Mena's hint had fallen upon fertile ground. She went over the situation again and again in her mind, coming always to the same conclusion. That Ariston was carrying on an intrigue with some girl was now certain; for it never occurred to her that the letter might not have been intended for him. It seemed certain to her also that her husband would seek to rid himself of her so that he might marry her rival. Mena was right. Such things had happened more than once and poison was the easiest way. If she should die, who was there to ask what had caused her death? Nobody. She began to take infinite precautions regarding her food, tasting nothing that she had not herself prepared; yet she felt that she was in hourly danger in spite of all she could do. When nothing happened to her, she concluded that her husband's failure to attempt her life was due solely to the fact that his plans were not yet ripe. When all was ready, he would kill her and flee with Clearchus' fortune to some distant land, where he could meet the abandoned creature upon whom his affections had fallen. She knew only too well that he was capable of anything in the furtherance of his selfish schemes. Thus her folly led her on until at last she came to regard her imaginings as truth confirmed. But if she was to be murdered, she thought, at least she would prevent him from enjoying the fruit of his wickedness. She would write to Clearchus and tell him all.
When she had reached this conclusion, she lost no time in carrying it into execution. But it was long since she had used the stylus and she was forced to confine herself to the barest outline of what she wished to say. After many failures, she finally produced the following:—
"Clearchus: Iphicrates has Artemisia in Halicamassus. My husband is a beast who wants to poison me. If you hear that I am dead, you will know why, and I hope you will see that he is punished. Go to Halicamassus, and when you get her, keep her safe. Iphicrates is a wicked man and he should be killed. If my husband does not poison me, make no accusation against him."
Xanthe sealed this letter and hid it away until a chance should offer to send it to her nephew. She felt much easier, as though the fact that she had written it were in some way surety for her safety. Several weeks passed before she found the opportunity for which she had been looking. At last she learned that Callias, son of a widow of her acquaintance, had joined a mercenary troop that was being raised in Athens. She gave the letter to his mother to be delivered to Clearchus in Pella, but Callias, having received part of his pay in advance, could not tear himself away from his friends in Athens until the gold was spent. Consequently the letter was not delivered until after Macedon and Persia had met at the Granicus.
CHAPTER XIII
THE UNQUENCHABLE FIRE
It was a clear, bright spring day when the three friends rode into Pella. The new sap was beginning to swell the buds, and the fresh green of the grass was gleaming hopefully on sunny slopes. Chares had been singing snatches of love songs since early morning when they set out on the last stage of their journey. Even Clearchus forgot his anxiety in the thought that he was drawing nearer to Artemisia, and the grim Leonidas had smiled more than once at the sallies of the light-hearted Theban.
In the Macedonian capital on every side was the stir of animation and preparation. Recruits were being drilled for the army. Messengers were hastening hither and thither. Ambassadors were coming and going with their trains. They gazed with admiration at the solid buildings, designed with a stately magnificence which, in its own way, was as impressive as the marble embodiments of Athenian genius. Everywhere were the evidences of a young and strong people, buoyant, self-confident, energetic, and fearless. No idlers blocked the streets. Every man had something to do and was doing it. The tide of vigorous life flowed strong through the city as in the veins of a young oak tree.
It was not strange that Pella should have swarmed with activity on that day in spring. Within the boundaries of the rugged little state, half Hellenic and half barbarian, a vast project, supported by a sublime confidence, was taking shape. It had been formed and nursed by the crafty and far-seeing Philip, whether as a possibility or as a stroke of policy to bring Hellas under his control none could say. Now it had suddenly become a reality. The great empire of Persia, which covered the world from the shores of the Euxine to the sources of the Nile, and from the Ægean to limits undefined, beyond the regions of mystery through which the Indus flowed, was to be invaded. It had endured for centuries as an immense and impregnable power. Fierce tribes dwelt in the fastnesses of its snow-clad mountains, numberless caravans crept across its scorching deserts, gigantic cities flourished upon its fertile plains. Nations were lost among the uncounted millions of its population. Its wealth surpassed the power of imagining, and about the throne of the Great King, whose slightest wish was the unchangeable law of all this vast dominion, stood tens of thousands of the bravest warriors in the world, ready at a sign to lay down their lives for him.