must speak one’s mind sometimes. I hate a king, who comes
from nobody knows where. Why, when he was a poor boy he used to steal your
father’s nuts, and wrench the name-plates off the house-doors. I saw he
was a good-for-nothing fellow then. It’s a shame that such people should
be allowed to….”

“Gently, gently, old man. We are not all made of the same stuff, and if
there was such a little difference between you and Amasis as boys, it, is
your own fault that, now you are old men, he has outstripped you so far.

“My father and grandfather were both servants in the temple, and of course
I followed in their footsteps.”

“Quite right; it is the law of caste, and by that rule, Amasis ought never
to have become anything higher than a poor army-captain at most.”

“It is not every one who’s got such an easy conscience as this upstart
fellow.”

“There you are again! For shame, Hib! As long as I can remember, and that
is nearly half a century, every other word with you has been an abusive
one. When I was a child your ill-temper was vented on me, and now the king
has the benefit of it.”

“Serves him right! All, if you only knew all! It’s now seven months since
…”

“I can’t stop to listen to you now. At the rising of the seven stars I
will send a slave to take you to my rooms. Till then you must stay in your
present lodging, for I must go to my patient.”

“You must?—Very well,—then go and leave poor old Hib here to
die. I can’t possibly live another hour among these creatures.”

“What would you have me do then?”

“Let me live with you as long as we are in Persia.”

“Have they treated you so very roughly?”

“I should think they had indeed. It is loathsome to think of. They forced
me to eat out of the same pot with them and cut my bread with the same
knife. An infamous Persian, who had lived many years in Egypt, and
travelled here with us, had given them a list of all the things and
actions, which we consider unclean. They took away my knife when I was
going to shave myself. A good-for-nothing wench kissed me on the forehead,
before I could prevent it. There, you needn’t laugh; it will be a month at
least before I can get purified from all these pollutions. I took an
emetic, and when that at last began to take effect, they all mocked and
sneered at me. But that was not all. A cursed cook-boy nearly beat a
sacred kitten to death before my very eyes. Then an ointment-mixer, who
had heard that I was your servant, made that godless Bubares ask me
whether I could cure diseases of the eye too. I said yes, because you know
in sixty years it’s rather hard if one can’t pick up something from one’s
master. Bubares was interpreter between us, and the shameful fellow told
him to say that he was very much disturbed about a dreadful disease in his
eyes. I asked what it was, and received for answer that he could not tell
one thing from another in the dark!”

“You should have told him that the best remedy for that was to light a
candle.”

“Oh, I hate the rascals! Another hour among them will be the death of me!”

“I am sure you behaved oddly enough among these foreigners,” said
Nebenchiari smiling, “you must have made them laugh at you, for the
Persians are generally very polite, well-behaved people. Try them again,
only once. I shall be very glad to take you in this evening, but I can’t
possibly do it before.”

“It is as I thought! He’s altered too, like everybody else! Osiris is dead
and Seth rules the world again.”

“Farewell! When the seven stars rise, our old Ethiopian slave, Nebununf,
will wait for you here.”

“Nebununf, that old rogue? I never want to see him again.”

“Yes, the very same.”

“Him—well it’s a good thing, when people stay as they were. To be
sure I know some people who can’t say so much of themselves, and who
instead of minding their own business, pretend to heal inward diseases,
and when a faithful old servant…”

“Hold your tongue, and wait patiently till evening.” These last words were
spoken seriously, and produced the desired impression. The old man made
another obeisance, and before his master left him, said: “I came here
under the protection of Phanes, the former commander of the Greek
mercenaries. He wishes very much to speak with you.”

“That is his concern. He can come to me.”

“You never leave that sick girl, whose eyes are as sound as…”

“Hib!”

“For all I care she may have a cataract in both. May Phanes come to you
this evening?”

“I wished to be alone with you.”

“So did I; but the Greek seems to be in a great hurry, and he knows nearly
everything that I have to tell you.”

“Have you been gossiping then?”

“No—not exactly—but…”

“I always thought you were a man to be trusted.”

“So I was. But this Greek knows already a great deal of what I know, and
the rest…”

“Well?”

“The rest he got out of me, I hardly know how myself. If I did not wear
this amulet against an evil eye, I should have been obliged…”

“Yes, yes, I know the Athenian—I can forgive you. I should like him
to come with you this evening. But I see the sun is already high in the
heavens. I have no time to lose. Tell me in a few words what has
happened.”

“I thought this evening…”

“No, I must have at least a general idea of what has happened before I see
the Athenian. Be brief.”

“You have been robbed!”

“Is that all?”

“Is not that enough?”

“Answer me. Is that all?”

“Yes!”

“Then farewell.”

“But Nebenchari!”

The physician did not even hear this exclamation; the gates of the harem
had already closed behind him.

When the Pleiades had risen, Nebenchari was to be found seated alone in
one of the magnificent rooms assigned to his use on the eastern side of
the palace, near to Kassandane’s apartments. The friendly manner in which
he had welcomed his old servant had given place to the serious expression
which his face usually wore, and which had led the cheerful Persians to
call him a morose and gloomy man.

Nebenchari was an Egyptian priest through and through; a member of that
caste which never indulged in a jest, and never for a moment forgot to be
dignified and solemn before the public; but when among their relations and
their colleagues completely threw off this self-imposed restraint, and
gave way at times even to exuberant mirth.

Though he had known Phanes in Sais, he received him with cold politeness,
and, after the first greeting was ended, told Hib to leave them alone.

“I have come to you,” said the Athenian, “to speak about some very
important affairs.”

“With which I am already acquainted,” was the Egyptian’s curt reply.

“I am inclined to doubt that,” said Phanes with an incredulous smile.

“You have been driven out of Egypt, persecuted and insulted by Psamtik,
and you have come to Persia to enlist Cambyses as an instrument of revenge
against my country.”

“You are mistaken. I have nothing against your country, but all the more
against Amasis and his house. In Egypt the state and the king are one, as
you very well know.”

“On the contrary, my own observations have led me to think that the
priests considered themselves one with the state.”

“In that case you are better informed than I, who have always looked on
the kings of Egypt as absolute. So they are; but only in proportion as
they know how to emancipate themselves from the influence of your caste.—Amasis
himself submits to the priests now.”

“Strange intelligence!”

“With which, however, you have already long been made acquainted.”

“Is that your opinion?”

“Certainly it is. And I know with still greater certainty that once—you
hear me—once, he succeeded in bending the will of these rulers of
his to his own.”

“I very seldom hear news from home, and do not understand what you are
speaking of.”

“There I believe you, for if you knew what I meant and could stand there
quietly without clenching your fist, you would be no better than a dog who
only whimpers when he’s kicked and licks the hand that torments him.”

The physician turned pale. “I know that Amasis has injured and insulted
me,” he said, “but at the same time I must tell you that revenge is far
too sweet a morsel to be shared with a stranger.”

“Well said! As to my own revenge, however, I can only compare it to a
vineyard where the grapes are so plentiful, that I am not able to gather
them all myself.”

“And you have come hither to hire good laborers.”

“Quite right, and I do not even yet give up the hope of securing you to
take a share in my vintage.”

“You are mistaken. My work is already done. The gods themselves have taken
it in hand. Amasis has been severely enough punished for banishing me from
country, friends and pupils into this unclean land.”

“You mean by his blindness perhaps?”

“Possibly.”

“Then you have not heard that Petammon, one of your colleagues, has
succeeded in cutting the skin, which covered the pupil of the eye and so
restoring Amasis’ sight?”

The Egyptian started and ground his teeth; recovered his presence of mind,
however, in a moment, and answered: “Then the gods have punished the
father through the children.”

“In what way? Psamtik suits his father’s present mood very well. It is
true that Tachot is ill, but she prays and sacrifices with her father all
the more for that; and as to Nitetis, you and I both know that her death
will not touch him very closely.”

“I really do not understand you.”

“Of course not, so long as you fancy that I believe your beautiful patient
to be Amasis’ daughter.”

The Egyptian started again, but Phanes went on without appearing to notice
his emotion: “I know more than you suppose. Nitetis is the daughter of
Hophra, Amasis’ dethroned predecessor. Amasis brought her up as his own
child-first, in order to make the Egyptians believe that Hophra had died
childless; secondly, in order to deprive her of her rights to the throne;
for you know women are allowed to govern on the Nile.”

“These are mere suppositions.”

“For which, however, I can bring irrefragable proofs. Among the papers
which your old servant Hib brought with him in a small box, there must be
some letters from a certain Sonnophre, a celebrated accoucheur, your own
father, which…”

“If that be the case, those letters are my property, and I have not the
slightest intention of giving them up; besides which you might search
Persia from one end to the other without finding any one who could
decipher my father’s writing.”

“Pardon me, if I point out one or two errors into which you have fallen.
First, this box is at present in my hands, and though I am generally
accustomed to respect the rights of property, I must assure you that, in
the present instance, I shall not return the box until its contents have
served my purpose. Secondly, the gods have so ordained, that just at this
moment there is a man in Babylon who can read every kind of writing known
to the Egyptian priests. Do you perhaps happen to know the name of
Onuphis?”

For the third time the Egyptian turned pale. “Are you certain,” he said,
“that this man is still among the living?”

“I spoke to him myself yesterday. He was formerly, you know, high-priest
at Heliopolis, and was initiated into all your mysteries there. My wise
countryman, Pythagoras of Samos, came to Egypt, and after submitting to
some of your ceremonies, was allowed to attend the lessons given in the
schools for priests. His remarkable talents won the love of the great
Onuphis and he taught him all the Egyptian mysteries, which Pythagoras
afterwards turned to account for the benefit of mankind. My delightful
friend Rhodopis and I are proud of having been his pupils. When the rest
of your caste heard that Onuphis had betrayed the sacred mysteries, the
ecclesiastical judges determined on his death. This was to be caused by a
poison extracted from peach-kernels. The condemned man, however, heard of
their machinations, and fled to Naukratis, where he found a safe asylum in
the house of Rhodopis, whom he had heard highly praised by Pythagoras, and
whose dwelling was rendered inviolable by the king’s letter. Here he met
Antimenidas the brother of the poet Alcarus of Lesbos, who, having been
banished by Pittakus, the wise ruler of Mitylene, had gone to Babylon, and
there taken service in the army of Nebuchadnezzar, the King of Assyria.
Antimenidas gave him letters to the Chaldians. Onuphis travelled to the
Euphrates, settled there, and was obliged to seek for some means of
earning his daily bread, as he had left Egypt a poor man. He is now
supporting himself in his old age, by the assistance which his superior
knowledge enables him to render the Chaldoeans in their astronomical
observations from the tower of Bel. Onuphis is nearly eighty, but his mind
is as clear as ever, and when I saw him yesterday and asked him to help
me, his eyes brightened as he promised to do so. Your father was one of
his judges, but he bears you no malice and sends you a greeting.”

Nebenchari’s eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the ground during this tale.
When Phanes had finished, he gave him a penetrating look and said: “Where
are my papers?”

“They are in Onuphis’ hands. He is looking among them for the document I
want.”

“I expected to hear that. Be so good as to tell me what the box is like,
which Hib thought proper to bring over to Persia?”

“It is a small ebony trunk, with an exquisitely-carved lid. In the centre
is a winged beetle, and on the four corners…”

“That contains nothing but a few of my father’s notices and memorandums,”
said Nebenchari, drawing a deep breath of relief.

“They will very likely be sufficient for my purpose. I do not know whether
you have heard, that I stand as high as possible in Cambyses’ favor.”

“So much the better for you. I can assure you, however, that the paper.
which would have been most useful to you have all been left behind in
Egypt.”

“They were in a large chest made of sycamore-wood and painted in colors.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because—now listen well to what I am going to say, Nebenchari—because
I can tell you (I do not swear, for our great master Pythagoras forbade
oaths), that this very chest, with all it contained, was burnt in the
grove of the temple of Neith, in Sais, by order of the king.”

Phanes spoke slowly, emphasizing every syllable, and the words seemed to
strike the Egyptian like so many flashes of lightning. His quiet coolness
and deliberation gave way to violent emotion; his cheeks glowed and his
eyes flashed. But only for one single minute; then the strong emotion
seemed to freeze, his burning cheeks grew pale. “You are trying to make me
hate my friends, in order to gain me as your ally,” he said, coldly and
calmly. “I know you Greeks very well. You are so intriguing and artful,
that there is no lie, no fraud, too base, if it will only help to gain
your purpose.”

“You judge me and my countrymen in true Egyptian fashion; that is, they
are foreigners, and therefore must be bad men. But this time your
suspicions happen to be misplaced. Send for old Hib; he will tell you
whether I am right or not.”

Nebenchari’s face darkened, as Hib came into the room.

“Come nearer,” said he in a commanding tone to the old man.

Hib obeyed with a shrug of the shoulders.

“Tell me, have you taken a bribe from this man? Yes or no? I must know the
truth; it can influence my future for good or evil. You are an old and
faithful servant, to whom I owe a great deal, and so I will forgive you if
you were taken in by his artifices, but I must know the truth. I conjure
you to tell me by the souls of your fathers gone to Osiris!”

The old man’s sallow face turned ashy pale as he heard these words. He
gulped and wheezed some time before he could find an answer, and at last,
after choking down the tears which had forced their way to his eyes, said,
in a half-angry, half-whining tone: “Didn’t I say so? they’ve bewitched
him, they’ve ruined him in this wicked land. Whatever a man would do
himself, he thinks others are capable of. Aye, you may look as angry as
you like; it matters but little to me. What can it matter indeed to an old
man, who has served the same family faithfully and honestly for sixty
years, if they call him at last a rogue, a knave, a traitor, nay even a
murderer, if it should take their fancy.”

And the scalding tears flowed down over the old man’s cheeks, sorely
against his will.

The easily-moved Phanes clapped him on the shoulder and said, turning to
Nebenchari: “Hib is a faithful fellow. I give you leave to call me a
rascal, if he has taken one single obolus from me.”

The physician did not need Phanes’ assurance; he had known his old servant
too well and too long not to be able to read his simple, open features, on
which his innocence was written as clearly as in the pages of an open
book. “I did not mean to reproach you, old Hib,” he said kindly, coming up
to him. “How can any one be so angry at a simple question?”

“Perhaps you expect me to be pleased at such a shameful suspicion?”

“No, not that; but at all events now you can tell me what has happened at
our house since I left.”

“A pretty story that is! Why only to think of it makes my mouth as bitter,
as if I were chewing wormwood.”

“You said I had been robbed.”

“Yes indeed: no one was ever so robbed before. There would have been some
comfort if the knaves had belonged to the thieves’ caste, for then we
should have got the best part of our property back again, and should not
after all have been worse off than many another; but when…”

“Keep to the point, for my time is limited.”

“You need not tell me that; I see old Hib can’t do anything right here in
Persia. Well, be it so, you’re master; you must give orders; I am only the
servant, I must obey. I won’t forget it. Well, as I was saying, it was
just at the time when the great Persian embassy came over to Sais to fetch
Nitetis, and made everybody stare at them as if they were monsters or
prodigies, that this shameful thing happened. I was sitting on the
mosquito-tower just as the sun was setting, playing with my little
grandson, my Baner’s eldest boy—he’s a fine strapping little lad
now, wonderfully sharp and strong for his age. The rogue was just telling
me how his father, the Egyptians do that when their wives leave the
children too much alone—had hidden his mother’s shoes, and I was
laughing heartily, because my Baner won’t let any of the little ones live
with me, she always says I spoil them, and so I was glad she should have
the trick played her—when all of a sudden there was such a loud
knocking at the house-door, that I thought there must be a fire and let
the child drop off my lap. Down the stairs I ran, three steps at a time,
as fast as my long legs would carry me, and unbarred the door. Before I
had time to ask them what they wanted, a whole crowd of temple-servants
and policemen—there must have been at least fifteen of them—forced
their way into the house. Pichi,—you know, that impudent fellow from
the temple of Neith,—pushed me back, barred the door inside and told
the police to put me in fetters if I refused to obey him. Of course I got
angry and did not use very civil words to them—you know that’s my
way when I’m put out—and what does that bit of a fellow do—by
our god Thoth, the protector of knowledge who must know all, I’m speaking
the truth—but order them to bind my hands, forbid me—me, old
Hib—to speak, and then tell me that he had been told by the
high-priest to order me five-and-twenty strokes, if I refused to do his
bidding. He showed me the high-priest’s ring, and so I knew there was
nothing for it but to obey the villain, whether I would or no. And what
was his modest demand? Why, nothing less than to give him all the written
papers you had left behind. But old Hib is not quite so stupid as to let
himself be caught in that way, though some people, who ought to know
better, do fancy he can be bribed and is no better than the son of an ass.
What did I do then? I pretended to be quite crushed into submission by the
sight of the signet-ring, begged Pichi as politely as I could to unfasten
my hands, and told him I would fetch the keys. They loosened the cords, I
flew up the stairs five steps at a time, burst open the door of your
sleeping-room, pushed my little grandson, who was standing by it, into the
room and barred it within. Thanks to my long legs, the others were so far
behind that I had time to get hold of the black box which you had told me
to take so much care of, put it into the child’s arms, lift him through
the window on to the balcony which runs round the house towards the inner
court, and tell him to put it at once into the pigeon-house. Then I opened
the door as if nothing had happened, told Pichi the child had had a knife
in his mouth, and that that was the reason I had run upstairs in such a
hurry, and had put him out on the balcony to punish him. That brother of a
hippopotamus was easily taken in, and then he made me show him over the
house. First they found the great sycamore-chest which you had told me to
take great care of too, then the papyrus-rolls on your writing-table, and
so by degrees every written paper in the house. They made no distinction,
but put all together into the great chest and carried it downstairs; the
little black box, however, lay safe enough in the pigeon-house. My
grandchild is the sharpest boy in all Sais!

“When I saw them really carrying the chest downstairs, all the anger I’d
been trying so hard to keep down burst out again. I told the impudent
fellows I would accuse them before the magistrates, nay, even before the
king if necessary, and if those confounded Persians, who were having the
city shown them, had not come up just then and made everybody stare at
them, I could have roused the crowd to take my side. The same evening I
went to my son-in-law-he is employed in the temple of Neith too, you know,—and
begged him to make every effort to find out what had become of the papers.
The good fellow has never forgotten the handsome dowry you gave my Baner
when he married her, and in three days he came and told me he had seen
your beautiful chest and all the rolls it contained burnt to ashes. I was
so angry that I fell ill of the jaundice, but that did not hinder me from
sending in a written accusation to the magistrates. The wretches,—I
suppose only because they were priests too,—refused to take any
notice of me or my complaint. Then I sent in a petition to the king, and
was turned away there too with the shameful threat, that I should be
considered guilty of high treason if I mentioned the papers again. I
valued my tongue too much to take any further steps, but the ground burnt
under my feet; I could not stay in Egypt, I wanted to see you, tell you
what they had done to you, and call on you, who are more powerful than
your poor servant, to revenge yourself. And besides, I wanted to see the
black box safe in your hands, lest they should take that from me too. And
so, old man as I am, with a sad heart I left my home and my grandchildren
to go forth into this foreign Typhon’s land. Ah, the little lad was too
sharp! As I was kissing him, he said: ‘Stay with us, grandfather. If the
foreigners make you unclean, they won’t let me kiss you any more.’ Baner
sends you a hearty greeting, and my son-in-law told me to say he had found
out that Psamtik, the crown-prince, and your rival, Petammon, had been the
sole causes of this execrable deed. I could not make up my mind to trust
myself on that Typhon’s sea, so I travelled with an Arabian trading
caravan as far as Tadmor,—[Palmyra]—the Phoenician palm-tree
station in the wilderness, and then on to Carchemish, on the Euphrates,
with merchants from Sidon. The roads from Sardis and from Phoenicia meet
there, and, as I was sitting very weary in the little wood before the
station, a traveller arrived with the royal post-horses, and I saw at once
that it was the former commander of the Greek mercenaries.”

“And I,” interrupted Phanes, “recognized just as soon in you, the longest
and most quarrelsome old fellow that had ever come across my path. Oh, how
often I’ve laughed to see you scolding the children, as they ran after you
in the street whenever you appeared behind your master with the
medicine-chest. The minute I saw you too I remembered a joke which the
king once made in his own way, as you were both passing by. ‘The old man,’
he said, reminds me of a fierce old owl followed by a flight of small
teasing birds, and Nebenchari looks as if he had a scolding wife, who will
some day or other reward him for healing other people’s eyes by scratching
out his own!’”

“Shameful!” said the old man, and burst into a flood of execrations.

Nebenchari had been listening to his servant’s tale in silence and
thought. He had changed color from time to time and on hearing that the
papers which had cost him so many nights of hard work had been burnt, his
fists clenched and he shivered as if seized by biting frost. Not one of
his movements escaped the Athenian. He understood human nature; he knew
that a jest is often much harder to bear than a grave affront, and
therefore seized this opportunity to repeat the inconsiderate joke which
Amasis had, it is true, allowed himself to make in one of his merry moods.
Phanes had calculated rightly, and had the pleasure of seeing, that as he
uttered the last words Nebenchari pressed his hand on a rose which lay on
the table before him, and crushed it to pieces. The Greek suppressed a
smile of satisfaction, and did not even raise his eyes from the ground,
but continued speaking: “Well, now we must bring the travelling adventures
of good old Hib to a close. I invited him to share my carriage. At first
he refused to sit on the same cushion with such a godless foreigner, as I
am, gave in, however, at last, had a good opportunity at the last station
of showing the world how many clever processes of manipulation he had
learnt from you and your father, in his treatment of Oropastes’ wounded
brother; he reached Babylon at last safe and sound, and there, as we could
not get sight of you, owing to the melancholy poisoning of your
country-woman, I succeeded in obtaining him a lodging in the royal palace
itself. The rest you knew already.”

Nebenchari bowed assent and gave Hib a sign to leave the room, which the
old man obeyed, grumbling and scolding in a low tone as he departed. When
the door had closed on him, Nebenchari, the man whose calling was to heal,
drew nearer to the soldier Phanes, and said: “I am afraid we cannot be
allies after all, Greek.”

“Why not?”

“Because I fear, that your revenge will prove far too mild when compared
with that which I feel bound to inflict.”

“On that head there is no need for solicitude,” answered the Athenian.
“May I call you my ally then?”

“Yes,” answered the other; “but only on one condition.”

“And that is—?”

“That you will procure me an opportunity of seeing our vengeance with my
own eyes.”

“That is as much as to say you are willing to accompany Cambyses’ army to
Egypt?”

“Certainly I am; and when I see my enemies pining in disgrace and misery I
will cry unto them, ‘Ah ha, ye cowards, the poor despised and exiled
physician, Nebenchari, has brought this wretchedness upon you!’ Oh, my
books, my books! They made up to me for my lost wife and child. Hundreds
were to have learnt from them how to deliver the blind from the dark night
in which he lives, and to preserve to the seeing the sweetest gift of the
gods, the greatest beauty of the human countenance, the receptacle of
light, the seeing eye. Now that my books are burnt I have lived in vain;
the wretches have burnt me in burning my works. O my books, my books!” And
he sobbed aloud in his agony. Phanes came up and took his band, saying:
“The Egyptians have struck you, my friend, but me they have maltreated and
abused—thieves have broken into your granaries, but my hearth and
home have been burnt to ashes by incendiaries. Do you know, man, what I
have had to suffer at their hands? In persecuting me, and driving me out
of Egypt, they only did what they had a right to do; by their law I was a
condemned man; and I could have forgiven all they did to me personally,
for I loved Amasis, as a man loves his friend. The wretch knew that, and
yet he suffered them to commit a monstrous, an incredible act—an act
that a man’s brain refuses to take in. They stole like wolves by night
into a helpless woman’s house—they seized my children, a girl and
boy, the pride, the joy and comfort of my homeless, wandering life. And
how think you, did they treat them? The girl they kept in confinement, on
the pretext that by so doing they should prevent me from betraying Egypt
to Cambyses. But the boy—my beautiful, gentle boy—my only son—has
been murdered by Psamtik’s orders, and possibly with the knowledge of
Amasis. My heart was withered and shrunk with exile and sorrow, but I feel
that it expands—it beats more joyfully now that there is a hope of
vengeance.”

Nebenchari’s sullen but burning glance met the flashing eye of the
Athenian as he finished his tale; he gave him his hand and said: “We are
allies.”

The Greek clasped the offered hand and answered: “Our first point now is
to make sure of the king’s favor.”

“I will restore Kassandane’s sight.”

“Is that in your power?”

“The operation which removed Amasis’ blindness was my own discovery.
Petammon stole it from my burnt papers.”

“Why did you not exert your skill earlier?”

“Because I am not accustomed to bestow presents on my enemies.”

Phanes shuddered slightly at these words, recovered himself, however, in a
moment, and said: “And I am certain of the king’s favor too. The
Massagetan envoys have gone home to-day; peace has been granted them
and….”

While he was speaking the door was burst open and one of Kassandane’s
eunuchs rushed into the room crying: “The Princess Nitetis is dying!
Follow me at once, there is not a moment to lose.”

The physician made a parting sign to his confederate, and followed the
eunuch to the dying-bed of the royal bride.


CHAPTER VIII.

The sun was already trying to break a path for his rays through the thick
curtains, that closed the window of the sick-room, but Nebenchari had not
moved from the Egyptian girl’s bedside. Sometimes he felt her pulse, or
spread sweet-scented ointments on her forehead or chest, and then he would
sit gazing dreamily into vacancy. Nitetis seemed to have sunk into a deep
sleep after an attack of convulsions. At the foot of her bed stood six
Persian doctors, murmuring incantations under the orders of Nebenchari,
whose superior science they acknowledged, and who was seated at the bed’s
head.

Every time he felt the sick girl’s pulse he shrugged his shoulders, and
the gesture was immediately imitated by his Persian colleagues. From time
to time the curtain was lifted and a lovely head appeared, whose
questioning blue eyes fixed at once on the physician, but were always
dismissed with the same melancholy shrug. It was Atossa. Twice she had
ventured into the room, stepping so lightly as hardly to touch the thick
carpet of Milesian wool, had stolen to her friend’s bedside and lightly
kissed her forehead, on which the pearly dew of death was standing, but
each time a severe and reproving glance from Nebenchari had sent her back
again into the next room, where her mother Kassandane was lying, awaiting
the end.

Cambyses had left the sick-room at sunrise, on seeing that Nitetis had
fallen asleep; he flung himself on to his horse, and accompanied by
Phanes, Prexaspes, Otanes, Darius, and a number of courtiers, only just
aroused from their sleep, took a wild ride through the game-park. He knew
by experience, that he could best overcome or forget any violent mental
emotion when mounted on an unmanageable horse.

Nebenchari started on hearing the sound of horses’ hoofs in the distance.
In a waking dream he had seen Cambyses enter his native land at the head
of immense hosts; he had seen its cities and temples on fire, and its
gigantic pyramids crumbling to pieces under the powerful blows of his
mighty hand. Women and children lay in the smouldering ruins, and
plaintive cries arose from the tombs in which the very mummies moved like
living beings; and all these-priests, warriors, women, and children—the
living and the dead—all had uttered his,—Nebenchari’s,—name,
and had cursed him as a traitor to his country. A cold shiver struck to
his heart; it beat more convulsively than the blood in the veins of the
dying girl at his side. Again the curtain was raised; Atossa stole in once
more and laid her hand on his shoulder. He started and awoke. Nebenchari
had been sitting three days and nights with scarcely any intermission by
this sick-bed, and such dreams were the natural consequence.

Atossa slipped back to her mother. Not a sound broke the sultry air of the
sick-room, and Nebenchiari’s thoughts reverted to his dream. He told
himself that he was on the point of becoming a traitor and a criminal, the
visions he had just beheld passed before him again, but this time it was
another, and a different one which gained the foremost place. The forms of
Amasis, who had laughed at and exiled him,—of Psamtik and the
priests,—who had burnt his works,—stood near him; they were
heavily fettered and besought mercy at his hands. His lips moved, but this
was not the place in which to utter the cruel words which rose to them.
And then the stern man wiped away a tear as he remembered the long nights,
in which he had sat with the reed in his hand, by the dull light of the
lamp, carefully painting every sign of the fine hieratic character in
which he committed his ideas and experience to writing. He had discovered
remedies for many diseases of the eye, spoken of in the sacred books of
Thoth and the writings of a famous old physician of Byblos as incurable,
but, knowing that he should be accused of sacrilege by his colleagues, if
he ventured on a correction or improvement of the sacred writings, he had
entitled his work, “Additional writings on the treatment of diseases of
the eye, by the great god Thoth, newly discovered by the oculist
Nebenchari.”

He had resolved on bequeathing his works to the library at Thebes, that
his experience might be useful to his successors and bring forth fruit for
the whole body of sufferers. This was to be his reward for the long nights
which he had sacrificed to science—recognition after death, and fame
for the caste to which he belonged. And there stood his old rival
Petammon, by the side of the crown-prince in the grove of Neith, and
stirred the consuming fire, after having stolen his discovery of the
operation of couching. Their malicious faces were tinged by the red glow
of the flames, which rose with their spiteful laughter towards heaven, as
if demanding vengeance. A little further off he saw in his dream Amasis
receiving his father’s letters from the hands of the high-priest. Scornful
and mocking words were being uttered by the king; Neithotep looked
exultant.—In these visions Nebenchari was so lost, that one of the
Persian doctors was obliged to point out to him that his patient was
awake. He nodded in reply, pointing to his own weary eyes with a smile,
felt the sick girl’s pulse, and asked her in Egyptian how she had slept.

“I do not know,” she answered, in a voice that was hardly audible. “It
seemed to me that I was asleep, and yet I saw and heard everything that
had happened in the room. I felt so weak that I hardly knew whether I was
awake or asleep. Has not Atossa been here several times?”

“Yes.”

“And Cambyses stayed with Kassandane until sunrise; then he went out,
mounted his horse Reksch, and rode into the game-park.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw it.”

Nebenchari looked anxiously into the girl’s shining eyes. She went on: “A
great many dogs have been brought into the court behind this house.”

“Probably the king has ordered a hunt, in order to deaden the pain which
he feels at seeing you suffer.”

“Oh, no. I know better what it means. Oropastes taught me, that whenever a
Persian dies dogs’ are brought in, that the Divs may enter into them.”

“But you are living, my mistress, and…”

“Oh, I know very well that I shall die. I knew that I had not many hours
more to live, even if I had not seen how you and the other physicians
shrugged your shoulders whenever you looked at me. That poison is deadly.”

“You are speaking too much, my mistress, it will hurt you.”

“Oh let me speak, Nebenchari! I must ask you to do something for me before
I die.”

“I am your servant.”

“No, Nebenchari, you must be my friend and priest. You are not angry with
me for having prayed to the Persian gods? Our own Hathor was always my
best friend still. Yes, I see by your face that you forgiven me. Then you
must promise not to allow my corpse to be torn in pieces by dogs and
vultures. The thought is so very dreadful. You will promise to embalm my
body and ornament it with amulets?”

“If the king allows.”

“Of course he will. How could Cambyses possibly refuse my last request?”

“Then my skill is at your service.”

“Thank you; but I have still something else to ask.”

“You must be brief. My Persian colleagues are already making signs to me,
to enjoin silence on you.”

“Can’t you send them away for a moment?”

“I will try to do so.”

Nebenchari then went up and spoke to the Magi for a few minutes, and they
left the room. An important incantation, at which no one but the two
concerned might be present, and the application of a new and secret
antidotal poison were the pretexts which he had used in order to get rid
of them.

When they were alone, Nitetis drew a breath of relief and said: “Give me
your priestly blessing on my long journey into the nether world, and
prepare me for my pilgrimage to Osiris.”

Nebenchari knelt down by her bed and in a low voice repeated hymns,
Nitetis making devotional responses.

The physician represented Osiris, the lord of the nether world—Nitetis
the soul, justifying itself before him.

When these ceremonies were ended the sick girl breathed more freely.
Nebenchari could not but feel moved in looking at this young suicide. He
felt confident that he had saved a soul for the gods of his native land,
had cheered the last sad and painful hours of one of God’s good creatures.
During these last moments, compassion and benevolence had excluded every
bitter feeling; but when he remembered that this lovely creature owed all
her misery to Amasis too, the old black cloud of thought darkened his mind
again.—Nitetis, after lying silent for some time, turned to her new
friend with a pleasant smile, and said: “I shall find mercy with the
judges of the dead now, shall not I?”

“I hope and believe so.”

“Perhaps I may find Tachot before the throne of Osiris, and my father….”

“Your father and mother are waiting for you there. Now in your last hour
bless those who begot you, and curse those who have robbed you of your
parents, your crown and your life.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Curse those who robbed you of your parents, crown and life, girl!” cried
the physician again, rising to his full height, breathing hard as he said
the words, and gazing down on the dying girl. “Curse those wretches, girl!
that curse will do more in gaining mercy from the judges of the dead, than
thousands of good works!” And as he said this he seized her hand and
pressed it violently.

Nitetis looked up uneasily into his indignant face, and stammered in blind
obedience, “I curse those who robbed my parents of their throne and
lives!”

“Those who robbed my parents of their throne and their lives,” she
repeated after him, and then crying, “Oh, my heart!” sank back exhausted
on the bed.

Nebenchari bent down, and before the royal physicians could return, kissed
her forehead gently, murmuring: “She dies my confederate. The gods hearken
to the prayers of those who die innocent. By carrying the sword into
Egypt, I shall avenge king Hophra’s wrongs as well as my own.”

When Nitetis opened her eyes once more, a few hours later, Kassandane was
holding her right hand, Atossa kneeling at her feet, and Croesus standing
at the head of her bed, trying, with the failing strength of old age, to
support the gigantic frame of the king, who was so completely overpowered
by his grief, that he staggered like a drunken man. The dying girl’s eyes
lighted up as she looked round on this circle. She was wonderfully
beautiful. Cambyses came closer and kissed her lips; they were growing
cold in death. It was the first kiss he had ever given her, and the last.
Two large tears sprang to her eyes; their light was fast growing dim; she
murmured Cambyses’ name softly, fell back in Atossa’s arms, and died.

We shall not give a detailed account of the next few hours: it would be an
unpleasant task to describe how, at a signal from the principal Persian
doctor, every one, except Nebenchari and Croesus, hastily left the room;
how dogs were brought in and their sagacious heads turned towards the
corpse in order to scare the demon of death;—how, directly after
Nitetis’ death, Kassandane, Atossa and their entire retinue moved into
another house in order to avoid defilement;—how fire was
extinguished throughout the dwelling, that the pure element might be
removed from the polluting spirits of death;—how spells and
exorcisms were muttered, and how every person and thing, which had
approached or been brought into contact with the dead body, was subjected
to numerous purifications with water and pungent fluids.

The same evening Cambyses was seized by one of his old epileptic attacks.
Two days later he gave Nebenchari permission to embalm Nitetis’ body in
the Egyptian manner, according to her last wish. The king gave way to the
most immoderate grief; he tore the flesh of his arms, rent his clothes and
strewed ashes on his head, and on his couch. All the magnates of his court
were obliged to follow his example. The troops mounted guard with rent
banners and muffled drums. The cymbals and kettle-drums of the “Immortals”
were bound round with crape. The horses which Nitetis had used, as well as
all which were then in use by the court, were colored blue and deprived of
their tails; the entire court appeared in mourning robes of dark brown,
rent to the girdle, and the Magi were compelled to pray three days and
nights unceasingly for the soul of the dead, which was supposed to be
awaiting its sentence for eternity at the bridge Chinvat on the third
night.

Neither the king, Kassandane, nor Atossa shrank from submitting to the
necessary purifications; they repeated, as if for one of their nearest
relations, thirty prayers for the dead, while, in a house outside the city
gates Nebenchari began to embalm her body in the most costly manner, and
according to the strictest rules of his art.

For nine days Cambyses remained in a condition, which seemed little short
of insanity. At times furious, at others dull and stupefied, he did not
even allow his relations or the high-priest to approach him. On the
morning of the tenth day he sent for the chief of the seven judges and
commanded, that as lenient a sentence as possible should be pronounced on
Gaumata. Nitetis, on her dying-bed, had begged him to spare the life of
this unhappy youth.

One hour later the sentence was submitted to the king for ratification. It
ran thus: “Victory to the king! Inasmuch as Cambyses, the eye of the world
and the sun of righteousness, hath, in his great mercy, which is as broad
as the heavens and as inexhaustible as the great deep, commanded us to
punish the crime of the son of the Magi, Gaumata, with the indulgence of a
mother instead of with the severity of a judge, we, the seven judges of
the realm, have determined to grant his forfeited life. Inasmuch, however,
as by the folly of this youth the lives of the noblest and best in this
realm have been imperilled, and it may reasonably be apprehended that he
may again abuse the marvellous likeness to Bartja, the noble son of Cyrus,
in which the gods have been pleased in their mercy to fashion his form and
face, and thereby bring prejudice upon the pure and righteous, we have
determined to disfigure him in such wise, that in the time to come it will
be a light matter to discern between this, the most worthless subject of
the realm, and him who is most worthy. We therefore, by the royal Will and
command, pronounce sentence, that both the ears of Gaumata be cut off, for
the honor of the righteous and shame of the impure.”

Cambyses confirmed this sentence at once, and it was executed the same
day.

Oropastes did not dare to intercede for his brother, though this
ignominious punishment mortified his ambitious mind more than even a
sentence of death could have done. As he was afraid that his own influence
and consideration might suffer through this mutilated brother, he ordered
him to leave Babylon at once for a country-house of his own on Mount
Arakadris.

During the few days which had just passed, a shabbily-dressed and
closely-veiled woman had watched day and night at the great gate of the
palace; neither the threats of the sentries nor the coarse jests of the
palace-servants could drive her from her post. She never allowed one of
the less important officials to pass without eagerly questioning him,
first as to the state of the Egyptian Princess, and then what had become
of Gaumata. When his sentence was told her as a good joke by a chattering
lamp-lighter, she went off into the strangest excitement, and astonished
the poor man so much by kissing his robe, that he thought she must be
crazed, and gave her an alms. She refused the money, but remained at her
post, subsisting on the bread which was given her by the compassionate
distributors of food. Three days later Gaumata himself, with his head
bound up, was driven out in a closed harmamaxa. She rushed to the carriage
and ran screaming by the side of it, until the driver stopped his mules
and asked what she wanted. She threw back her veil and showed the poor,
suffering youth her pretty face covered with deep blushes. Gaumata uttered
a low cry as he recognized her, collected himself, however, in a moment,
and said: “What do you want with me, Mandane?”

The wretched girl raised her hands beseechingly to him, crying: “Oh, do
not leave me, Gaumata! Take me with you! I forgive you all the misery you
have brought on me and my poor mistress. I love you so much, I will take
care of you and nurse you as if I were the lowest servant-girl.”

A short struggle passed in Gaumata’s mind. He was just going to open the
carriage-door and clasp Mandane-his earliest love-in his arms, when the
sound of horses’ hoofs coming nearer struck on his ear, and looking round
he saw, a carriage full of Magi, among whom were several who had been his
companions at the school for priests. He felt ashamed and afraid of being
seen by the very youths, whom he had often treated proudly and haughtily
because he was the brother of the high-priest, threw Mandane a purse of
gold, which his brother had given him at parting, and ordered the driver
to go on as fast as possible. The mules galloped off. Mandane kicked the
purse away, rushed after the carriage and clung to it firmly. One of the
wheels caught her dress and dragged her down. With the strength of despair
she sprang up, ran after the mules, overtook them on a slight ascent which
had lessened their speed, and seized the reins. The driver used his
three-lashed whip, or scourge, the creatures reared, pulled the girl down
and rushed on. Her last cry of agony pierced the wounds of the mutilated
man like a sharp lance-thrust.

On the twelfth day after Nitetis’ death Cambyses went out hunting, in the
hope that the danger and excitement of the sport might divert his mind.
The magnates and men of high rank at his court received him with thunders
of applause, for which he returned cordial thanks. These few days of grief
had worked a great change in a man so unaccustomed to suffering as
Cambyses. His face was pale, his raven-black hair and beard had grown
grey, and the consciousness of victory which usually shone in his eyes was
dimmed. Had he not, only too painfully, experienced that there was a
stronger will than his own, and that, easily as he could destroy, it did
not be in his power to preserve the life of the meanest creature? Before
starting, Cambyses mustered his troop of sportsmen, and calling Gobryas,
asked why Phanes was not there.

“My King did not order…”

“He is my guest and companion, once for all; call him and follow us.”

Gobryas bowed, dashed back to the palace, and in half an hour reappeared
among the royal retinue with Phanes.

The Athenian was warmly welcomed by many of the group, a fact which seems
strange when we remember that courtiers are of all men the most prone to
envy, and a royal favorite always the most likely object to excite their
ill will. But Phanes seemed a rare exception to this rule. He had met the
Achaemenidae in so frank and winning a manner, had excited so many hopes
by the hints he had thrown out of an expected and important war, and had
aroused so much merriment by well-told jests, such as the Persians had
never heard before, that there were very few who did not welcome his
appearance gladly, and when—in company with the king—he
separated from the rest in chase of a wild ass, they openly confessed to
one another, that they had never before seen so perfect a man. The clever
way in which he had brought the innocence of the accused to light, the
finesse which he had shown in securing the king’s favor, and the ease with
which he had learnt the Persian language in so short a time, were all
subjects of admiration. Neither was there one even of the Achaemenidae
themselves, who exceeded him in beauty of face or symmetry of figure. In
the chase he proved himself a perfect horseman, and in a conflict with a
bear an exceptionally courageous and skilful sportsman. On the way home,
as the courtiers were extolling all the wonderful qualities possessed by
the king’s favorite, old Araspes exclaimed, “I quite agree with you that
this Greek, who by the way has proved himself a better soldier than
anything else, is no common man, but I am sure you would not praise him
half as much, if he were not a foreigner and a novelty.”

Phanes happened to be only separated from the speaker by some thick
bushes, and heard these words. When the other had finished, he went up and
said, smiling: “I understood what you said and feel obliged to you for
your kind opinion. The last sentence, however, gave me even more pleasure
than the first, because it confirmed my own idea that the Persians are the
most generous people in the world—they praise the virtues of other
nations as much, or even more, than their own.”

His hearers smiled, well pleased at this flattering remark, and Phanes
went on: “How different the Jews are now, for instance! They fancy
themselves the exclusive favorites of the gods, and by so doing incur the
contempt of all wise men, and the hatred of the whole world. And then the
Egyptians! You have no idea of the perversity of that people. Why, if the
priests could have their way entirely, (and they have a great deal of
power in their hands) not a foreigner would be left alive in Egypt, nor a
single stranger allowed to enter the country. A true Egyptian would rather
starve, than eat out of the same dish with one of us. There are more
strange, astonishing and wonderful things to be seen in that country than
anywhere else in the world. And yet, to do it justice, I must say that
Egypt has been well spoken of as the richest and most highly cultivated
land under the sun. The man who possesses that kingdom need not envy the
very gods themselves. It would be mere child’s play to conquer that
beautiful country. Ten years there gave me a perfect insight into the
condition of things, and I know that their entire military caste would not
be sufficient to resist one such troop as your Immortals. Well, who knows
what the future may bring! Perhaps we may all make a little trip together
to the Nile some day. In my opinion, your good swords have been rather
long idle.” These well-calculated words were received with such shouts of
applause, that the king turned his horse to enquire the cause. Phanes
answered quickly that the Achaemenidae were rejoicing in the thought that
a war might possibly be near at hand.

“What war?” asked the king, with the first smile that had been seen on his
face for many days.

“We were only speaking in general of the possibility of such a thing,”
answered Phanes carelessly; then, riding up to the king’s side, his voice
took an impressive tone full of feeling, and looking earnestly into his
face, he began: “It is true, my Sovereign, that I was not born in this
beautiful country as one of your subjects, nor can I boast of a long
acquaintance with the most powerful of monarchs, but yet I cannot resist
the presumptuous, perhaps criminal thought, that the gods at my birth
appointed me to be your real friend. It is not your rich gifts that have
drawn me to you. I did not need them, for I belong to the wealthier class
of my countrymen, and I have no son,—no heir,—to whom I can
bequeath my treasures. Once I had a boy—a beautiful, gentle child;—but
I was not going to speak of that,—I… Are you offended at my
freedom of speech, my Sovereign?”

“What is there to offend me?” answered the king, who had never been spoken
to in this manner before, and felt strongly attracted to the original
foreigner.

“Till to-day I felt that your grief was too sacred to be disturbed, but
now the time has come to rouse you from it and to make your heart glow
once more. You will have to hear what must be very painful to you.”

“There is nothing more now, that can grieve me.”

“What I am going to tell you will not give you pain; on the contrary, it
will rouse your anger.”

“You make me curious.”

“You have been shamefully deceived; you and that lovely creature, who died
such an early death a few days ago.”

Cambyses’ eyes flashed a demand for further information.

“Amasis, the King of Egypt, has dared to make sport of you, the lord of
the world. That gentle girl was not his daughter, though she herself
believed that she was; she…”

“Impossible!”

“It would seem so, and yet I am speaking the simple truth. Amasis spun a
web of lies, in which he managed to entrap, not only the whole world, but
you too, my Sovereign. Nitetis, the most lovely creature ever born of
woman, was the daughter of a king, but not of the usurper Amasis. Hophra,
the rightful king of Egypt, was the father of this pearl among women. You
may well frown, my Sovereign. It is a cruel thing to be betrayed by one’s
friends and allies.”

Cambyses spurred his horse, and after a silence of some moments, kept by
Phanes purposely, that his words might make a deeper impression, cried,
“Tell me more! I wish to know everything.”

“Hophra had been living twenty years in easy captivity in Sais after his
dethronement, when his wife, who had borne him three children and buried
them all, felt that she was about to give birth to a fourth. Hophra, in
his joy, determined to offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving in the temple of
Pacht, the Egyptian goddess supposed to confer the blessing of children,
when, on his way thither, a former magnate of his court, named Patarbemis,
whom, in a fit of unjust anger, he had ignominiously mutilated, fell upon
him with a troop of slaves and massacred him. Amasis had the unhappy widow
brought to his palace at once, and assigned her an apartment next to the
one occupied by his own queen Ladice, who was also expecting soon to give
birth to a child. A girl was born to Hophra’s widow, but the mother died
in the same hour, and two days later Ladice bore a child also.—But I
see we are in the court of the palace. If you allow, I will have the
report of the physician, by whom this imposture was effected, read before
you. Several of his notes have, by a remarkable conjuncture of
circumstances, which I will explain to you later, fallen into my hands. A
former high-priest of Heliopolis, Onuphis, is now living in Babylon, and
understands all the different styles of writing in use among his
countrymen. Nebenchari will, of course, refuse to help in disclosing an
imposture, which must inevitably lead to the ruin of his country.”

“In an hour I expect to see you here with the man you have just spoken of.
Croesus, Nebenchari, and all the Achaemenidae who were in Egypt, will have
to appear also. I must have certainty before I can act, and your testimony
alone is not sufficient, because I know from Amasis, that you have cause
to feel a grudge against his house.”

At the time appointed all were assembled before the king in obedience to
his command.

Onuphis, the former high-priest, was an old man of eighty. A pair of
large, clear, intelligent, grey eyes looked out of a head so worn and
wasted, as to be more like a mere skull than the head of a living man. He
held a large papyrus-roll in his gaunt hand, and was seated in an easy
chair, as his paralyzed limbs did not allow of his standing, even in the
king’s presence. His dress was snow-white, as beseemed a priest, but there
were patches and rents to be seen here and there. His figure might perhaps
once have been tall and slender, but it was now so bent and shrunk by age,
privation and suffering, as to look unnatural and dwarfish, in comparison
with the size of his head.

Nebenchari, who revered Onuphis, not only as a high-priest deeply
initiated in the most solemn mysteries, but also on account of his great
age, stood by his side and arranged his cushions. At his left stood
Phanes, and then Croesus, Darius and Prexaspes.

The king sat upon his throne. His face was dark and stern as he broke the
silence with the following words:—“This noble Greek, who, I am
inclined to believe, is my friend, has brought me strange tidings. He says
that I have been basely deceived by Amasis, that my deceased wife was not
his, but his predecessor’s daughter.”

A murmur of astonishment ran through the assembly. “This old man is here
to prove the imposture.” Onuphis gave a sign of assent.

“Prexaspes, my first question is to you. When Nitetis was entrusted to
your care, was it expressly said that she was the daughter of Amasis?”

“Expressly. Nebenchari had, it is true, praised Tachot to the noble
Kassandane as the most beautiful of the twin sisters; but Amasis insisted
on sending Nitetis to Persia. I imagined that, by confiding his most
precious jewel to your care, he meant to put you under a special
obligation; and as it seemed to me that Nitetis surpassed her sister, not
only in beauty but in dignity of character, I ceased to sue for the hand
of Tachot. In his letter to you too, as you will remember, he spoke of
confiding to you his most beautiful, his dearest child.”

“Those were his words.”

“And Nitetis was, without question, the more beautiful and the nobler of
the two sisters,” said Croesus in confirmation of the envoy’s remark. “But
it certainly did strike me that Tachot was her royal parents’ favorite.”

“Yes,” said Darius, “without doubt. Once, at a revel, Amasis joked Bartja
in these words: ‘Don’t look too deep into Tachot’s eyes, for if you were a
god, I could not allow you to take her to Persia!’ Psamtik was evidently
annoyed at this remark and said to the king, ‘Father, remember Phanes.’”

“Phanes!”

“Yes, my Sovereign,” answered the Athenian. “Once, when he was
intoxicated, Amasis let out his secret to me, and Psamtik was warning him
not to forget himself a second time.”

“Tell the story as it occurred.”

“On my return from Cyprus to Sais as a conqueror, a great entertainment
was given at court. Amasis distinguished me in every way, as having won a
rich province for him, and even, to the dismay of his own countrymen,
embraced me. His affection increased with his intoxication, and at last,
as Psamtik and I were leading him to his private apartments, he stopped at
the door of his daughter’s room, and said: ‘The girls sleep there. If you
will put away your own wife, Athenian, I will give you Nitetis. I should
like to have you for a son-in-law. There’s a secret about that girl,
Phanes; she’s not my own child.’ Before his drunken father could say more,
Psamtik laid his hand before his mouth, and sent me roughly away to my
lodging, where I thought the matter over and conjectured what I now, from
reliable sources, know to be the truth. I entreat you, command this old
man to translate those parts of the physician Sonnophre’s journal, which
allude to this story.”

Cambyses nodded his consent, and the old man began to read in a voice far
louder than any one could have supposed possible from his infirm
appearance “On the fifth day of the month Thoth, I was sent for by the
king. I had expected this, as the queen was near her confinement. With my
assistance she was easily and safely delivered of a child—a weakly
girl. As soon as the nurse had taken charge of this child, Amasis led me
behind a curtain which ran across his wife’s sleeping-apartment. There lay
another infant, which I recognized as the child of Hophra’s widow, who
herself had died under my hands on the third day of the same month. The
king then said, pointing to this strong child, ‘This little creature has
no parents, but, as it is written in the law that we are to show mercy to
the desolate orphans, Ladice and I have determined to bring her up as our
own daughter. We do not, however, wish that this deed should be made
known, either to the world or to the child herself, and I ask you to keep
the secret and spread a report that Ladice has given birth to twins. If
you accomplish this according to our wish, you shall receive to-day five
thousand rings of gold, and the fifth part of this sum yearly, during your
life. I made my obeisance in silence, ordered every one to leave the sick
room, and, when I again called them in, announced that Ladice had given
birth to a second girl. Amasis’ real child received the name of Tachot,
the spurious one was called Nitetis.”

At these words Cambyses rose from his seat, and strode through the hall;
but Onuphis continued, without allowing himself to be disturbed: “Sixth
day of the month Thoth. This morning I had just lain down to rest after
the fatigues of the night, when a servant appeared with the promised gold
and a letter from the king, asking me to procure a dead child, to be
buried with great ceremony as the deceased daughter of King Hophra. After
a great deal of trouble I succeeded, an hour ago, in obtaining one from a
poor girl who had given birth to a child secretly in the house of the old
woman, who lives at the entrance to the City of the Dead. The little one
had caused her shame and sorrow enough, but she would not be persuaded to
give up the body of her darling, until I promised that it should be
embalmed and buried in the most splendid manner. We put the little corpse
into my large medicine-chest, my son Nebenchari carried it this time
instead of my servant Hib, and so it was introduced into the room where
Hophra’s widow had died. The poor girl’s baby will receive a magnificent
funeral. I wish I might venture to tell her, what a glorious lot awaits
her darling after death. Nebenchari has just been sent for by the king.”

At the second mention of this name, Cambyses stopped in his walk, and
said: “Is our oculist Nebenchari the man whose name is mentioned in this
manuscript?”

“Nebenchari,” returned Phanes, “is the son of this very Sonnophre who
changed the children.”

The physician did not raise his eyes; his face was gloomy and sullen.

Cambyses took the roll of papyrus out of Onuphis’ band, looked at the
characters with which it was covered, shook his head, went up to
Nebenchari and said:

“Look at these characters and tell me if it is your father’s writing.”

Nebenchari fell on his knees and raised his hands.

“I ask, did your father paint these signs?”

“I do not know-whether… Indeed…”

“I will know the truth. Yes or no?”

“Yes, my King; but…”

“Rise, and be assured of my favor. Faithfulness to his ruler is the
ornament of a subject; but do not forget that I am your king now.
Kassandane tells me, that you are going to undertake a delicate operation
to-morrow in order to restore her sight. Are you not venturing too much?”

“I can depend on my own skill, my Sovereign.”

“One more question. Did you know of this fraud?”

“Yes.”

“And you allowed me to remain in error?”

“I had been compelled to swear secrecy and an oath…”

“An oath is sacred. Gobryas, see that both these Egyptians receive a
portion from my table. Old man, you seem to require better food.”

“I need nothing beyond air to breathe, a morsel of bread and a draught of
water to preserve me from dying of hunger and thirst, a clean robe, that I
may be pleasing in the eyes of the gods and in my own, and a small chamber
for myself, that I may be a hindrance to no man. I have never been richer
than to-day.”

“How so?”

“I am about to give away a kingdom.”

“You speak in enigmas.”

“By my translation of to-day I have proved, that your deceased consort was
the child of Hophra. Now, our law allows the daughter of a king to succeed
to the throne, when there is neither son nor brother living; if she should
die childless, her husband becomes her legitimate successor. Amasis is a
usurper, but the throne of Egypt is the lawful birthright of Hophra and
his descendants. Psamtik forfeits every right to the crown the moment that
a brother, son, daughter or son-in-law of Hophra appears. I can,
therefore, salute my present sovereign as the future monarch of my own
beautiful native land.”

Cambyses smiled self-complacently, and Onuphis went on: “I have read in
the stars too, that Psamtik’s ruin and your own accession to the throne of
Egypt have been fore-ordained.”

“We’ll show that the stars were right,” cried the king, “and as for you,
you liberal old fellow, I command you to ask me any wish you like.”

“Give me a conveyance, and let me follow your army to Egypt. I long to
close my eyes on the Nile.”

“Your wish is granted. Now, my friends, leave me, and see that all those
who usually eat at my table are present at this evening’s revel. We will
hold a council of war over the luscious wine. Methinks a campaign in Egypt
will pay better than a contest with the Massagetae.”

He was answered by a joyful shout of “Victory to the king!” They all then
left the hall, and Cambyses, summoning his dressers, proceeded for the
first time to exchange his mourning garments for the splendid royal robes.

Croesus and Phanes went into the green and pleasant garden lying on the
eastern side of the royal palace, which abounded in groves of trees,
shrubberies, fountains and flower-beds. Phanes was radiant with delight;
Croesus full of care and thought.

“Have you duly reflected,” said the latter, “on the burning brand that you
have just flung out into the world?”

“It is only children and fools that act without reflection,” was the
answer.

“You forget those who are deluded by passion.”

“I do not belong to that number.”

“And yet revenge is the most fearful of all the passions.”

“Only when it is practised in the heat of feeling. My revenge is as cool
as this piece of iron; but I know my duty.”

“The highest duty of a good man, is to subordinate his own welfare to that
of his country.”

“That I know.”

“You seem to forget, however, that with Egypt you are delivering your own
country over to the Persians.”

“I do not agree with you there.”

“Do you believe, that when all the rest of the Mediterranean coasts belong
to Persia, she will leave your beautiful Greece untouched?”

“Certainly not, but I know my own countrymen; I believe them fully capable
of a victorious resistance to the hosts of the barbarians, and am
confident that their courage and greatness will rise with the nearness of
the danger. It will unite our divided tribes into one great nation, and be
the ruin of the tyrants.”

“I cannot argue with you, for I am no longer acquainted with the state of
things in your native country, and besides, I believe you to be a wise man—not
one who would plunge a nation into ruin merely for the gratification of
his own ambition. It is a fearful thing that entire nations should have to
suffer for the guilt of one man, if that man be one who wears a crown. And
now, if my opinion is of any importance to you, tell me what the deed was
which has roused your desire of vengeance.”

“Listen then, and never try again to turn me from my purpose. You know the
heir to the Egyptian throne, and you know Rhodopis too. The former was,
for many reasons, my mortal enemy, the latter the friend of every Greek,
but mine especially. When I was obliged to leave Egypt, Psamtik threatened
me with his vengeance; your son Gyges saved my life. A few weeks later my
two children came to Naukratis, in order to follow me out to Sigeum.
Rhodopis took them kindly under her protection, but some wretch had
discovered the secret and betrayed it to the prince. The very next night
her house was surrounded and searched,—my children found and taken
captive. Amasis had meanwhile become blind, and allowed his miserable son
to do what he liked; the wretch dared to…”

“Kill your only son?”

“You have said it.”

“And your other child?”

“The girl is still in their hands.”

“They will do her an injury when they hear…”

“Let her die. Better go to one’s grave childless, than unrevenged.”

“I understand. I cannot blame you any longer. The boy’s blood must be
revenged.”

And so saying, the old man pressed the Athenian’s right hand. The latter
dried his tears, mastered his emotion, and cried: “Let us go to the
council of war now. No one can be so thankful for Psamtik’s infamous deeds
as Cambyses. That man with his hasty passions was never made to be a
prince of peace.”

“And yet it seems to me the highest duty of a king is to work for the
inner welfare of his kingdom. But human beings are strange creatures; they
praise their butchers more than their benefactors. How many poems have
been written on Achilles! but did any one ever dream of writing songs on
the wise government of Pittakus?”

“More courage is required to shed blood, than to plant trees.”

“But much more kindness and wisdom to heal wounds, than to make them.—I
have still one question which I should very much like to ask you, before
we go into the hall. Will Bartja be able to stay at Naukratis when Amasis
is aware of the king’s intentions?”

“Certainly not. I have prepared him for this, and advised his assuming a
disguise and a false name.”

“Did he agree?”

“He seemed willing to follow my advice.”

“But at all events it would be well to send a messenger to put him on his
guard.”

“We will ask the king’s permission.”

“Now we must go. I see the wagons containing the viands of the royal
household just driving away from the kitchen.”

“How many people are maintained from the king’s table daily?”

“About fifteen thousand.”

“Then the Persians may thank the gods, that their king only takes one meal
a day.”


CHAPTER IX.

Six weeks after these events a little troop of horsemen might have been
seen riding towards the gates of Sardis. The horses and their riders were
covered with sweat and dust. The former knew that they were drawing near a
town, where there would be stables and mangers, and exerted all their
remaining powers; but yet their pace did not seem nearly fast enough to
satisfy the impatience of two men, dressed in Persian costume, who rode at
the head of the troop.

The well-kept royal road ran through fields of good black, arable land,
planted with trees of many different kinds. It crossed the outlying spurs
of the Tmolus range of mountains. At their foot stretched rows of olive,
citron and plane-trees, plantations of mulberries and vines; at a higher
level grew firs, cypresses and nut-tree copses. Fig-trees and date-palms,
covered with fruit, stood sprinkled over the fields; and the woods and
meadows were carpeted with brightly-colored and sweetly-scented flowers.
The road led over ravines and brooks, now half dried up by the heat of
summer, and here and there the traveller came upon a well at the side of
the road, carefully enclosed, with seats for the weary, and sheltering
shrubs. Oleanders bloomed in the more damp and shady places; slender palms
waved wherever the sun was hottest. Over this rich landscape hung a deep
blue, perfectly cloudless sky, bounded on its southern horizon by the
snowy peaks of the Tmolus mountains, and on the west by the Sipylus range
of hills, which gave a bluish shimmer in the distance.

The road went down into the valley, passing through a little wood of
birches, the stems of which, up to the very tree-top, were twined with
vines covered with bunches of grapes.

The horsemen stopped at a bend in the road, for there, before them, in the
celebrated valley of the Hermus, lay the golden Sardis, formerly the
capital of the Lydian kingdom and residence of its king, Croesus.

Above the reed-thatched roofs of its numerous houses rose a black, steep
rock; the white marble buildings on its summit could be seen from a great
distance. These buildings formed the citadel, round the threefold walls of
which, many centuries before, King Meles had carried a lion in order to
render them impregnable. On its southern side the citadel-rock was not so
steep, and houses had been built upon it. Croesus’ former palace lay to
the north, on the golden-sanded Pactolus. This reddish-colored river
flowed above the market-place, (which, to our admiring travellers, looked
like a barren spot in the midst of a blooming meadow), ran on in a
westerly direction, and then entered a narrow mountain valley, where it
washed the walls of the temple of Cybele.

Large gardens stretched away towards the east, and in the midst of them
lay the lake Gygaeus, covered with gay boats and snowy swans, and
sparkling like a mirror.

A short distance from the lake were a great number of artificial mounds,
three of which were especially noticeable from their size and height.

“What can those strange-looking earth-heaps mean?” said Darius, the leader
of the troop, to Prexaspes, Cambyses’ envoy, who rode at his side.

“They are the graves of former Lydian kings,” was the answer. “The middle
one is in memory of the princely pair Panthea and Abradatas, and the
largest, that one to the left, was erected to the father of Croesus,
Alyattes. It was raised by the tradesmen, mechanics, and girls, to their
late king, and on the five columns, which stand on its summit, you can
read how much each of these classes contributed to the work. The girls
were the most industrious. Gyges’ grandfather is said to have been their
especial friend.”

“Then the grandson must have degenerated very much from the old stock.”

“Yes, and that seems the more remarkable, because Croesus himself in his
youth was by no means averse to women, and the Lydians generally are
devoted to such pleasures. You see the white walls of that temple yonder
in the midst of its sacred grove. That is the temple of the goddess of
Sardis, Cybele or Ma, as they call her. In that grove there is many a
sheltered spot where the young people of Sardis meet, as they say, in
honor of their goddess.”

“Just as in Babylon, at the festival of Mylitta.”

“There is the same custom too on the coast of Cyprus. When I landed there
on the way back from Egypt, I was met by a troop of lovely girls, who,
with songs, dances, and the clang of cymbals, conducted me to the sacred
grove of their goddess.”

“Well, Zopyrus will not grumble at Bartja’s illness.”

“He will spend more of his time in the grove of Cybele, than at his
patient’s bedside. How glad I shall be to see that jolly fellow again!”

“Yes, he’ll keep you from falling into those melancholy fits that you have
been so subject to lately.” “You are quite right to blame me for those
fits, and I must not yield to them, but they are not without ground.
Croesus says we only get low-spirited, when we are either too lazy or too
weak to struggle against annoyances, and I believe he is right. But no one
shall dare to accuse Darius of weakness or idleness. If I can’t rule the
world, at least I will be my own master.” And as he said these words, the
handsome youth drew himself up, and sat erect in his saddle. His companion
gazed in wonder at him.

“Really, you son of Hystaspes,” he said, “I believe you must be meant for
something great. It was not by chance that, when you were still a mere
child, the gods sent their favorite Cyrus that dream which induced him to
order you into safe keeping.”

“And yet my wings have never appeared.”

“No bodily ones, certainly; but mental ones, likely enough. Young man,
young man, you’re on a dangerous road.”

“Have winged creatures any need to be afraid of precipices?”

“Certainly; when their strength fails them.”

“But I am strong.”

“Stronger creatures than you will try to break your pinions.”

“Let them. I want nothing but what is right, and shall trust to my star.”

“Do you know its name?”

“It ruled in the hour of my birth, and its name is Anahita.”

“I think I know better. A burning ambition is the sun, whose rays guide
all your actions. Take care; I tried that way myself once; it leads to
fame or to disgrace, but very seldom to happiness. Fame to the ambitious
is like salt water to the thirsty; the more he gets, the more he wants. I
was once only a poor soldier, and am now Cambyses’ ambassador. But you,
what can you have to strive for? There is no man in the kingdom greater
than yourself, after the sons of Cyrus… Do my eyes deceive me? Surely
those two men riding to meet us with a troop of horsemen must be Gyges and
Zopyrus. The Angare, who left the inn before us, must have told them of
our coming.”

“To be sure. Look at that fellow Zopyrus, how he’s waving and beckoning
with that palm-leaf.”

“Here, you fellows, cut us a few twigs from those bushes-quick. We’ll
answer his green palm-leaf with a purple pomegranate-branch.”

In a few minutes the friends had embraced one another, and the two bands
were riding together into the populous town, through the gardens
surrounding the lake Gygaeus, the Sardians’ place of recreation. It was
now near sunset, a cooler breeze was beginning to blow, and the citizens
were pouring through the gates to enjoy themselves in the open air. Lydian
and Persian warriors, the former wearing richly-ornamented helmets, the
latter tiaras in the form of a cylinder, were following girls who were
painted and wreathed. Children were being led to the lake by their nurses,
to see the swans fed. An old blind man was seated under a plane-tree,
singing sad ditties to a listening crowd and accompanying them on the
Magadis, the twenty-stringed Lydian lute. Youths were enjoying themselves
at games of ball, ninepins, and dice, and half-grown girls screaming with
fright, when the ball hit one of their group or nearly fell into the
water.

The travellers scarcely noticed this gay scene, though at another time it
would have delighted them. They were too much interested in enquiring
particulars of Bartja’s illness and recovery.

At the brazen gates of the palace which had formerly belonged to Croesus,
they were met by Oroetes, the satrap of Sardis, in a magnificent
court-dress overloaded with ornaments. He was a stately man, whose small
penetrating black eyes looked sharply out from beneath a bushy mass of
eyebrow. His satrapy was one of the most important and profitable in the
entire kingdom, and his household could bear a comparison with that of
Cambyses in richness and splendor. Though he possessed fewer wives and
attendants than the king, it was no inconsiderable troop of guards,
slaves, eunuchs and gorgeously-dressed officials, which appeared at the
palace-gates to receive the travellers.

The vice-regal palace, which was still kept up with great magnificence,
had been, in the days when Croesus occupied it, the most splendid of royal
residences; after the taking of Sardis, however, the greater part of the
dethroned king’s treasures and works of art had been sent to Cyrus’s
treasure-house in Pasargadae. When that time of terror had passed, the
Lydians brought many a hidden treasure into the light of day once more,
and, by their industry and skill in art during the peaceful years which
they enjoyed under Cyrus and Cambyses, recovered their old position so
far, that Sardis was again looked upon as one of the wealthiest cities of
Asia Minor, and therefore, of the world.

Accustomed as Darius and Prexaspes were to royal splendor, they were still
astonished at the beauty and brilliancy of the satrap’s palace. The marble
work, especially, made a great impression on them, as nothing of the kind
was to be found in Babylon, Susa or Ecbatana, where burnt brick and
cedar-wood supply the place of the polished marble.

They found Bartja lying on a couch in the great hall; he looked very pale,
and stretched out his arms towards them.

The friends supped together at the satrap’s table and then retired to
Bartja’s private room, in order to enjoy an undisturbed conversation.

“Well, Bartja, how did you come by this dangerous illness?” was Darius’
first question after they were seated.

“I was thoroughly well, as you know,” said Bartja, “when we left Babylon,
and we reached Germa, a little town on the Sangarius, without the
slightest hindrance. The ride was long and we were very tired, burnt too
by the scorching May sun, and covered with dust; the river flows by the
station, and its waves looked so clear and bright—so inviting for a
bathe—that in a minute Zopyrus and I were off our horses, undressed,
and in the water. Gyges told us we were very imprudent, but we felt
confident that we were too much inured to such things to get any harm, and
very much enjoyed our swim in the cool, green water. Gyges, perfectly calm
as usual, let us have our own way, waited till our bath was over, and then
plunged in himself.

“In two hours we were in our saddles again, pushing on as if for our very
lives, changing horses at every station, and turning night into day.

“We were near Ipsus, when I began to feel violent pains in the head and
limbs. I was ashamed to say anything about it and kept upright on my
saddle, until we had to take fresh horses at Bagis. Just as I was in the
very act of mounting, I lost my senses and strength, and fell down on the
ground in a dead faint.”

“Yes, a pretty fright you gave us,” interrupted Zopyrus, “by dropping down
in that fashion. It was fortunate that Gyges was there, for I lost my wits
entirely; he, of course, kept his presence of mind, and after relieving
his feelings in words not exactly flattering to us two, he behaved like a
circumspect general.—A fool of a doctor came running up and
protested that it was all over with poor Bart, for which I gave him a good
thrashing.”

“Which he didn’t particularly object to,” said the satrap, laughing,
“seeing that you told them to lay a gold stater on every stripe.”

“Yes, yes, my pugnacity costs me very dear sometimes. But to our story. As
soon as Bartja had opened his eyes, Gyges sent me off to Sardis to fetch a
good physician and an easy travelling-carriage. That ride won’t so soon be
imitated. An hour before I reached the gates my third horse knocked up
under me, so I had to trust to my own legs, and began running as fast as I
could. The people must all have thought me mad. At last I saw a man on
horseback—a merchant from Kelaenze—dragged him from his horse,
jumped into the saddle, and, before the next morning dawned, I was back
again with our invalid, bringing the best physician in Sardis, and
Oroetes’ most commodious travelling-carriage. We brought him to this house
at a slow footpace, and here a violent fever came on, he became delirious,
talked all the nonsense that could possibly come into a human brain, and
made us so awfully anxious, that the mere remembrance of that time brings
the big drops of perspiration to my forehead.”

Bartja took his friend’s hand: “I owe my life to him and Gyges,” said he,
turning to Darius. “Till to-day, when they set out to meet you, they have
never left me for a minute; a mother could not have nursed her sick child
more carefully. And Oroetes, I am much obliged to you too; doubly so
because your kindness subjected you to annoyance.”

“How could that be?” asked Darius.

“That Polykrates of Samos, whose name we heard so often in Egypt, has the
best physician that Greece has ever produced. While I was lying here ill,
Oroetes wrote to this Democedes, making him immense promises, if he would
only come to Sardis directly. The Sainian pirates, who infest the whole
Ionian coast, took the messenger captive and brought Oroetes’ letter to
their master Polykrates. He opened it, and sent the messenger back with
the answer, that Democedes was in his pay, and that if Oroetes needed his
advice he must apply to Polykrates himself. Our generous friend submitted
for my sake, and asked the Samian to send his physician to Sardis.”

“Well,” said Prexaspes, “and what followed?”

“The proud island-prince sent him at once. He cured me, as you see, and
left us a few days ago loaded with presents.”

“Well,” interrupted Zopyrus, “I can quite understand, that Polykrates
likes to keep his physician near him. I assure you, Darius, it would not
be easy to find his equal. He’s as handsome as Minutscher, as clever as
Piran Wisa, as strong as Rustem, and as benevolent and helpful as the god
Soma. I wish you could have seen how well he threw those round metal
plates he calls discs. I am no weakling, but when we wrestled he soon
threw me. And then he could tell such famous stories—stories that
made a man’s heart dance within him.”

“We know just such a fellow too,” said Darius, smiling at his friend’s
enthusiasm. “That Athenian Phanes, who came to prove our innocence.”

“The physician Democedes is from Crotona, a place which must be somewhere
very near the setting sun.”

“But is inhabited by Greeks, like Athens.” added Oroetes. “Ah, my young
friends, you must beware of those fellows; they’re as cunning, deceitful,
and selfish, as they are strong, clever, and handsome.”

“Democedes is generous and sincere,” cried Zopyrus.

“And Croesus himself thinks Phanes not only an able, but a virtuous man,”
added Darius.

“Sappho too has always, and only spoken well of the Athenian,” said
Bartja, in confirmation of Darius’s remark. “But don’t let us talk any
more about these Greeks,” he went on. “They give Oroetes so much trouble
by their refractory and stubborn conduct, that he is not very fond of
them.”

“The gods know that,” sighed the satrap. “It’s more difficult to keep one
Greek town in order, than all the countries between the Euphrates and the
Tigris.”

While Oroetes was speaking, Zopyrus had gone to the window. “The stars are
already high in the heavens,” he said, “and Bartja is tired; so make
haste, Darius, and tell us something about home.”

The son of Hystaspes agreed at once, and began by relating the events
which we have heard already. Bartja, especially, was distressed at hearing
of Nitetis’ sad end, and the discovery of Amasis’ fraud filled them all
with astonishment. After a short pause, Darius went on:

“When once Nitetis’ descent had been fully proved, Cambyses was like a
changed man. He called a council of war, and appeared at table in the
royal robes instead of his mourning garments. You can fancy what universal
joy the idea of a war with Egypt excited. Even Croesus, who you know is
one of Amasis’ well-wishers, and advises peace whenever it is possible,
had not a word to say against it. The next morning, as usual, what had
been resolved on in intoxication was reconsidered by sober heads; after
several opinions had been given, Phanes asked permission to speak, and
spoke I should think for an hour. But how well! It was as if every word he
said came direct from the gods. He has learnt our language in a
wonderfully short time, but it flowed from his lips like honey. Sometimes
he drew tears from every eye, at others excited stormy shouts of joy, and
then wild bursts of rage. His gestures were as graceful as those of a
dancing-girl, but at the same time manly and dignified. I can’t repeat his
speech; my poor words, by the side of his, would sound like the rattle of
a drum after a peal of thunder. But when at last, inspired and carried
away by his eloquence, we had unanimously decided on war, he began to
speak once more on the best ways and means of prosecuting it
successfully.”

Here Darius was obliged to stop, as Zopyrus had fallen on his neck in an
ecstasy of delight. Bartja, Gyges and Oroetes were not less delighted, and
they all begged him to go on with his tale.

“Our army,” began Darius afresh, “ought to be at the boundaries of Egypt
by the month Farwardin, (March) as the inundation of the Nile, which would
hinder the march of our infantry, begins in Murdad (July). Phanes is now
on his way to the Arabians to secure their assistance; in hopes that these
sons of the desert may furnish our army with water and guides through
their dry and thirsty land. He will also endeavor to win the rich island
of Cyprus, which he once conquered for Amasis, over to our side. As it was
through his mediation that the kings of the island were allowed to retain
their crowns, they will be willing to listen to his advice. In short the
Athenian leaves nothing uncared for, and knows every road and path as if
he were the sun himself He showed us a picture of the world on a plate of
copper.”

Oroetes nodded and said, “I have such a picture of the world too. A
Milesian named Hekataeus, who spends his life in travelling, drew it, and
gave it me in exchange for a free-pass.”

“What notions these Greeks have in their heads!” exclaimed Zopyrus, who
could not explain to himself what a picture of the world could look like.

“To-morrow I will show you my copper tablet, said Oroetes, but now we must
allow Darius to go on.”

“So Phanes has gone to Arabia,” continued Darius, “and Prexaspes was sent
hither not only to command you, Oroetes, to raise as many forces as
possible, especially Ionians and Carians, of whom Phanes has offered to
undertake the command, but also to propose terms of alliance to
Polykrates.”

“To that pirate!” asked Oroetes, and his face darkened.

“The very same,” answered Prexaspes, not appearing to notice the change in
Oroetes’ face. “Phanes has already received assurances from this important
naval power, which sound as if we might expect a favorable answer to my
proposal.”

“The Phoenician, Syrian and Ionian ships of war would be quite sufficient
to cope with the Egyptian fleet.”

“There you are right; but if Polykrates were to declare against us, we
should not be able to hold our own at sea; you say yourself that he is
all-powerful in the AEgean.”

“Still I decidedly disapprove of entering into treaty with such a robber.”

“We want powerful allies, and Polykrates is very powerful at sea. It will
be time to humble him, when we have used him to help us in conquering
Egypt. For the present I entreat you to suppress all personal feeling, and
keep the success of our great plan alone in view. I am empowered to say
this in the king’s name, and to show his ring in token thereof.”

Oroetes made a brief obeisance before this symbol of despotism, and asked:
“What does Cambyses wish me to do?”

“He commands you to use every means in your power to secure an alliance
with the Samian; and also to send your troops to join the main army on the
plains of Babylon as soon as possible.”

The satrap bowed and left the room with a look betraying irritation and
defiance.

When the echo of his footsteps had died away among the colonnades of the
inner court, Zopyrus exclaimed: “Poor fellow, it’s really very hard for
him to have to meet that proud man, who has so often behaved insolently to
him, on friendly terms. Think of that story about the physician for
instance.”

“You are too lenient,” interrupted Darius. “I don’t like this Oroetes. He
has no right to receive the king’s commands in that way. Didn’t you see
him bite his lips till they bled, when Prexaspes showed him the king’s
ring?”

“Yes,” cried the envoy, “he’s a defiant, perverse man. He left the room so
quickly, only because he could not keep down his anger any longer.”

“Still,” said Bartja, “I hope you will keep his conduct a secret from my
brother, for he has been very good to me.”

Prexaspes bowed, but Darius said: “We must keep an eye on the fellow. Just
here, so far from the king’s gate and in the midst of nations hostile to
Persia, we want governors who are more ready to obey their king than this
Oroetes seems to be. Why, he seems to fancy he is King of Lydia!”

“Do you dislike the satrap?” said Zopyrus.

“Well, I think I do,” was the answer. “I always take an aversion or a
fancy to people at first sight, and very seldom find reason to change my
mind afterwards. I disliked Oroetes before I heard him speak a word, and I
remember having the same feeling towards Psamtik, though Amasis took my
fancy.”

“There’s no doubt that you’re very different from the rest of us,” said
Zopyrus laughing, “but now, to please me, let this poor Oroetes alone. I’m
glad he’s gone though, because we can talk more freely about home. How is
Kassandane? and your worshipped Atossa? Croesus too, how is he? and what
are my wives about? They’ll soon have a new companion. To-morrow I intend
to sue for the hand of Oroetes’ pretty daughter. We’ve talked a good deal
of love with our eyes already. I don’t know whether we spoke Persian or
Syrian, but we said the most charming things to one another.”

The friends laughed, and Darius, joining in their merriment, said: “Now
you shall hear a piece of very good news. I have kept it to the last,
because it is the best I have. Now, Bartja, prick up your ears. Your
mother, the noble Kassandane, has been cured of her blindness! Yes, yes,
it is quite true.—Who cured her? Why who should it be, but that
crabbed old Nebenchari, who has become, if possible, moodier than ever.
Come, now, calm yourselves, and let me go on with my story; or it will be
morning before Bartja gets to sleep. Indeed. I think we had better
separate now: you’ve heard the best, and have something to dream about
What, you will not? Then, in the name of Mithras, I must go on, though it
should make my heart bleed.

“I’ll begin with the king. As long as Phanes was in Babylon, he seemed to
forget his grief for Nitetis.

“The Athenian was never allowed to leave him. They were as inseparable as
Reksch and Rustem. Cambyses had no time to think of his sorrow, for Phanes
had always some new idea or other, and entertained us all, as well as the
king, marvellously. And we all liked him too; perhaps, because no one
could really envy him. Whenever he was alone, the tears came into his eyes
at the thought of his boy, and this made his great cheerfulness—a
cheerfulness which he always managed to impart to the king, Bartja,—the
more admirable. Every morning he went down to the Euphrates with Cambyses
and the rest of us, and enjoyed watching the sons of the Achaemenidae at
their exercises. When he saw them riding at full speed past the sand-hills
and shooting the pots placed on them into fragments with their arrows, or
throwing blocks of wood at one another and cleverly evading the blows, he
confessed that he could not imitate them in these exercises, but at the
same time he offered to accept a challenge from any of us in throwing the
spear and in wrestling. In his quick way he sprang from his horse,
stripped off his clothes—it was really a shame—and, to the
delight of the boys, threw their wrestling-master as if he had been a
feather.

“Then he knocked over a number of bragging fellows, and would have thrown
me too if he had not been too fatigued. I assure you, I am really stronger
than he is, for I can lift greater weights, but he is as nimble as an eel,
and has wonderful tricks by which he gets hold of his adversary. His being
naked too is a great help. If it were not so indecent, we ought always to
wrestle stripped, and anoint our skins, as the Greeks do, with the
olive-oil. He beat us too in throwing the spear, but the king, who you
know is proud of being the best archer in Persia, sent his arrow farther.
Phanes was especially pleased with our rule, that in a wrestling-match the
one who is thrown must kiss the hand of his victor. At last he showed us a
new exercise:—boxing. He refused, however, to try his skill on any
one but a slave, so Cambyses sent for the biggest and strongest man among
the servants—my groom, Bessus—a giant who can bring the hind
legs of a horse together and hold them so firmly that the creature
trembles all over and cannot stir. This big fellow, taller by a head than
Phanes, shrugged his shoulders contemptuously on hearing that he was to
box with the little foreign gentleman. He felt quite sure of victory,
placed himself opposite his adversary, and dealt him a blow heavy enough
to kill an elephant. Phanes avoided it cleverly, in the same moment
hitting the giant with his naked fist so powerfully under the eyes, that
the blood streamed from his nose and mouth, and the huge, uncouth fellow
fell on the ground with a yell. When they picked him up his face looked
like a pumpkin of a greenish-blue color. The boys shouted with delight at
his discomfiture; but we admired the dexterity of this Greek, and were
especially glad to see the king in such good spirits; we noticed this most
when Phanes was singing Greek songs and dance-melodies to him accompanied
by the lute.

“Meanwhile Kassandane’s blindness had been cured, and this of course
tended not a little to disperse the king’s melancholy.

“In short it was a very pleasant time, and I was just going to ask for
Atossa’s hand in marriage, when Phanes went off to Arabia, and everything
was changed.

“No sooner had he turned his back on the gates of Babylon than all the
evil Divs seemed to have entered into the king. He went about, a moody,
silent man, speaking to no one; and to drown his melancholy would begin
drinking, even at an early hour in the morning, quantities of the
strongest Syrian wine. By the evening he was generally so intoxicated that
he had to be carried out of the hall, and would wake up the next morning
with headache and spasms. In the day-time he would wander about as if
looking for something, and in the night they often heard him calling
Nitetis. The physicians became very anxious about his health, but when
they sent him medicine he threw it away. It was quite right of Croesus to
say, as he did once ‘Ye Magi and Chaldaeans! before trying to cure a sick
man we must discover the seat of his disease. Do you know it in this case?
No? Then I will tell you what ails the king. He has an internal complaint
and a wound. The former is called ennui, and the latter is in his heart.
The Athenian is a good remedy for the first, but for the second I know of
none; such wounds either scar over of themselves, or the patient bleeds to
death inwardly.’”

“I know of a remedy for the king though,” exclaimed Otanes when he heard
these words. “We must persuade him to send for the women, or at least for
my daughter Phaedime, back from Susa. Love is good for dispersing
melancholy, and makes the blood flow faster.” We acknowledged that he was
right, and advised him to remind the king of his banished wives. He
ventured to make the proposal while we were at supper, but got such a
harsh rebuff for his pains, that we all pitied him. Soon after this,
Cambyses sent one morning for all the Mobeds and Chaldaeans, and commanded
them to interpret a strange dream which he had bad. In his dream he had
been standing in the midst of a dry and barren plain: barren as a
threshing-floor, it did not produce a single blade of grass. Displeased at
the desert aspect of the place, he was just going to seek other and more
fruitful regions, when Atossa appeared, and, without seeing him, ran
towards a spring which welled up through the arid soil as if by
enchantment. While he was gazing in wonder at this scene, he noticed that
wherever the foot of his sister touched the parched soil, graceful
terebinths sprang up, changing, as they grew, into cypresses whose tops
reached unto heaven. As he was going to speak to Atossa, he awoke.

The Mobeds and Chaldaeans consulted together and interpreted the dream
thus? ‘Atossa would be successful in all she undertook.’

“Cambyses seemed satisfied with this answer, but, as the next night the
vision appeared again, he threatened the wise men with death, unless they
could give him another and a different interpretation. They pondered long,
and at last answered, ‘that Atossa would become a queen and the mother of
mighty princes.’

“This answer really contented the king, and he smiled strangely to himself
as he told us his dream. ‘The same day Kassandane sent for me and told me
to give up all thoughts of her daughter, as I valued my life.

“‘Just as I was leaving the queen’s garden I saw Atossa behind a
pomegranate-bush. She beckoned. I went to her; and in that hour we forgot
danger and sorrow, but said farewell to each other for ever. Now you know
all; and now that I have given her up—now that I know it would be
madness even to think of her again—I am obliged to be very stern
with myself, lest, like the king, I should fall into deep melancholy for
the sake of a woman. And this is the end of the story, the close of which
we were all expecting, when Atossa, as I lay under sentence of death, sent
me a rose, and made me the happiest of mortals. If I had not betrayed my
secret then, when we thought our last hour was near, it would have gone
with me to my grave. But what am I talking about? I know I can trust to
your secrecy, but pray don’t look at me so deplorably. I think I am still
to be envied, for I have had one hour of enjoyment that would outweigh a
century of misery. Thank you,—thank you: now let me finish my story
as quickly as I can.

“Three days after I had taken leave of Atossa I had to marry Artystone,
the daughter of Gobryas. She is beautiful, and would make any other man
happy. The day after the wedding the Angare reached Babylon with the news
of your illness. My mind was made up at once; I begged the king to let me
go to you, nurse you, and warn you of the danger which threatens your life
in Egypt—took leave of my bride, in spite of all my father-in-law’s
protestations, and went off at full speed with Prexaspes, never resting
till I reached your side, my dear Bartja. Now I shall go with you and
Zopyrus to Egypt, for Gyges must accompany the ambassador to Samos, as
interpreter. This is the king’s command; he has been in better spirits the
last few days; the inspection of the masses of troops coming up to Babylon
diverts him, besides which, the Chaldaeans have assured him that the
planet Adar, which belongs to their war-god Chanon, promises a great
victory to the Persian arms. When do you think you shall be able to
travel, Bartja?”

“To-morrow, if you like,” was the answer. “The doctors say the sea-voyage
will do me good, and the journey by land to Smyrna is very short.”

“And I can assure you,” added Zopyrus, “that Sappho will cure you sooner
than all the doctors in the world.”

“Then we will start in three days;” said Darius after some consideration,
“we have plenty to do before starting. Remember we are going into what may
almost be called an enemy’s country. I have been thinking the matter over,
and it seems to me that Bartja must pass for a Babylonian carpet-merchant,
I for his brother, and Zopyrus for a dealer in Sardian red.”

“Couldn’t we be soldiers?” asked Zopyrus. “It’s such an ignominious thing
to be taken for cheating peddlers. How would it be, for instance, if we
passed ourselves off for Lydian soldiers, escaped from punishment, and
seeking service in the Egyptian army?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Bartja, “and I think too that we look more
like soldiers than traders.”

“Looks and manner are no guide,” said Gyges. “Those great Greek merchants
and ship-owners go about as proudly as if the world belonged to them. But
I don’t find Zopyrus’ proposal a bad one.”

“Then so let it be,” said Darius, yielding. “In that case Oroetes must
provide us with the uniform of Lydian Taxiarchs.”

“You’d better take the splendid dress of the Chiliarchs at once, I think,”
cried Gyges.

“Why, on such young men, that would excite suspicion directly.”

“But we can’t appear as common soldiers.”

“No, but as Hekatontarchs.”

“All right,” said Zopyrus laughing. “Anything you like except a
shop-keeper.—So in three days we are off. I am glad I shall just
have time to make sure of the satrap’s little daughter, and to visit the
grove of Cybele at last. Now, goodnight, Bartja; don’t get up too early.
What will Sappho say, if you come to her with pale cheeks?”


CHAPTER X.

The sun of a hot midsummer-day had risen on Naukratis. The Nile had
already begun to overflow its banks, and the fields and gardens of the
Egyptians were covered with water.

The harbor was crowded with craft of all kinds. Egyptian vessels were
there, manned by Phoenician colonists from the coasts of the Delta, and
bringing fine woven goods from Malta, metals and precious stones from
Sardinia, wine and copper from Cyprus. Greek triremes laden with oil, wine
and mastic-wood; metal-work and woollen wares from Chalcis, Phoenician and
Syrian craft with gaily-colored sails, and freighted with cargoes of
purple stuffs, gems, spices, glass-work, carpets and cedar-trees,—used
in Egypt, where wood was very scarce, for building purposes, and taking
back gold, ivory, ebony, brightly-plumaged tropical birds, precious stones
and black slaves,—the treasures of Ethiopia; but more especially the
far-famed Egyptian corn, Memphian chariots, lace from Sais, and the finer
sorts of papyrus. The time when commerce was carried on merely by barter
was now, however, long past, and the merchants of Naukratis not seldom
paid for their goods in gold coin and carefully-weighed silver.

Large warehouses stood round the harbor of this Greek colony, and
slightly-built dwelling-houses, into which the idle mariners were lured by
the sounds of music and laughter, and the glances and voices of painted
and rouged damsels. Slaves, both white and colored, rowers and steersmen,
in various costumes, were hurrying hither and thither, while the ships’
captains, either dressed in the Greek fashion or in Phoenician garments of
the most glaring colors, were shouting orders to their crews and
delivering up their cargoes to the merchants. Whenever a dispute arose,
the Egyptian police with their long staves, and the Greek warders of the
harbor were quickly at hand. The latter were appointed by the elders of
the merchant-body in this Milesian colony.

The port was getting empty now, for the hour at which the market opened
was near, and none of the free Greeks cared to be absent from the
market-place then. This time, however, not a few remained behind,
curiously watching a beautifully-built Samian ship, the Okeia, with a long
prow like a swan’s neck, on the front of which a likeness of the goddess
Hera was conspicuous. It was discharging its cargo, but the public
attention was more particularly attracted by three handsome youths, in the
dress of Lydian officers, who left the ship, followed by a number of
slaves carrying chests and packages.

The handsomest of the three travellers, in whom of course our readers
recognize their three young friends, Darius, Bartja and Zopyrus, spoke to
one of the harbor police and asked for the house of Theopompus the
Milesian, to whom they were bound on a visit.

Polite and ready to do a service, like all the Greeks, the police
functionary at once led the way across the market-place,—where the
opening of business had just been announced by the sound of a bell,—to
a handsome house, the property of the Milesian, Theopompus, one of the
most important and respected men in Naukratis.

The party, however, did not succeed in crossing the market-place without
hindrance. They found it easy enough to evade the importunities of
impudent fishsellers, and the friendly invitations of butchers, bakers,
sausage and vegetable-sellers, and potters. But when they reached the part
allotted to the flower-girls, Zopyrus was so enchanted with the scene,
that he clapped his hands for joy.

Three wonderfully-lovely girls, in white dresses of some half-transparent
material, with colored borders, were seated together on low stools,
binding roses, violets and orange-blossoms into one long wreath. Their
charming heads were wreathed with flowers too, and looked very like the
lovely rosebuds which one of them, on seeing the young men come up, held
out to their notice.

“Buy my roses, my handsome gentlemen,” she said in a clear, melodious
voice, “to put in your sweethearts’ hair.”

Zopyrus took the flowers, and holding the girl’s hand fast in his own,
answered, “I come from a far country, my lovely child, and have no
sweetheart in Naukratis yet; so let me put the roses in your own golden
hair, and this piece of gold in your white little hand.”

The girl burst into a merry laugh, showed her sister the handsome present,
and answered: “By Eros, such gentlemen as you cannot want for sweethearts.
Are you brothers?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity, for we are sisters.”

“And you thought we should make three pretty couples?”

“I may have thought it, but I did not say so.”

“And your sisters?”

The girls laughed, as if they were but little averse to such a connection,
and offered Bartja and Darius rosebuds too.

The young men accepted them, gave each a gold piece in return, and were
not allowed to leave these beauties until their helmets had been crowned
with laurel.

Meanwhile the news of the strangers’ remarkable liberality had spread
among the many girls, who were selling ribbons, wreaths and flowers close
by. They all brought roses too and invited the strangers with looks and
words to stay with them and buy their flowers.

Zopyrus, like many a young gentleman in Naukratis, would gladly have
accepted their invitations, for most of these girls were beautiful, and
their hearts were not difficult to win; but Darius urged him to come away,
and begged Bartja to forbid the thoughtless fellow’s staying any longer.
After passing the tables of the money-changers, and the stone seats on
which the citizens sat in the open air and held their consultations, they
arrived at the house of Theopompus.

The stroke given by their Greek guide with the metal knocker on the
house-door was answered at once by a slave. As the master was at the
market, the strangers were led by the steward, an old servant grown grey
in the service of Theopompus, into the Andronitis, and begged to wait
there until he returned.

They were still engaged in admiring the paintings on the walls, and the
artistic carving of the stone floor, when Theopompus, the merchant whom we
first learnt to know at the house of Rhodopis, came back from the market,
followed by a great number of slaves bearing his purchases.

He received the strangers with charming politeness and asked in what way
he could be of use to them, on which Bartja, having first convinced
himself that no unwished—for listeners were present, gave him the
roll he had received from Phanes at parting.

Theopompus had scarcely read its contents, when he made a low bow to the
prince, exclaiming: “By Zeus, the father of hospitality, this is the
greatest honor that could have been conferred upon my house! All I possess
is yours, and I beg you to ask your companions to accept with kindness
what I can offer. Pardon my not having recognized you at once in your
Lydian dress. It seems to me that your hair is shorter and your beard
thicker, than when you left Egypt. Am I right in imagining that you do not
wish to be recognized? It shall be exactly as you wish. He is the best
host, who allows his guests the most freedom. All, now I recognize your
friends; but they have disguised themselves and cut their curls also.
Indeed, I could almost say that you, my friend, whose name—”

“My name is Darius.”

“That you, Darius, have dyed your hair black. Yes? Then you see my memory
does not deceive me. But that is nothing to boast of, for I saw you
several times at Sais, and here too, on your arrival and departure. You
ask, my prince, whether you would be generally recognized? Certainly not.
The foreign dress, the change in your hair and the coloring of your
eyebrows have altered you wonderfully. But excuse me a moment, my old
steward seems to have some important message to give.”

In a few minutes Theopompus came back, exclaiming: “No, no, my honored
friends, you have certainly not taken the wisest way of entering Naukratis
incognito. You have been joking with the flower-girls and paying them for
a few roses, not like runaway Lydian Hekatontarchs, but like the great
lords you are. All Naukratis knows the pretty, frivolous sisters,
Stephanion, Chloris and Irene, whose garlands have caught many a heart,
and whose sweet glances have lured many a bright obolus out of the pockets
of our gay young men. They’re very fond of visiting the flower-girls at
market-time, and agreements are entered into then for which more than one
gold piece must be paid later; but for a few roses and good words they are
not accustomed to be so liberal as you have been. The girls have been
boasting about you and your gifts, and showing your good red gold to their
stingier suitors. As rumor is a goddess who is very apt to exaggerate and
to make a crocodile out of a lizard, it happened that news reached the
Egyptian captain on guard at the market, that some newly-arrived Lydian
warriors had been scattering gold broadcast among the flower-girls. This
excited suspicion, and induced the Toparch to send an officer here to
enquire from whence you come, and what is the object of your journey
hither. I was obliged to use a little stratagem to impose upon him, and
told him, as I believe you wish, that you were rich young men from Sardis,
who had fled on account of having incurred the satrap’s ill-will. But I
see the government officer coming, and with him the secretary who is to
make out passports which will enable you to remain on the Nile unmolested.
I have promised him a handsome reward, if he can help you in getting
admitted into the king’s mercenaries. He was caught and believed my story.
You are so young, that nobody would imagine you were entrusted with a
secret mission.”

The talkative Greek had scarcely finished speaking when the clerk, a lean,
dry-looking man, dressed in white, came in, placed himself opposite the
strangers and asked them from whence they came and what was the object of
their journey.

The youths held to their first assertion, that they were Lydian
Hekatontarchs, and begged the functionary to provide them with passes and
tell them in what way they might most easily obtain admittance into the
king’s troop of auxiliaries.

The man did not hesitate long, after Theopompus had undertaken to be their
surety, and the desired documents were made out.

Bartja’s pass ran thus:

“Smerdis, the son of Sandon of Sardis, about 22 years of age—figure,
tall and slender-face, well-formed:—nose, straight:—forehead,
high with a small scar in the middle:—is hereby permitted to remain
in those parts of Egypt in which the law allows foreigners to reside, as
surety has been given for him.

Darius and Zopyrus received passports similarly worded.

When the government official had left the houses, Theopompus rubbed his
hands and said: “Now if you will follow my advice on all points you can
stay in Egypt safely enough. Keep these little rolls as if they were the
apple of your eye, and never part from them. Now, however, I must beg you
to follow me to breakfast and to tell me, if agreeable to you, whether a
report which has just been making the round of the market is not, as
usual, entirely false. A trireme from Kolophon, namely, has brought the
news that your powerful brother, noble Bartja, is preparing to make war
with Amasis.”

On the evening of the same day, Bartja and Sappho saw each other again. In
that first hour surprise and joy together made Sappho’s happiness too
great for words. When they were once more seated in the acanthus-grove
whose blossoming branches had so often seen and sheltered their young
love, she embraced him tenderly, but for a long time they did not speak
one word. They saw neither moon nor stars moving silently above them, in
the warm summer night; they did not even hear the nightingales who were
still repeating their favorite, flute-like, Itys-call to one another; nor
did they feel the dew which fell as heavily on their fair heads as on the
flowers in the grass around them.

At last Bartja, taking both Sappho’s hands in his own, looked long and
silently into her face, as if to stamp her likeness for ever on his
memory. When he spoke at last, she cast down her eyes, for he said: “In my
dreams, Sappho, you have always been the most lovely creature that
Auramazda ever created, but now I see you again, you are more lovely even
than my dreams.”

And when a bright, happy glance from her had thanked him for these words,
he drew her closer to him, asking: “Did you often think of me?”

“I thought only of you.”

“And did you hope to see me soon?”

“Yes; hour after hour I thought, ‘now he must be coming.’ Sometimes I went
into the garden in the morning and looked towards your home in the East,
and a bird flew towards me from thence and I felt a twitching in my right
eyelid; or when I was putting my box to rights and found the laurel crown
which I put by as a remembrance, because you looked so well in it,—Melitta
says such wreaths are good for keeping true love—then I used to clap
my hands with joy and think, ‘to-day he must come;’ and I would run down
to the Nile and wave my handkerchief to every passing boat, for every boat
I thought must be bringing you to me.”

“But you did not come, and then I went sadly home, and would sit down by
the fire on the hearth in the women’s room, and sing, and gaze into the
fire till grandmother would wake me out of my dream by saying: ‘Listen to
me, girl; whoever dreams by daylight is in danger of lying awake at night,
and getting up in the morning with a sad heart, a tired brain and weary
limbs. The day was not given us for sleep, and we must live in it with
open eyes, that not a single hour may be idly spent. The past belongs to
the dead; only fools count upon the future; but wise men hold fast by the
ever young present; by work they foster all the various gifts which Zeus,
Apollo, Pallas, Cypris lend; by work they raise, and perfect and ennoble
them, until their feelings, actions, words and thoughts become harmonious
like a well-tuned lute. You cannot serve the man to whom you have given
your whole heart,—to whom in your great love you look up as so much
higher than yourself—you cannot prove the steadfastness and
faithfulness of that love better, than by raising and improving your mind
to the utmost of your power. Every good and beautiful truth that you learn
is an offering to him you love best, for in giving your whole self, you
give your virtues too. But no one gains this victory in dreams. The dew by
which such blossoms are nourished is called the sweat of man’s brow.’ So
she would speak to me, and then I started up ashamed and left the hearth,
and either took my lyre to learn new songs, or listened to my loving
teacher’s words—she is wiser than most men—attentively and
still. And so the time passed on; a rapid stream, just like our river
Nile, which flows unceasingly, and brings such changing scenes upon its
waves, sometimes a golden boat with streamers gay,—sometimes a
fearful, ravenous crocodile.”

“But now we are sitting in the golden boat. Oh, if time’s waves would only
cease to flow! If this one moment could but last for aye. You lovely girl,
how perfectly you speak, how well you understand and remember all this
beautiful teaching and make it even more beautiful by your way of
repeating it. Yes, Sappho, I am very proud of you. In you I have a
treasure which makes me richer than my brother, though half the world
belongs to him.”

“You proud of me? you, a king’s son, the best and handsomest of your
family?”

“The greatest worth that I can find in myself is, that you think me worthy
of your love.”

“Tell me, ye gods, how can this little heart hold so much joy without
breaking? ‘Tis like a vase that’s overfilled with purest, heaviest gold?”

“Another heart will help you to bear it; and that is my own, for mine is
again supported by yours, and with that help I can laugh at every evil
that the world or night may bring.”

“Oh, don’t excite the envy of the gods; human happiness often vexes them.
Since you left us we have passed some very, very sad days. The two poor
children of our kind Phanes—a boy as beautiful as Eros, and a little
girl as fair and rosy as a summer morning’s cloud just lit up by the sun,—came
for some happy days to stay with us. Grandmother grew quite glad and young
again while looking on these little ones, and as for me I gave them all my
heart, though really it is your’s and your’s alone. But hearts, you know,
are wonderfully made; they’re like the sun who sends his rays everywhere,
and loses neither warmth nor light by giving much, but gives to all their
due. I loved those little ones so very much. One evening we were sitting
quite alone with Theopompus in the women’s room, when suddenly we heard
aloud, wild noise. The good old Knakias, our faithful slave, just reached
the door as all the bolts gave way, and, rushing through the entrance-hall
into the peristyle, the andronitis, and so on to us, crashing the door
between, came a troop of soldiers. Grandmother showed them the letter by
which Amasis secured our house from all attack and made it a sure refuge,
but they laughed the writing to scorn and showed us on their side a
document with the crown-prince’s seal, in which we were sternly commanded
to deliver up Phanes’ children at once to this rough troop of men.
Theopompus reproved the soldiers for their roughness, telling them that
the children came from Corinth and had no connection with Phanes; but the
captain of the troop defied and sneered at him, pushed my grandmother
rudely away, forced his way into her own apartment, where among her most
precious treasures, at the head of her own bed, the two children lay
sleeping peacefully, dragged them out of their little beds and took them
in an open boat through the cold night-air to the royal city. In a few
days we heard the boy was dead. They say he has been killed by Psamtik’s
orders; and the little girl, so sweet and dear, is lying in a dismal
dungeon, and pining for her father and for us. Oh, dearest, isn’t it a
painful thing that sorrows such as these should come to mar our perfect
happiness? My eyes weep joy and sorrow in the same moment, and my lips,
which have just been laughing with you, have now to tell you this sad
story.”

“I feel your pain with you, my child, but it makes my hand clench with
rage instead of filling my eyes with tears. That gentle boy whom you
loved, that little girl who now sits weeping in the dark dungeon, shall
both be revenged. Trust me; before the Nile has risen again, a powerful
army will have entered Egypt, to demand satisfaction for this murder.”

“Oh, dearest, how your eyes are glowing! I never saw you look so beautiful
before. Yes, yes, the boy must be avenged, and none but you must be his
avenger.”

“My gentle Sappho is becoming warlike too.”

“Yes, women must feel warlike when wickedness is so triumphant; women
rejoice too when such crimes are punished. Tell me has war been declared
already?”

“Not yet; but hosts on hosts are marching to the valley of the Euphrates
to join our main army.”

“My courage sinks as quickly as it rose. I tremble at the word, the mere
word, war. How many childless mothers Ares makes, how many young fair
heads must wear the widow’s veil, how many pillows are wet through with
tears when Pallas takes her shield.”

“But a man developes in war; his heart expands, his arm grows strong. And
none rejoice more than you when he returns a conqueror from the field. The
wife of a Persian, especially, ought to rejoice in the thought of battle,
for her husband’s honor and fame are dearer to her than his life.”

“Go to the war. I shall pray for you there.”

“And victory will be with the right. First we will conquer Pharaoh’s host,
then release Phanes’ little daughter…”

“And then Aristomachus, the brave old man who succeeded Phanes when he
fled. He has vanished, no one knows whither, but people say that the
crown-prince has either imprisoned him in a dismal dungeon on account of
his having uttered threats of retaliating the cruelty shown to Phanes’
children, or—what would be worse—has had him dragged off to
some distant quarry. The poor old man was exiled from his home, not for
his own fault, but by the malice of his enemies, and the very day on which
we lost sight of him an embassy arrived here from the Spartan people
recalling Aristomachus to the Eurotas with all the honors Greece could
bestow, because his sons had brought great glory to their country. A ship
wreathed with flowers was sent to fetch the honored old man, and at the
head of the deputation was his own brave, strong son, now crowned with
glory and fame.”

“I know him. He’s a man of iron. Once he mutilated himself cruelly to
avoid disgrace. By the Anahita star, which is setting so beautifully in
the east, he shall be revenged!”

“Oh, can it be so late? To me the time has gone by like a sweet breeze,
which kissed my forehead and passed away. Did not you hear some one call?
They will be waiting for us, and you must be at your friend’s house in the
town before dawn. Good-bye, my brave hero.”

“Good-bye, my dearest one. In five days we shall hear our marriage-hymn.
But you tremble as if we were going to battle instead of to our wedding.”

“I’m trembling at the greatness of our joy; one always trembles in
expectation of anything unusually great.”

“Hark, Rhodopis is calling again; let us go. I have asked Theopompus to
arrange everything about our wedding with her according to the usual
custom; and I shall remain in his house incognito until I can carry you
off as my own dear wife.”

“And I will go with you.”

The next morning, as the three friends were walking with their host in his
garden, Zopyrus exclaimed: “Wily, Bartja, I’ve been dreaming all night of
your Sappho. What a lucky fellow you are! Why I fancied my new wife in
Sardis was no end of a beauty until I saw Sappho, and now when I think of
her she seems like an owl. If Araspes could see Sappho he would be obliged
to confess that even Panthea had been outdone at last. Such a creature was
never made before. Auramazda is an awful spendthrift; he might have made
three beauties out of Sappho. And how charmingly it sounded when she said
‘good-night’ to us in Persian.”

“While I was away,” said Bartja, “she has been taking a great deal of
trouble to learn Persian from the wife of a Babylonian carpet-merchant, a
native of Susa, who is living at Naukratis, in order to surprise me.

“Yes, she is a glorious girl,” said Theopompus. “My late wife loved the
little one as if she had been her own child. She would have liked to have
had her as a wife for our son who manages the affairs of my house at
Miletus, but the gods have ordained otherwise! Ah, how glad she would have
been to see the wedding garland at Rhodopis’ door!”

“Is it the custom here to ornament a bride’s house with flowers?” said
Zopyrus.

“Certainly,” answered Theopompus. “When you see a door hung with flowers
you may always know that house contains a bride; an olive-branch is a sign
that a boy has just come into the world, and a strip of woollen cloth
hanging over the gate that a girl has been born; but a vessel of water
before the door is the token of death. But business-hour at the market is
very near, my friends, and I must leave you, as I have affairs of great
importance to transact.”

“I will accompany you,” said Zopyrus, “I want to order some garlands for
Rhodopis’ house.”

“Aha,” laughed the Milesian. “I see, you want to talk to the flower-girls
again. Come, it’s of no use to deny. Well, if you like you can come with
me, but don’t be so generous as you were yesterday, and don’t forget that
if certain news of war should arrive, your disguise may prove dangerous.”

The Greek then had his sandals fastened on by his slaves and started for
the market, accompanied by Zopyrus. In a few hours he returned with such a
serious expression on his usually cheerful face, that it was easy to see
something very important had happened.

“I found the whole town in great agitation,” he said to the two friends
who had remained at home; “there is a report that Amasis is at the point
of death. We had all met on the place of exchange in order to settle our
business, and I was on the point of selling all my stored goods at such
high prices as to secure me a first-rate profit, with which, when the
prospect of an important war had lowered prices again, I could have bought
in fresh goods—you see it stands me in good stead to know your royal
brother’s intentions so early—when suddenly the Toparch appeared
among us, and announced that Amasis was not only seriously ill, but that
the physicians had given up all hope, and he himself felt he was very near
death. We must hold ourselves in readiness for this at any moment, and for
a very serious change in the face of affairs. The death of Amasis is the
severest loss that could happen to us Greeks; he was always our friend,
and favored us whenever he could, while his son is our avowed enemy and
will do his utmost to expel us from the country. If his father had
allowed, and he himself had not felt so strongly the importance and value
of our mercenary troops, he would have turned us hateful foreigners out
long ago. Naukratis and its temples are odious to him. When Amasis is dead
our town will hail Cambyses’ army with delight, for I have had experience
already, in my native town Miletus, that you are accustomed to show
respect to those who are not Persians and to protect their rights.”

“Yes,” said Bartja, “I will take care that all your ancient liberties
shall be confirmed by my brother and new ones granted you.”

“Well, I only hope he will soon be here,” exclaimed the Greek, “for we
know that Psamtik, as soon as he possibly can, will order our temples,
which are an abomination to him, to be demolished. The building of a place
of sacrifice for the Greeks at Memphis has long been put a stop to.”

“But here,” said Darius, “we saw a number of splendid temples as we came
up from the harbor.”

“Oh, yes, we have several.—Ah, there comes Zopyrus; the slaves are
carrying a perfect grove of garlands behind him. He’s laughing so
heartily, he must have amused himself famously with the flower-girls.
Good-morning, my friend. The sad news which fills all Naukratis does not
seem to disturb you much.”

“Oh, for anything I care, Amasis may go on living a hundred years yet. But
if he dies now, people will have something else to do beside looking after
us. When do you set off for Rhodopis’ house, friends?”

“At dusk.”

“Then please, ask her to accept these flowers from me. I never thought I
could have been so taken by an old woman before. Every word she says
sounds like music, and though she speaks so gravely and wisely it’s as
pleasant to the ear as a merry joke. But I shan’t go with you this time,
Bartja; I should only be in the way. Darius, what have you made up your
mind to do?”

“I don’t want to lose one chance of a conversation with Rhodopis.”

“Well, I don’t blame you. You’re all for learning and knowing everything,
and I’m for enjoying. Friends, what do you say to letting me off this
evening? You see….”

“I know all about it,” interrupted Bartja laughing: “You’ve only seen the
flower-girls by daylight as yet, and you would like to know how they look
by lamplight.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Zopyrus, putting on a grave face. “On that point I
am quite as eager after knowledge as Darius.”

“Well, we wish you much pleasure with your three sisters.”

“No, no, not all three, if you please; Stephanion, the youngest, is my
favorite.”

Morning had already dawned when Bartja, Darius and Theopompus left
Rhodopis’ house. Syloson, a Greek noble who had been banished from his
native land by his own brother, Polykrates the tyrant, had been spending
the evening with them, and was now returning in their company to
Naukratis, where he had been living many years.

This man, though an exile, was liberally supplied with money by his
brother, kept the most brilliant establishment in Naukratis, and was as
famous for his extravagant hospitality as for his strength and cleverness.
Syloson was a very handsome man too, and so remarkable for the good taste
and splendor of his dress, that the youth of Naukratis prided themselves
on imitating the cut and hang of his robes. Being unmarried, he spent many
of his evenings at Rhodopis’ house, and had been told the secret of her
granddaughter’s betrothal.

On that evening it had been settled, that in four days the marriage should
be celebrated with the greatest privacy. Bartja had formally betrothed
himself to Sappho by eating a quince with her, on the same day on which
she had offered sacrifices to Zeus, Hera, and the other deities who
protected marriage. The wedding-banquet was to be given at the house of
Theopompus, which was looked upon as the bridegroom’s. The prince’s costly
bridal presents had been entrusted to Rhodopis’ care, and Bartja had
insisted on renouncing the paternal inheritance which belonged to his
bride and on transferring it to Rhodopis, notwithstanding her determined
resistance.

Syloson accompanied the friends to Rhodopis’ house, and was just about to
leave them, when a loud noise in the streets broke the quiet stillness of
the night, and soon after, a troop of the watch passed by, taking a man to
prison. The prisoner seemed highly indignant, and the less his broken
Greek oaths and his utterances in some other totally unintelligible
language were understood by the Egyptian guards, the more violent he
became.

Directly Bartja and Darius heard the voice they ran up, and recognized
Zopyrus at once.

Syloson and Theopompus stopped the guards, and asked what their captive
had done. The officer on duty recognized them directly; indeed every child
in Naukratis knew the Milesian merchant and the brother of the tyrant
Polykrates by sight; and he answered at once, with a respectful
salutation, that the foreign youth they were leading away had been guilty
of murder.

Theopompus then took him on one side and endeavored, by liberal promises,
to obtain the freedom of the prisoner. The man, however, would concede
nothing but a permission to speak with his captive. Meanwhile his friends
begged Zopyrus to tell them at once what had happened, and heard the
following story: The thoughtless fellow had visited the flower-girls at
dusk and remained till dawn. He had scarcely closed their housedoor on his
way home, when he found himself surrounded by a number of young men, who
had probably been lying in wait for him, as he had already had a quarrel
with one of them, who called himself the betrothed lover of Stephanion, on
that very morning. The girl had told her troublesome admirer to leave her
flowers alone, and had thanked Zopyrus for threatening to use personal
violence to the intruder. When the young Achaemenidae found himself
surrounded, he drew his sword and easily dispersed his adversaries, as
they were only armed with sticks, but chanced to wound the jealous lover,
who was more violent than the rest, so seriously, that he fell to the
ground. Meanwhile the watch had come up, and as Zopyrus’ victim howled
“thieves” and “murder” incessantly, they proceeded to arrest the offender.
This was not so easy. His blood was up, and rushing on them with his drawn
sword, he had already cut his way through the first troop when a second
came up. He was not to be daunted, attacked them too, split the skull of
one, wounded another in the arm and was taking aim for a third blow, when
he felt a cord round his neck. It was drawn tighter and tighter till at
last he could not breathe and fell down insensible. By the time he came to
his senses he was bound, and notwithstanding all his appeals to his pass
and the name of Theopompus, was forced to follow his captors.

When the tale was finished the Milesian did not attempt to conceal his
strong disapprobation, and told Zopyrus that his most unseasonable love of
fighting might be followed by the saddest consequences. After saying this,
he turned to the officer and begged him to accept his own personal
security for the prisoner. The other, however, refused gravely, saying he
might forfeit his own life by doing so, as a law existed in Egypt by which
the concealer of a murder was condemned to death. He must, he assured
them, take the culprit to Sais and deliver him over to the Nomarch for
punishment. “He has murdered an Egyptian,” were his last words, “and must
therefore be tried by an Egyptian supreme court. In any other case I
should be delighted to render you any service in my power.”

During this conversation Zopyrus had been begging his friends not to take
any trouble about him. “By Mithras,” he cried, when Bartja offered to
declare himself to the Egyptians as a means of procuring his freedom, “I
vow I’ll stab myself without a second thought, if you give yourselves up
to those dogs of Egyptians. Why the whole town is talking about the war
already, and do you think that if Psamtik knew he’d got such splendid game
in his net, he would let you loose? He would keep you as hostages, of
course. No, no, my friends. Good-bye; may Auramazda send you his best
blessings! and don’t quite forget the jovial Zopyrus, who lived and died
for love and war.”

The captain of the band placed himself at the head of his men, gave the
order to march, and in a few minutes Zopyrus was out of sight.


CHAPTER XI.

According to the law of Egypt, Zopyrus had deserved death.

As soon as his friends heard this, they resolved to go to Sais and try to
rescue him by stratagem. Syloson, who had friends there and could speak
the Egyptian language well, offered to help them.

Bartja and Darius disguised themselves so completely by dyeing their hair
and eyebrows and wearing broad-brimmed felt-hats,—that they could
scarcely recognize each other. Theopompus provided them with ordinary
Greek dresses, and, an hour after Zopyrus’ arrest, they met the
splendidly-got-up Syloson on the shore of the Nile, entered a boat
belonging to him and manned by his slaves, and, after a short sail,
favored by the wind, reached Sais,—which lay above the waters of the
inundation like an island,—before the burning midsummer sun had
reached its noonday height.

They disembarked at a remote part of the town and walked across the
quarter appropriated to the artisans. The workmen were busy at their
calling, notwithstanding the intense noonday heat. The baker’s men were at
work in the open court of the bakehouse, kneading bread—the coarser
kind of dough with the feet, the finer with the hands. Loaves of various
shapes were being drawn out of the ovens-round and oval cakes, and rolls
in the form of sheep, snails and hearts. These were laid in baskets, and
the nimble baker’s boys would put three, four, or even five such baskets
on their heads at once, and carry them off quickly and safely to the
customers living in other quarters of the city. A butcher was slaughtering
an ox before his house, the creature’s legs having been pinioned; and his
men were busy sharpening their knives to cut up a wild goat. Merry
cobblers were calling out to the passers-by from their stalls; carpenters,
tailors, joiners and weavers—were all there, busy at their various
callings. The wives of the work-people were going out marketing, leading
their naked children by the hand, and some soldiers were loitering near a
man who was offering beer and wine for sale.

But our friends took very little notice of what was going on in the
streets through which they passed; they followed Syloson in silence.

At the Greek guard-house he asked them to wait for him. Syloson, happening
to know the Taxiarch who was on duty that day, went in and asked him if he
had heard anything of a man accused of murder having been brought from
Naukratis to Sais that morning.

“Of course,” said the Greek. “It’s not more than half an hour since he
arrived. As they found a purse full of money in his girdle, they think he
must be a Persian spy. I suppose you know that Cambyses is preparing for
war with Egypt.”

“Impossible!”

“No, no, it’s a fact. The prince-regent has already received information.
A caravan of Arabian merchants arrived yesterday at Pelusium, and brought
the news.”

“It will prove as false as their suspicions about this poor young Lydian.
I know him well, and am very sorry for the poor fellow. He belongs to one
of the richest families in Sardis, and only ran away for fear of the
powerful satrap Oroetes, with whom he had had a quarrel. I’ll tell you the
particulars when you come to see me next in Naukratis. Of course you’ll
stay a few days and bring some friends. My brother has sent me some wine
which beats everything I ever tasted. It’s perfect nectar, and I confess I
grudge offering it to any one who’s not, like you, a perfect judge in such
matters.” The Taxiarch’s face brightened up at these words, and grasping
Syloson’s hand, he exclaimed. “By the dog, my friend, we shall not wait to
be asked twice; we’ll come soon enough and take a good pull at your
wine-skins. How would it be if you were to ask Archidice, the three
flower-sisters, and a few flute-playing-girls to supper?”

“They shall all be there. By the bye, that reminds me that the
flower-girls were the cause of that poor young Lydian’s imprisonment. Some
jealous idiot attacked him before their house with a number of comrades.
The hot-brained young fellow defended himself….”

“And knocked the other down?”

“Yes; and so that he’ll never get up again.”

“The boy must be a good boxer.”

“He had a sword.”

“So much the better for him.”

“No, so much the worse; for his victim was an Egyptian.”

“That’s a bad job. I fear it can only have an unfortunate end. A
foreigner, who kills an Egyptian, is as sure of death as if he had the
rope already round his neck. However, just now he’ll get a few days’
grace; the priests are all so busy praying for the dying king that they
have no time to try criminals.”

“I’d give a great deal to be able to save that poor fellow. I know his
father.”

“Yes, and then after all he only did his duty. A man must defend himself.”

“Do you happen to know where he is imprisoned?”

“Of course I do. The great prison is under repair, and so he has been put
for the present in the storehouse between the principal guard-house of the
Egyptian body-guard and the sacred grove of the temple of Neith. I have
only just come home from seeing them take him there.”

“He is strong and has plenty of courage; do you think he could get away,
if we helped him?”

“No, it would be quite impossible; he’s in a room two stories high; the
only window looks into the sacred grove, and that, you know, is surrounded
by a ten-foot wall, and guarded like the treasury. There are double
sentries at every gate. There’s only one place where it is left unguarded
during the inundation season, because, just here, the water washes the
walls. These worshippers of animals are as cautious as water-wagtails.”

“Well, it’s a great pity, but I suppose we must leave the poor fellow to
his fate. Good-bye, Doemones; don’t forget my invitation.”

The Samian left the guard-room and went back directly to the two friends,
who were waiting impatiently for him.

They listened eagerly to his tidings, and when he had finished his
description of the prison, Darius exclaimed: “I believe a little courage
will save him. He’s as nimble as a cat, and as strong as a bear. I have
thought of a plan.”

“Let us hear it,” said Syloson, “and let me give an opinion as to its
practicability.”

“We will buy some rope-ladders, some cord, and a good bow, put all these
into our boat, and row to the unguarded part of the temple-wall at dusk.
You must then help me to clamber over it. I shall take the things over
with me and give the eagle’s cry. Zopyras will know at once, because,
since we were children, we have been accustomed to use it when we were
riding or hunting together. Then I shall shoot an arrow, with the cord
fastened to it, up into his window, (I never miss), tell him to fasten a
weight to it and let it down again to me. I shall then secure the
rope-ladder to the cord, Zopyrus will draw the whole affair up again, and
hang it on an iron nail,—which, by the bye, I must not forget to
send up with the ladder, for who knows whether he may have such a thing in
his cell. He will then come down on it, go quickly with me to the part of
the wall where you will be waiting with the boat, and where there must be
another rope-ladder, spring into the boat, and there he is-safe!”

“First-rate, first-rate!” cried Bartja.

“But very dangerous,” added Syloson. “If we are caught in the sacred
grove, we are certain to be severely punished. The priests hold strange
nightly festivals there, at which every one but the initiated is strictly
forbidden to appear. I believe, however, that these take place on the
lake, and that is at some distance from Zopyrus’ prison.”

“So much the better,” cried Darius; “but now to the main point. We must
send at once, and ask Theopompus to hire a fast trireme for us, and have
it put in sailing order at once. The news of Cambyses’ preparations have
already reached Egypt; they take us for spies, and will be sure not to let
either Zopyrus or his deliverers escape, if they can help it. It would be
a criminal rashness to expose ourselves uselessly to danger. Bartja, you
must take this message yourself, and must marry Sappho this very day, for,
come what may, we must leave Naukratis to-morrow. Don’t contradict me, my
friend, my brother! You know our plan, and you must see that as only one
can act in it, your part would be that of a mere looker-on. As it was my
own idea I am determined to carry it out myself. We shall meet again
to-morrow, for Auramazda protects the friendship of the pure.”

It was a long time before they could persuade Bartja to leave his friends
in the lurch, but their entreaties and representations at last took
effect, and he went down towards the river to take a boat for Naukratis,
Darius and Syloson going at the same time to buy the necessary implements
for their plan.

In order to reach the place where boats were to be hired, Bartja had to
pass by the temple of Neith. This was not easy, as an immense crowd was
assembled at the entrance-gates. He pushed his way as far as the obelisks
near the great gate of the temple with its winged sun-disc and fluttering
pennons, but there the temple-servants prevented him from going farther;
they were keeping the avenue of sphinxes clear for a procession. The
gigantic doors of the Pylon opened, and Bartja, who, in spite of himself,
had been pushed into the front row, saw a brilliant procession come out of
the temple. The unexpected sight of many faces he had formerly known
occupied his attention so much, that he scarcely noticed the loss of his
broad-brimmed hat, which had been knocked off in the crowd. From the
conversation of two Ionian mercenaries behind him he learnt that the
family of Amasis had been to the temple to pray for the dying king.

The procession was headed by richly-decorated priests, either wearing long
white robes or pantherskins. They were followed by men holding office at
the court, and carrying golden staves, on the ends of which peacocks’
feathers and silver lotus-flowers were fastened, and these by Pastophori,
carrying on their shoulders a golden cow, the animal sacred to Isis. When
the crowd had bowed down before this sacred symbol, the queen appeared.
She was dressed in priestly robes and wore a costly head-dress with the
winged disc and the Uraeus. In her left hand she held a sacred golden
sistrum, the tones of which were to scare away Typhon, and in her right
some lotus-flowers. The wife, daughter and sister of the high-priest
followed her, in similar but less splendid ornaments. Then came the heir
to the throne, in rich robes of state, as priest and prince; and behind
him four young priests in white carrying Tachot, (the daughter of Amasis
and Ladice and the pretended sister of Nitetis,) in an open litter. The
heat of the day, and the earnestness of her prayers, had given the sick
girl a slight color. Her blue eyes, filled with tears, were fixed on the
sistrum which her weak, emaciated hands had hardly strength to hold.

A murmur of compassion ran through the crowd; for they loved their dying
king, and manifested openly and gladly the sympathy so usually felt for
young lives from whom a brilliant future has been snatched by disease.
Such was Amasis’ young, fading daughter, who was now being carried past
them, and many an eye grew dim as the beautiful invalid came in sight.
Tachot seemed to notice this, for she raised her eyes from the sistrum and
looked kindly and gratefully at the crowd. Suddenly the color left her
face, she turned deadly pale, and the golden sistrum fell on to the stone
pavement with a clang, close to Bartja’s feet. He felt that he had been
recognized and for one moment thought of hiding himself in the crowd; but
only for one moment—his chivalrous feeling gained the day, he darted
forward, picked up the sistrum, and forgetting the danger in which he was
placing himself, held it out to the princess.

Tachot looked at him earnestly before taking the golden sistrum from his
hands, and then said, in a low voice, which only he could understand: “Are
you Bartja? Tell me, in your mother’s name—are you Bartja?”

“Yes, I am,” was his answer, in a voice as low as her own, “your friend,
Bartja.”

He could not say more, for the priests pushed him back among the crowd.
When he was in his old place, he noticed that Tachot, whose bearers had
begun to move on again, was looking round at him. The color had come back
into her cheeks, and her bright eyes were trying to meet his. He did not
avoid them; she threw him a lotus-bud-he stooped to pick it up, and then
broke his way through the crowd, for this hasty act had roused their
attention.

A quarter of an hour later, he was seated in the boat which was to take
him to Sappho and to his wedding. He was quite at ease now about Zopyrus.
In Bartja’s eyes his friend was already as good as saved, and in spite of
the dangers which threatened himself, he felt strangely calm and happy, he
could hardly say why.

Meanwhile the sick princess had been carried home, had had her oppressive
ornaments taken off, and her couch carried on to one of the
palace-balconies where she liked best to pass the hot summer days,
sheltered by broad-leaved plants, and a kind of awning.

From this veranda, she could look down into the great fore-court of the
palace, which was planted with trees. To-day it was full of priests,
courtiers, generals and governors of provinces. Anxiety and suspense were
expressed in every face: Amasis’ last hour was drawing very near.

Tachot could not be seen from below; but listening with feverish
eagerness, she could hear much that was said. Now that they had to dread
the loss of their king, every one, even the priests, were full of his
praises. The wisdom and circumspection of his plans and modes of
government, his unwearied industry, the moderation he had always shown,
the keenness of his wit, were, each and all, subjects of admiration. “How
Egypt has prospered under Amasis’ government!” said a Nomarch. “And what
glory he gained for our arms, by the conquest of Cyprus and the war with
the Libyans!” cried one of the generals. “How magnificently he embellished
our temples, and what great honors he paid to the goddess of Sais!”
exclaimed one of the singers of Neith. “And then how gracious and
condescending he was!” murmured a courtier. “How cleverly he managed to
keep peace with the great powers!” said the secretary of state, and the
treasurer, wiping away a tear, cried: “How thoroughly he understood the
management of the revenue! Since the reign of Rameses III. the treasury
has not been so well filled as now.” “Psamtik comes into a fine
inheritance,” lisped the courtier, and the soldier exclaimed, “Yes, but
it’s to be feared that he’ll not spend it in a glorious war; he’s too much
under the influence of the priests.” “No, you are wrong there,” answered
the temple-singer. “For some time past, our lord and master has seemed to
disdain the advice of his most faithful servants.” “The successor of such
a father will find it difficult to secure universal approbation,” said the
Nomarch. “It is not every one who has the intellect, the good fortune and
the wisdom of Amasis.” “The gods know that!” murmured the warrior with a
sigh.

Tachot’s tears flowed fast. These words were a confirmation of what they
had been trying to hide from her: she was to lose her dear father soon.

After she had made this dreadful certainty clear to her own mind, and
discovered that it was in vain to beg her attendants to carry her to her
dying father, she left off listening to the courtiers below, and began
looking at the sistrum which Bartja himself had put into her hand, and
which she had brought on to the balcony with her, as if seeking comfort
there. And she found what she sought; for it seemed to her as if the sound
of its sacred rings bore her away into a smiling, sunny landscape.

That faintness which so often comes over people in decline, had seized her
and was sweetening her last hours with pleasant dreams.

The female slaves, who stood round to fan away the flies, said afterwards
that Tachot had never looked so lovely.

She had lain about an hour in this state, when her breathing became more
difficult, a slight cough made her breast heave, and the bright red blood
trickled down from her lips on to her white robe. She awoke, and looked
surprised and disappointed on seeing the faces round her. The sight of her
mother, however, who came on to the veranda at that moment, brought a
smile to her face, and she said, “O mother, I have had such a beautiful
dream.”

“Then our visit to the temple has done my dear child good?” asked the
queen, trembling at the sight of the blood on the sick girl’s lips.

“Oh, yes, mother, so much! for I saw him again.” Ladice’s glance at the
attendants seemed to ask “Has your poor mistress lost her senses?” Tachot
understood the look and said, evidently speaking with great difficulty:
“You think I am wandering, mother. No, indeed, I really saw and spoke to
him. He gave me my sistrum again, and said he was my friend, and then he
took my lotus-bud and vanished. Don’t look so distressed and surprised,
mother. What I say is really true; it is no dream.—There, you hear,
Tentrut saw him too. He must have come to Sais for my sake, and so the
child-oracle in the temple-court did not deceive me, after all. And now I
don’t feel anything more of my illness; I dreamt I was lying in a field of
blooming poppies, as red as the blood of the young lambs that are offered
in sacrifice; Bartja was sitting by my side, and Nitetis was kneeling
close to us and playing wonderful songs on a Nabla made of ivory. And
there was such a lovely sound in the air that I felt as if Horus, the
beautiful god of morning, spring, and the resurrection, was kissing me.
Yes, mother, I tell you he is coming soon, and when I am well, then—then—ah,
mother what is this?… I am dying!”

Ladice knelt down by her child’s bed and pressed her lips in burning
kisses on the girl’s eyes as they grew dim in death.

An hour later she was standing by another bedside—her dying
husband’s.

Severe suffering had disfigured the king’s features, the cold perspiration
was standing on his forehead, and his hands grasped the golden lions on
the arms of the deep-seated invalid chair in which he was resting, almost
convulsively.

When Ladice came in he opened his eyes; they were as keen and intelligent
as if he had never lost his sight.

“Why do not you bring Tachot to me?” he asked in a dry voice.

“She is too ill, and suffers so much, that…”

“She is dead! Then it is well with her, for death is not punishment; it is
the end and aim of life,—the only end that we can attain without
effort, but through sufferings!—the gods alone know how great.
Osiris has taken her to himself, for she was innocent. And Nitetis is dead
too. Where is Nebenchari’s letter?”

“Here is the place: ‘She took her own life, and died calling down a heavy
curse on thee and thine. The poor, exiled, scorned and plundered oculist
Nebenchari in Babylon sends thee this intelligence to Egypt. It is as true
as his own hatred of thee.’ Listen to these words, Psamtik, and remember
how on his dying bed thy father told thee that, for every drachm of
pleasure purchased on earth by wrong-doing, the dying bed will be burdened
by a talent’s weight of remorse. Fearful misery is coming on Egypt for
Nitetis’ sake. Cambyses is preparing to make war on us. He will sweep down
on Egypt like a scorching wind from the desert. Much, which I have staked
my nightly sleep and the very marrow of my existence to bring into
existence, will be annihilated. Still I have not lived in vain. For forty
years I have been the careful father and benefactor of a great nation.
Children and children’s children will speak of Amasis as a great, wise and
humane king; they will read my name on the great works which I have built
in Sais and Thebes, and will praise the greatness of my power. Neither
shall I be condemned by Osiris and the forty-two judges of the nether
world; the goddess of truth, who holds the balances, will find that my
good deeds outweigh my bad.”—Here the king sighed deeply and
remained silent for some time. Then, looking tenderly at his wife, he
said: “Ladice, thou hast been a faithful, virtuous wife to me. For this I
thank thee, and ask thy forgiveness for much. We have often misunderstood
one another. Indeed it was easier for me to accustom myself to the Greek
modes of thought, than for a Greek to understand our Egyptian ideas. Thou
know’st my love of Greek art,—thou know’st how I enjoyed the society
of thy friend Pythagoras, who was thoroughly initiated in all that we
believe and know, and adopted much from us. He comprehended the deep
wisdom which lies in the doctrines that I reverence most, and he took care
not to speak lightly of truths which our priests are perhaps too careful
to hide from the people; for though the many bow down before that which
they cannot understand, they would be raised and upheld by those very
truths, if explained to them. To a Greek mind our worship of animals
presents the greatest difficulty, but to my own the worship of the Creator
in his creatures seems more just and more worthy of a human being, than
the worship of his likeness in stone. The Greek deities are moreover
subject to every human infirmity; indeed I should have made my queen very
unhappy by living in the same manner as her great god Zeus.”

At these words the king smiled, and then went on: “And what has given rise
to this? The Hellenic love of beauty in form, which, in the eye of a
Greek, is superior to every thing else. He cannot separate the body from
the soul, because he holds it to be the most glorious of formed things,
and indeed, believes that a beautiful spirit must necessarily inhabit a
beautiful body. Their gods, therefore, are only elevated human beings, but
we adore an unseen power working in nature and in ourselves. The animal
takes its place between ourselves and nature; its actions are guided, not,
like our own, by the letter, but by the eternal laws of nature, which owe
their origin to the Deity, while the letter is a device of man’s own mind.
And then, too, where amongst ourselves do we find so earnest a longing and
endeavor to gain freedom, the highest good, as among the animals? Where
such a regular and well-balanced life from generation to generation,
without instruction or precept?”

Here the king’s voice failed. He was obliged to pause for a few moments,
and then continued: “I know that my end is near; therefore enough of these
matters. My son and successor, hear my last wishes and act upon them; they
are the result of experience. But alas! how often have I seen, that rules
of life given by one man to another are useless. Every man must earn his
own experience. His own losses make him prudent, his own learning wise.
Thou, my son, art coming to the throne at a mature age; thou hast had time
and opportunity to judge between right and wrong, to note what is
beneficial and what hurtful, to see and compare many things. I give thee,
therefore, only a few wholesome counsels, and only fear that though I
offer them with my right hand, thou wilt accept them with the left.

“First, however, I must say that, notwithstanding my blindness, my
indifference to what has been going on during the past months has been
only apparent. I left you to your own devices with a good intention.
Rhodopis told me once one of her teacher AEsop’s fables: ‘A traveller,
meeting a man on his road, asked him how long it would be before he
reached the nearest town.’ ‘Go on, go on,’ cried the other. ‘But I want to
know first when I shall get to the town.’ ‘Go on, only go on,’ was the
answer. The traveller left him with angry words and abuse; but he had not
gone many steps when the man called after him: ‘You will be there in an
hour. I could not answer your question until I had seen your pace.’

“I bore this fable in my mind for my son’s sake, and watched in silence at
what pace he was ruling his people. Now I have discovered what I wish to
know, and this is my advice: Examine into everything your self. It is the
duty of every man, but especially of a king, to acquaint himself
intimately with all that concerns the weal or woe of his people. You, my
son, are in the habit of using the eyes and ears of other men instead of
going to the fountain-head yourself. I am sure that your advisers, the
priests, only desire what is good; but… Neithotep, I must beg you to
leave us alone for a few moments.”

When the priest was gone the king exclaimed “They wish for what is good,
but good only for themselves. But we are not kings of priests and
aristocrats only, we are kings of a nation! Do not listen to the advice of
this proud caste alone, but read every petition yourself, and, by
appointing Nomarchs devoted to the king and beloved by the people, make
yourself acquainted with the needs and wishes of the Egyptian nation. It
is not difficult to govern well, if you are aware of the state of feeling
in your land. Choose fit men to fill the offices of state. I have taken
care that the kingdom shall be properly divided. The laws are good, and
have proved themselves so; hold fast by these laws, and trust no one who
sets himself above them; for law is invariably wiser than the individual
man, and its transgressor deserves his punishment. The people understand
this well, and are ready to sacrifice themselves for us, when they see
that we are ready to give up our own will to the law. You do not care for
the people. I know their voice is often rude and rough, but it utters
wholesome truths, and no one needs to hear truth more than a king. The
Pharaoh who chooses priests and courtiers for his advisers, will hear
plenty of flattering words, while he who tries to fulfil the wishes of the
nation will have much to suffer from those around him; but the latter will
feel peace in his own heart, and be praised in the ages to come. I have
often erred, yet the Egyptians will weep for me, as one who knew their
needs and considered their welfare like a father. A king who really knows
his duties, finds it an easy and beautiful task to win the love of the
people—an unthankful one to gain the applause of the great—almost
an impossibility to content both.

“Do not forget,—I say it again,—that kings and priests exist
for the people, and not the people for their kings and priests. Honor
religion for its own sake and as the most important means of securing the
obedience of the governed to their governors; but at the same time show
its promulgators that you look on them, not as receptacles, but as
servants, of the Deity. Hold fast, as the law commands, by what is old;
but never shut the gates of your kingdom against what is new, if better.
Bad men break at once with the old traditions; fools only care for what is
new and fresh; the narrowminded and the selfish privileged class cling
indiscriminately to all that is old, and pronounce progress to be a sin;
but the wise endeavor to retain all that has approved itself in the past,
to remove all that has become defective, and to adopt whatever is good,
from whatever source it may have sprung. Act thus, my son. The priests
will try to keep you back—the Greeks to urge you forward. Choose one
party or the other, but beware of indecision—of yielding to the one
to-day, to the other to-morrow. Between two stools a man falls to the
ground. Let the one party be your friends, the other your enemies; by
trying to please both, you will have both opposed to you. Human beings
hate the man who shows kindness to their enemies. In the last few months,
during which you have ruled independently, both parties have been offended
by your miserable indecision. The man who runs backwards and forwards like
a child, makes no progress, and is soon weary. I have till now—till
I felt that death was near—always encouraged the Greeks and opposed
the priests. In the active business of life, the clever, brave Greeks
seemed to me especially serviceable; at death, I want men who can make me
out a pass into the nether regions. The gods forgive me for not being able
to resist words that sound so like a joke, even in my last hour! They
created me and must take me as I am. I rubbed my hands for joy when I
became king; with thee, my son, coming to the throne is a graver matter.—Now
call Neithotep back; I have still something to say to you both.”

The king gave his hand to the high-priest as he entered, saving: “I leave
you, Neithotep, without ill-will, though my opinion that you have been a
better priest than a servant to your king, remains unaltered. Psamtik will
probably prove a more obedient follower than I have been, but one thing I
wish to impress earnestly on you both: Do not dismiss the Greek
mercenaries until the war with the Persians is over, and has ended we will
hope—in victory for Egypt. My former predictions are not worth
anything now; when death draws near, we get depressed, and things begin to
look a little black. Without the auxiliary troops we shall be hopelessly
lost, but with them victory is not impossible. Be clever; show the Ionians
that they are fighting on the Nile for the freedom of their own country—that
Cambyses, if victorious, will not be contented with Egypt alone, while his
defeat may bring freedom to their own enslaved countrymen in Ionia. I know
you agree with me, Neithotep, for in your heart you mean well to Egypt.—Now
read me the prayers. I feel exhausted; my end must be very near. If I
could only forget that poor Nitetis! had she the right to curse us? May
the judges of the dead-may Osiris—have mercy on our souls! Sit down
by me, Ladice; lay thy hand on my burning forehead. And Psamtik, in
presence of these witnesses, swear to honor and respect thy step-mother,
as if thou wert her own child. My poor wife! Come and seek me soon before
the throne of Osiris. A widow and childless, what hast thou to do with
this world? We brought up Nitetis as our own daughter, and yet we are so
heavily punished for her sake. But her curse rests on us—and only on
us;—not on thee, Psamtik, nor on thy children. Bring my grandson.
Was that a tear? Perhaps; well, the little things to which one has
accustomed one’s self are generally the hardest to give up.”

Rhodopis entertained a fresh guest that evening; Kallias, the son of
Phoenippus, the same who first appeared in our tale as the bearer of news
from the Olympic games.

The lively, cheerful Athenian had just come back from his native country,
and, as an old and tried friend, was not only received by Rhodopis, but
made acquainted with the secret of Sappho’s marriage.

Knakias, her old slave, had, it is true, taken in the flag which was the
sign of reception, two days ago; but he knew that Kallias was always
welcome to his mistress, and therefore admitted him just as readily as he
refused every one else.

The Athenian had plenty to tell, and when Rhodopis was called away on
business, he took his favorite Sappho into the garden, joking and teasing
her gaily as they looked out for her lover’s coming. But Bartja did not
come, and Sappho began to be so anxious that Kallias called old Melitta,
whose longing looks in the direction of Naukratis were, if possible, more
anxious even than those of her mistress, and told her to fetch a musical
instrument which he had brought with him.

It was a rather large lute, made of gold and ivory, and as he handed it to
Sappho, he said, with a smile: “The inventor of this glorious instrument,
the divine Anakreon, had it made expressly for me, at my own wish. He
calls it a Barbiton, and brings wonderful tones from its chords—tones
that must echo on even into the land of shadows. I have told this poet,
who offers his life as one great sacrifice to the Muses, Eros and
Dionysus, a great deal about you, and he made me promise to bring you this
song, which he wrote on purpose for you, as a gift from himself.

“Now, what do you say to this song? But by Hercules, child, how pale you
are! Have the verses affected you so much, or are you frightened at this
likeness of your own longing heart? Calm yourself, girl. Who knows what
may have happened to your lover?”

“Nothing has happened,—nothing,” cried a gay, manly voice, and in a
few seconds Sappho was in the arms of him she loved.

Kallias looked on quietly, smiling at the wonderful beauty of these two
young lovers.

“But now,” said the prince, after Sappho had made him acquainted with
Kallias, “I must go at once to your grandmother. We dare not wait four
days for our wedding. It must be to-day! There is danger in every hour of
delay. Is Theopompus here?”

“I think he must be,” said Sappho. “I know of nothing else, that could
keep my grandmother so long in the house. But tell me, what is this about
our marriage? It seems to me…”

“Let us go in first, love. I fancy a thunder-storm must be coming on. The
sky is so dark, and it’s so intolerably sultry.”

“As you like, only make haste, unless you mean me to die of impatience.
There is not the slightest reason to be afraid of a storm. Since I was a
child there has not been either lightning or thunder in Egypt at this time
of year.”

“Then you will see something new to-day,” said Kallias, laughing; for a
large drop of rain has just fallen on my bald head, “the Nile-swallows
were flying close to the water as I came here, and you see there is a
cloud coming over the moon already. Come in quickly, or you will get wet.
Ho, slave, see that a black lamb is offered to the gods of the lower
world.”

They found Theopompus sitting in Rhodopis’ own apartment, as Sappho had
supposed. He had finished telling her the story of Zopyrus’ arrest, and of
the journey which Bartja and his friends had taken on his behalf.

Their anxiety on the matter was beginning to be so serious, that Bartja’s
unexpected appearance was a great relief. His words flew as he repeated
the events of the last few hours, and begged Theopompus to look out at
once for a ship in sailing order, to convey himself and his friends from
Egypt.

“That suits famously,” exclaimed Kallias. “My own trireme brought me from
Naukratis to-day; it is lying now, fully equipped for sea, in the port,
and is quite at your service. I have only to send orders to the steersman
to keep the crew together and everything in sailing order.—You are
under no obligations to me; on the contrary it is I who have to thank you
for the honor you will confer on me. Ho, Knakias!—tell my slave
Philomelus, he’s waiting in the hall,—to take a boat to the port,
and order my steersman Nausarchus to keep the ship in readiness for
starting. Give him this seal; it empowers him to do all that is
necessary.”

“And my slaves?” said Bartja.

“Knakias can tell my old steward to take them to Kallias’ ship,” answered
Theopompus.

“And when they see this,” said Bartja, giving the old servant his ring,
“they will obey without a question.”

Knakias went away with many a deep obeisance, and the prince went on:
“Now, my mother, I have a great petition to ask of you.”

“I guess what it is,” said Rhodopis, with a smile. “You wish your marriage
to be hastened, and I see that I dare not oppose your wish.”

“If I’m not mistaken,” said Kallias, “we have a remarkable case here. Two
people are in great peril, and find that very peril a matter of
rejoicing.”

“Perhaps you are right there,” said Bartja, pressing Sappho’s hand
unperceived. And then, turning to Rhodopis again, he begged her to delay
no longer in trusting her dearest treasure to his care,—a treasure
whose worth he knew so well.

Rhodopis rose, she laid her right hand on Sappho’s head and her left on
Bartja’s, and said: “There is a myth which tells of a blue lake in the
land of roses; its waves are sometimes calm and gentle, but at others they
rise into a stormy flood; the taste of its waters is partly sweet as
honey, partly bitter as gall. Ye will learn the meaning of this legend in
the marriage-land of roses. Ye will pass calm and stormy-sweet and bitter
hours there. So long as thou wert a child, Sappho, thy life passed on like
a cloudless spring morning, but when thou becam’st a maiden, and hadst
learnt to love, thine heart was opened to admit pain; and during the long
months of separation pain was a frequent guest there. This guest will seek
admission as long as life lasts. Bartja, it will be your duty to keep this
intruder away from Sappho, as far as it lies in your power. I know the
world. I could perceive,—even before Croesus told me of your
generous nature,—that you were worthy of my Sappho. This justified
me in allowing you to eat the quince with her; this induces me now to
entrust to you, without fear, what I have always looked upon as a sacred
pledge committed to my keeping. Look upon her too only as a loan. Nothing
is more dangerous to love, than a comfortable assurance of exclusive
possession—I have been blamed for allowing such an inexperienced
child to go forth into your distant country, where custom is so
unfavorable to women; but I know what love is;—I know that a girl
who loves, knows no home but the heart of her husband;—the woman
whose heart has been touched by Eros no misfortune but that of separation
from him whom she has chosen. And besides, I would ask you, Kallias and
Theopompus, is the position of your own wives so superior to that of the
Persian women? Are not the women of Ionia and Attica forced to pass their
lives in their own apartments, thankful if they are allowed to cross the
street accompanied by suspicious and distrustful slaves? As to the custom
which prevails in Persia of taking many wives, I have no fear either for
Bartja or Sappho. He will be more faithful to his wife than are many
Greeks, for he will find in her what you are obliged to seek, on the one
hand in marriage, on the other in the houses of the cultivated Hetaere:—in
the former, housewives and mothers, in the latter, animated and enlivening
intellectual society. Take her, my son. I give her to you as an old
warrior gives his sword, his best possession, to his stalwart son:—he
gives it gladly and with confidence. Whithersoever she may go she will
always remain a Greek, and it comforts me to think that in her new home
she will bring honor to the Greek name and friends to our nation, Child, I
thank thee for those tears. I can command my own, but fate has made me pay
an immeasurable price for the power of doing so. The gods have heard your
oath, my noble Bartja. Never forget it, but take her as your own, your
friend, your wife. Take her away as soon as your friends return; it is not
the will of the gods that the Hymenaeus should be sung at Sappho’s nuptial
rites.”

As she said these words she laid Sappho’s hand in Bartja’s, embraced her
with passionate tenderness, and breathed a light kiss on the forehead of
the young Persian. Then turning to her Greek friends, who stood by, much
affected:

“That was a quiet nuptial ceremony,” she said; “no songs, no torch-light!
May their union be so much the happier. Melitta, bring the bride’s
marriage-ornaments, the bracelets and necklaces which lie in the bronze
casket on my dressing-table, that our darling may give her hand to her
lord attired as beseems a future princess.”

“Yes, and do not linger on the way,” cried Kallias, whose old cheerfulness
had now returned. “Neither can we allow the niece of the greatest of
Hymen’s poets to be married without the sound of song and music. The young
husband’s house is, to be sure, too far off for our purpose, so we will
suppose that the andronitis is his dwelling.

“We will conduct the maiden thither by the centre door, and there we will
enjoy a merry wedding-feast by the family hearth. Here, slavegirls, come
and form yourselves into two choruses. Half of your number take the part
of the youths; the other half that of the maidens, and sing us Sappho’s
Hymenaeus. I will be the torch-bearer; that dignity is mine by right. You
must know, Bartja, that my family has an hereditary right to carry the
torches at the Eleusinian mysteries and we are therefore called Daduchi or
torch-bearers. Ho, slave! see that the door of the andronitis is hung with
flowers, and tell your comrades to meet us with a shower of sweetmeats as
we enter. That’s right, Melitta; why, how did you manage to get those
lovely violet and myrtle marriage-crowns made so quickly? The rain is
streaming through the opening above. You see, Hymen has persuaded Zeus to
help him; so that not a single marriage-rite shall be omitted. You could
not take the bath, which ancient custom prescribes for the bride and
bridegroom on the morning of their wedding-day, so you have only to stand
here a moment and take the rain of Zeus as an equivalent for the waters of
the sacred spring. Now, girls, begin your song. Let the maidens bewail the
rosy days of childhood, and the youths praise the lot of those who marry
young.”

Five well-practised treble voices now began to sing the chorus of virgins
in a sad and plaintive tone.

Suddenly the song was hushed, for a flash of lightning had shone down
through the aperture beneath which Kallias had stationed the bride and
bridegroom, followed by a loud peal of thunder. “See!” cried the Daduchus,
raising his hand to heaven, “Zeus himself has taken the nuptial-torch, and
sings the Hymenaeus for his favorites.”

At dawn the next morning, Sappho and Bartja left the house and went into
the garden. After the violent storm which had raged all night, the garden
was looking as fresh and cheerful in the morning light as the faces of the
newly-married pair.

Bartja’s anxiety for his friends, whom he had almost forgotten in the
excitement of his marriage, had roused them so early.

The garden had been laid out on an artificial hill, which overlooked the
inundated plain. Blue and white lotus-blossoms floated on the smooth
surface of the water, and vast numbers of water-birds hovered along the
shores or over the flood. Flocks of white, herons appeared on the banks,
their plumage gleaming like glaciers on distant mountain peaks; a solitary
eagle circled upward on its broad pinions through the pure morning air,
turtle-doves nestled in the tops of the palm-trees; pelicans and ducks
fluttered screaming away, whenever a gay sail appeared. The air had been
cooled by the storm, a fresh north-wind was blowing, and, notwithstanding
the early hour, there were a number of boats sailing over the deluged
fields before the breeze. The songs of the rowers, the plashing strokes of
their oars and the cries of the birds, all contributed to enliven the
watery landscape of the Nile valley, which, though varied in color, was
somewhat monotonous.

Bartja and Sappho stood leaning on each other by the low wall which ran
round Rhodopis’ garden, exchanging tender words and watching the scene
below, till at last Bartja’s quick eye caught sight of a boat making
straight for the house and coming on fast by the help of the breeze and
powerful rowers.

A few minutes later the boat put in to shore and Zopyrus with his
deliverers stood before them.

Darius’s plan had succeeded perfectly, thanks to the storm, which, by its
violence and the unusual time of its appearance, had scared the Egyptians;
but still there was no time to be lost, as it might reasonably be supposed
that the men of Sais would pursue their fugitive with all the means at
their command.

Sappho, therefore, had to take a short farewell of her grandmother, all
the more tender, however, for its shortness,—and then, led by Rartja
and followed by old Melitta, who was to accompany her to Persia, she went
on board Syloson’s boat. After an hour’s sail they reached a
beautifully-built and fast-sailing vessel, the Hygieia, which belonged to
Kallias.

He was waiting for them on board his trireme. The leave-taking between
himself and his young friends was especially affectionate. Bartja hung a
heavy and costly gold chain round the neck of the old man in token of his
gratitude, while Syloson, in remembrance of the dangers they had shared
together, threw his purple cloak over Darius’ shoulders. It was a
master-specimen of Tynan dye, and had taken the latter’s fancy. Darius
accepted the gift with pleasure, and said, as he took leave: “You must
never forget that I am indebted to you, my Greek friend, and as soon as
possible give me an opportunity of doing you service in return.”

“You ought to come to me first, though,” exclaimed Zopyrus, embracing his
deliverer. “I am perfectly ready to share my last gold piece with you; or
what is more, if it would do you a service, to sit a whole week in that
infernal hole from which you saved me. Ah! they’re weighing anchor.
Farewell, you brave Greek. Remember me to the flower-sisters, especially
to the pretty, little Stephanion, and tell her her long-legged lover won’t
be able to plague her again for some time to come at least. And then, one
more thing; take this purse of gold for the wife and children of that
impertinent fellow, whom I struck too hard in the heat of the fray.”

The anchors fell rattling on to the deck, the wind filled the sails, the
Trieraules—[Flute-player to a trireme]—took his flute and set
the measure of the monotonous Keleusma or rowing-song, which echoed again
from the hold of the vessel. The beak of the ship bearing the statue of
Hygieia, carved in wood, began to move. Bartja and Sappho stood at the
helm and gazed towards Naukratis, until the shores of the Nile vanished
and the green waves of the Hellenic sea splashed their foam over the deck
of the trireme.


CHAPTER XII.

Our young bride and bridegroom had not travelled farther than Ephesus,
when the news reached them that Amasis was dead. From Ephesus they went to
Babylon, and thence to Pasargadae, which Kassandane, Atossa and Croesus
had made their temporary residence. Kassandane was to accompany the army
to Egypt, and wished, now that Nebenchari had restored her sight, to see
the monument which had lately been built to her great husband’s memory
after Croesus’ design, before leaving for so long a journey. She rejoiced
in finding it worthy of the great Cyrus, and spent hours every day in the
beautiful gardens which had been laid out round the mausoleum.

It consisted of a gigantic sarcophagus made of solid marble blocks, and
resting like a house on a substructure composed of six high marble steps.
The interior was fitted up like a room, and contained, beside the golden
coffin in which were preserved such few remains of Cyrus as had been
spared by the dogs, vultures, and elements, a silver bed and a table of
the same metal, on which were golden drinking-cups and numerous garments
ornamented with the rarest and most costly jewels.

The building was forty feet high. The shady paradises—[Persian
pleasure-gardens]—and colonnades by which it was surrounded had been
planned by Croesus, and in the midst of the sacred grove was a
dwelling-house for the Magi appointed to watch over the tomb.

The palace of Cyrus could be seen in the distance—a palace in which
he had appointed that the future kings of Persia should pass at least some
months of every year. It was a splendid building in the style of a
fortress, and so inaccessibly placed that it had been fixed on as the
royal treasure-house.

Here, in the fresh mountain air of a place dedicated to the memory of the
husband she had loved so much, Kassandane felt well and at peace; she was
glad too to see that Atossa was recovering the old cheerfulness, which she
had so sadly lost since the death of Nitetis and the departure of Darius.
Sappho soon became the friend of her new mother and sister, and all three
felt very loath to leave the lovely Pasargadm.

Darius and Zopyrus had remained with the army which was assembling in the
plains of the Euphrates, and Bartja too had to return thither before the
march began.

Cambyses went out to meet his family on their return; he was much
impressed with Sappho’s great beauty, but she confessed to her husband
that his brother only inspired her with fear.

The king had altered very much in the last few months. His formerly pale
and almost noble features were reddened and disfigured by the quantities
of wine he was in the habit of drinking. In his dark eyes there was the
old fire still, but dimmed and polluted. His hair and beard, formerly so
luxuriant, and black as the raven’s wing, hung down grey and disordered
over his face and chin, and the proud smile which used so to improve his
features had given way to an expression of contemptuous annoyance and
harsh severity.

Sometimes he laughed,—loudly, immoderately and coarsely; but this
was only when intoxicated, a condition which had long ceased to be unusual
with him.

He continued to retain an aversion to his wives; so much so that the royal
harem was to be left behind in Susa, though all his court took their
favorite wives and concubines with them on the campaign. Still no one
could complain that the king was ever guilty of injustice; indeed he
insisted more eagerly now than before on the rigid execution of the law;
and wherever he detected an abuse his punishments were cruel and
inexorable. Hearing that a judge, named Sisamnes, had been bribed to
pronounce an unjust sentence, he condemned the wretched man to be flayed,
ordered the seat of justice to be covered with his skin, appointed the son
to the father’s vacant place and compelled him to occupy this fearful
seat.—[Herodot. V. 25.]—Cambyses was untiring as commander of
the forces, and superintended the drilling of the troops assembled near
Babylon with the greatest rigor and circumspection.

The hosts were to march after the festival of the New Year, which Cambyses
celebrated this time with immense expense and profusion. The ceremony
over, he betook himself to the army. Bartja was there. He came up to his
brother, beaming with joy, kissed the hem of his robe, and told him in a
tone of triumph that he hoped to become a father. The king trembled as he
heard the words, vouchsafed his brother no answer, drank himself into
unconsciousness that evening, and the next morning called the soothsayers,
Magi and Chaldaeans together, in order to submit a question to them.
“Shall I be committing a sin against the gods, if I take my sister to wife
and thus verify the promise of the dream, which ye formerly interpreted to
mean that Atossa should bear a future king to this realm?”

The Magi consulted a short time together. Then Oropastes cast himself at
the king’s feet and said, “We do not believe, O King, that this marriage
would be a sin against the gods; inasmuch as, first: it is a custom among
the Persians to marry with their own kin; and secondly, though it be not
written in the law that the pure man may marry his sister, it is written
that the king may do what seemeth good in his own eyes. That which
pleaseth thee is therefore always lawful.”

Cambyses sent the Magi away with rich gifts, gave Oropastes full powers as
regent of the kingdom in his absence, and soon after told his horrified
mother that, as soon as the conquest of Egypt and the punishment of the
son of Amasis should have been achieved, he intended to marry his sister
Atossa.

At length the immense host, numbering more than 800,000 fighting men,
departed in separate divisions, and reached the Syrian desert in two
months. Here they were met by the Arabian tribes whom Phanes had
propitiated—the Amalekites and Geshurites—bringing camels and
horses laden with water for the host.

At Accho, in the land of the Canaanites, the fleets of the Syrians,
Phoenicians and Ionians belonging to Persia, and the auxiliary ships from
Cyprus and Samos, won by the efforts of Phanes, were assembled. The case
of the Samian fleet was a remarkable one. Polykrates saw in Cambyses’
proposal a favorable opportunity of getting rid of all the citizens who
were discontented with his government, manned forty triremes with eight
thousand malcontent Samians, and sent them to the Persians with the
request that not one might be allowed to return home.—[Herod. III.
44.]

As soon as Phanes heard this he warned the doomed men, who at once,
instead of sailing to join the Persian forces, returned to Samos and
attempted to overthrow Polykrates. They were defeated, however, on land,
and escaped to Sparta to ask help against the tyrant.

A full month before the time of the inundation, the Persian and Egyptian
armies were standing face to face near Pelusium on the north-east coast of
the Delta.

Phanes’ arrangements had proved excellent. The Arabian tribes had kept
faith so well that the journey through the desert, which would usually
have cost thousands of lives, had been attended with very little loss, and
the time of year had been so well chosen that the Persian troops reached
Egypt by dry roads and without inconvenience.

The king met his Greek friend with every mark of distinction, and returned
a friendly nod when Phanes said: “I hear that you have been less cheerful
than usual since the death of your beautiful bride. A woman’s grief passes
in stormy and violent complaint, but the sterner character of a man cannot
so soon be comforted. I know what you feel, for I have lost my dearest
too. Let us both praise the gods for granting us the best remedy for our
grief—war and revenge.” Phanes accompanied the king to an inspection
of the troops and to the evening revel. It was marvellous to see the
influence he exercised over this fierce spirit, and how calm—nay
even cheerful—Cambyses became, when the Athenian was near.

The Egyptian army was by no means contemptible, even when compared with
the immense Persian hosts. Its position was covered on the right by the
walls of Pelusium, a frontier fortress designed by the Egyptian kings as a
defence against incursions from the east. The Persians were assured by
deserters that the Egyptian army numbered altogether nearly six hundred
thousand men. Beside a great number of chariots of war, thirty thousand
Karian and Ionian mercenaries, and the corps of the Mazai, two hundred and
fifty thousand Kalasirians, one hundred and sixty thousand Hermotybians,
twenty thousand horsemen, and auxiliary troops, amounting to more than
fifty thousand, were assembled under Psamtik’s banner; amongst these last
the Libyan Maschawascha were remarkable for their military deeds, and the
Ethiopians for their numerical superiority.

The infantry were divided into regiments and companies, under different
standards, and variously equipped.

The heavy-armed soldiers carried large shields, lances, and daggers; the
swordsmen and those who fought with battle-axes had smaller shields and
light clubs; beside these, there were slingers, but the main body of the
army was composed of archers, whose bows unbent were nearly the height of
a man. The only clothing of the horse-soldiers was the apron, and their
weapon a light club in the form of a mace or battle-axe. Those warriors,
on the contrary, who fought in chariots belonged to the highest rank of
the military caste, spent large sums on the decoration of their
two-wheeled chariots and the harness of their magnificent horses, and went
to battle in their most costly ornaments. They were armed with bows and
lances, and a charioteer stood beside each, so that their undivided
attention could be bestowed upon the battle.

The Persian foot was not much more numerous than the Egyptian, but they
had six times the number of horse-soldiers.

As soon as the armies stood face to face, Cambyses caused the great
Pelusian plain to be cleared of trees and brushwood, and had the
sand-hills removed which were to be found here and there, in order to give
his cavalry and scythe-chariots a fair field of action. Phanes’ knowledge
of the country was of great use. He had drawn up a plan of action with
great military skill, and succeeded in gaining not only Cambyses’
approval, but that of the old general Megabyzus and the best tacticians
among the Achaemenidae. His local knowledge was especially valuable on
account of the marshes which intersected the Pelusian plain, and might,
unless carefully avoided, have proved fatal to the Persian enterprise. At
the close of the council of war Phanes begged to be heard once more: “Now,
at length,” he said, “I am at liberty to satisfy your curiosity in
reference to the closed waggons full of animals, which I have had
transported hither. They contain five thousand cats! Yes, you may laugh,
but I tell you these creatures will be more serviceable to us than a
hundred thousand of our best soldiers. Many of you are aware that the
Egyptians have a superstition which leads them rather to die than kill a
cat, I, myself, nearly paid for such a murder once with my life.
Remembering this, I have been making a diligent search for cats during my
late journey; in Cyprus, where there are splendid specimens, in Samos and
in Crete. All I could get I ordered to be caught, and now propose that
they be distributed among those troops who will be opposed to the native
Egyptian soldiers. Every man must be told to fasten one firmly to his
shield and hold it out as he advances towards the enemy. I will wager that
there’s not one real Egyptian, who would not rather fly from the
battle-field than take aim at one of these sacred animals.”

This speech was met by a loud burst of laughter; on being discussed,
however, it was approved of, and ordered to be carried out at once. The
ingenious Greek was honored by receiving the king’s hand to kiss, his
expenses were reimbursed by a magnificent present, and he was urged to
take a daughter of some noble Persian family in marriage.

The king concluded by inviting him to supper, but this the Athenian
declined, on the plea that he must review the Ionian troops, with whom he
was as yet but little acquainted, and withdrew.

At the door of his tent he found his slaves disputing with a ragged, dirty
and unshaven old man, who insisted on speaking with their master. Fancying
he must be a beggar, Phanes threw him a piece of gold; the old man did not
even stoop to pick it up, but, holding the Athenian fast by his cloak,
cried, “I am Aristomachus the Spartan!”

Cruelly as he was altered, Phanes recognized his old friend at once,
ordered his feet to be washed and his head anointed, gave him wine and
meat to revive his strength, took his rags off and laid a new chiton over
his emaciated, but still sinewy, frame.

Aristomachus received all in silence; and when the food and wine had given
him strength to speak, began the following answer to Phanes’ eager
questions.

On the murder of Phanes’ son by Psamtik, he had declared his intention of
leaving Egypt and inducing the troops under his command to do the same,
unless his friend’s little daughter were at once set free, and a
satisfactory explanation given for the sudden disappearance of the boy.
Psamtik promised to consider the matter. Two days later, as Aristomachus
was going up the Nile by night to Memphis, he was seized by Egyptian
soldiers, bound and thrown into the dark hold of a boat, which, after a
voyage of many days and nights, cast anchor on a totally unknown shore.
The prisoners were taken out of their dungeon and led across a desert
under the burning sun, and past rocks of strange forms, until they reached
a range of mountains with a colony of huts at its base. These huts were
inhabited by human beings, who, with chains on their feet, were driven
every morning into the shaft of a mine and there compelled to hew grains
of gold out of the stony rock. Many of these miserable men had passed
forty years in this place, but most died soon, overcome by the hard work
and the fearful extremes of heat and cold to which they were exposed on
entering and leaving the mine.

“My companions,” continued Aristomachus, “were either condemned murderers
to whom mercy had been granted, or men guilty of high treason whose
tongues had been cut out, and others such as myself whom the king had
reason to fear. Three months I worked among this set, submitting to the
strokes of the overseer, fainting under the fearful heat, and stiffening
under the cold dews of night. I felt as if picked out for death and only
kept alive by the hope of vengeance. It happened, however, by the mercy of
the gods, that at the feast of Pacht, our guards, as is the custom of the
Egyptians, drank so freely as to fall into a deep sleep, during which I
and a young Jew who had been deprived of his right hand for having used
false weights in trade, managed to escape unperceived; Zeus Lacedaemonius
and the great God whom this young man worshipped helped us in our need,
and, though we often heard the voices of our pursuers, they never
succeeded in capturing us. I had taken a bow from one of our guards; with
this we obtained food, and when no game was to be found we lived on roots,
fruits and birds’ eggs. The sun and stars showed us our road. We knew that
the gold-mines were not far from the Red Sea and lay to the south of
Memphis. It was not long before we reached the coast; and then, pressing
onwards in a northerly direction, we fell in with some friendly mariners,
who took care of us until we were taken up by an Arabian boat. The young
Jew understood the language spoken by the crew, and in their care we came
to Eziongeber in the land of Edom. There we heard that Cambyses was coming
with an immense army against Egypt, and travelled as far as Harma under
the protection of an Amalekite caravan bringing water to the Persian army.
From thence I went on to Pelusium in the company of some stragglers from
the Asiatic army, who now and then allowed me a seat on their horses, and
here I heard that you had accepted a high command in Cambyses’ army. I
have kept my vow, I have been true to my nation in Egypt; now it is your
turn to help old Aristomachus in gaining the only thing he still cares for—revenge
on his persecutors.”

“And that you shall have!” cried Phanes, grasping the old man’s hand. “You
shall have the command of the heavy-armed Milesian troops, and liberty to
commit what carnage you like among the ranks of our enemies. This,
however, is only paying half the debt I owe you. Praised be the gods, who
have put it in my power to make you happy by one single sentence. Know
then, Aristomachus, that, only a few days after your disappearance, a ship
arrived in the harbor of Naukratis from Sparta. It was guided by your own
noble son and expressly sent by the Ephori in your honor—to bring
the father of two Olympic victors back to his native land.”

The old man’s limbs trembled visibly at these words, his eyes filled with
tears and he murmured a prayer. Then smiting his forehead, he cried in a
voice trembling with feeling: “Now it is fulfilled! now it has become a
fact! If I doubted the words of thy priestess, O Phoebus Apollo! pardon my
sin! What was the promise of the oracle?

“The promise of the god is fulfilled. Now I may return home, and I will;
but first I raise my hands to Dice, the unchanging goddess of justice, and
implore her not to deny me the pleasure of revenge.”

“The day of vengeance will dawn to-morrow,” said Phanes, joining in the
old man’s prayer. “Tomorrow I shall slaughter the victims for the dead—for
my son—and will take no rest until Cambyses has pierced the heart of
Egypt with the arrows which I have cut for him. Come, my friend, let me
take you to the king. One man like you can put a whole troop of Egyptians
to flight.”

It was night. The Persian soldiers, their position being unfortified, were
in order of battle, ready to meet any unexpected attack. The foot-soldiers
stood leaning on their shields, the horsemen held their horses saddled and
bridled near the camp-fires. Cambyses was riding through the ranks,
encouraging his troops by words and looks. Only one part of the army was
not yet ranged in order of battle—the centre. It was composed of the
Persian body-guard, the apple-bearers, Immortals, and the king’s own
relatives, who were always led into battle by the king in person.

The Ionian Greeks too had gone to rest, at Phanes’ command. He wanted to
keep his men fresh, and allowed them to sleep in their armor, while he
kept watch. Aristomachus was welcomed with shouts of joy by the Greeks,
and kindly by Cambyses, who assigned him, at the head of one half the
Greek troops, a place to the left of the centre attack, while Phanes, with
the other half, had his place at the right. The king himself was to take
the lead at the head of the ten thousand Immortals, preceded by the blue,
red and gold imperial banner and the standard of Kawe. Bartja was to lead
the regiment of mounted guards numbering a thousand men, and that division
of the cavalry which was entirely clothed in mail.

Croesus commanded a body of troops whose duty it was to guard the camp
with its immense treasures, the wives of Cambyses’ nobles, and his own
mother and sister.

At last Mithras appeared and shed his light upon the earth; the spirits of
the night retired to their dens, and the Magi stirred up the sacred fire
which had been carried before the army the whole way from Babylon, until
it became a gigantic flame. They and the king united in feeding it with
costly perfumes, Cambyses offered the sacrifice, and, holding the while a
golden bowl high in the air, besought the gods to grant him victory and
glory. He then gave the password, “Auramazda, the helper and guide,” and
placed himself at the head of his guards, who went into the battle with
wreaths on their tiaras. The Greeks offered their own sacrifices, and
shouted with delight on hearing that the omens were auspicious. Their
war-cry was “Hebe.”

Meanwhile the Egyptian priests had begun their day also with prayer and
sacrifice, and had then placed their army in order of battle.

Psamtik, now King of Egypt, led the centre. He was mounted on a golden
chariot; the trappings of his horses were of gold and purple, and plumes
of ostrich feathers nodded on their proud heads. He wore the double crown
of Upper and Lower Egypt, and the charioteer who stood at his left hand
holding the reins and whip, was descended from one of the noblest Egyptian
families.

The Hellenic and Karian mercenaries were to fight at the left of the
centre, the horse at the extreme of each wing, and the Egyptian and
Ethiopian foot were stationed, six ranks deep, on the right and left of
the armed chariots, and Greek mercenaries.

Psamtik drove through the ranks of his army, giving encouraging and
friendly words to all the men. He drew up before the Greek division, and
addressed them thus: “Heroes of Cyprus and Libya! your deeds in arms are
well known to me, and I rejoice in the thought of sharing your glory
to-day and crowning you with fresh laurels. Ye have no need to fear, that
in the day of victory I shall curtail your liberties. Malicious tongues
have whispered that this is all ye have to expect from me; but I tell you,
that if we conquer, fresh favors will be shown to you and your
descendants; I shall call you the supporters of my throne. Ye are fighting
to-day, not for me alone, but for the freedom of your own distant homes.
It is easy to perceive that Cambyses, once lord of Egypt, will stretch out
his rapacious hand over your beautiful Hellas and its islands. I need only
remind you, that they be between Egypt and your Asiatic brethren who are
already groaning under the Persian yoke. Your acclamations prove that ye
agree with me already, but I must ask for a still longer hearing. It is my
duty to tell you who has sold, not only Egypt, but his own country to the
King of Persia, in return for immense treasures. The man’s name is Phanes!
You are angry and inclined to doubt? I swear to you, that this very Phanes
has accepted Cambyses’ gold and promised not only to be his guide to
Egypt, but to open the gates of your own Greek cities to him. He knows the
country and the people, and can be bribed to every perfidy. Look at him!
there he is, walking by the side of the king. See how he bows before him!
I thought I had heard once, that the Greeks only prostrated themselves
before their gods. But of course, when a man sells his country, he ceases
to be its citizen. Am I not right? Ye scorn to call so base a creature by
the name of countryman? Yes? then I will deliver the wretch’s daughter
into your hands. Do what ye will with the child of such a villain. Crown
her with wreaths of roses, fall down before her, if it please you, but do
not forget that she belongs to a man who has disgraced the name of
Hellene, and has betrayed his countrymen and country!”

As he finished speaking the men raised a wild cry of rage and took
possession of the trembling child. A soldier held her up, so that her
father—the troops not being more than a bow-shot apart—could
see all that happened. At the same moment an Egyptian, who afterwards
earned celebrity through the loudness of his voice, cried: “Look here,
Athenian! see how treachery and corruption are rewarded in this country!”
A bowl of wine stood near, provided by the king, from which the soldiers
had just been drinking themselves into intoxication. A Karian seized it,
plunged his sword into the innocent child’s breast, and let the blood flow
into the bowl; filled a goblet with the awful mixture, and drained it, as
if drinking to the health of the wretched father. Phanes stood watching
the scene, as if struck into a statue of cold stone. The rest of the
soldiers then fell upon the bowl like madmen, and wild beasts could not
have lapped up the foul drink with greater eagerness.—[Herodotus
tells this fearful tale (III. ii.)]

In the same moment Psamtik triumphantly shot off his first arrow into the
Persian ranks.

The mercenaries flung the child’s dead body on to the ground; drunk with
her blood, they raised their battle-song, and rushed into the strife far
ahead of their Egyptian comrades.

But now the Persian ranks began to move. Phanes, furious with pain and
rage, led on his heavy-armed troops, indignant too at the brutal barbarity
of their countrymen, and dashed into the ranks of those very soldiers,
whose love he had tried to deserve during ten years of faithful
leadership.

At noon, fortune seemed to be favoring the Egyptians; but at sunset the
Persians had the advantage, and when the full-moon rose, the Egyptians
were flying wildly from the battle-field, perishing in the marshes and in
the arm of the Nile which flowed behind their position, or being cut to
pieces by the swords of their enemies.

Twenty thousand Persians and fifty thousand Egyptians lay dead on the
blood-stained sea-sand. The wounded, drowned, and prisoners could scarcely
be numbered.

Psamtik had been one of the last to fly. He was well mounted, and, with a
few thousand faithful followers, reached the opposite bank of the Nile and
made for Memphis, the well-fortified city of the Pyramids.

Of the Greek mercenaries very few survived, so furious had been Phanes’
revenge, and so well had he been supported by his Ionians. Ten thousand
Karians were taken captive and the murderer of his little child was killed
by Phanes’ own hand.

Aristomachus too, in spite of his wooden leg, had performed miracles of
bravery; but, notwithstanding all their efforts, neither he, nor any of
his confederates in revenge, had succeeded in taking Psamtik prisoner.

When the battle was over, the Persians returned in triumph to their tents,
to be warmly welcomed by Croesus and the warriors and priests who had
remained behind, and to celebrate their victory by prayers and sacrifices.

The next morning Cambyses assembled his generals and rewarded them with
different tokens of distinction, such as costly robes, gold chains, rings,
swords, and stars formed of precious stones. Gold and silver coins were
distributed among the common soldiers.

The principal attack of the Egyptians had been directed against the centre
of the Persian army, where Cambyses commanded in person; and with such
effect that the guards had already begun to give way. At that moment
Bartja, arriving with his troop of horsemen, had put fresh courage into
the wavering, had fought like a lion himself, and by his bravery and
promptitude decided the day in favor of the Persians.

The troops were exultant in their joy: they shouted his praises, as “the
conqueror of Pelusium” and the “best of the Achaemenidae.”

Their cries reached the king’s ears and made him very angry. He knew he
had been fighting at the risk of life, with real courage and the strength
of a giant, and yet the day would have been lost if this boy had not
presented him with the victory. The brother who had embittered his days of
happy love, was now to rob him of half his military glory. Cambyses felt
that he hated Bartja, and his fist clenched involuntarily as he saw the
young hero looking so happy in the consciousness of his own well-earned
success.

Phanes had been wounded and went to his tent; Aristomachus lay near him,
dying.

“The oracle has deceived me, after all,” he murmured. “I shall die without
seeing my country again.”

“The oracle spoke the truth,” answered Phanes. “Were not the last words of
the Pythia?”

“Can you misunderstand their meaning? They speak of Charon’s lingering
boat, which will convey you to your last home, to the one great
resting-place for all wanderers—the kingdom of Hades.”

“Yes, my friend, you are right there. I am going to Hades.”

“And the Five have granted you, before death, what they so long refused,—the
return to Lacedaemon. You ought to be thankful to the gods for granting
you such sons and such vengeance on your enemies. When my wound is healed,
I shall go to Greece and tell your son that his father died a glorious
death, and was carried to the grave on his shield, as beseems a hero.”

“Yes, do so, and give him my shield as a remembrance of his old father.
There is no need to exhort him to virtue.”

“When Psamtik is in our power, shall I tell him what share you had in his
overthrow?”

“No; he saw me before he took to flight, and at the unexpected vision his
bow fell from his hand. This was taken by his friends as a signal for
flight, and they turned their horses from the battle.”

“The gods ordain, that bad men shall be ruined by their own deeds. Psamtik
lost courage, for he must have believed that the very spirits of the lower
world were fighting against him.”

“We mortals gave him quite enough to do. The Persians fought well. But the
battle would have been lost without the guards and our troops.”

“Without doubt.”

“I thank thee, O Zeus Lacedaemonius.”

“You are praying?”

“I am praising the gods for allowing me to die at ease as to my country.
These heterogeneous masses can never be dangerous to Greece. Ho,
physician, when am I likely to die?”

The Milesian physician, who had accompanied the Greek troops to Egypt,
pointed to the arrow-head sticking fast in his breast, and said with a sad
smile, “You have only a few hours more to live. If I were to draw the
arrow from your wound, you would die at once.”

The Spartan thanked him, said farewell to Phanes, sent a greeting to
Rhodopis, and then, before they could prevent him, drew the arrow from his
wound with an unflinching hand. A few moments later Aristomachus was dead.

The same day a Persian embassy set out for Memphis on board one of the
Lesbian vessels. It was commissioned to demand from Psamtik the surrender
of his own person and of the city at discretion. Cambyses followed, having
first sent off a division of his army under Megabyzus to invest Sais.

At Heliopolis he was met by deputations from the Greek inhabitants of
Naukratis and the Libyans, praying for peace and his protection, and
bringing a golden wreath and other rich presents. Cambyses received them
graciously and assured them of his friendship; but repulsed the messengers
from Cyrene and Barka indignantly, and flung, with his own hand, their
tribute of five hundred silver mince among his soldiers, disdaining to
accept so contemptible an offering.

In Heliopolis he also heard that, at the approach of his embassy, the
inhabitants of Memphis had flocked to the shore, bored a hole in the
bottom of the ship, torn his messengers in pieces without distinction, as
wild beasts would tear raw flesh, and dragged them into the fortress. On
hearing this he cried angrily: “I swear, by Mithras, that these murdered
men shall be paid for; ten lives for one.”

Two days later and Cambyses with his army stood before the gates of
Memphis. The siege was short, as the garrison was far too small for the
city, and the citizens were discouraged by the fearful defeat at Pelusium.

King Psamtik himself came out to Cambyses, accompanied by his principal
nobles, in rent garments, and with every token of mourning. Cambyses
received him coldly and silently, ordering him and his followers to be
guarded and removed. He treated Ladice, the widow of Amasis, who appeared
at the same time as her step-son, with consideration, and, at the
intercession of Phanes, to whom she had always shown favor, allowed her to
return to her native town of Cyrene under safe conduct. She remained there
until the fall of her nephew, Arcesilaus III. and the flight of her sister
Pheretime, when she betook herself to Anthylla, the town in Egypt which
belonged to her, and where she passed a quiet, solitary existence, dying
at a great age.

Cambyses not only scorned to revenge the imposture which had been
practised on him on a woman, but, as a Persian, had far too much respect
for a mother, and especially for the mother of a king, to injure Ladice in
any way.

While he was engaged in the siege of Sais, Psamtik passed his imprisonment
in the palace of the Pharaohs, treated in every respect as a king, but
strictly guarded.

Among those members of the upper class who had incited the people to
resistance, Neithotep, the high-priest of Neith, had taken the foremost
place. He was therefore sent to Memphis and put in close confinement, with
one hundred of his unhappy confederates. The larger number of the
Pharaoh’s court, on the other hand, did homage voluntarily to Cambyses at
Sais, entitled him Ramestu, “child of the sun,” and suggested that he
should cause himself to be crowned King of Upper and Lower Egypt, with all
the necessary formalities, and admitted into the priestly caste according
to ancient custom. By the advice of Croesus and Phanes, Cambyses gave in
to these proposals, though much against his own will: he went so far,
indeed, as to offer sacrifice in the temple of Neith, and allowed the
newly-created high-priest of the goddess to give him a superficial insight
into the nature of the mysteries. Some of the courtiers he retained near
himself, and promoted different administrative functionaries to high
posts; the commander of Amasis’ Nile fleet succeeded so well in gaining
the king’s favor, as to be appointed one of those who ate at the royal
table.

On leaving Sais, Cambyses placed Megabyzus in command of the city; but
scarcely had the king quitted their walls than the smothered rage of the
people broke forth; they murdered the Persian sentinels, poisoned the
wells, and set the stables of the cavalry on fire. Megabyzus at once
applied to the king, representing that such hostile acts, if not repressed
by fear, might soon be followed by open rebellion. “The two thousand noble
youths from Memphis whom you have destined to death as an indemnification
for our murdered ambassadors,” said he, “ought to be executed at once; and
it would do no harm if the son of Psamtik were added to the number, as he
can some day become a rallying centre for the rebels. I hear that the
daughters of the dethroned king and of the high-priest Neithotep have to
carry water for the baths of the noble Phanes.”

The Athenian answered with a smile: “Cambyses has allowed me to employ
these aristocratic female attendants, my lord, at my own request.”

“But has forbidden you to touch the life of one member of the royal
house,” added Cambyses. “None but a king has the right to punish kings.”

Phanes bowed. The king turned to Megabyzus and ordered him to have the
prisoners executed the very next day, as an example. He would decide the
fate of the young prince later; but at all events he was to be taken to
the place of execution with the rest. “We must show them,” he concluded,
“that we know how to meet all their hostile manifestations with sufficient
rigor.”

Croesus ventured to plead for the innocent boy. “Calm yourself, old
friend,” said Cambyses with a smile; “the child is not dead yet, and
perhaps will be as well off with us as your own son, who fought so well at
Pelusium. I confess I should like to know, whether Psamtik bears his fate
as calmly and bravely as you did twenty-five years ago.”

“That we can easily discover, by putting him on trial,” said Phanes. “Let
him be brought into the palace-court to-morrow, and let the captives and
the condemned be led past him. Then we shall see whether he is a man or a
coward.”

“Be it so,” answered Cambyses. “I will conceal myself and watch him
unobserved. You, Phanes, will accompany me, to tell me the name and rank
of each of the captives.”

The next morning Phanes accompanied the king on to a balcony which ran
round the great court of the palace—the court we have already
described as being planted with trees. The listeners were hidden by a
grove of flowering shrubs, but they could see every movement that took
place, and hear every word that was spoken beneath them. They saw Psamtik,
surrounded by a few of his former companions. He was leaning against a
palm-tree, his eyes fixed gloomily on the ground, as his daughters entered
the court. The daughter of Neithotep was with them, and some more young
girls, all dressed as slaves; they were carrying pitchers of water. At
sight of the king, they uttered such a loud cry of anguish as to wake him
from his reverie. He looked up, recognized the miserable girls, and bowed
his head lower than before; but only for a moment. Drawing himself up
quickly, he asked his eldest daughter for whom she was carrying water. On
hearing that she was forced to do the work of a slave for Phanes, he
turned deadly pale, nodded his head, and cried to the girls, “Go on.”

A few minutes later the captives were led into the court, with ropes round
their necks, and bridles in their mouths.

At the head of the train was the little prince Necho. He stretched his
hands out to his father, begging him to punish the bad foreigners who
wanted to kill him. At this sight the Egyptians wept in their exceeding
great misery; but Psamtik’s eyes were dry. He bowed his tearless face
nearly to the earth, and waved his child a last farewell.

After a short interval, the captives taken in Sais entered. Among them was
Neithotep, the once powerful high-priest, clothed in rags and moving with
difficulty by the help of a staff. At the entrance-gate he raised his eyes
and caught sight of his former pupil Darius. Reckless of all the
spectators around him, he went straight up to the young man, poured out
the story of his need, besought his help, and ended by begging an alms.
Darius complied at once, and by so doing, induced others of the
Achaemenidae, who were standing by, to hail the old man jokingly and throw
him little pieces of money, which he picked up laboriously and thankfully
from the ground.

At this sight Psamtik wept aloud, and smote upon his forehead, calling on
the name of his friend in a voice full of woe.

Cambyses was so astonished at this, that he came forward to the balustrade
of the veranda, and pushing the flowers aside, exclaimed: “Explain
thyself, thou strange man; the misfortunes of a beggar, not even akin to
thee, move thy compassion, but thou canst behold thy son on the way to
execution and thy daughters in hopeless misery without shedding a tear, or
uttering a lament!”

Psamtik looked up at his conqueror, and answered: “The misfortunes of my
own house, O son of Cyrus, are too great for tears; but I may be permitted
to weep over the afflictions of a friend, fallen, in his old age, from the
height of happiness and influence into the most miserable beggary.”

Cambyses’ face expressed his approval, and on looking round he saw that
his was not the only eye which was filled with tears. Croesus, Bartja, and
all the Persians-nay, even Phanes himself, who had served as interpreter
to the kings-were weeping aloud.

The proud conqueror was not displeased at these signs of sympathy, and
turning to the Athenian: “I think, my Greek friend” he said, “we may
consider our wrongs as avenged. Rise, Psamtik, and endeavor to imitate
yonder noble old man, (pointing to Croesus) by accustoming yourself to
your fate. Your father’s fraud has been visited on you and your family.
The crown, which I have wrested from you is the crown of which Amasis
deprived my wife, my never-to-be-forgotten Nitetis. For her sake I began
this war, and for her sake I grant you now the life of your son—she
loved him. From this time forward you can live undisturbed at our court,
eat at our table and share the privileges of our nobles. Gyges, fetch the
boy hither. He shall be brought up as you were, years ago, among the sons
of the Achaemenidae.”

The Lydian was hastening to execute this delightful commission, but Phanes
stopped him before he could reach the door, and placing himself proudly
between the king and the trembling, thankful Psamtik, said: “You would be
going on a useless errand, noble Lydian. In defiance of your command, my
Sovereign, but in virtue of the full powers you once gave me, I have
ordered the grandson of Amasis to be the executioner’s first victim. You
have just heard the sound of a horn; that was the sign that the last heir
to the Egyptian throne born on the shores of the Nile has been gathered to
his fathers. I am aware of the fate I have to expect, Cambyses. I will not
plead for a life whose end has been attained. Croesus, I understand your
reproachful looks. You grieve for the murdered children. But life is such
a web of wretchedness and disappointment, that I agree with your
philosopher Solon in thinking those fortunate to whom, as in former days
to Kleobis and Biton, the gods decree an early death.

“If I have ever been dear to you, Cambyses—if my counsels have been
of any use, permit me as a last favor to say a few more words. Psamtik
knows the causes that rendered us foes to each other. Ye all, whose esteem
is worth so much to me, shall know them too. This man’s father placed me
in his son’s stead at the head of the troops which had been sent to
Cyprus. Where Psamtik had earned humiliation, I won success and glory. I
also became unintentionally acquainted with a secret, which seriously
endangered his chances of obtaining the crown; and lastly, I prevented his
carrying off a virtuous maiden from the house of her grandmother, an aged
woman, beloved and respected by all the Greeks. These are the sins which
he has never been able to forgive; these are the grounds which led him to
carry on war to the death with me directly I had quitted his father’s
service. The struggle is decided now. My innocent children have been
murdered at thy command, and I have been pursued like a wild beast. That
has been thy revenge. But mine!—I have deprived thee of thy throne
and reduced thy people to bondage. Thy daughter I have called my slave,
thy son’s death-warrant was pronounced by my lips, and my eyes have seen
the maiden whom thou persecutedst become the happy wife of a brave man.
Undone, sinking ever lower and lower, thou hast watched me rise to be the
richest and most powerful of my nation. In the lowest depth of thine own
misery—and this has been the most delicious morsel of my vengeance—thou
wast forced to see me—me, Phanes shedding tears that could not be
kept back, at the sight of thy misery. The man, who is allowed to draw
even one breath of life, after beholding his enemy so low, I hold to be
happy as the gods themselves I have spoken.”

He ceased, and pressed his hand on his wound. Cambyses gazed at him in
astonishment, stepped forward, and was just going to touch his girdle—an
action which would have been equivalent to the signing of a death-warrant
when his eye caught sight of the chain, which he himself had hung round
the Athenian’s neck as a reward for the clever way in which he had proved
the innocence of Nitetis.

The sudden recollection of the woman he loved, and of the countless
services rendered him by Phanes, calmed his wrath his hand dropped. One
minute the severe ruler stood gazing lingeringly at his disobedient
friend; the next, moved by a sudden impulse, he raised his right hand
again, and pointed imperiously to the gate leading from the court.

Phanes bowed in silence, kissed the king’s robe, and descended slowly into
the court. Psamtik watched him, quivering with excitement, sprang towards
the veranda, but before his lips could utter the curse which his heart had
prepared, he sank powerless on to the ground.

Cambyses beckoned to his followers to make immediate preparations for a
lion-hunt in the Libyan mountains.


CHAPTER XIII.

The waters of the Nile had begun to rise again. Two months had passed away
since Phanes’ disappearance, and much had happened.

The very day on which he left Egypt, Sappho had given birth to a girl, and
had so far regained strength since then under the care of her grandmother,
as to be able to join in an excursion up the Nile, which Croesus had
suggested should take place on the festival of the goddess Neith. Since
the departure of Phanes, Cambyses’ behavior had become so intolerable,
that Bartja, with the permission of his brother, had taken Sappho to live
in the royal palace at Memphis, in order to escape any painful collision.
Rhodopis, at whose house Croesus and his son, Bartja, Darius and Zopyrus
were constant guests, had agreed to join the party.

On the morning of the festival-day they started in a gorgeously decorated
boat, from a point between thirty and forty miles below Memphis, favored
by a good north-wind and urged rapidly forward by a large number of
rowers.

A wooden roof or canopy, gilded and brightly painted, sheltered them from
the sun. Croesus sat by Rhodopis, Theopompus the Milesian lay at her feet.
Sappho was leaning against Bartja. Syloson, the brother of Polykrates, had
made himself a comfortable resting-place next to Darius, who was looking
thought fully into the water. Gyges and Zopyrus busied themselves in
making wreaths for the women, from the flowers handed them by an Egyptian
slave.

“It seems hardly possible,” said Bartja, “that we can be rowing against
the stream. The boat flies like a swallow.”

“This fresh north-wind brings us forward,” answered Theopompus. “And then
the Egyptian boatmen understand their work splendidly.”

“And row all the better just because we are sailing against the stream,”
added Croesus. “Resistance always brings out a man’s best powers.”

“Yes,” said Rhodopis, “sometimes we even make difficulties, if the river
of life seems too smooth.”

“True,” answered Darius. “A noble mind can never swim with the stream. In
quiet inactivity all men are equal. We must be seen fighting, to be
rightly estimated.”

“Such noble-minded champions must be very cautious, though,” said
Rhodopis, “lest they become contentious, and quarrelsome. Do you see those
melons lying on the black soil yonder, like golden balls? Not one would
have come to perfection if the sower had been too lavish with his seed.
The fruit would have been choked by too luxuriant tendrils and leaves. Man
is born to struggle and to work, but in this, as in everything else, he
must know how to be moderate if his efforts are to succeed. The art of
true wisdom is to keep within limits.”

“Oh, if Cambyses could only hear you!” exclaimed Croesus. “Instead of
being contented with his immense conquests, and now thinking for the
welfare of his subjects, he has all sorts of distant plans in his head. He
wishes to conquer the entire world, and yet, since Phanes left, scarcely a
day has passed in which he has not been conquered himself by the Div of
drunkenness.”

“Has his mother no influence over him?” asked Rhodopis. “She is a noble
woman.”

“She could not even move his resolution to marry Atossa, and was forced to
be present at the marriage feast.”

“Poor Atossa!” murmured Sappho.

“She does not pass a very happy life as Queen of Persia,” answered
Croesus; “and her own naturally impetuous disposition makes it all the
more difficult or her to live contentedly with this husband and mother; I
am sorry to hear it said that Cambyses neglects her sadly, and treats her
like a child. But the marriage does not seem to have astonished the
Egyptians, as brothers and sisters often marry here.”

“In Persia too,” said Darius, putting on an appearance of the most perfect
composure, “marriages with very near relations are thought to be the
best.”

“But to return to the king,” said Croesus, turning the conversation for
Darius’ sake. “I can assure you, Rhodopis, that he may really be called a
noble man. His violent and hasty deeds are repented of almost as soon as
committed, and the resolution to be a just and merciful ruler has never
forsaken him. At supper, for instance, lately, before his mind was clouded
by the influence of wine, he asked us what the Persians thought of him in
comparison with his father.”

“And what was the answer?” said Rhodopis. “Intaphernes got us out of the
trap cleverly enough,” answered Zopyrus, laughing. “He exclaimed: ‘We are
of opinion that you deserve the preference, inasmuch as you have not only
preserved intact the inheritance bequeathed you by Cyrus, but have
extended his dominion beyond the seas by your conquest of Egypt.’ This
answer did not seem to please the king, however, and poor Intaphernes was
not a little horrified to hear him strike his fist on the table and cry,
‘Flatterer, miserable flatterer!’ He then turned to Croesus and asked his
opinion. Our wise friend answered at once: ‘My opinion is that you have
not attained to the greatness of your father; for,’ added he in a
pacifying tone, ‘one thing is wanting to you—a son such as Cyrus
bequeathed us in yourself.”

“First-rate, first-rate,” cried Rhodopis clapping her hands and laughing.
“An answer that would have done honor to the ready-witted Odysseus
himself. And how did the king take your honeyed pill?”

“He was very much pleased, thanked Croesus, and called him his friend.”

“And I,” said Croesus taking up the conversation, “used the favorable
opportunity to dissuade him from the campaigns he has been planning
against the long lived Ethiopians, the Ammonians and the Carthaginians. Of
the first of these three nations we know scarcely anything but through
fabulous tales; by attacking them we should lose much and gain little. The
oasis of Ammon is scarcely accessible to a large army, on account of the
desert by which it is surrounded; besides which, it seems to me
sacrilegious to make war upon a god in the hope of obtaining possession of
his treasures, whether we be his worshippers or not. As to the
Carthaginians, facts have already justified my predictions. Our fleet is
manned principally by Syrians and Phoenicians, and they have, as might be
expected, refused to go to war against their brethren. Cambyses laughed at
my reasons, and ended by swearing, when he was already somewhat
intoxicated, that he could carry out difficult undertakings and subdue
powerful nations, even without the help of Bartja and Phanes.”

“What could that allusion to you mean, my son?” asked Rhodopis.

“He won the battle of Pelusiam,” cried Zopyrus, before his friend could
answer. “He and no one else!”

“Yes,” added Croesus, “and you might have been more prudent, and have
remembered that it is a dangerous thing to excite the jealousy of a man
like Cambyses. You all of you forget that his heart is sore, and that the
slightest vexation pains him. He has lost the woman he really loved; his
dearest friend is gone; and now you want to disparage the last thing in
this world that he still cares for,—his military glory.”

“Don’t blame him,” said Bartja, grasping the old man’s hand. “My brother
has never been unjust, and is far from envying me what I must call my good
fortune, for that my attack arrived just at the right time can hardly be
reckoned as a merit on my part. You know he gave me this splendid sabre, a
hundred thorough-bred horses, and a golden hand-mill as rewards of my
bravery.”

Croesus’ words had caused Sappho a little anxiety at first; but this
vanished on hearing her husband speak so confidently, and by the time
Zopyrus had finished his wreath and placed it on Rhodopis’ head, all her
fears were forgotten.

Gyges had prepared his for the young mother. It was made of snow-white
water-lilies, and, when she placed it among her brown curls, she looked so
wonderfully lovely in the simple ornament, that Bartja could not help
kissing her on the forehead, though so many witnesses were present. This
little episode gave a merry turn to the conversation; every one did his
best to enliven the others, refreshments of all kinds were handed round,
and even Darius lost his gravity for a time and joined in the jests that
were passing among his friends.

When the sun had set, the slaves set elegantly-carved chairs, footstools,
and little tables on the open part of the deck. Our cheerful party now
repaired thither and beheld a sight so marvellously beautiful as to be
quite beyond their expectations.

The feast of Neith, called in Egyptian “the lamp-burning,” was celebrated
by a universal illumination, which began at the rising of the moon. The
shores of the Nile looked like two long lines of fire. Every temple, house
and but was ornamented with lamps according to the means of its
possessors. The porches of the country-houses and the little towers on the
larger buildings were all lighted up by brilliant flames, burning in pans
of pitch and sending up clouds of smoke, in which the flags and pennons
waved gently backwards and forwards. The palm-trees and sycamores were
silvered by the moonlight and threw strange fantastic reflections on the
red waters of the Nile-red from the fiery glow of the houses on their
shores. But strong and glowing as was the light of the illumination, its
rays had not power to reach the middle of the giant river, where the boat
was making its course, and the pleasure-party felt as if they were sailing
in dark night between two brilliant days. Now and then a brightly-lighted
boat would come swiftly across the river and seem, as it neared the shore,
to be cutting its way through a glowing stream of molten iron.

Lotus-blossoms, white as snow, lay on the surface of the river, rising and
falling with the waves, and looking like eyes in the water. Not a sound
could be heard from either shore. The echoes were carried away by the
north-wind, and the measured stroke of the oars and monotonous song of the
rowers were the only sounds that broke the stillness of this strange night—a
night robbed of its darkness.

For a long time the friends gazed without speaking at the wonderful sight,
which seemed to glide past them. Zopyrus was the first to break the
silence by saying, as he drew a long breath: “I really envy you, Bartja.
If things were as they should be, every one of us would have his dearest
wife at his side on such a night as this.”

“And who forbade you to bring one of your wives?” answered the happy
husband.

“The other five,” said the youth with a sigh. “If I had allowed Oroetes’
little daughter Parysatis, my youngest favorite, to come out alone with me
to-night, this wonderful sight would have been my last; tomorrow there
would have been one pair of eyes less in the world.”

Bartja took Sappho’s hand and held it fast, saying, “I fancy one wife will
content me as long as I live.” The young mother pressed his hand warmly
again, and said, turning to Zopyrus: “I don’t quite trust you, my friend.
It seems to me that it is not the anger of your wives you fear, so much as
the commission of an offence against the customs of your country. I have
been told that my poor Bartja gets terribly scolded in the women’s
apartments for not setting eunuchs to watch over me, and for letting me
share his pleasures.”

“He does spoil you terribly,” answered Zopyrus, “and our wives are
beginning to quote him as an example of kindness and indulgence, whenever
we try to hold the reins a little tight. Indeed there will soon be a
regular women’s mutiny at the king’s gate, and the Achaemenidae who
escaped the swords and arrows of the Egyptians, will fall victims to sharp
tongues and floods of salt tears.”

“Oh! you most impolite Persian!” said Syloson laughing. “We must make you
more respectful to these images of Aphrodite.”

“You Greeks! that’s a good idea,” answered the youth. “By Mithras, our
wives are quite as well off as yours. It’s only the Egyptian women, that
are so wonderfully free.”

“Yes, you are quite right,” said Rhodopis. “The inhabitants of this
strange land have for thousands of years granted our weaker sex the same
rights, that they demand for themselves. Indeed, in many respects, they
have given us the preference. For instance, by the Egyptian law it is the
daughters, not the sons, who are commanded to foster and provide for their
aged parents, showing how well the fathers of this now humbled people
understood women’s nature, and how rightly they acknowledged that she far
surpasses man in thoughtful solicitude and self-forgetful love. Do not
laugh at these worshippers of animals. I confess that I cannot understand
them, but I feel true admiration for a people in the teaching of whose
priests, even Pythagoras, that great master in the art of knowledge,
assured me lies a wisdom as mighty as the Pyramids.”

“And your great master was right,” exclaimed Darius. “You know that I
obtained Neithotep’s freedom, and, for some weeks past, have seen him and
Onuphis very constantly, indeed they have been teaching me. And oh, how
much I have learnt already from those two old men, of which I had no idea
before! How much that is sad I can forget, when I am listening to them!
They are acquainted with the entire history of the heavens and the earth.
They know the name of every king, and the circumstances of every important
event that has occurred during the last four thousand years, the courses
of the stars, the works of their own artists and sayings of their sages,
during the same immense period of time. All this knowledge is recorded in
huge books, which have been preserved in a palace at Thebes, called the
‘place of healing for the soul.’ Their laws are a fountain of pure wisdom,
and a comprehensive intellect has been shown in the adaptation of all
their state institutions to the needs of the country. I wish we could
boast of the same regularity and order at home. The idea that lies at the
root of all their knowledge is the use of numbers, the only means by which
it is possible to calculate the course of the stars, to ascertain and
determine the limits of all that exists, and, by the application of which
in the shortening and lengthening of the strings of musical instruments,
tones can be regulated.

“Numbers are the only certain things; they can neither be controlled nor
perverted. Every nation has its own ideas of right and wrong; every law
can be rendered invalid by circumstances; but the results obtained from
numbers can never be overthrown. Who can dispute, for instance, that twice
two make four? Numbers determine the contents of every existing thing;
whatever is, is equal to its contents, numbers therefore are the true
being, the essence of all that is.”

“In the name of Mithras, Darius, do leave off talking in that style,
unless you want to turn my brain,” interrupted Zopyrus. “Why, to hear you,
one would fancy you’d been spending your life among these old Egyptian
speculators and had never had a sword in your hand. What on earth have we
to do with numbers?”

“More than you fancy,” answered Rhodopis. “This theory of numbers belongs
to the mysteries of the Egyptian priests, and Pythagoras learnt it from
the very Onuphis who is now teaching you, Darius. If you will come to see
me soon, I will show you how wonderfully that great Samian brought the
laws of numbers and of the harmonies into agreement. But look, there are
the Pyramids!”

The whole party rose at these words, and stood speechless, gazing at the
grand sight which opened before them.

The Pyramids lay on the left bank of the Nile, in the silver moonshine,
massive and awful, as if bruising the earth beneath them with their
weight; the giant graves of mighty rulers. They seemed examples of man’s
creative power, and at the same time warnings of the vanity and mutability
of earthly greatness. For where was Chufu now,—the king who had
cemented that mountain of stone with the sweat of his subjects? Where was
the long-lived Chafra who had despised the gods, and, defiant in the
consciousness of his own strength, was said to have closed the gates of
the temples in order to make himself and his name immortal by building a
tomb of superhuman dimensions?

Their empty sarcophagi are perhaps tokens, that the judges of the dead
found them unworthy of rest in the grave, unworthy of the resurrection,
whereas the builder of the third and most beautiful pyramid, Menkera, who
contented himself with a smaller monument, and reopened the gates of the
temples, was allowed to rest in peace in his coffin of blue basalt.

There they lay in the quiet night, these mighty pyramids, shone on by the
bright stars, guarded by the watchman of the desert—the gigantic
sphinx,—and overlooking the barren rocks of the Libyan stony
mountains. At their feet, in beautifully-ornamented tombs, slept the
mummies of their faithful subjects, and opposite the monument of the pious
Menkera stood a temple, where prayers were said by the priests for the
souls of the many dead buried in the great Memphian city of the dead. In
the west, where the sun went down behind the Libyan mountains, where the
fruitful land ended and the desert began—there the people of Memphis
had buried their dead; and as our gay party looked towards the west they
felt awed into a solemn silence.

But their boat sped on before the north-wind; they left the city of the
dead behind them and passed the enormous dikes built to protect the city
of Menes from the violence of the floods; the city of the Pharaohs came in
sight, dazzlingly bright with the myriads of flames which had been kindled
in honor of the goddess Neith, and when at last the gigantic temple of
Ptah appeared, the most ancient building of the most ancient land, the
spell broke, their tongues were loosed, and they burst out into loud
exclamations of delight.

It was illuminated by thousands of lamps; a hundred fires burnt on its
Pylons, its battlemented walls and roofs. Burning torches flared between
the rows of sphinxes which connected the various gates with the main
building, and the now empty house of the god Apis was so surrounded by
colored fires that it gleamed like a white limestone rock in a tropical
sunset. Pennons, flags and garlands waved above the brilliant picture;
music and loud songs could be heard from below.

“Glorious,” cried Rhodopis in enthusiasm, “glorious! Look how the painted
walls and columns gleam in the light, and what marvellous figures the
shadows of the obelisks and sphinxes throw on the smooth yellow pavement!”

“And how mysterious the sacred grove looks yonder!” added Croesus. “I
never saw anything so wonderful before.”

“I have seen something more wonderful still,” said Darius. “You will
hardly believe me when I tell you that I have witnessed a celebration of
the mysteries of Neith.”

“Tell us what you saw, tell us!” was the universal outcry.

“At first Neithotep refused me admission, but when I promised to remain
hidden, and besides, to obtain the freedom of his child, he led me up to
his observatory, from which there is a very extensive view, and told me
that I should see a representation of the fates of Osiris and his wife
Isis.

“He had scarcely left, when the sacred grove became so brightly
illuminated by colored lights that I was able to see into its innermost
depths.

“A lake, smooth as glass, lay before me, surrounded by beautiful trees and
flower-beds. Golden boats were sailing on this lake and in them sat lovely
boys and girls dressed in snow-white garments, and singing sweet songs as
they passed over the water. There were no rowers to direct these boats,
and yet they moved over the ripples of the lake in a graceful order, as if
guided by some magic unseen hand. A large ship sailed in the midst of this
little fleet. Its deck glittered with precious stones. It seemed to be
steered by one beautiful boy only, and, strange to say, the rudder he
guided consisted of one white lotus-flower, the delicate leaves of which
seemed scarcely to touch the water. A very lovely woman, dressed like a
queen, lay on silken cushions in the middle of the vessel; by her side sat
a man of larger stature than that of ordinary mortals. He wore a crown of
ivy on his flowing curls, a panther-skin hung over his shoulders and he
held a crooked staff in the right hand. In the back part of the ship was a
roof made of ivy, lotus-blossoms and roses; beneath it stood a milk-white
cow with golden horns, covered with a cloth of purple. The man was Osiris,
the woman Isis, the boy at the helm their son Horus, and the cow was the
animal sacred to the immortal Isis. The little boats all skimmed over the
water, singing glad songs of joy as they passed by the ship, and receiving
in return showers of flowers and fruits, thrown down upon the lovely
singers by the god and goddess within. Suddenly I heard the roll of
thunder. It came crashing on, louder, and louder, and in the midst of this
awful sound a man in the skin of a wild boar, with hideous features and
bristling red hair, came out of the gloomiest part of the sacred grove,
plunged into the lake, followed by seventy creatures like himself, and
swam up to the ship of Osiris.

“The little boats fled with the swiftness of the wind, and the trembling
boy helmsman dropped his lotus-blossom.

“The dreadful monster then rushed on Osiris, and, with the help of his
comrades, killed him, threw the body into a coffin and the coffin into the
lake, the waters of which seemed to carry it away as if by magic. Isis
meanwhile had escaped to land in one of the small boats, and was now
running hither and thither on the shores of the lake, with streaming hair,
lamenting her dead husband and followed by the virgins who had escaped
with her. Their songs and dances, while seeking the body of Osiris, were
strangely plaintive and touching, and the girls accompanied the dance by
waving black Byssus scarfs in wonderfully graceful curves. Neither were
the youths idle; they busied themselves in making a costly coffin for the
vanished corpse of the god, accompanying their work with dances and the
sound of castanets. When this was finished they joined the maidens in the
train of the lamenting Isis and wandered on the shore with them, singing
and searching.

“Suddenly a low song rose from some invisible lips. It swelled louder and
louder and announced, that the body of the god had been transported by the
currents of the Mediterranean to Gebal in distant Phoenicia. This singing
voice thrilled to my very heart; Neithotep’s son, who was my companion,
called it ‘the wind of rumor.’

“When Isis heard the glad news, she threw off her mourning garments and
sang a song of triumphant rejoicing, accompanied by the voices of her
beautiful followers. Rumor had not lied; the goddess really found the
sarcophagus and the dead body of her husband on the northern shore of the
lake.

“They brought both to land with dances; Isis threw herself on the beloved
corpse, called on the name of Osiris and covered the mummy with kisses,
while the youths wove a wonderful tomb of lotus-flowers and ivy.

“When the coffin had been laid under this beautiful vault, Isis left the
sad place of mourning and went to look for her son. She found him at the
east end of the lake, where for a long time I had seen a beautiful youth
practising arms with a number of companions.

“While she was rejoicing over her newly-found child, a fresh peal of
thunder told that Typhon had returned. This time the monster rushed upon
the beautiful flowering grave, tore the body out of its coffin, hewed it
into fourteen pieces, and strewed them over the shores of the lake.

“When Isis came back to the grave, she found nothing but faded flowers and
an empty coffin; but at fourteen different places on the shore fourteen
beautiful colored flames were burning. She and her virgins ran to these
flames, while Horus led the youths to battle against Typhon on the
opposite shore.

“My eyes and ears hardly sufficed for all I had to see and hear. On the
one shore a fearful and interesting struggle, peals of thunder and the
braying of trumpets; on the other the sweet voices of the women, singing
the most captivating songs to the most enchanting dances, for Isis had
found a portion of her husband’s body at every fire and was rejoicing.

“That was something for you, Zopyrus! I know of no words to describe the
grace of those girls’ movements, or how beautiful it was to see them first
mingling in intricate confusion, then suddenly standing in faultless,
unbroken lines, falling again into the same lovely tumult and passing once
more into order, and all this with the greatest swiftness. Bright rays of
light flashed from their whirling ranks all the time, for each dancer had
a mirror fastened between her shoulders, which flashed while she was in
motion, and reflected the scene when she was still.

“Just as Isis had found the last limb but one of the murdered Osiris, loud
songs of triumph and the flourish of trumpets resounded from the opposite
shore.

“Horus had conquered Typhon, and was forcing his way into the nether
regions to free his father. The gate to this lower world opened on the
west side of the lake and was guarded by a fierce female hippopotamus.

“And now a lovely music of flutes and harps came nearer and nearer,
heavenly perfumes rose into the air, a rosy light spread over the sacred
grove, growing brighter every minute, and Osiris came up from the lower
world, led by his victorious son. Isis hastened to embrace her risen and
delivered husband, gave the beautiful Horus his lotus-flower again instead
of the sword, and scattered fruits and flowers over the earth, while
Osiris seated himself under a canopy wreathed with ivy, and received the
homage of all the spirits of the earth and of the Amenti.”

Darius was silent. Rhodopis began:

“We thank you for your charming account; but this strange spectacle must
have a higher meaning, and we should thank you doubly if you would explain
that to us.”

“Your idea is quite right,” answered Darius, “but what I know I dare not
tell. I was obliged to promise Neithotep with an oath, not to tell tales
out of school.”

“Shall I tell you,” asked Rhodopis, “what conclusions various hints from
Pythagoras and Onuphis have led me to draw, as to the meaning of this
drama? Isis seems to me to represent the bountiful earth; Osiris, humidity
or the Nile, which makes the earth fruitful; Horus, the young spring;
Typhon, the scorching drought. The bounteous earth, robbed of her
productive power, seeks this beloved husband with lamentations in the
cooler regions of the north, where the Nile discharges his waters. At last
Horus, the young springing power of nature, is grown up and conquers
Typhon, or the scorching drought. Osiris, as is the case with the fruitful
principle of nature, was only apparently dead, rises from the nether
regions and once more rules the blessed valley of the Nile, in concert
with his wife, the bounteous earth.”

“And as the murdered god behaved properly in the lower regions,” said
Zopyrus, laughing, “he is allowed, at the end of this odd story, to
receive homage from the inhabitants of Hamestegan, Duzakh and Gorothman,
or whatever they call these abodes for the Egyptian spirit-host.”

“They are called Amenti,” said Darius, falling into his friend’s merry
mood; “but you must know that the history of this divine pair represents
not only the life of nature, but also that of the human soul, which, like
the murdered Osiris, lives an eternal life, even when the body is dead.”

“Thank you,” said the other; “I’ll try to remember that if I should chance
to die in Egypt. But really, cost what it may, I must see this wonderful
sight soon.”

“Just my own wish,” said Rhodopis. “Age is inquisitive.”

“You will never be old,” interrupted Darius. “Your conversation and your
features have remained alike beautiful, and your mind is as clear and
bright as your eyes.”

“Forgive me for interrupting you,” said Rhodopis, as if she had not heard
his flattering words, “but the word ‘eyes’ reminds me of the oculist
Nebenchari, and my memory fails me so often, that I must ask you what has
become of him, before I forget. I hear nothing now of this skilful
operator to whom the noble Kassandane owes her sight.”

“He is much to be pitied,” replied Darius. “Even before we reached
Pelusium he had begun to avoid society, and scorned even to speak with his
countryman Onuphis. His gaunt old servant was the only being allowed to
wait on or be with him. But after the battle his whole behavior changed.
He went to the king with a radiant countenance, and asked permission to
accompany him to Sais, and to choose two citizens of that town to be his
slaves. Cambyses thought he could not refuse anything to the man, who had
been such a benefactor to his mother, and granted him full power to do
what he wished. On arriving at Amasis’ capital, he went at once to the
temple of Neith, caused the high-priest (who had moreover placed himself
at the head of the citizens hostile to Persia), to be arrested, and with
him a certain oculist named Petammon. He then informed them that, as
punishment for the burning of certain papers, they would be condemned to
serve a Persian to whom he should sell them, for the term of their natural
lives, and to perform the most menial services of slaves in a foreign
country. I was present at this scene, and I assure you I trembled before
the Egyptian as he said these words to his enemies. Neithotep, however,
listened quietly, and when Nebenchari had finished, answered him thus: If
thou, foolish son, hast betrayed thy country for the sake of thy burnt
manuscripts, the deed has been neither just nor wise. I preserved thy
valuable works with the greatest care, laid them up in our temple, and
sent a complete copy to the library at Thebes. Nothing was burnt but the
letters from Amasis to thy father, and a worthless old chest. Psamtik and
Petammon were present, and it was then and there resolved that a new
family tomb in the city of the dead should be built for thee as a
compensation for the loss of papers, which, in order to save Egypt, we
were unfortunately forced to destroy. On its walls thou canst behold
pleasing paintings of the gods to whom thou hast devoted thy life, the
most sacred chapters from the book of the dead, and many other beautiful
pictures touching thine own life and character.”

“The physician turned very pale—asked first to see his books, and
then his new and beautifully-fitted-up tomb. He then gave his slaves their
freedom, (notwithstanding which they were still taken to Memphis as
prisoners of war), and went home, often passing his hand across his
forehead on the way, and with the uncertain step of one intoxicated. On
reaching his house he made a will, bequeathing all he possessed to the
grandson of his old servant Hib, and, alleging that he was ill, went to
bed. The next morning he was found dead. He had poisoned himself with the
fearful strychnos-juice.”

“Miserable man” said Croesus. “The gods had blinded him, and he reaped
despair instead of revenge, as a reward for his treachery.”

“I pity him,” murmured Rhodopis. “But look, the rowers are taking in their
oars. We are at the end of our journey; there are your litters and
carriages waiting for you. It was a beautiful trip. Farewell, my dear
ones; come to Naukratis soon, I shall return at once with Theopompus and
Syloson. Give little Parmys a thousand kisses from me, and tell Melitta
never to take her out at noon. It is dangerous for the eyes. Good-night,
Croesus; good-night, friends, farewell my dear son.”

The Persians left the vessel with many a nod and farewell word, and
Bartja, looking round once more, missed his footing and fell on the
landing-pier.

He sprang up in a moment without Zopyrus’ help, who came running back,
calling out, “Take care, Bartja! It’s unlucky to fall in stepping ashore.
I did the very same thing, when we left the ship that time at Naukratis.”


CHAPTER XIV.

While our friends were enjoying their row on the Nile, Cambyses’ envoy,
Prexaspes, had returned from a mission to the long-lived Ethiopians. He
praised their strength and stature, described the way to their country as
almost inaccessible to a large army, and had plenty of marvellous tales to
tell. How, for instance; they always chose the strongest and handsomest
man in their nation for their king, and obeyed him unconditionally: how
many of them reached the age of 120 years, and some even passed it: how
they ate nothing but boiled flesh, drank new milk and washed in a spring
the waters of which had the scent of violets, gave a remarkable lustre to
their skins, and were so light that wood could not swim in them: how their
captives wore golden fetters, because other metals were rare and dear in
their country; and lastly, how they covered the bodies of the dead with
plaster or stucco, over which a coating of some glass-like material was
poured, and kept the pillars thus formed one year in their houses, during
which time sacrifices were offered them, and at the year’s end they were
placed in rows around the town.

The king of this strange people had accepted Cambyses’ presents, saying,
in a scornful tone, that he new well his friendship was of no importance
to the Persians, and Prexaspes had only been sent to spy out the land. If
the prince of Asia were a just man, he would be contented with his own
immense empire and not try to subjugate a people who had done him no
wrong. “Take your king this bow,” he said, “and advise him not to begin
the war with us, until the Persians are able to bend such weapons as
easily as we do. Cambyses may thank the gods, that the Ethiopians have
never taken it into their heads to conquer countries which do not belong
to them.”

He then unbent his mighty bow of ebony, and gave it to Prexaspes to take
to his lord.

Cambyses laughed at the bragging African, invited his nobles to a trial of
the bow the next morning, and awarded Prexaspes for the clever way in
which he had overcome the difficulties of his journey and acquitted
himself of his mission. He then went to rest, as usual intoxicated, and
fell into a disturbed sleep, in which he dreamed that Bartja was seated on
the throne of Persia, and that the crown of his head touched the heavens.

This was a dream, which he could interpret without the aid of soothsayer
or Chaldean. It roused his anger first, and then made him thoughtful.

He could not sleep, and such questions as the following came into his
mind: “Haven’t you given your brother reason to feel revengeful? Do you
think he can forget that you imprisoned and condemned him to death, when
he was innocent? And if he should raise his hand against you, would not
all the Achaemenidae take his part? Have I ever done, or have I any
intention of ever doing anything to win the love of these venal courtiers?
Since Nitetis died and that strange Greek fled, has there been a single
human being, in whom I have the least confidence or on whose affection I
can rely?”

These thoughts and questionings excited him so fearfully, that he sprang
from his bed, crying: “Love and I have nothing to do with one another.
Other men maybe kind and good if they like; I must be stern, or I shall
fall into the hands of those who hate me—hate me because I have been
just, and have visited heavy sins with heavy chastisements. They whisper
flattering words in my ear; they curse me when my back is turned. The gods
themselves must be my enemies, or why do they rob me of everything I love,
deny me posterity and even that military glory which is my just due? Is
Bartja so much better than I, that everything which I am forced to give up
should be his in hundred-fold measure? Love, friendship, fame, children,
everything flows to him as the rivers to the sea, while my heart is
parched like the desert. But I am king still. I can show him which is the
stronger of us two, and I will, though his forehead may touch the heavens.
In Persia there can be only one great man. He or I,—I or he. In a
few days I’ll send him back to Asia and make him satrap of Bactria. There
he can nurse his child and listen to his wife’s songs, while I am winning
glory in Ethiopia, which it shall not be in his power to lessen. Ho,
there, dressers! bring my robes and a good morning-draught of wine. I’ll
show the Persians that I’m fit to be King of Ethiopia, and can beat them
all at bending a bow. Here, give me another cup of wine. I’d bend that
bow, if it were a young cedar and its string a cable!” So saying he
drained an immense bowl of wine and went into the palace-garden, conscious
of his enormous strength and therefore sure of success.

All his nobles were assembled waiting for him there, welcomed him with
loud acclamations, and fell on their faces to the ground before their
king.

Pillars, connected by scarlet cords, had been quickly set up between the
closely-cut hedges and straight avenues. From these cords, suspended by
gold and silver rings, yellow and dark blue hangings fluttered in the
breeze. Gilded wooden benches had been placed round in a large circle, and
nimble cup-bearers handed wine in costly vessels to the company assembled
for the shooting-match.

At a sign from the king the Achaemenidae rose from the earth.

Cambyses glanced over their ranks, and his face brightened on seeing that
Bartja was not there. Prexaspes handed him the Ethiopian bow, and pointed
out a target at some distance. Cambyses laughed at the large size of the
target, weighted the bow with his right hand, challenged his subjects to
try their fortune first, and handed the bow to the aged Hystaspes, as the
highest in rank among the Achaemenidae.

While Hystaspes first, and then all the heads of the six other highest
families in Persia, were using their utmost efforts to bend this monster
weapon in vain, the king emptied goblet after goblet of wine, his spirits
rising as he watched their vain endeavors to solve the Ethiopian’s
problem. At last Darius, who was famous for his skill in archery, took the
bow. Nearly the same result. The wood was inflexible as iron and all his
efforts only availed to move it one finger’s breadth. The king gave him a
friendly nod in reward for his success, and then, looking round on his
friends and relations in a manner that betokened the most perfect
assurance, he said: “Give me the bow now, Darius. I will show you, that
there is only one man in Persia who deserves the name of king;—only
one who can venture to take the field against the Ethiopians;—only
one who can bend this bow.”

He grasped it tightly with his left hand, taking the string, which was as
thick as a man’s finger and made from the intestines of a lion, in his
right, fetched a deep breath, bent his mighty back and pulled and pulled;
collected all his strength for greater and greater efforts, strained his
sinews till they threatened to break, and the veins in his forehead were
swollen to bursting, did not even disdain to use his feet and legs, but
all in vain. After a quarter of an hour of almost superhuman exertion, his
strength gave way, the ebony, which he had succeeded in bending even
farther than Darius, flew back and set all his further endeavors at
nought. At last, feeling himself thoroughly exhausted, he dashed the bow
on to the ground in a passion, crying: “The Ethiopian is a liar! no mortal
man has ever bent that bow. What is impossible for my arm is possible for
no other. In three days we will start for Ethiopia. I will challenge the
impostor to a single combat, and ye shall see which is the stronger. Take
up the bow, Prexaspes, and keep it carefully. The black liar shall be
strangled with his own bow-string. This wood is really harder than iron,
and I confess that the man who could bend it, would really be my master. I
should not be ashamed to call him so, for he must be of better stuff than
I.”

As he finished speaking, Bartja appeared in the circle of assembled
Persians. His glorious figure was set off to advantage by his rich dress,
his features were bright with happiness and a feeling of conscious
strength. He passed through the ranks of the Achaemenidae with many a
friendly nod, which was warmly returned, and going straight to his
brother, kissed his robe, looked up frankly and cheerfully into his gloomy
eyes, and said: “I am a little late, and ask your forgiveness, my lord and
brother. Or have I really come in time? Yes, yes, I see there’s no arrow
in the target yet, so I am sure you, the best archer in the world, cannot
have tried your strength yet. But you look so enquiringly at me. Then I
will confess that our child kept me. The little creature laughed to-day
for the first time, and was so charming with its mother, that I forgot how
time was passing while I watched them. You have all full leave to laugh at
my folly; I really don’t know how to excuse myself. See, the little one
has pulled my star from the chain. But I think, my brother, you will give
me a new one to-day if I should hit the bull’s eye. Shall I shoot first,
or will you begin, my Sovereign?”

“Give him the bow, Prexaspes,” said Cambyses, not even deigning to look at
his brother.

Bartja took it and was proceeding to examine the wood and the string, when
Cambyses suddenly called out, with a mocking laugh: “By Mithras, I believe
you want to try your sweet looks on the bow, and win its favor in that
fashion, as you do the hearts of men. Give it back to Prexaspes. It’s
easier to play with beautiful women and laughing children, than with a
weapon like this, which mocks the strength even of real men.”

Bartja blushed with anger and annoyance at this speech, which was uttered
in the bitterest tone, picked up the giant arrow that lay before him,
placed himself opposite the target, summoned all his strength, bent the
bow, by an almost superhuman effort, and sent the arrow into the very
centre of the target, where its iron point remained, while the wooden
shaft split into a hundred shivers.

Most of the Achaemenidae burst into loud shouts of delight at this
marvellous proof of strength; but Bartja’s nearest friends turned pale and
were silent; they were watching the king, who literally quivered with
rage, and Bartja, who was radiant with pride and joy.

Cambyses was a fearful sight at that moment. It seemed to him as if that
arrow, in piercing the target, had pierced his own heart, his strength,
dignity and honor. Sparks floated before his eyes, in his ears was a sound
like the breaking of a stormy sea on the shore; his cheeks glowed and he
grasped the arm of Prexaspes who was at his side. Prexaspes only too well
understood what that pressure meant, when given by a royal hand, and
murmured: “Poor Bartja!”

At last the king succeeded in recovering his presence of mind. Without
saying a word, he threw a gold chain to his brother, ordered his nobles to
follow him, and left the garden, but only to wander restlessly up and down
his apartments, and try to drown his rage in wine. Suddenly he seemed to
have formed a resolution and ordered all the courtiers, except Prexaspes,
to leave the hall. When they were alone, he called out in a hoarse voice
and with a look that proved the extent of his intoxication: “This life is
not to be borne! Rid me of my enemy, and I will call you my friend and
benefactor.”

Prexaspes trembled, threw himself at the king’s feet and raised his hands
imploringly; but Cambyses was too intoxicated, and too much blinded by his
hatred to understand the action. He fancied the prostration was meant as a
sign of devotion to his will, signed to him to rise, and whispered, as if
afraid of hearing his own words: “Act quickly and secretly; and, as you
value your life, let no one know of the upstart’s death. Depart, and when
your work is finished, take as much as you like out of the treasury. But
keep your wits about you. The boy has a strong arm and a winning tongue.
Think of your own wife and children, if he tries to win you over with his
smooth words.”

As he spoke he emptied a fresh goblet of pure wine, staggered through the
door of the room, calling out as he turned his back on Prexaspes: “Woe be
to you if that upstart, that woman’s hero, that fellow who has robbed me
of my honor, is left alive.”

Long after he had left the hall, Prexaspes stood fixed on the spot where
he had heard these words. The man was ambitious, but neither mean nor bad,
and he felt crushed by the awful task allotted to him. He knew that his
refusal to execute it would bring death or disgrace on himself and on his
family; but he loved Bartja, and besides, his whole nature revolted at the
thought of becoming a common, hired murderer. A fearful struggle began in
his mind, and raged long after he left the palace. On the way home he met
Croesus and Darius. He fancied they would see from his looks that he was
already on the way to a great crime, and hid himself behind the projecting
gate of a large Egyptian house. As they passed, he heard Croesus say: “I
reproached him bitterly, little as he deserves reproach in general, for
having given such an inopportune proof of his great strength. We may
really thank the gods, that Cambyses did not lay violent hands on him in a
fit of passion. He has followed my advice now and gone with his wife to
Sais. For the next few days Bartja must not come near the king; the mere
sight of him might rouse his anger again, and a monarch can always find
unprincipled servants…”

The rest of the sentence died away in the distance, but the words he had
heard were enough to make Prexaspes start, as if Croesus had accused him
of the shameful deed. He resolved in that moment that, come what would,
his hands should not be stained with the blood of a friend. This
resolution restored him his old erect bearing and firm gait for the time,
but when he reached the dwelling which had been assigned as his abode in
Sais his two boys ran to the door to meet him. They had stolen away from
the play-ground of the sons of the Achaemenidae, (who, as was always the
case, had accompanied the king and the army), to see their father for a
moment. He felt a strange tenderness, which he could not explain to
himself, on taking them in his arms, and kissed the beautiful boys once
more on their telling him that they must go back to their play-ground
again, or they should be punished. Within, he found his favorite wife
playing with their youngest child, a sweet little girl. Again the same
strange, inexplicable feeling of tenderness. He overcame it this time for
fear of betraying his secret to his young wife, and retired to his own
apartment early.

Night had come on.

The sorely-tried man could not sleep; he turned restlessly from side to
side. The fearful thought, that his refusal to do the king’s will would be
the ruin of his wife and children, stood before his wakeful eyes in the
most vivid colors. The strength to keep his good resolution forsook him,
and even Croesus’ words, which, when he first heard them had given his
nobler feelings the victory, now came in as a power on the other side. “A
monarch can always find unprincipled servants.” Yes, the words were an
affront, but at the same time a reminder, that though he might defy the
king’s command a hundred others would be ready to obey it. No sooner had
this thought become clear to him, than he started up, examined a number of
daggers which hung, carefully arranged, above his bed, and laid the
sharpest on the little table before him.

He then began to pace the room in deep thought, often going to the opening
which served as a window, to cool his burning forehead and see if dawn
were near.

When at last daylight appeared, he heard the sounding brass calling the
boys to early prayer. That reminded him of his sons and he examined the
dagger a second time. A troop of gaily-dressed courtiers rode by on their
way to the king. He put the dagger in his girdle; and at last, on hearing
the merry laughter of his youngest child sound from the women’s
apartments, he set the tiara hastily on his head, left the house without
taking leave of his wife, and, accompanied by a number of slaves, went
down to the Nile. There he threw himself into a boat and ordered the
rowers to take him to Sais.

A few hours after the fatal shooting-match, Bartja had followed Croesus’
advice and had gone off to Sais with his young wife. They found Rhodopis
there. She had yielded to an irresistible impulse and, instead of
returning to Naukratis, had stopped at Sais. Bartja’s fall on stepping
ashore had disturbed her, and she had with her own eyes seen an owl fly
from the left side close by his head. These evil omens, to a heart which
had by no means outgrown the superstitions of the age, added to a confused
succession of distressing dreams which had disturbed her slumbers, and her
usual wish to be always near Bartja and Sappho, led her to decide quickly
on waiting for her granddaughter at Sais.

Bartja and Sappho were delighted to find such a welcome guest, and after
she had dandled and played with her great grandchild, the little Parmys,
to her heart’s content, they led her to the rooms which had been prepared
for her.

They were the same in which the unhappy Tachot had spent the last months
of her fading existence. Rhodopis could not see all the little trifles
which showed, not only the age and sex of the former occupant, but her
tastes and disposition, without feeling very sad. On the dressing-table
were a number of little ointment-boxes and small bottles for perfumes,
cosmetics, washes and oils. Two larger boxes, one in the form of a
Nile-goose, and another on the side of which a woman playing on a lute had
been painted, had once contained the princess’s costly golden ornaments,
and the metal mirror with a handle in the form of a sleeping maiden, had
once reflected her beautiful face with its pale pink flush. Everything in
the room, from the elegant little couch resting on lions’ claws, to the
delicately-carved ivory combs on the toilet-table, proved that the outward
adornments of life had possessed much charm for the former owner of these
rooms. The golden sisirum and the delicately-wrought nabla, the strings of
which had long ago been broken, testified to her taste for music, while
the broken spindle in the corner, and some unfinished nets of glass beads
shewed that she had been fond of woman’s usual work.

It was a sad pleasure to Rhodopis to examine all these things, and the
picture which she drew in her own mind of Tachot after the inspection,
differed very little from the reality. At last interest and curiosity led
her to a large painted chest. She lifted the light cover and found, first,
a few dried flowers; then a ball, round which some skilful hand had
wreathed roses and leaves, once fresh and bright, now, alas, long ago dead
and withered. Beside these were a number of amulets in different forms,
one representing the goddess of truth, another containing spells written
on a strip of papyrus and concealed in a little golden case. Then her eyes
fell on some letters written in the Greek character. She read them by the
light of the lamp. They were from Nitetis in Persia to her supposed
sister, and were written in ignorance of the latter’s illness. When
Rhodopis laid them down her eyes were full of tears. The dead girl’s
secret lay open before her. She knew now that Tachot had loved Bartja,
that he had given her the faded flowers, and that she had wreathed the
ball with roses because he had thrown it to her. The amulets must have
been intended either to heal her sick heart, or to awaken love in his.

As she was putting the letters back in their old place, she touched some
cloths which seemed put in to fill up the bottom of the chest, and felt a
hard round substance underneath. She raised them, and discovered a bust
made of colored wax, such a wonderfully-exact portrait of Nitetis, that an
involuntary exclamation of surprise broke from her, and it was long before
she could turn her eyes away from Theodorus’ marvellous work.

She went to rest and fell asleep, thinking of the sad fate of Nitetis, the
Egyptian Princess.

The next morning Rhodopis went into the garden—the same into which
we led our readers during the lifetime of Amasis-and found Bartja and
Sappho in an arbor overgrown with vines.

Sappho was seated in a light wicker-work chair. Her child lay on her lap,
stretching out its little hands and feet, sometimes to its father, who was
kneeling on the ground before them, and then to its mother whose laughing
face was bent down over her little one.

Bartja was very happy with his child. When the little creature buried its
tiny fingers in his curls and beard, he would draw his head back to feel
the strength of the little hand, would kiss its rosy feet, its little
round white shoulders and dimpled arms. Sappho enjoyed the fun, always
trying to draw the little one’s attention to its father.

Sometimes, when she stooped down to kiss the rosy baby lips, her forehead
would touch his curls and he would steal the kiss meant for the little
Parmys.

Rhodopis watched them a long time unperceived, and, with tears of joy in
her eyes, prayed the gods that they might long be as happy as they now
were. At last she came into the arbor to wish them good-morning, and
bestowed much praise on old Melitta for appearing at the right moment,
parasol in hand, to take her charge out of the sunshine before it became
too bright and hot, and put her to sleep.

The old slave had been appointed head-nurse to the high-born child, and
acquitted herself in her new office with an amount of importance which was
very comical. Hiding her old limbs under rich Persian robes, she moved
about exulting in the new and delightful right to command, and kept her
inferiors in perpetual motion.

Sappho followed Melitta into the palace, first whispering in her husband’s
ear with her arm round his neck: “Tell my grandmother everything and ask
whether you are right.”

Before he could answer, she had stopped his mouth with a kiss, and then
hurried after the old woman who was departing with dignified steps.

The prince smiled as he watched her graceful walk and beautiful figure,
and said, turning to Rhodopis: “Does not it strike you, that she has grown
taller lately.”

“It seems so,” answered Rhodopis. “A woman’s girlhood has its own peculiar
charm, but her true dignity comes with motherhood. It is the feeling of
having fulfilled her destiny, which raises her head and makes us fancy she
has grown taller.”

“Yes,” said Bartja, “I think she is happy. Yesterday our opinions differed
for the first time, and as she was leaving us just now, she begged me,
privately, to lay the question before you, which I am very glad to do, for
I honor your experience and wisdom just as much, as I love her childlike
inexperience.”

Bartja then told the story of the unfortunate shooting-match, finishing
with these words: “Croesus blames my imprudence, but I know my brother; I
know that when he is angry he is capable of any act of violence, and it is
not impossible that at the moment when he felt himself defeated he could
have killed me; but I know too, that when his fierce passion has cooled,
he will forget my boastful deed, and only try to excel me by others of the
same kind. A year ago he was by far the best marksman in Persia, and would
be so still, if drink and epilepsy had not undermined his strength. I must
confess I feel as if I were becoming stronger every day.”

“Yes,” interrupted Rhodopis, “pure happiness strengthens a man’s arm, just
as it adds to the beauty of a woman, while intemperance and mental
distress ruin both body and mind far more surely even than old age. My
son, beware of your brother; his strong arm has become paralyzed, and his
generosity can be forfeited too. Trust my experience, that the man who is
the slave of one evil passion, is very seldom master of the rest; besides
which, no one feels humiliation so bitterly as he who is sinking—who
knows that his powers are forsaking him. I say again, beware of your
brother, and trust the voice of experience more than that of your own
heart, which, because it is generous itself, believes every one else to be
so.”

“I see,” said Bartja, “that you will take Sappho’s side. Difficult as it
will be for her to part from you, she has still begged me to return with
her to Persia. She thinks that Cambyses may forget his anger, when I am
out of sight. I thought she was over-anxious, and besides, it would
disappoint me not to take part in the expedition against the Ethiopians.”

“But I entreat you,” interrupted Rhodopis, “to follow her advice. The gods
only know what pain it will give me to lose you both, and yet I repeat a
thousand times: Go back to Persia, and remember that none but fools stake
life and happiness to no purpose. As to the war with Ethiopia, it is mere
madness; instead of subduing those black inhabitants of the south, you
yourselves will be conquered by heat, thirst and all the horrors of the
desert. In saying this I refer to the campaigns in general; as to your own
share in them, I can only say that if no fame is to be won there, you will
be putting your own life and the happiness of your family in jeopardy
literally for nothing, and that if, on the other hand, you should
distinguish yourself again, it would only be giving fresh cause of
jealousy and anger to your brother. No, go to Persia, as soon as you can.”

Bartja was just beginning to make various objections to these arguments,
when he caught sight of Prexaspes coming up to them, looking very pale.

After the usual greeting, the envoy whispered to Bartja, that he should
like to speak with him alone. Rhodopis left them at once, and he began,
playing with the rings on his right hand as he spoke, in a constrained,
embarrassed way. “I come from the king. Your display of strength irritated
him yesterday, and he does not wish to see you again for some time. His
orders are, that you set out for Arabia to buy up all the camels that are
to be had.

“As these animals can bear thirst very long, they are to be used in
conveying food and water for our army on the Ethiopian campaign. There
must be no delay. Take leave of your wife, and (I speak by the king’s
command) be ready to start before dark. You will be absent at least a
month. I am to accompany you as far as Pelusium. Kassandane wishes to have
your wife and child near her during your absence. Send them to Memphis as
soon as possible; under the protection of the queen mother, they will be
in safety.”

Prexaspes’ short, constrained way of speaking did not strike Bartja. He
rejoiced at what seemed to him great moderation on the part of his
brother, and at receiving a commission which relieved him of all doubt on
the question of leaving Egypt, gave his friend, (as he supposed him to
be), his hand to kiss and an invitation to follow him into the palace.

In the cool of the evening, he took a short but very affectionate farewell
of Sappho and his child, who was asleep in Melitta’s arms, told his wife
to set out as soon as possible on her journey to Kassandane, called out
jestingly to his mother-in-law, that at least this time she had been
mistaken in her judgment of a man’s character, (meaning his brother’s),
and sprang on to his horse.

As Prexaspes was mounting, Sappho whispered to him, “Take care of that
reckless fellow, and remind him of me and his child, when you see him
running into unnecessary danger.”

“I shall have to leave him at Pelusium,” answered the envoy, busying
himself with the bridle of his horse in order to avoid meeting her eyes.

“Then may the gods take him into their keeping!” exclaimed Sappho,
clasping her husband’s hand, and bursting into tears, which she could not
keep back. Bartja looked down and saw his usually trustful wife in tears.
He felt sadder than he had ever felt before. Stooping down lovingly from
his saddle, he put his strong arm round her waist, lifted her up to him,
and as she stood supporting herself on his foot in the stirrup, pressed
her to his heart, as if for a long last farewell. He then let her safely
and gently to the ground, took his child up to him on the saddle, kissed
and fondled the little creature, and told her laughingly to make her
mother very happy while he was away, exchanged some warm words of farewell
with Rhodopis, and then, spurring his horse till the creature reared,
dashed through the gateway of the Pharaohs’ palace, with Prexaspes at his
side.

When the sound of the horses’ hoofs had died away in the distance, Sappho
laid her head on her grandmother’s shoulder and wept uncontrollably.
Rhodopis remonstrated and blamed, but all in vain, she could not stop her
tears.


CHAPTER XV.

On the morning after the trial of the bow, Cambyses was seized by such a
violent attack of his old illness, that he was forced to keep his room for
two days and nights, ill in mind and body; at times raging like a madman,
at others weak and powerless as a little child.

On the third day he recovered consciousness and remembered the awful
charge he had laid on Prexaspes, and that it was only too possible he
might have executed it already. At this thought he trembled, as he had
never trembled in his life before. He sent at once for the envoy’s eldest
son, who was one of the royal cup-bearers. The boy said his father had
left Memphis, without taking leave of his family. He then sent for Darius,
Zopyrus and Gyges, knowing how tenderly they loved Bartja, and enquired
after their friend. On hearing from them that he was at Sais, he sent the
three youths thither at once, charging them, if they met Prexaspes on the
way, to send him back to Memphis without delay. This haste and the king’s
strange behavior were quite incomprehensible to the young Achaemenidae;
nevertheless they set out on their journey with all speed, fearing that
something must be wrong.

Cambyses, meanwhile, was miserably restless, inwardly cursed his habit of
drinking and tasted no wine the whole of that clay. Seeing his mother in
the palace-gardens, he avoided her; he durst not meet her eye.

The next eight days passed without any sign of Prexaspes’ return; they
seemed to the king like a year. A hundred times he sent for the young
cup-bearer and asked if his father had returned; a hundred times he
received the same disappointing answer.

At sunset on the thirteenth day, Kassandane sent to beg a visit from him.
The king went at once, for now he longed to look on the face of his
mother; he fancied it might give him back his lost sleep.

After he had greeted her with a tenderness so rare from him, that it
astonished her, he asked for what reason she had desired his presence. She
answered, that Bartja’s wife had arrived at Memphis under singular
circumstances and had said she wished to present a gift to Cambyses. He
gave Sappho an audience at once, and heard from her that Prexaspes had
brought her husband an order to start for Arabia, and herself a summons to
Memphis from the queen-mother. At these words the king turned very pale,
and his features were agitated with pain as he looked at his brother’s
lovely young wife. She felt that something unusual was passing in his
mind, and such dreadful forebodings arose in her own, that she could only
offer him the gift in silence and with trembling hands.

“My husband sends you this,” she said, pointing to the ingeniously-wrought
box, which contained the wax likeness of Nitetis. Rhodopis had advised her
to take this to the king in Bartja’s name, as a propitiatory offering.

Cambyses showed no curiosity as to the contents of the box, gave it in
charge to a eunuch, said a few words which seemed meant as thanks to his
sister-in law, and left the women’s apartments without even so much as
enquiring after Atossa, whose existence he seemed to have forgotten.

He had come to his mother, believing that the visit would comfort and calm
his troubled mind, but Sappho’s words had destroyed his last hope, and
with that his last possibility of rest or peace. By this time either
Prexaspes would already have committed the murder, or perhaps at that very
moment might be raising his dagger to plunge it into Bartja’s heart.

How could he ever meet his mother again after Bartja’s death? how could he
answer her questions or those of that lovely Sappho, whose large, anxious,
appealing eyes had touched him so strangely?

A voice within told him, that his brother’s murder would be branded as a
cowardly, unnatural, and unjust deed, and he shuddered at the thought. It
seemed fearful, unbearable, to be called an assassin. He had already
caused the death of many a man without the least compunction, but that had
been done either in fair fight, or openly before the world. He was king,
and what the king did was right. Had he killed Bartja with his own hand,
his conscience would not have reproached him; but to have had him
privately put out of the way, after he had given so many proofs of
possessing first-rate manly qualities, which deserved the highest praise—this
tortured him with a feeling of rage at his own want of principle,-a
feeling of shame and remorse which he had never known before. He began to
despise himself. The consciousness of having acted, and wished to act
justly, forsook him, and he began to fancy, that every one who had been
executed by his orders, had been, like Bartja, an innocent victim of his
fierce anger. These thoughts became so intolerable, that he began to drink
once more in the hope of drowning them. But now the wine had precisely the
opposite effect, and brought such tormenting thoughts, that, worn out as
he was already by epileptic fits and his habit of drinking, both body and
mind threatened to give way to the agitation caused by the events of the
last months. Burning and shivering by turns, he was at last forced to lie
down. While the attendants were disrobing him, he remembered his brother’s
present, had the box fetched and opened, and then desired to be left
alone. The Egyptian paintings on the outside of the box reminded him of
Nitetis, and then he asked himself what she would have said to his deed.
Fever had already begun, and his mind was wandering as he took the
beautiful wax bust out of the box. He stared in horror at the dull,
immovable eyes. The likeness was so perfect, and his judgment so weakened
by wine and fever, that he fancied himself the victim of some spell, and
yet could not turn his eyes from those dear features. Suddenly the eyes
seemed to move. He was seized with terror, and, in a kind of convulsion,
hurled what he thought had become a living head against the wall. The
hollow, brittle wax broke into a thousand fragments, and Cambyses sank
back on to his bed with a groan.

From that moment the fever increased. In his delirium the banished Phanes
appeared, singing a scornful Greek song and deriding him in such infamous
words, that his fists clenched with rage. Then he saw his friend and
adviser, Croesus, threatening him in the very same words of warning, which
he had used when Bartja had been sentenced to death by his command on
account of Nitetis: “Beware of shedding a brother’s blood; the smoke
thereof will rise to heaven and become a cloud, that must darken the days
of the murderer, and at last cast down the lightnings of heaven upon his
head.”

And in his delirious fancy this figure of speech became a reality. A rain
of blood streamed down upon him from dark clouds; his clothes and hands
were wet with the loathsome moisture. He went down to the Nile to cleanse
himself, and suddenly saw Nitetis coming towards him. She had the same
sweet smile with which Theodorus had modelled her. Enchanted with this
lovely vision, he fell down before her and took her hand, but he had
scarcely touched it, when drops of blood appeared at the tips of her
delicate fingers, and she turned away from him with every sign of horror.
He humbly implored her to forgive him and come back; she remained
inexorable. He grew angry, and threatened her, first with his wrath, and
then with awful punishments. At last, as she only answered his threats by
a low scornful laugh, he ventured to throw his dagger at her. She crumbled
at once into a thousand pieces, like the wax statue. But the derisive
laughter echoed on, and became louder. Many voices joined in it, each
trying to outbid the other. And the voices of Bartja and Nitetis were the
loudest,—their tone the most bitter. At last he could bear these
fearful sounds no longer and stopped his ears; this was of no use, and he
buried his head, first in the glowing desert-sand and then in the icy cold
Nile-water, until his senses forsook him. On awaking, the actual state of
things seemed incomprehensible to him. He had gone to bed in the evening,
and yet he now saw, by the direction of the sun’s rays which fell on his
bed, that, instead of dawning as he had expected, the day was growing
dark. There could be no mistake; he heard the chorus of priests singing
farewell to the setting Mithras.

Then he heard a number of people moving behind a curtain, which had been
hung up at the head of his bed. He tried to turn in his bed, but could
not; he was too weak. At last, finding it impossible to discover whether
he was in real life or still in a dream, he called for his dressers and
the courtiers, who were accustomed to be present when he rose. They
appeared in a moment, and with them his mother, Prexaspes, a number of the
learned among the Magi, and some Egyptians who were unknown to him. They
told him, that he had been lying in a violent fever for weeks, and had
only escaped death by the special mercy of the gods, the skill of the
physicians, and the unwearied nursing of his mother. He looked enquiringly
first at Kassandane, then at Prexaspes, lost consciousness again, and fell
into a deep sleep, from which he awoke the next morning with renewed
strength.

In four days he was strong enough to sit up and able to question Prexaspes
on the only subject, which occupied his thoughts.

In consideration of his master’s weakness the envoy was beginning an
evasive reply, when a threatening movement of the king’s gaunt, worn hand,
and a look which had by no means lost its old power of awing into
submission, brought him to the point at once, and in the hope of giving
the king a great pleasure and putting his mind completely at rest, he
began: “Rejoice, O King! the youth, who dared to desire the disparagement
of thy glory, is no more. This hand slew him and buried his body at
Baal-Zephon. The sand of the desert and the unfruitful waves of the Red
Sea were the only witnesses of the deed; and no creature knows thereof
beside thyself, O King, thy servant Prexaspes, and the gulls and
cormorants, that hover over his grave.”

The king uttered a piercing shriek of rage, was seized by a fresh
shivering-fit, and sank back once more in raving delirium.

Long weeks passed, every day of which threatened its death. At last,
however, his strong constitution gained the day, but his mind had given
way, and remained disordered and weak up to his last hour.

When he was strong enough to leave the sick-room and to ride and shoot
once more, he abandoned himself more than ever to the pleasure of
drinking, and lost every remnant of self-control.

The delusion had fixed itself in his disordered mind, that Bartja was not
dead, but transformed into the bow of the King of Ethiopia, and that the
Feruer (soul) of his father Cyrus had commanded him to restore Bartja to
its original form, by subjugating the black nation.

This idea, which he confided to every one about him as a great secret,
pursued him day and night and gave him no rest, until he had started for
Ethiopia with an immense host. He was forced, however, to return without
having accomplished his object, after having miserably lost the greater
part of his army by heat and the scarcity of provisions. An historian, who
may almost be spoken of as contemporary, tells us that the wretched
soldiers, after having subsisted on herbs as long as they could, came to
deserts where there was no sign of vegetation, and in their despair
resorted to an expedient almost too fearful to describe. Lots were drawn
by every ten men, and he on whom the lot fell was killed and eaten by the
other nine.

At last things went so far, that his subjects compelled this madman to
return, but only, with their slavish Asiatic feelings, to obey him all the
more blindly, when they found themselves once more in inhabited regions.

On reaching Memphis with the wreck of his army, he found the Egyptians in
glorious apparel celebrating a festival. They had found a new Apis and
were rejoicing over the reappearance of their god, incarnate in the sacred
bull.

As Cambyses had heard at Thebes, that the army he had sent against the
oasis of Ammon in the Libyan desert, had perished miserably in a Khamsin,
or Simoom, and that his fleet, which was to conquer Carthage, had refused
to fight with a people of their own race, he fancied that the Memphians
must be celebrating a festival of joy at the news of his misfortunes, sent
for their principal men, and after reproaching them with their conduct,
asked why they had been gloomy and morose after his victories, but joyous
at hearing of his misfortunes. The Memphians answered by explaining the
real ground for their merry-making, and told him, that the appearance of
the sacred bull was always celebrated in Egypt with the greatest
rejoicings. Cambyses called them liars, and, as such, sentenced them to
death. He then sent for the priests; received, however, exactly the same
answer from them.

With the bitterest irony he asked to be allowed to make the acquaintance
of this new god, and commanded them to bring him. The bull Apis was
brought and the king told that he was the progeny of a virgin cow and a
moonbeam, that he must be black, with a white triangular spot on the
forehead, the likeness of an eagle on his back, and on his side the
crescent moon. There must be two kinds of hair on his tail, and on his
tongue an excrescence in the form of the sacred beetle Scarabaeus.

When Cambyses saw this deified creature he could discover nothing
remarkable in him, and was so enraged that he plunged his sword into its
side. As the blood streamed from the wound and the animal fell, he broke
out into a piercing laugh, and cried: “Ye fools! so your gods are flesh
and blood; they can be wounded. Such folly is worthy of you. But ye shall
find, that it is not so easy to make a fool of me. Ho, guards! flog these
priests soundly, and kill every one whom you find taking part in this mad
celebration.” The command was obeyed and fearfully exasperated the
Egyptians.

Apis died of his wound; the Memphians buried him secretly in the vaults
belonging to the sacred bulls, near the Serapeum, and, led by Psamtik,
attempted an insurrection against the Persians. This was very quickly put
down, however, and cost Psamtik his life,—a life the stains and
severities of which deserve to be forgiven, in consideration of his
unwearied, ceaseless efforts to deliver his people from a foreign yoke,
and his death in the cause of freedom.

Cambyses’ madness had meanwhile taken fresh forms. After the failure of
his attempt to restore Bartja, (transformed as he fancied into a bow) to
his original shape, his irritability increased so frightfully that a
single word, or even a look, was sufficient to make him furious. Still his
true friend and counsellor, Croesus, never left him, though the king had
more than once given him over to the guards for execution. But the guards
knew their master; they took good care not to lay hands on the old man,
and felt sure of impunity, as the king would either have forgotten his
command, or repented of it by the next day, Once, however, the miserable
whip bearers paid a fearful penalty for their lenity. Cambyses, while
rejoicing that Croesus was saved, ordered his deliverers to be executed
for disobedience without mercy.

It would be repugnant to us to repeat all the tales of barbarous
cruelties, which are told of Cambyses at this insane period of his life;
but we cannot resist mentioning a few which seem to us especially
characteristic.

While sitting at table one day, already somewhat intoxicated, he asked
Prexaspes what the Persians thought of him. The envoy, who in hopes of
deadening his tormenting conscience by the performance of noble and
dangerous acts, let no opportunity pass of trying to exercise a good
influence over his sovereign, answered that they extolled him on every
point, but thought he was too much addicted to wine.

These words, though spoken half in jest, put the king into a violent
passion, and he almost shrieked: “So the Persians say, that the wine has
taken away my senses, do they? on the contrary, I’ll show them that
they’ve lost their own.” And as he spoke he bent his bow, took aim for a
moment at Prexaspes’ eldest son, who, as cup-bearer, was standing at the
back of the hall waiting for and watching every look of his sovereign, and
shot him in the breast. He then gave orders that the boy’s body should be
opened and examined. The arrow had pierced the centre of his heart. This
delighted the senseless tyrant, and he called out with a laugh: “Now you
see, Prexaspes, it’s the Persians who have lost their judgment, not I.
Could any one have hit the mark better?”

Prexaspes stood there, pale and motionless, compelled to watch the horrid
scene, like Niobe when chained to Sipylus. His servile spirit bowed before
the ruler’s power, instead of arming his right hand with the dagger of
revenge, and when the frantic king asked him the same question a second
time, he actually answered, pressing his hand on his heart: “A god could
not have hit the mark more exactly.”

A few weeks after this, the king went to Sais, and there was shown the
rooms formerly occupied by his bride. This brought back all the old
painful recollections in full force, and at the same time his clouded
memory reminded him, though without any clearness of detail, that Amasis
had deceived both Nitetis and himself. He cursed the dead king and
furiously demanded to be taken to the temple of Neith, where his mummy was
laid. There he tore the embalmed body out of its sarcophagus, caused it to
be scourged, to be stabbed with pins, had the hair torn off and maltreated
it in every possible way. In conclusion, and contrary to the ancient
Persian religious law, which held the pollution of pure fire by corpses to
be a deadly sin, he caused Amasis’ dead body to be burnt, and condemned
the mummy of his first wife, which lay in a sarcophagus at Thebes, her
native place, to the same fate.

On his return to Memphis, Cambyses did not shrink from personally
ill-treating his wife and sister, Atossa.

He had ordered a combat of wild beasts to take place, during which,
amongst other entertainments of the same kind, a dog was to fight with a
young lion. The lion had conquered his antagonist, when another dog, the
brother of the conquered one, broke away from his chain, attacked the
lion, and with the help of the wounded dog, vanquished him.

This scene delighted Cambyses, but Kassandane and Atossa, who had been
forced by the king’s command to be present, began to weep aloud.

The tyrant was astonished, and on asking the reason for their tears,
received as answer from the impetuous Atossa, that the brave creature who
had risked its own life to save its brother, reminded her of Bartja. She
would not say by whom he had been murdered, but his murder had never been
avenged.

These words so roused the king’s anger, and so goaded his conscience, that
in a fit of insane fury he struck the daring woman, and might possibly
have killed her, if his mother had not thrown herself into his arms and
exposed her own body to his mad blows.

Her voice and action checked his rage, for he had not lost reverence for
his mother; but her look of intense anger and contempt, which he clearly
saw and could not forget, begot a fresh delusion in his mind. He believed
from that moment, that the eyes of women had power to poison him; he
started and hid himself behind his companions whenever he saw a woman, and
at last commanded that all the female inhabitants of the palace at
Memphis, his mother not excepted, should be sent back to Ecbatana. Araspes
and Gyges were appointed to be their escort thither.

The caravan of queens and princesses had arrived at Sais; they alighted at
the royal palace. Croesus had accompanied them thus far on their way from
Egypt.

Kassandane had altered very much during the last few years. Grief and
suffering had worn deep lines in her once beautiful face, though they had
had no power to bow her stately figure.

Atossa, on the contrary, was more beautiful than ever, notwithstanding all
she had suffered. The refractory and impetuous child, the daring spirited
girl, had developed into a dignified, animated and determined woman. The
serious side of life, and three sad years passed with her ungovernable
husband and brother, had been first-rate masters in the school of
patience, but they had not been able to alienate her heart from her first
love. Sappho’s friendship had made up to her in some measure for the loss
of Darius.

The young Greek had become another creature, since the mysterious
departure of her husband. Her rosy color and her lovely smile were both
gone. But she was wonderfully beautiful, in spite of her paleness, her
downcast eyelashes and languid attitude. She looked like Ariadne waiting
for Theseus. Longing and expectation lay in every look, in the low tone of
her voice, in her measured walk. At the sound of approaching steps, the
opening of a door or the unexpected tones of a man’s voice, she would
start, get up and listen, and then sink back into the old waiting, longing
attitude, disappointed but not hopeless. She began to dream again, as she
had been so fond of doing in her girlish days.

She was her old self only when playing with her child. Then the color came
back to her cheeks, her eyes sparkled, she seemed once more to live in the
present, and not only in the past or future.

Her child was everything to her. In that little one Bartja seemed to be
still alive, and she could love the child with all her heart and strength,
without taking one iota from her love to him. With this little creature
the gods had mercifully given her an aim in life and a link with the lower
world, the really precious part of which had seemed to vanish with her
vanished husband. Sometimes, as she looked into her baby’s blue eyes, so
wonderfully like Bartja’s, she thought: Why was not she born a boy? He
would have grown more like his father from day to day, and at last, if
such a thing indeed could ever be, a second Bartja would have stood before
me.

But such thoughts generally ended soon in her pressing the little one
closer than ever to her heart, and blaming herself for ingratitude and
folly.

One day Atossa put the same idea in words, exclaiming: “If Parmys were
only a boy! He would have grown up exactly like his father, and have been
a second Cyrus for Persia.” Sappho smiled sadly at her friend, and covered
the little one with kisses, but Kassandane said: “Be thankful to the gods,
my child, for having given you a daughter. If Parmys were a boy, he would
be taken from you as soon as he had reached his sixth year, to be brought
up with the sons of the other Achaemenidae, but your daughter will remain
your own for many years.”

Sappho trembled at the mere thought of parting from her child; she pressed
its little fair curly head close to her breast, and never found, fault
with her treasure again for being a girl.

Atossa’s friendship was a great comfort to her poor wounded heart. With
her she could speak of Bartja as much and as often as she would, and was
always certain of a kind and sympathizing listener. Atossa had loved her
vanished brother very dearly. And even a stranger would have enjoyed
hearing Sappho tell of her past happiness. Her words rose into real
eloquence in speaking of those bright days; she seemed like an inspired
poetess. Then she would take her lyre, and with her clear, sweet,
plaintive voice sing the love-songs of the elder Sappho, in which all her
own deepest feelings were so truly expressed, and fancy herself once more
with her lover sitting under the sweet-scented acanthus in the quiet
night, and forget the sad reality of her present life. And when, with a
deep sigh, she laid aside the lyre and came back out of this
dream-kingdom, the tears were always to be seen in Kassandane’s eyes,
though she did not understand the language in which Sappho had been
singing, and Atossa would bend down and kiss her forehead.

Thus three long years had passed, during which Sappho had seldom seen her
grandmother, for, as the mother of Parmys, she was by the king’s command,
forbidden to leave the harem, unless permitted and accompanied either by
Kassandane or the eunuchs.

On the present occasion Croesus, who had always loved, and loved her
still, like a daughter, had sent for Rhodopis to Sais. He, as well as
Kassandane, understood her wish to take leave of this, her dearest and
most faithful friend, before setting out for Persia; besides which
Kassandane had a great wish to see one in whose praise she had heard so
much. When Sappho’s tender and sad farewell was over therefore, Rhodopis
was summoned to the queen-mother.

A stranger, who saw these two women together, would have thought both were
queens; it was impossible to decide which of the two had most right to the
title.

Croesus, standing as he did in as close a relation to the one as to the
other, undertook the office of interpreter, and the ready intellect of
Rhodopis helped him to carry on an uninterrupted flow of conversation.

Rhodopis, by her own peculiar attractions, soon won the heart of
Kassandane, and the queen knew no better way of proving this than by
offering, in Persian fashion, to grant her some wish.

Rhodopis hesitated a moment; then raising her hands as if in prayer, she
cried: “Leave me my Sappho, the consolation and beauty of my old age.”

Kassandane smiled sadly. “It is not in my power to grant that wish,” she
answered. “The laws of Persia command, that the children of the
Achaemenidae shall be brought up at the king’s gate. I dare not allow the
little Parmys, Cyrus’ only grandchild, to leave me, and, much as Sappho
loves you, you know she would not part from her child. Indeed, she has
become so dear to me now, and to my daughter, that though I well
understand your wish to have her, I could never allow Sappho to leave us.”

Seeing that Rhodopis’ eyes were filling with tears, Kassandane went on:
“There is, however, a good way out of our perplexity. Leave Naukratis, and
come with us to Persia. There you can spend your last years with us and
with your granddaughter, and shall be provided with a royal maintenance.”

Rhodopis shook her head, hoary but still so beautiful, and answered in a
suppressed voice: “I thank you, noble queen, for this gracious invitation,
but I feel unable to accept it. Every fibre of my heart is rooted in
Greece, and I should be tearing my life out by leaving it forever. I am so
accustomed to constant activity, perfect freedom, and a stirring exchange
of thought, that I should languish and die in the confinement of a harem.
Croesus had already prepared me for the gracious proposal you have just
made, and I have had a long and difficult battle to fight, before I could
decide on resigning my dearest blessing for my highest good. It is not
easy, but it is glorious, it is more worthy of the Greek name—to
live a good and beautiful life, than a happy one—to follow duty
rather than pleasure. My heart will follow Sappho, but my intellect and
experience belong to the Greeks; and if you should ever hear that the
people of Hellas are ruled by themselves alone, by their own gods, their
own laws, the beautiful and the good, then you will know that the work on
which Rhodopis, in league with the noblest and best of her countrymen, has
staked her life, is accomplished. Be not angry with the Greek woman, who
confesses that she would rather die free as a beggar than live in bondage
as a queen, though envied by the whole world.”

Kassandane listened in amazement. She only understood part of what
Rhodopis had said, but felt that she had spoken well and nobly, and at the
conclusion gave her her hand to kiss. After a short pause, Kassandane
said: “Do what you think right, and remember, that as long as I and my
daughter live, your granddaughter will never want for true and faithful
love.”

“Your noble countenance and the fame of your great virtue are warrant
enough for that.” answered Rhodopis.

“And also,” added the queen, “the duty which lies upon me to make good the
wrong, that has been done your Sappho.”

She sighed painfully and went on: “The little Parmys shall be carefully
educated. She seems to have much natural talent, and can sing the songs of
her native country already after her mother. I shall do nothing to check
her love of music, though, in Persia the religious services are the only
occasions in which that art is studied by any but the lower classes.”

At these words Rhodopis’ face glowed. “Will you permit me to speak openly,
O Queen?” she said. “Speak without fear,” was Kassandane’s answer. “When
you sighed so painfully just now in speaking of your dear lost son, I
thought: Perhaps that brave young hero might have been still living, if
the Persians had understood better how to educate their sons. Bartja told
me in what that education consisted. To shoot, throw the spear, ride,
hunt, speak the truth, and perhaps also to distinguish between the healing
and noxious properties of certain plants: that is deemed a sufficient
educational provision for a man’s life. The Greek boys are just as
carefully kept to the practice of exercises for hardening and bracing the
body; for these exercises are the founders and preservers of health, the
physician is only its repairer and restorer. If, however, by constant
practice a Greek youth were to attain to the strength of a bull, the truth
of the Deity, and the wisdom of the most learned Egyptian priest, we
should still look down upon him were he wanting in two things which only
early example and music, combined with these bodily exercises, can give:
grace and symmetry. You smile because you do not understand me, but I can
prove to you that music, which, from what Sappho tells me, is not without
its moving power for your heart, is as important an element in education
as gymnastics, and, strange as it may sound, has an equal share in
effecting the perfection of both body and mind. The man who devotes his
attention exclusively to music will, if he be of a violent disposition,
lose his savage sternness at first; he will become gentle and pliable as
metal in the fire. But at last his courage will disappear too; his
passionate temper will have changed into irritability, and he will be of
little worth as a warrior, the calling and character most desired in your
country. If, on the other hand, he confines himself to gymnastics only, he
will, like Cambyses, excel in manliness and strength; but his mind—here
my comparison ceases—will remain obtuse and blind, his perceptions
will be confused, He will not listen to reason, but will endeavor to carry
everything by force, and, lacking grace and proportion, his life will
probably become a succession of rude and violent deeds. On this account we
conclude that music is necessary not only for the mind, and gymnastics not
only for the body, but that both, working together, elevate and soften the
mind and strengthen the body—give manly grace, and graceful
manliness.”

After a moment’s pause Rhodopis went on: “The youth who has not received
such an education, whose roughness has never been checked even in
childhood, who has been allowed to vent his temper on every one, receiving
flattery in return and never hearing reproof; who has been allowed to
command before he has learnt to obey, and who has been brought up in the
belief that splendor, power and riches are the highest good, can never
possibly attain to the perfect manhood, which we beseech the gods to grant
our boys. And if this unfortunate being happens to have been born with an
impetuous disposition, ungovernable and eager passions, these will be only
nourished and increased by bodily exercise unaccompanied by the softening
influence of music, so that at last a child, who possibly came into the
world with good qualities, will, merely through the defects in his
education, degenerate into a destructive animal, a sensual self-destroyer,
and a mad and furious tyrant.”

Rhodopis had become animated with her subject. She ceased, saw tears in
the eyes of the queen, and felt that she had gone too far and had wounded
a mother’s heart,—a heart full of noble feeling. She touched her
robe, kissed its border, and said softly: “Forgive me.”

Kassandane looked her forgiveness, courteously saluted Rhodopis and
prepared to leave the room. On the threshold, however, she stopped and
said: “I am not angry. Your reproaches are just; but you too must endeavor
to forgive, for I can assure you that he who has murdered the happiness of
your child and of mine, though the most powerful, is of all mortals the
most to be pitied. Farewell! Should you ever stand in need of ought,
remember Cyrus’ widow, and how she wished to teach you, that the virtues
the Persians desire most in their children are magnanimity and
liberality.”

After saying this she left the apartment.

On the same day Rhodopis heard that Phanes was dead. He had retired to
Crotona in the neighborhood of Pythagoras and there passed his time in
reflection, dying with the tranquillity of a philosopher.

She was deeply affected at this news and said to Croesus: “Greece has lost
one of her ablest men, but there are many, who will grow up to be his
equals. The increasing power of Persia causes me no fear; indeed, I
believe that when the barbarous lust of conquest stretches out its hand
towards us, our many-headed Greece will rise as a giant with one head of
divine power, before which mere barbaric strength must bow as surely as
body before spirit.”

Three days after this, Sappho said farewell for the last time to her
grandmother, and followed the queens to Persia. Notwithstanding the events
which afterwards took place, she continued to believe that Bartja would
return, and full of love, fidelity and tender remembrance, devoted herself
entirely to the education of her child and the care of her aged
mother-in-law, Kassandane.

Little Parmys became very beautiful, and learnt to love the memory of her
vanished father next to the gods of her native land, for her mother’s
tales had brought him as vividly before her as if he had been still alive
and present with them.

Atossa’s subsequent good fortune and happiness did not cool her
friendship. She always called Sappho her sister. The hanging-gardens were
the latter’s residence in summer, and in her conversations there with
Kassandane and Atossa one name was often mentioned—the name of her,
who had been the innocent cause of events which had decided the destinies
of great kingdoms and noble lives—the Egyptian Princess.


CHAPTER XVI.

Here we might end this tale, but that we feel bound to give our readers
some account of the last days of Cambyses. We have already described the
ruin of his mind, but his physical end remains still to be told, and also
the subsequent fate of some of the other characters in our history.

A short time after the departure of the queens, news reached Naukratis
that Oroetes, the satrap of Lydia, had, by a stratagem, allured his old
enemy, Polykrates, to Sardis and crucified him there, thus fulfilling what
Amasis had prophecied of the tyrant’s mournful end. This act the satrap
had committed on his own responsibility, events having taken place in the
Median kingdom which threatened the fall of the Achaemenidaean dynasty.

The king’s long absence in a foreign country had either weakened or
entirely dissipated, the fear which the mere mention of his name had
formerly inspired in those who felt inclined to rebel. The awe that his
subjects had formerly felt for him, vanished at the tidings of his
madness, and the news that he had wantonly exposed the lives of thousands
of their countrymen to certain death in the deserts of Libya and Ethiopia,
inspired the enraged Asiatics with a hatred which, when skilfully fed by
the powerful Magi, soon roused, first the Medes and Assyrians, and then
the Persians, to defection and open insurrection. Motives of self-interest
led the ambitious high-priest, Oropastes, whom Cambyses had appointed
regent in his absence, to place himself at the head of this movement. He
flattered the people by remitting their taxes, by large gifts and larger
promises, and finding his clemency gratefully recognized, determined on an
imposture, by which he hoped to win the crown of Persia for his own
family.

He had not forgotten the marvellous likeness between his brother Gaumata
(who had been condemned to lose his ears) and Bartja, the son of Cyrus,
and on hearing that the latter, the universal favorite, as he well knew,
of the Persian nation, had disappeared, resolved to turn this to account
by passing off his brother as the vanished prince, and setting him on the
throne in place of Cambyses. The hatred felt throughout the entire kingdom
towards their insane king, and the love and attachment of the nation to
Bartja, made this stratagem so easy of accomplishment, that when at last
messengers from Oropastes arrived in all the provinces of the empire
declaring to the discontented citizens that, notwithstanding the rumor
they had heard, the younger son of Cyrus was still alive, had revolted
from his brother, ascended his father’s throne and granted to all his
subjects freedom from tribute and from military service during a period of
three years, the new ruler was acknowledged throughout the kingdom with
rejoicings.

The pretended Bartja, who was fully aware of his brother’s mental
superiority, had obeyed his directions in every particular, had taken up
his residence in the palace of Nisaea,—in the plains of Media,
placed the crown on his head, declared the royal harem his own, and had
shown himself once from a distance to the people, who were to recognize in
him the murdered Bartja. After that time, however, for fear of being at
last unmasked, he concealed himself in his palace, giving himself up,
after the manner of Asiatic monarchs, to every kind of indulgence, while
his brother held the sceptre with a firm hand, and conferred all the
important offices of state on his friends and family.

No sooner did Oropastes feel firm ground under his feet, than he
despatched the eunuch Ixabates to Egypt, to inform the army of the change
of rulers that had taken place and persuade them to revolt in favor of
Bartja, who he knew had been idolized by the Soldiers.

The messenger had been well chosen, fulfilled his mission with much skill,
and had already won over a considerable part of the army for the new king,
when he was taken prisoner by some Syrians, who brought him to Memphis in
hopes of reward.

On arriving in the city of the Pyramids he was brought before the king,
and promised impunity on condition of revealing the entire truth.

The messenger then confirmed the rumor, which had reached Egypt, that
Bartja had ascended the throne of Cyrus and had been recognized by the
greater part of the empire.

Cambyses started with terror at these tidings, as one who saw a dead man
rise from his grave. He was by this time fully aware that Bartja had been
murdered by Prexaspes at his own command, but in this moment he began to
suspect that the envoy had deceived him and spared his brother’s life. The
thought had no sooner entered his mind than he uttered it, reproaching
Prexaspes so bitterly with treachery, as to elicit from him a tremendous
oath, that he had murdered and buried the unfortunate Bartja with his own
hand.

Oropastes’ messenger was next asked whether he had seen the new king
himself. He answered that he had not, adding that the supposed brother of
Cambyses had only once appeared in public, and had then shown himself to
the people from a distance. On hearing this, Prexaspes saw through the
whole web of trickery at once, reminded the king of the unhappy
misunderstandings to which the marvellous likeness between Bartja and
Gaumata had formerly given rise, and concluded by offering to stake his
own life on the correctness of his supposition. The explanation pleased
the king, and from that moment his diseased mind was possessed by one new
idea to the exclusion of all others—the seizure and slaughter of the
Magi.

The host was ordered to prepare for marching. Aryandes,—one of the
Achaemenidae, was appointed satrap of Egypt, and the army started homeward
without delay. Driven by this new delusion, the king took no rest by day
or night, till at last his over-ridden and ill-used horse fell with him,
and he was severely wounded in the fall by his own dagger.

After lying insensible for some days, he opened his eyes and asked first
to see Araspes, then his mother, and lastly Atossa, although these three
had set out on their journey home months before. From all he said it
appeared that during the last four years, from the attack of fever until
the present accident, he had been living in a kind of sleep. He seemed
astonished and pained at hearing what had happened during these years. But
of his brother’s death he was fully aware. He knew that Prexaspes had
killed him by his—the king’s—orders and had told him that
Bartja lay buried on the shores of the Red Sea.—During the night
which followed this return to his senses it became clear to himself also,
that his mind had been wandering for along time. Towards morning he fell
into a deep sleep, and this so restored his strength, that on waking he
called for Croesus and required an exact relation of the events that had
passed during the last few years.

His old friend and adviser obeyed; he felt that Cambyses was still
entrusted to his care, and in the hope, faint as it was, of bringing him
back to the right way, he did not suppress one of the king’s acts of
violence in his relation.

His joy was therefore great at perceiving, that his words made a deep
impression on the newly-awakened mind of the king. With tears in his eyes,
and with the ashamed look of a child, he grieved over his wrong deeds and
his madness, begged Croesus to forgive him, thanked him for having borne
so long and faithfully with him, and commissioned him to ask Kassandane
and Sappho especially for forgiveness, but also, Atossa and all whom he
had unjustly offended.

The old man wept too, but his tears were tears of joy and he repeatedly
assured Cambyses that he would recover and have ample opportunity of
making amends for the past. But to all this Cambyses shook his head
resolutely, and, pale and wan as he looked, begged Croesus to have his
couch carried on to a rising ground in the open air, and then to summon
the Achaemenidae. When these orders, in spite of the physicians, had been
obeyed, Cambyses was raised into an upright sitting position, and began,
in a voice which could be heard at a considerable distance:

“The time to reveal my great secret has arrived, O ye Persians. Deceived
by a vision, provoked and annoyed by my brother, I caused him to be
murdered in my wrath. Prexaspes wrought the evil deed by my command, but
instead of bringing me the peace I yearned for, that deed has tortured me
into madness and death. By this my confession ye will be convinced, that
my brother Bartja is really dead. The Magi have usurped the throne of the
Achaemenidae. Oropastes, whom I left in Persia as my vicegerent and his
brother Gaumata, who resembles Bartja so nearly that even Croesus,
Intaphernes and my uncle, the noble Hystaspes, were once deceived by the
likeness, have placed themselves at their head. Woe is me, that I have
murdered him who, as my nearest kinsman, should have avenged on the Magi
this affront to my honor. But I cannot recall him from the dead, and I
therefore appoint you the executors of my last will. By the Feruer of my
dead father, and in the name of all good and pure spirits, I conjure you
not to suffer the government to fall into the hands of the unfaithful
Magi. If they have obtained possession thereof by artifice, wrest it from
their hands in like manner; if by force, use force to win it back. Obey
this my last will, and the earth will yield you its fruits abundantly;
your wives, your flocks and herds shall be blessed and freedom shall be
your portion. Refuse to obey it, and ye shall suffer the corresponding
evils; yea, your end, and that of every Persian shall be even as mine.”

After these words the king wept and sank back fainting, on seeing which,
the Achaemenidae rent their clothes and burst into loud lamentations. A
few hours later Cambyses died in Croesus’ arms. Nitetis was his last
thought; he died with her name on his lips and tears of penitence in his
eyes. When the Persians had left the unclean corpse, Croesus knelt down
beside it and cried, raising his hand to heaven: “Great Cyrus, I have kept
my oath. I have remained this miserable man’s faithful adviser even unto
his end.”

The next morning the old man betook himself, accompanied by his son Gyges,
to the town of Barene, which belonged to him, and lived there many years
as a father to his subjects, revered by Darius and praised by all his
contemporaries.

After Cambyses’ death the heads of the seven Persian tribes held a
council, and resolved, as a first measure, on obtaining certain
information as to the person of the usurper. With this view, Otanes sent a
confidential eunuch to his daughter Phaedime, who, as they knew, had come
into the possession of the new king with the rest of Cambyses’ harem.

Before the messenger returned, the greater part of the army had dispersed,
the soldiers seizing this favorable opportunity to return to their homes
and families, after so many years of absence. At last, however, the
long-expected messenger came back and brought for answer, that the new
king had only visited Phaedime once, but that during that visit she had,
at great personal risk, discovered that he had lost both ears. Without
this discovery, however, she could assert positively that though there
were a thousand points of similarity between the usurper and the murdered
Bartja, the former was in reality none other than Gaumata, the brother of
Oropastes. Her old friend Boges had resumed his office of chief of the
eunuchs, and had revealed to her the secrets of the Magi. The high-priest
had met the former keeper of the women begging in the streets of Susa, and
had restored him to his old office with the words: “You have forfeited
your life, but I want men of your stamp.” In conclusion. Phaedime
entreated her father to use every means in his power for the overthrow of
the Magi, as they treated her with the greatest contempt and she was the
most miserable of women.

Though none of the Achaemenidae hall really for a moment believed; that
Bartja was alive and had seized on the throne, so clear an account of the
real person of the usurper was very welcome to them, and they resolved at
once to march on Nisaea with the remnant of the army and overthrow the
Magi either by craft or force.

They entered the new capital unassailed, and finding that the majority of
the people seemed content with the new government, they also pretended to
acknowledge the king as the son of Cyrus, to whom they were prepared to do
homage. The Magi, however, were not deceived; they shut themselves up in
their palace, assembled an army in the Nisaean plain, promised the
soldiers high pay, and used every effort to strengthen the belief of the
people in Gaumata’s disguise. On this point no one could do them more
injury, or, if he chose, be more useful to them, than Prexaspes. He was
much looked up to by the Persians, and his assurance, that he had not
murdered Bartja, would have been sufficient to tame the fast-spreading
report of the real way in which the youth had met his death. Oropastes,
therefore, sent for Prexaspes, who, since the king’s dying words, had been
avoided by all the men of his own rank and had led the life of an outlaw,
and promised him an immense sum of money, if he would ascend a high tower
and declare to the people, assembled in the court beneath, that
evil-disposed men had called him Bartja’s murderer, whereas he had seen
the new king with his own eyes and had recognized in him the younger son
of his benefactor. Prexaspes made no objection to this proposal, took a
tender leave of his family while the people were being assembled, uttered
a short prayer before the sacred fire-altar and walked proudly to the
palace. On his way thither he met the chiefs of the seven tribes and
seeing that they avoided him, called out to them: “I am worthy of your
contempt, but I will try to deserve your forgiveness.”

Seeing Darius look back, he hastened towards him, grasped his hand and
said: “I have loved you like a son; take care of my children when I am no
more, and use your pinions, winged Darius.” Then, with the same proud
demeanor he ascended the tower.

Many thousands of the citizens of Nisaea were within reach of his voice,
as he cried aloud: “Ye all know that the kings who have, up to the present
time, loaded you with honor and glory, belonged to the house of the
Achaemenidae. Cyrus governed you like a real father, Cambyses was a stern
master, and Bartja would have guided you like a bridegroom, if I, with
this right hand which I now show you, had not slain him on the shores of
the Red Sea. By Mithras, it was with a bleeding heart that I committed
this wicked deed, but I did it as a faithful servant in obedience to the
king’s command. Nevertheless, it has haunted me by day and night; for four
long years I have been pursued and tormented by the spirits of darkness,
who scare sleep from the murderer’s couch. I have now resolved to end this
painful, despairing existence by a worthy deed, and though even this may
procure me no mercy at the bridge of Chinvat, in the mouths of men, at
least, I shall have redeemed my honorable name from the stain with which I
defiled it. Know then, that the man who gives himself out for the son of
Cyrus, sent me hither; he promised me rich rewards if I would deceive you
by declaring him to be Bartja, the son of the Achaemenidae. But I scorn
his promises and swear by Mithras and the Feruers of the kings, the most
solemn oaths I am acquainted with, that the man who is now ruling you is
none other than the Magian Gaumata, he who was deprived of his ears, the
brother of the king’s vicegerent and high-priest, Oropastes, whom ye all
know. If it be your will to forget all the glory ye owe to the
Achaemenidae, if to this ingratitude ye choose to add your own
degradation, then acknowledge these creatures and call them your kings;
but if ye despise a lie and are ashamed to obey worthless impostors, drive
the Magi from the throne before Mithras has left the heavens, and proclaim
the noblest of the Achaemenidae, Darius, the exalted son of Hystaspes, who
promises to become a second Cyrus, as your king. And now, in order that ye
may believe my words and not suspect that Darius sent me hither to win you
over to his side, I will commit a deed, which must destroy every doubt and
prove that the truth and glory of the Achaemenidae are clearer to me, than
life itself. Blessed be ye if ye follow my counsels, but curses rest upon
you, if ye neglect to reconquer the throne from the Magi and revenge
yourselves upon them.—Behold, I die a true and honorable man!”

With these words he ascended the highest pinnacle of the tower and cast
himself down head foremost, thus expiating the one crime of his life by an
honorable death.

The dead silence with which the people in the court below had listened to
him, was now broken by shrieks of rage and cries for vengeance. They burst
open the gates of the palace and were pressing in with cries of “Death to
the Magi,” when the seven princes of the Persians appeared in front of the
raging crowd to resist their entrance.

At sight of the Achaemenidae the citizens broke into shouts of joy, and
cried more impetuously than ever, “Down with the Magi! Victory to King
Darius!”

The son of Hystaspes was then carried by the crowd to a rising ground,
from which he told the people that the Magi had been slain by the
Achaemenidae, as liars and usurpers. Fresh cries of joy arose in answer to
these words, and when at last the bleeding heads of Oropastes and Gaumata
were shown to the crowd, they rushed with horrid yells through the streets
of the city, murdering every Magian they could lay hold of. The darkness
of night alone was able to stop this awful massacre.

Four days later, Darius, the son of Hystaspes, was chosen as king by the
heads of the Achaemenidae, in consideration of his high birth and noble
character, and received by the Persian nation with enthusiasm. Darius had
killed Gaumata with his own hand, and the highpriest had received his
death-thrust from the hand of Megabyzus, the father of Zopyrus. While
Prexaspes was haranguing the people, the seven conspiring Persian princes,
Otanes, Intaphernes, Gobryas, Megabyzus, Aspatines, Hydarnes and Darius,
(as representative of his aged father Hystaspes), had entered the palace
by a carelessly-guarded gate, sought out the part of the building occupied
by the Magi, and then, assisted by their own knowledge of the palace, and
the fact that most of the guards had been sent to keep watch over the
crowd assembled to hear Prexaspes easily penetrated to the apartments in
which at that moment they were to be found. Here they were resisted by a
few eunuchs, headed by Boges, but these were overpowered and killed to a
man. Darius became furious on seeing Boges, and killed him at once.
Hearing the dying cries of these eunuchs, the Magi rushed to the spot and
prepared to defend themselves. Oropastes snatched a lance from the fallen
Boges, thrust out one of Intaphernes’ eyes and wounded Aspatines in the
thigh, but was stabbed by Megabyzus. Gaumata fled into another apartment
and tried to bar the door, but was followed too soon by Darius and
Gobryas; the latter seized, threw him, and kept him down by the weight of
his own body, crying to Darius, who was afraid of making a false stroke in
the half-light, and so wounding his companion instead of Gaumata, “Strike
boldly, even if you should stab us both.” Darius obeyed, and fortunately
only hit the Magian.

Thus died Oropastes, the high-priest, and his brother Gaumata, better
known under the name of the “pseudo” or “pretended Smerdis.”

A few weeks after Darius’ election to the throne, which the people said
had been marvellously influenced by divine miracles and the clever cunning
of a groom, he celebrated his coronation brilliantly at Pasargadae, and
with still more splendor, his marriage with his beloved Atossa. The trials
of her life had ripened her character, and she proved a faithful, beloved
and respected companion to her husband through the whole of that active
and glorious life, which, as Prexaspes had foretold, made him worthy of
the names by which he was afterwards known—Darius the Great, and a
second Cyrus.

As a general he was circumspect and brave, and at the same time understood
so thoroughly how to divide his enormous realm, and to administer its
affairs, that he must be classed with the greatest organizers of all times
and countries. That his feeble successors were able to keep this Asiatic
Colossus of different countries together for two hundred years after his
death, was entirely owing to Darius. He was liberal of his own, but
sparing of his subjects’ treasures, and made truly royal gifts without
demanding more than was his due. He introduced a regular system of
taxation, in place of the arbitrary exactions practised under Cyrus and
Cambyses, and never allowed himself to be led astray in the carrying out
of what seemed to him right, either by difficulties or by the ridicule of
the Achaemenidae, who nicknamed him the “shopkeeper,” on account of what
seemed, to their exclusively military tastes, his petty financial
measures. It is by no means one of his smallest merits, that he introduced
one system of coinage through his entire empire, and consequently through
half the then known world.

Darius respected the religions and customs of other nations. When the
writing of Cyrus, of the existence of which Cambyses had known nothing,
was found in the archives of Ecbatana, he allowed the Jews to carry on the
building of their temple to Jehovah; he also left the Ionian cities free
to govern their own communities independently. Indeed, he would hardly
have sent his army against Greece, if the Athenians had not insulted him.

In Egypt he had learnt much; among other things, the art of managing the
exchequer of his kingdom wisely; for this reason he held the Egyptians in
high esteem, and granted them many privileges, amongst others a canal to
connect the Nile with the Red Sea, which was greatly to the advantage of
their commerce.

During the whole of his reign, Darius endeavored to make amends for the
severity with which Cambyses had treated the Egyptians; even in the later
years of his life he delighted to study the treasures of their wisdom, and
no one was allowed to attack either their religion or customs, as long as
he lived. The old high-priest Neithotep enjoyed the king’s favor to the
last, and Darius often made use of his wise old master’s astrological
knowledge.

The goodness and clemency of their new ruler was fully acknowledged by the
Egyptians; they called him a deity, as they had called their own kings,
and yet, in the last years of his reign, their desire for independence led
them to forget gratitude and to try to shake off his gentle yoke, which
was only oppressive because it had originally been forced on them.

Their generous ruler and protector did not live to see the end of this
struggle.

It was reserved for Xerxes, the successor and son of Darius and Atossa, to
bring back the inhabitants of the Nile valley to a forced and therefore
insecure obedience.

Darius left a worthy monument of his greatness in the glorious palace
which he built on Mount Rachmed, the ruins of which are the wonder and
admiration of travellers to this day. Six thousand Egyptian workmen, who
had been sent to Asia by Cambyses, took part in the work and also assisted
in building a tomb for Darius and his successors, the rocky and almost
inaccessible chambers of which have defied the ravages of time, and are
now the resort of innumerable wild pigeons.

He caused the history of his deeds to be cut, (in the cuneiform character
and in the Persian, Median and Assyrian languages), on the polished side
of the rock of Bisitun or Behistan, not far from the spot where he saved
Atossa’s life. The Persian part of this inscription can still be
deciphered with certainty, and contains an account of the events related
in the last few chapters, very nearly agreeing with our own and that of
Herodotus. The following sentences occur amongst others: “Thus saith
Darius the King: That which I have done, was done by the grace of
Auramazda in every way. I fought nineteen battles after the rebellion of
the kings. By the mercy of Auramazda I conquered them. I took nine kings
captive. One was a Median, Gaumata by name. He lied and said: ‘I am
Bardiya (Bartja), the son of Cyrus.’ He caused Persia to rebel.”

Some distance lower down, he names the chiefs who helped him to dethrone
the Magi, and in another place the inscription has these words: “Thus
saith the King Darius: That which I have done was done in every way by the
grace of Auramazda. Auramazda helped me, and such other gods as there be.
Auramazda and the other gods gave me help, because I was not swift to
anger, nor a liar, nor a violent ruler, neither I nor my kinsmen. I have
shown favor unto him who helped my brethren, and I have punished severely
him who was my enemy. Thou who shalt be king after me, be not merciful
unto him who is a liar or a rebel, but punish him with a severe
punishment. Thus saith Darius the King: Thou who shalt hereafter behold
this tablet which I have written, or these pictures, destroy them not, but
so long as thou shalt live preserve them, &c.”

It now only remains to be told that Zopyrus, the son of Megabyzus,
continued to the last the king’s most faithful friend.

A courtier once showed the king a pomegranate, and asked him of what one
gift of fortune he would like so many repetitions, as there were seeds in
that fruit. Without a moment’s hesitation Darius answered, “Of my
Zopyrus.”—[Plutarch]

The following story will prove that Zopyrus, on his part, well understood
how to return his royal friend’s kindness. After the death of Cambyses,
Babylon revolted from the Persian empire. Darius besieged the city nine
months in vain, and was about to raise the siege, when one day Zopyrus
appeared before him bleeding, and deprived of his ears and nose, and
explained that he had mutilated himself thus in order to cheat the
Babylonians, who knew him well, as he had formerly been on intimate terms
with their daughters. He said he wished to tell the haughty citizens, that
Darius had thus disfigured him, and that he had come to them for help in
revenging himself. He thought they would then place troops at his
disposal, with which he intended to impose upon them by making a few
successful sallies at first. His ultimate intention was to get possession
of the keys, and open the Semiramis gate to his friends.

These words, which were spoken in a joking tone, contrasted so sadly with
the mutilated features of his once handsome friend, that Darius wept, and
when at last the almost impregnable fortress was really won by Zopyrus’
stratagem, he exclaimed: “I would give a hundred Babylons, if my Zopyrus
had not thus mutilated himself.”

He then appointed his friend lord of the giant city, gave him its entire
revenues, and honored him every year with the rarest presents. In later
days he used to say that, with the exception of Cyrus, who had no equal,
no man had ever performed so generous a deed as Zopyrus.

Few rulers possessed so many self-sacrificing friends as Darius, because
few understood so well how to be grateful.

When Syloson, the brother of the murdered Polykrates, came to Susa and
reminded the king of his former services, Darius received him as a friend,
placed ships and troops at his service, and helped him to recover Samos.

The Samians made a desperate resistance, and said, when at last they were
obliged to yield: “Through Syloson we have much room in our land.”

Rhodopis lived to hear of the murder of Hipparchus, the tyrant of Athens,
by Harmodius and Aristogiton, and died at last in the arms of her best
friends, Theopompus the Milesian and Kallias the Athenian, firm in her
belief of the high calling of her countrymen.

All Naukratis mourned for her, and Kallias sent a messenger to Susa, to
inform the king and Sappho of her death.

A few months later the satrap of Egypt received the following letter from
the hand of the king:

Scroll to Top