“Bring him,” cried the king. “Something tells me that this is a lucky day, and that the gods have not yet exhausted their favours.”
The stranger was brought in between two soldiers. A more remarkable contrast to the brilliant assemblage of the royal guests could hardly have been imagined. His face was pale and haggard, his eyes bloodshot, his hair unkempt, his dress—the one-sleeved tunic of a slave—worn and travel-stained. The splendour of the scene into which he had been brought seemed to overpower him. He reeled and would have fallen, but that the soldiers on either side held him up.
“Give him a draught of wine,” cried the king.
A page handed him a brimming goblet of Chian. He drained it, and the draught brought back the light to his eyes and the colour to his cheek.
“And now,” said the king, “tell us your story. But first, who are you, and whence do you come?”
“My name is Narses,” said the man, “I am a Carian by birth. I was the slave of Charidemus the Athenian.”[42]
“And you have run away from your master,” interrupted the king, who began to think that the man was only a common deserter, hoping to get a reward for information that was probably of very little value.
“The gods forbid!” said the man. “There was never a better master, and I had been a thankless knave to leave him. No, my lord, Charidemus the Athenian is no more.”
“How so?” asked the king. “Tell us what you know.”