“There was some truth after all in what Arioch told us,” said Charidemus to his friend, about a week after the death of the king, “though I have always felt sure that the spirit which he pretended to consult was a fraud. But was there not something which concerned ourselves?”
“Yes,” replied Charondas, “I remember the words well. ‘Happy are they who stand afar off and watch.’ And indeed it scarcely needs a soothsayer to tell us that.”
“You have heard, I dare say,” said Charidemus, “of what Alexander was heard to whisper to himself. ‘They will give me fine funeral games.’ Have you a mind to take part in these same games?”
“Not I,” replied his friend; “two or three of the big men will win great prizes, I doubt not; but little folk such as you and me will run great risk of being tripped up. But what are we to do?”
The Macedonian paused a few moments, “I have thought the matter over many times, and talked it over too with my wife, who has, if you will believe me, as sound a judgment as any of us. You see that standing out of the tumult, as I have been doing for the last five years and more, I have had, perhaps, better opportunities for seeing the matter on all sides. I always felt that if the king died young—and there was always too much reason to fear, quite apart from the chances of war, that he would—there would be a terrible struggle for the succession. No man living, I am sure, could take up the burden that he bore. Many a year will pass before the world sees another Alexander; but there will be kingdoms to be carved out of the empire. That I saw; and then I put to myself the question, what I should do. It seemed to me that there would be no really safe resting-place where a man might enjoy his life in peace and quietness in either Macedonia or Greece. I sometimes thought that there would be no such place anywhere. And then I recollected a delightful spot where I spent some of the happiest months of my life, while you were with the king in Egypt, that inland sea in the country of the Jews. If there is to be a haven of rest anywhere, it will be there. What say you? are you willing to leave the world and spend the rest of your days there?”
“Yes,” said the Theban, “on conditions.”
“And what are these conditions?”
“They do not depend upon you, though you may possibly help me to obtain them.”
The conditions, as my readers may guess, were the consent of Miriam, the great-grand-daughter of Eleazar of Babylon, to share this retirement, and the approbation of her kinsfolk. These, not to prolong my story now that its main interest is over, were obtained without much difficulty. Eleazar was dead. Had he been alive, it is likely that he would have refused his consent, for he kept with no little strictness to the exclusive traditions of his race. His grandson and successor was more liberal, or, perhaps we should say, more latitudinarian in his views. Charondas bore a high reputation as a gallant and honourable man; and he had acquired a large fortune, as any high officer in Alexander’s army could hardly fail to do, if he was gifted with ordinary prudence. A bag of jewels which he had brought back from India, and which were estimated as worth four hundred talents at the least, was one of the things, though it is only fair to say, not the chief thing that impressed the younger Eleazar in his favour. Miriam’s consent had virtually been given long before.
Charidemus and his wife had a painful parting with Barsiné. She recognized the wisdom of their choice; but she refused to share their retirement. “I must keep my son,” she said, “where his father placed him. Some day he may be called to succeed him, and his subjects must know where to find him.”[80]