The morning sun, shining from a cloudless sky, danced upon the rippling harbor before the eyes of the two prisoners as they were led to the Royal Citadel where Memnon had established himself. The Rhodian had been placed in command of all the western border of the empire after the disaster on the Granicus, and his authority was nominally supreme.
They were conducted to an antechamber of the council room to await their turn. They found themselves surrounded by a throng in which the Greeks far outnumbered the barbarians. Sullen looks were levelled at them by the officers who came and went. Ephialtes, who had been exiled from Athens, smiled at them mockingly. Neoptolemus, the Lyncestian, and Amyntas, son of Antiochus, who had been concerned in the murder of Philip, Thrasybulus, and others who had become exiles from their native land for various crimes, passed them in the crowd of civil and military officials whose faces and garb indicated the widely scattered races that they represented.
"See," Clearchus said to Chares. "There goes the Tyrian!"
Phradates was making his way through the hall, holding his head high and ignoring the salutes that were offered to him. He wore a magnificent cloak of purple, under which he concealed his maimed right arm, and his spurs clanked on the marble floor.
"They are the same spurs he used to get away with from the battle," Chares observed. "He seems to be a person of some importance here, and that will do us no good."
"He has us this time safely enough," Clearchus said bitterly.
"That is true," Chares replied. "I wish I had struck him harder! His head must be of iron."
"Do you think the oracle was accomplished when we found Artemisia?" Clearchus inquired anxiously.
"I do not know," the Theban replied, "but only Phœbus can save us now."
"Come along," the captain of the guard said roughly, "the general is waiting for you."