“Ah, the beauty and luxury I have seen in those Persian palaces!” exclaimed Bucephalus, as though to himself. “The marble courtyards with their springing fountains, the jewelled thrones, the silken robes, men and women alike blazing with precious stones—and over all the glorious blue sky and the splendid sun!” He sighed again, and for a while seemed lost in thought.
“Those days are gone for ever,” he went on at last. “But it was amidst such scenes, in such pomp and luxury as this, that Mausolus and his queen Artemisia dwelt in the city of Halicarnassus. Some years they lived together in great happiness, and then, to the terrible grief of his queen, King Mausolus died. In her despair and misery, Artemisia could think of no other means of distraction than that of building to the memory of her husband so beautiful a tomb that it should be famous throughout the world, and for ever preserve the name of Mausolus.
“She had vast riches, and because she was a learned and enlightened queen, she knew that it was to Greece she must turn to spend her wealth. For in Greece dwelt all the great artists, whether sculptors, architects or poets.
“This tomb raised to the memory of her husband, Mausolus, was to be the Wonder of the World. Not content with one Greek architect, therefore, she employed no less than four to design and beautify the building you see before you, which faces north, south, east and west. Scopas it was who built the eastern side, Leochares the west, Bruxis the north, and Timotheus the south. These were famous men in my day, and even when they had finished their labour, and even when the tomb of Mausolus was surrounded by colonnades, supported by beautiful pillars, and lined with magnificent statues, the queen was not satisfied. The tomb must be still more wonderful, still more stately. So she sent for Pythios, a great sculptor, and ordered him to erect above the temple-like tomb, a pyramid. On the top of the pyramid he was to place a group in marble which should represent herself and Mausolus, standing side by side, in a chariot drawn by four horses.
“Now Pythios was anxious to find as a model for these horses the most beautiful steed in the world. And where, said everyone, could he find a creature more beautiful than the famous Bucephalus of Alexander?
“So Pythios came to our court and sought of my master permission to make drawings of me in varying attitudes as I reared or ran. This being granted, I became the model for all four of the marble steeds who drew the chariot of King Mausolus and his queen Artemisia. Behold them! For in magic fashion you see them as they appeared long, long ago, when this tomb was first completed. Greatly favoured are you, little children, for other mortals now living must be content to gaze only upon those broken fragments of the tomb, which, in recent days, have been drawn from the earth. Long, long ago, was this magnificent monument destroyed, and were it not for my company and the magic of Sheshà, who has called me to this earth once more, you would be looking upon nothing but ruin and destruction here in this place. See how splendidly white and dazzling appears that noble group against the deep blue of the sky! And then contrast it with the battered figures, the one chariot wheel, the broken horse’s head, which is all that now remains. Still more wonderful that such fragments should at last have found their way to your grey city of London—thousands of miles away.”
Bucephalus paused once more, wrapped in earnest thought, which the children scarcely dared to disturb, though they were longing to ask questions.
“You will ask,” he continued presently, “how I, who at the time when this tomb was built dwelt far from Halicarnassus, know all that I have related. Let me explain.
“Though Pythios had taken me as a model for those famous horses of his, I never thought to behold them, and when I have completed the story of Queen Artemisia, I will relate how it chanced that I did at last look upon them with my own eyes.
“The great tomb, so marvellous, so beautiful that it became one of the Seven Wonders of the World, was at length finished—as you see it. A miracle in marble, with the queen herself and her dearly loved husband standing together to endure as she thought for ever. Her task completed, and with nothing else to live for, the queen pined away, and a year later died. The monument she raised, as you know, is shattered to fragments, but, after all, Artemisia’s wish was fulfilled, for the name of her husband, at least in a fashion, yet lives. Ever since her day, every splendid tomb, such as that in which kings or great heroes are buried, has been called a Mausoleum. And when people of the present age speak that word, though they may not be aware of it, they are uttering the name of Mausolus, so dear to Artemisia.