The Complete Novels of Georg Ebers. Georg Ebers
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to a richly-ornamented saloon, where a gigantic wine-bowl standing on a table adorned in the Greek fashion, invited to a drinking-bout.
Amasis was seated on a high arm-chair at the head of the table; at his left the youthful Bartja, at his right the aged Croesus. Besides these and the other Persians, Theodorus and Ibykus, the friends of Polykrates, already known to us, and Aristomachus, now commander of the Greek body-guard, were among the king’s guests.
Amasis, whom we have just heard in such grave discourse with Croesus, now indulged in jest and satire. He seemed once more the wild officer, the bold reveller of the olden days.
His sparkling, clever jokes, at times playful, at times scornful, flew round among the revellers. The guests responded in loud, perhaps often artificial laughter, to their king’s jokes, goblet after goblet was emptied, and the rejoicings had reached their highest point, when suddenly the master of the ceremonies appeared, bearing a small gilded mummy; and displaying it to the gaze of the assembly, exclaimed. “Drink, jest, and be merry, for all too soon ye shall become like unto this!”
[Wilkinson gives drawings of these mummies (II. 410.) hundreds of
which were placed in the tombs, and have been preserved to us.
Lucian was present at a banquet, when they were handed round. The
Greeks seem to have adopted this custom, but with their usual talent
for beautifying all they touched, substituted a winged figure of
death for the mummy. Maxims similar to the following one are by no
means rare. “Cast off all care; be mindful only of pleasure until
the day cometh when then must depart on the journey, whose goal is
the realm of silence!” Copied from the tomb of Neferhotep to
Abd-el-Qurnah.]
“Is it your custom thus to introduce death at all your banquets?” said Bartja, becoming serious, “or is this only a jest devised for to-day by your master of the ceremonies?”
“Since the earliest ages,” answered Amasis, “it has been our custom to display these mummies at banquets, in order to increase the mirth of the revellers, by reminding them that one must enjoy the time while it is here. Thou, young butterfly, hast still many a long and joyful year before thee; but we, Croesus, we old men, must hold by this firmly. Fill the goblets, cup-bearer, let not one moment of our lives be wasted! Thou canst drink well, thou golden-haired Persian! Truly the great gods have endowed thee not only with beautiful eyes, and blooming beauty, but with a good throat! Let me embrace thee, thou glorious youth, thou rogue! What thinkest thou Croesus? my daughter Tachot can speak of nothing else than of this beardless youth, who seems to have quite turned her little head with his sweet looks and words. Thou needest not to blush, young madcap! A man such as thou art, may well look at king’s daughters; but wert thou thy father Cyrus himself, I could not allow my Tachot to leave me for Persia!”
“Father!” whispered the crown-prince Psamtik, interrupting this conversation. “Father, take care what you say, and remember Phanes.” The king turned a frowning glance on his son; but following his advice, took much less part in the conversation, which now became more general.
The seat at the banquet-table, occupied by Aristomachus, placed him nearly opposite to Croesus, on whom, in total silence and without once indulging in a smile at the king’s jests, his eyes had been fixed from the beginning of the revel. When the Pharaoh ceased to speak, he accosted Croesus suddenly with the following question: “I would know, Lydian, whether the snow still covered the mountains, when ye left Persia.”
Smiling, and a little surprised at this strange speech, Croesus answered: “Most of the Persian mountains were green when we started for Egypt four months ago; but there are heights in the land of Cambyses on which, even in the hottest seasons, the snow never melts, and the glimmer of their white crests we could still perceive, as we descended into the plains.”
The Spartan’s face brightened visibly, and Croesus, attracted by this serious, earnest man, asked his name. “My name is Aristomachus.”
“That name seems known to me.”
“You were acquainted with many Hellenes, and my name is common among them.”
“Your dialect would bespeak you my opinion a Spartan.”
“I was one once.”
“And now no more?”
“He who forsakes his native land without permission, is worthy of death.”
“Have you forsaken it with your own free-will?”
“Yes.”
“For what reason?”
“To escape dishonor.”
“What was your crime?”
“I had committed none.”
“You were accused unjustly?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the author of your ill-fortune?”
“Yourself.”
Croesus started from his seat. The serious tone and gloomy face of the Spartan proved that this was no jest, and those who sat near the speakers, and had been following this strange dialogue, were alarmed and begged Aristomachus to explain his words.
He hesitated and seemed unwilling to speak; at last, however, at the king’s summons, he began thus:
“In obedience to the oracle, you, Croesus, had chosen us Lacedaemonians, as the most powerful among the Hellenes, to be your allies against the might of Persia; and you gave us gold for the statue of Apollo on Mount Thornax. The ephori, on this, resolved to present you with a gigantic bronze wine-bowl, richly wrought. I was chosen as bearer of this gift. Before reaching Sardis our ship was wrecked in a storm. The wine-cup sank with it, and we reached Samos with nothing but our lives. On returning home I was accused by enemies, and those who grudged my good fortune, of having sold both ship and wine-vessel to the Samians. As they could not convict me of the crime, and had yet determined on my ruin, I was sentenced to two days’ and nights’ exposure on the pillory. My foot was chained to it during the night; but before the morning of disgrace dawned, my brother brought me secretly a sword, that my honor might be saved, though at the expense of my life. But I could not die before revenging myself on the men who had worked my ruin; and therefore, cutting the manacled foot from my leg, I escaped, and hid in the rushes on the banks of the Furotas. My brother brought me food and drink in secret; and after two months I was able to walk on the wooden leg you now see. Apollo undertook my revenge; he never misses his mark, and my two worst opponents died of the plague. Still I durst not return home, and at length took ship from Gythium to fight against the Persians under you, Croesus. On landing at Teos, I heard that you were king no longer, that the mighty Cyrus, the father of yonder beautiful youth, had conquered the powerful province of Lydia in a few weeks, and reduced the richest of kings to beggary.”
Every guest gazed at Aristomachus in admiration. Croesus shook his hard hand; and Bartja exclaimed: “Spartan, I would I could take you back with me to Susa, that my friends there might see what I have seen myself, the most courageous, the most honorable of men!”
“Believe me, boy,” returned Aristomachus smiling, “every Spartan would have done the same. In our country it needs more courage to be a coward than a brave man.”
“And you, Bartja,” cried Darius, the Persian king’s cousin, “could you have borne to stand at the pillory?” Bartja reddened, but it was easy to see that he too preferred death to disgrace.
“Zopyrus, what say you?” asked Darius of the third young Persian.
“I could mutilate my own limbs for love of you two,” answered he, grasping unobserved the hands of his two friends.
With an ironical smile Psamtik sat watching this scene—the pleased faces of Amasis, Croesus and Gyges, the meaning glances of the Egyptians,