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A VICTOR OF SALAMIS
The MM Co.
Copyright, 1907,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1907.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick
& Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
The invasion of Greece by Xerxes, with its battles of Thermopylæ, Salamis, and Platæa, forms one of the most dramatic events in history. Had Athens and Sparta succumbed to this attack of Oriental superstition and despotism, the Parthenon, the Attic Theatre, the Dialogues of Plato, would have been almost as impossible as if Phidias, Sophocles, and the philosophers had never lived. Because this contest and its heroes—Leonidas and Themistocles—cast their abiding shadows across our world of to-day, I have attempted this piece of historical fiction.
Many of the scenes were conceived on the fields of action themselves during a recent
visit to Greece, and I have tried to give some glimpse of the natural beauty of The
Land of the Hellene,
—a beauty that will remain when Themistocles and his peers fade
away still further into the backgrounds of history.
A VICTOR OF SALAMIS
The crier paused for the fifth time. The crowd—knotty Spartans, keen Athenians, perfumed Sicilians—pressed his pulpit closer, elbowing for the place of vantage. Amid a lull in their clamour the crier recommenced.
And now, men of Hellas, another time hearken. The sixth contestant in the pentathlon,
most honourable of the games held at the Isthmus, is Glaucon, son of Conon the
Athenian; his grandfather—
a jangling shout drowned him.
The most beautiful man in Hellas!
But an effeminate puppy!
Of the noble house of Alcmæon!
The family’s accursed!
A great god helps him—even Eros.
Ay—the fool married for mere love. He needs help. His father disinherited him.
Peace, peace,
urged the crier; I’ll tell all about him, as I have of the
others. Know then, my masters, that he loved, and won in marriage, Hermione, daughter
of Hermippus of Eleusis. Now Hermippus is Conon’s mortal enemy; therefore in great
wrath Conon disinherited his son,—but now, consenting to forgive him if he wins the
parsley crown in the pentathlon—
A safe promise,
interrupted a Spartan in broadest the pretty boy has no chance against Lycon, our Laconian giant.
Boaster!
retorted an Athenian. Did not Glaucon bend open a horseshoe
yesterday?
Our Mœrocles did that,
called a Mantinean; whereupon the crier, foregoing his
long speech on Glaucon’s noble ancestry, began to urge the Athenians to show their
confidence by their wagers.
How much is staked that Glaucon can beat Ctesias of Epidaurus?
We don’t match our lion against mice!
roared the noisiest Athenian.
Or Amyntas of Thebes?
Not Amyntas! Give us Lycon of Sparta.
Lycon let it be,—how much is staked and by whom, that Glaucon of Athens, contending
for the first time in the great games, defeats Lycon of Sparta, twice victor at Nemea,
once at Delphi, and once at Olympia?
The second rush and outcry put the crier nearly at his wits’ end to record the wagers that pelted him, and which testified how much confidence the numerous Athenians had in their unproved champion. The brawl of voices drew newcomers from far and near. The chariot race had just ended in the adjoining hippodrome; and the idle crowd, intent on a new excitement, came surging up like waves. In such a whirlpool of tossing arms and shoving elbows, he who was small of stature and short of breath stood a scanty chance of getting close enough to the crier’s stand to have his wager recorded. Such, at least, was the fate of a gray but dignified little man, who struggled vainly—even with risk to his long linen chiton—to reach the front.
Ugh! ugh! Make way, good people,—Zeus confound you, brute of a Spartan, your big
sandals crush my toes
Keep back, graybeard,
snapped the Spartan; thank the god if you can hold your
money and not lose it, when Glaucon’s neck is wrung to-morrow.
Whereupon he lifted
his own voice with, Thirty drachmæ to place on Lycon, Master Crier! So you have
it—
And two minæ on Glaucon,
piped the little man, peering up with bright, beady
eyes; but the crier would never have heard him, save for a sudden ally.
Who wants to stake on Glaucon?
burst in a hearty young Athenian who had wagered
already. You, worthy sir? Then by Athena’s owls they shall hear you! Lend us your
elbow, Democrates.
The latter request was to a second young Athenian close by. With his stalwart helpers thrusting at either side, the little man was soon close to the crier.
Two minæ?
quoth the latter, leaning, two that Glaucon beats Lycon, and at even
odds? But your name, sir—
The little man straightened proudly.
Simonides of Ceos.
The crowd drew back by magic. The most bristling Spartan grew respectful. The crier bowed as his ready stylus made the entry.
Simonides of Ceos, Simonides the most noted poet in Hellas!
cried the first of
his two rescuers; it’s a great honour to have served so famous a man. Pray let me
take your hand.
With all the joy in the world.
The little poet coloured with delight at the
flattery. You have saved me, I avow, from the forge and anvil of Hephæstus. What a
vulgar mob! Do stand apart; then I can try to thank you.
Aided again by his two protectors, Simonides was soon
And now,
said the little poet, quite as ready to pay compliments as to take them,
let me thank my noble deliverers, for I am sure two such valorous young men as you
must come of the best blood of Attica.
I am not ashamed of my father, sir,
spoke the taller Athenian; Hellas has not
yet forgotten Miltiades, the victor of Marathon.
Then I clasp the hand of Cimon, the son of the saviour of Hellas.
The little
poet’s eyes danced. Oh! the pity I was in Thessaly so long, and let you grow up in my
absence. A noble son of a noble father! And your friend—did you name him
Democrates?
I did so.
Fortunate old rascal I am! For I meet Cimon the son of Miltiades, and Democrates,
that young lieutenant of Themistocles who all the world knows is gaining fame already
as Nestor and Odysseus, both in one, among the orators of Athens.
Your compliments exceed all truth,
exclaimed the second Athenian, not at all
angered by the praise. But Simonides, whose tongue was brisk, ran on with a torrent of
flattery and of polite insinuation, until Cimon halted him, with a query.
Yet why, dear Cean, since, as you say, you only arrived this afternoon at the
Isthmus, were you so anxious to stake that money on Glaucon?
Why? Because I, like all Greece outside of Sparta, seem to be turning Glaucon-mad.
All the way from Thessaly—in Bœotia, in Attica, in Megara—men talked of him, his
beauty, his prowess, his quarrel with his father, his marriage with Hermione, the
divinest maiden in Athens, and how he has gone to the games to win both the crown and
crusty Conon’s forgiveness. I tell you, every mule-driver along the way seemed to have
staked his obol on him. They praise him as
Simonides drew breath, then faced the others earnestly, fair as Delian Apollo,
graceful as young Hermes,
and—here I wonder most,—modest as an unwedded
girl.
You are
Athenians; do you know him?
Know him?
Cimon laughed heartily; have we not left him at the wrestling
ground? Was not Democrates his schoolfellow once, his second self to-day? And touching
his beauty, his valour, his modesty,
the young man’s eyes shone with loyal
enthusiasm, do not say
over-praised
till you have seen him.
Simonides swelled with delight.
Oh, lucky genius that cast me with you! Take me to him this moment.
He is so beset with admirers, his trainers are angry already; besides, he is still at
the wrestling ground.
But soon returns to his tents,
added Democrates, instantly; and Simonides—is
Simonides. If Themistocles
O dearest orator,
cried the little man, with an arm around his neck, I begin
to love you already. Away this moment, that I may worship your new divinity.
Come, then,
commanded Cimon, leading off with strides so long the bard could
hardly follow; his tent is not distant: you shall see him, though the trainers change
to Gorgons.
The Precinct of Poseidon,
the great walled enclosure where were the temples,
porticos, and the stadium of the Isthmus, was quickly behind them. They walked eastward
along the
So much for the picture, but Simonides, having seen it often, saw it not at all, but plied the others with questions.
So this Hermione of his is beautiful?
Like Aphrodite rising from the sea foam.
The answer
And yet her father gave her to the son of his bitter enemy?
Hermippus of Eleusis is sensible. It is a fine thing to have the handsomest man in
Hellas for son-in-law.
And now to the great marvel—did Glaucon truly seek her not for dowry, nor rank, but
for sheer love?
Marriages for love are in fashion to-day,
said Democrates, with a side glance at
Cimon, whose sister Elpinice had just made a love match with Callias the Rich, to the
scandal of all the prudes in Athens.
Then I meet marvels even in my old age. Another Odysseus and his Penelope! And he is
handsome, valiant, high-minded, with a wife his peer? You raise my hopes too high.
They will be dashed.
They will not,
protested Democrates, with every sign of loyalty; turn here:
this lane in the pines leads to his tent. If we have praised too much, doom us to the
labours of Tantalus.
But here their progress was stopped. A great knot of people were swarming about a statue under a pine tree, and shrill, angry voices proclaimed not trafficking, but a brawl.
There was ceaseless coming and going outside the Precinct of Poseidon. Following much the same path just taken by Simonides and his new friends, two other men were walking, so deep in talk that they hardly heeded how many made respectful way for them, or how many greeted them. The taller and younger man, to be sure, returned every salute with a graceful flourish of his hands, but in a mechanical way, and with eye fixed on his companion.
The pair were markedly contrasted. The younger was in his early prime, strong, well developed, and daintily dressed. His gestures were quick and eloquent. His brown beard and hair were trimmed short to reveal a clear olive face—hardly regular, but expressive and tinged with an extreme subtilty. When he laughed, in a strange, silent way, it was to reveal fine teeth, while his musical tongue ran on, never waiting for answer.
His comrade, however, answered little. He barely rose to the other’s shoulder, but he
had the chest and sinews of an ox. Graces there were none. His face was a scarred
ravine, half covered by scanty stubble. The forehead was low. The eyes, gray and wise,
twinkled from tufted eyebrows. The long gray hair was tied about his forehead in a braid
and held by a golden circlet. The chlamys
around his
Thus I have explained: if my plans prosper; if Corcyra and Syracuse send aid; if
Xerxes has trouble in provisioning his army, not merely can we resist Persia, but
conquer with ease. Am I too sanguine, Leonidas?
We shall see.
No doubt Xerxes will find his fleet untrustworthy. The Egyptian sailors hate the
Phœnicians. Therefore we can risk a sea fight.
No rashness, Themistocles.
Yes—it is dicing against the Fates, and the stake is the freedom of Hellas. Still a
battle must be risked. If we quit ourselves bravely, our names shall be remembered as
long as Agamemnon’s.
Or Priam’s?—his Troy was sacked.
And you, my dear king of Sparta, will of course move heaven and earth to have your
Ephors and Council somewhat more forward than of late in preparing for war? We all
count on you.
I will try.
Who can ask more? But now make an end to statecraft. We were speaking about the
pentathlon and the chances of—
Here the same brawling voices that had arrested Simonides broke upon Themistocles and
Leonidas also. The cry A fight!
was producing its inevitable result. Scores of
men, and those not the most aristocratic, were running pell-mell whither so many had
thronged already. In the confusion scant reverence was paid the king of Sparta and the
first statesman of Athens, who were thrust unceremoniously aside and were barely
witnesses of what followed.
The outcry was begun, after-report had it, by a Sicyonian bronze-dealer finding a small but valuable lamp missing from the table whereon he showed his wares. Among the dozen odd persons pressing about the booth his eye singled out a slight, handsome boy in Oriental dress; and since Syrian serving-lads were proverbially light-fingered, the Sicyonian jumped quickly at his conclusion.
Seize the Barbarian thief!
had been his shout as he leaped and snatched the
alleged culprit’s mantle. The boy escaped easily by the frailness of his dress, which
tore in the merchant’s hands; but a score of bystanders seized the fugitive and dragged
him back to the Sicyonian, whose order to search!
would have been promptly
obeyed; but at this instant he stumbled over the missing lamp on the ground before the
table, whence probably it had fallen. The bronze-dealer was now mollified, and would
willingly have released the lad, but a Spartan bystander was more zealous.
Here’s a Barbarian thief and spy!
he began bellowing; he dropped the lamp when
he was detected! Have him to the temple and to the wardens of the games!
The magic word spy
let loose the tongues and passions of every man within
hearing. The unfortunate lad was seized again and jostled rudely, while questions
rattled over him like hailstones.
Whose slave are you? Why here? Where’s your master? Where did you get that outlandish
dress and gold-laced turban? Confess, confess,—or it’ll be whipped out of you! What
If the prisoner had understood Greek,—which was doubtful,—he could scarce have
comprehended this babel. He struggled vainly; tears started to his eyes. Then he
committed a blunder. Not attempting a protest, he thrust
A slave with ten darics!
bawled the officious Spartan, never relaxing his grip.
Hark you, friends, it’s plain as day. Dexippus of Corinth has a Syrian lad like
this. The young scoundrel’s robbed his master and is running away.
That’s it! A runaway! To the temple with him!
chimed a dozen. The prisoner’s
outcries were drowned. He would have been swept off in ungentle custody had not a strong
hand intervened in his favor.
A moment, good citizens,
called a voice in clear Attic. Release this lad. I
know Dexippus’s slave; he’s no such fellow.
The others, low-browed Spartans mostly, turned, ill-pleased at the interruption of an Athenian, but shrank a step as a name went among them.
Castor and Pollux—it’s Glaucon the Beautiful!
With two thrusts of impetuous elbows, the young man was at the assailed lad’s side. The newcomer was indeed a sight for gods. Beauty and power seemed wholly met in a figure of perfect symmetry and strength. A face of fine regularity, a chiselled profile, smooth cheeks, deep blue eyes, a crown of closely cropped auburn hair, a chin neither weak nor stern, a skin burnt brown by the sun of the wrestling schools—these were parts of the picture, and the whole was how much fairer than any part! Aroused now, he stood with head cast back and a scarlet cloak shaking gracefully from his shoulders.
Unhand the lad!
he repeated.
For a moment, compelled by his beauty, the Spartans yielded. The Oriental pressed against his protector; but the affair was not to end so easily.
Hark you, Sir Athenian,
rejoined the Spartan leader, don’t presume on your good looks. Our Lycon will mar them all
to-morrow. Here’s Dexippus’s slave or else a Barbarian spy: in either case to the
temple with him, and don’t you hinder.
He plucked at the boy’s girdle; but the athlete extended one slim hand, seized the Spartan’s arm, and with lightning dexterity laid the busybody flat on Mother Earth. He staggered upward, raging and calling on his fellows.
Sparta insulted by Athens! Vengeance, men of Lacedæmon! Fists! Fists!
The fate of the Oriental was forgotten in the storm of patriotic fury that followed. Fortunately no one had a weapon. Half a dozen burly Laconians precipitated themselves without concert or order upon the athlete. He was hidden a moment in the rush of flapping gowns and tossing arms. Then like a rock out of the angry sea shone his golden head, as he shook off the attack. Two men were on their backs, howling. The others stood at respectful distance, cursing and meditating another rush. An Athenian pottery merchant from a neighbouring booth began trumpeting through his hands.
Men of Athens, this way!
His numerous countrymen came scampering from far and wide. Men snatched up stones and
commenced snapping off pine boughs for clubs. The athlete, centre of all this din, stood
smiling, with his glorious head held high, his eyes alight with the mere joy of battle.
He held out his arms. Both pose and face spoke as clearly as words,—Prove me!
Sparta is insulted. Away with the braggart!
the Laconians were clamouring. The
Athenians answered in kind. Already a dark sailor was drawing a dirk. Everything
promised broken heads, and perhaps blood, when Leonidas
Fools! Hold!
roared Leonidas, and the moment the throng saw what newcomers they
faced, Athenian and Spartan let their arms drop and stood sheepish and silent.
Themistocles instantly stepped forward and held up his hand. His voice, trumpet-clear,
rang out among the pines. In three sentences he dissolved the tumult.
Fellow-Hellenes, do not let Dame Discord make sport of you. I saw all that befell. It
is only an unlucky misunderstanding. You are quite satisfied, I am sure, Master
Bronze-Dealer?
The Sicyonian, who saw in a riot the ruin of his evening’s trade, nodded gladly.
He says there was no thieving, and he is entirely satisfied. He thanks you for your
friendly zeal. The Oriental was not Dexippus’s slave, and Xerxes does not need such
boys for spies. I am certain Glaucon would not insult Sparta. So let us part without
bad blood, and await the judgment of the god in the contest to-morrow.
Not a voice answered him. The crash of music from the sacrificial embassy of Syracuse diverted everybody’s attention; most of the company streamed away to follow the flower-decked chariots and cattle back to the temple. Themistocles and Leonidas were left almost alone to approach the athlete.
You are ever Glaucon the Fortunate,
laughed Themistocles; had we not chanced
this way, what would not have befallen?
Ah, it was delightful,
rejoined the athlete, his eyes still kindled; the
shock, the striving, the putting one’s own
I am the stronger.
Delightful, no doubt
replied the statesman, though Zeus spare me fighting one
against ten! But what god possessed you to meddle in this brawl, and imperil all
chances for to-morrow?
I was returning from practice at the palæstra. I saw the lad beset and knew he was
not Dexippus’s slave. I ran to help him. I thought no more about it.
And risked everything for a sly-eyed Oriental. Where is the rascal?
But the lad—author of the commotion—had disappeared completely.
Behold his fair gratitude to his rescuer,
cried Themistocles, sourly, and then he
turned to Leonidas. Well, very noble king of Sparta, you were asking to see Glaucon
and judge his chances in the pentathlon. Your Laconians have just proved him; are you
satisfied?
But the king, without a word of greeting, ran his eyes over the athlete from head to heel, then blurted out his verdict:
Too pretty.
Glaucon blushed like a maid. Themistocles threw up his hands in deprecation.
But were not Achilles and many another hero beautiful as brave? Does not Homer call
them so many times
godlike
?
Poetry doesn’t win the pentathlon,
retorted the king; then suddenly he seized the
athlete’s right arm near the shoulder. The muscles cracked. Glaucon did not wince. The
king dropped the arm with a
then extended his own
hand, the fingers half closed, and ordered, Euge!Open.
One long minute, just as Simonides and his companions
cried the king, again; then, to Themistocles, Euge!He
will do.
Whereupon, as if satisfied in his object and averse to further dalliance, he gave Cimon and his companions the stiffest of nods and deliberately turned on his heel. Speech was too precious coin for him to be wasted on mere adieus. Only over his shoulder he cast at Glaucon a curt mandate.
I hate Lycon. Grind his bones.
Themistocles, however, lingered a moment to greet Simonides. The little poet was delighted, despite overweening hopes, at the manly beauty yet modesty of the athlete, and being a man who kept his thoughts always near his tongue, made Glaucon blush more manfully than ever.
Master Simonides is overkind,
had ventured the athlete; but I am sure his
praise is only polite compliment.
What misunderstanding!
ran on the poet. How you pain me! I truly desired to
ask a question. Is it not a great delight to know that so many people are gladdened
just by looking on you?
How dare I answer? If
no,
I contradict you—very rude. If yes,
I praise
myself—far ruder.
Cleverly turned. The face of Paris, the strength of Achilles, the wit of Periander,
all met in one body;
but seeing the athlete’s confusion more profound than ever,
the Cean cut short. Heracles! if my tongue wounds you, lo! it’s clapped back in its
sheath; I’ll be revenged in an ode of fifty iambs on your victory. For that you will
conquer, neither
I am confident in the justice of the gods, noble Simonides,
said the athlete,
half childishly, half in deep seriousness.
Well you may be. The gods are usually
just
to such as you. It’s we graybeards
that Tyche, Lady Fortune,
grows tired of helping.
Perhaps!
Glaucon passed his hand across his eyes with a dreamy gesture. Yet
sometimes I almost say,
Welcome a misfortune, if not too terrible,
just to ward
off the god’s jealousy of too great prosperity. In all things, save my father’s anger,
I have prospered. To-morrow I can appease that, too. Yet you know Solon’s saying, Call no man fortunate till he is dead.
Simonides was charmed at this frank confession on first acquaintance. Yes, but even
one of the Seven Sages can err.
I do not know. I only hope—
Hush, Glaucon,
admonished Democrates. There’s no worse dinner before a contest
than one of flighty thoughts. When safe in Athens—
In Eleusis you mean,
corrected the athlete.
Pest take you,
cried Cimon; you say Eleusis because there is Hermione. But
make this day-dreaming end ere you come to grips with Lycon.
He will awaken,
smiled Themistocles. Then, with another gracious nod to
Simonides, the statesman hastened after Leonidas, leaving the three young men and the
poet to go to Glaucon’s tent in the pine grove.
And why should Leonidas wish Glaucon to grind the bones of the champion of
Sparta?
asked Cimon, curiously.
Quickly answered,
replied Simonides, who knew half first, Lycon is of the rival
kingly house at Sparta; second, he’s suspected of
Medizing,
of favouring
Persia.
I’ve heard that story of
interrupted Democrates, promptly; Medizing,
I
can assure you it is not true.
Enough if he’s suspected,
cried the uncompromising son of Miltiades; honest
Hellenes should not even be blown upon in times like this. Another reason then for
hating him—
Peace!
ordered Glaucon, as if starting from a long revery, and with a sweep of
his wonderful hands; let the Medes, the Persians, and their war wait. For me the only
war is the pentathlon,—and then by Zeus’s favour the victory, the glory, the return
to Eleusis! Ah—wish me joy!
Verily, the man is mad,
reflected the poet; he lives in his own bright world,
sufficient to himself. May Zeus never send storms to darken it! For to bear disaster
his soul seems never made.
At the tent Manes, the athlete’s body-servant, came running to his master, with a small box firmly bound.
A strange dark man brought this only a moment since. It is for Master Glaucon.
On opening there was revealed a bracelet of Egyptian turquoise; the price thereof
Simonides wisely set at two minæ. Nothing betrayed the identity of the giver save a slip
of papyrus written in Greek, but in very uncertain hand. To the
Beautiful Champion of Athens: from one he has greatly served.
Cimon held the bracelet on high, admiring its perfect lustre.
Themistocles was wrong,
he remarked; the Oriental
slave
or lad
was this that
Glaucon succoured?
Perhaps,
insinuated Simonides, Themistocles was wrong yet again. Who knows if
a stranger giving such gifts be not sent forth by Xerxes?
Don’t chatter foolishness,
commanded Democrates, almost peevishly; but Glaucon
replaced the bracelet in the casket.
Since the god sends this, I will rejoice in it,
he declared lightly. A fair
omen for to-morrow, and it will shine rarely on Hermione’s arm.
The mention of
that lady called forth new protests from Cimon, but he in turn was interrupted, for a
half-grown boy had entered the tent and stood beckoning to Democrates.
The lad who sidled up to Democrates was all but a hunchback. His bare arms were grotesquely tattooed, clear sign that he was a Thracian. His eyes twinkled keenly, uneasily, as in token of an almost sinister intelligence. What he whispered to Democrates escaped the rest, but the latter began girding up his cloak.
You leave us,
cried Glaucon. philotate?Would I not
have all my friends with me to-night, to fill me with fair thoughts for the morrow?
Bid your ugly Bias keep away!
A greater friend than even Glaucon the Alcmæonid commands me hence,
said the
orator, smiling.
Declare his name.
Declare
cried Simonides, viciously. her name,
Noble Cean, then I say I serve a most beautiful, high-born dame. Her name is
Athens.
Curses on your public business,
lamented Glaucon. But off with you, since your
love is the love of us all.
Democrates kissed the athlete on both cheeks. I leave you to faithful guardians.
Last night I dreamed of a garland of lilies, sure presage of a victory. So take
courage.
Chaire! chaire!welcome!
and farewell!
Evening was falling: the sea, rocks, fields, pine groves,
But there were more exalted entertainments. A rhapsodist stood on a pine stump chanting in excellent voice Alcæus’s hymn to Apollo. And more willingly the orator stopped on the edge of a throng of the better sort, which listened to a man of noble aspect reading in clear voice from his scroll.
Æschylus of Athens,
whispered a bystander. He reads choruses of certain
tragedies he says he will perfect and produce much later.
Democrates knew the great dramatist well, but what he read was new—a Song of the
Furies
calling a terrific curse upon the betrayer of friendship. Some of his
happiest lines,
meditated Democrates, walking away, to be held a moment by the
crowd around Lamprus the master-harpist. But now, feeling that he had dallied long
enough, the orator turned his back on the two female acrobats who were swinging on a
trapeze and struck down a long, straight road which led toward the distant cone of
Acro-Corinthus. First, however, he turned on Bias, who all the time had been
accompanying, dog-fashion.
You say he is waiting at Hegias’s inn?
Yes, master. It’s by the temple of Bellerophon, just as you begin to enter the
city.
Good! I don’t want to ask the way. Now catch this obol and be off.
The boy snatched the flying coin and glided into the crowd.
Democrates walked briskly out of the glare of the torches, then halted to slip the hood of his cloak up about his face.
The road is dark, but the wise man shuns accidents,
was his reflection, as he
strode in the direction pointed by Bias.
The way was dark. No moon; and even the brilliant starlight of summer in Hellas is an uncertain guide. Democrates knew he was traversing a long avenue lined by spreading cypresses, with a shimmer of white from some tall, sepulchral monument. Then through the dimness loomed the high columns of a temple, and close beside it pale light spread out upon the road as from an inn.
Hegias’s inn,
grumbled the Athenian. Zeus grant it have no more fleas than
most inns of Corinth!
At sound of his footsteps the door opened promptly, without knocking. A squalid scene
revealed itself,—a white-washed room, an
Fair greetings, Hiram,
spoke the orator, no wise amazed, and where is your
master?
At service,
came a deep voice from a corner, so dark that Democrates had not seen
the couch where lolled an ungainly figure that now rose clumsily.
Hail, Democrates.
Hail, Lycon.
Hand joined in hand; then Lycon ordered the Oriental to fetch the noble Athenian
some good
You will join me?
urged the orator.
Alas! no. I am still in training. Nothing but cheese and porridge till after the
victory to-morrow; but then, by Castor, I’ll enjoy
the gentleman’s disease
—a
jolly drunkenness.
Then you are sure of victory to-morrow?
Good Democrates, what god has tricked you into believing your fine Athenian has a
chance?
I have seven minæ staked on Glaucon.
Seven staked in the presence of your friends; how many in their absence?
Democrates reddened. He was glad the room was dark. I am not here to quarrel about
the pentathlon,
he said emphatically.
Oh, very well. Leave your dear sparrow to my gentle hands.
The Spartan’s huge
paws closed significantly: Here’s the wine. Sit and drink. And you, Hiram, get to
your corner.
The Oriental silently squatted in the gloom, the gleam of his beady eyes just visible. Lycon sat on a stool beside his guest, his Cyclops-like limbs sprawling down upon the floor. Scarred and brutish, indeed, was his face, one ear missing, the other beaten flat by boxing gloves; but Democrates had a distinct feeling that under his battered visage and wiry black hair lurked greater penetration of human motive and more ability to play therewith than the chance observer might allow. The Athenian deliberately waited his host’s first move.
The wine is good, Democrates?
began Lycon.
Excellent.
I presume you have arranged your wagers to-morrow with your usual prudence.
How do you know about them?
Oh, my invaluable Hiram, who arranged this interview for us through Bias, has made
himself a brother to all the betting masters. I understand you have arranged it so
that whether Glaucon wins or loses you will be none the poorer.
The Athenian set down his cup.
Because I would not let my dear friend’s sanguine expectations blind all my judgment
is no reason why you should seek this interview, Lycon,
he rejoined tartly. If
this is the object of your summons, I’m better back in my own tent.
Lycon tilted back against the table. His speech was nothing curt or Laconic
; it
was even drawling. On the contrary, dear Democrates, I was only commending your
excellent foresight, something that I see characterizes all you do. You are the friend
of Glaucon. Since Aristeides has been banished, only Themistocles exceeds you in
influence over the Athenians. Therefore, as a loyal Athenian you must support your
champion. Likewise, as a man of judgment you must see that I—though this pentathlon
is only a by-play, not my business—will probably break your Glaucon’s back to-morrow.
It is precisely this good judgment on your part which makes me sure I do well to ask
an interview—for something else.
Then quickly to business.
A few questions. I presume Themistocles to-day conferred with Leonidas?
I wasn’t present with them.
But in due time Themistocles will tell you everything?
Democrates chewed his beard, not answering.
cried
the Spartan. Pheu! you don’t pretend Themistocles distrusts you?
I don’t like your questions, Lycon.
I am very sorry. I’ll cease them. I only wished to-night to call to your mind the
advantage of two such men as you and I becoming friends. I may be king of Lacedæmon
before long.
I knew that before, but where’s your chariot driving?
Dear Athenian, the Persian chariot is now driving toward Hellas. We cannot halt it.
Then let us be so wise that it does not pass over us.
Hush!
Democrates spilled the cup as he started. No
Medizing
talk before
me. Am I not Themistocles’s friend?
Themistocles and Leonidas will seem valiant fools after Xerxes comes. Men of
foresight—
Are never traitors.
Beloved Democrates,
sneered the Spartan, in one year the most patriotic
Hellene will be he who has made the Persian yoke the most endurable. Don’t blink at
destiny.
Don’t be overcertain.
Don’t grow deaf and blind. Xerxes has been collecting troops these four years. Every
wind across the Ægean tells how the Great King assembles millions of soldiers,
thousands of ships: Median cavalry, Assyrian archers, Egyptian battle-axemen—the best
troops in the world. All the East will be marching on our poor Hellas. And when has
Persia failed to conquer?
At Marathon.
A drop of rain before the tempest! If Datis, the Persian general, had only been more
prudent!
Clearly, noblest Lycon,
said Democrates, with a satirical smile, for a
taciturn Laconian to become thus eloquent for tyranny must have taken a bribe of ten
thousand gold darics.
But answer my arguments.
Well—the old oracle is proved:
Base love of gain and naught else shall bear sore
destruction to Sparta.
That doesn’t halt Xerxes’s advance.
An end to your croakings,
—Democrates was becoming angry,—I know the
Persian’s power well enough. Now why have you summoned me?
Lycon looked on his visitor long and hard. He reminded the Athenian disagreeably of a huge cat just considering whether a mouse were near enough to risk a spring.
I sent for you because I wished you to give a pledge.
I’m in no mood to give it.
You need not refuse. Giving or withholding the fate of Hellas will not be altered,
save as you wish to make it so.
What must I promise?
That you will not reveal the presence in Greece of a man I intend to set before
you.
Another silence. Democrates knew even then, if vaguely, that he was making a
decision on which might hinge half his future. In the after days he looked back on this
instant with unspeakable regret. But the Laconian sat before him, smiling, sneering,
commanding by his more dominant will. The Athenian answered, it seemed, despite
himself:—
If it is not to betray Hellas.
It is not.
Then I promise.
Swear it then by your native Athena.
And Democrates—perhaps the wine was strong—lifted his right hand and swore by Athena Polias of Athens he would betray no secret.
Lycon arose with what was part bellow, part laugh. Even then the orator was moved to
call back the pledge, but the Spartan acted too swiftly. The short moments which
followed stamped themselves on Democrates’s memory. The flickering lamps, the squalid
room, the long, dense shadows, the ungainly movements of the Spartan, who was
This is a prince—
he began.
His Highness Prince Abairah of Cyprus,
completed Lycon, rapidly, now come to
visit the Isthmian Games, and later your Athens. It is for this I have brought you
face to face—that he may be welcome in your city.
The Athenian cast at the stranger a glance of keenest scrutiny. He knew by every
instinct in his being that Lycon was telling a barefaced lie. Why he did not cry out as
much that instant he hardly himself knew. But the gaze of the Cyprian
pierced
through him, fascinating, magnetizing, and Lycon’s great hand was on his victim’s
shoulder. The Cyprian’s
own hand went out seeking Democrates’s.
I shall be very glad to see the noble Athenian in his own city. His fame for
eloquence and prudence is already in Tyre and Babylon,
spoke the stranger, never
taking his steel-blue eyes from the orator’s face. The accent was Oriental, but the
Greek was fluent. The prince—for prince he was, whatever his nation—pressed his hand
It had taken less time than men use to count a hundred. The latch clicked. Democrates gazed blankly on the door, then turned on Lycon with a start.
Your wine was strong. You have bewitched me. What have I done? By Zeus of Olympus—I
have given my hand in pledge to a Persian spy.
A prince of Cyprus
—did you not hear me?
Cerberus eat me if that man has seen Cyprus. No Cyprian is so blond. The man is
Xerxes’s brother.
We shall see, friend; we shall see:
Day by day we grow old, and day by day we grow
wiser.
So your own Solon puts it, I think.
Democrates drew himself up angrily. I know my duty; I’ll denounce you to
Leonidas.
You gave a pledge and oath.
It were a greater crime to keep than to break it.
Lycon shrugged his huge shoulders. Eu! I hardly trusted to
that. But I do trust to Hiram’s pretty story about your bets, and still more to a tale
that’s told about where and how you’ve borrowed money.
Democrates’s voice shook either with rage or with fear when he made shift to answer.
I see I’ve come to be incriminated and insulted. So be it. If I keep my pledge, at
least suffer me to wish you and your
Cyprian
a very good night.
Lycon Why so hot? I’ll do you a service
to-morrow. If Glaucon wrestles with me, I shall kill him.
Shall I thank the murderer of my friend?
Even when that friend has wronged you?
Silence! What do you mean?
Even in the flickering lamplight Democrates could see the Spartan’s evil smile.
Of course—Hermione.
Silence, by the infernal gods! Who are you, Cyclops, for
her
name to cross your teeth?
I’m not angry. Yet you will thank me to-morrow. The pentathlon will be merely a
pleasant flute-playing before the great war-drama. You will see more of the
Cyprian
at Athens—
Democrates heard no more. Forth from that wine-house he ran into the sheltering night, till safe under the shadow of the black cypresses. His head glowed. His heart throbbed. He had been partner in foulest treason. Duty to friend, duty to country,—oath or no oath,—should have sent him to Leonidas. What evil god had tricked him into that interview? Yet he did not denounce the traitor. Not his oath held him back, but benumbing fear,—and what sting lay back of Lycon’s hints and threats the orator knew best. And how if Lycon made good his boast and killed Glaucon on the morrow?
In a tent at the lower end of the long stadium stood Glaucon awaiting the final
summons to his ordeal. His friends had just cried farewell for the last time: Cimon had
kissed him; Themistocles had gripped his hand; Democrates had called Zeus prosper
you!
Simonides had vowed that he was already hunting for the metres of a triumphal
ode. The roar from without told how the stadium was filled with its chattering
thousands. The athlete’s trainers were bestowing their last officious advice.
The Spartan will surely win the quoit-throw. Do not be troubled. In everything else
you can crush him.
Beware of Mœrocles of
Aim low when you hurl the javelin. Your dart always rises.
Glaucon received this and much more admonition with his customary smile. There was no
flush on the forehead, no flutter of the heart. A few hours later he would be crowned
with all the glory which victory in the great games could throw about a Hellene, or be
buried in the disgrace to which his ungenerous people consigned the vanquished. But, in
the words of his day, he knew himself
and his own powers. From the day he quitted
boyhood he had never met the giant he could not master; the Hermes he could not out
Athens,—my father,—my wife! I will win glory for them all!
was the drift of his
revery.
The younger rubber grunted under breath at his athlete’s vacant eye, but Pytheas, the
older of the pair, whispered confidently that when he had known Master Glaucon
longer, he would know that victories came his way, just by reaching out his hands.
Athena grant it,
muttered the other. I’ve got my half mina staked on him,
too.
Then from the tents at either side began the ominous call of the heralds:—
Amyntas of Thebes, come you forth.
Ctesias of Epidaurus, come you forth.
Lycon of Sparta, come you forth.
Glaucon held out his hands. Each trainer seized one.
Wish me joy and
cried the athlete.
Poseidon and Athena aid you!
And Pytheas’s honest voice was husky. This was the
greatest ordeal of his favourite pupil, and the trainer’s soul would go with him into
the combat.
Glaucon of Athens, come you forth.
The curtains of the tent swept aside. An intense sunlight sprang to meet the Athenian. He passed into the arena clad only in his coat of glistering oil. Scolus of Thasos and Mœrocles of Mantinea joined the other four athletes; then, escorted each by a herald swinging his myrtle wand, the six went down the stadium to the stand of the judges.
Before the fierce light of a morning in Hellas beating down on him, Glaucon the
Alcmæonid was for an instant blinded, and walked on passively, following his guide.
Then, as from a dissolving mist, the huge stadium began to reveal itself: pretty girl,
pretty pullet,
from the serried host of the Laconians along the left side of the
stadium; but an answering salvo, Dog of Cerberus!
bawled by the Athenian crowds
opposite, and winged at Lycon, returned the taunts with usury. As the champions
approached the judges’ stand a procession of full twenty pipers, attended by as many
fair boys in flowing white, marched from the farther end of the stadium to meet them.
The boys bore cymbals and tambours; the pipers struck up a brisk marching note in the
rugged Dorian mode. The boys’ lithe bodies swayed in enchanting rhythm. The roaring
multitude quieted, admiring their grace. The champions and the pipers thus came to the
pulpit in the midst of the long arena. The president of the judges, a handsome
Corinthian in purple and a golden fillet, swept his ivory wand from right to left. The
marching note ceased. The whole company leaped as one man to its feet. The pipes, the
cymbals were drowned, whilst twenty thousand voices—Doric, Bœotian, Attic—chorused
together the hymn which all Greece knew: the hymn to Poseidon of the Isthmus, august
guardian of the games.
Louder it grew; the multitude found one voice, as if it would cry, We are Hellenes
all; though of many a city, the same fatherland, the same gods, the same hope against
the Barbarian.
Praise we Poseidon the mighty, the monarch,
To thee in reverent gladness ascend!
Thus in part. And in the hush thereafter the president poured a libation from a golden
cup, praying, as the wine fell on the brazier beside him, to the Earth Shaker,
seeking his blessing upon the contestants, the multitude, and upon broad Hellas. Next
the master-herald announced that now, on the third day of the games, came the final and
most honoured contest: the pentathlon, the fivefold struggle, with the crown to him who
conquered thrice. He proclaimed the names of the six rivals, their cities, their
ancestry, and how they had complied with the required training. The president took up
his tale, and turning to the champions, urged them to strive their best, for the eyes of
all Hellas were on them. But he warned any man with blood-guiltiness upon his soul not
to anger the gods by continuing in the games.
But since,
the brief speech concluded, these men have chosen to contend, and
have made oath that they are purified or innocent, let them join, and Poseidon shed
fair glory upon the best!
More shouting; the pipers paraded the arena, blowing shriller than ever. Some of the athletes shifted uneasily. Scolus the Thasian—youngest of the six—was pale, and cast nervous glances at the towering bulk of Lycon. The Spartan gave him no heed, but threw a loud whisper at Glaucon, who stood silently beside him:—
By Castor, son of Conon, you are extremely handsome. If fine looks won the battle, I
might grow afraid.
The Athenian, whose roving eye had just caught Cimon and Democrates in the audience, seemed never to hear him.
And you are passing stalwart. Still, be advised. I wouldn’t harm you, so drop out
early.
Still no answer from Glaucon, whose clear eye seemed now to be wandering over the bare hills of Megara beyond.
No answer?
persisted the giant. Eu! don’t complain that
you’ve lacked warning, when you sit to-night in Charon’s ferry-boat.
The least shadow of a smile flitted across the Athenian’s face; there was a slight deepening of the light in his eye. He turned his head a bit toward Lycon:—
The games are not ended, dear Spartan,
he observed quietly.
The giant scowled. I don’t like you silent, smiling men! You’re warned. I’ll do my
worst—
Let the leaping begin!
rang the voice of the president,—a call that changed all
the uproar to a silence in which one might hear the wind moving in the firs outside,
while every athlete felt his muscles tighten.
The heralds ran down the soft sands to a narrow mound of hardened earth, and beckoned to the athletes to follow. In the hands of each contestant were set a pair of bronze dumb-bells. The six were arrayed upon the mound with a clear reach of sand before. The master-herald proclaimed the order of the leaping: that each contestant should spring twice, and he whose leaps were the poorest should drop from the other contests.
Glaucon stood, his golden head thrown back, his eyes wandering idly toward his friends
in the stadium. He could see Cimon restless on his seat, and Simonides holding his ah!
Twenty thousand sprang up together as Scolus the Thasian
leaped. His partisans cheered, while he rose from a sand-cloud; but ceased quickly. His
leap had been poor. A herald with a pick marked a line where he had landed. The pipers
began a rollicking catch to which the athletes involuntarily kept time with their
dumb-bells.
Glaucon leaped second. Even the hostile Laconians shouted with pleasure at sight of his beautiful body poised, then flung out upon the sands far beyond the Thasian. He rose, shook off the dust, and returned to the mound, with a graceful gesture to the cheer that greeted him; but wise heads knew the contest was just beginning.
Ctesias and Amyntas leaped beyond the Thasian’s mark, short of the Athenian’s. Lycon was fifth. His admirers’ hopes were high. He did not blast them. Huge was his bulk, yet his strength matched it. A cloud of dust hid him from view. When it settled, every Laconian was roaring with delight. He had passed beyond Glaucon. Mœrocles of Mantinea sprang last and badly. The second round was almost as the first; although Glaucon slightly surpassed his former effort. Lycon did as well as before. The others hardly bettered their early trial. It was long before the Laconians grew quiet enough to listen to the call of the herald.
Lycon of Sparta wins the leaping. Glaucon of Athens is second. Scolus of Thasos leaps
the shortest and drops from the pentathlon.
Again cheers and clamour. The inexperienced Thasian marched disconsolately to his tent, pursued by ungenerous jeers.
The quoit-hurling follows,
once more the herald; each contestant throws three
quoits. He who throws poorest drops from the games.
Cimon had risen now. In a momentary lull he trumpeted through his hands across the arena.
Wake, Glaucon; quit your golden thoughts of Eleusis; Lycon is filching the crown.
Themistocles, seated near Cimon’s side, was staring hard, elbows on knees and head on hands. Democrates, next him, was gazing at Glaucon, as if the athlete were made of gold; but the object of their fears and hopes gave back neither word nor sign.
The attendants were arraying the five remaining champions at the foot of a little rise in the sand, near the judges’ pulpit. To each was brought a bronze quoit, the discus. The pipers resumed their medley. The second contest was begun.
First, Amyntas of Thebes. He took his stand, measured the distance with his eye, then with a run flew up the rising, and at its summit his body bent double, while the heavy quoit flew away. A noble cast! and twice excelled. For a moment every Theban in the stadium was transported. Strangers sitting together fell on one another’s necks in sheer joy. But the rapture ended quickly. Lycon flung second. His vast strength could now tell to the uttermost. He was proud to display it. Thrice he hurled. Thrice his discus sped out as far as ever man had seen a quoit fly in Hellas. Not even Glaucon’s best wishers were disappointed when he failed to come within three cubits of the Spartan. Ctesias and Mœrocles realized their task was hopeless, and strove half heartedly. The friends of the huge Laconian were almost beside themselves with joy; while the herald called desperately that:—
Lycon of Sparta wins with the discus. Glaucon of
Wake, Glaucon!
trumpeted Cimon, again his white face shining out amid the
thousands of gazers now. Wake, or Lycon wins again and all is lost!
Glaucon was almost beyond earshot; to the frantic entreaty he answered by no sign. As he and the Spartan stood once more together, the giant leered on him civilly:—
You grow wise, Athenian. It’s honour enough and to spare to be second, with Lycon
first.
Eu!—and here’s the last contest.
I say again, good friend,
—there was a slight closing of the Athenian’s lips, and
deepening in his eyes,—the pentathlon is not ended.
The harpies eat you, then, if you get too bold! The herald is calling for the
javelin-casting. Come,—it’s time to make an end.
But in the deep hush that spread again over the thousands Glaucon turned toward the
only faces that he saw out of the innumerable host: Themistocles, Democrates, Simonides,
Cimon. They beheld him raise his arm and lift his glorious head yet higher. Glaucon in
turn saw Cimon sink into his seat. He wakes!
was the appeased mutter passing from
the son of Miltiades and running along every tier of Athenians. And silence deeper than
ever held the stadium; for now, with Lycon victor twice, the literal turning of a finger
in the next event might win or lose the parsley crown.
The Spartan came first. The heralds had set a small scarlet shield at the lower end of
the course. Lycon poised his light javelin thrice, and thrice the slim dart sped through
the leathern thong on his fingers. But not for glory. Perchance this combat was too
delicate an art for his ungainly hands. Twice the missile lodged in the rim of the
shield;
of applause. His second cast had been into the
centre of the target. His third had splintered his second javelin as it hung quivering. Io! paian!
Glaucon of Athens wins the javelin-casting. Mœrocles of Mantinea is second. Amyntas
of Thebes is poorest and drops from the games.
But who heard the herald now?
By this time all save the few Mantineans who vainly clung to their champion, and the Laconians themselves, had begun to pin their hopes on the beautiful son of Conon. There was a steely glint in the Spartan athlete’s eye that made the president of the games beckon to the master-herald.
Lycon is dangerous. See that he does not do Glaucon a mischief, or transgress the
rules.
I can, till they come to the wrestling.
In that the god must aid the Athenian. But now let us have the foot-race.
In the little respite following the trainers entered and rubbed down the three remaining contestants with oil until their bodies shone again like tinted ivory. Then the heralds conducted the trio to the southern end farthest from the tents. The two junior presidents left their pulpit and took post at either end of a line marked on the sand. Each held the end of a taut rope. The contestants drew lots from an urn for the place nearest the lower turning goal,—no trifling advantage. A favouring god gave Mœrocles the first; Lycon was second; Glaucon only third. As the three crouched before the rope with hands dug into the sand, waiting the fateful signal, Glaucon was conscious that a strange blond man of noble mien and Oriental dress was sitting close by the starting line and watching him intently.
It was one of those moments of strain, when even trifles can turn the overwrought attention. Glaucon knew that the stranger was looking from him to Lycon, from Lycon back to himself, measuring each with shrewd eye. Then the gaze settled on the Athenian. The Oriental called to him:—
Swift, godlike runner, swift;
—they were so close they could catch the Eastern
accent—the Most High give you His wings!
Glaucon saw Lycon turn on the shouter with a scowl that was answered by a composed smile. To the highly strung imagination of the Athenian the wish became an omen of good. For some unknown cause the incident of the Oriental lad he rescued and the mysterious gift of the bracelet flashed back to him. Why should a stranger of the East cast him fair wishes? Would the riddle ever be revealed?
A trumpet blast. The Oriental, his wish, all else save the tawny track, flashed from Glaucon’s mind. The rope fell. The three shot away as one.
Over the sand they flew, moving by quick leaps, their shining arms flashing to and fro in fair rhythm. Twice around the stadium led the race, so no one strained at first. For a while the three clung together, until near the lower goal the Mantinean heedlessly risked a dash. His foot slipped on the sands. He recovered; but like arrows his rivals passed him. At the goal the inevitable happened. Lycon, with the shorter turn, swung quickest. He went up the homeward track ahead, the Athenian an elbow’s length behind. The stadium seemed dissolving in a tumult. Men rose; threw garments in the air; stretched out their arms; besought the gods; screamed to the runners.
Speed, son of Conon, speed!
Glory to Castor; Sparta is prevailing!
Strive, Mantinean,—still a chance!
Win the turn, dear Athenian, the turn, and leave that Cyclops behind!
But at the upper turn Lycon still held advantage, and down the other track went the
twain, even as Odysseus ran behind Ajax, who trod in Ajax’ footsteps ere ever the
dust had settled, while on his head fell the breath of him behind.
Again at the
lower goal the Mantinean was panting wearily in the rear. Again Lycon led, again rose
the tempest of voices. Six hundred feet away the presidents were stretching the line,
where victory and the plaudits of Hellas waited Lycon of Lacedæmon.
Then men ceased shouting, and prayed under breath. They saw Glaucon’s shoulders bend lower and his neck strain back, while the sunlight sprang all over his red-gold hair. The stadium leaped to their feet, as the Athenian landed by a bound at his rival’s side. Quick as the bound the great arm of the Spartan flew out with its knotted fist. A deadly stroke, and shunned by a hair’s-breadth; but it was shunned. The senior president called angrily to the herald; but none heard his words in the rending din. The twain shot up the track elbow to elbow, and into the rope. It fell amid a blinding cloud of dust. All the heralds and presidents ran together into it. Then was a long, agonizing moment, while the stadium roared, shook, and raged, before the dust settled and the master-herald stood forth beckoning for silence.
Glaucon of Athens wins the foot-race. Lycon of Sparta is second. Mœrocles of Mantinea
drops from the contest. Glaucon and Lycon, each winning twice, shall wrestle for the
final victory.
And now the stadium grew exceeding still. Men lifted their hands to their favourite
gods, and made reckless, if silent, vows,—geese, pigs, tripods, even oxen,—if only the
deity time pointer,
by the judges’ stand,
and how the short shadow cast by the staff told of the end of the morning. The last
wagers were recorded on the tablets by nervous styluses. The readiest tongues ceased to
chatter. Thousands of wistful eyes turned from the elegant form of the Athenian to the
burly form of the Spartan. Every outward chance, so many an anxious heart told itself,
favoured the oft-victorious giant; but then,—and here came reason for a true
Hellene,—the gods could not suffer so fair a man to meet defeat.
The noonday
sun beat down fiercely. The tense stillness was now and then broken by the bawling of a
swarthy hawker thrusting himself amid the spectators with cups and a jar of sour wine.
There was a long rest. The trainers came forward again and dusted the two remaining
champions with sand that they might grip fairly. Pytheas looked keenly in his pupil’s
face.
said he, trying to cover his own consuming dread. Well begun is half done,
my lad; but the hottest battle is still before,
Faint heart never won a city,
smiled Glaucon, as if never more at ease; and
Pytheas drew back happier, seeing the calm light in the athlete’s eyes.
Ay,
he muttered to his fellow-trainer, all is well. The boy has wakened.
But now the heralds marched the champions again to the judges. The president proclaimed the rules of the wrestling,—two casts out of three gave victory. In lower tone he addressed the scowling Spartan:—
Lycon, I warn you: earn the crown only fairly, if you would earn it. Had that blow in
the foot-race struck home, I would have refused you victory, though you finished all
alone.
A surly nod was the sole answer.
The heralds led the twain a little way from the judges’ stand, and set them ten paces asunder and in sight of all the thousands. The heralds stood, crossing their myrtle wands between. The president rose on his pulpit, and called through the absolute hush:—
Prepared, Spartan?
Yes.
Prepared, Athenian?
Yes.
Then Poseidon shed glory on the best!
His uplifted wand fell. A clear shrill trumpet pealed. The heralds bounded back in a twinkling. In that twinkling the combatants leaped into each other’s arms. A short grapple; again a sand cloud; and both were rising from the ground. They had fallen together. Heated by conflict, they were locked again ere the heralds could proclaim a tie. Cimon saw the great arms of the Spartan twine around the Athenian’s chest in fair grapple, but even as Lycon strove with all his bull-like might to lift and throw, Glaucon’s slim hand glided down beneath his opponent’s thigh. Twice the Spartan put forth all his powers. Those nearest watched the veins of the athletes swell and heard their hard muscles crack. The stadium was in succession hushed and tumultuous. Then, at the third trial, even as Lycon seemed to have won his end, the Athenian smote out with one foot. The sands were slippery. The huge Laconian lunged forward, and as he lunged, his opponent by a masterly effort tore himself loose. The Spartan fell heavily,—vanquished by a trick, though fairly used.
The stadium thundered its applause. More vows, prayers, exhortations. Glaucon stood
and received all the homage in silence. A little flush was on his forehead. His arms and
Now, fox of Athens,
rang his shout, I will kill you!
Pytheas, beholding his fury, tore out a handful of hair in his mingled hope and dread. No man knew better than the trainer that no trick would conquer Lycon this second time; and Glaucon the Fair might be nearer the fields of Asphodel than the pleasant hills by Athens. More than one man had died in the last ordeal of the pentathlon.
The silence was perfect. Even the breeze had hushed while Glaucon and Lycon faced
again. The twenty thousand sat still as in their sepulchres, each saying in his heart
one word—Now!
If in the first wrestling the attack had been impetuous, it was
now painfully deliberate. When the heralds’ wands fell, the two crept like mighty cats
across the narrow sands, frames bent, hands outstretched, watching from the corners of
their eyes a fair chance to rush in and grapple. Then Lycon, whose raging spirit had the
least control, charged. Another dust cloud. When it cleared, the two were locked
together as by iron.
For an instant they swayed, whilst the Spartan tried again his brute power. It failed
him. Glaucon drew strength from the earth like Antæus. The hushed stadium could hear the
pants of the athletes as they locked closer, closer. Strength failing, the Spartan
snatched at his enemy’s throat; but the Athenian had his wrist gripped fast before the
clasp could tighten, and in the melée Glaucon’s other hand passed beneath Lycon’s thigh.
The two seemed deadlocked. For a moment they grinned face to face, almost close enough
to bite each other’s lips. But breath was too precious for curses. The Spartan flung his
ponderous weight downward. A slip in the gliding sand would have ruined the
He cannot endure it. He cannot! Ah! Athena Polias, pity him! Lycon is wearing him
down,
moaned Pytheas, beside himself with fear, almost running to Glaucon’s aid.
The stadium resumed its roaring. A thousand conflicting prayers, hopes, counsels, went forth to the combatants. The gods of Olympus and Hades; all demigods, heroes, satyrs, were invoked for them. They were besought to conquer in the name of parents, friends, and native land. Athenians and Laconians, sitting side by side, took up the combat, grappling fiercely. And all this time the two strove face to face.
How long had it lasted? Who knew? Least of all that pair who wrestled perchance for
life and for death. Twice again the Spartan strove with his weight to crush his opponent
down. Twice vainly. He could not close his grip around the Athenian’s throat. He had
looked to see Glaucon sink exhausted; but his foe still looked on him with steadfast,
unweakening eyes. The president was just bidding the heralds, Pluck them asunder and
declare a tie!
when the stadium gave a shrill long shout. Lycon had turned to his
final resource. Reckless of his own hurt, he dashed his iron forehead against the
Athenian’s, as bull charges bull. Twice and three times, and the blood leaped out over
Glaucon’s fair skin. Again—the rush of blood was almost blinding. Again—Pytheas
screamed with agony—the Athenian’s clutch seemed weakening. Again—flesh and
Help thou me, Athena of the Gray Eyes! For the glory of Athens, my father, my
wife!
The cry of Glaucon—half prayer, half battle-shout—pealed above the bellowing stadium. Even as he cried it, all saw his form draw upward as might Prometheus’s unchained. They saw the fingers of the Spartan unclasp. They saw his bloody face upturned and torn with helpless agony. They saw his great form totter, topple, fall. The last dust cloud, and into it the multitude seemed rushing together....
... They caught Glaucon just as he fell himself. Themistocles was the first to kiss
him. Little Simonides wept. Cimon, trying to embrace the victor, hugged in the confusion
a dirty Platæan. Democrates seemed lost in the whirlpool, and came with greetings later.
Perhaps he had stopped to watch that Oriental who had given Glaucon good wishes in the
foot-race. The fairest praise, however, was from a burly man, who merely held out his
hand and muttered, Good!
But this was from Leonidas.
Very late a runner crowned with pink oleanders panted up to the Athenian watch by Mount Icarus at the custom-house on the Megarian frontier.
Nika!—He conquers.
The man fell breathless; but in a moment a clear beacon blazed upon the height. From a
peak in Salamis another answered. In Eleusis, Hermippus the Noble was running to his
daughter. In Peiræus, the harbour-town, the sailor folk were dancing about the
market-place. In Athens, archons, generals, and elders were accompanying Conon to the
Glaucon the Beautiful who honours us all! Glaucon the Fortunate whom the High Gods
love!
A cluster of white stuccoed houses with a craggy hill behind, and before them a blue
bay girt in by the rocky isle of Salamis—that is Eleusis-by-the-Sea. Eastward and
westward spreads the teeming Thrasian plain, richest in Attica. Behind the plain the
encircling mountain wall fades away into a purple haze. One can look southward toward
Salamis; then to the left rises the rounded slope of brown Pœcilon sundering Eleusis
from its greater neighbour, Athens. Look behind: there is a glimpse of the long violet
crests of Cithæron and Parnes, the barrier mountains against Bœotia. Look to right:
beyond the summits of Megara lifts a noble cone. It is an old friend, Acro-Corinthus.
The plain within the hills is sprinkled with thriving farmsteads, green vineyards,
darker olive groves. The stony hill-slopes are painted red by countless poppies. One
hears the tinkling of the bells of roving goats. Thus the more distant view; while at
the very foot of the hill of vision rises a temple with proud columns and
pediments,—the fane of Demeter the Earth Mother
and the seat of her Mysteries,
renowned through Hellas.
The house of Hermippus the Eumolpid, first citizen of Eleusis, stood to the east of
the temple. On three sides gnarled trunks and sombre leaves of the sacred olives almost
hid the white low walls of the rambling buildings. On the
They come,
ran the wiseacre’s comment; but their buzzing ceased, as again the
gate swung back to suffer two ladies to peer forth. Ladies, in the truth, for the twain
had little in common with the ogling village maids, and whispers were soon busy with
them.
Look—his wife and her mother! How would you, Praxinœ, like to marry an
Isthmionices?
Excellently well, but your Hermas won’t so honour you.
Eu! see, she lifts her pretty blue veil; I’m glad she’s
handsome. Some beautiful men wed regular hags.
The two ladies were clearly mother and daughter, of the same noble height, and dressed
alike in white. Both faces were framed in a flutter of Amorgos gauze: the mother’s was
saffron, crowned with a wreath of golden wheat-ears; the daughter’s blue with a circlet
of violets. And now as they stood with arms entwined the younger brushed aside her veil.
The gossips were right. The robe and the crown hid all but the face and tress of the
lustrous brown hair,—but that face! Had not King Hephæstos wrought every line of clear
Phœnician glass, then touched them with snow and rose, and shot through all the ichor of
life? Perhaps there was a fitful fire in the dark eyes that awaited the husband’s
coming, or a slight twitching of the impatient lips. But nothing disturbed the high-born
repose of face and figure. Hermione was indeed the worthy daughter of a noble
Another messenger. Louder bustle in the court, and the voice of Hermippus arraying his
musicians. Now a sharp-faced man, who hid his bald pate under a crown of lilies, joined
the ladies,—Conon, father of the victor. He had ended his life-feud with Hermippus the
night the message flashed from Corinth. Then a third runner; this time in his hand a
triumphant palm branch, and his one word—Here!
A crash of music answered from
the court, while Hermippus, a stately nobleman, his fine head just sprinkled with gray,
led out his unmartial army.
Single pipes and double pipes, tinkling lyres and many-stringed citharas, not to forget herdsmen’s reed flutes, cymbals, and tambours, all made melody and noise together. An imposing procession that must have crammed the courtyard wound out into the Corinth road.
Here was the demarch
He comes!
So she cried to her mother; so cried every one. Around the turn in the
olive groves swung a car in which Cimon stood proudly erect, and at his side another.
Marching before the chariot were Themistocles, Democrates, Simonides; behind followed
every Athenian who had visited the Isthmia. The necks of the four horses were wreathed
with flowers; flowers hid the reins and bridles, the chariot, and even its wheels. The
victor stood aloft, his scarlet cloak flung back, displaying his godlike form. An
unhealed scar marred his forehead—Lycon’s handiwork; but who thought of that, when
above the scar pressed the wreath of wild parsley? As the two processions met, a cheer
went up that shook the red rock of Eleusis. The champion answered with his frankest
smile; only his eyes seemed questioning, seeking some one who was not there.
Io! Glaucon!
The Eleusinian youths broke from their ranks and fell upon the
chariot. The horses were loosed in a twinkling. Fifty arms dragged the car onward. The
pipers swelled their cheeks, each trying to outblow his fellow. Then after them sped the
maidens. They ringed the chariot round with a maze of flowers chains. As the car moved,
they accompanied it with a dance of unspeakable ease, modesty, grace. A local poet—not
Simonides, not Pindar, but some humbler bard—had invoked his muse for the grand
occasion. Youths and maidens burst forth into singing.
Io! Io, pæan! the parsley-wreathed victor hail!
Keep his name and his fame ever bright!
Matching action to the song, they threw over the victor crowns and chains beyond number, till the parsley wreath was hidden from sight. Near the gate of Hermippus the jubilant company halted. The demarch bawled long for silence, won it at last, and approached the chariot. He, good man, had been a long day meditating on his speech of formal congratulation and enjoyed his opportunity. Glaucon’s eyes still roved and questioned, yet the demarch rolled out his windy sentences. But there was something unexpected. Even as the magistrate took breath after reciting the victor’s noble ancestry, there was a cry, a parting of the crowd, and Glaucon the Alcmæonid leaped from the chariot as never on the sands at Corinth. The veil and the violet wreath fell from the head of Hermione when her face went up to her husband’s. The blossoms that had covered the athlete shook over her like a cloud as his face met hers. Then even the honest demarch cut short his eloquence to swell the salvo.
The beautiful to the beautiful! The gods reward well. Here is the fairest crown!
For all Eleusis loved Hermione, and would have forgiven far greater things from her than this.
Hermippus feasted the whole company,—the crowd at long tables in the court, the
chosen guests in a more private chamber. Nothing to excess
was the truly Hellenic
maxim of the refined Eleusinian; and he obeyed it. His banquet was elegant without
gluttony. The Syracusan cook had prepared a lordly turbot. The wine was choice old Chian
but well diluted. There was no vulgar gorging with meat, after the Bœotian manner; but
the great Copaic eel, such as Poseidon might have sent up to Olympus,
made every
gourmand clap his hands. The aromatic honey was the choicest from Mt. Hymettus.
Since the smaller company was well selected, convention was waived, and ladies were present. Hermione sat on a wide chair beside Lysistra, her comely mother; her younger brothers on stools at either hand. Directly across the narrow table Glaucon and Democrates reclined on the same couch. The eyes of husband and wife seldom left each other; their tongues flew fast; they never saw how Democrates hardly took his gaze from the face of Hermione. Simonides, who reclined beside Themistocles,—having struck a firm friendship with that statesman on very brief acquaintance,—was overrunning with humour and anecdote. The great man beside him was hardly his second in the fence of wit and wisdom. After the fish had given way to the wine, Simonides regaled the company with a gravely related story of how the Dioscuri had personally appeared to him during his last stay in Thessaly and saved him from certain death in a falling building.
You swear this is a true tale, Simonides?
began Themistocles, with one eye in his
head.
It’s impiety to doubt. As penalty, rise at once and sing a song in honour of
Glaucon’s victory.
I am no singer or harpist,
returned the statesman, with a self-complacency he
never concealed. I only know how to make Athens powerful.
Ah! you son of Miltiades,
urged the poet, at least you will not refuse so
churlishly.
Cimon, with due excuses, arose, called for a harp, and began tuning it; but not all the company were destined to hear him. A slave-boy touched Themistocles on the shoulder, and the latter started to go.
The Dioscuri will save you?
demanded Simonides, laughing.
Quite other gods,
rejoined the statesman; your pardon, Cimon, I return in a
moment. An agent of mine is back from Asia, surely with news of weight, if he must
seek me at once in Eleusis.
But Themistocles lingered outside; an instant more brought a summons to Democrates, who found Themistocles in an antechamber, deep in talk with Sicinnus,—nominally the tutor of his sons, actually a trusted spy. The first glance at the Asiatic’s keen face and eyes was disturbing. An inward omen—not from the entrails of birds, nor a sign in the heavens—told Democrates the fellow brought no happy tidings.
With incisive questions Themistocles had been bringing out everything.
So it is absolutely certain that Xerxes begins his invasion next spring?
As certain as that Helios will rise to-morrow.
Forewarned is forearmed. Now where have you been since I sent you off in the winter
to visit Asia?
The man, who knew his master loved to do the lion’s share of the talking, answered instantly:—
Sardis, Emesa, Babylon, Susa, Persepolis, Ecbatana.
Eu! Your commission is well executed. Are all the rumours we
hear from the East well founded? Is Xerxes assembling an innumerable host?
Rumour does not tell half the truth. Not one tribe in Asia but is required to send
its fighting men. Two bridges of boats are being built across the Hellespont. The king
will have twelve hundred war triremes, besides countless transports. The cavalry are
being numbered by hundreds of thousands, the infantry by millions. Such an army was
never assembled since Zeus conquered the Giants.
A merry array!
Themistocles whistled an instant through his teeth; but, never
confounded, urged on his questions. So be it. But is Xerxes the man to command this
host? He is no master of war like Darius his father.
He is a creature for eunuchs and women; nevertheless his army will not suffer.
And wherefore?
Because Prince Mardonius, son of Gobryas, and brother-in-law of the king, has the
wisdom and valour of Cyrus and Darius together. Name him, and you name the arch-foe of
Hellas. He, not Xerxes, will be the true leader of the host.
You saw him, of course?
I did not. A Magian in Ecbatana told me a strange story.
The Prince,
said he,
hates the details of camps; leaving the preparation to others, he has gone to
Greece to spy out the land he is to conquer.
Impossible, you are dreaming!
The exclamation came not from Themistocles but
Democrates.
I am not dreaming, worthy sir,
returned Sicinnus, tartly; the Magian may have
lied, but I sought the Prince in every city I visited; they always told me,
He is
in another.
He was not at the king’s court. He may have gone to Egypt, to India,
or to Arabia;—he may likewise have gone to Greece.
These are serious tidings, Democrates,
remarked Themistocles, with an anxiety his
voice seldom betrayed. Sicinnus is right; the presence of such a man as Mardonius in
Hellas explains many things.
I do not understand.
Why, the lukewarmness of so many friends we had counted on, the bickerings which
arose among the Confederates when we met just now at the Isthmus, the slackness of all
Spartans save Leonidas in preparing for war, the hesitancy of Corcyra in joining us.
Thebes is Medizing, Crete is Medizing, so is Argos. Thessaly is wavering. I can almost
name the princes and great nobles over Hellas who are clutching at Persian money. O
Father Zeus,
wound up the Athenian, if there is not some master-spirit
directing all this villany, there is no wisdom in Themistocles, son of Neocles.
But the coming of Mardonius to Greece?
questioned the younger man; the peril
he runs? the risk of discovery—
Is all but nothing, except as he comes to Athens, for Medizers will shelter him
everywhere. Yet there is one spot—blessed be Athena—
Themistocles’s hands went
up in easy piety—where, let him come if come he dare!
Then with a swift change,
as was his wont, the statesman looked straight on Democrates.
Hark you, son of Myscelus; those Persian lords are reckless. He may even test the
fates and set foot in Attica. I am cumbered with as many cares as Zeus, but this
com
A great task,
spoke Democrates, none too readily.
And one you are worthy to accomplish. Are we not co-workers for Athens and for
Hellas?
Themistocles’s hawklike eyes were unescapable. The younger Athenian thought they were reading his soul. He held out his hand....
When Democrates returned to the hall, Cimon had ended his song. The guests were
applauding furiously. Wine was still going round, but Glaucon and Hermione were not
joining. Across the table they were conversing in low sentences that Democrates could
not catch. But he knew well enough the meaning as each face flashed back the beauty of
the other. And his mind wandered back darkly to the day when Glaucon had come to him,
more radiant than even his wont, and cried, Give me joy, dear comrade, joy! Hermippus
has promised me the fairest maiden in Athens.
Some evil god had made Democrates
blind to all his boon-companion’s wooing. How many hopes of the orator that day had been
shattered! Yet he had even professed to rejoice with the son of Conon.... He sat in
sombre silence, until the piping voice of Simonides awakened him.
Friend, if you are a fool, you do a wise thing in keeping still; if a wise man, a
very foolish thing.
Wine, boy,
ordered Democrates; and less water in it. I feel wretchedly stupid
to-day.
He spent the rest of the feast drinking deeply, and with much forced laughter. The
dinner ended toward evening.
In Athens! Shall one mount the Acropolis or enter the market place? Worship in the temple of the Virgin Athena, or descend to the Agora and the roar of its getters and spenders? For Athens has two faces—toward the ideal, toward the commonplace. Who can regard both at once? Let the Acropolis, its sculptures, its landscape, wait. It has waited for men three thousand years. And so to the Agora.
Full market time.
The Agora was a beehive. From the round Tholus at the south to
the long portico at the north all was babel and traffic. Donkeys raised their wheezing
protest against too heavy loads of farm produce. Megarian swine squealed and tugged at
their leg-cords. An Asiatic sailor clamoured at the money-changer’s stall for another
obol in change for a Persian daric. Buy my oil!
bawled the huckster from his
wicker booth beside the line of Hermes-busts in the midst of the square. Buy my
charcoal!
roared back a companion, whilst past both was haled a grinning negro
with a crier who bade every gentleman to mark his chance
for a fashionable
servant. Phocian the quack was hawking his toothache salve from the steps of the Temple
of Apollo. Deira, the comely flower girl, held out crowns of rose, violet, and narcissus
to the dozen young dandies who pressed about her. Around the Hermes-busts idle crowds
were reading the legal notices plastered on the base of each statue. A file of mules and
wagons was plough
At the northern end, where the porticos and the long Dromos street ran off toward the
Dipylon gate, stood the shop of Clearchus the potter. A low counter was covered with the
owner’s wares,—tall amphoræ for wine, flat beakers,
devoted his talents to the public weal,
in
other words was a perpetual juryman and likewise busybody.
The latest rumour about Xerxes having been duly chewed, conversation began to lag.
An idle day for you, my Polus,
threw out Clearchus.
Idle indeed! No jury sits to-day in the King Archon’s Porch or the
Red Court
;
I can’t vote to condemn that Heraclius who’s exported wheat contrary to the law.
Condemn?
cried Agis; wasn’t the evidence very weak?
Ay,
snorted Polus, very weak, and the wretch pleaded piteously, setting his
wife and four little ones weeping on the stand. But we are resolved.
You are
boiling a stone—your plea’s no profit,
thought we. Our hearts vote guilty,
if our heads say innocent.
One mustn’t discourage honest
informers. What’s a patriot on a jury for if only to acquit? Holy Father Zeus, but
there’s a pleasure in dropping into the voting-urn the black bean which condemns!
Athena keep us, then, from litigation,
murmured Clearchus; while Crito opened his
fat lips to ask, And what adjourns the courts?
A meeting of the assembly, to be sure. The embassy’s come back from Delphi with the
oracle we sought about the prospects of the war.
Then Themistocles will speak,
observed the potter; a very important
meeting.
Very important,
choked the juror, fishing a long piece of garlic from his wallet
and cramming it into his mouth with both hands. What a noble statesman Themistocles
is! Only young Democrates will ever be like him.
Democrates?
squeaked out Crito.
Why, yes. Almost as eloquent as Themistocles. What zeal for democracy! What courage
against Persia! A Nestor, I say, in wisdom—
Agis gave a whistle.
A Nestor, perhaps. Yet if you knew, as I do, how some of his nights pass,—dice,
Rhodian fighting-cocks, dancing-girls, and worse things,—
I’ll scarce believe it,
grunted the juror; yet then confessed somewhat ruefully,
however, he is unfortunate in his bosom friend.
What do you mean?
demanded the potter.
Glaucon the Alcmæonid, to be sure. I cried
as
loud as the others when he came back; still I weary of having a man always so
fortunate.Io, pæan!
Even as you voted to banish Aristeides, Themistocles’s rival, because you were tired
of hearing him called
the Just.
There’s much in that. Besides, he’s an Alcmæonid, and since their old murder of Cylon
the house has been under a blood curse. He has married the daughter of Hermippus,
Hush,
warned Clearchus, there he passes now, arm in arm with Democrates as
always, and on his way to the assembly.
The men are much alike in build,
spoke Crito, slowly, only Glaucon is
infinitely handsomer.
And infinitely less honest. I distrust your too beautiful and too lucky men,
snapped Polus.
Envious dog,
commented Agis; and bitter personalities might have followed had not
a bell jangled from an adjacent portico.
Phormio, my brother-in-law, with fresh fish from Phaleron,
announced Polus,
drawing a coin from his wonted purse,—his cheek; quick, friends, we must buy our
dinners.
Between the columns of the portico stood Phormio the fishmonger, behind a table heaped
with his scaly wares. He was a thick, florid man with blue eyes lit by a
Market Wardens
seemed needed to check the jostling. But as the last eel was held
up, came a cry—
Look out for the rope!
Phormio’s customers scattered. Scythian constables were
No seats; rich and poor sat down upon the rocky ground. Under the open azure, at the
focus of the semicircle, with clear view before of the city, and to right of the red
cliffs of the Acropolis, rose a low platform hewn in the rock,—the Bema,
the
orator’s pulpit. A few chairs for the magistrates and a small altar were its sole
furnishings. The multitude entered the Pnyx through two narrow entrances pierced in the
massy engirdling wall and took seats at pleasure; all were equals—the Alcmæonid, the
charcoal-seller from Acharnæ. Amid silence the chairman of the Council arose and put on
the myrtle crown,—sign that the sitting was opened. A herald besought blessings on the
Athenians and the Platæans their allies. A wrinkled seer carefully slaughtered a goose,
proclaimed that its entrails gave good omen, and cast the carcass on the altar. The
herald assured the people there was no rain, thunder, or other unlucky sign from heaven.
The pious accordingly breathed easier, and awaited the order of the day.
The decree of the Council convening the assembly was read; then the herald’s formal proclamation:—
Who wishes to speak?
The answer was a groan from nigh every soul present. Three men ascended the Bema. They
bore the olive branches and laurel garlands, suppliants at Delphi; but their The oracle is unfavourable! The gods
deliver us to Xerxes!
The thrill of horror went around the Pnyx.
The three stood an instant in gloomy silence. Then Callias the Rich, solemn and impressive, their spokesman, told their eventful story.
Athenians, by your orders we have been to Delphi to inquire of the surest oracle in
Greece your destinies in the coming war. Hardly had we completed the accustomed
sacrifices in the Temple of Apollo, when the Pythoness Aristonice, sitting above the
sacred cleft whence comes the inspiring vapour, thus prophesied.
And Callias
repeated the hexameters which warned the Athenians that resistance to Xerxes would be
worse than futile; that Athens was doomed; concluding with the fearful line, Get from
this temple afar, and brood on the ills that await ye.
In the pause, as Callias’s voice fell, the agony of the people became nigh
indescribable. Sturdy veterans who had met the Persian spears at Marathon blinked fast.
Many groaned, some cursed. Here and there a bold spirit dared to open his heart to
doubt, and to mutter, Persian gold, the Pythoness was corrupted,
but quickly
hushed even such whispers as rank impiety. Then a voice close to the Bema rang out
loudly:—
And is this all the message, Callias?
The voice of Glaucon the Fortunate,
cried many, finding relief in words. He is
a friend to the ambassador. There is a further prophecy.
The envoy, who had made his theatrical pause too long, continued:—
Such, men of Athens, was the answer; and we went forth in dire tribulation. Then a
certain noble Delphian, Timon by name, bade us take the olive branches and return to
the
O King Apollo, reverence
these boughs of supplication, and deliver a more comfortable answer concerning our
dear country. Else we will not leave thy sanctuary, but stay here until we die.
Whereat the priestess gave us a second answer, gloomy and riddling, yet not so evil as
the first.
Again Callias recited his lines of doom, that Athena had vainly
prayed to Zeus in behalf of her city, and that it was fated the foe should overrun all
Attica, yet
Safe shall the wooden wall continue for thee and thy children;
When men scatter the seed, or when they gather the harvest.
And that is all?
demanded fifty voices.
That is all,
and Callias quitted the Bema. Whereupon if agony had held the Pnyx
before, perplexity held it now. The wooden wall?
Holy Salamis?
A great battle, but who is to conquer?
The feverish anxiety of the people at
length found its vent in a general shout.
The seers! Call the seers! Explain the oracle!
The demand had clearly been anticipated by the president of the Council.
Xenagoras the Cerycid is present. He is the oldest seer. Let us hearken to his
opinion.
The head of the greatest priestly family in Athens arose. He was a venerable man, wearing his ribbon-decked robes of office. The president passed him the myrtle crown, as token that he had the Bema. In a tense hush his voice sounded clearly.
I was informed of the oracles before the assembly met. The meaning is plain. By the
wooden wall
is meant our
Xenagoras paused with the smile of him who performs a sad but necessary duty, removed the wreath, and descended the Bema.
Quit Attica without a blow! Our fathers’ fathers’ sepulchres, the shrines of our
gods, the pleasant farmsteads, the land where our Attic race have dwelt from dimmest
time!
The thought shot chill through the thousands. Men sat in helpless silence, while many
a soul, as the gaze wandered up to the temple-crowned Acropolis, asked once, yes twice,
Is not the yoke of Persia preferable to that?
Then after the silence broke the
clamour of voices.
The other seers! Do all agree with Xenagoras? Stand forth! stand forth!
Hegias, the King Archon,
chief of the state religion, took the Bema. His speech
was brief and to the point.
All the priests and seers of Attica have consulted. Xenagoras speaks for them all
save Hermippus of the house of Eumolpus, who denies the others’ interpretation.
Confusion followed. Men rose, swung their arms, harangued madly from where they stood.
The chairman in vain ordered Silence!
and was fain to bid the Scythian constables
restore order. An elderly farmer thrust himself forward, took the wreath, and poured out
his rustic wisdom from the Bema. His advice was simple. The oracle said the wooden
wall
would be a bulwark, and by the wooden wall was surely meant the Acropolis
which had once been protected by a palisade. Let all Attica shut itself in the citadel
and endure a siege.
So far he had proceeded garrulously, but the high-strung multitude could endure no
more. Kataba! Kataba!Go down! go down!
pealed the yell, emphasized by a shower of pebbles. The elder
tore the wreath from his head and fled the Bema. Then out of the confusion came a
general cry.
Cimon, son of Miltiades, speak to us!
But that young nobleman preserved a discreet silence, and the multitude turned to another favourite.
Democrates, son of Myscelus, speak to us!
The popular orator only wrapped his cloak about him, as he sat near the chairman’s stand, never answering the call he rejoiced of wont to hear.
There were cries for Hermippus, cries even for Glaucon, as if prowess in the pentathlon gave ability to unravel oracles. The athlete sitting beside Democrates merely blushed and drew closer to his friend. Then at last the despairing people turned to their last resource.
Themistocles, son of Neocles, speak to us!
Thrice the call in vain; but at the fourth time a wave of silence swept across the Pnyx. A figure well beloved was taking the wreath and mounting the Bema.
The words of Themistocles that day were to ring in his hearer’s ears till life’s end.
The careless, almost sybaritic, man of the Isthmus and Eleusis seemed transfigured. For
one moment he stood silent, lofty, awe-inspiring. He had a mighty task: to calm the
superstitious fears of thirty thousand, to silence the prophets of evil, to infuse those
myriads with his own high courage. He began with a voice so low it would have seemed a
whisper if not audible to all the Pnyx. Quickly he warmed. His gestures became dramatic.
His voice rose to a trumpet-call. He swept his hearers with him as dry leaves before the
blast. When he
Thus Homer
of Odysseus the Guileful, thus as truly of Themistocles saviour of Hellas.
First he told the old, but never wearisome story of the past of Athens. How, from the
days of Codrus long ago, Athens had never bowed the knee to an invader, how she had
wrested Salamis from greedy Megara, how she had hounded out the tyrannizing sons of
Peisistratus, how she had braved all the wrath of Persian Darius and dashed his huge
armament back at Marathon. With such a past, only a madman as well as traitor would
dream of submitting to Xerxes now. But as for the admonition of Xenagoras to quit Attica
and never strike a blow, Themistocles would have none of it. With a clearness that
appealed to every home-loving Hellene he pictured the fate of wanderers as only one step
better than that of slaves. What, then, was left? The orator had a decisive answer. Was
not the wooden wall
which should endure for the Athenians the great fleet they
were just completing? And as for the fate of the battle the speaker had an unexpected
solution. Holy Salamis,
spoke the Pythoness. And would she have said holy,
if the issue had been only woe to the sons of Athens? Luckless Salamis
were then
more reasonably the word; yet the prophetess so far from predicting defeat had assured
them victory.
Thus ran the substance of the speech on which many a soul knew hung the mending or ending of Hellas, but lit all through with gleams of wit, shades of pathos, outbursts of eloquence which burned into the hearers’ hearts as though the speaker were a god. Then at the end, Themistocles, knowing his audience was with him, delivered his peroration:—
Let him who trusts in oracles trust then in this, and in the old
prophecy of Epimenides that when the Persian comes it is to his hurt. But I will say
with Hector of Troy,
One oracle is best—to fight for one’s native country.
Others may vote as they will. My vote is that if the foe by land be too great, we
retire before him to our ships, ay, forsake even well-loved Attica, but only that we
may trust to the wooden wall,
and fight the Great King by sea at Salamis. We
contend not with gods but with men. Let others fear. I will trust to Athena
Polias,—the goddess terrible in battle. Hearken then to Solon the Wise (the orator
pointed toward the temple upon the soaring Acropolis):—
Our Athens need fear no hurt
Beneath her protecting spear.
Thus trusting in Athena, we will meet the foe at Salamis and will
destroy him.
Who wishes to speak?
called the herald. The Pnyx answered together. The vote to
retire from Attica if needs be, to strengthen the fleet, to risk all in a great battle,
was carried with a shout. Men ran to Themistocles, calling him, Peitho,—Queen
Persuasion.
He made light of their praises, and walked with his handsome head
tossed back toward the general’s office by the Agora, to attend to some routine
business. Glaucon, Cimon, and Democrates went westward to calm their exhilaration with a
ball-game at the gymnasium of Cynosarges. On the way Glaucon called attention to a
foreigner that passed them.
Look, Democrates, that fellow is wonderfully like the honest barbarian who applauded
me at the Isthmus.
Democrates glanced twice.
Dear Glaucon,
said he, that fellow had a long blond beard, while this man’s is
black as a crow.
And he spoke the truth; yet despite the disguise he clearly
recognized the Cyprian.
In the northern quarter of Athens the suburb of Alopece thrust itself under the slopes of Mt. Lycabettus, that pyramid of tawny rock which formed the rear bulwark, as it were, of every landscape of Athens. The dwellings in the suburb were poor, though few even in the richer quarters were at all handsome; the streets barely sixteen feet wide, ill-paved, filthy, dingy. A line of dirty gray stucco house-fronts was broken only by the small doors and the smaller windows in the second story. Occasionally a two-faced bust of Hermes stood before a portal, or a marble lion’s head spouted into a corner water trough. All Athenian streets resembled these. The citizen had his Pnyx, his Jury-Court, his gossiping Agora for his day. These dingy streets sufficed for the dogs, the slaves, and the women, whom wise Zeus ordered to remain at home.
Phormio the fishmonger had returned from his traffic, and sat in his house-door
meditating over a pot of sour wine and watching the last light flickering on the great
bulk of the mountain. He had his sorrows,—good man,—for Lampaxo his worthy wife, long
of tongue, short of temper, thrifty and very watchful, was reminding him for the seventh
time that he had sold a carp half an obol too cheap. His patience indeed that evening
was so near to exhaustion that after match-maker
who had saddled this Amazon upon him, he actually found courage
for an outbreak. He threw up his arms after the manner of a tragic actor:—
True, true is the word of Hesiod!
True is what?
flew back none too gently.
The fool first suffers and is after wise.
Woman, I am resolved.
On what?
Lampaxo’s voice was soft as broken glass.
Years increase. I shan’t live long. We are childless. I will provide for you in my
will by giving you in marriage to Hyperphon.
Hyperphon!
screamed the virago, Hyperphon the beggarly hunchback, the
laughing-stock of Athens! O Mother Hera!—but I see the villain’s aim. You are weary
of me. Then divorce me like an honourable man. Send me back to Polus my dear brother.
Ah, you sheep, you are silent! You think of the two-minæ dowry you must then refund.
Woe is me! I’ll go to the King Archon. I’ll charge you with gross abuse. The jury will
condemn you. There’ll be fines, fetters, stocks, prison—
Peace,
groaned Phormio, terrified at the Gorgon, I only thought—
How dared you think? What permitted—
Good evening, sweet sister and Phormio!
The salutation came from Polus, who with
Clearchus had approached unheralded. Lampaxo smoothed her ruffled feathers. Phormio
stifled his sorrows. Dromo, the half-starved slave-boy, brought a pot of thin wine to
his betters. The short southern twilight was swiftly passing into night. Groups of young
men wandered past, bound homeward from the Cynosarges, the Academy, or some other
well-loved gym
And did the jury vote
was Phormio’s first question of his
brother-in-law. guilty
?
We were patriotically united. There were barely any white beans for acquittal in the
urn. The scoundrelly grain-dealer is stripped of all he possesses and sent away to beg
in exile. A noble service to Athens!
Despite the evidence,
murmured Clearchus; but Lampaxo’s shrill voice answered her
brother:—
It’s my opinion you jurors should look into a case directly opposite this house.
Spies, I say, Persian spies.
Spies!
cried Polus, leaping up as from a coal; why, Phormio, haven’t you
denounced them? It’s compounding with treason even to fail to report—
Peace, brother,
chuckled the fishmonger, your sister smells for treason as a
dog for salt fish. There is a barbarian carpet merchant—a Babylonian, I presume—who
has taken the empty chambers above Demas’s shield factory opposite. He seems a quiet,
inoffensive man; there are a hundred other foreign merchants in the city. One can’t
cry
Traitor!
just because the poor wight was not born to speak Greek.
I do not like Babylonish merchants,
propounded Polus, dogmatically; to the
jury with him, I say!
At least he has a visitor,
asserted Clearchus, who had long been silent. See,
a gentleman wrapped in a long himation is going up to the door and standing up his
walking stick.
And if I have eyes,
vowed the juror, squinting through his hands in the half
light, that closely wrapped man is Glaucon the Alcmæonid.
Or Democrates,
remarked Clearchus; they look much alike from behind. It’s
getting dark.
Well,
decided Phormio, we can easily tell. He has left his stick below by the
door. Steal across, Polus, and fetch it. It must be carved with the owner’s name.
The juror readily obeyed; but to read the few characters on the crooked handle was beyond the learning of any save Clearchus, whose art demanded the mystery of writing.
I was wrong,
he confessed, after long scrutiny, Glaucon, son of Conon.
It is very plain. Put the cane back, Polus.
The cane was returned, but the juror pulled a very long face.
Dear friends, here is a man I’ve already suspected of undemocratic sentiments
conferring with a Barbarian. Good patriots cannot be too vigilant. A plot, I assert.
Treason to Athens and Hellas! Freedom’s in danger. Henceforth I shall look on Glaucon
the Alcmæonid as an enemy of liberty.
almost shouted Phormio, whose sense of humour was
keen, Phui!a noble conspiracy! Glaucon the Fortunate calls on a Babylonish merchant by
night. You say to plot against Athens. I say to buy his pretty wife a carpet.
The gods will some day explain,
said Clearchus, winding up the argument,—and so
for a little while the four forgot all about Glaucon.
Despite the cane, Clearchus was right. The visitor was Democrates. The orator mounted
the dark stair above the shield-factory and knocked against a door, calling, Pai! Pai!Boy! boy!
a summons answered by none other than
Welcome, Athenian,
spoke the Cyprian, in his quaint, eastern accent. It was the
strange guest in the tavern by Corinth. The Prince—prince surely, whatever his other
title—was in the same rich dress as at the Isthmus, only his flowing beard had been
dyed raven black. Yet Democrates’s eyes were diverted instantly to the peculiarly
handsome slave-boy on the divan beside his master. The boy’s dress, of a rare blue
stuff, enveloped him loosely. His hair was as golden as the gold thread on the round
cap. In the shadows the face almost escaped the orator,—he thought he saw clear blue
eyes and a marvellously brilliant, almost girlish, bloom and freshness. The presence of
this slave caused the Athenian to hesitate, but the Cyprian bade him be seated, with one
commanding wave of the hand.
This is Smerdis, my constant companion. He is a mute. Yet if otherwise, I would trust
him as myself.
Democrates, putting by surprise, began to look on his host fixedly.
My dear Barbarian, for that you are a Hellene you will not pretend, you realize, I
trust, you incur considerable danger in visiting Athens.
I am not anxious,
observed the Prince, composedly. Hiram is watchful and skilful. You see I have dyed my hair and beard
black and pass for a Babylonish merchant.
With all except me,
Democrates’s smile was not wholly agreeable. philotate,—dearest friend,
as we
say in Athens.
With all except you,
assented the Prince, fingering the scarlet tassel of the
cushion whereon he sat. I reckoned confidently that you would come to visit me when I
sent Hiram to you. Yes—I have heard the story that is on your tongue: one of
Themistocles’s busybodies has brought a rumour that a certain great man of the Persian
court is missing from the side of his master, and you have been requested to greet
that nobleman heartily if he should come to Athens.
You know a great deal!
cried the orator, feeling his forehead grow hot.
It is pleasant to know a great deal,
smiled back the Prince, carelessly, while
Hiram entered with a tray and silver goblets brimming with violet-flavoured sherbet; I have innumerable
Eyes-and-ears.
You have heard the name? One of the chief
officers of his Majesty is The Royal Eye.
You Athenians are a valiant and in
many things a wise people, yet you could grow in wisdom by looking well to the
East.
I am confident,
exclaimed Democrates, thrusting back the goblet, if your
Excellency requires a noble game of wits, you can have one. I need only step to the
window, and cry
Spies!
—after which your Excellency can exercise your wisdom
and eloquence defending your life before one of our Attic juries.
Which is a polite and patriotic manner of saying, dearest Athenian, you are not
prepared to push matters to such unfortunate extremity. I omit what his Majesty might
do in the way of taking vengeance; sufficient that if aught unfor
Democrates, who had risen to his feet, had been flushed before. He became pale now.
The hand that clutched the purple tapestry was trembling. The words rose to his lips,
the lips refused to utter them. The Prince, who had delivered his threat most quietly,
went on, In short, good Democrates, I was aware before I came to Athens of our
necessities, and I came because I was certain I could relieve them.
Never!
The orator shot the word out desperately.
You are a Hellene.
Am I ashamed of it?
Do not, however, affect to be more virtuous than your race. Persians make their boast
of truth-telling and fidelity. You Hellenes, I hear, have even a god—Hermes
Dolios,—who teaches you lying and thieving. The customs of nations differ. Mazda the
Almighty alone knoweth which is best. Follow then the customs of Hellenes.
You speak in riddles.
Plainer, then. You know the master I serve. You guess who I am, though you shall not
name me. For what sum will you serve Xerxes the Great King?
The orator’s breath came deep. His hands clasped and unclasped, then were pressed behind his head.
I told Lycon, and I tell you, I am no traitor to Hellas.
Which means, of course, you demand a fair price. I am not angry. You will find a
Persian pays like the lord he is, and that his darics always ring true metal.
I’ll hear no more. I was a fool to meet Lycon at Corinth, doubly a fool to meet you
to-night. Farewell.
Democrates seized the latch. The door was locked. He Do you keep me by force? Have a care. I can be
terrible if driven to bay. The window is open. One shout—
The Cyprian had risen, and quietly, but with a grip like iron on Democrates’s wrist, led the orator back to the divan.
You can go free in a twinkling, but hear you shall. Before you boast of your power,
you shall know all of mine. I will recite your condition. Contradict if I say anything
amiss. Your father Myscelus was of the noble house of Codrus, a great name in Athens,
but he left you no large estate. You were ambitious to shine as an orator and leader
of the Athenians. To win popularity you have given great feasts. At the last festival
of the Theseia you fed the poor of Athens on sixty oxen washed down with good Rhodian
wine. All that made havoc in your patrimony.
By Zeus, you speak as if you lived all your life in Athens!
I have said
I have many eyes.
But to continue. You gave the price of the
tackling for six of the triremes with which Themistocles pretends to believe he can
beat back my master. Worse still, you have squandered many minæ on flute girls, dice,
cock-fights, and other gentle pleasures. In short your patrimony is not merely
exhausted but overspent. That, however, is not the most wonderful part of my
recital.
How dare you pry into my secrets?
Be appeased, dear Athenian; it is much more interesting to know you deny nothing of
all I say. It is now five months since you were appointed by your sagacious Athenian
assembly as commissioner to administer the silver taken from the mines at Laurium and
devoted to your navy. You fulfilled the people’s confidence by diverting much of this
money to the payment of your own great debts to the banker Pittacus of Argos. At
present you are
watching the moon,
That is all you know of me?
All.
Democrates sighed with relief. Then you have yet to complete the story, my dear
Barbarian. I have adventured on half the cargo of a large merchantman bringing timber
and tin from Massalia; I look every day for a messenger from Corinth with news of her
safe arrival. Upon her coming I can make good all I owe and still be a passing rich
man.
If the Cyprian was discomposed at this announcement, he did not betray it.
The sea is frightfully uncertain, good Democrates. Upon it, as many fortunes are lost
as are made.
I have offered due prayers to Poseidon, and vowed a gold tripod on the ship’s
arrival.
So even your gods in Hellas have their price,
was the retort, with an
ill-concealed sneer. Do not trust them. Take ten talents from me and to-night sleep
sweetly.
Your price?
the words slipped forth involuntarily.
Themistocles’s private memoranda for the battle-order of your new fleet.
Avert it, gods! The ship will reach Corinth, I warn you—
Democrates’s gestures
became menacing, as again he rose, I will set you in Themistocles’s hand as
soon—
But not to-night.
The Prince rose, smiled, held out his hand. Unbar the door
for his Excellency, Hiram. And you, noble sir, think well of all I said at Corinth on
the certain victory of my master; think also—
the voice fell—how Democrates
the Codrid could be sovereign of Athens under the protection of Persia.
I tyrant of Athens?
the orator clapped his hand behind his back; you say
enough. Good evening.
He was on the threshold, when the slave-boy touched his master’s hand in silent signal.
And if there be any fair woman you desire,
—how gliding the Cyprian’s voice!—shall not the power of Xerxes the great give her unto you?
Why did Democrates feel his forehead turn to flame? Why—almost against will—did he stretch forth his hand to the Cyprian? He went down the stair scarce feeling the steps beneath him. At the bottom voices greeted him from across the darkened street.
A fair evening, Master Glaucon.
A fair evening,
his mechanical answer; then to himself; as he walked away, Wherefore call me Glaucon? I have somewhat his height, though not his shoulder.
Ah,—I know it, I have chanced to borrow his carved walking-stick. Impudent creatures
to read the name!
He had not far to go. Athens was compactly built, all quarters close together. Yet
before he reached home and bed, he was fighting back an ill-defined but terrible
thought. Glaucon! They think I am Glaucon. If I chose to betray the Cyprian—
Further than that he would not suffer the thought to go. He lay sleepless, fighting
against it. The dark was full of the harpies of uncanny suggestion. He arose
unrefreshed, to proffer every god the same prayer: Deliver me from evil imaginings.
Speed the ship to Corinth.
The Acropolis of Athens rises as does no other citadel in the world. Had no workers in
marble or bronze, no weavers of eloquence or song, dwelt beneath its shadow, it would
stand the centre and cynosure of a remarkable landscape. It is
no other like unto it. Is it enough to say its ruddy limestone rises
as a huge boulder one hundred and fifty feet above the plain, that its breadth is five
hundred, its length one thousand? Numbers and measures can never disclose a soul,—and
the Rock of Athens has all but a soul: a soul seems to glow through its adamant when the
fire-footed morning steals over the long crest of Hymettus, and touches the citadel’s
red bulk with unearthly brightness; a soul when the day falls to sleep in the arms of
night as Helios sinks over the western hill by Daphni. Then the Rock seems to throb and
burn with life again. The
Rock,
It is so bare that the hungry goats can hardly crop one spear of grass along its
jagged slopes. It is so steep it scarce needs defence against an army. It is so
commanding that he who stands on the westmost pinnacle can look across the windy hill of
the Pnyx, across the brown plain-land and down to the sparkling blue sea with the busy
havens of Peiræus and Phalerum, the scattered gray isles of the Ægean, and far away to
the domelike crest of Acro-Corinthus. Let him turn to the right: below him nestles the
That was almost the self-same vision in the dim past when the first savage clambered
this Citadel of Cecrops
and spoke, Here is my dwelling-place.
This will be
the vision until earth and ocean are no more. The human habitation changes, the temples
rise and crumble; the red and gray rock, the crystalline air, the sapphire sea, come
from the god, and these remain.
Glaucon and Hermione were come together to offer thanks to Athena for the glory of the Isthmus. The athlete had already mounted the citadel heading a myrtle-crowned procession to bear a formal thanksgiving, but his wife had not then been with him. Now they would go together, without pomp. They walked side by side. Nimble Chloë tripped behind with her mistress’s parasol. Old Manes bore the bloodless sacrifice, but Hermione said in her heart there came two too many.
Many a friendly eye, many a friendly word, followed as they crossed the Agora, where traffic was in its morning bustle. Glaucon answered every greeting with his winsome smile.
All Athens seems our friend!
he said, as close by the Tyrannicides’ statues at
the upper end of the plaza a grave councilman bowed and an old bread woman left her
stall to bob a courtesy.
Is
corrected Hermione, thinking only of her
husband, your friend,for I have won no pentathlon.
Ah,
he answered, looking not on
the glorious citadel but on her face, makaira, dearest and best,could I have won the parsley wreath had there
been no better wreath awaiting me at Eleusis? And to-day I am gladdest of the glad.
For the gods have sent me blessings beyond desert, I no longer fear their envy as
once. I enjoy honour with all good men. I have no enemy in the world. I have the
dearest of friends, Cimon, Themistocles—beyond all, Democrates. I am blessed in love
beyond Peleus espoused to Thetis, or Anchises beloved of Aphrodite, for my golden
Aphrodite lives not on Olympus, nor Paphos, nor comes on her doves from Cythera, but
dwells—
Peace.
The hand laid on his mouth was small but firm. Do not anger the goddess
by likening me unto her. It is joy enough for me if I can look up at the sun and say,
I keep the love of Glaucon the Fortunate and the Good.
Walking thus in their golden dream, the two crossed the Agora, turned to the left from
the Pnyx, and by crooked lanes went past the craggy rock of Areopagus, till before them
rose a wooden palisade and a gate. Through this a steep path led upward to the citadel.
Not to the Acropolis of fame. The buildings then upon the Rock in one short year would
lie in heaps of fire-scarred ruin. Yet in that hour before Glaucon and Hermione a not
unworthy temple rose, the old House of Athena,
prototype of the later Parthenon.
In the morning light it stood in beauty—a hundred Doric columns, a sculptured pediment,
flashing with white marble and with tints of scarlet, blue, and gold. Below it, over the
irregular plateau of the Rock, spread avenues of votive statues of gods and heroes in
stone, bronze, or painted wood. Here
Athena, Virgin, Queen, Deviser of Wisdom,—whatever be the name thou lovest
best,—accept this offering and hear. Bless now us both. Give us to strive for the
noblest, to speak the wise word, to love one another. Give us prosperity, but not unto
pride. Bless all our friends; but if we have enemies, be thou their enemy also. And so
shall we praise thee forever.
This was all the prayer and worship. A little more meditation, then husband and wife went forth from the sacred cella. The panorama—rocks, plain, sea, and bending heavens—opened before them in glory. The light faded upon the purple breasts of the western mountains. Behind the Acropolis, Lycabettus’s pyramid glowed like a furnace. The marble on distant Pentelicus shone dazzlingly.
Glaucon stood on the easternmost pinnacle of the Rock, watching the landscape.
Joy,
he cried, makaira, joy,we possess one another. We
dwell in
violet-crowned Athens
; for what else dare we to pray?
But Hermione pointed less pleased toward the crest of Pentelicus.
Behold it! How swiftly yonder gray cloud comes on a rushing wind! It will cover the
brightness. The omen is bad.
Why bad,
makaira?
The cloud is the Persian. He hangs to-day as a thunder-cloud above Athens and Hellas.
Xerxes will come. And you—
She pressed closer to her husband.
Why speak of me?
he asked lightly.
Xerxes brings war. War brings sorrow to women. It is not the hateful and old that the
spears and the arrows love best.
Half compelled by the omen, half by a sudden burst of unoccasioned fear, her eyes shone with tears; but her husband’s laugh rang clearly.
Euge! dry your eyes, and look before you. King Æolus scatters
the cloud upon his briskest winds. It breaks into a thousand bits. So shall
Themistocles scatter the hordes of Xerxes. The Persian shadow shall come, shall go,
and again we shall be happy in beautiful Athens.
Athena grant it!
prayed Hermione.
We can trust the goddess,
returned Glaucon, not to be shaken from his happy mood.
And now that we have paid our vows to her, let us descend. Our friends are already
waiting for us by the Pnyx before they go down to the harbours.
As they went down the steep, Cimon and Democrates came running to join them, and in the brisk chatter that arose the omen of the cloud and fears of the Persian faded from Hermione’s mind.
It was a merry party such as often went down to the havens of Athens in the springtime and summer: a dozen gentlemen, old and young, for the most part married, and followed demurely by their wives with the latter’s maids, and many a stout Thracian slave tugging hampers of meat and drink. Laughter there was, admixed with wiser talk; friends walking by twos and threes, with Themistocles, as always, seeming to mingle with all and to surpass every one both in jests and in wisdom. So they fared down across the broad plain-land to the harbours, till the hill Munychia rose steep before them. A scramble over a rocky, ill-marked way led to the top; then before them broke a second view comparable almost to that from the Rock of Athena: at their feet lay the four blue havens of Athens, to the right Phaleron, closer at hand the land-locked bay of Munychia, beyond that Zea, beyond that still a broader sheet—Peiræus, the new war-harbour of Athens. They could look down on the brown roofs of the port-town, the forest of masts, the merchantman unloading lumber from the Euxine, the merchantman loading dried figs for Syria; but most of all on the numbers of long black hulls, some motionless on the placid harbour, some propped harmlessly on the shore. Hermione clouded as she saw them, and glanced away.
I do not love your new fleet, Themistocles,
she said, frowning at the handsome
statesman; I do not love anything that tells so clearly of war. It mars the
beauty.
Rather you should rejoice we have so fair a wooden wall against the Barbarian, dear
lady,
answered he, quite at ease. What can we do to hearten her,
Democrates?
Were I only Zeus,
rejoined the orator, who never was far from his best friend’s
wife, I would cast two thunderbolts, one to destroy Xerxes, the second to blast
Themistocles’s armada,—so would the Lady Hermione be satisfied.
I am sorry, then, you are not the Olympian,
said the woman, half smiling at the
pleasantry. Cimon interrupted them. Some of the party had caught a sun-burned shepherd
in among the rocks, a veritable Pan in his shaggy goat-skin. The bribe of two obols
brought him out with his pipe. Four of the slave-boys fell to dancing. The party sat
down upon the burnt grass,—eating, drinking, wreathing poppy-crowns, and watching the
nimble slaves and the ships that crawled like ants in the haven and bay below. Thus
passed the noon, and as the sun dropped toward craggy Salamis across the strait, the men
of the party wandered down to the ports and found boats to take them out upon the bay.
The wind was a zephyr. The water spread blue and glassy. The sun was sinking as a ball
of infinite light. Themistocles, Democrates, and Glaucon were in one skiff, the athlete
at the oars. They glided past the scores of black triremes swinging lazily at anchor.
Twice they pulled around the proudest of the fleet,—the
Here’s a tooth for the Persian king!
he was laughing, when a second skiff,
rounding the trireme in an opposite direction, collided abruptly. A lurch, a few
splinters was all the hurt, but as the boats parted Themistocles rose from his seat in
the stern, staring curiously.
Barbarians, by Athena’s owls, the knave at the oars is a sleek Syrian, and his master
and the boy from the East too. What business around our war-fleet? Row after them,
Glaucon; we’ll question—
Glaucon does no such folly,
spoke Democrates, instantly, from the bow; if the
harbour-watch doesn’t interfere with honest traders, what’s it to us?
As you like it.
Themistocles resumed his seat. Yet it would do no harm. Now
they row to another trireme. With what falcon eyes the master of the trio examines it!
Something uncanny, I repeat.
To examine everything strange,
proclaimed Democrates, sententiously, needs the
life of a crow, who, they say, lives a thousand years, but I don’t see any black wings
budding on Themistocles’s shoulders. Pull onward, Glaucon.
Whither?
demanded the rower.
To Salamis,
ordered Themistocles. Let us see the battle-place foretold by the
oracle.
To Salamis or clear to Crete,
rejoined Glaucon, setting his strength upon the
oars and making the skiff bound, if we can find water deep enough to drown those
gloomy looks that have sat on Democrates’s brows of late.
Not gloomy but serious,
said the young orator, with an attempt at lightness; I
have been preparing my oration against the contractor I’ve indicted for embezzling the
public naval stores.
Destroy the man!
cried the rower.
And yet I really pity him; he was under great temptation.
No excuses; the man who robs the city in days like these is worse than he who betrays
fortresses in most wars.
I see you are a savage patriot, Glaucon,
said Themistocles, despite your
Adonis face. We are fairly upon the bay; our nearest eavesdroppers, yon fishermen, are
a good five furlongs. Would you see something?
Glaucon rested on the oars, while
the statesman fumbled in his breast. He drew out a papyrus sheet, which he passed to the
rower, he in turn to Democrates.
Look well, then, for I think no Persian spies are here. A month long have I wrought
on this bit of papyrus. All my wisdom flowed out of my pen when I spread the ink. In
short here is the ordering of the ships of the allied Greeks when we meet Xerxes in
battle. Leonidas and our other chiefs gave me the task when we met at Corinth. To-day
it is complete. Read it, for it is precious. Xerxes would give twenty talents for this
one leaf from Egypt.
The young men peered at the sheet curiously. The details and diagrams were few and
easy to remember, the Athenian ships here, the Æginetan next, the Corinthian next, and
so with the other allies. A few comments on the use of the light
You two have seen this,
he announced, seemingly proud of his handiwork; Leonidas shall see this, then Xerxes, and after that—
he laughed, but not in
jest—men will remember Themistocles, son of Neocles!
The three lapsed into silence for a moment. The skiff was well out upon the sea. The shadows of the hills of Salamis and of Ægelaos, the opposing mountain of Attica, were spreading over them. Around the islet of Psyttaleia in the strait the brown fisher-boats were gliding. Beyond the strait opened the blue hill-girdled bay of Eleusis, now turning to fire in the evening sun. Everything was peaceful, silent, beautiful. Again Glaucon rested on his oars and let his eyes wander.
How true is the word of Thales the Sage,
he spoke; the world is the fairest
of all fair things, because it is the
It cannot be that, here, between these purple hills and the glistening sea,
there will come that battle beside which the strife of Achilles and Hector before Troy
shall pass as nothing!
Themistocles shook his head.
We do not know; we are dice in the high gods’ dice-boxes.
Man all vainly shall scan the mind of the Prince of Olympus.
We can say nothing wiser than that. We can but use our
Attic mother wit, and trust the rest to destiny. Let us be satisfied if we hope that
destiny is not blind.
They drifted many moments in silence.
The sun sinks lower,
spoke Democrates, at length; so back again to the
havens.
On the return Themistocles once more vowed he caught a glimpse of the skiff of the
unknown foreigners, but Democrates called it mere phantasy. Hermione met them at the
Peiræus, and the party wandered back through the gathering dusk to the city, where each
little group went its way. Themistocles went to his own house, where he said he expected
Sicinnus; Cimon and Democrates sought a tavern for an evening cup; Glaucon and Hermione
hastened to their house in the Colonus suburb near the trickling Cephissus, where in the
starlit night the tettix
Democrates went home later. After the heady Pramnian at the tavern, he roved away with Cimon and others to serenade beneath the lattice of a lady—none too prudish—in the Ceramicus quarter. But the fair one was cruel that night, and her slaves repelled the minstrels with pails of hot water from an upper window. Democrates thereupon quitted the party. His head was very befogged, but he could not expel one idea from it—that Themistocles had revealed that day a priceless secret, that the statesman and Glaucon and he himself were the only men who shared it, and that it was believed that Glaucon had visited the Babylonish carpet-seller. Joined to this was an overpowering consciousness that Helen of Troy was not so lovely as Hermione of Eleusis. When he came to his lodgings, however, his wits cleared in a twinkling after he had read two letters. The first was short.
Themistocles to Democrates:—This evening I begin to discover something.
Sicinnus, who has been searching in Athens, is certain there is a Persian agent in the
city. Seize him.—
Chaire.
The second was shorter. It came from Corinth.
Socias the merchant to Democrates:—Tyrrhenian pirates have taken the ship.
Lading and crew are utterly lost.—
Chaire.
The orator never closed his eyes that night.
Democrates fronted ruin. What profit later details from Socias of the capture of the merchantman? Unless three days before the coming festival of the Panathenæa the orator could find a large sum, he was forever undone. His sequestering of the ship-money would become public property. He would be tried for his life. Themistocles would turn against him. The jury would hardly wait for the evidence. He would drink the poisonous hemlock and his corpse be picked by the crows in the Barathrum,—an open pit, sole burial place for Athenian criminals.
One thing was possible: to go to Glaucon, confess all, and beg the money. Glaucon was
rich. He could have the amount from Conon and Hermippus for the asking. But Democrates
knew Glaucon well enough to perceive that while the athlete might find the money, he
would
Democrates enjoyed apartments on the street of the Tripods east of the Acropolis, a
fashionable promenade of
But Democrates was not thinking so much of the unpaid bronze-smith as of divers weightier debts. On the evening in question he had ordered Bias, the sly Thracian, out of the room; with his own hands had barred the door and closed the lattice; then with stealthy step thrust back the scarlet wall tapestry to disclose a small door let into the plaster. A key made the door open into a cupboard, out of which Democrates drew a brass-bound box of no great size, which he carried gingerly to a table and opened with a complex key.
The contents of the box were curious, to a stranger enigmatic. Not money, nor jewels, but rolls of closely written papyri, and things which the orator studied more intently,—a number of hard bits of clay bearing the impressions of seals. As Democrates fingered these, his face might have betrayed a mingling of keen fear and keener satisfaction.
There is no such collection in all Hellas,—no, not in the world,
ran his
commentary; here is the signet of the Tagos of Thessaly, here of the Bœotarch of
Thebes, here of the King of Argos. I was able to secure the seal of Leonidas while in
—he unrolled them
lovingly, one after another,—precious specimens, are they not? Ah, by Zeus, I must
be a very merciful and pious man, or I’d have used that dreadful power heaven has
given me and never have drifted into these straits.
What that power
was with which Democrates felt himself endued he did not even
whisper to himself. His mood changed suddenly. He closed the box with a snap and locked
it hurriedly.
Cursed casket!—I think I would be happier if Phorcys, the old man of the deep, could
drown it all! I would be better for it and kept from foul thoughts.
He thrust the box back in the cupboard, drew forth a second like it, unlocked it, and took out more writings. Selecting two, he spread ink and papyrus before him, and copied with feverish haste. Once he hesitated, and almost flung back the writings into the casket. Once he glanced at the notes he had prepared for his speech against the defrauding contractor. He grimaced bitterly. Then the hesitation ended. He finished the copying, replaced the second box, and barred and concealed the cupboard. He hid his new copies in his breast and called in Bias.
I am going out, but I shall not be late.
Shall not Hylas and I go with lanterns?
asked the fellow. Last night there
were foot-pads.
I don’t need you,
rejoined his master, brusquely.
He went down into the dimly lighted street and wound through the maze of back alleys
wherein Athens abounded, but Democrates never missed his way. Once he caught the glint
of a lantern—a slave lighting home his master from Again
Glaucon,
he caught, but was not troubled.
After all,
he reflected, if seen at all, there is no harm in such a
mistake.
The room was again glittering in its Oriental magnificence. The Cyprian advanced to meet his visitor, smiling blandly.
Welcome, dear Athenian. We have awaited you. We are ready to heal your calamity.
Democrates turned away his face.
You know it already! O Zeus, I am the most miserable man in all Hellas!
And wherefore miserable, good friend?
The Cyprian half led, half compelled the
visitor to a seat on the divan. Is it such to be enrolled from this day among the
benefactors of my most gracious lord and king?
Don’t goad me!
Democrates wrung his hands. I am desperate. Take these papyri,
read, pay, then let me never see your face again.
He flung the two rolls in the
Prince’s lap and sat in abject misery.
The other unrolled the writings deliberately, read slowly, motioned to Hiram, who also read them with catlike scrutiny. During all this not a word was spoken. Democrates observed the beautiful mute emerge from an inner chamber and silently take station at his master’s side, following the papers also with wonderful, eager eyes. Only after a long interval the Prince spoke.
Well—you bring what purports to be private memoranda of Themistocles on the
equipment and arraying of the Athenian fleet. Yet these are only copies.
Copies; the originals cannot stay in my possession. It were ruin to give them up.
The Prince turned to Hiram.
And do you say, from what you know of these things, these memoranda are genuine?
Genuine. That is the scanty wisdom of the least of your Highness’s slaves.
The Oriental bowed himself, then stood erect in a manner that reminded Democrates of some serpent that had just coiled and uncoiled.
Good,
continued the emissary; yet I must ask our good Athenian to confirm them
with an oath.
The orator groaned. He had not expected this last humiliation; but being forced to drink the cup, he drained it to the lees. He swore by Zeus Orchios, Watcher of Oaths, and Dike, the Eternal Justice, that he brought true copies, and that if he was perjured, he called a curse upon himself and all his line. The Cyprian received his oath with calm satisfaction, then held out the half of a silver shekel broken in the middle.
Show this to Mydon, the Sicyonian banker at Phaleron. He holds its counterpart. He
will pay the man who completes the coin ten talents.
Democrates received the token, but felt that he must stand upon his dignity.
I have given an oath, stranger, but give the like to me. What proof have I of this
Mydon?
The question seemed to rouse the unseen lion in the Cyprian. His eye kindled. His voice swelled.
We leave oaths, Hellene, to men of trade and barter,
The Athenian shrank at the storm he had roused. But the Prince almost instantly curbed himself. His voice sank again to its easy tone of conciliation.
So much for my word, good friend; yet better than an oath, look here. Can the man who
bears this ring afford to tell a lie?
He extended his right hand. On the second finger was a huge beryl signet. Democrates bent over it.
Two seated Sphynxes and a winged cherub flying above,—the seal of the royal
Achæmenians of Persia! You are sent by Xerxes himself. You are—
The Prince raised a warning finger. Hush, Athenian. Think what you will, but do not
name me, though soon my name shall fly through all the world.
So be it,
rejoined Democrates, his hands clutching the broken coin as at a last
reprieve from death. But be warned, even though I bear you no good-will. Themistocles
is suspicious. Sicinnus his agent, a sly cat, is searching for you. The other day
Themistocles, in the boat at Peiræus, was fain to have you questioned. If detected, I
cannot save you.
The Prince shrugged his shoulders.
Good Democrates, I come of a race that trusts in the omnipotence of God and does the
right. Duty requires me in Athens. What Ahura-Mazda and Mithra his glorious vicegerent
will, that shall befall me, be I in Hellas or in safe Ecbatana. The decree of the Most
High, written among the stars, is good. I do not shun it.
The words were spoken candidly, reverently. Democrates
As you will,
spoke the Athenian; I have warned you. Trust then your God. I
have sold myself this once, but do not call me friend. Necessity is a sharp goad. May
our paths never cross again!
Until you again have need,
said the Prince, not seeking to wring from the other
any promise.
Democrates muttered a sullen farewell and went down the dark stairs. The light in
Phormio’s house was They think it was
Glaucon who has been twice now to visit the Babylonish
carpet-seller.
As the door had closed behind the orator, the Prince had strode across the rugs to the window—and spat forth furiously as in extreme disgust.
Fool, knave, villain! I foul my lips by speaking to his accursed ears!
The tongue in which he uttered this was the purest Royal Persian,
such as one
might hear in the king’s court. The beautiful mute,
mute no longer, glided across
the chamber and laid both hands upon his shoulder with a gracious caress.
And yet you bear with these treacherous creatures, you
was the remark in the same musical tongue.
Yes, because there is sore need. Because, with all their faithlessness, covetousness,
and guile, these Hellenes are the keenest, subtlest race beneath Mithra’s glorious
light. And we Persians must play with them, master them, and use them to make us lords
of all the world.
Hiram had disappeared behind a curtain. The Prince lifted her silver embroidered red cap. Over the graceful shoulders fell a mass of clear gold hair, so golden one might have hidden shining darics within it. The shining head pressed against the Persian’s breast. In this attitude, with the loose dress parting to show the tender lines, there could be no doubt of the other’s sex. The Prince laid his hand upon her neck and drew her bright face nearer.
This is a mad adventure on which we two have come,
he spoke; how nearly you
were betrayed at the Isthmus, when the Athenian saved you! A blunder by Hiram, an
ill-turn of Fate, will ruin us yet. It is far, Rose of Eran, from Athens to the
pleasant groves of Susa and the sparkling Choaspes.
But the adventure is ending,
answered she, with smiling confidence; Mazda has
guarded us. As you have said—we are in his hand, alike here and in my brother’s
palace. And we have seen Greece and Athens—the country and city which you will
conquer, which you will rule.
Yes,
he said, letting his eyes pass from her face to the vista of the Acropolis,
which lay in fair view under the moonlight. How noble a city this! Xerxes has
promised that I shall be satrap of Hellas, Athens shall be my capital, and you, O best
beloved, you shall be mistress of Athens.
I shall be mistress of Athens,
echoed she, but you, husband and lord, would
that men might give you a higher name than satrap, chief of the Great King’s
slaves!
Xerxes is king,
he answered her.
My brother wears the purple cap. He sits on the throne of Cyrus the Great and Darius
the Dauntless. I would be a loyal Aryan, the king is indeed in Susa or Babylon. But
for me the true king of Media and Persia—is here.
And she lifted proud eyes to
her husband.
You are bold, Rose of Eran,
he smiled, not angry at her implication; more
cautious words than these have brought many in peril of the bow-string. But, by Mithra
the Fiend-Smiter, why were you not made a man? Then truly would your mother Atossa
have given Darius an heir right worthy the twenty kingdoms!
She gave a gentle laugh.
The Most High ordains the best. Have I not the noblest kingdom? Am I not your
wife?
His laugh answered her.
Then I am greater than Xerxes. I love my empire the best!
He leaned again from the lattice, O, fairest of cities, and we shall win it! See
how the tawny rock turns to silver beneath the moonbeams! How clearly burn the stars
over the plain and the mountain! And these Greeks, clever, wise, beautiful, when we
have mastered them, have taught them our Aryan obedience and love of truth, what
servants will they not become! For we are ordained to conquer. Mazda has given us
empire without limit, from the Indus to the Great Ocean of the West,—all shall be
ours; for we are Persians, the race to rule forever.
We will conquer,
she said dreamily, as enchanted as was he by the beauties of the
night.
From the day Cyrus your grandfather flung down Cambyses the Mede, the High God has
been with us. Egypt, Assyria, Babylon—have all bowed under our yoke. The
he held out
his arms confidently—shall be the brightest star in the Persian tiara. When Darius
your father lay dying, I swore to him,
Master, fear not; I will avenge you on
Athens and on all the Greeks.
And in one brief year, O fravashi, soul of the great departed, I may make good the vow. I will make
these untamed Hellenes bow their proud necks to a king.
Her own eyes brightened, looking on him, as he spoke in pride and power.
And yet,
she could not keep back the question, as we have moved through this
Hellas, and seen its people, living without princes, or with princes of little power,
sometimes a strange thought comes. These perverse, unobedient folk, false as they are,
and ununited, have yet a strength to do great things, a strength which even we Aryans
lack.
He shook his head.
It cannot be. Mazda ordained a king to rule, the rest to obey. And all the wits of
Hellas have no strength until they learn that lesson well. But I will teach it
them.
For some day you will be their king?
spoke the woman. He did not reprove, but
stood beside her, gazing forth upon the night. In the moonlight the columns and
sculptures of the great temple on the Acropolis stood out in minute tracery They could
see all the caverns and jagged ledges on the massy Rock. The flat roofs of the sleeping
city lay like a dark and peaceful ocean. The mountains spread around in shadow-wrapped
hush. Far away the dark stretch of the sea sent back a silver shimmering in answer to
the moon. A landscape only possible at Athens! The two sensitive Orientals’ souls were
deeply touched. For long they were silent, then the husband spoke.
Twenty days more; we are safe in Sardis, the adventure ended. The war only remains,
and the glory, the conquest,—and thou. O Ahura-Mazda,
he spoke upward to the
stars, give to thy Persians this land. For when Thou hast given this, Thou wilt keep
back nothing of all the world.
Democrates surpassed himself when arraigning the knavish contractor. Nestor and
Odysseus both speak to us,
shouted Polus in glee, flinging his black bean in the
urn. What eloquence, what righteous fury when he painted the man’s infamy to pillage
the city in a crisis like this!
So the criminal was sent to death and Democrates was showered with congratulations. Only one person seemed hardly satisfied with all the young orator did,—Themistocles. The latter told his lieutenant candidly he feared all was not being done to apprehend the Persian emissary. Themistocles even took it upon himself to send Sicinnus to run down several suspects, and just on the morning of the day preceding the Panathenæa—the great summer festival—Democrates received a hint which sent him home very thoughtful. He had met his chief in the Agora as he was leaving the Government-House, and Themistocles had again asked if he had smelt aught of the Persian agent. He had not.
Then you would well devote more time to finding his scent, and less to convicting a
pitiful embezzler. You know the Alopece suburb?
Certainly.
And the house of Phormio the
to which Democrates nodded.
Well, Sicinnus has been watching the quarter. A Babylonish carpet-seller has rooms
opposite Phormio. The man is suspicious, does no trading, and Phormio’s wife told
Sicinnus an odd tale.
What tale?
Democrates glanced at a passing chariot, avoiding Themistocles’s gaze.
Why, twice the Barbarian, she swears, has had an evening visitor—and he our dear
Glaucon.
Impossible.
Of course. The good woman is mistaken. Still, question her. Pry into this
Babylonian’s doings. He may be selling more things than carpets. If he has corrupted
any here in Athens,—by Pluto the Implacable, I will make them tell out the price!
I’ll inquire at once.
Do so. The matter grows serious.
Themistocles caught sight of one of the archons and hastened across the Agora to have
a word with him. Democrates passed his hand across his forehead, beaded with sudden
sweat-drops. He knew—though Themistocles had said not a word—that his superior was
beginning to distrust his efforts, and that Sicinnus was working independently.
Democrates had great respect for the acuteness of that Asiatic. He was coming perilously
near the truth already. If the Cyprian and Hiram were arrested, the latter at least
would surely try to save his life by betraying their nocturnal visitor. To get the spy
safely out of Athens would be the first step,—but not all. Sicinnus once upon the scent
would not readily drop it until he had discovered the emissary’s confederate. And of the
fate of that confederate Themistocles had just given a grim hint. There was himself, Sicinnus would regard the matter as cleared
up and drop all interest therein. All these possibilities raced through the orator’s
head, as does the past through one drowning. A sudden greeting startled him.
A fair morning, Democrates.
It was Glaucon. He walked arm-in-arm with Cimon.
A fair morning, indeed. Where are you going?
To the Peiræus to inspect the new tackling of the
Unfortunately I argue a case before the King Archon.
Be as eloquent as in your last speech. Do you know, Cimon declares I am disloyal too,
and that you will soon be prosecuting me?
Avert it, gods! What do you mean?
Why, he is sending a letter to Argos,
asserted Cimon. Now I say Argos has
Medized, therefore no good Hellene should correspond with a traitorous Argive.
Be jury on my treachery,
commanded Glaucon. Ageladas the master-sculptor sends
me a bronze Perseus in honour of my victory. Shall I churlishly send him no thanks
because he lives in Argos?
Not guilty
votes the jury; the white beans prevail. So the letter goes
to-day?
To-morrow afternoon. You know Seuthes of Corinth—the bow-legged fellow with a big
belly. He goes home to-morrow afternoon after seeing the procession and the
sacrifice.
He goes by sea?
asked Democrates, casually.
By land; no ship went to his liking. He will lie overnight at Eleusis.
The friends went their ways. Democrates hardly saw or heard anything until he was in
his own chambers. Three
Bias the Thracian was discovered that afternoon by his master lurking in a corner of
the chamber. Democrates seized a heavy dog-whip, lashed the boy unmercifully, then cast
him out, threatening that eavesdropping would be rewarded by cutting into shoe
soles.
Then the master resumed his feverish pacings and the nervous twisting of his
fingers. Unfortunately, Bias felt certain the threat would never have been uttered
unless the weightiest of matters had been on foot. As in all Greek dwellings,
Democrates’s rooms were divided not by doors but by hanging curtains, and Bias, letting
curiosity master fear, ensconced himself again behind one of these and saw all his
master’s doings. What Democrates said and did, however, puzzled his good servant quite
sufficiently.
Democrates had opened the privy cupboard, taken out one of the caskets and scattered its contents upon the table, then selected a papyrus, and seemed copying the writing thereon with extreme care. Next one of the clay seals came into play. Democrates was testing it upon wax. Then the orator rose, dashed the wax upon the floor, put his sandal thereon, tore the papyrus on which he wrote to bits. Again he paced restlessly, his hands clutching his hair, his forehead frowns and blackness, while Bias thought he heard him muttering as he walked:—
O Zeus! O Apollo! O Athena! I cannot do this thing! Deliver me! Deliver!
Then back to the table again, once more to pick up the mysterious clay, again to copy,
to stamp on the wax, to fling down, mutilate, and destroy. The pantomime was
Clearly the
was his own explanation, and
growing frightened at following the strange movements of his lord, he crept from his
retreat and tried to banish uncanny fears at a safe distance, by tying a thread to the
leg of a gold-chaferkyrios is mad,
Curses upon the miserable stuff!
he swore almost loudly; it is this which has
set the evil thoughts to racing. Destroy
that, and the deed is
beyond my power.
He held up the clay and eyed it as a miser might his gold.
What a little lump! Not very hard. I can dash it on the floor and it dissolves in
dust. And yet, and yet—all Elysium, all Tartarus, are pent up for me in just this bit
of clay.
He picked at it with his finger and broke a small piece from the edge.
A little more, the stamp is ruined. I could not use it. Better if it were ruined. And
yet,—and yet,—
He laid the clay upon the table and sat watching it wistfully.
O Father Zeus!
he broke out after silence, if I were not compelled by fear!
Sicinnus is so sharp, Themistocles
He looked at the inanimate lump as if he expected it to answer him.
Ah, I am all alone. No one to counsel me. In every other trouble when has it been as
this? Glaucon? Cimon? Themistocles?—What would they advise?
—he ended with a
laugh more bitter than a sob. And I must save myself, but at such a price!
He pressed his hands over his eyes.
Curses on the hour I met Lycon! Curses on the Cyprian and his gold! It would have
been better to have told Glaucon and let him save me now and hate me forever after.
But I have sold myself to the Cyprian. The deed cannot be taken back.
But as he said it, he arose, took the charmed bit of clay, replaced in the box, and locked the coffer. His hand trembled as he did it.
I cannot do this thing. I have been foolish, wicked,—but I must not be driven mad by
fear. The Cyprian must quit Athens to-morrow. I can throw Sicinnus off the scent. I
shall never be the worse.
He walked with the box toward the cupboard, but stopped halfway.
It is a dreadful death to die;
—his thoughts raced and were half uttered,—hemlock!—men grow cold limb by limb and keep all their faculties to the end. And the
crows in the Barathrum, and the infamy upon my father’s name! When was a son of the
house of Codrus branded
A Traitor to Athens
? Is it wickedness to save one’s own
life?
Instead of going to the cupboard he approached the window. The sun beat hotly, but as
he leaned forth into the street he shivered as on a winter’s morn. In blank wretch
I cannot stand gaping like a fool forever. An omen, by every god an omen! Ah! what am
I to do?
He glanced toward the sky in vain hope of a lucky raven or eagle winging
out of the east, but saw only blue and brightness. Then his eye went down the street,
and at the glance the warm blood tingled from his forehead to his heels.
She was passing,—Hermione, child of Hermippus. She walked before, two comely maids went after with her stool and parasol; but they were the peonies beside the rose. She had thrown her blue veil back. The sun played over the sheen of her hair. As she moved, her floating saffron dress of the rare muslin of Amorgos now revealed her delicate form, now clothed her in an enchanting cloud. She held her head high, as if proud of her own grace and of the beauty and fair name of her husband. She never looked upward, nor beheld how Democrates’s eyes grew like bright coals as he gazed on her. He saw her clear high forehead, he heard—or thought he heard despite the jar of the street—the rustle of the muslin robe. Hermione passed, nor ever knew how, by taking this way from the house of a friend, she coloured the skein of life for three mortals—for herself, her husband, and Democrates.
Democrates followed her with his eyes until she vanished around the fountain at the street corner; then sprang back from the window. The workings of his face were terrible. It was an instant when men grasp the godlike or sink to the demon, when they do deeds never to be recalled.
The omen!
he almost cried, the omen! Not Zeus
He flung the casket upon the table and spread its fateful contents again before him. His hand flew over the papyrus with marvellous speed and skill. He knew that all his faculties were at his full command and unwontedly acute.
Bias was surprised at his sport by a sudden clapping of his master’s hands.
What is it,
kyrie?
Go to Agis. He keeps the gaming-house in the Ceramicus. You know where. Tell him to
come hither instantly. He shall not lack reward. Make your feet fly. Here is something
to speed them.
He flung at the boy a coin. Bias opened eyes and mouth in wonder. It was not silver, but a golden daric.
Don’t blink at it, sheep, but run. Bring Agis,
ordered the master,—and Bias’s
legs never went faster than on that afternoon.
Agis came. Democrates knew his man and had no difficulty in finding his price. They remained talking together till it was dark, yet in so guarded a tone that Bias, though he listened closely, was unable to make out anything. When Agis went away, he carried two letters. One of these he guarded as if holding the crown jewels of the Great King; the second he despatched by a discreet myrmidon to the rooms of the Cyprian in Alopece. Its contents were pertinent and ran thus:—
Democrates to the stranger calling himself a prince of Cyprus, greeting:—Know
that Themistocles is aware of your presence in Athens, and grows suspicious of
your identity. Leave Athens to-
Chaire.
After Agis was gone the old trembling came again to Democrates. He had Bias light all the lamps. The room seemed full of lurking goblins,—harpies, gorgons, the Hydra, the Minotaur, every other foul and noxious shape was waiting to spring forth. And, most maddening of all, the chorus of Æschylus, that Song of the Furies Democrates had heard recited at the Isthmus, rang in the miserable man’s ears:—
With scourge and with ban
Who planted a snare for his friend.
Democrates approached the bust of Hermes standing in one corner. The brazen face seemed to wear a smile of malignant gladness at the fulfilment of his will.
Hermes,
prayed the orator, Hermes Dolios, god of craft and lies, thieves’ god,
helper of evil,—be with me now. To Zeus, to Athena the pure, I dare not pray. Prosper
me in the deed to which I set my hand,
—he hesitated, he dared not bribe the
shrewd god with too mean a gift, and I vow to set in thy temple at Tanagra three tall
tripods of pure gold. So be with me on the morrow, and I will not forget thy
favour.
The brazen face still smiled on; the room was very still. Yet Democrates took comfort.
Hermes was a great god and
She is Glaucon’s wife. But if not his, whose then but mine?
Flowers on every head, flowers festooned about each pillar, and flowers under foot when one crossed the Agora. Beneath the sheltering porticos lurked bright-faced girls who pelted each passer with violets, narcissus, and hyacinths. For this was the morn of the final crowning day of the Panathenæa, greatest, gladdest of Athenian festivals.
Athletic contests had preceded it and stately Pyrrhic dances of men in full armour. There had been feasting and merry-making despite the darkening shadow of the Persian. Athens seemed awakened only to rejoice. To-day was the procession to the Acropolis, the bearing of the sacred robe to Athena, the public sacrifice for all the people. Not even the peril of Xerxes could hinder a gladsome holiday.
The sun had just risen above Hymettus, the Agora shops were closed, but the plaza itself and the lesches—the numerous little club houses about it—overran with gossipers. On the stone bench before one of these buzzed the select coterie that of wont assembled in Clearchus’s booth; only Polus the juror now and then nodded and snored. He had sat up all night hearing the priestesses chant their ceaseless litanies on the Acropolis.
Guilty—I vote guilty,
the others heard him muttering, as his head sank lower.
Wake up, friend,
ordered Clearchus; you’re not condemning any poor scoundrel
now.
Polus rubbed his eyes, Ai!I only thought I was dropping the black
bean—
Against whom?
quoth Crito, the fat contractor.
Whom? Why that aristocrat Glaucon, surely,—to-night—
Polus suddenly checked
himself and began to roll his eyes.
You’ve a dreadful grievance against him,
remarked Clearchus; the gods know
why.
The wise patriot can see many things,
observed Polus, complacently, only I
repeat—wait till to-night—and then—
What then?
demanded all the others.
Then you shall see,
announced the juror, with an oratorical flourish of his dirty
himation, and not you only but all of Athens.
Clearchus grinned.
Our dear Polus has a vast sense of his own importance. And who has been making you
partner of the state secrets—Themistocles?
A man almost his peer, the noble patriot Democrates. Ask Phormio’s wife, Lampaxo;
ask—
Once more he broke off to lay a finger on his lips. This will be a
notable day for Athens!
Our good friend surely thinks so!
rejoined the potter, dryly; but since he
won’t trust us with his precious secret, I think it much more interesting to watch the
people crossing the square. The procession must be gathering outside the Dipylon Gate.
Yonder rides Themistocles now to take command.
The statesman cantered past on a shining white Thessalian. At his heels were prancing
Cimon, Democrates, Glau
Agis is a strange fish to have dealings with a
wondered Crito. steward
of the procession
to-day,
You’ll be enlightened to-morrow,
said Polus, exasperatingly. Then as the band of
horsemen cantered down the broad Dromos street, Ah, me,—I wish I could afford to
serve in the cavalry. It’s far safer than tugging a spear on foot. But there’s one
young man out yonder on whose horse I’d not gladly be sitting.
complained Clearchus, Phui,you are anxious to eat
Glaucon skin and bones! There goes his wife now, all in white flowers and ribbons, to
take her place in the march with the other young matrons. Zeus! But she is as handsome
as her husband.
She needn’t
draw up her eyebrows,
Give herself
airs.
they’re marks of disloyalty even in
her. Can’t you see she wears shoes of the Theban model, laced open so as to display
her bare feet, though everybody knows Thebes is Medizing? She’s no better than
Glaucon.
Hush,
ordered Clearchus, rising, you have spoken folly enough. Those trumpets
tell us we must hasten if we hope to join in the march ourselves.
Who can tell the great procession? Not the maker of books,—what words call down light
on the glancing eyes, on the moving lines of colour? Not the artist,—his pencil may not
limn ten thousand human beings, beautiful and
Never had Helios looked down on fairer landscape or city. The doors of the patrician houses were opened; for a day unguarded, unconstrained, the daughters, wives, and mothers of the nobility of Athens walked forth in their queenly beauty. One could see that the sculptor’s master works were but rigid counterparts of lovelier flesh and blood. One could see veterans, stalwart almost as on the day of the old-time battles, but crowned with the snow of years. One could see youths, and need no longer marvel the young Apollo was accounted fair. Flowers, fluttering mantles, purple, gold, the bravery of armour, rousing music—what was missing? All conjoined to make a perfect spectacle.
The sun had chased the last vapours from the sky. The little ravines on distant Hymettus stood forth sharply as though near at hand. The sun grew hot, but men and women walked with bared heads, and few were the untanned cheeks and shoulders. Children of the South, and lovers of the Sun-King, the Athenians sought no shelter, their own bright humour rejoicing in the light.
On the broad parade ground outside the Dipylon, the towering northwestern gate, the
procession gathered. Themistocles the Handsome, never more gallant than now upon the
white Thessalian, was ordering the array, the ten young men, stewards of the
Panathenæa,
assisting. He sent his last glance down the long files, his ivory wand
signed to the musicians in the van.
Play! march!
Fifty pipers blew, fifty citharas tinkled. The host swept into the city.
Themistocles led. Under the massy double gate caracoled the charger. The robe of his
rider blew out behind him like purple wings. There was the cry and clang of cymbals and
drums. From the gray battlement yellow daisies rained down like gold. Cantering,
halting, advancing, beckoning, the chief went forward, and behind swept the knights,
the mounted chivalry of Athens,—three hundred of the noblest youths of
Attica, on beasts sleek and spirited, and in burnished armour, but about every helm a
wreath. Behind the knights
rode the magistracy, men white-headed and grave, some
riding, some in flower-decked cars. After these the victors in the games and contests of
the preceding day. Next the elders of Athens—men of blameless life, beautiful in hale
and honoured age. Next the ephebi,—the youths close to manhood,
whose fair limbs glistened under their sweeping chitons. Behind them, their sisters,
unveiled, the maidens of Athens, walking in rhythmic beauty, and with them their
attendants, daughters of resident foreigners. Following upon these was the long line of
bleating victims, black bulls with gilded horns and ribbon-decked rams without blemish.
And next—but here the people leaned from parapet, house-roof, portico, and shouted
louder than ever:
The car and the robe of Athena! Hail,
Io, pæan! hail!
Up the street on a car shaped like a galley moved the peplus, the great robe of the
sovran goddess. From afar one could see the wide folds spread on a shipyard and rippling
in the breeze. But what a sail! One year long had the noblest women of Attica wrought on
it, and all the love and art that might breathe through a needle did not fail. It was a
sheen of glowing colour. The strife of Athena with the brutish giants, her contest with
Arachne, the deeds of the heroes of Athens—Erechtheus, Theseus, Codrus: these
Many an onlooker remembered this sight of her, the deep spiritual eyes, the symmetry of form and fold, the perfect carriage. Fair wishes flew out to her like doves.
May she be blessed forever! May King Helios forever bring her joy!
Some cried thus. More thought thus. All seemed more glad for beholding her.
Behind the peplus in less careful array went thousands of citizens of every age and station, all in festival dress, all crowned with flowers. They followed the car up the Dromos Street, across the cheering Agora, and around the southern side of the Acropolis, making a full circuit of the citadel. Those who watched saw Glaucon with Democrates and Cimon give their horses to slaves, and mount the bare knoll of Areopagus, looking down upon the western face of the Acropolis. As the procession swung about to mount the steep, Hermione lifted her glance to Areopagus, saw her husband gazing down on her, raised her hands in delighted gesture, and he answered her. It was done in the sight of thousands, and the thousands smiled with the twain.
Justice! The beautiful salutes the beautiful.
And who thought the less of
Hermione for betraying the woman beneath the mien of the goddess?
But now the march drew to an end. The procession halted, reformed, commenced the
rugged way upward. Come up hither,
then stronger still it pealed in the
imperious crash of the Doric as the procession mounted steadily. Now could be seen great
Lamprus, Orpheus’s peer, the master musician, standing on the balcony above the gate,
beating time for the loud choral.
A chorus amongst the marchers and a second chorus in the citadel joined together, till the red crags shook,—singing the old hymn of the Homeridæ to Athena, homely, rude, yet dear with the memory of ages:—
Pallas Athena, gray-eyed queen of wisdom,
All the Immortals in awed hush are bending,
Now the sea motionless freezes before thee;
Pallas, Chaste Wisdom, Dispeller of Night!
Up the face of the Rock, up the long, statue-lined way, till through the gate the
vision burst,—the innumerable
So they brought the robe to Athena.
Glaucon and his companions had watched the procession ascend, then followed to see the
sacrifice upon the giant altar. The King Archon cut the throat of the first ox and made
public prayer for the people. Wood soaked in perfumed oil blazed upon the huge stone
platform of the sacrifice. Girls flung frankincense upon the roaring flames. The music
crashed louder. All Athens seemed mounting the citadel. The chief priestess came from
the holy house, and in a brief hush proclaimed that the goddess had received the robe
with
Let us not stay to the public feast,
was her wish; let these hucksters and
charcoal-burners who live on beans and porridge scramble for a bit of burned meat, but
we return to Colonus.
Good then,
answered Glaucon, and these friends of course go with us.
Cimon assented readily. Democrates hesitated, and while hesitating was seized by the cloak by none other than Agis, who gave a hasty whisper and vanished in the swirling multitude before Democrates could do more than nod.
He’s an uncanny fox,
remarked Cimon, mystified; I suppose you know his
reputation?
The servant of Athens must sometimes himself employ strange servants,
evaded the
orator.
Yet you might suffer your friends to understand—
Dear son of Miltiades,
Democrates’s voice shook in the slightest, the meaning
of my dealings with Agis I pray Athena you may never have cause to know.
Which means you will not tell us. Then by Zeus I swear the secret no doubt is not
worth the knowing.
Cimon stopped suddenly, as he saw a look of horror on
Hermione’s face. Ah, lady! what’s the matter?
Glaucon,
she groaned, frightful omen! I am terrified!
Glaucon’s hands dropped at her cry. He himself paled slightly. In one of his moods of abstraction he had taken the small knife from his belt and begun to pare his nails,—to do which after a sacrifice was reputed an infallible means of provoking heaven’s anger. The friends were grave and silent. The athlete gave a forced laugh.
The goddess will be merciful to-day. To-morrow I will propitiate her with a goat.
Now, now, not to-morrow,
urged Hermione, with white lips, but her husband
refused.
The goddess is surfeited with sacrifices this morning. She would forget mine.
Then he led the rest, elbowing the way through the increasing swarms of young and old, and down into the half-deserted city. Democrates left them in the Agora, professing great stress of duties.
Strange man,
observed Cimon, as he walked away; what has he this past month
upon his mind? That Persian spy, I warrant. But the morning wanes. It’s a long way to
Colonus.
Let us drink, for the sun is in the zenith.
So says Alcæus—and I love
the poet, for he like myself is always thirsty.
The three went on to the knoll of Colonus where Glaucon dwelt. Cimon was overrunning
with puns and jests, but the others not very merry. The omen of Glaucon’s
thoughtlessness, or something else, made husband and wife silent, yet it was a day when
man or maid should have felt their spirits rise. The sky had never been brighter, not in
Athens. Never had the mountains and sea spread more gloriously. From the warm
olive-groves sounded the blithesome note of the Attic grasshopper. The wind sweeping
over the dark cypresses by the house set their dark leaves to talking. The afternoon
passed in pleasure, friends going and coming; there was laughter, music, and good
stories. Hermione at least recovered part of her brightness, but her husband, contrary
to all custom, remained taciturn, even melancholy. At last as the gentle tints of
evening began to cover hill and plain and the red-tiled roofs of the ample city, all the
friends were gone, saving only Cimon, and he—reckless fellow—not absolutely drunk, nor sober quite.
Thus husband and wife found
themselves alone together on the marble bench beneath the old cypress.
Oh,
asked Hermione, her hands
touching his face, makaire! dearest and best,is it the omen that makes you grow so sad? For the sun of your
life is so seldom under clouds that when it is clouded at all, it seems as deep
darkness.
He answered by pressing back her hair, No, not the omen. I am not a slave to chance
like that. Yet to-day,—the wise God knows wherefore,—there comes a sense of brooding
fear. I have been too happy—too blessed with friendship, triumph, love. It cannot
last. Clotho the Spinner will weary of making my thread of gold and twine in a darker
stuff. Everything lovely must pass. What said Glaucus to Diomedes?
Even as the race
of leaves, so likewise are those of men; the leaves that now are, the wind
scattereth, and the forest buddeth forth more again; thus also with the race of men,
one putteth forth, another ceaseth.
So even my joy must pass—
Glaucon,—take back the words. You frighten me.
He felt her in his arms trembling, and cursed himself for what he had uttered.
A blight upon my tongue! I have frightened you, and without cause. Surely the day is
bright enough, surely Athena having been thus far good we can trust her goodness
still. Who knows but that it be many a year before our sun comes to his setting!
He kissed her many times. She grew comforted, but they had not been together long when they were surprised by the approach of Themistocles and Hermippus. Hermione ran to her father.
Themistocles and I were summoned hither,
explained by a message from Democrates bidding us come to Colonus at
once, on an urgent matter touching the public weal.
He is not here. I cannot understand,
marvelled Glaucon; but while he spoke, he
was interrupted by the clatter of hoofs from a party of horsemen spurring furiously and
heading from the pass of Daphni.
Before the house six riders were reining,—five Scythian bowmen
of the
constabulary of Athens, tow-headed Barbarians, grinning but mute; the sixth was
Democrates. He dismounted with a bound, and as he did so the friends saw that his face
was red as with pent-up excitement. Themistocles advanced hastily.
What’s this? Your hands seem a-quiver. Whom has that constable tied up behind
him?
Seuthes!
cried Glaucon, bounding back, Seuthes, by every god, and pinioned
like a felon.
Ay!
groaned the prisoner, lashed to a horse, what have I done to be seized and
tried like a bandit? Why should I be set upon by these gentlemen while I was enjoying
a quiet pot of wine in the tavern at Daphni, and be haled away as if to crucifixion?
Mu! Mu! make them untie me, dear Master Glaucon.
Put down your prisoner,
ordered Democrates, and all you constables stay
without the house. I ask Themistocles, Hermippus, and Glaucon to come to an inner
room. I must examine this man. The matter is serious.
Serious?
echoed the bewildered athlete, I can vouch for Seuthes—an excellent
Corinthian, come to Athens to sell some bales of wool—
Answer, Glaucon,
Democrates’s voice was stern. Has he no letters from you for
Argos?
Certainly.
You admit it?
By the dog of Egypt, do you doubt my word?
Friends,
called Democrates, dramatically, mark you that Glaucon admits he has
employed this Seuthes as his courier.
Whither leads this mummery?
cried the athlete, growing at last angry.
If to nothing, I, Democrates, rejoice the most. Now I must bid you to follow me.
Seizing the snivelling Seuthes, the orator led into the house and to a private chamber. The rest followed, in blank wonderment. Cimon had recovered enough to follow—none too steadily. But when Hermione approached, Democrates motioned her back.
Do not come. A painful scene may be impending.
What my husband can hear, that can I,
was her retort. Ah! but why do you look
thus dreadfully on Glaucon?
I have warned you, lady. Do not blame me if you hear the worst,
rejoined
Democrates, barring the door. A single swinging lamp shed a fitful light on the
scene—the whimpering prisoner, the others all amazed, the orator’s face, tense and
white. Democrates’s voice seemed metallic as he continued:—
Now, Seuthes, we must search you. Produce first the letter from Glaucon.
The fat florid little Corinthian was dressed as a traveller, a gray chalmys to his
hips, a brimmed brown hat, and high black boots. His hands were now untied. He tugged
from his belt a bit of papyrus which Democrates handed to Themistocles, enjoining Open.
Glaucon flushed.
Are you mad, Democrates, to violate my private correspondence thus?
The weal of Athens outweighs even the pleasure of Glaucon,
returned the orator,
harshly, and you, Themistocles, note that Glaucon does not deny that the seal here is
his own.
I do not deny,
cried the angry athlete. Open, Themistocles, and let this
stupid comedy end.
And may it never change to tragedy!
proclaimed Democrates. What do you read,
Themistocles?
A courteous letter of thanks to Ageladas.
The senior statesman was frowning. Glaucon is right. Either you are turned mad, or are victim of some prank,—is it
yours, Cimon?
I am as innocent as a babe. I’d swear it by the Styx,
responded that young man,
scratching his muddled head.
I fear we are not at the end of the examination,
observed Democrates, with
ominous slowness. Now, Seuthes, recollect your plight. Have you no other letter about
you?
None!
groaned the unheroic Corinthian. Ah! pity, kind sirs; what have I done?
Suffer me to go.
It is possible,
remarked his prosecutor, you are an innocent victim, or at
least do not realize the intent of what you bear. I must examine the lining of your
chalmys. Nothing. Your girdle. Nothing. Your hat, remove it. Quite empty. Blessed be
Athena if my fears prove groundless. But my first duty is to Athens and Hellas. Ah!
Your high boots. Remove the right one.
The orator felt within, and shook the boot
violently. Nothing again. The left one, empty it seems.
Ei!
what is this?
In a tense silence he shook from the boot a papyrus, rolled and sealed. It fell on the
floor at the feet of Themistocles,
The seal! The seal! May Zeus smite me blind if I see aright!
Hermippus, who had been following all the scene in silence, bent, lifted the fateful paper, and he too gave a cry of grief.
It is the seal of Glaucon. How came it here?
Glaucon,
—hard as Democrates’s voice had been that night, it rang like cold iron
now,—as the friend of your boyhood, and one who would still do for you all he may,
I urge you as you love me to look upon this seal.
I am looking,
but as he spoke paleness followed the angry flush on the athlete’s
forehead. He needed no omen to tell him something fearful was about to ensue.
The seal is yours?
The very same, two dancing mænads and over them a winged Eros. But how came this
letter here? I did not—
As you love life or death, as you preserve any regard for our friendship, I adjure
you,—not to brave it longer, but to confess—
Confess what? My head is reeling.
The treason in which you have dipped your hands, your dealings with the Persian spy,
your secret interviews, and last of all this letter,—I fear a gross betrayal of all
trust,—to some agent of Xerxes. I shudder when I think of what may be its
contents.
And—this—from—you! Oh,—Democrates,—
The accused man’s hands snatched at the air. He sank upon a chest.
He does not deny it,
threw out the orator, but Glaucon’s voice rang shrilly:—
Ever! Ever will I deny! Though the Twelve Gods all cried out
guilty!
The
charge is monstrous.
It is time, Democrates,
said Themistocles, who had preserved a grim silence, that you showed us clearly whither your path is leading. This is a fearful accusation
you launch against your best-loved friend.
Themistocles is right,
assented the orator, moving away from the luckless Seuthes
as from a pawn no longer important in the game of life and death. The whole of the
wretched story I fear I must tell on the Bema to all Athens. I must be brief, but
believe me, I can make good all I say. Since my return from the Isthmia, I have been
observed to be sad. Rightly—for knowing Glaucon as I did, I grew suspicious, and I
loved him. You have thought me not diligent in hunting down the Persian spy. You were
wrong. But how could I ruin my friend without full proof? I made use of Agis,—no
genteel confederate, to be sure, but honest, patriotic, indefatigable. I soon had my
eyes on the suspected Babylonish carpet-seller. I observed Glaucon’s movements
closely, they gave just ground for suspicion. The Babylonian, I came to feel, was none
other than an agent of Xerxes himself. I discovered that Glaucon had been making this
emissary nocturnal visits.
A lie!
groaned the accused, in agony.
I would to Athena I believed you,
was the unflinching answer; I have direct
evidence from eye-witnesses that you went to him. In a moment I can produce it. Yet
still I hesitated. Who would blast a friend without damning proof? Then yesterday with
your own lips you told me you sent a messenger to disloyal Argos. I suspected two
messages, not one, were entrusted to Seuthes, and that you proclaimed the more
innocent matter thus boldly simply to blind my eyes. Before Seuthes started forth this
morning Agis informed me he had met him in a wine-shop—
True,
whimpered the unhappy prisoner.
And this fellow as much as admitted he carried a second and secret message—
Liar!
roared Seuthes.
Men hint strange things in wine-shops,
observed Democrates, sarcastically. Enough that a second papyrus with Glaucon’s seal has been found hidden upon you.
Open it then, and know the worst,
interjected Themistocles, his face like a
thunder-cloud; but Democrates forbade him.
A moment. Let me complete my story. This afternoon I received
warning that the Babylonish carpet-vender had taken sudden flight, presumably toward
Thebes. I have sent mounted constables after him. I trust they can seize him at the
pass of Phyle. In the meantime, I may assure you I have irrefutable evidence—needless
to present here—that the man was a Persian agent, and to more purpose hear this
affidavit, sworn to by very worthy patriots.
Polus, son of Phodrus of the Commune of Diomea, and Lampaxo his sister take oath
by Zeus, Dike, and Athena, thus: We swear we saw and recognized Glaucon, son of Conon,
twice visiting by night in the past month of Scirophorion a certain
Details lack,
spoke Themistocles, keenly.
To be supplied in full measure at the trial,
rejoined the orator. And now to
the second letter itself.
Ay, the letter, whatever the foul Cyclops that wrought it!
groaned Glaucon
through his teeth.
Themistocles took the document from Hermippus’s trembling hands. His own trembled whilst he broke the seal.
The handwriting of Glaucon. There is no doubt,
was his despairing comment. His
frown darkened. Then he attempted to read.
Glaucon of Athens to Cleophas of Argos wishes
health:—
Cleophas leads the Medizers of Argos, the greatest friend of Xerxes
in Greece. O Zeus, what is this next—
Our dear friend, whom I dare not name, to-day departs for Thebes, and in a
month will be safe in Sardis. His visit to Athens has been most fruitful. Since
you at present have better opportunity than we for forwarding packets to Susa,
do not fail to despatch this at once. A happy chance led Themistocles to explain
to me his secret memorandum for the arraying of the Greek fleet. You can apprize
its worth, for the only others to whom it is entrusted are Democrates and later
Leonidas—
Themistocles flung the papyrus down. His voice was broken. Tears stood in his eyes.
O Glaucon, Glaucon,—whom I have trusted? Was ever trust so betrayed! May Apollo
smite me blind, if so I could forget what I read here! It is all written—the secret
ordering of the fleet—
For a terrible moment there was silence in the little room, a silence broken by a wild, shrill cry,—Hermione’s, as she cast her arms about her husband.
A lie! A snare! A wicked plot! Some jealous god has devised this guile, seeing we
were too happy!
She shook with sobs, and Glaucon, roused to manhood by her grief, uprose and faced the stern face of Democrates, the blenching faces of the rest.
I am the victim of a conspiracy of all the fiends in Tartarus,
—he strove hard to
speak steadily; I did not write that second letter. It is a forgery.
But who, then,
groaned Themistocles, hopelessly, can
claim this handiwork? Democrates or I?—for no other has seen the memorandum,—that I
swear. It has not yet gone to Leonidas. It has been guarded as the apple of my eye. We
three alone knew thereof. And it is in this narrow room the betrayer of Hellas must
stand.
I cannot explain.
Glaucon staggered back to his seat. His wife’s head sank upon
his lap. The two sat in misery.
Confess, by the remnants of our friendship I implore, confess,
ordered
Democrates, and then Themistocles and I will strive to lighten if possible your
inevitable doom.
The accused man sat dumb, but Hermione struck back as some wild creature driven to bay. She lifted her head.
Has Glaucon here no friend but me, his wife?
She sent beseeching eyes about the
room. Do you all cry
guilty, guilty
? Then is your friendship false, for when
is friendship proved, save in the hour of need?
The appeal brought an answer from her father, who had been standing silent; and in infinite distress kindly, cautious, charitable Hermippus began:—
Dear Glaucon, Hermione is wrong; we were never more your friends. We are willing to
believe the best and not the worst. Therefore tell all frankly. You have been a victim
of great temptation. The Isthmian victory has turned your head. The Persian was
subtle, plausible. He promised I know not what. You did not realize all you were
doing. You had confederates here in Athens who are more guilty. We can make
allowances. Tell only the truth, and the purse and influence of Hermippus of Eleusis
shall never be held back to save his son-in-law.
Nor mine, nor mine,
cried Themistocles, snatching at every straw; only
confess, the temptation was great, others were more guilty, everything then may be
done—
Glaucon drew himself together and looked up almost proudly. Slowly he was recovering strength and wit.
I have nothing to confess,
he spoke, nothing. I know nothing of this Persian
spy. Can I swear the god’s own oath—by Earth, by Sky, by the Styx—
Themistocles shook his head wearily.
How can we say you are innocent? You never visited the Babylonian?
Never. Never!
Polus and Lampaxo swear otherwise. The letter?
A forgery.
Impossible. Is the forger Democrates or I?
Some god has done this thing in malice, jealous of my great joy.
I fear Hermes no longer strides so frequently about Athens. The hand and seal are
yours,—and still you do not confess?
If I must die,
Glaucon was terribly pale, but his voice was steady, it is not
as a perjurer!
Themistocles turned his back with a groan.
I can do nothing for you. This is the saddest hour in my life.
He was silent, but
Democrates sprang to the athlete’s side.
Have I not prayed each god to spare me this task?
he spoke. Can I forget our
friendship? Do not brave it to the end. Pity at least your friends, your wife—
He threw back his cloak, pointing to a sword.
cried the accused, shrinking. Ai,What would you have
me do?
Save the public disgrace, the hooting jury, the hemlock, the corpse flung into the
Barathrum. Strike this into your breast and end the shame.
No further. Glaucon smote him so that he reeled. The athlete’s tone was terrible.
Villain! You shall not tempt me.
Then he turned to the rest, and stood in his
white agony, yet beautiful as ever, holding out his arms.
O friends, do you all believe the worst? Do you, Themistocles, turn silently against
me?
No answer. And
No
answer again. And you, Cimon, who praised me as the fairest friend in all the
world?
The son of Miltiades simply tore his hair. Then the athlete turned to
Democrates.
And you I deemed more than comrade, for we were boys at school together, were flogged
with the same rod, and drank from the same cup, had like friends, foes, loves, hates;
and have lived since as more than brothers,—do you too turn utterly away?
I would it were otherwise,
came the sullen answer. Again Democrates pointed to
the sword, but Glaucon stood up proudly.
No. I am neither traitor, nor perjurer, nor coward. If I must perish, it shall be as
becomes an Alcmæonid. If you have resolved to undo me, I know your power over Athenian
juries. I must die. But I shall die with unspotted heart, calling the curse of the
innocent upon the god or man who plotted to destroy me.
We have enough of this direful comedy,
declared Democrates, pale himself. Only
one thing is left. Call in the Scythians with their gyves, and hale the traitor to
prison.
He approached the door; the others stood as icy statues, but not Hermione. She had her back against the door before the orator could open.
Hold,
she commanded, for you are doing murder!
Democrates halted at the menacing light in her eyes. All the fear had gone out of
them. Athena Promachos, Mistress of Battles,
must have stood in that awful beauty
when aroused. Did the goddess teach her in that dread moment of her power over the will
of the orator? Glaucon was still standing motionless, helpless, his last appeal having
ended in mute resignation to inevitable fate. She motioned to him desperately.
Glaucon! Glaucon!
she adjured, do not throw your life away. They shall not
murder you. Up! Rouse yourself! There is yet time. Fly, or all is lost.
Fly!
spoke the athlete, almost vacantly. No, I will brave them to the end.
For my sake, fly,
she ordered, and conjured by that potent talisman, Glaucon
moved toward her.
How? Whither?
To the ends of the earth, Scythia, Atlantis, India, and remain till all Athens knows
you are innocent.
As men move who know not what they do, he approached the door. Held by the magic of her eyes the others stood rigid. They saw Hermione raise the latch. Her husband’s face met hers in one kiss. The door opened, closed. Glaucon was gone, and as the latch clicked Democrates shook off the charm and leaped forward.
After the traitor! Not too late!—
For an instant he wrestled with Hermione hand to hand, but she was strong through fear and love. He could not master her. Then a heavy grasp fell on his shoulder—Cimon’s.
You are beside yourself, Democrates. My memory is longer than yours. To me Glaucon is
still a friend. I’ll not see him dragged to death before my eyes. When we follow even
a fox or a wolf, we give fair start and fair play. You shall not pursue him yet.
Blessing on you!
cried the wife, falling on her knees and seizing Cimon’s cloak.
Oh, make Themistocles and my father merciful!
Hermippus—tender-hearted man—was in tears. Themistocles was pacing the little chamber, his hand tugging his beard, clearly in grievous doubt.
The Scythians! The constables!
Democrates clamevery instant gives the traitor better start.
But Cimon held him fast, and Themistocles was not to be interrupted. Only after a long time he spoke, and then with authority which brooked no contradiction.
There is no hole in the net of Democrates’s evidence that Glaucon is guilty of foul
disloyalty, disloyalty worthy of shameful death. Were he any other there would be only
one way with him and that a short one. But Glaucon I know, if I know any man. The
charges even if proved are nigh incredible. For of all the thousands in Hellas his
soul seemed the purest, noblest, most ingenuous. Therefore I will not hasten on his
death. I will give the gods a chance to save him. Let Democrates arraign me for
misprision of treason
if he will, and of failing in duty to Athens. There shall
be no pursuit of Glaucon until morning. Then let the Eleven
Democrates attempted remonstrance. Themistocles bade him be silent sharply, and the other bowed his head in cowed acquiescence. Hermione staggered from the door, her father unbarred, and the whole wretched company went forth. In the passage hung a burnished steel mirror; Hermione gave a cry as she passed it. The light borne by Hermippus showed her in her festival dress, the rippling white drapery, the crown of white violets.
My father!
she cried, falling into his arms, is it still the day of the
Panathenæa, when I marched in the great procession, when all Athens called me happy?
It was a thousand years ago! I can never be glad again—
He lifted her tenderly as she fainted. Old Cleopis, the Spartan nurse who had kissed her almost before her mother, ran to her. They carried her to bed, and Athena in mercy hid her from consciousness that night and all the following day.
On the evening of the Panathenæa, Bias, servant of Democrates, had supped with Phormio,—for in democratic Athens a humble citizen would not disdain to entertain even a slave. The Thracian had a merry wit and a story-teller’s gift that more than paid for the supper of barley-porridge and salt mackerel, and after the viands had disappeared was ready even to tell tales against his master.
I’ve turned my brain inside out, and shaken it like a meal sack. No wisdom comes. The
kyrios has something on his mind. He prays to Hermes Dolios
as often as if he were a cut-purse. Then yesterday he sent me for Agis—
Agis?
Phormio pricked up his ears. The gambling-house keeper? What does
Democrates with
him?
Answer yourself. My master has been to Agis’s pretty place before to see his cocks.
However, this is different. To-day I met Theon.
Who’s he?
Agis’s slave, the merriest scoundrel in Athens. Agis, he says, has been prancing like
an ass stuffed with barley. He gave Theon a letter from Democrates to take to your
Babylonian opposite; Theon must hunt up Seuthes, a Corinthian, and worm out of him
when and how he was leaving Athens. Agis promised Theon a gold stater if all was
right.
Phormio whistled. You mean the carpet-dealer here? By Athena’s owls, there is no
light in his window to-night!
None, indeed,
crackled Lampaxo; didn’t I see that cursed Babylonian with his
servants gliding out just as Bias entered? Zeus knows whither! I hope ere dawn
Democrates has them by the heels.
Democrates does something to-night,
asserted Bias, extending his cup for wine. At noon Agis flew up to him, chattered something in his ear, whereupon Democrates
bade me be off and not approach him till to-morrow, otherwise a cane gets broken on my
shoulders.
It’s not painful to have a holiday,
laughed Phormio.
It’s most painful to be curious yet unsatisfied.
But why did not you take the letter to the Babylonian?
observed Phormio,
shrewdly.
I’m perplexed, indeed. Only one thing is possible.
And that is—
Theon is not known in this street. I am. Perhaps the
kyrios
didn’t care to have it rumoured he had dealings with that Babylonian.
Silence, undutiful scoundrel,
ordered Lampaxo, from her corner; what has so
noble a patriot as Democrates to conceal? Ugh! Be off with you! Phormio, don’t dare to
fill up the tipsy fox’s beaker again. I want to pull on my nightcap and go to bed.
Bias did not take the hint. Phormio was considering whether it was best to join combat with his redoubtable spouse, or save his courage for a more important battle, when a slight noise from the street made all listen.
Pest light on those bands of young roisterers!
fumed Lampaxo. They go around
all night, beating on doors and vexing honest folk. Why don’t the constables trot them
all to jail?
This isn’t a drunken band, good wife,
remarked Phormio, rising; some one is
sitting on the stones by the Hermes, near the door, groaning as if in pain.
A drunkard? Let him lie then,
commanded Lampaxo; let the coat-thieves come and
filch his chiton.
He’s hardly drunken,
observed her husband, peering through the lattice in the
door, but sick rather. Don’t detain me,
—Lampaxo’s skinny hand had tried to restrain. philotata,I’ll not let even
a dog suffer.
You’ll be ruined by too much charity,
bewailed the woman, but Bias followed the
fishmonger into the night. The moon shone down the narrow street, falling over the
stranger who half lay, half squatted by the Hermes. When the two approached him, he
tried to stagger to his feet, then reeled, and Phormio’s strong arms seized him. The man
resisted feebly, and seemed never to hear the fishmonger’s friendly questions.
I am innocent. Do not arrest me. Help me to the temple of Hephæstos, where there’s
asylum for fugitives. Ah! Hermione, that I should bring you this!
Bias leaped back as the moonlight glanced over the face of the stranger.
Master Glaucon, half naked and mad!
Ai! woe!
Glaucon the Alcmæonid,
echoed Phormio, in amazement, and the other still
struggled to escape.
Do you not hear? I am innocent. I never visited the Persian spy. I never betrayed the
fleet. By what god can I swear it, that you may believe?
Phormio was a man to recover from surprise quickly, and act swiftly and to the purpose. He made haste to lead his unfortunate visitor inside and lay him on his one hard couch. Scarcely was this done, however, when Lampaxo ran up to Glaucon in mingled rage and exultation.
Phormio doesn’t know what Polus and I told Democrates, or what he told us! So you
thought to escape, you white-skinned traitor? But we’ve watched you. We know how you
went to the Babylonian. We know your guilt. And now the good gods have stricken you
mad and delivered you to justice.
She waved her bony fists in the prostrate man’s
face. Run, Phormio! don’t stand gaping like a magpie. Run, I say—
Whither? For a physician?
To Areopagus, fool! There’s where the constables have their camp. Bring ten men with
fetters. He’s strong and desperate. Bias and I will wait and guard him. If you stir,
traitor,—
she was holding a heavy meat-knife at the fugitive’s throat,—I’ll
slit your weasand like a chicken.
But for once in his life Phormio defied his tyrant effectively. With one hand he tore the weapon from her clutch, the other closed her screaming mouth.
Are you mad yourself? Will you rouse the neighbourhood? I don’t know what you and
Polus tattled about to Democrates. I don’t greatly care. As for going for constables
to seize Glaucon the Fortunate—
Fortunate!
echoed the miserable youth, rising on one elbow, say it never
again. The gods have blasted me with one great blow. And you—you are Phormio, husband
and brother-in-law of those who have sworn against me,—you are the slave of
Democrates my destroyer,—and you, woman,—Zeus soften you!—already clamour for my
worthless life, as all Athens does to-morrow!
Lampaxo suddenly subsided. Resistance from her spouse was so unexpected she lost at
once arguments and breath. Phormio continued to act promptly; taking a treasured bottle
from a cupboard he filled a mug and pressed it to the
Hark you, Master Glaucon,
began Phormio, not unkindly. You are with friends,
and never heed my wife. She’s not so steely hearted as she seems.
Seize the traitor,
interjected Lampaxo, with a gasp.
Tell your story. I’m a plain and simple man, who won’t believe a gentleman with your
fair looks, fame, and fortune has pawned them all in a night. Bias has sense. First
tell how you came to wander down this way.
Glaucon sat upright, his hands pressing against his forehead.
How can I tell? I have run to and fro, seeing yet not seeing whither I went. I know I
passed the Acharnican gate, and the watch stared at me. Doubtless I ran hither because
here they said the Babylonian lived, and he has been ever in my head. I shudder to go
over the scene at Colonus. I wish I were dead. Then I could forget it!
Constables—fetters!
howled Lampaxo, as a direful interlude, to be silenced by an
angry gesture from her helpmeet.
spoke Phormio, mildly, and Glaucon, with
what power he had, complied. Broken, faltering, scarce coherent often, his story came at
last. He sat silent while Phormio clutched his own head. Then Glaucon darted around wild
and hopeless eyes.
He rose. A desperate purpose made
his feet steady. Ai! you believe me guilty. I almost believe so myself. All my
best friends have cast me off. Democrates, my friend from youth, has wrought my ruin.
My wife I shall never see again. I am resolved—
What will you do?
demanded Phormio, perplexed.
One thing is left. I am sure to be arrested at dawn if not before. I will go to the
City-House,
the public prison, and give myself up. The ignominy will soon
end. Then welcome the Styx, Hades, the never ending night—better than this shame!
He started forth, but Phormio’s hand restrained him. Not so fast, lad! Thank
Olympus, I’m not Lampaxo. You’re too young a turbot for Charon’s fish-net. Let me
think a moment.
The fishmonger stood scratching his thin hairs. Another howl from Lampaxo decided him.
Are you a traitor, too? Away with the wretch to prison!
I’m resolved,
cried Phormio, striking his thigh. Only an honest man could get
such hatred from my wife. If they’ve not tracked you yet, they’re not likely to find
you before morning. My cousin Brasidas is master of the
Quick strides took him to a chest. He dragged forth a sleeveless sailor’s cloak of
he rubbed over the Alcmæonid’s face two handfuls of black ashes
snatched from the hearth and sprang back with a great laugh, Euge!—you grow transformed. But that white face of yours is
dangerous. See!you’re a sailor unlading
charcoal now. Zeus himself would believe it. All is ready—
For prison?
asked Glaucon, clearly understanding little.
For the sea, my lad. For Athens is no place for you to-morrow, and Brasidas sails at
dawn. Some more wine? It’s a long, brisk walk.
To the havens? You trust me? You doubt the accusation which every friend save
Hermione believes? O pure Athena—and this is possible!
Again Glaucon’s head
whirled. It took more of the fiery wine to stay him up.
Ay, boy,
comforted Phormio, very gruff, you shall walk again around Athens
with a bold, brave face, though not to-morrow, I fear. Polus trusts his heart and not
his head in voting
guilty,
so I trust it voting innocent.
I warn you,
Glaucon spoke rapidly, I’ve no claim on your friendship. If your
part in this is discovered, you know our juries.
That I know,
laughed Phormio, grimly, for I know dear Polus. So now my own
cloak and we are off.
But Lampaxo, who had watched everything with accumulating anger, now burst loose. She bounded to the door.
Constables! Help! Athens is betrayed!
She bawled that much through the lattice before her husband and Bias dragged her back. Fortunately the street was empty.
That I should see this! My own husband betraying the city! Aiding a traitor!
Then
she began whimpering through her nose. Mu! mu! leave the
villain to his fate. Think of me if not of your own safety. Woe! when was a woman more
misused?
But here her lament ended, for Phormio, with the firmness of a man thoroughly determined, thrust a rag into her mouth and with Bias’s help bound her down upon the couch by means of a convenient fish-cord.
I am grieved to stop your singing, blessed dear,
spoke the fishmonger, indulging
in a rare outburst of sarcasm against his formidable helpmeet, but we play a game
with Fate to-night a little too even to allow unfair chances. Bias will watch you
until I return, and then I can discover,
philotata,
The Thracian promised to do his part. His affection for Democrates was clearly not the warmest. Lampaxo’s farewell, as Phormio guided his half-dazed companion into the street, was a futile struggle and a choking. The ways were empty and silent. Glaucon allowed himself to be led by the hand and did not speak. He hardly knew how or whither Phormio was taking him. Their road lay along the southern side of the Acropolis, past the tall columns of the unfinished Temple of Zeus, which reared to giant height in the white moonlight. This, as well as the overshadowing Rock itself, they left behind without incident. Phormio chose devious alleys, and they met neither Scythian constables nor bands of roisterers. Only once the two passed a house bright with lamps. Jovial guests celebrated a late wedding feast. Clearly the two heard the marriage hymn of Sappho.
The bridegroom comes tall as Ares,
Ho, Hymenæus!
Glaucon stopped like one struck with an arrow.
They sang that song the night I wedded Hermione. Oh, if I could drink the Lethe water
and forget!
Come,
commanded Phormio, pulling upon his arm. The sun will shine again
to-morrow.
Thus the twain went forward, Glaucon saying not a word. He hardly knew how they passed
the Itonian Gate and crossed the long stretch of open country betwixt the city and its
havens. No pursuit as yet—Glaucon was too perplexed to reason why. At last he knew they
entered Phaleron. He heard the slapping waves, the creaking tackle, the shouting
sailors. Torches gleamed ruddily. A mer
Keep below till the ship sails; don’t wipe the charcoal from your face till clear of
Attica. Officers will board the vessel before she puts off; yet have no alarm, they’ll
only come to see she doesn’t violate the law against exporting grain.
Phormio
delivered his admonitions rapidly, at the same time fumbling in his belt. Here—here
are ten drachmæ, all I’ve about me, but something for bread and figs till you make new
friends,—in which there’ll be no trouble, I warrant. Have a brave heart. Remember
that Helios can shine lustily even if you are not in Athens, and pray the gods to give
a fair return.
Glaucon felt the money pressed within his palm. He saw Phormio turning away. He caught the fishmonger’s hard hand and kissed it twice.
I can never reward you. Not though I live ten thousand years and have all the gold of
Gyges.
answered Phormio, with a shrug; Phui!don’t detain me,
it’s time I was home and was unlashing my loving wife.
And with that he was gone. Glaucon descended the ladder. The cabin was low, dark, unfurnished save with rude pallets of straw, but Glaucon heeded none of these things. Deeper than the accusation by Democrates, than the belief therein by Themistocles and the others, the friendship of the fishmonger touched him. A man base-born, ignorant, uncivil, had believed him, had risked his own life to save him, had given him money out of his poverty, had spoken words of fair counsel and cheer. On the deck above the sailors were tumbling the cargo, and singing at their toil, but Glaucon never heard them. Flinging himself on a straw pallet, for the first time came the comfort of hot tears.
Very early the
O Athena Polias,
he cried, stretching his hands to the goddess who determineth all aright,—bless thou this
land, though it wakes to call me traitor. Teach it to know I am innocent. Comfort
Hermione, my wife. And restore me to Athens, after doing deeds which wipe out all my
unearned shame!
The
Two hours later all Athens seemed reading this placard in the Agora:—
NOTICE
For the arrest of Glaucon, Son of Conon, charged with
high treason, I will pay one talent.
Dexileus, Chairman of the Eleven.
Other such placards were posted in Peiræus, in Eleusis, in Marathon, in every Attic village. Men could talk of nothing else.
Off Andros the northern gale smote them. The ship had driven helplessly.
Off Tenos only the skill of Brasidas kept the
As they raced past holy Delos the frightened passengers had vowed twelve oxen to Apollo if he saved them.
Near Naxos, Brasidas, after vainly trying to make a friendly haven, bade his sailors undergird the ship with heavy cables, for the timbers seemed starting. Finally he suffered his craft to drive,—hoping at least to find some islet with a sandy shore where he could beach her with safety.
The
Hearken, Poseidon of Calauria,
howled a Peiræus merchant against the screeching
blasts, save from this peril and I vow thee and thy temple two mixing bowls of purest
gold!
A great vow,
suggested a calmer comrade. All your fortune can hardly pay
it.
Hush,
spoke the other, in undertone, don’t let the god overhear me; let me get
safe to Mother Earth and Poseidon has not one obol. His power is only over the
sea.
A creaking from the mainmast told that it might fall at any moment. Passengers and crew redoubled their shouts to Poseidon and to Zeus of Ægina. A fat passenger staggered from his cabin, a huge money-bag bound to his belt,—as if gold were the safest spar to cling to in that boiling deep. Others, less frantic, gave commissions one to another, in case one perished and another escaped.
You alone have no messages, pray no prayers, show no fear!
spoke a grave, elderly
man to Glaucon, as both clutched the swaying bulwark.
And wherefore?
came the bitter answer; what is left me to fear? I desire no
life hereafter. There can be no consciousness without sad memory.
You are very young to speak thus.
But not too young to have suffered.
A wave dashed one of the steering rudders out of the grip of the sailor guiding it.
The rush of water swept him overboard. The governor,
Brasidas’s mate, flung away the last steering tiller.
The
he trumpeted through his hands.
To the boat! Save who can!
The pinnace set in the waist was cleared away by frantic
Three are left. Room for one more. The rest must swim!
Glaucon stood on the poop. Was life still such a precious thing to some that they must clutch for it so desperately? He had even a painful amusement in watching the others. Of himself he thought little save to hope that under the boiling sea was rest and no return of memory. Then Brasidas called him.
Quick! The others are Barbarians and you a Hellene. Your chance—leap!
He did not stir. The others
—two strangers in Oriental dress—were striving to
enter the pinnace. The seamen thrust their dirks out to force them back.
Full enough!
bawled the governor.
That fellow on the poop is mad. Cut the rope, or we are caught in the swirl.
The elder Barbarian lifted his companion as if to fling him into the boat, but
Brasidas’s sword cut the one cable. The wave flung the
Tell them in Athens, and tell Hermione my wife, that Glaucon the Alcmæonid went down
into the deep declaring his innocence and denouncing the vengeance of Athena on
whosoever foully destroyed him!—
Brasidas waved his sword in last farewell. Glaucon turned back to the wreck. The
So for some moments he stood, clinging upon the poop, awaiting the end. But the end
came slowly. The
Would you live and not die? Up, then,—there is still a chance.
The man gazed up blankly.
We are in Mazda’s hands,
he answered in foreign accent. It is manifestly his
will that we should pass now the Chinvat bridge. We are helpless. Where is the
pinnace?
Glaucon dragged him roughly to his feet.
I do not know your gods. Do not speak of their will to destroy us till the
destruction falls. Do you love this woman?
Save her, let me twice perish.
Rouse yourself, then. One hope is left!
What hope?
A raft. We can cast a spar overboard. It will float us. You look strong,—aid me.
The man rose and, thoroughly aroused, seconded the Athenian intelligently and promptly. The lurches of the merchantman told how close she was to her end. One of the seamen’s axes lay on the poop. Glaucon seized it. The foremast was gone and the mainmast, but the small boat-mast still stood, though its sail had blown to a thousand flapping streamers. Glaucon laid his axe at the foot of the spar. Two fierce strokes weakened so that the next lurch sent it crashing overboard. It swung in the mælstrom by its stays and the halyards of the sail. Tossing to and fro like a bubble, it was a fearful hope, but a louder rumbling from the hold warned how other hope had fled. The Barbarian recoiled as he looked on it.
It can never float through this storm,
Glaucon heard him crying between the
blasts, but the Athenian beckoned him onward.
Leap!
commanded Glaucon; spring as the mast rises on the next wave.
I cannot forsake her,
called back the man, pointing to the woman, who lay with
flying hair between the capstans, helpless and piteous now that her lover was no longer
near.
I will provide for her. Leap!
Glaucon lifted the woman in his arms. He took a manner of pride in showing the
Barbarian his skill. The man looked at him once, saw he could be trusted, and took the
leap. He landed in the water, but caught the
Glaucon never knew how long they thus drifted. The
Look!
The wind had lulled a little; the man could make himself heard. What is
it?
Through the masses of gray spray and driving mist Glaucon gazed when the next long wave tossed them. A glimpse,—but the joys of Olympus seemed given with that sight; wind-swept, wave-beaten, rock-bound, that half-seen ridge of brown was land,—and land meant life, the life he had longed to fling away in the morning, the life he longed to keep that night. He shouted the discovery to his companion, who bowed his head, manifestly in prayer.
The wind bore them rapidly. Glaucon, who knew the isles of the Ægean as became a
Hellene, was certain they drove on Astypalæa, an isle subject to Persia, though one of
the outermost Cyclades. The woman was in no state to realize their crisis. Only a hand
laid on her bosom told that her
The spar wedged fast in the rocks. The waves beat over it pitilessly. He who stayed by
it long had better have sunk with the
Swim through the surf. I will bear the woman safely.
Save her, and be you blessed forever. I die happy. I cannot swim.
The moment was too terrible for Glaucon to feel amazed at this confession. To a Hellene swimming was second nature. He thought and spoke quickly.
Climb on the higher rock. The wave does not cover it entirely. Dig your toes in the
crevices. Cling to the seaweed. I will return for you.
He never heard what the other cried back to him. He tore the woman clear of her
lashings, threw his left arm about her, and fought his way through the surf. He could
swim like a Delian, the best swimmers in Hellas; but the task was mighty even for the
athlete. Twice the deadly undertow
Are you crazed?
he heard voices clamouring—they seemed a great way off,—a
miracle that you lived through the surf once! Leave the other to fate. Phorcys has
doomed him already.
But Glaucon was past acting by reason now. His head seemed a ball of fire. Only his
hands and feet responded mechanically to the dim impulse of his bewildered brain. Once
more the battling through the surf, this time against it and threefold harder. Only the
man whose strength had borne the giant Spartan down could have breasted the billows that
came leaping to destroy him. He felt his powers were strained to the last notch. A
little more and he knew he might roll helpless, but even so he struggled onward. Once
again the two black rocks were springing out of the swollen water. He saw the Barbarian
clinging desperately to the higher. Why was he risking his life for a man who was not a
Hellene, who might be even a servant of the dreaded Xerxes? A strange moment for such
questionings, and no time to answer! He clung to the seaweed beside the Barbarian for an
instant, then through the gale cried to the other to place his hands upon his shoulders.
The Oriental complied intelligently. For a third time Glaucon struggled across the
raging flood. The passage seemed endless, and every receding breaker dragging down to
the graves of Oceanus. The Athenian knew his power was failing, and doled it out as a
miser, counting his strokes, taking deep gulps of air between each wave. Then, even
Hellene, you have saved us. What is your name?
The other barely raised his head. In Athens, Glaucon the Alcmæonid, but now I am
without name, without country.
The Oriental answered by kneeling on the sands and touching his head upon them close to Glaucon’s feet.
Henceforth, O Deliverer, you shall be neither nameless nor outcast. For you have
saved me and her I love more than self. You have saved Artazostra, sister of Xerxes,
and Mardonius, son of Gobryas, who is not the least of the Princes of Persia and
Eran.
Mardonius—arch foe of Hellas!
Glaucon spoke the words in horror. Then reaction
from all he had undergone robbed him of sense. They carried him to the fisher-village.
That night he burned with fever and raved wildly. It was many days before he knew
anything again.
Six days later a Byzantine corn-ship brought from Amorgos to Peiræus two survivors of
the Glaucon the Traitor.
The gods,
said every Agora wiseacre, had rewarded the villain with their own
hands.
The Babylonish carpet-seller and Hiram had vanished, despite all search,
but everyHow he loved his
friend!
said every admirer. Beyond doubt for long Democrates was exceeding
thoughtful. Perhaps a reason for this was that about a month after the going of Glaucon
he learned from Sicinnus that Prince Mardonius was at length in Sardis,—and possibly
Democrates knew on what vessel the carpet-seller had taken flight.
When Glaucon awoke to consciousness, it was with a sense of absolute weakness, at the
same moment with a sense of absolute rest. He knew that he was lying on pillows softer than sleep,
that the air he breathed was laden with perfume, that the
golden light which came through his half-closed eyelids was deliciously tempered, that
his ears caught a musical murmur, as of a plashing fountain. So he lay for long, too
impotent, too contented to ask where he lay, or whence he had departed. Athens,
Hermione, all the thousand and one things of his old life, flitted through his brain,
but only as vague, far shapes. He was too weak even to long for them. Still the fountain
plashed on, and mingling with the tinkling he thought he heard low flutes breathing.
Perhaps it was only a phantasy of his flagging brain. Then his eyes opened wider. He
lifted his hand. It was a task even to do that little thing,—he was so weak. He looked
at the hand! Surely his own, yet how white it was, how thin; the bones were there, the
blue veins, but all the strength gone out of them. Was this the hand that had flung
great Lycon down? It would be mere sport for a child to master him now. He touched his
face. It was covered with a thick beard, as of a long month’s growth. The discovery
Either I am awaking in Elysium, or the gods send to me pleasant dreams before I
die.
He was feebly wondering which was the alternative when a new sound roused him, the
sweep and rustle of the dresses of two women as they approached the bed. He gazed forth
listlessly, when lo! above his couch stood two strangers,—strangers, but either as fair
as Aphrodite arising from the sea. Both were tall, and full of queenly grace, both were
dressed in gauzy white, but the hair of the one was of such gold that Glaucon hardly saw
the circlet which
Are you quite awakened, dear Glaucon?
He looked up marvelling, not knowing how to answer; but the golden goddess seemed to expect none from him.
It is now a month since we brought you from Astypalæa. You have wandered close to the
Portals of the Dead. We feared you were beloved by Mazda too well, that you would
never wake that we might bless you. Night and day have my husband and I prayed to
Mithra the Merciful and Hauratât the Health-Giver in your behalf; each sunrise, at our
command, the Magians have poured out for you the Haôma, the sacred juice dear to the
Beautiful Immortals, and Amenhat, wisest of the physicians of Memphis, has stood by
your bedside without rest. Now at last our prayers and his skill have conquered; you
awake to life and gladness.
Glaucon lay wondering, not knowing how to reply, and only understanding in half, when the dark-haired goddess spoke, in purer Greek than her companion.
And I, O Glaucon of Athens, would have you suffer me to kiss your feet. For you have
given my brother and my sister back to life.
Then drawing near she took his hand
in hers, while the two smiling looked down on him.
Then at last he found tongue to speak. O gracious Queens, for such you are, forgive
my roving wits. You speak of great service done. But wise Zeus knoweth we are
strangers—
The golden goddess tossed her shining head and smiled,—still stroking with her hand.
Dear Glaucon, do you remember the Eastern lad you saved from the Spartans at the
Isthmus? Behold him! Recall the bracelet of turquoise,—my first gratitude. Then again
you saved me with my husband. For I am the woman you bore through the surf at the
island. I am Artazostra, wife of Mardonius, and this is Roxana, his half-sister, whose
mother was a princess in Egypt.
Glaucon passed his fingers before his face, beckoning back the past.
It is all far away and strange: the flight, the storm, the wreck, the tossing spar,
the battling through the surges. My head is weak. I cannot picture it all.
Do not try. Lie still. Grow strong and glad, and suffer us to teach you,
commanded Artazostra.
Where do I lie? We are not upon the rocky islet still?
The ladies laughed, not mockingly but so sweetly he wished that they would never cease.
This is Sardis,
spoke Roxana, bending over him; you lie in the palace of the
satrap.
And Athens—
he said, wandering.
Is far away,
said Artazostra, with all its griefs and false friends and foul
remembrances. The friends about you here will never fail. Therefore lie still and have
peace.
You know my story,
cried he, now truly in amaze.
Mardonius knows all that passes in Athens, in Sparta, in every city of Hellas. Do not
try to tell more. We weary you already. See—Amenhat comes to bid us begone.
The curtains parted again. A dark man in a pure white robe, his face and head smooth-shaven, approached the bed. He held out a broad gold cup, the rim whereof glinted with agate and sardonyx. He had no Greek, but Roxana took the cup from him and held it to Glaucon’s lips.
Drink,
she commanded, and he was fain to obey. The Athenian felt the heavily
spiced liquor laying hold of him. His eyes closed, despite his wish to gaze longer on
the two beautiful women. He felt their hands caressing his cheeks. The music grew ever
softer. He thought he was sinking into a kind of euthanasy, that his life was drifting
out amid delightful dreams. But not cold Thanatos, but health-bearing Hypnos was the god
who visited him now. When next he woke, it was with a clearer vision, a sounder mind.
Sardis the Golden, once capital of the Lydian kings and now of the Persian satraps,
had recovered from the devastation by the Ionians in their ill-starred revolt seventeen
years preceding. The city spread in the fertile Sardiene, one of the garden plains of
Asia Minor. To the south the cloud-crowned heights of Tmolus ever were visible. To the
north flowed the noble stream of Hebrus, whilst high above the wealthy town, the busy
agora, the giant temple of Lydian Cybele, rose the citadel of Meles, the palace fortress
of the kings and the satraps. A frowning castle it was without, within not the
golden-tiled palaces of Ecbatana and Susa boasted greater magnificence and luxury than
this one-time dwelling of Crœsus. The ceilings of the wide banqueting halls rose on
pillars of emerald Egyptian malachite. The walls were cased with onyx. Winged bulls that
might have graced Nineveh guarded the portals. The lions upbearing the throne in the
hall of audience were of gold. The mirrors in the House of the Women
were not
steel but silver.
Artaphernes, satrap of Lydia, had his divan, his viziers, and his audiences,—a court worthy of a king,—but the real lord of Western Asia was the prince who was nominally his guest. Mardonius had his own retinue and wing of the palace. On him fell the enormous task of organizing the masses of troops already pouring into Sardis, and he discharged his duty unwearyingly. The completion of the bridges of boats across the Hellespont, the assembling of the fleet, the collecting of provisions, fell to his province. Daily a courier pricked into Sardis with despatches from the Great King to his trusted general. Mardonius left the great levees and public spectacles to Artaphernes, but his hand was everywhere. His decisions were prompt. He was in constant communication with the Medizing party in Hellas. He had no time for the long dicing and drinking bouts the Persians loved, but he never failed to find each day an hour to spend with Artazostra his wife, with Roxana his half-sister, and with Glaucon his preserver.
Slowly through the winter health had returned to the Athenian. For days he had lain
dreaming away the hours to the tune of the flutes and the fountains. When the warm
spring came, the eunuchs carried him in a sedan-chair through the palace garden, whence
he could look forth on the plain, the city, the snow-clad hills, and think he was on
Zeus’s Olympian throne, surveying all the earth. Then it was he learned the Persian
speech, and easily, for were not his teachers Artazostra and Roxana? He found it no
difficult tongue, simple and much akin to Greek, and unlike most
Noble Athenian,
said the Prince, the first time he visited Glaucon’s bed, you
are my brother. My house is yours. My friends are yours. Command us all.
Every day Glaucon was stronger. He tested himself with dumb-bells. Always he could
lift a heavier weight. When the summer was at hand, he could ride out with Mardonius to
the Paradise,
the satrap’s hunting park, and be in at the death of the deer. Yet
he was no more the Fortunate Youth
of Athens. Only imperfectly he himself knew
how complete was the severance from his old life. The terrible hour at Colonus had made
a mark on his spirit which not all Zeus’s power could take away. No doubt all the
one-time friends believed him dead. Had Hermione’s confidence in him remained true?
Would she not say guilty
at last with all the rest? Mardonius might have
answered, he had constant letters from Greece, but the Prince was dumb when Glaucon
strove to ask of things beyond the Ægean.
Day by day the subtle influence of the Orient—the lotus-eating,—tasting the
honey-sweet fruit which makes men choose to abide forever, forgetful of the homeward
way
—spread its unseen power over the Alcmæonid. Athens, the old pain, even the
face of Hermione, would rise before him only dimly. He fought against this enchantment.
But it was easier to renew his vow to return to Athens, after wiping out his shame, than
to break these bands daily tightening.
He heard little Greek, now that he was learning Persian. Even he himself was changed.
His hair and beard grew long, after the Persian manner. He wore the loose Median
Forget you are a Hellene. We will talk of the Nile, not of the Cephissus,
Artazostra said, whenever he spoke of home. Then she would tell of Babylon and
Persepolis, and Mardonius of forays beside the wide Caspian, and Roxana of her girlhood,
while Gobryas was satrap of Egypt, spent beside the magic river, of the Pharaohs, the
great pyramid, of Isis and Osiris and the world beyond the dead. Before the Athenian was
opened the golden East, its glitter, its wonderment, its fascination. He even was silent
when his hosts talked boldly of the coming war, how soon the Persian power would rule
from the Pillars of Heracles to Ind.
Yet once he stood at bay, showing that he was a Hellene still. They were in the garden. Mardonius had come to them where under the pomegranate tree the women spread their green tapestry which their nimble needles covered with a battle scene in scarlet. The Prince told of the capture and crucifixion of the chiefs of a futile revolt in Armenia. Then Artazostra clapped her hands to cry.
Fools! Fools whom Angra-Mainyu the Evil smites blind that he may destroy them!
Glaucon, sitting at her feet, looked up quickly. Valiant fools, lady; every man
must strike for his own country.
Artazostra shook her shining head.
Mazda gives victory to the king of Eran alone. Resisting Xerxes is not rebellion
against man, it is rebellion against Heaven.
Are you sure?
asked the Athenian, his eye lighting ominously. Are yours the
greatest gods?
But Roxana in turn cast down the tapestry and opened her arms with a charming gesture.
Be not angry, Glaucon, for will you not become one with us? I dare to prophesy like a
seer from old Chaldea. Assur of Nineveh, Marduk of Babylon, Baal of Tyre, Ammon of
Memphis—all have bent the knee to Mazda the Glorious, to Mithra the Fiend-Smiting,
and shall the weak
dævas, the puny gods of Greece, save their
land, when greater than they bow down in sore defeat?
Yet Glaucon still looked on her boldly.
You have your mighty gods, but we have ours. Pray to your Mazda and Mithra, but we
will still trust Zeus of the Thunders and Athena of the Gray Eyes, the bulwarks of our
fathers. And Fate must answer which can help the best.
The Persians shook their heads. It was time to return to the palace. All that Glaucon
had seen of the Barbarian’s might, since awakening in Sardis, told him Xerxes was indeed
destined to go forth conquering and to conquer. Then the vision of the Acropolis, the
temples, the Guardian Goddess, returned. He banished all disloyal thoughts for the
instant. The Prince walked with his wife, Glaucon with Roxana. He had always thought her
At last the lotus-eating ended. Repeated messengers told how Xerxes was quitting Babylon, was holding a muster in Cappadocia, and now was crossing Asia Minor toward Sardis. Mardonius and his companions had returned to that capital. Daily the soldiery poured into Sardis by tens of thousands. Glaucon knew now it was not a vain boast that for ten years the East had been arming against Hellas, that the whole power of the twenty satrapies would be flung as one thunderbolt upon devoted Greece.
In the plain about Sardis a second city was rising, of wicker booths and gay pavilions. The host grew hourly. Now a band of ebony archers in leopard skins entered from far Ethiopia, now Bactrian battle-axemen, now yellow-faced Tartars from the northeast, now bright-turbaned Arabs upon their swaying camels,—Syrians, Cilicians, black-bearded Assyrians and Babylonians, thick-lipped Egyptians, came, and many a strange race more.
But the core of the army were the serried files of Aryan horse and foot,—blond-headed, blue-eyed men, Persians and Medes, veterans of twenty victories. Their muscles were tempered steel. Their unwearying feet had tramped many a long parasang. Some were light infantry with wicker shields and powerful bows, but as many more horsemen in gold-scaled armour and with desert steeds that flew like Pegasus.
The finest cavalry in the world!
Mardonius vaunted, and his guest durst not
answer nay.
Satrap after satrap came. When at last a foaming Arab galloping to the castle
proclaimed, Next morn the Lord of the World will enter Sardis,
Glaucon could
scarce have looked for a greater, though he had expected Cronian Zeus himself.
Mardonius, as bow-bearer to the king,
a semi-regal office, rode forth a stage
to meet the sovran. The streets of Sardis were festooned with flowers. Thousands of
spearmen held back the crowds. The Athenian stood beside Roxana and Artazostra at the
upper window of a Lydian merchant prince, and his eyes missed nothing.
Never had the two women seemed lovelier than when their hearts ran out to their approaching king. He felt now the power of personal sovranty, how these children of the East awaited not Xerxes the Master, but Xerxes the Omnipotent, God-Manifest, whose decrees were as the decrees of Heaven. And their awe could not fail to awe the Athenian.
At noon the multitude caught the first token of the king. Down the road, through the
gate, walked a man, bare-headed, bare-footed, alone,—Artaphernes, despot of all Lydia,
going to pay his abject homage. Presently the eunuch priests of Cybele, perched above
the gate, clashed their cymbals and raised their hymn of welcome. To the boom of drums
the thousand chosen cavalry and as many picked footmen of the Life Guard entered, tall,
magnificent soldiers,—caps and spear butts shining with gold. After these a gilded car
drawn by the eight sacred horses, each milk-white, and on the car an altar bearing the
eternal fire of Mazda. Then, each in his flashing chariot, moved the Six Princes,
the heads of the great clans of the Achæmenians, then two hundred led desert horses, in
splendid trappings, and then—after
Have fear, Lydians, the giver of breath to all the world comes now beneath your
gates!
The lines of soldiers flung down their spears and dropped upon their knees. The
multitude imitated. A chariot came running behind four of the sacred steeds of
Nisæa,—their coats were like new snow, their manes braided with gold thread, bridle,
bits, pole, baseboard, shone with gems and the royal metal. The wheel was like the sun.
A girl-like youth guided the crimson reins, a second held the tall green parasol. Its
shadow did not hide the commanding figure upon the car. Glaucon looked hard. No
mistaking—Xerxes was here, the being who could say to millions Die!
and they
perished like worms; in verity God-Manifest.
For in looks Xerxes, son of Darius, was surely the Great King. A figure of august height was set off nobly by the flowing purple caftan and the purple cap which crowned the curling black hair. The riches of satrapies were in the rubies and topazes on sword sheath and baldric. The head was raised. The face was not regular, but of a proud, aquiline beauty. The skin was olive, the eyes dark, a little pensive. If there were weak lines about the mouth, the curling beard covered them. The king looked straight on, unmoved by the kneeling thousands, but as he came abreast of the balcony, chance made him look upward. Perhaps the sight of the beautiful Greek caused Xerxes to smile winsomely. The smile of a god can intoxicate. Caught away from himself, Glaucon the Alcmæonid joined in the great salvo of cheering.
Victory to Xerxes! Let the king of kings reign forever!
The chariot was gone almost instantly, a vast retinue—
That night in the palace Xerxes gave a feast in honour of the new campaign. The splendours of a royal banquet in the East need no retelling. Silver lamps, carpets of Kerman rugs or of the petals of fresh roses, a thousand lutes and dulcimers, precious Helbon wine flowing like water, cups of Phœnician crystal, tables groaning with wild boars roasted whole, dancing women none too modest,—these were but the incidentals of a gorgeous confusion. To Glaucon, with the chaste loveliness of the Panathenæa before his mind, the scene was one of vast wonderment but scarcely of pleasure. The Persian did nothing by halves. In battle a hero, at his cups he became a satyr. Many of the scenes before the guests emptied the last of the tall silver tankards were indescribable.
On the high dais above the roaring hall sat Xerxes the king,—adored, envied, pitiable.
When Spitames, the seneschal, brought him the cup, the bearer bowed his face, not daring to look on his dread lord’s eyes.
When Artabanus, the vizier, approached with a message, he first kissed the carpet below the dais.
When Hydarnes, commander of the Life Guard, drew near to receive the watchword for the night, he held his mantle before his mouth, lest his breath pollute the world monarch.
Yet of all forms of seeming prosperity wherewith Fate can curse a man, the worst was
the curse of Xerxes. To be called god
when one is finite and mortal; to have no
friends, but king of kings
might seem
lifted above all human error; in short, to be the bondsman of one’s own
deification,—this was the hard captivity of the lord of the twenty satrapies.
For Xerxes the king was a man,—of average instincts, capacities, goodness, wickedness. A god or a genius could have risen above his fearful isolation. Xerxes was neither. The iron ceremonial of the Persian court left him of genuine pleasures almost none. Something novel, a rare sensation, an opportunity to vary the dreary monotony of splendour by an astounding act of generosity or an act of frightful cruelty,—it mattered little which,—was snatched at by the king with childlike eagerness. And this night Xerxes was in an unwontedly gracious mood. At his elbow, as he sat on the throne cased with lapis lazuli and onyx, waited the one man who came nearest to being a friend and not a slave,—Mardonius, son of Gobryas, the bow-bearer,—and therefore more entitled than any other prince of the Persians to stand on terms of intimacy with his lord.
While Spitames passed the wine, the king hearkened with condescending and approving nod to the report of the Prince as to his mad adventure in Hellas. Xerxes even reproved his brother-in-law mildly for hazarding his own life and that of his wife among those stiff-necked tribesmen who were so soon to taste the Aryan might.
It was in your service, Omnipotence,
the Prince was rejoining blandly; what if
not I alone, but a thousand others of the noblest of the Persians and the Medes may
perish, if only the glory of their king is advanced?
Nobly said; you are a faithful slave, Mardonius. I will remember you when I have
burned Athens.
He even reached forth and stroked the bow-bearer’s hand, a condescension which made the footstool-bearer, parasol-bearer, quiver-bearer, and a dozen great lords more gnaw their lips with envy. Hydarnes, the commander who had waited an auspicious moment, now thought it safe to kneel on the lowest step of the throne.
Omnipotence, I am constrained to tell you that certain miserable Hellenes have been
seized in the camp to-night—spies sent to pry out your power. Do you deign to have
them impaled, crucified, or cast into the adders’ cage?
The king smiled magnanimously.
They shall not die. Show them the host, and all my power. Then send them home to
their fellow-rebels to tell the madness of dreaming to withstand my might.
The smile of Xerxes had spread, like the ripple from a pebble splashing in a pool, over the face of every nobleman in hearing. Now their praises came as a chant.
O Ocean of Clemency and Wisdom! Happy Eran in thy sagacious yet merciful king!
Xerxes, not heeding, turned to Mardonius.
Ah! yes,—you were telling how you corrupted one of the chief Athenians, then had to
flee. On the voyage you were shipwrecked?
So I wrote to Babylon, to your Eternity.
And a certain Athenian fugitive saved your lives? And you brought him to Sardis?
I did so, Omnipotence.
Of course he is at the banquet.
The king speaks by the promptings of Mazda. I placed him with certain friends and
bade them see he did not lack good cheer.
Send,—I would talk with him.
Suffer me to warn your Majesty,
ventured Mardonius, he is an Athenian and
glories in being of a stubborn, Persian-hating stock. I fear he will not perform due
obeisance to the Great King.
I can endure his rudeness,
spoke Xerxes, for once in excellent humour; let the
supreme usher
bring him with full speed.
The functionary thus commanded bowed himself to the ground and hastened on his errand.
But well that Mardonius had deprecated the wrath of the monarch. Glaucon came with his
head high, his manner almost arrogant. The mere fact that his boldness might cost him
his life made him less bending than ever. He trod firmly upon the particular square of
golden carpet at the foot of the dais which none, saving the king, the vizier, and the
Six Princes,
could lawfully tread. He held his hands at his sides, firmly
refusing to conceal them in his cloak, as court etiquette demanded. As he stood on the
steps of the throne, he gave the glittering monarch the same familiar bow he might have
awarded a friend he met in the Agora. Mardonius was troubled. The supreme usher was
horrified. The master-of-punishments, ever near his chief, gazed eagerly to see if
Xerxes would not touch the audacious Hellene’s girdle—a sign for prompt decapitation.
Only the good nature of the king prevented a catastrophe, and Xerxes was moved by two
motives, pleasure at meeting a fellow-mortal who could look him in the eye without
servility or fear, delight at the beautiful features and figure of the Athenian. For an
instant monarch and fugitive looked face to face, then Xerxes stretched out, not his
hand, but the gold tip of his ivory baton. Glaucon had wisdom enough to touch it,—a
token that he was admitted to audience with the king.
You are from Athens, beautiful Hellene,
spoke Xerxes, still admiring the
stranger. I will question you. Let Mardonius interpret.
I have learned Persian, great sir,
interposed Glaucon, never waiting for the
bow-bearer.
You have done well,
rejoined the smiling monarch; yet better had you learned
our Aryan manners of courtliness. No matter—you will learn them likewise in good
time. Now tell me your name and parentage.
I am Glaucon, son of Conon, of the house of the Alcmæonidæ.
Great nobles, Omnipotence,
interposed Mardonius, so far as nobility can be
reckoned among the Greeks.
I have yet to learn their genealogies,
remarked Xerxes, dryly; then he turned
back to Glaucon. And do your parents yet live, and have you any brethren?
The
question was a natural one for an Oriental. Glaucon’s answer came with increased pride.
I am a child of my parent’s old age. My mother is dead. My father is feeble. I have
no brethren. Two older brothers I had. One fell here at Sardis, when we Athenians
sacked the city. One fell victorious at Marathon, while he burned a Persian ship.
Therefore I am not ashamed of their fates.
Your tongue is bold, Hellene,
said the good-natured king; you are but a lame
courtier. No matter. Tell me, nevertheless, why you churlishly refuse to do me
reverence. Do you set yourself above all these princes of the Persians who bow before
me?
Not so, great sir. But I was born at Athens, not at Susa. We Hellenes pray standing
even to Zeus, stretching forth our hands and looking upward. Can I honour the lord of
all the satrapies above the highest god?
A nimble tongue you have, Athenian, though an unbending neck.
Xerxes sat and
stroked his beard, pleased at the frank reply. Mardonius has told how you saved his
and my sister’s lives, and that you are an outlaw from Athens.
The last is all too true, great sir.
Which means you will not pray your gods too hard for my defeat? ha?
Glaucon blushed, then looked up boldly.
A Persian king, I know, loves truth-telling. I still love and pray for Athens, even
if unknown enemies conspired against me.
Humph! You can learn our other virtues later. Are you blind to my power? If so, I
pity more than I blame you.
The king is kind,
returned Glaucon, putting by a part of his hauteur. I would
not anger him. I only know he would rather have men say,
Xerxes conquered a proud
nation, hard to subdue,
than, He conquered a feeble race of whining
slaves.
Excellent! In all save your vain confidence of victory, you seem wise beyond your
youth. You are handsome. You are noble—
Very noble,
interposed Mardonius.
And you saved the lives of Mardonius and Artazostra. Did you know their nobility when
you rescued them?
Not so. I would not let them drown like sheep.
The better, then. You acted without low motive of reward. Yet let the day never come
when Xerxes is called
ungrateful
for benefits done his servants. You shall come
to love me by beholding my magnanimity. I will make you a Persian, despite your will.
Have you seen battle?
I was too young to bear a spear at Marathon,
was the unflinching answer.
Learn then to wield it in another army. Where is the archsecretary?
That functionary was present instantly. Mardonius, taking the whispers of the king, dictated an order which the scribe stamped on his tablet of wet clay with a rapid stylus.
Now the chief proclaimer,
was the king’s order, which brought a tall man in a
bright scarlet caftan salaaming to the dais.
He took the tablet from the secretary and gave a resounding blow upon the brass gong dangling from his elbow. The clatter of wine cups ceased. The drinkers were silent on pain of death. The herald sent his proclamation in stentorian voice down the hall:—
In the name of Xerxes the Achæmenian, king
of kings, king of Persia, Media, Babylon, and Lydia; smiter of the Scythians,
dominator of the Indians, terror of the Hellenes; to all peoples of the world his
slaves,—hear ye!
Says Xerxes the king, whose word changes not. Forasmuch as Glaucon the Athenian did
save from death my servant and my sister, Mardonius and Artazostra, I do enroll him
among the
Benefactors of the King,
a sharer of my bounty forever. Let his name
henceforth be not Glaucon, but Prexaspes. Let my purple cap be touched upon his head.
Let him be given the robe of honour and the girdle of honour. Let the treasurer pay
him a talent of gold. Let my servants honour him. Let those who mock at him be
impaled. And this I proclaim as my decree.
What followed Glaucon was too bewildered to recall clearly. He knew that the
archchamberlain lifted the great jewel-crusted hat from the king’s head and set it on
his own for an instant, that they brought him a flowing purple robe, and clasped about
his waist a golden belt, every link set with a stone of price. The hall arose en masse to drink to the man whom the sovran delighted to honour.
Hail! Thrice hail to the Lord Prexaspes! Justly rewarded by our gracious king!
No man refused his plaudit, and Glaucon never knew how many envious courtiers cheered
with their lips and in their hearts muttered dark things against the manner in which
his Majesty loved to play the god and promote this unknown Hellene above the heads of
so many faithful subjects.
Glaucon had made shift to speak some words of deprecation and gratitude to royalty; his bow was deeper when the supreme usher led him away from the throne than when he approached it. As he made his way out of the banqueting hall, a score of noblemen, captains of thousands, over-eunuchs, and more trailed at his heels, salaaming, fawning, congratulating, offering all manner of service. Not on the days following his victory at the Isthmia had his head been in such a whirl. He hardly heard the well-meant warning which Artabanus, the shrewd old vizier, gave as he passed the door of the great hall.
Play the game well, my new Lord Prexaspes. The king can make you satrap or he can
crucify you. Play the game well, the stakes are high.
Neither did he hear the conversation betwixt Xerxes and the bow-bearer whilst he was being conducted away.
Have I done well to honour this man, Mardonius?
Your Eternity was never more wise. Bear with his uncourtliness now, for he is
truthful, upright, and noble in soul—qualities rare in a Hellene. Give me but time. I
will make him a worthy Persian indeed.
Do not fail therein,
ordered the monarch, for the youth has such beauty, both
of body and mind, I am grieved he was born in Athens. Yet there is one short way to
wean him from his doomed and miserable country.
Will Omnipotence but name it?
Search out for him a Persian wife, no, three or four wives—although I have heard the
custom of these witless Greeks is to be content with only one. There is no surer way
to turn his heart than that.
I thank your Eternity for your commandment. It shall not be forgotten.
Mardonius bowed himself. Xerxes called for more wine. The feast lasted late and ended in an orgy.
Glaucon’s longing for the old life ebbed and flowed. Sometimes the return of memory
maddened him. Who had done it?—had forged that damning letter and then hid it with
Seuthes? Themistocles? Impossible. Democrates?—the friend with the understanding
heart no less than a brother dear,
as Homer said? More impossible. An unknown
enemy, then, had stolen the fleet order from Themistocles? But what man had hated
Glaucon? One answer remained,—unwittingly the athlete had offended some god, forgotten
some vow, or by sheer good fortune had awakened divine jealousy. Poseidon had been
implacable toward Odysseus, Athena toward Hector, Artemis toward Niobe,—Glaucon could
only pray that his present welcome amongst the Persians might not draw down another
outburst of Heaven’s anger.
More than all else was the keen longing for Hermione. He saw her in the night. Vainly, amidst the storms of the gathering war, he had sought a messenger to Athens. In this he dared ask no help from Mardonius. Then almost from the blue a bolt fell that made him wish to tear Hermione from his heart.
A Carian slave, a trusted steward at the Athenian silver mines of Laurium, had loved
his liberty and escaped to Sardis. The Persians questioned him eagerly, for he knew all
the
He is elected strategus for next year because of his proud patriotism. There is talk,
too, of a more private bit of good fortune.
What is it?
That he has made successful suit to Hermippus of Eleusis for his daughter,—the widow
of Glaucon, the dead outlaw. They say the marriage follows at the end of the year of
mourning—Sir, you are not well!
I was never better.
But the other had turned ashen. He quitted the Carian
abruptly and shut himself in his chamber. It was good that he wore no sword. He might
have slain himself.
Yet, he communed in his heart, was it not best? Was he not dead to Athens? Must Hermione mourn him down to old age? And whom better could she take than Democrates, the man who had sacrificed even friendship for love of country?
Artabanus, the vizier, gave a great feast that night. They drank the pledge, Victory to the king, destruction to his enemies.
The lords all looked on Glaucon
to see if he would touch the cup. He drank deeply. They applauded him. He remained long
at the wine, the slaves bore him home drunken. In the morning Mardonius said Xerxes
ordered him to serve in the cavalry guards, a post full of honour and chance for
promotion. Glaucon did not resist. Mardonius sent him a silvered cuirass and a black
horse from the steppes of Bactria,—fleet as the north wind. In his new armour he went
to the chambers of Artazostra and Roxana. They had never seen him in panoply before. The
You grow Persian apace, my Lord Prexaspes,
—Roxana always called him by his new
name now,—soon we shall hail you as
your Magnificence
the satrap of Parthia
or Asia or some other kingly province in the East.
I do well to become Persian,
he answered bitterly, unmoved by the admiration, for yesterday I heard that which makes it more than ever manifest that Glaucon the
Athenian is dead. And whether he shall ever rise to live again, Zeus knoweth; but from
me it is hid.
Artazostra did not approach, but Roxana came near, as if to draw the buckle of the golden girdle—the gift of Xerxes. He saw the turquoise shining on the tiara that bound her jet-black hair, the fine dark profile of her face, her delicate nostrils, the sweep of drapery that half revealed the form so full of grace. Was there more than passing friendship in the tone with which she spoke to him?
You have heard from Athens?
Yes.
And the tidings were evil.
Why call them evil, princess? My friends all believe me dead. Can they mourn for me
forever? They can forget me, alas! more easily than I in my lonesomeness can forget
them.
You are very lonely?
—the hand that drew the buckle worked slowly. How soft it
was, how delicately the Nile sun had tinted it!
Do you say you have no friends? None? Not in Sardis? Not among the Persians?
I said not that, dear lady,—but when can a man have more than one native
country?—and mine is Attica, and Attica is far away.
And you can never have another? Can new friendships never take the place of those
that lie forever dead?
I do not know.
Ah, believe, new home, new friends, new love, are more than possible, will you but
open your heart to suffer them.
The voice both thrilled and trembled now, then suddenly ceased. The colour sprang into Roxana’s forehead. Glaucon bowed and kissed her hand. It seemed to rise to his lips very willingly.
I thank you for your fair hopes. Farewell.
That was all he said, but as he went
forth from Roxana’s presence, the pang of the tidings brought by the Carian seemed less
keen.
The hosts gathered daily. Xerxes spent his time in dicing, hunting, drinking, or
amusing himself with his favourite by-play, wood-carving. He held a few solemn state
councils, at which he appeared to determine all things and was actually guided by
Artabanus and Mardonius. Now, at last, all the colossal machinery which was to crush
down Hellas was being set in motion. Glaucon learned how futile was Themistocles’s hope
of succour to Athens from the Sicilian Greeks, for,—thanks to Mardonius’s indefatigable
diplomacy,—it was arranged that the Phœnicians of Carthage should launch a powerful
armament against the Sicilians, the same moment Xerxes descended on Sparta and Athens.
With calm satisfaction Mardonius watched the completion of his efforts. All was
ready,—the army of hundreds of thousands, the twelve hundred war-ships, the bridges
across the Hellespont, the canal at Mt. Athos. Glaucon’s admiration for the son of
Gobryas grew apace. Xerxes was the outward head of the attack on Hellas. Mardonius was
the soul.
Daily Glaucon felt the Persian influence stealing upon him. He grew even accustomed to
think of himself under his new name. Greeks were about him: Demaratus, the outlawed half-king
of Sparta, and the sons of Hippias, late tyrant of Athens. He scorned
the company of these renegades. Yet sometimes he would ask himself wherein was he better
than they,—had Democrates’s accusation been true, could he have asked a greater reward
from the Barbarian? And what he would do on the day of battle he did not dare to ask of
his own soul.
Xerxes left Sardis with the host amidst the same splendour with which he had entered.
Glaucon rode in the Life Guard, and saw royalty frequently, for the king loved to meet
handsome men. Once he held the stirrup as Xerxes dismounted—an honour which provoked
much envious grumbling. Artazostra and Roxana travelled in their closed litters with the
train of women and eunuchs which followed every Persian army. Thus the myriads rolled
onward through Lydia and Mysia, drinking the rivers dry by their numbers; and across the
immortal plains of Troy passed that army which was destined to do and suffer greater
things than were wrought beside the poet-sung Simois and Scamander, till at last they
came to the Hellespont, the green
Here were the two bridges of ships, more than three hundred in each, held by giant
cables, and which upbore a firm earthen road, protected by a high bulwark, that the
horses and camels might take no fright at the water. Here, also, the fleet met
them,—the armaments of the East, Phœnicians, Cilicians, Egyptians, Cyprians,—more
triremes and transports than had ever before ridden upon the seas. And as he saw all
this power, all directed by one will, Glaucon grew even more despondent. How could puny,
faction-rent Hellas bear up against this might? Only when he looked on the myriads
passing, and saw how the captains swung long whips and cracked the lash across the backs
of their spearmen, as over driven cattle, did a little comfort come. For he knew there
was still a fire in Athens and Sparta, a fire not in Susa nor in Babylon, which kindled
free souls and free hands to dare and do great things. Whom will the high Zeus
prosper when the
slaves of Xerxes stand face to face with men?
A proud thought,—but it ceased to comfort him, as all that afternoon he stood near
the marble throne of the Lord of the World,
whence Xerxes overlooked his myriads
while they filed by, watched the races of swift triremes, and heard the proud assurances
of his officers that no king since the beginning of time, not Thothmes of Egypt, not
Sennacherib of Assyria, not Cyrus nor Darius, had arrayed such hosts as his that
day.
Then evening came. Glaucon was, after his wont, in the private pavilion of Mardonius,—itself a palace walled with crimson tapestry in lieu of marble. He sat silent and moody for long, the bright fence of the ladies or of the bow-bearer seldom moving him to answer. And at last Artazostra could endure it no more.
What has tied your tongue, Prexaspes? Surely my brother in one of his pleasantries
has not ordered that it be cut out? Your skin is too fair to let you be enrolled
amongst his Libyan mutes.
The Hellene answered with a pitiful attempt at laughter.
Silent, am I? Then silent because I am admiring your noble ladyship’s play of
wit.
Artazostra shook her head.
Impossible. Your eyes were glazed like the blue of Egyptian beads. You were not
listening to me. You were seeing sights and hearkening to voices far away.
You press me hard, lady,
he confessed; how can I answer? No man is master of
his roving thoughts,—at least, not I.
You were seeing Athens. Are you so enamoured of your stony country that you believe
no other land can be so fair?
Stony it is, lady,—you have seen it,—but there is no sun like the sun that gilds
the Acropolis; no birds sing like the nightingales from the grove by the Cephissus; no
trees speak with the murmur of the olives at Colonus, or on the hill slope at
Eleusis-by-the-Sea. I can answer you in the words of Homer, the singer of Hellas, the
words he sets on the tongue of a wanderer and outcast, even as I.
A rugged land,
yet nurse of noble men, and for myself I can see naught sweeter than a man’s own
country.
The praise of his native land had brought the colour into the cheeks of the Athenian, his voice rose to enthusiasm. He knew that Roxana was watching him intently.
Beautiful it must be, dear Hellene,
she spoke, as she sat upon the footstool
below the couch of her brother, yet you have not seen all the world. You have not
seen the mystic Nile, Memphis, Thebes, and Saïs, our wondrous cities; have not seen
how the sun rises over the desert, how it turns the
Tell then of Egypt,
said Glaucon, clearly taking pleasure in the music of her
voice.
Not to-night. I have praised it before. Rather I will praise also the rose valleys of
Persia and Bactria, whither Mardonius took me after my dear father died.
Are they very beautiful also?
Beautiful as the Egyptian’s House of the Blessed, for those who have passed the dread
bar of Osiris; beautiful as Airyana-Væya, the home land of the Aryans, whence
Ahura-Mazda sent them forth. The winters are short, the summers bright and long.
Neither too much rain nor burning heat. The Paradise by Sardis is nothing beside them.
One breathes in the roses, and hearkens to the bulbuls—our Aryan nightingales—all
day and all night long. The streams bubble with cool water. At Susa the palace is
fairer than word may tell. Hither the court comes each summer from the tedious glories
of Babylon. The columns of the palace reach up to heaven, but no walls engirdle them,
only curtains green, white, and blue,—whilst the warm sweet breeze blows always
thither from green prairies.
You draw a picture fair as the plains of Elysium, dear lady,
spoke Glaucon, his
own gaze following the light that burned in hers, and yet I would not seek refuge
even in the king’s court with all its beauty. There are times when I long to pray the
god,
Give to me wings, eagle wings from Zeus’s own bird, and let me go to the ends
of the earth, and there in some charmed valley I may find at last the spring of
Lethe water, the water of forgetfulness that gives peace.
Roxana looked on him; pity was in her eyes, and he knew he was taking pleasure in her pitying.
The magic water you ask is not to be drunk from goblets,
but the charmed valley lies in the
vales of Bactria, the
Roof of the World,
high amid mountains crowned with
immortal snows. Every good tree and flower are here, and here winds the mystic Oxus,
the great river sweeping northward. And here, if anywhere, on Mazda’s wide, green
earth, can the trouble-tossed have peace.
Then it is so beautiful?
said the Athenian.
Beautiful,
answered Mardonius and Artazostra together. And Roxana, with an
approving nod from her brother, arose and crossed the tent where hung a simple harp.
Will my Lord Prexaspes listen,
she asked, if I sing him one of the homely
songs of the Aryans in praise of the vales by the Oxus? My skill is small.
It should suffice to turn the heart of Persephone, even as did Orpheus,
answered
the Athenian, never taking his gaze from her.
The soft light of the swinging lamps, the heavy fragrance of the frankincense which smouldered on the brazier, the dark lustre of the singer’s eyes—all held Glaucon as by a spell. Roxana struck the harp. Her voice was sweet, and more than desire to please throbbed through the strings and song.
O far away is gliding
By Oxus’s stream is rising
Forget, forget old sorrows,
Rest there, for aye, with me!
The light, the fragrance, the song so pregnant with meaning, all wrought upon Glaucon
of Athens. He felt the warm glow in his cheeks; he felt subtle hands outstretching as if
drawing forth his spirit. Roxana’s eyes were upon him as she ended. Their gaze met. She
was very fair, high-born, sensitive. She was inviting him to put away Glaucon the
outcast from Hellas, to become body and soul Prexaspes the Persian, Benefactor of the
King,
and sharer in all the glories of the conquering race. All the past seemed
slipping away from him as unreal. Roxana stood before him in her dark Oriental beauty;
Hermione was in Athens—and they were giving her in marriage to Democrates. What wonder
he felt no mastery of himself, though all that day he had kept from wine?
A simple song,
spoke Mardonius, who seemed marvellously pleased at all his sister
did, yet not lacking its sweetness. We Aryans are without the elaborate music the
Greeks and Babylonians affect.
Simplicity is the highest beauty,
answered the Greek, as if still in his trance,
and when I hear Euphrosyne, fairest of the Graces, sing with the voice of Erato,
the Song-Queen,
Roxana replaced the harp and made one of her inimitable Oriental courtesies,—a token at once of gratitude and farewell for the evening. Glaucon never took his gaze from her, until with a rustle and sweep of her blue gauze she had glided out of the tent. He did not see the meaning glances exchanged by Mardonius and Artazostra before the latter left them.
When the two men were alone, the bow-bearer asked a question.
Dear Prexaspes, do you not think I should bless the twelve archangels I possess so
beautiful a sister?
She is so fair, I wonder that Zeus does not haste from Olympus to enthrone her in
place of Hera.
The bow-bearer laughed.
No, I crave for her only a mortal husband. Though there are few in Persia, in Media,
in the wide East, to whom I dare
—his laugh grew
lighter,—I would do well to turn my eyes westward.
Glaucon did not see Roxana again the next day nor for several following, but in those days he thought much less on Hermione and on Athens.
All through that year to its close and again to the verge of springtime the sun made violet haze upon the hills and pure fire of the bay at Eleusis-by-the-Sea. Night by night the bird song would be stilled in the old olives along the dark waters. There Hermione would sit looking off into the void, as many another in like plight has sat and wearily waited, asking of the night and the sea the questions that are never answered. As the bay shimmered under the light of morning, she could gaze toward the brown crags of Salamis and the open Ægean beyond. The waves kept their abiding secret. The tall triremes, the red-sailed fishers’ boats, came and went from the havens of Athens, but Hermione never saw the ship that had borne away her all.
The roar and scandal following the unmasking of Glaucon had long since abated.
Hermippus—himself full five years grayer on account of the calamity—had taken his
daughter again to quiet Eleusis, where there was less to remind her of that terrible
night at Colonus. She spent the autumn and winter in an unbroken shadow life, with only
her mother and old Cleopis for companions. Reasons not yet told to the world gave her a
little hope and comfort. But in mere desire to make her dark cloud break, her parents
were continually giving Hermione pain. She guessed it long before her father’s wishes
passed beyond vaguest hints. She heard
Her Ladyship has taken on terribly, to be sure, but I told her mother
when a fire
blazes too hot, it burns out simply the faster.
Democrates is just the man to
console in another year.
Yes,
answered the other wiseacre, she’s far too young and pretty to stay
unwedded very long. Aphrodite didn’t make her to sit as an old maid carding wool and
munching beans. One can see Hermippus’s and Lysistra’s purpose with half an eye.
Cleopis, Nania, what is this vile tattling that I hear?
The young mistress’s eyes blazed fury. Nania turned pale. Hermione was quite capable of giving her a sound whipping, but Cleopis mustered a bold front and a ready lie:
Ei! dear little lady, don’t flash up so! I was only talking
with Nania about how Phryne the scullion maid was making eyes at Scylax the groom.
I heard you quite otherwise,
was the nigh tremulous answer. But Hermione was not
anxious to push matters to an issue. From the moment of Glaucon’s downfall she had
believed—what even her own mother had mildly derided—that Democrates had been the
author of her husband’s ruin. And now that the intent of her parents ever more clearly
dawned on her, she was close upon despair. Hermippus, however,—whatever his
purpose,—was considerate, nay kindly. He regarded Hermione’s feelings as pardonable, if
not laudable. He would wait for time to soothe her. But the consciousness that her
father purposed such a fate for her, however far postponed, was enough to double all the
unanswered longing, the unstilled pain.
Glaucon was gone. And with him gone, could Hermione’s sun ever rise again? Could she hope, across the end of the æons, to clasp hands even in the dim House of Hades with her glorious husband? If there was chance thereof, dark Hades would grow bright as Olympus. How gladly she would fare out to the shade land, when Hermes led down his troops of helpless dead.
Downward, down the long dark pathway,
Of wan, outworn mortals dwell.
But was this the home of Glaucon the Fair; should the young, the strong, the pure in heart, share one condemnation with the mean and the guilty? Homer the Wise left all hid. Yet he told of some not doomed to the common lot. Thus ran the promise to Menelaus, espoused to Helen.
Far away the gods shall bear you:
Round the islands of the Blest.
Was the pledge for Menelaus only?
The boats came, the boats went, on the blue bay. But as the spring grew warm, Hermione thought less of them, less almost of the last dread vision of Glaucon.
The cloud of the Persian hung ever darkening over Athens. submission.
Worldly prudence forbade that. The women
would have stabbed the craven to death with their bodkins. For the women were braver
than the men. They knew the fate of conquered Ionia: for the men only merciful death,
for the women the living death of the Persian harems and indignities words may not
utter. Whether Hellas forsook her or aided, Athens had chosen her fate. Xerxes might
annihilate her. Conquer her he could not.
Yet the early spring came back sweetly as ever. The warm breeze blew from Egypt.
Philomela sang in the olive groves. The snows on Pentelicus faded. Around the city ran
bands of children singing the swallow’s song,
and beseeching the spring donation
of honey cakes:—
She is here, she is here, the swallow;
Fair seasons bringing,—fair seasons to follow.
And many a housewife, as she rewarded the singers, dropped a silent tear, wondering whether another spring would see the innocents anywhere save in a Persian slave-pen, or, better fate, in Orchus.
Yet to one woman that spring there came consolation. On Hermippus’s door hung a glad
olive wreath. Hermione had borne a son. The fairest babe she had ever seen,
cried
the midwife. Phœnix,
the mother called him, for in him shall Glaucon the
Beautiful live again.
Democrates sent a runner every day to Eleusis to inquire for
Hermione until all danger was passed. On the name-day,
ten days
The day after Phœnix was born old Conon, Glaucon’s father, died. The old man had never recovered from the blow given by the dishonourable death of the son with whom he had so lately quarrelled. He left a great landed estate at Marathon to his new-born grandson. The exact value thereof Democrates inquired into sharply, and when a distant cousin talked of contesting the will, the orator announced he would defend the infant’s rights. The would-be plaintiff withdrew at once, not anxious to cross swords with this favourite of the juries, and everybody said that Democrates was showing a most scrupulous regard for his unfortunate friend’s memory.
Indeed, seemingly, Democrates ought to have been the happiest man in Athens. He had
been elected strategus,
to serve on the board of generals along with
Themistocles. He had plenty of money, and gave great banquets to this or that group of
prominent citizens. During the winter he had asked Hermippus for his daughter in
marriage. The Eumolpid told him that since Glaucon’s fearful end, he was welcome as a
son-in-law. Still he could not conceal that Hermione never spoke of him save in hate,
and in view of her then delicate condition it was well not to press the matter. The
orator had seemed well content. Woman’s fantasies would wear away in time.
But
the rumour of this negotiation, outrunning truth, grew into the lying report of an
absolute betrothal,—the report which was to drift to Asia and turn Glaucon’s heart to
stone, gossip having always wrought more harm than malignant lying.
Yet flies were in Democrates’s sweet ointment. He knew Themistocles hardly trusted him
as frankly as of yore.
Still he was beginning to shake off his terrors. He believed he had washed his hands fairly clean of his treason, even if the water had cost his soul. He joined with all his energies in seconding Themistocles. His voice was loudest at the Pnyx, counselling resistance. He went on successful embassies to Sicyon and Ægina to get pledges of alliance. In the summer he did his uttermost to prepare the army which Themistocles and Evænetus the Spartan led to defend the pass of Tempē. The expedition sailed amid high hopes for a noble defence of Hellas. Democrates was proud and sanguine. Then, like a thunderbolt, there came one night a knock at his door. Bias led to his master no less a visitor than the sleek and smiling Phœnician—Hiram.
The orator tried to cover his terrors by windy bluster. He broke in before the Oriental could finish his elaborate salaam.
Of all the harpies and gorgons you are the least welcome. Were you not warned when
you fled Athens for Argos never to show your face in Attica again?
Your Excellency said so,
was the bland reply.
Admirably you obey it. It remains for me to reward the obedience. Bias, go to the
street; summon two Scythian watchmen.
The Thracian darted out. Hiram simply stood with hands folded.
It is well, Excellency, the lad is gone. I have many things to say in confidence to
your Nobility. At Lacedæmon my Lord Lycon was gracious enough to give certain commands
for me to transmit to you.
Commands? To me? Earth and gods! am I to be commanded by an adder like you? You shall
pay for this on the rack.
Your slave thinks otherwise,
observed Hiram, humbly. If your Lordship will
deign to read this letter, it will save your slave many words and your Lordship many
cursings.
He knelt again before he offered a papyrus. Democrates would rather have taken fire, but he could not refuse. And thus he read:—
Lycon of Lacedæmon to Democrates of Athens, greeting:—Can he
who Medizes in the summer Hellenize in the spring? I know your zeal for Themistocles.
Was it for this we plucked you back from exposure and ruin? Do then as Hiram bids you,
or repay the money you clutched so eagerly. Fail not, or rest confident all the
documents you betrayed shall go to Hypsichides the First Archon, your enemy. Use then
your eloquence on Attic juries! But you will grow wise; what need of me to threaten?
You will hearken to Hiram.
From Sparta, on the festival of Bellerophon, in the ephorship of Theudas.—
Chaire!
Democrates folded the papyrus and stood long, biting his whitened lips in silence. Perhaps he had surmised the intent of the letter the instant Hiram extended it.
What do you desire?
he said thickly, at last.
Let my Lord then hearken—
began the Phœnician, to be interrupted by the sudden
advent of Bias.
The Scythians are at the door,
he was shouting; kyrie,shall I order them in and drag this lizard out by the tail?
No, in Zeus’s name, no! Bid them keep without. And do you go also. This honest fellow
is on private business which only I must hear.
Bias slammed the door. Perhaps he stood listening. Hiram, at least, glided nearer to his victim and spoke in a smooth whisper, taking no chances of an eavesdropper.
Excellency, the desire of Lycon is this. The army has been sent to Tempē. At
Lacedæmon Lycon used all his power to prevent its despatch, but Leonidas is omnipotent
to-day in Sparta, and besides, since Lycon’s calamity at the Isthmia, his prestige,
and therefore his influence, is not a little abated. Nevertheless, the army must be
recalled from Tempē.
And the means?
Yourself, Excellency. It is within your power to find a thousand good reasons why
Themistocles and Evænetus should retreat. And you will do so at once, Excellency.
Do not think you and your accursed masters can drive me from infamy to infamy. I can
be terrible if pushed to bay.
Your Nobility has read Lycon’s letter,
observed the Phœnician, with folded arms.
There was a sword lying on the tripod by which Democrates stood; he regretted for all the rest of his life that he had not seized it and ended the snakelike Oriental then and there. The impulse came, and went. The opportunity never returned. The orator’s head dropped down upon his breast.
Go back to Sparta, go back instantly,
he spoke in a hoarse whisper. Tell that
Polyphemus you call your master there that I will do his will. And tell him, too, that
if ever the day comes for vengeance on him, on the Cyprian, on you,—my vengeance will
be terrible.
Your slave’s ears hear the first part of your message with joy,
—Hiram’s smile
never grew broader,—the second part, which my Lord speaks in anger,—I will
forget.
Go! go!
ordered the orator, furiously. He clapped his hands. Bias reëntered.
Tell the constables I don’t need them. Here is an obol apiece for their trouble.
Conduct this man out. If he comes hither again, do you and the other slaves beat him
till there is not a whole spot left on his body.
Hiram’s genuflexion was worthy of Xerxes’s court.
My Lord, as always,
was his parting compliment, has shown himself exceeding
wise.
Thus the Oriental went. In what a mood Democrates passed the remaining day needs only scant wits to guess. Clearer, clearer in his ears was ringing Æschylus’s song of the Furies. He could not silence it.
With scourge and with ban
Who planted a snare for his friend!
He had intended to be loyal to Hellas,—to strive valiantly for her freedom,—and now! Was the Nemesis coming upon him, not in one great clap, but stealthily, finger by finger, cubit by cubit, until his soul’s price was to be utterly paid? Was this the beginning of the recompense for the night scene at Colonus?
The next morning he made a formal visit to the shrine of the Furies in the hill of
Areopagus. An old vow, too long deferred in payment, taken when he joined in his
first con
he explained to
friends, when he visited this uncanny spot.
Few were the Athenians who would pass that cleft in the Areopagus where the Avengers
had their grim sanctuary without a quick motion of the hands to avert
the evil eye. Thieves and others of evil conscience would make a wide circuit rather
than pass this abode of Alecto, Megæra, and Tisiphone, pitiless pursuers of the guilty.
The terrible sisters hounded a man through life, and after death to the judgment bar of
Minos. With reason, therefore, the guilty dreaded them.
Democrates had brought the proper sacrifices—two black rams, which were duly slaughtered upon the little altar before the shrine and sprinkled with sweetened water. The priestess, a gray hag herself, asked her visitor if he would enter the cavern and proffer his petition to the mighty goddesses. Leaving his friends outside, the orator passed through the door which the priestess seemed to open in the side of the cave. He saw only a jagged, unhewn cranny, barely tall enough for a man to stand upright and reaching far into the sculptured rock. No image: only a few rough votive tablets set up by a grateful suppliant for some mercy from the awful goddesses.
If you would pray here,
said the hag, kyrie,it is
needful that I go forth and close the door. The holy Furies love the dark, for is not
their home in Tartarus?
She went forth. As the light vanished, Democrates seemed buried in the rock. Out of the blackness spectres were springing against him. From a cleft he heard a flapping, a bat, an imprisoned bird, or Alecto’s direful wings. He held his hands downward, for he had to address infernal goddesses, and prayed in haste.
O ye sisters, terrible yet gracious, give ear. If by my
But here he ceased. In the darkness moved something white. Again a flapping. He was sure the white thing was Glaucon’s face. Glaucon had perished at sea. He had never been buried, so his ghost was wandering over the world, seeking vainly for rest. It all came to Democrates in an instant. His knees smote together; his teeth chattered. He sprang back upon the door and forced it open, but never saw the dove that fluttered forth with him.
A hideous place!
he cried to his waiting friends. A man must have a stronger
heart than mine to love to tarry after his prayer is finished.
Only a few days later Hellas was startled to hear that Tempē had been evacuated without a blow, and the pass left open to Xerxes. It was said Democrates, in his ever commendable activity, had discovered at the last moment the mountain wall was not as defensible as hoped, and any resistance would have been disastrous. Therefore, whilst the retreat was bewailed, everybody praised the foresight of the orator. Everybody—one should say, except two, Bias and Phormio. They had many conferences together, especially after the coming and going of Hiram.
There is a larger tunny in the sea than yet has entered
confessed the fishmonger, sorely puzzled, after much
vain talk.
But Hermione was caring for none of these things. Her hands were busy with the swaddling clothes. Her thoughts only for that wicker cradle which swung betwixt the pillars, where Hermippus’s house looked toward Salamis.
It is easy to praise the blessings of peace. Still easier to paint the horrors of
war,—and yet war will remain for all time the greatest game at which human wits can
play. For in it every form of courage, physical and moral, and every talent are called
into being. If war at once develops the bestial, it also develops as promptly the
heroic. Alone of human activities it demands a brute’s strength, an iron will, a
serpent’s intellect, a lion’s courage—all in one. And of him who has these things in
justest measure, history writes, He conquered.
It was because Mardonius seemed to
possess all these, to foresee everything, to surmount everything, that Glaucon despaired
for the fate of Hellas, even more than when he beheld the crushing armaments of the
Persian.
Yet for long it seemed as if the host would march even to Athens without battle,
without invoking Mardonius’s skill. The king crossed Thrace and Macedonia, meeting only
trembling hospitality from the cities along his route. At Doriscus he had held a review
of his army, and smiled when the fawning scribes told how one million seven hundred
thousand foot and eighty thousand horse followed his banners.earth and water,
—tokens of submission to the irresistible king. At the pass of
Tempē covering Thessaly, Glaucon, who knew the hopes of Themistocles, had been
certain the Hellenes would make a stand. Rumour had it that ten thousand Greek infantry
were indeed there, and ready for battle. But the outlaw’s expectations were utterly
shattered. To the disgust of the Persian lords, who dearly loved brisk fighting, it was
soon told how the cowardly Hellenes had fled by ship, leaving the rich plains of
Thessaly bare to the invader.
Thus was blasted Glaucon’s last hope. Hellas was doomed. He almost looked to see Themistocles coming as ambassador to bring the homage of Athens. Since his old life seemed closed to the outlaw, he allowed Mardonius to have his will with him,—to teach him to act, speak, think, as an Oriental. He even bowed himself low before the king, an act rewarded by being commanded one evening to play at dice with majesty itself. Xerxes was actually gracious enough to let his new subject win from him three handsome Syrian slave-boys.
You Hellenes are becoming wise,
announced the monarch one day, when the Locrian
envoys came with their earth and water. If you can learn to speak the truth, you will
equal even the virtues of the Aryans.
Your Majesty has not found me a liar,
rejoined the Athenian, warmly.
You gather our virtues apace. I must consider how I can reward you by promotion.
The king is overwhelmingly generous. Already I fear many of his servants mutter that
I am promoted beyond all desert.
Mutter? mutter against you?
The king’s eyes flashed ominously. By Mazda, it is
against me, then, who advanced
—he addressed the general of the Persian footmen, who stood near by,—who
are the disobedient slaves who question my advancement of Prexaspes?
The general—he had been the loudest grumbler—bowed and kissed the carpet.
None, your Eternity; on the contrary, there is not one Aryan in the host who does not
rejoice the king has found so noble an object for his godlike bounty.
You hear, Prexaspes,
said Xerxes, mollified. I am glad, for the man who
questions my wisdom touching your advancement must be impaled. To-morrow is my
birthday, you will not fail to sit with the other great lords at the banquet.
The king overpowers me with his goodness.
Do not fail to deserve it. Mardonius is always praising you. Consider also how much
better it is to depend on a gracious king than on the clamour of the fickle mob that
rules in your helpless cities!
The next morning was the royal birthday. The army, pitched in the fertile plain by
Thessalian Larissa, feasted on the abundance at hand. The king distributed huge
largesses of money. All day long he sat in his palace-like tent, receiving
congratulations from even the lowest of his followers, and bound in turn not to reject
any reasonable petition. The Magi sacrificed blooded stallions and rare spices to Mithra
the Lord of Wide Pastures,
to Vohu-Manu the Holy Councillor,
and all their
other angels, desiring them to bless the arms of the king.
The Perfect Banquet
of the birthday came in the evening. It hardly differed
from the feast at Sardis. The royal pavilion had its poles plated with silver, the
tapestries
Then at the end certain of the fairest of the women came and danced unveiled before the king—this one night when they might show forth their beauty. And last of all danced Roxana. She danced alone; a diaphanous drapery of pink Egyptian cotton blew around her as an evening cloud. From her black hair shone the diamond coronet. To the sensuous swing of the music she wound in and out before the king and his admiring lords, advancing, retreating, rising, swaying, a paragon of agility and grace, feet, body, hands, weaving their charm together. When at the end she fell on her knees before the king, demanding whether she had done well, the applause shook the pavilion. The king looked down on her, smiling.
Rise, sister of Mardonius. All Eran rejoices in you to-night. And on this evening
whose request can I fail to grant? Whose can I grant more gladly than yours? Speak;
you shall have it, though it be for half my kingdoms.
The dancer arose, but hung down her flashing coronal. Her blush was enchanting. She stood silent, while the good-humoured king smiled down on her, till Artazostra came from her seat by Mardonius and whispered in her ear. Every neck in the crowded pavilion was craned as Artazostra spoke to Xerxes.
May it please my royal brother, this is the word of Rox
I love my brother Mardonius; nevertheless, contrary to the
Persian custom, he keeps me now to my nineteenth year unwedded. If now I have found
favour in the sight of the king, let him command Mardonius to give me to some noble
youth who shall do me honour by the valiant deeds and the true service he shall
render unto my Lord.
A fair petition! Let the king grant it!
shouted twenty; while others more wise
whispered, This was not done without foreknowledge by Mardonius.
Xerxes smiled benignantly and rubbed his nose with the lion’s fat while deliberating.
An evil precedent, lady, an evil precedent when women demand husbands and do not wait
for their fathers’ or brothers’ good pleasure. But I have promised. The word of the
king is not to be broken. Daughter of Gobryas, your petition is granted. Come hither,
Mardonius,
—the bow-bearer approached the throne,—you have heard the bold
desire of your sister, and my answer. I must command you to bestow on her a
husband.
The bow-bearer bowed obediently.
I hear the word of the king, and all his mandates are good. This is no meet time for
marriage festivities, when the Lord of the World and all the Aryan power goes forth to
war. Yet as soon as the impious rebels amongst the Hellenes shall be subdued, I will
rejoice to bestow my sister upon whatsoever fortunate servant the king may deign to
honour.
You hear him, lady,
—the royal features assumed a grin, which was reflected
throughout the pavilion. A husband you shall have, but Mardonius shall be revenged.
Your fate is in my hands. And shall not I,—guardian of the households of my
empire,—give a warning to all bold maidens against lifting their wills too proudly,
or presuming upon an overindulgent king? What then shall be just
The king bent his head, still rubbing his nose, and
trying to persuade all about that he was meditating.
Bardas, satrap of Sogandia, is old; he has but one eye; they say he beats his eleven
wives daily with a whip of rhinoceros hide. It would be just if I gave him this woman
also in marriage. What think you, Hydarnes?
If your Eternity bestows this woman on Bardas, every husband and father in all your
kingdoms will applaud your act,
smiled the commander.
The threatened lady fell again on her knees, outstretching her hands and beseeching mercy,—never a more charming picture of misery and contrition.
You tremble, lady,
went on the sovran, and justly. It were better for my
empire if my heart were less hard. After all, you danced so elegantly that I must be
mollified. There is the young Prince Zophyrus, son of Datis the general,—he has only
five wives already. True, he is usually the worse for wine, is not handsome, and
killed one of his women not long since because she did not sing to please him.
Yes—you shall have Zophyrus—he will surely rule you—
Mercy, not Zophyrus, gracious Lord,
pleaded the abject Egyptian.
The king looked down on her, with a broader grin than ever.
You are very hard to please. I ought to punish your wilfulness by some dreadful doom.
Do not cry out again. I will not hear you. My decision is fixed. Mardonius shall
bestow you in marriage to a man who is not even a Persian by birth, who one year since
was a disobedient rebel against my power, who even now contemns and despises many of
the good customs of the Aryans. Hark, then, to his name. When Hellas is conquered, I
command that Mardonius wed you to the Lord Prexaspes.
The king broke into an uproarious laugh, a signal for the thousand loyal subjects
within the great pavilion to roar with laughter also. In the confusion following
Artazostra and Roxana disappeared. Fifty hands dragged the appointed bridegroom to the
king, showering on him all manner of congratulations. Xerxes’s act was a plain proof
that he was adopting the beautiful Hellene as one of his personal favourites,—a post of
influence and honour not to be despised by a vizier. What Prexaspes
said when he
thanked the king was drowned in the tumult of laughing and cheering. The monarch,
delighted to play the gracious god, roared his injunctions to the Athenian so loud that
above the din they heard him.
You will bridle her well, Prexaspes. I know them—those Egyptian fillies! They need a
hard curb and the lash at times. Beware the tyranny of your own harem. I would not
have the satrapies know how certain bright eyes in the seraglio can make the son of
Darius play the fool. There is nothing more dangerous than women. It will take all
your courage to master them. A hard task lies before you. I have given you one wife,
but you know our good Persian custom—five, ten, or twenty. Take the score, I order
you. Then in twelve years you’ll be receiving the prize a Persian king bestows every
summer on the father of the most children!
And following this broad hint, the king held his sides with laughter again, a mirth
which it is needless to say was echoed and reëchoed till it seemed it could not cease.
Only a few ventured to mutter under breath: The Hellene will have a subsatrapy in the
East before the season is over and a treasure of five thousand talents! Mithra wither
the upstart!
The summer was waning when the host moved southward table-companions
told him: The rumour of your Eternity’s advent stupefies the miserable Hellenes. Like
Atar, the Angel of Fire, your splendour glitters afar. You will enter Athens and
Sparta, and no sword leave its sheath, no bow its wrapper.
Every day Mardonius asked of Glaucon, Will your Hellenes fight?
and the answer
was ever more doubting, I do not know.
Long since Glaucon had given up hope of the defeat of the Persian. Now he prayed devoutly there might be no useless shedding of blood. If only he could turn back and not behold the humiliation of Athens! Of the fate of the old-time friends—Democrates, Cimon, Hermione—he tried not to think. No doubt Hermione was the wife of Democrates. More than a year had sped since the flight from Colonus. Hermione had put off her mourning for the yellow veil of a bride. Glaucon prayed the war might bring her no new sorrow, though Democrates, of course, would resist Persia to the end. As for himself he would never darken their eyes again. He was betrothed to Roxana. With her he would seek one of those valleys in Bactria which she had praised, the remoter the better, and there perhaps was peace.
Thus the host wound through Thessaly, till before them rose, peak on peak, the jagged mountain wall of Othrys and Œta, fading away in violet distance, the bulwark of central Hellas. Then the king’s smile became a frown, for the Hellenes, undismayed despite his might, were assembling their fleet at northern Eubœa, and at the same time a tempest had shattered a large part of the royal navy. The Magi offered sacrifice to appease Tishtrya, the Prince of the Wind-ruling Stars, but the king’s frown grew blacker at each message. Glaucon was near him when at last the monarch’s thunders broke forth.
A hot, sultry day. The king’s chariot had just crossed the mountain stream of the Sphercus, when a captain of a hundred came galloping, dismounted, and prostrated himself in the dust.
Your tidings?
demanded Xerxes, sharply.
Be gracious, Fountain of Mercy,
—the captain evidently disliked his mission,—I am sent from the van. We came to a place where the mountains thrust down upon the
sea and leave but a narrow road by the ocean. Your slaves found certain Hellenes,
rebels against your benignant government, holding a wall and barring all passage to
your army.
And did you not forthwith seize these impudent wretches and drag them hither to be
judged by me?
Compassion, Omnipotence,
—the messenger trembled,—they seemed sturdy,
well-armed rogues, and the way was narrow and steep where a score can face a thousand.
Therefore, your slave came straight with his tidings to the ever gracious king.
Dog! Coward!
Xerxes plucked the whip from the charioteer’s hand and lashed it
over the wretch’s shoulders. By the
fravashi, the soul of
Darius my father, no man shall bring so foul a word to me and live!
Compassion, Omnipotence, compassion!
groaned the man, writhing like a worm.
Already the master-of-punishments was approaching to cover his face with a towel,
preparatory to the bow-string, but the royal anger spent itself just enough to avert a
tragedy.
Your life is forfeit, but I am all too merciful! Take then three hundred stripes on
the soles of your feet and live to be braver in the future.
A thousand blessings on your benignity,
cried the captain, as they led him away,
I congratulate myself that insignificant as I am the king yet deigns to notice my
existence even to recompense my shortcomings.
Off,
ordered the bristling monarch, or you die the death yet. And do you,
Mardonius, take Prexaspes, who somewhat knows this country, spur forward, and discover
who are the madmen thus earning their destruction.
The command was obeyed. Glaucon galloped beside the Prince, overtaking the marching army, until as they cantered into the little mud-walled city of Heraclea a second messenger from the van met them with further details.
The pass is held by seven thousand Grecian men-at-arms. There are no Athenians. There
are three hundred come from Sparta.
And their chief?
asked Glaucon, leaning eagerly.
Is Leonidas of Lacedæmon.
Then, O Mardonius,
spoke the Athenian, with a throb in his voice not there an
hour ago. There will be battle.
So, whether wise men or mad, the Hellenes were not to lay down their arms without one struggle, and Glaucon knew not whether to be sorry or to be proud.
A rugged mountain, an inaccessible morass, and beyond that morass the sea: the
mountain thrusting so close upon the morass as barely to leave space for a narrow wagon
road. This was the western gate of Thermopylæ. Behind the narrow defile the mountain and
swamp-land drew asunder; in the still scanty opening hot springs gushed forth, sacred to
Heracles, then again on the eastern side Mt. Œta and the impenetrable swamp drew
together, forming the second of the Hot Gates,
—the gates which Xerxes must
unlock if he would continue his march to Athens.
The Great King’s couriers reported that the stubborn Hellenes had cast a wall across
the entrance, and that so far from showing terror at the advent of majesty, were
carelessly diverting themselves by athletic games, and by combing and adorning their
hair, a fact which the Lord Prexaspes
at least comprehended to mean that Leonidas
and his Spartans were preparing for desperate battle. Nevertheless, it was hard to
persuade the king that at last he confronted men who would resist him to his face.
Glaucon said it. Demaratus, the outlawed Spartan, said it. Xerxes, however, remained
angry and incredulous. Four long days he and his army sat before the pass, because,
announced his couriers, he wishes in his benignity to give these madmen
a chance to flee away and shun destruction;
because,
spoke those nearest to Mardonius, the
brain of the army, there is hot fighting ahead, and the general is resolved to bring
up the picked troops in the rear before risking a battle.
Then on the fifth day either Xerxes’s patience was exhausted or Mardonius felt ready. Strong regiments of Median infantry were ordered to charge Leonidas’s position, Xerxes not failing to command that they slay as few of the wretches as possible, but drag them prisoners before his outraged presence.
A noble charge. A terrible repulse. For the first time those Asiatics who had forgotten Marathon discovered the overwhelming superiority that the sheathing of heavy armour gave the Greek hoplites over the lighter armed Median spearmen. The short lances and wooden targets of the attackers were pitifully futile against the long spears and brazen shields of the Hellenes. In the narrow pass the vast numbers of Barbarians went for nothing. They could not use their archers, they could not charge with their magnificent cavalry. The dead lay in heaps. The Medes attacked again and again. At last an end came to their courage. The captains laid the lash over their mutinous troops. The men bore the whips in sullen silence. They would not charge again upon those devouring spears.
White with anger, Xerxes turned to Hydarnes and his Immortals,
the infantry of
the Life Guard. The general needed no second bidding. The charge was driven home with
magnificent spirit. But what the vassal Medes could not accomplish, neither could the
lordly Persians. The repulse was bloody. If once Leonidas’s line broke and the Persians
rushed on with howls of triumph, it was only to see the Hellenes’ files close in a
twinkling and return to the onset with their foes in confusion. Hydarnes led back his
men
Omnipotence, I the least of your slaves put my life at your bidding. Command that I
forfeit my head, but my men can do no more. I have lost hundreds. The pass is not to
be stormed.
Only the murmur of assent from all the well-tried generals about the throne saved Hydarnes from paying the last penalty. The king’s rage was fearful; men trembled to look on him. His words came so thick, the rest could never follow all his curses and commands. Only Mardonius was bold enough to stand up before his face.
Your Eternity, this is an unlucky day. Is it not sacred to Angra-Mainyu the Evil? The
arch-Magian says the holy fire gives forth sparks of ill-omen. Wait, then, till
to-morrow. Verethraghna, the Angel of Victory, will then return to your servants.
The bow-bearer led his trembling master to the royal tent, and naught more of Xerxes
was seen till the morning. All that night Mardonius never slept, but went unceasingly
the round of the host preparing for battle. Glaucon saw little of him. The Athenian
himself had been posted among the guard of nobles directly about the person of the king,
and he was glad he was set nowhere else, otherwise he might have been ordered to join in
the attack. Like every other in the host, he slept under arms, and never returned to
Mardonius’s pavilion. His heart had been in his eyes all that day. He had believed
Leonidas would be swept from the pass at the first onset. Even he had underrated the
Spartan prowess. The repulse of the Medes had astonished him. When Hydarnes reeled back,
he could hardly conceal his joy. The Hellenes were fighting! The Hellenes were
conquering!
So the night passed for him: the hard earth for a bed, a water cruse wrapped in a cloak for a pillow. And just as the first red blush stole over the green Malian bay and the mist-hung hills of Eubœa beyond, he woke with all the army. Mardonius had used the night well. Chosen contingents from every corps were ready. Cavalrymen had been dismounted. Heavy masses of Assyrian archers and Arabian slingers were advanced to prepare for the attack by overwhelming volleys. The Persian noblemen, stung to madness by their king’s reproaches and their own sense of shame, bound themselves by fearful oaths never to draw from the onset until victorious or dead. The attack itself was led by princes of the blood, royal half-brothers of the king. Xerxes sat again on the ivory throne, assured by every obsequious tongue that the sacred fire gave fair omens, that to-day was the day of victory.
The attack was magnificent. For an instant its fury seemed to carry the Hellenes back. Where a Persian fell two stepped over him. The defenders were swept against their wall. The Barbarians appeared to be storming it. Then like the tide the battle turned. The hoplites, locking shields, presented an impenetrable spear hedge. The charge spent itself in empty promise. Mardonius, who had been in the thickest, nevertheless drew off his men skilfully and prepared to renew the combat.
In the interval Glaucon, standing by the king, could see a short, firm figure in black
armour going in and out among the
I am a Hellene, too! Look on me come to join you, to live and die with you, with my
face against the Barbarian!
Cruel the fate that set him here, impotent, when on that band of countrymen Queen Nikē was shedding bright glory!
But he was Glaucon the Traitor
still, to be awarded the traitor’s doom by
Leonidas. Therefore the Lord Prexaspes
must stand at his post, guarding the king
of the Aryans.
The second charge was as the first, the third was as the second. Mardonius was full of
recourses. By repeated attacks he strove to wear the stubborn Hellenes down. The
Persians proved their courage seven times. Ten of them died gladly, if their deaths
bought that of a single foe. But few as were Leonidas’s numbers, they were not so few as
to fail to relieve one another at the front of the press,—which front was fearfully
narrow. And three times, as his men drifted back in defeat, Xerxes the king leaped
from the throne whereon he sat, in anguish for his army.
At noon new contingents from the rear took the place of the exhausted attackers. The
sun beat down with unpitying heat. The wounded lay sweltering in their agony whilst the
battle roared over them. Mardonius never stopped to count his dead. Then at last came
nightfall. Man could do no more. As the shadows from Œta grew long over the close scene
of combat, even the proudest Persians turned away. They had lost thousands. Their defeat
was absolute.
Xerxes spoke no word when they took him to his tent that night, a sign of indescribable anger. Fear, humiliation, rage—all these seemed driving him mad. His chamberlains and eunuchs feared to approach to take off his golden armour. Mardonius came to the royal tent; the king, with curses he had never hurled against the bow-bearer before, refused to see him. The battle was ended. No one was hardy enough to talk of a fresh attack on the morrow. Every captain had to report the loss of scores of his best. As Glaucon rode back to Mardonius’s tents, he overheard two infantry officers:—
A fearful day—the bow-bearer is likely to pay for it. I hope his Majesty confines
his anger only to him.
Yes—Mardonius will walk the Chinvat bridge to-morrow. The king is turning against
him. Megabyzus is the bow-bearer’s enemy, and already is gone to his Majesty to say
that it is Mardonius’s blunders that have brought the army to such a plight. The king
will catch at that readily.
At the tents Glaucon found Artazostra and Roxana. They were both pale. The news of the great defeat had been brought by a dozen messengers. Mardonius had not arrived. He was not slain, that was certain, but Artazostra feared the worst. The proud daughter of Darius found it hard to bear up.
My husband has many enemies. Hitherto the king’s favour has allowed him to mock them.
But if my brother deserts him, his ruin is speedy. Ah! Ahura-Mazda, why hast Thou
suffered us to see this day?
Glaucon said what he could of comfort, which was little.
I am bidden to tell your Ladyships that my master has silenced the tongues of his
enemies and is restored to the king’s good favor. And I am bidden also to command the
Lord Prexaspes to come to the royal tent. His Majesty has need of him.
Glaucon went, questioning much as to the service to be required. He did not soon forget the scene that followed. The great pavilion was lit by a score of resinous flambeaux. The red light shook over the green and purple hangings, the silver plating of the tent-poles. At one end rose the golden throne of the king; before it in a semicircle the stools of a dozen or more princes and commanders. In the centre stood Mardonius questioning a coarse-featured, ill-favoured fellow, who by his sheepskin dress and leggings Glaucon instantly recognized as a peasant of this Malian country. The king beckoned the Athenian into the midst and was clearly too eager to stand on ceremony.
Your Greek is better than Mardonius’s, good Prexaspes. In a matter like this we dare
not trust too many interpreters. This man speaks the rough dialect of his country, and
few can understand him. Can you interpret?
I am passing familiar with the Locrian and Malian dialect, your Majesty.
Question this man further as to what he will do for us. We have understood him but
lamely.
Glaucon proceeded to comply. The man, who was exceeding awkward and ill at ease in
such august company,
As Glaucon interpreted, the shout of relieved gladness from the Persian grandees made the tent-cloths shake. Xerxes’s eyes kindled. He clapped his hands.
Reward? He shall have ten talents! But where? How?
The man asserted that the path was easy and practicable for a large body of troops. He had often been over it with his sheep and goats. If the Persians would start a force at once—it was already quite dark—they could fall upon Leonidas at dawn. The Spartan would be completely trapped, or forced to open the defile without another spear thrust.
A care, fellow,
warned Mardonius, regarding the man sharply; you speak glibly,
but if this is a trick to lead a band of the king’s servants to destruction,
understand you play with deadly dice. If the troops march, you shall have your hands
knotted together and a soldier walking behind to cut your throat at the first sign of
treachery.
Glaucon interpreted the threat. The man did not wince.
There is no trap. I will guide you.
That was all they could get him to say.
And do not the Hellenes know of this mountain path and guard it?
persisted the
bow-bearer.
Ephialtes thought not; at least if they had, they had not told off any efficient detachment to guard it. Hydarnes cut the matter short by rising from his stool and casting himself before the king.
A boon, your Eternity, a boon!
What is it?
asked the monarch.
The Immortals have been disgraced. Twice they have been repulsed with ignominy. The
shame burns hot in their breasts. Suffer them to redeem their honour. Suffer me to
take this man and all the infantry of the Life Guard, and at dawn the Lord of the
World shall see his desire over his miserable enemies.
The words of Hydarnes are good,
added Mardonius, incisively, and Xerxes beamed
and nodded assent.
Go, scale the mountain with the Immortals and tell this Ephialtes there await him ten
talents and a girdle of honour if the thing goes well; if ill, let him be flayed alive
and his skin be made the head of a kettledrum.
The stolid peasant did not blench even at this. Glaucon remained in the tent, translating and hearing all the details: how Hydarnes was to press the attack from the rear at early dawn, how Mardonius was to conduct another onset from the front. At last the general of the guard knelt before the king for the last time.
Thus I go forth, Omnipotence, and to-morrow, behold your will upon your enemies, or
behold me never more.
I have faithful slaves,
said Xerxes, rising and smiling benignantly upon the
general and the bow-bearer. Let us disperse, but first let command be given the
Magians to cry all night to Mithra and Tishtrya, and to sacrifice to them a white
horse.
Your Majesty always enlists the blessings of heaven for your servants,
bowed
Mardonius, as the company broke up and the king went away to his inner tent and his
concubines. Glaucon lingered until most of the grandees had gone forth, then the
bow-bearer went to him.
Go back to my tents,
ordered Mardonius; tell Artazostra and Roxana that all is
well, that Ahura has delivered me from a great strait and restored me to the king’s
favour, and that to-morrow the gate of Hellas will be opened.
You are still bloody and dusty. You have watched all last night and been in the thick
all day,
expostulated the Athenian; come to the tents with me and rest.
The bow-bearer shook his head.
No rest until to-morrow, and then the rest of victory or a longer one. Now go; the
women are consuming with their care.
Glaucon wandered back through the long avenues of pavilions. The lights of innumerable
camp-fires, the hum of thousands of voices, the snorting of horses, the grumbling of
camels, the groans of men wounded—all these and all other sights and sounds from the
countless host were lost to him. He walked on by a kind of animal instinct that took him
to Mardonius’s encampment through the mazes of the canvas city. It was dawning on him
with a terrible clearness that he was become a traitor to Hellas in very deed. It was
one thing to be a passive onlooker of a battle, another to be a participant in a plot
for the ruin of Leonidas. Unless warned betimes the Spartan king and all who followed
him infallibly would be captured or slaughtered to a man. And he had heard all—the
traitor, the discussion, the design—had even, if without his choice, been partner and
helper in the same. The blood of Leonidas and his men would be on his head. Every curse
the Athenians had heaped on him Glaucon the Traitor,
partner to the betrayal of Thermopylæ.
The doltish peasant, lured by the great
reward, he might forgive,—himself, the high-born Alcmæonid, never.
From this revery he was shaken by finding himself at the entrance to the tents of
Mardonius. Artazostra and Roxana came to meet him. When he told of the deliverance of
the bow-bearer, he had joy by the light in their eyes. Roxana had never shone in greater
beauty. He spoke of the heat of the sun, of his throbbing head. The women bathed his
forehead with lavender-water, touching him with their own soft hands. Roxana sang again
to him, a low, crooning song of the fragrant Nile, the lotus bells, the nodding palms,
the perfumed breeze from the desert. Whilst he watched her through half-closed eyes, the
visions of that day of battles left him. He sat wrapped in a dream world, far from stern
realities of men and arms. So for a while, as he lounged on the divans, following the
play of the
Then he went to his own tent to seek rest. But Hypnos did not come for a long time
with his poppies. Once out of the Egyptian’s presence the haunting terror had returned,
Glaucon the Traitor!
Those three words were always uppermost. At last, indeed,
sleep came and as he slept he dreamed.
As Glaucon slept he found himself again in Athens. He was on the familiar way from the
cool wrestling ground of the Academy and walking toward the city through the suburb of
Ceramicus. Just as he came to the three tall pine trees before the gate, after he had
passed the tomb of Solon, behold! a fair woman stood in the path and looked on him. She
was beyond mortal height and of divine beauty, yet a beauty grave and stern. Her gray
eyes cut to his heart like swords. On her right hand hovered a winged Victory, on her
shoulder rested an owl, at her feet twined a wise serpent, in her left hand she bore the
ægis, the shaggy Woe is me,
he
trembled, I have enraged a terrible immortal.
Then suddenly the woman’s
countenance was changed. The ægis, the serpent, the Victory, all vanished; he saw
Hermione before him, beautiful as on the day she ran to greet him at Eleusis, yet sad as
was his last sight of her the moment he fled from Colonus. Seized with infinite longing,
he sprang to her. But lo! she drifted back as into the air. It was even as when Odysseus
followed the shade of his mother in the shadowy Land of the Dead.
Yearned he sorely then to clasp her,
As he strove for her embrace.
He pursued, she drifted farther, farther. Her face was inexpressibly sorrowful. And Glaucon knew that she spoke to him.
I have believed you innocent, though all Athens calls you
traitor.
I have been
true to you, though all men rise up against me. In what manner have you kept your
innocence? Have you had love for another, caresses for another, kisses for another?
How will you prove your loyalty to Athens and return?
Hermione!
Glaucon cried, not in his dream, but quite aloud. He awoke with a
start. Outside the tent sentry was calling to sentry, changing the watch just before the
dawning. It was perfectly plain to him what he must do. His dream had only given shape
to the ferment in his brain, a ferment never ceasing while his body slept. He must go
instantly to the Greek camp and warn Leonidas. If the Spartan did not trust him, no
matter, he had done his duty. If Leonidas slew him on the spot, again no matter, life
with an eternally gnawing conscience could be bought on too hard terms. He knew, as
though Zeus’s messenger Iris had spoken it, that Hermione had never believed him guilty,
that she had been in all things true to him. He could never betray her trust.
His head now was clear and calm. He arose, threw on his cloak, and buckled about his
waist a short sword. The Nubian boy that Mardonius had given him for a body-servant whither his
Lordship was going?
Glaucon informed him he must be at the front before daybreak,
and bade him remain behind and disturb no one. But the Athenian was not to execute his
design unhindered. As he passed out of the tent and into the night, where the morning
stars were burning, and where the first red was creeping upward from the sea, two
figures glided forth from the next pavilion. He knew them and shrank from them. They
were Artazostra and Roxana.
You go forth early, dearest Prexaspes,
spoke the Egyptian, throwing back her
veil, and even in the starlight he saw the anxious flash of her eyes, does the battle
join so soon that you take so little sleep?
It joins early, lady,
spoke Glaucon, his wits wandering. In the intensity of his
purpose he had not thought of the partings with the people he must henceforth reckon
foes. He was sorely beset, when Roxana drew near and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
Your Greeks will resist terribly,
she spoke. We women dread the battle more
than you. Yours is the fierce gladness of the combat, ours only the waiting, the heavy
tidings, the sorrow. Therefore Artazostra and I could not sleep, but have been
watching together. You will of course be near Mardonius my brother. You will guard him
from all danger. Leonidas will resist fearfully when at bay. Ah! what is this?
In pressing closer she had discovered the Athenian wore no cuirass.
You will not risk the battle without armour?
was her cry.
I shall not need it, lady,
answered he, and only half conscious what he did,
stretched forth as if to put her away. Roxana shrank back, grieved and wondering, but
Artazostra seized his arm quickly.
What is this, Prexaspes? All is not well. Your manner is strange!
He shook her off, almost savagely.
Call me not Prexaspes,
he cried, not in Persian, but in Greek. I am Glaucon of
Athens; as Glaucon I must live, as Glaucon die. No man—not though he desire it—can
disown the land that bore him. And if I dreamed I was a Persian, I wake to find myself
a Greek. Therefore forget me forever. I go to my own!
Prexaspes, my lover,
—Roxana, strong in fear and passion, clung about his girdle,
while again Artazostra seized him,—last night I was in your arms. Last night you
kissed me. Are we not to be happy together? What is this you say?
He stood one instant silent, then shook himself and put them both aside with a marvellous ease.
Forget my name,
he commanded. If I have given you sorrow, I repent it. I go to
my own. Go you to yours. My place is with Leonidas—to save him, or more like to die
with him! Farewell!
He sprang away from them. He saw Roxana sink upon the ground. He heard Artazostra
calling to the horse-boys and the eunuchs,—perhaps she bade them to pursue. Once he
looked back, but never twice. He knew the watchwords, and all the sentries let him pass
by freely. With a feverish stride he traced the avenues of sleeping tents. Soon he was
at the outposts, where strong divisions of Cissian and Babylonian infantrymen were
slumbering under arms, ready for the attack the instant the uproar from the rear of the
pass told how Hydarnes had completed his circuit. Eos—Rosy-Fingered Dawn
—was
just shimmering above the mist-hung peak of Mt. Telethrius in Eubœa across the bay when
Glaucon came to the last Persian outpost. The pickets
Halt! Who passes?
Glaucon held up his right hand, and advanced cautiously. Two men in heavy armour approached, and threatened his breast with their lance points.
Who are you?
A friend, a Hellene—my speech tells that. Take me to Leonidas. I’ve a story worth
telling.
Euge! Master Friend,
our general can’t be waked for
every deserter. We’ll call our decarch.
A shout brought the subaltern commanding the Greek outposts. He was a Spartan of less sluggish wits than many of his breed, and presently believed Glaucon when he declared he had reason in asking for Leonidas.
But your accent is Athenian?
asked the decarch, with wonderment.
Ay, Athenian,
assented Glaucon.
Curses on you! I thought no Athenian ever Medized. What business had
you in the Persian camp? Who of your countrymen are there save
the sons of Hippias?
Not many,
rejoined the fugitive, not anxious to have the questions pushed home.
Well, to Leonidas you shall go, sir Athenian, and state your business. But you are
like to get a bearish welcome. Since your pretty Glaucon’s treason, our king has not
wasted much love even on repentant traitors.
With a soldier on either side, the deserter was marched within the barrier wall. Another encampment, vastly smaller and less luxurious than the Persian, but of martial orderliness, spread out along the pass. The Hellenes were just waking. Some were breakfasting from helmets full of cold boiled peas, others buckled on the well-dinted bronze cuirasses and greaves. Men stared at Glaucon as he was led by them.
A deserter they take to the chief,
ran the whisper, and a little knot of idle
Spartans trailed behind, when at last Glaucon’s guides halted him before a brown tent
barely larger than the others.
A man sat on a camp chest by the entrance, and was busy with an iron spoon eating black broth
The two guards dropped their spears in salute. The man looked upward.
A deserter,
reported one of Glaucon’s mentors; he says he has important
news.
Wait!
ordered the general, making the iron spoon clack steadily.
The weal of Hellas rests thereon. Listen!
pleaded the nervous Athenian.
Wait!
was the unruffled answer, and still the iron spoon went on plying. The
Spartan lifted a huge morsel from the pot, chewed it deliberately, then put the vessel
by. Next he inspected the newcomer from head to toe, then at last gave his permission.
Well?
Glaucon’s words were like a bursting torrent.
Fly, your Excellency! I’m from Xerxes’s camp. I was at the Persian council. The
mountain path is betrayed. Hydarnes and the guard are almost over it. They will fall
upon your rear. Fly, or you and all your men are trapped!
Well,
observed the Spartan, slowly, motioning for the deserter to cease, but
Glaucon’s fears made that impossible.
I say I was in Xerxes’s own tent. I was interpreter betwixt the king and the traitor.
I know all whereof I say. If you do not flee instantly, the blood of these men is on
your head.
Leonidas again scanned the deserter with piercing scrutiny, then flung a question.
Who are you?
The blood leaped into the Athenian’s cheeks. The tongue that had wagged so nimbly clove in his mouth. He grew silent.
Who are you?
As the question was repeated, the scrutiny grew yet closer. The soldiers were pressing around, one comrade leaning over another’s shoulder. Twenty saw the fugitive’s form straighten as he stood in the morning twilight.
I am Glaucon of Athens, Isthmionices!
Ah!
Leonidas’s jaw dropped for an instant. He showed no other astonishment, but
the listening Spartans raised a yell.
Death! Stone the traitor!
Leonidas, without a word, smote the man nearest to him with a spear butt. The soldiers were silent instantly. Then the chief turned back to the deserter.
Why here?
Glaucon had never prayed for the gifts of Peitho, Our Lady Persuasion,
more
than at that crucial moment. Arguments, supplications, protestations of innocence,
curses upon his unknown enemies, rushed to his lips together. He hardly realized what he
himself said. Only he knew that at the end the soldiers did not tug at their hilts as
before and scowl so threateningly, and Leonidas at last lifted his hand as if to bid him
cease.
grunted the chief. Euge!So you wish me to believe you
a victim of fate, and trust your story? The pass is turned, you say? Masistes the seer
said the libation sputtered on the flame with ill-omen when he sacrificed this
morning. Then you come. The thing shall be looked into. Call the captains.
The locharchs and taxiarchs of the Greeks assembled. It was a brief and gloomy council of war. While Euboulus, commanding the Corinthian contingent, was still questioning whether the deserter was worthy of credence, a scout came running down Mt. Œta confirming the worst. The cowardly Phocians watching the mountain trail had fled at the first arrows of Hydarnes. It was merely a question of time before the Immortals would be at Alpeni, the village in Leonidas’s rear. There was only one thing to say, and the Spartan chief said it.
You must retreat.
The taxiarchs of the allied Hellenes under him were already rushing forth to their men to bid them fly for dear life. Only one or two stayed by the tent, marvelling much to observe that Leonidas gave no orders to his Lacedæmonians to join in the flight. On the contrary, Glaucon, as he stood near, saw the general lift the discarded pot of broth and explore it again with the iron spoon.
O Father Zeus,
cried the incredulous Corinthian leader. Are you turned mad,
Leonidas?
Time enough for all things,
returned the unmoved Spartan, continuing his
breakfast.
Time!
shouted Euboulus. Have we not to flee on wings, or be cut off?
Fly, then.
But you and your Spartans?
We will stay.
Stay? A handful against a million? Do I hear aright? What can you do?
Die.
The gods forbid! Suicide is a fearful end. No man should rush on destruction. What
requires you to perish?
Honour.
Honour! Have you not won glory enough by holding Xerxes’s whole power at bay two
days? Is not your life precious to Hellas? What is the gain?
Glory to Sparta.
Then in the red morning half-light, folding his big hands across his mailed chest, Leonidas looked from one to another of the little circle. His voice was still in unemotional gutturals when he delivered the longest speech of his life.
We of Sparta were ordered to defend this pass. The order shall be obeyed. The rest of
you must go away—all save the Thebans, whose loyalty I distrust. Tell Leotychides, my
colleague at Sparta, to care for Gorgo my wife and Pleistarchus my young son, and to
remember that
A second breathless scout interrupted with the tidings that Hydarnes was on the last
stretches of his road. The
Go!
he ordered.
The Corinthian would have seized his hand. He shook him off. At Leonidas’s elbow was standing the trumpeter for his three hundred from Lacedæmon.
Blow!
commanded the chief.
The keen blast cut the air. The chief deliberately wrapped the purple mantle around himself and adjusted the gold circlet over his helmet, for on the day of battle a Lacedæmonian was wont to wear his best. And even as he waited there came to him out of the midst of the panic-stricken, dissolving camp, one by one, tall men in armour, who took station beside him—the men of Sparta who had abided steadfast while all others prepared to flee, waiting for the word of the chief.
Presently they stood, a long black line, motionless, silent, whilst the other divisions filed in swift fear past. Only the Thespians—let their names not be forgotten—chose to share the Laconians’ glory and their doom and took their stand behind the line of Leonidas. With them stood also the Thebans, but compulsion held them, and they tarried merely to desert and pawn their honour for their lives.
More couriers. Hydarnes’s van was in sight of Alpeni now. The retreat of the Corinthians, Tegeans, and other Hellenes became a run; only once Euboulus and his fellow-captains turned to the silent warrior that stood leaning on his spear.
Are you resolved on madness, Leonidas?
was the only answer he gave them.
Euboulus sought no more, but faced another figure, hitherto almost forgotten in the
confusion of the retreat. Chaire! Farewell!
Haste, Master Deserter, the Barbarians will give you
Glaucon did not stir.
Do you not see that it is impossible?
he answered, then strode across to
Leonidas. I must stay.
Are you also mad? You are young—
The good-hearted Corinthian strove to drag him
into the retreating mob.
Glaucon sprang away from him and addressed the silent general.
Shall not Athens remain by Sparta, if Sparta will accept?
He could see Leonidas’s cold eyes gleam out through the slits in his helmet. The general reached forth his hand.
Sparta accepts,
called he; they have lied concerning your Medizing! And you,
Euboulus, do not filch from him his glory.
Zeus pity you!
cried Euboulus, running at last. One of the Spartans brought to
Glaucon the heavy hoplite’s armour and the ponderous spear and shield. He took his place
in the line with the others. Leonidas stalked to the right wing of his scant array, the
post of honour and of danger. The Thespians closed up behind. Shield was set to shield.
Helmets were drawn low. The lance points projected in a bristling hedge in front. All
was ready.
The general made no speech to fire his men. There was no wailing, no crying to the
gods, no curses upon the tardy ephors at Lacedæmon who had deferred sending their whole
strong levy instead of the pitiful three hundred. Sparta had sent this band to hold the
pass. They had gone, knowing she might require the supreme sacrifice. Leonidas had
spoken for all his men. Sparta demanded it.
What more was to be said?
As for Glaucon he could think of nothing save—in the this was a beautiful manner and place in which to die.
Count no man happy until he meets a happy end,
so had said Solon, and of all ends
what could be more fortunate than this? Euboulus would tell in Athens, in all Hellas,
how he had remained with Leonidas and maintained Athenian honour when Corinthian and
Tegean turned away. From Glaucon the Traitor
he would be raised to Glaucon the
Hero.
Hermione, Democrates, and all others he loved would flush with pride and no
more with shame when men spoke of him. Could a life of a hundred years add to his glory
more than he could win this day?
Blow!
commanded Leonidas again, and again pealed the trumpet. The line moved
beyond the wall toward Xerxes’s camp in the open beside the Asopus. Why wait for
Hydarnes’s coming? They would meet the king of the Aryans face to face and show him the
terrible manner in which the men of Lacedæmon knew how to die.
As they passed from the shadow of the mountain, the sun sprang over the hills of Eubœa, making fire of the bay and bathing earth and heavens with glory. In their rear was already shouting. Hydarnes had reached his goal at Alpeni. All retreat was ended. The thin line swept onward. Before them spread the whole host of the Barbarian as far as the eye could reach,—a tossing sea of golden shields, scarlet surcoats, silver lance-heads,—awaiting with its human billows to engulf them. The Laconians halted just beyond bow shot. The line locked tighter. Instinctively every man pressed closer to his comrade. Then before the eyes of Xerxes’s host, which kept silence, marvelling, the handful broke forth with their pæan. They threw their well-loved charging song of Tyrtæus in the very face of the king.
Press the charge, O sons of Sparta!
Press the charge, let cravens flee!
Leonidas’s spear pointed to the ivory throne, around which and him that sat thereon in blue and scarlet glittered the Persian grandees.
Onward!
Immortal ichor seemed in the veins of every Greek. They burst into one shout.
The king! The king!
A roar from countless drums, horns, and atabals answered from the Barbarians, as across the narrow plain-land charged the three hundred—and one.
Ugh—the dogs died hard, but they are dead,
grunted Xerxes, still shivering on
the ivory throne. The battle had raged disagreeably close to him.
They are dead; even so perish all of your Eternity’s enemies,
rejoined Mardonius,
close by. The bow-bearer himself was covered with blood and dust. A Spartan sword had
grazed his forehead. He had exposed himself recklessly, as well he might, for it had
taken all the efforts of the Persian captains, as well as the ruthless laying of whips
over the backs of their men, to make the king’s battalions face the frenzied Hellenes,
until the closing in of Hydarnes from the rear gave the battle its inevitable ending.
Xerxes was victorious. The gate of Hellas was unlocked. The mountain wall of Œta would hinder him no more. But the triumph had been bought with a price which made Mardonius and every other general in the king’s host shake his head.
Lord,
reported Hystaspes, commander of the Scythians, one man in every seven
of my band is slain, and those the bravest.
Lord,
spoke Artabazus, who led the Parthians, my men swear the Hellenes were
possessed by
dævas. They dare not approach even their dead bodies.
Lord,
asked Hydarnes, will it please your Eternity to
But the heaviest news no man save Mardonius dared to bring to the king.
May it please your Omnipotence,
spoke the bow-bearer, to order the funeral
pyres of cedar and precious oils to be prepared for your brothers Abrocomes and
Hyperanthes, and command the Magians to offer prayers for the repose of their
fravashis in Garonmana the Blessed, for it pleased Mazda the
Great they should fall before the Hellenes.
Xerxes waved his hand in assent. It was hard to be the Lord of the World,
and
be troubled by such little things as the deaths of a few thousand servants, or even of
two of his numerous half-brethren, hard at least on a day like this when he had seen his
desire over his enemies.
They shall be well avenged,
he announced with kingly dignity, then smiled with
satisfaction when they brought him the shield and helmet of Leonidas, the madman, who
had dared to contemn his power. But all the generals who stood by were grim and sad. One
more such victory would bring the army close to destruction.
Xerxes’s happiness, however, was not to be clouded. From childish fears he had passed to childish exultation.
Have you found the body also of this crazed Spartan?
he inquired of the cavalry
officer who had brought the trophies.
As you say, Omnipotence,
rejoined the captain, bowing in the saddle.
Good, then. Let the head be struck off and the trunk fastened on a cross that all may
see it. And you, Mardonius,
addressing the bow-bearer, ride back to the hillock
where these madmen made their last stand. If you discover among the corpses any who
yet breathe, bring them hither
The bow-bearer shrugged his shoulders. He loved a fair battle and fair treatment of valiant foes. The dishonouring of the corpse of Leonidas was displeasing to more than one high-minded Aryan nobleman. But the king had spoken, and was to be obeyed. Mardonius rode back to the hillock at the mouth of the pass, where the Hellenes had retired—after their spears were broken and they could resist only with swords, stones, or naked hands—for the final death grip.
The slain Barbarians lay in heaps. The Greeks had been crushed at the end, not in close strife, but by showers of arrows. Mardonius dismounted and went with a few followers among the dead. Plunderers were already at their harpy work of stripping the slain. The bow-bearer chased them angrily away. He oversaw the task which his attendants performed as quickly as possible. Their toil was not quite fruitless. Three or four Thespians were still breathing, a few more of the helots who had attended Leonidas’s Spartans, but not one of the three hundred but seemed dead, and that too with many wounds.
Snofru, Mardonius’s Egyptian body-servant, rose from the ghastly work and grinned with his ivories at his master.
All the rest are slain, Excellency.
You have not searched that pile yonder.
Snofru and his helpers resumed their toil. Presently the Egyptian dragged from a
bloody heap a body, and raised a yell. Another one—he breathes!
There’s life in him. He shall not be left to the crows. Take him forth and lay him
with the others that are living.
It was not easy to roll the three corpses from their feebly stirring comrade. When
this was done, the stricken man
With care,
ordered the humane bow-bearer, he is a young man. I heard Leonidas
took only older men on his desperate venture. Here, rascals, do you not see he is
smothered in that helmet? Lift him up, unbuckle the cuirass. By Mithra, he has a
strong and noble form! Now the helmet—uncover the face.
But as the Egyptian did so, his master uttered a shout of mingled wonderment and terror.
Glaucon—Prexaspes, and in Spartan armour!
What had befallen Glaucon was in no wise miraculous. He had borne his part in the battle until the Hellenes fell back to the fatal hillock. Then in one of the fierce onsets which the Barbarians attempted before they had recourse to the simpler and less glorious method of crushing their foes by arrow fire, a Babylonian’s war club had dashed upon his helmet. The stout bronze had saved him from wound, but under the stroke strength and consciousness had left him in a flash. The moment after he fell, the soldier beside him had perished by a javelin, and falling above the Athenian made his body a ghastly shield against the surge and trampling of the battle. Glaucon lay scathless but senseless through the final catastrophe. Now consciousness was returning, but he would have died of suffocation save for Snofru’s timely aid.
It was well for the Athenian that Mardonius was a man of ready devices. He had not
seen Glaucon at his familiar post beside the king, but had presumed the Hellene had
remained at the tents with the women, unwilling to watch the destruction of his people.
In the rush and roar of the battle the messenger Artazostra had sent her husband telling
of Prexaspes’s
flight had never reached him. But Mar
Fortunately Mardonius had only his own personal followers around him. He could count on their discreet loyalty. Vouchsafing no explanations, but bidding them say not a word of their discovery on their heads, he ordered Snofru and his companions to make a litter of cloaks and lances, to throw away Glaucon’s tell-tale Spartan armour, and bear him speedily to Artazostra’s tents. The stricken man was groaning feebly, moving his limbs, muttering incoherently. The sight of Xerxes driving in person to inspect the battle-field made Mardonius hasten the litter away, while he remained to parley with the king.
So only a few are alive?
asked Xerxes, leaning over the silver rail of the
chariot, and peering on the upturned faces of the dead which were nearly trampled by his
horses. Are any sound enough to set before me?
None, your Eternity; even the handful that live are desperately wounded. We have laid
them yonder.
Let them wait, then; all around here seem dead. Ugly hounds!
muttered the
monarch, still peering down; even in death they seem to grit their teeth and defy me.
Faugh! The stench is already terrible. It is just as well they are dead. Angra-Mainyu
surely possessed them to fight so! It cannot be there are many more who can fight like
this left in Hellas, though Demaratus, the Spartan outlaw, says
Whether news has come from the fleets before Artemisium?
spoke Mardonius,
galloping close to the wheel.
Not that. Ah! I remember. Where was Prexaspes? I did not see him near me. Did he stay
in the tents while these mad men were destroyed? It was not loyal, yet I forgive him.
After all, he was once a Hellene.
May it please your Eternity,
—Mardonius chose his words carefully,—a Persian
always loved the truth, and lies to the king were doubly impious,—Prexaspes was not
in the tents but in the thick of the battle.
Ah!
Xerxes smiled pleasantly, it was right loyal of him to show his devotion
to me thus. And he acquitted himself valiantly?
Most valiantly, Omnipotence.
Doubly good. Yet he ought to have stayed near me. If he had been a true Persian, he
would not have withdrawn from the person of the king, even to display his prowess in
combat. Still he did well. Where is he?
I regret to tell your Eternity he was desperately wounded, though your servant hopes
not unto death. He is even now being taken to my tents.
Where that pretty dancer, your sister, will play the surgeon—ha!
cried the king.
Well, tell him his Lord is grateful. He shall not be forgotten. If his wounds do
not mend, call in my body-physicians. And I will send him something in gratitude—a
golden cimeter, perhaps, or it may be another cream Nisæan charger.
A general rode up to the chariot with his report, and
The ever ready eunuchs of Artazostra ran to tell Mardonius of the Hellene’s strange
desertion, even before their lord dismounted. Mardonius was not astonished now, however
much the tidings pained him. The Greek had escaped more than trifling wounds; ten days
would see him sound and hale, but the stunning blow had left his wits still wandering.
He had believed himself dead at first, and demanded why Charon took so long with his
ferry-boat. He had not recognized Roxana, but spoke one name many times—Hermione!
And the Egyptian, understanding too well, went to her own tent weeping
bitterly.
He has forsaken us,
spoke Artazostra, harshly, to her husband. He has paid
kindness with disloyalty. He has chosen the lot of his desperate race rather than
princely state amongst the Aryans. Your sister is in agony.
And I with her,
returned the bow-bearer, gravely, but let us not forget one
thing—this man has saved our lives. And all else weighs small in the balance.
When Mardonius went to him, Glaucon was again himself. He lay on bright pillows, his forehead swathed in linen. His eyes were unnaturally bright.
You know what has befallen?
asked Mardonius.
They have told me. I almost alone of all the Hellenes have not been called to the
heroes’ Elysium, to the glory of Theseus and Achilles, the glory that shall not die.
Yet I am content. For plainly the Olympians have destined that I should see and do
great things in Hellas, otherwise they would not have kept me back from Leonidas’s
glory.
The Athenian’s voice rang confidently. None of the halting weakness remained that had
made it falter once when Will
your Hellenes fight?
He spoke as might one returned crowned with the victor’s
laurel.
And wherefore are you grown so bold?
The bow-bearer was troubled as he looked on
him. Nobly you and your handful fought. We Persians honour the brave, and full honour
we give to you. But was it not graven upon the stars what should befall? Were not
Leonidas, his men, and you all mad—
Ah, yes! divinely mad.
Brighter still grew the Athenian’s eyes. For that
moment of exultation when we charged to meet the king I would again pay a
lifetime.
Yet the gateway of Hellas is unlocked. Your bravest are fallen. Your land is
defenceless. What else can be written hereafter save,
The Hellenes strove with
fierce courage to fling back Xerxes. Their valour was foolishness. The god turned
against them. The king prevailed.
But Glaucon met the Persian’s glance with one more bold.
No, Mardonius, good friend, for do not think that we must be foes one to another
because our people are at war,—I can answer you with ease. Leonidas you have slain,
and his handful, and you have pierced the mountain wall of Œta, and no doubt your
king’s host will march even to Athens. But do not dream Hellas is conquered by
striding over her land. Before you shall possess the land you must first possess the
men. And I say to you, Athens is still left, and Sparta left, free and strong, with
men whose hearts and hands can never fail. I doubted once. But now I doubt no more.
And our gods will fight for us. Your Ahura-Mazda has still to prevail over Zeus the
Thunderer and Athena of the Pure Heart.
And you?
asked the Persian.
And as for me, I know I have cast away by my own act all the good things you and your
king would fain bestow upon me. Perhaps I deserve death at your hands. I will never
plead for respite, but this I know, whether I live or die, it shall be as Glaucon of
Athens who owns no king but Zeus, no loyalty save to the land that bore him.
There was stillness in the tent. The wounded man sank back on the pillows, breathing deep, closing his eyes, expectant almost of a burst of wrath from the Persian. But Mardonius answered without trace of anger.
Friend, your words cut keenly, and your boasts are high. Only the Most High knoweth
whether you boast aright. Yet this I say, that much as I desire your friendship, would
see you my brother, even,—you know that,—I dare not tell you you do wholly wrong. A
man is given one country and one manner of faith in God. He does not choose them. I
was born to serve the lord of the Aryans, and to spread the triumphs of Mithra the
Glorious, and you were born in Athens. I would it were otherwise. Artazostra and I
would fain have made you Persian like ourselves. My sister loves you. Yet we cannot
strive against fate. Will you go back to your own people and share their lot, however
direful?
Since life is given me, I will.
Mardonius stepped to the bedside and gave the Athenian his right hand.
At the island you saved my life and that of my best beloved. Let it never be said
that Mardonius, son of Gobryas, is ungrateful. To-day, in some measure, I have repaid
the debt I owe. If you will have it so, as speedily as your strength returns and
opportunity offers I will return you to your people. And amongst them may your own
gods show you favour, for you will have none from ours!
Glaucon took the proffered hand in silent gratitude. He was still very weak and rested on the pillows, breathing hard. The bow-bearer went out to his wife and his sister and told his promise. There was little to be said. The Athenian must go his path, and they go theirs, unless he were to be handed over to Xerxes to die a death of torments. And not even Roxana, keenly as pierced her sorrow, would think of that.
A city of two hundred thousand awaiting a common sentence of death,—such seemed the doom of Athens.
Every morning the golden majesty of the sun rose above the wall of Hymettus, but few
could lift their hands to Lord Helios and give praise for another day of light. Each
sunrise brings Xerxes nearer.
The bravest forgot not that.
Yet Athens was never more truly the Violet-Crowned City
than on these last days
before the fearful advent. The sun at morn on Hymettus, the sun at night on Daphni, the
nightingales and cicadas in the olives by Cephissus, the hum of bees on the sweet thyme
of the mountain, the purple of the hills, the blue and the fire of the bay, the merry
tinkle of the goat bells upon the rocks, the laugh of little children in the
streets—all these made Athens fair, but could not take the cloud from the hearts of the
people.
Trade was at standstill in the Agora. The most careless frequented the temples. Old foes composed their cases before the arbitrator. The courts were closed, but there was meeting after meeting in the Pnyx, with incessant speeches on one theme—how Athens must resist to the bitter end.
And why should not the end be bitter? Argos and Crete had Medized. Corcyra promised
and did nothing. Thebes was weakening. Thessaly had sent earth and water. Corinth,
Ægina, and a few lesser states were moderately loyal, but great Sparta only
procrastinated and despatched no help
But one man never faltered, nor suffered others about him to falter,—Themistocles. The people heard him gladly—he would never talk of defeat. He had a thousand reasons why the invader should be baffled, from a convenient hexameter in old Bacis’s oracle book, up to the fact that the Greeks used the longest spears. If he found it weary work looking the crowding peril in the face and smiling still, he never confessed it. His friends would marvel at his serenity. Only when they saw him sit silent, saw his brows knit, his hand comb at his beard, they knew his inexhaustible brain was weaving the web which should ensnare the lord of the Aryans.
Thus day after day—while men thought dark things in their hearts.
Hermippus had come down to his city house from Eleusis, and with him his wife and
daughter. The Eleusinian was very busy. He was a member of the Areopagus, the old
council of ex-archons, an experienced body that found much to do. Hermippus had strained
his own resources to provide shields for the hoplites. He was constantly with
Themistocles, which implied being much with Democrates. The more he saw of the young
orator, the better the Eleusinian liked him. True, not every story ran to Democrates’s
credit, but Hermippus knew the world, and could forgive a young man if he had
occasionally spent a jolly night. Democrates seemed to have forsworn Ionian harp-girls
now. His patriotism was self-evident. The Eleusinian saw in him a most desirable
protector in the perils of war for Hermione and her child. Hermione’s dislike for her
husband’s destroyer was natural,—nay, in bounds, laudable,—but one must not
On the day the fleet sailed to Artemisium, Hermione went with her mother to the
havens, as all the city went, to wish godspeed to the wooden wall
of Hellas.
One hundred and twenty-seven triremes were to go forth, and three and fifty to follow, bearing the best and bravest of Athens with them. Themistocles was in absolute command, and perhaps in his heart of hearts Democrates was not mournful if it lay out of his power to do a second ill-turn to his country.
It was again summer, and again such a day as when Glaucon with glad friends had rowed toward Salamis. The Saronian bay flashed fairest azure. The scattered isles and the headlands of Argolis rose in clear beauty. The city had emptied itself. Mothers hung on the necks of sons as the latter strode toward Peiræus; friends clasped hands for the last time as he who remained promised him who went that the wife and little ones should never be forgotten. Only Hermione, as she stood on the hill of Munychia above the triple havens, shed no tear. The ship bearing her all was gone long since. Themistocles would never lead it back. Hermippus was at the quay in Peiræus, taking leave of the admiral. Old Cleopis held the babe as Hermione stood by her mother. The younger woman had suffered her gaze to wander to far Ægina, where a featherlike cloud hung above the topmost summit of the isle, when her mother’s voice called her back.
They go.
A line of streamers blew from the foremast of the
Hermione and Lysistra awaited Hermippus before setting homeward, but the Eleusinian was delayed. The fleet had vanished. The havens were empty. In Cleopis’s arms little Phœnix wept. His mother was anxious to be gone, when she was surprised to see a figure climbing the almost deserted slope. A moment more and she was face to face with Democrates, who advanced outstretching his hand and smiling.
The orator wore the dress of his new office of strategus. The purple-edged cloak, the light helmet wreathed with myrtle, the short sword at his side, all became him well. If there were deeper lines about his face than on the day Hermione last saw him, even an enemy would confess a leader of the Athenians had cause to be thoughtful. He was cordially greeted by Lysistra and seemed not at all abashed that Hermione gave only a sullen nod. From the ladies he turned with laughter to Cleopis and her burden.
A new Athenian!
spoke he, lightly, and I fear Xerxes will have been chased
away before he has a chance to prove his valour. But fear not, there will be more
brave days in store.
Hermione shook her head, ill-pleased.
Blessed be Hera, my babe is too young to know aught of
Democrates, without answering, approached the nurse, and Phœnix—for reasons best known to himself—ceased lamenting and smiled up in the orator’s face.
His mother’s features and eyes,
cried Democrates. I swear it—ay, by all
Athena’s owls—that young Hermes when he lay in Maia’s cave on Mt. Cylene was not
finer or lustier than he. His mother’s face and eyes, I say.
His father’s,
corrected Hermione. Is not his name Phœnix? In him will not
Glaucon the Beautiful live again? Will he not grow to man’s estate to avenge his
murdered father?
The lady spoke without passion, but with a cold bitterness that
made Democrates cease from smiling. He turned away from the babe.
Forgive me, dear lady,
he answered her, I am wiser at ruling the Athenians
than at ruling children, but I see nothing of Glaucon about the babe, though much of
his beautiful mother.
You had once a better memory, Democrates,
said Hermione, reproachfully.
I do not understand your Ladyship.
I mean that Glaucon has been dead one brief year. Can you forget
his face in so short a while?
But here Lysistra interposed with all good intent.
You are fond and foolish, Hermione, and like all young mothers are enraged if all the
world does not see his father’s image in their first-born.
Democrates knows what I would say,
said the younger woman, soberly.
Since your Ladyship is pleased to speak in riddles and I am no seer nor
oracle-monger, I must confess I cannot follow. But we will contend no more concerning
little
Her only joy,
was Hermione’s icy answer. Wrap up the child, Cleopis. My father
is coming. It is a long walk home to the city.
With a rustle of white Hermione went down the slope in advance of her mother. Hermippus and Lysistra were not pleased. Plainly their daughter kept all her prejudice against Democrates. Her cold contempt was more disappointing even than open fury.
Once at home Hermione held little Phœnix long to her heart and wept over him. For the sake of her dead husband’s child, if for naught else, how could she suffer them to give her to Democrates? That the orator had destroyed Glaucon in black malice had become a corner-stone in her belief. She could at first give for it only a woman’s reason—blind intuition. She could not discuss her conviction with her mother or with any save a strange confidant—Phormio.
She had met the fishmonger in the Agora once when she went with the slaves to buy a
mackerel. The auctioneer had astonished everybody by knocking down to her a noble fish
an obol under price, then under pretext of showing her a rare Bœotian eel got her aside
into his booth and whispered a few words that made the red and white come and go from
her cheeks, after which the lady’s hand went quickly to her purse, and she spoke quick
words about the evening
and the garden gate.
Phormio refused the drachma brusquely, but kept the tryst. Cleopis had the key to the
garden, and would contrive anything for her mistress—especially as all Athens knew
Phormio was harmless save with his tongue. That evening for the first time Hermione
heard the true story of Glaucon’s escape by the
You saved him, then? I bless you. But was the sea more merciful than the
executioner?
The fishmonger let his voice fall lower.
Democrates is unhappy. Something weighs on his mind. He is afraid.
Of what?
Bias his slave came to see me again last night. Many of his master’s doings have been
strange to him. Many are riddles still, but one thing at last is plain. Hiram has been
to see Democrates once more, despite the previous threats. Bias listened. He could not
understand everything, but he heard Lycon’s name passed many times, then one thing he
caught clearly.
The Babylonish carpet-seller was the Prince
Mardonius.The Babylonian fled on the
The Prince is safe in Sardis.
If Mardonius could escape the storm and wreck,
why not Glaucon, a king among swimmers?
Hermione clapped her hands to her head.
Don’t torture me. I’ve long since trodden out hope. Why has he sent me no word in all
these months of pain?
It is not the easiest thing to get a letter across the Ægean in these days of roaring
war.
I dare not believe it. What else did Bias hear?
Very little. Hiram was urging something. Democrates always said,
Impossible.
Hiram went away with a very sour grin. However, Democrates caught Bias lurking.
And flogged him?
No, Bias ran into the street and cried out he would flee to the Temple of Theseus,
the slave’s sanctuary, and demand that the archon sell him to a kinder master. Then
suddenly Democrates forgave him and gave him five drachmæ to say no more about it.
And so Bias at once told you?
Hermione could not forO Father Zeus—only
the testimony of a slave to lean on, I a weak woman and Democrates one of the chief
men in Athens! O for strength to wring out all the bitter truth!
Peace,
said Phormio, not ungently, kyria,Aletheia,
Mistress Truth, is a patient dame, but she says her word at last. And you see that
hope is not quite dead.
I dare not cherish it. If I were but a man!
repeated Hermione. But she thanked
Phormio many times, would not let him refuse her money, and bade him come often again
and bring her all the Agora gossip about the war. For we are friends,
she
concluded; you and I are the only persons who hold Glaucon innocent in all the world.
And is that not tie enough?
So Phormio came frequently, glad perhaps to escape the discipline of his spouse. Now he brought a rumour of Xerxes’s progress, now a bit of Bias’s tattling about his master. The talebearing counted for little, but went to make Hermione’s conviction like adamant. Every night she would speak over Phœnix as she held him whilst he slept.
Grow fast,
makaire, grow strong, for there is work for you to
do! Your father cries, Avenge me well,
even from Hades.
After the departure of the fleet Athens seemed silent as the grave. On the streets one
met only slaves and graybeards. In the Agora the hucksters’ booths were silent, but
little groups of white-headed men sat in the shaded porticos and watched eagerly for the
appearing of the archon before the government house to read the last despatch of the
progress of Xerxes. The Pnyx was deserted. The gymnasia were closed. The more
superstitious scanned the heavens for a lucky or unlucky flight of hawks. The priest
Leonidas is fighting at Thermopylæ. The fleets are fighting at Artemisium, off Eubœa.
The first onsets of the Barbarians have failed, but nothing is decided.
This was the substance, and tantalizingly meagre. And the strong army of Sparta and her allies still tarried at the Isthmus instead of hasting to aid the pitiful handful at Thermopylæ. Therefore the old men wagged their heads, the altars were loaded with victims, and the women wept over their children.
So ended the first day after news came of the fighting. The second was like it—only more tense. Hermione never knew that snail called time to creep more slowly. Never had she chafed more against the iron custom which commanded Athenian gentlewomen to keep, tortoise-like, at home in days of distress and tumult. On the evening of the second day came once more the dusty courier. Leonidas was holding the gate of Hellas. The Barbarians had perished by thousands. At Artemisium, Themistocles and the allied Greek admirals were making head against the Persian armadas. But still nothing was decided. Still the Spartan host lingered at the Isthmus, and Leonidas must fight his battle alone. The sun sank that night with tens of thousands wishing his car might stand fast. At gray dawn Athens was awake and watching. Men forgot to eat, forgot to drink. One food would have contented—news!
It was about noon—the end of market time,
had there been any market then at
Athens—when Hermione knew by instinct that news had come from the battle and that it
First a man ran toward the Agora, panting,—his himation blew from his shoulders, he never stopped to recover it. Next shouts, scattered in the beginning, then louder, and coming not as a roar but as a wailing, rising, falling like the billows of the howling sea,—as if the thousands in the market-place groaned in sore agony. Shrill and hideous they rose, and a hand of ice fell on the hearts of the listening women. Then more runners, until the street seemed alive by magic, slaves and old men all crowding to the Agora. And still the shout and ever more dreadful. The women leaned from the windows and cried vainly to the trampling crowd below.
Tell us! In the name of Athena, tell us!
No answer for long, till at last a
runner came not toward the Agora but from it. They had hardly need to hear what he was
calling.
Leonidas is slain. Thermopylæ is turned! Xerxes is advancing!
Hermione staggered back from the lattice. In the cradle Phœnix awoke; seeing his mother bending over him, he crowed cheerily and flung his chubby fists in her face. She caught him up and again could not fight the tears away.
Glaucon! Glaucon!
she prayed,—for her husband was all but a deity in her
sight,—hear us wherever you are, even if in the blessed land of Rhadamanthus. Take
us thither, your child and me, for there is no peace or shelter left on earth!
Then, seeing her panic-stricken women flying hither and thither like witless birds,
her patrician blood asserted itself. She dashed the drops from her eyes and joined her
mother in quieting the maids. Whatever there was to hope or fear, their fate would not
be lightened by wild moaning. Soon the direful wailing from the Agora ceased. A blue
flag waved over the Council House, a sign that the Five Hundred
had been called
in hurried session. Simultaneously a dense column of smoke leaped up from the
market-place. The archons had ordered the hucksters’ booths to be burned, as a signal to
all Attica that the worst had befallen.
After inexpressibly long waiting Phormio came, then Hermippus, to tell all they knew. Leonidas had perished gloriously. His name was with the immortals, but the mountain wall of Hellas had been unlocked. No Spartan army was in Bœotia. The bravest of Athens were in the fleet. The easy Attic passes of Phyle and Decelea could never be defended. Nothing could save Athens from Xerxes. The calamity had been foreseen, but to foresee is not to realize. That night in Athens no man slept.
It had come at last,—the hour wise men had dreaded, fools had scoffed at, cowards had dared not face. The Barbarian was within five days’ march of Attica. The Athenians must bow the knee to the world monarch or go forth exiles from their country.
In the morning after the night of terror came another courier, not this time from Thermopylæ. He bore a letter from Themistocles, who was returning from Eubœa with the whole allied Grecian fleet. The reading of the letter in the Agora was the first rift in the cloud above the city.
Be strong, prove yourselves sons of Athens. Do what a year ago you so boldly voted.
Prepare to evacuate Attica. All is not lost. In three days I will be with you.
There was no time for an assembly at the Pnyx, but the Five Hundred and the Areopagus council acted for the people. It was ordered to remove the entire population of Attica, with all their movable goods, across the bay to Salamis or to the friendly Peloponnesus, and that same noon the heralds went over the land to bear the direful summons.
To Hermione, who in the calm after-years looked back on all this year of agony and
stress as on an unreal thing, one time always was stamped on memory as no dream, but
vivid, unforgetable,—these days of the great evacuation. Up and down the pleasant plain
country of the Mesogia to
Quit your homes, hasten to Athens, take with you what you can, but hasten, or stay as
Xerxes’s slaves.
For the next two days a piteous multitude was passing through the city. A country of four hundred thousand inhabitants was to be swept clean and left naked and profitless to the invader. Under Hermione’s window, as she gazed up and down the street, jostled the army of fugitives, women old and young, shrinking from the bustle and uproar, grandsires on their staves, boys driving the bleating goats or the patient donkeys piled high with pots and panniers, little girls tearfully hugging a pet puppy or hen. But few strong men were seen, for the fleet had not yet rounded Sunium to bear the people away.
The well-loved villas and farmsteads were tenantless. They left the standing grain,
the ripening orchards, the groves of the sacred olives. Men rushed for the last time to
the shrines where their fathers had prayed,—the temples of Theseus, Olympian Zeus,
Dionysus, Aphrodite. The tombs of the worthies of old, stretching out along the Sacred
Way to Eleusis, where Solon, Clisthenes, Miltiades, and many another bulwark of Athens
slept, had the last votive wreath hung lovingly upon them. And especially men sought the
great temple of the Rock,
to lift their hands to Athena Polias, and vow awful
vows of how harm to the Virgin Goddess should be wiped away in blood.
So the throng passed through the city and toward the shore, awaiting the fleet.
It came after eager watching. The whole fighting force of Athens and her Corinthian,
Æginetan, and other allies. Before the rest raced a stately ship, the
Themistocles is with us!
He landed at Phaleron, the thousands greeted him as if he were a god. He seemed their only hope—the Atlas upbearing all the fates of Athens. With the glance of his eye, with a few quick words, he chased the terrors from the strategi and archons that crowded up around him.
Why distressed? Have we not held the Barbarians back nobly at Artemisium? Will we not
soon sweep his power from the seas in fair battle?
With almost a conqueror’s train he swept up to the city. A last assembly filled the Pnyx. Themistocles had never been more hopeful, more eloquent. With one voice men voted never to bend the knee to the king. If the gods forbade them to win back their own dear country, they would go together to Italy, to found a new and better Athens far from the Persian’s power. And at Themistocles’s motion they voted to recall all the political exiles, especially Themistocles’s own great enemy Aristeides the Just, banished by the son of Neocles only a few years before. The assembly dispersed—not weeping but with cheers. Already it was time to be quitting the city. Couriers told how the Tartar horsemen were burning the villages beyond Parnes. The magistrates and admirals went to the house of Athena. The last incense smoked before the image. The bucklers hanging on the temple wall were taken down by Cimon and the other young patricians. The statue was reverently lifted, wound in fine linen, and borne swiftly to the fleet.
Come,
called Hermippus, entering his house to
summon his daughter. Hermione sent a last glance around the disordered aula; her mother
called to the bevy makaira!
All that day the boats were bearing the people, and late into the night, until the task was accomplished, the like whereof is not found in history. No Athenian who willed was left to the power of Xerxes. One brain and voice planned and directed all. Leonidas, Ajax of the Hellenes, had been taken. Themistocles, their Odysseus, valiant as Ajax and gifted with the craft of the immortals, remained. Could that craft and that valour turn back the might of even the god-king of the Aryans?
A few days only Xerxes and his host rested after the dear-bought triumph at Thermopylæ. An expedition sent to plunder Delphi returned discomfited—thanks, said common report, to Apollo himself, who broke off two mountain crags to crush the impious invaders. But no such miracle halted the march on Athens. Bœotia and her cities welcomed the king; Thespiæ and Platæa, which had stood fast for Hellas, were burned. The Peloponnesian army lingered at Corinth, busy with a wall across the Isthmus, instead of risking valorous battle.
By the soul of my father,
the king had sworn, I believe that after the lesson
at Thermopylæ these madmen will not fight again!
By land they will not,
said Mardonius, always at his lord’s elbow, by sea—it
remains for your Eternity to discover.
Will they really dare to fight by sea?
asked Xerxes, hardly pleased at the
suggestion.
Omnipotence, you have slain Leonidas, but a second great enemy remains. While
Themistocles lives, it is likely your slaves will have another opportunity to prove to
you their devotion.
Ah, yes! A stubborn rogue, I hear. Well—if we must fight by sea, it shall be under
my own eyes. My loyal
Which makes a dutiful subject fight as ten,
quickly added Pharnaspes the
fan-bearer.
Of course,
smiled the monarch, and now I must ask again, Mardonius, how fares
it with my handsome Prexaspes?
Only indifferently, your Majesty, since you graciously deign to inquire.
Such a sad wound? That is heavy news. He takes long in recovering. I trust he wants
for nothing.
Nothing, Omnipotence. He has the best surgeons in the camp.
To-day I will send him Helbon wine from my own table. I miss his comely face about
me. I want him here to play at dice. Tell him to recover because his king desires it.
If he has become right Persian, that will be better than any physic.
I have no doubt he will be deeply moved to learn of your Eternity’s kindness,
rejoined the bow-bearer, who was not sorry that further discussion of this delicate
subject was averted by the arch-usher introducing certain cavalry officers with their
report on the most practicable line of march through Bœotia.
Glaucon, in fact, was long since out of danger, thanks to the sturdy bronze of his
Laconian helmet. He was able to walk, and, if need be, ride, but Mardonius would not
suffer him to go outside his own tents. The Athenian would be certain to be recognized,
and at once Xerxes would send for him, and how Glaucon, in his new frame of mind, would
deport himself before majesty, whether he would not taunt the irascible monarch to his
face, the bow-bearer did not know.
I am born a Hellene, lady. My gods are not yours. I must live and die after the
manner of my people. And that our gods are strong and will give victory, after that
morning with Leonidas I dare not doubt.
When the host advanced south and eastward from Thermopylæ, Glaucon went with it,
riding in a closed travelling carriage guarded by Mardonius’s eunuchs. All who saw it
said that here went one of the bow-bearer’s harem women, and as for the king, every day
he asked for his favourite, and every day Mardonius told him, He is even as
before,
an answer which the bow-bearer prayed to truth-loving Mithra might not be
accounted a lie.
It was while the army lay at Platæa that news came which might have shaken Glaucon’s
purpose, had that purpose been shakable. Euboulus the Corinthian had been slain in a
skirmish shortly after the forcing of Thermopylæ. The tidings meant that no one lived
who could tell in Athens that on the day of testing the outlaw had cast in his lot with
Hellas. Leonidas was dead. The Spartan soldiers who had heard Glaucon avow his identity
were dead. In the hurried conference of captains preceding the retreat, Leonidas had
told his informant’s precise name only to Euboulus. And now Euboulus was slain,
doubtless before any word from him of Glaucon’s deed could spread abroad. To Athenians
Glaucon was still the Traitor,
doubly execrated in this hour of trial. If he
returned to his people, would he not be
Glaucon had cherished a hope to see the whole power of the Peloponnesus in array in
Bœotia, but that hope proved quickly vain. The oracle was truly to be fulfilled,—the
whole of the land of Cecrops
was to be possessed by the Barbarian. The mountain
passes were open. No arrows greeted the Persian vanguard as it cantered down the
defiles, and once more the king’s courtiers told their smiling master that not another
hand would be raised against him.
The fourth month after quitting the Hellespont Xerxes entered Athens. The gates stood ajar. The invaders walked in silent streets as of a city of the dead. A few runaway slaves alone greeted them. Only in the Acropolis a handful of superstitious old men and temple warders had barricaded themselves, trusting that Athena would still defend her holy mountain. For a few days they defended the steep, rolling down huge boulders, but the end was inevitable. The Persians discovered a secret path upward. The defenders were surprised and dashed themselves from the crags or were massacred. A Median spear-man flung a fire-brand. The house of the guardian goddess went up in flame. The red column leaping to heaven was a beacon for leagues around that Xerxes held the length and breadth of Attica.
Glaucon watched the burning temple with grinding teeth. Mardonius’s tents were pitched
in the eastern city by the
Lady, your people have their will. But do not think Athena Nikephorus, the Lady of
Triumphs, will forget this day when we stand against you in battle.
She did not answer him. He knew that many noblemen had advised Xerxes against driving the Greeks to desperation by this sacrilege, but this fact hardly made him the happier.
At dusk the next evening Mardonius suffered him to go with two faithful eunuchs and
rove through the deserted city. The Persians were mostly encamped without the walls, and
plundering was forbidden. Only Hydarnes with the Immortals pitched on Areopagus, and the
king had taken his abode by the Agora. It was like walking through the country of the
dead. Everything familiar, everything changed. The eunuchs carried torches. They
wandered down one street after another, where the house doors stood open, where the
aulas were strewn with the débris of household stuff which the fleeing citizens had
abandoned. A deserter had already told Glaucon of his father’s death; he was not amazed
therefore to find the house of his birth empty and desolate. But everywhere else, also,
it was to call back memories of glad days never to return. Here was the school where
crusty Pollicharmes had driven the reading, writing, and music
into Democrates
and himself between the blows. Here was the corner Hermes, before which he had
sacrificed the day the war
and the
king,
in the days when the Persian seemed very far away. Last of all an
instinct—he could not call it desire—drove him to seek the house of Hermippus.
They had to force the door open with a stone. The first red torch-light that glimmered around the aula told that the Eumolpid had awaited the enemy in Athens, not in Eleusis. The court was littered with all manner of stuff,—crockery, blankets, tables, stools,—which the late inhabitants had been forced to forsake. A tame quail hopped from the tripod by the now cold hearth. Glaucon held out his hand, the bird came quickly, expecting the bit of grain. Had not Hermione possessed such a quail? The outlaw’s blood ran quicker. He felt the heat glowing in his forehead.
A chest of clothes stood open by the entrance. He dragged forth the contents—women’s dresses and uppermost a white airy gauze of Amorgos that clung to his hands as if he were lifting clouds. Out of its folds fell a pair of white shoes with clasps of gold. Then he recognized this dress Hermione had worn in the Panathenæa and on the night of his ruin. He threw it down, next stood staring over it like a man possessed. The friendly eunuchs watched his strange movements. He could not endure to have them follow him.
Give me a torch. I return in a moment.
He went up the stair alone to the upper story, to the chambers of the women. Confusion
here also,—the more valuable possessions gone, but much remaining. In one that, whatever the griefs in her
heart? Glaucon’s temples now were throbbing as if to burst.
A second room, and more littered confusion, but in one corner stood a bronze statue,—Apollo bending his bow against the Achæans,—which Glaucon had given to Hermione. At the foot of the statue hung a wreath of purple asters, dead and dry, but he plucked it asunder and set many blossoms in his breast.
A third room, and almost empty. He was moving back in disappointment, when the torch-light shook over something that swung betwixt two beams,—a wicker cradle. The woollen swaddling bands were still in it. One could see the spot on the little pillow with the impress of the tiny head. Glaucon almost dropped the torch. He pressed his hand to his brow.
Zeus pity me!
he groaned, preserve my reason. How can I serve Hellas and those
I love if thou strikest me mad?
With feverish anxiety he sent his eyes around that chamber. His search was not in
vain. He almost trampled upon the thing that lay at his feet,—a wooden rattle, the toy
older than the Egyptian pyramids. He seized it, shook it as a warrior his sword. He
scanned it eagerly. Upon the handle were letters carved, but there was a mist before his
eyes which took long to pass away. Then he read the rude inscription: ΦΟΙΝΙΞ : ΥΙΟΣ : ΓΛΑΥΚΟΝΤΟΣ.
Phœnix the son of Glaucon.
His child. He was the father of a fair son. His wife, he was sure
thereof, had not yet been given to Democrates.
Overcome by a thousand emotions, he flung himself upon a chest and pressed the homely toy many times to his lips.
After a long interval he recovered himself enough to go down to the eunuchs, who were misdoubting his long absence.
Persian,
he said to Mardonius, when he was again at the bow-bearer’s tents, either suffer me to go back to my people right soon or put me to death. My wife has
borne me a son. My place is where I can defend him.
Mardonius frowned, but nodded his head.
You know I desire it otherwise. But my word is given. And the word of a prince of the
Aryans is not to be recalled. You know what to expect among your people—perhaps a
foul death for a deed of another.
I know it. I also know that Hellas needs me.
To fight against us?
asked the bow-bearer, with a sigh. Yet you shall go. Eran
is not so weak that adding one more to her enemies will halt her triumph. To-morrow
night a boat shall be ready on the strand. Take it. And after that may your gods guard
you, for I can do no more.
All the next day Glaucon sat in the tents and watched the smoke cloud above the Acropolis and the soldiers in the plain hewing down the sacred olives, Athena’s trees, which no Athenian might injure and thereafter live. But Glaucon was past cursing now,—endure a little longer and after that, what vengeance!
The gossiping eunuchs told readily what the king had determined. Xerxes was at
Phaleron reviewing his fleet. The Hellenes’ ships confronted him at Salamis. The
Persians had met in council, deliberating one night over their wine, reconsidering the
next morning when sober. Their wisdom each time had been to force a battle. Let the king
To-morrow the war is ended,
a cup-bearer had told a butler in Glaucon’s hearing,
and never noticed how the Athenian took a horseshoe in his slim fingers and straightened
it, whilst looking on the scorched columns of the Acropolis.
At length the sun spread his last gold of the evening. The eunuchs called Glaucon to the pavilion of Artazostra, who came forth with Roxana for their farewell. They were in royal purple. The amethysts in their hair were worth a month’s revenues of Corinth. Roxana had never been lovelier. Glaucon was again in the simple Greek dress, but he knelt and kissed the robes of both the women. Then rising he spoke to them.
To you, O princess, my benefactress, I wish all manner of blessing. May you be
crowned with happy age, may your fame surpass Semiramis, the conqueror queen of the
fables, let the gods refuse only one prayer—the conquest of Hellas. The rest of the
world is yours, leave then to us our own.
And you, sister of Mardonius,
he turned to Roxana now, do not think I despise
your love or your beauty. That I have given you pain, is double pain to me. But I
loved you only in a dream. My life is not for the rose valleys of Bactria, but for the
stony hills by Athens. May Aphrodite give you another love, a brighter fortune than
might ever come by linking your fate to mine.
They held out their hands. He kissed them. He saw tears on the long lashes of Roxana.
Farewell,
spoke the women, simply.
Farewell,
he answered. He turned from them. He knew they were re-entering the
tent. He never saw the women again.
Mardonius accompanied him all the long way from the fount of Callirhoë to the sea-shore. Glaucon protested, but the bow-bearer would not hearken.
You have saved my life, Athenian,
was his answer, when you leave me now, it is
forever.
The moon was lifting above the gloomy mass of Hymettus and scattering all the Attic
plain with her pale gold. The Acropolis Rock loomed high above them. Glaucon, looking
upward, saw the moonlight flash on the spear point and shield of a soldier,—a Barbarian
standing sentry on the ruined shrine of the Virgin Goddess. Once more the Alcmæonid was
leaving Athens, but with very different thoughts than on that other night when he had
fled at Phormio’s side. They quitted the desolate city and the sleeping camp. The last
bars of day had long since dimmed in the west when before them loomed the hill of
Munychia clustered also with tents, and beyond it the violet-black vista of the sea. A
forest of masts crowded the havens, the fleet of the Lord of the World
that was
to complete his mastery with the returning sun. Mardonius did not lead Glaucon to the
ports, but southward, where beyond the little point of Colias spread an open sandy
beach. The night waves lapped softly. The wind had sunk to warm puffs from the
southward. They heard the rattle of anchor-chains and tackle-blocks, but from far away.
Beyond the vague promontory of Peiræus rose dark mountains and headlands, at their foot
lay a sprinkling of lights.
Salamis!
cried Glaucon, pointing. Yonder are the ships of Hellas.
Mardonius walked with him upon the shelving shore. A skiff, small but stanch, was ready with oars.
What else will you?
asked the bow-bearer. Gold?
Nothing. Yet take this.
Glaucon unclasped from his waist the golden belt Xerxes
had bestowed at Sardis. A Hellene I went forth, a Hellene I return.
He made to kiss the Persian’s dress, but Mardonius would not suffer it.
Did I not desire you for my brother?
he said, and they embraced. As their arms
parted, the bow-bearer spoke three words in earnest whisper:—
Beware of Democrates.
What do you mean?
I can say no more. Yet be wise. Beware of Democrates.
The attendants, faithful body-servants of Mardonius, and mute witnesses of all that passed, were thrusting the skiff into the water. There were no long farewells. Both knew that the parting was absolute, that Glaucon might be dead on the morrow. A last clasping of the hands and quickly the boat was drifting out upon the heaving waters. Glaucon stood one moment watching the figures on the beach and pondering on Mardonius’s strange warning. Then he set himself to the oars, rowing westward, skirting the Barbarian fleet as it rode at anchor, observing its numbers and array and how it was aligned for battle. After that, with more rapid stroke, he sent the skiff across the dark ribbon toward Salamis.
Leonidas was taken. Themistocles was left,—left to bear as crushing a load as ever weighed on man,—to fight two battles, one with the Persian, one with his own unheroic allies, and the last was the harder. Three hundred and seventy Greek triremes rode off Salamis, half from Athens, but the commander-in-chief was Eurybiades of Sparta, the sluggard state that sent only sixteen ships, yet the only state the bickering Peloponnesians would obey. Hence Themistocles’s sore problems.
Different from the man of unruffled brow who ruled from the bema was he who paced the
state cabin of the he at least knew the morn would bring Hellas her doom. There
had been a gloomy council that afternoon. They had seen the Acropolis flame two days
before. The great fleet of Xerxes rode off the Attic havens. At the gathering of the
Greek chiefs in Eurybiades’s cabin Themistocles had spoken one word many times,—Fight!
To which Adeimantus, the craven admiral of Corinth, and many another had answered:—
Delay! Back to the Isthmus! Risk nothing!
Then at last the son of Neocles silenced them, not with arguments but threats. Either here in the narrow straits we can fight the king or not at all. In the open
seas his numbers
There had been sullen silence after that, the admirals misliking the furrow drawn above Themistocles’s eyes. Then Eurybiades had haltingly given orders for battle.
That had been the command, but as the Athenian left the Spartan flag-ship in his
pinnace he heard Globryas, the admiral of Sicyon, muttering, Headstrong fool—he
shall not destroy us!
and saw Adeimantus turn back for a word in Eurybiades’s ear.
The Spartan had shaken his head, but Themistocles did not deceive himself. In the battle
at morn half of the Hellenes would go to battle asking more how escape?
than how conquer?
and that was no question to ask before a victory.
The cabin was empty now save for the admiral. On the deck above the hearty shouts of
Battle
was what every Athenian prayed for, but amongst
the allies Themistocles knew it was otherwise. The crucial hour of his life found him
nervous, moody, silent. He repelled the zealous subalterns who came for orders.
My directions have been given. Execute them. Has Aristeides come yet?
The last
question was to Simonides, who had been half-companion, half-counsellor, in all these
days of storm.
He is not yet come from Ægina.
Leave me, then.
Themistocles’s frown deepened. The others went out.
The state cabin was elegant, considering its place. Themistocles had furnished it
according to his luxurious taste,
Attend, O queen,
he said mechanically, and be thou propitious to all my
prayers.
He knew the words meant nothing. The puff of night air from the port-hole carried the fragrance from the room. The image wore its unchanging, meaningless smile, and Themistocles smiled too, albeit bitterly.
So this is the end. A losing fight, cowardice, slavery—no, I shall not live to see
that last.
He looked from the port-hole. He could see the lights of the Barbarian fleet clearly. He took long breaths of the clear brine.
So the tragedy ends—worse than Phrynicus’s poorest, when they pelted his chorus from
the orchestra with date-stones. And yet—and yet—
He never formulated what came next even in his own mind.
he cried, springing back with part of his old
lightness, Eu!I have borne a brave front before it all. I have looked the Cyclops in the
face, even when he glowered the fiercest. But it all will pass. I presume Thersytes
the caitiff and Agamemnon the king have the same sleep and the same dreams in Orchus.
And a few years more or a few less in a man’s life make little matter. But it would be
sweeter to go out thinking
I have triumphed
than I have failed, and all the
things I loved fail with me.
And Athens—
Again he stopped. When he resumed his monologue, it was in a different key.
There are many things I cannot understand. They can
Once more his thoughts wandered.
How they trust me, my followers of Athens! Is it not better to be a leader of one
city of freemen than a Xerxes, master of a hundred million slaves? How they greeted
me, as if I were Apollo the Saviour, when I returned to Peiræus! And must it be
written by the chroniclers thereafter,
About this time Themistocles, son of
Neocles, aroused the Athenians to hopeless resistance and drew on them utter
destruction
? O Father Zeus, must men say that? Am I a
fool or crazed for wishing to save my land from the fate of Media, Lydia, Babylonia,
Egypt, Ionia? Has dark Atropos decreed that the Persians should conquer forever? Then,
O Zeus, or whatever be thy name, O Power of Powers, look to thine empire! Xerxes is
not a king, but a god; he will besiege Olympus, even thy throne.
He crossed the cabin with hard strides.
How can I?
he cried half-aloud, beating his forehead. How can I make these
Hellenes fight?
His hand tightened over his sword-hilt.
This is the only place where we can fight to advantage. Here in the strait betwixt
Salamis and Attica we have space to deploy all our ships, while the Barbarians will be
crowded by numbers. And if we once retreat?—Let Adeimantus and the rest prate
about—
The wall, the wall across the Isthmus! The king can never storm it.
Nor will he try to, unless his councillors are turned stark mad. Will he not have
command of the sea? can he not land his army behind the wall, wherever he wills? Have
I not dinned that argument in those doltish Peloponnesians’ ears
A knock upon the cabin door. Simonides reëntered.
You do not come on deck, Themistocles? The men ask for you.
I am at odds with Tychē, Simonides. I cannot come with you.
The case is bad, then?
Ay, bad. But keep a brave face before the men. There’s no call to pawn our last
chance.
Has it come to that?
quoth the little poet, in curiosity and concern.
Leave me!
ordered Themistocles, with a sweep of the hand, and Simonides was wise
enough to obey.
Themistocles took a pen from the table, but instead of writing on the outspread sheet of papyrus, thrust the reed between his teeth and bit it fiercely.
How can I? How can I make these Hellenes fight? Tell that, King Zeus, tell that!
Then quickly his eager brain ran from expedient to expedient.
Another oracle, some lucky prediction that we shall conquer? But I have shaken the
oracle books till there is only chaff in them. Or a bribe to Adeimantus and his
fellows? But gold can buy only souls, not courage. Or another brave speech and
convincing argument? Had I the tongue of Nestor and the wisdom of Thales, would those
doltish Dorians listen?
Again the knock, still again Simonides. The dapper poet’s face was a cubit long.
Oh, grief to report it! Cimon sends a boat from his ship the
Dikē, the Sicyonian ship beside
him, is not stripping for battle, but rigging sail on her spars as if to flee
away.
Is that all?
asked Themistocles, calmly.
And there is also a message that Adeimantus and many other admirals who are minded
like him have gone again to Eurybiades to urge him not to fight.
I expected it.
Will the Spartan yield?
The little poet was whitening.
Very likely. Eurybiades would be a coward if he were not too much of a fool.
And you are not going to him instantly, to confound the faint hearts and urge them to
quit themselves like Hellenes?
Not yet.
By the dog of Egypt, man,
cried Simonides, seizing his friend’s arm, don’t you
know that if nothing’s done, we’ll all walk the asphodel to-morrow?
Of course. I am doing all I can.
All? You stand with folded hands!
All—for I am thinking.
Thinking—oh, make actions of your thoughts!
I will.
When?
When the god opens the way. Just now the way is fast closed.
Ai! woe—and it is already far into the evening, and Hellas is
lost.
Themistocles laughed almost lightly.
No, my friend. Hellas will not be lost until to-morrow
Simonides lingered. He was not sure Themistocles was master of himself. But the
admiral beckoned peremptorily, the poet’s hand was on the cabin door, when a loud knock
sounded on the other side. The prōreus, commander of the
fore-deck and Ameinas’s chief lieutenant, entered and saluted swiftly.
Your business?
questioned the admiral, sharply.
May it please your Excellency, a deserter.
A deserter, and how and why here?
He came to the
He is a Barbarian?
No, a Greek. He affects to speak a kind of Doric dialect.
Themistocles laughed again, and even more lightly.
A deserter, you say. Then why, by Athena’s owls, has he left
the Land of Roast
Hare
among the Persians, whither so many are betaking themselves? We’ve not so
many deserters to our cause that to-night we can ignore one. Fetch him in.
But the council with Eurybiades?
implored Simonides, almost on his knees.
To the harpies with it! I asked Zeus for an omen. It comes—a fair one. There is time
to hear this deserter, to confound Adeimantus, and to save Hellas too!
Themistocles tossed his head. The wavering, the doubting frown was gone. He was
himself again. What he hoped for, what device lay in that inexhaustible brain of his,
Simonides did not know. But the sight itself of this strong, smiling man gave courage.
The officer reëntered, with him a young man,
The stranger drew back the shaggy cap. Simonides and Themistocles saw a young, well-formed man. With his thick beard and the flickering cabin lamps it was impossible to discover more. The newcomer stood silent as if awaiting remark from the others, and they in turn looked on him.
Well,
spoke the admiral, at length, who are you? Why are you here?
You do not know me?
Not in the least, and my memory is good. But your speech now is Attic, not Doric as
they told me.
It may well be Attic, I am Athenian born.
Athenian? And still to me a stranger? Ah! an instant. Your voice is familiar. Where
have I heard it before?
The last time,
rejoined the stranger, his tones rising, it was a certain night
at Colonus. Democrates and Hermippus were with you—likewise—
Themistocles leaped back three steps.
The sea gives up its dead. You are Glaucon son of—
Conon,
completed the fugitive, folding his arms calmly, but the admiral was not
so calm.
Miserable youth! What harpy, what evil god has brought you hither? What prevents that
I give you over to the crew to crucify at the foremast?
Nothing hinders! nothing
—Glaucon’s voice mounted save that Athens and Hellas need all their sons this night.
A loyal son you have been!
darted Themistocles, his lips curling. Where did
you escape the sea?
I was washed on Astypalæa.
Where have you been since?
In Sardis.
Who protected you there?
Mardonius.
Did the Persians treat you so shabbily that you were glad to desert them?
They loaded me with riches and honour. Xerxes showered me with benefits.
And you accompanied their army to Hellas? You went with the other Greek
Glaucon’s brow grew very red, but he met Themistocles’s arrowlike gaze.
I did—and yet—
Ah, yes—the
observed Themistocles, sarcastically. yet,
I had expected
it. Well, I can imagine many motives for coming,—to betray our hopes to the Persians,
or even because Athena has put some contrite manhood in your heart. You know, of
course, that the resolution we passed recalling the exiles did not extend pardon to
traitors.
I know it.
Themistocles flung himself into a chair. The admiral was in a rare condition for him,—truly at a loss to divine the best word and question.
Sit also, Simonides,
his order, and you, once Alcmæonid and now outlaw, tell
why, after these confessions, I should believe any other part of your story?
I do not ask you to believe,
—Glaucon stood like a I shall not blame you if you do the worst,—yet you shall
hear—
The admiral made an impatient gesture, commanding Begin,
and the fugitive
poured out his tale. All the voyage from Phaleron he had been nerving himself for this
ordeal; his composure did not desert now. He related lucidly, briefly, how the fates had
dealt with him since he fled Colonus. Only when he told of his abiding with Leonidas
Themistocles’s gaze grew sharper.
Tell that again. Be careful. I am very good at detecting lies.
Glaucon repeated unfalteringly.
What proof that you were with Leonidas?
None but my word. Euboulus of Corinth and the Spartans alone knew my name. They are
dead.
Humph! And you expect me to accept the boast of a traitor with a price upon his
head?
You said you were good at detecting lies.
Themistocles’s head went down between his hands; at last he lifted it and gazed the deserter in the face.
Now, son of Conon, do you still persist that you are innocent? Do you repeat those
oaths you swore at Colonus?
All. I did not write that letter.
Who did, then?
A malignant god, I said. I will say it again.
Themistocles shook his head.
Gods take human agencies to ruin a man in these days, even Hermes the Trickster.
Again I say, who wrote that letter?
Athena knows.
And unfortunately her Ladyship the Goddess will not tell,
cried the admiral,
blasphemously. Let us fall back on easier questions. Did I write it?
Absurd.
Did Democrates?
Absurd again, still—
Do you not see, dearest outlaw,
said Themistocles, mildly, until you can lay
that letter on some other man’s shoulders, I cannot answer,
I believe you
?
I did not ask that. I have a simpler request. Will you let me serve Hellas?
How do I know you are not a spy sent from Mardonius?
Because too many deserters and talebearers are flying to Xerxes now to require that I
thrust my head in the Hydra’s jaws. You know surely that.
Themistocles raised his eyebrows.
There’s truth said there, Simonides. What do you think?
The last question was to
the poet.
That this Glaucon, whatever his guilt a year ago, comes to-night in good faith.
Euge! that’s easily said. But what if he betrays us again?
If I understand aright,
spoke Simonides, shrewdly, our case is such there’s
little left worth betraying.
Not badly put,
—again Themistocles pressed his forehead, while Glaucon stood as
passive as hard marble. Then the admiral suddenly began to rain questions like an arrow
volley.
You come from the king’s camp?
Yes.
And have heard the plans of battle?
I was not at the council, but nothing is concealed. The Persians are too
confident.
Of course. How do their ships lie?
Crowded around the havens of Athens. The vassal Ionians have their ships on the left.
The Phœnicians,
How do you know this?
From the camp-followers’ talk. Then, too, I rowed by the whole armada while on my way
to Salamis. I have eyes. The moon was shining. I was not mistaken.
Do you know where rides the trireme of Ariabignes, Xerxes’s admiral-in-chief?
Off the entrance to Peiræus. It is easy to find her. She is covered with lights.
Ah! and the Egyptian squadron is on the extreme right and closest to Salamis?
Very close.
If they went up the coast as far as the promontory on Mt. Ægaleos, the strait toward
Eleusis would be closed?
Certainly.
And on the south the way is already blocked by the Ionians.
I had trouble in passing even in my skiff.
More questions, Glaucon not knowing whither they all were drifting. Without warning Themistocles uprose and smote his thigh.
So you are anxious to serve Hellas?
Have I not said it?
Dare you die for her?
I made the choice once with Leonidas.
Dare you do a thing which, if it slip, may give you into the hands of the Barbarians
to be torn by wild horses or of the Greeks to be crucified?
But it shall not slip!
Euge! that is a noble answer. Now let us come.
Whither?
To Eurybiades’s flag-ship. Then I can know whether you must risk the deed.
Themistocles touched a bronze gong; a marine adjutant entered.
My pinnace,
ordered the admiral. As the man went out, Themistocles took a long
himation from the locker and wrapped it around the newcomer.
Since even Simonides and I did not recognize you in your long beard, I doubt if you
are in danger of detection to-night. But remember your name is Critias. You can dye
your hair if you come safe back from this adventure. Have you eaten?
Who has hunger now?
Themistocles laughed.
So say all of us. But if the gifts of Demeter cannot strengthen, it is not so with
those of Dionysus. Drink.
He took from a hook a leathern bottle and poured out a hornful of hot Chian. Glaucon did not refuse. After he had finished the admiral did likewise. Then Glaucon in turn asked questions.
Where is my wife?
In the town of Salamis, with her father; do you know she has borne—
A son. Are both well?
Well. The child is fair as the son of Leto.
They could see the light flash out of the eyes of the outlaw. He turned toward the statue and stretched out his hand.
O Aphrodite, I bless thee!
Then again to the admiral, And Hermione is not yet
given to Democrates in marriage?
The words came swiftly.
Not yet. Hermippus desires it. Hermione resists. She calls Democrates your
destroyer.
Glaucon turned away his face that they might not behold it.
The god has not yet forgotten mercy,
Simonides thought he heard him say.
The pinnace is waiting,
announced the orderly from
the companionway. kyrie,
Let the deserter’s skiff be towed behind,
ordered Themistocles, once on deck, and let Sicinnus also go with me.
The keen-eyed Asiatic took his place with Themistocles and Glaucon in the stern. The sturdy boatmen sent the pinnace dancing. All through the brief voyage the admiral was at whispers with Sicinnus. As they reached the Spartan flag-ship, half a score of pinnaces trailing behind told how the Peloponnesian admirals were already aboard clamouring at Eurybiades for orders to fly. From the ports of the stern-cabin the glare of many lamps spread wavering bars of light across the water. Voices came, upraised in jarring debate. The marine guard saluted with his spear as Themistocles went up the ladder. Leaving his companions on deck, the admiral hastened below. An instant later he was back and beckoned the Asiatic and the outlaw to the ship’s rail.
Take Sicinnus to the Persian high admiral,
was his ominous whisper, and fail
not,—fail not, for I say to you except the god prosper you now, not all Olympus can
save our Hellas to-morrow.
Not another word as he turned again to the cabin. The pinnace crew had brought the
skiff alongside, Sicinnus entered it, Glaucon took the oars, pulled out a little, as if
back to the
It was little short of midnight when Glaucon swung the skiff away from the tall trireme of Ariabignes, the Barbarian’s admiral. The deed was done. He had sat in the bobbing boat while Sicinnus had been above with the Persian chiefs. Officers who had exchanged the wine-cup with Glaucon in the days when he stood at Xerxes’s side passed through the glare of the battle lanterns swaying above the rail. The Athenian had gripped at the dagger in his belt as he watched them. Better in the instant of discovery to slay one’s self than die a few hours afterward by slow tortures! But discovery had not come. Sicinnus had come down the ladder, smiling, jesting, a dozen subalterns salaaming as he went, and offering all manner of service, for had he not been a bearer of great good tidings to the king?
Till to-morrow,
an olive-skinned Cilician navarch had spoken.
Till to-morrow,
waved the messenger, lightly. He did all things coolly, as if he
had been bearing an invitation to a feast, took his post in the stern of the skiff
deliberately, then turned to the silent man with him.
Pull.
Whither?
Glaucon was already tugging the oars.
To Eurybiades’s ship. Themistocles is waiting. And again all speed.
The line of twinkling water betwixt the skiff and the Persian widened. For a few moments Glaucon bent himself silently to his task, then for the first time questioned.
What have you done?
Even in the darkness he knew Sicinnus grinned and showed his teeth.
In the name of Themistocles I have told the Barbarian chiefs that the Hellenes are at
strife one with another, that they are meditating a hasty flight, that if the king’s
captains will but move their ships so as to enclose them, it is likely there will be
no battle in the morning, but the Hellenes will fall into the hands of Xerxes
unresisting.
And the Persian answered?
That I and my master would not fail of reward for this service to the king. That the
Egyptian ships would be swung at once across the strait to cut off all flight by the
Hellenes.
The outlaw made no answer, but pulled at the oars. The reaction from the day and evening of strain and peril was upon him. He was unutterably weary, though more in mind than in body. The clumsy skiff seemed only to crawl. Trusting the orders of Sicinnus to steer him aright, he closed his eyes. One picture after another of his old life came up before him now he was in the stadium at Corinth and facing the giant Spartan, now he stood by Hermione on the sacred Rock at Athens, now he was at Xerxes’s side with the fleets and the myriads passing before them at the Hellespont, he saw his wife, he saw Roxana, and all other things fair and lovely that had crossed his life. Had he made the best choice? Were the desperate fates of Hellas better than the flower-banked streams of Bactria, whose delights he had forever thrust by? Would his Fortune, guider of every human destiny, bring him at last to a calm haven, or would his life go out amid the crashing ships to-morrow? The oars bumped on the thole-pins. He pulled mechanically, the revery ever deepening, then a sharp hail awoke him.
O-op! What do you here?
The call was in Phœnician. Glaucon scarce knew the harsh Semitic speech, but the lembos, a many-oared patrol cutter, was nearly on them. A moment
more, and seizure
The password to-night? You know it,
he demanded in quick whisper.
muttered Glaucon, still wool-gathering. Hystaspes,
Who are you? Why here?
An officer in the cutter was rising and upholding an
unmasked lantern. We’ve been ordered to cruise in the channel and snap up deserters,
and by Baal, here are twain! The crows will pick at your eyes to-morrow.
Sicinnus stood upright in the skiff.
Fool,
he answered in good Sidonian, dare you halt the king’s privy messenger?
It is not
our heads that the crows will find the soonest.
The cutter was close beside them, but the officer dropped his lantern.
Good, then. Give the password.
Hystaspes.
They could see the Phœnician’s hand rise to his head in salute.
Forgive my rudeness, worthy sir. It’s truly needless to seek deserters to-night with
the Hellenes’ affairs so desperate, yet we must obey his Eternity’s orders.
I pardon you,
quoth the emissary, loftily, I will commend your vigilance to
the admiral.
May Moloch give your Lordship ten thousand children,
called back the mollified
Semite.
The crew of the cutter dropped their blades into the water. The boats glided apart.
Not till there was a safe stretch betwixt them did Glaucon begin to grow hot, then cold,
then hot again. Chill Thanatos had passed and missed by a hair’s breadth. Again the
bumping of the oars and There will be a stiff wind in the
morning,
and lapsed into silence. Glaucon toiled on resolutely. A fixed conviction
was taking possession of his mind,—one that had come on the day he had been preserved
at Thermopylæ, now deepened by the event just passed,—that he was being reserved by the
god for some crowning service to Hellas, after which should come peace, whether the
peace of a warrior who dies in the arms of victory, whether the peace of a life spent
after a deed well done, he scarcely knew, and in the meantime, if the storms must beat
and the waves rise up against him, he would bear them still. Like the hero of his race,
he could say, Already have I suffered much and much have I toiled in perils of waves
and war, let this be added to the tale of those.
Bump—bump, the oars played their monotonous music on the thole-pins. Sicinnus stirred on his seat. He was peering northward anxiously, and Glaucon knew what he was seeking. Through the void of the night their straining eyes saw masses gliding across the face of the water. Ariabignes was making his promise good. Yonder the Egyptian fleet were swinging forth to close the last retreat of the Hellenes. Thus on the north, and southward, too, other triremes were thrusting out, bearing—both watchers wisely guessed—a force to disembark on Psyttaleia, the islet betwixt Salamis and the main, a vantage-point in the coming battle.
The coming battle? It was so silent, ghostlike, far away, imagination scarce could
picture it. Was this black slumberous water to be the scene at dawn of a combat beside
which that of Hector and Achilles under Troy would be only Be strong, for the heritage of what you do
this coming day shall be passed beyond children’s children, shall be passed down to
peoples to whom the tongue, the gods, yea, the name of Hellas, are but as a dream.
Glaucon felt the weariness fly from him. He was refreshed as never by wine. Then
through the void in place of the band of heroes slowly outspread the tracery of a vessel
at anchor,—the outermost guardship of the fleet of the Hellenes. They were again
amongst friends. The watcher on the trireme was keeping himself awake after the manner
of sentries by
By my spear I have won my bread,
Show me a merrier life than is mine!
The trolling called Glaucon back to reality. Guided by Sicinnus, who knew the stations of the Greek fleet better than he, a second time they came beside the Spartan admiral. The lamps were still burning in the stern-cabin. Even before they were alongside, they caught the clamours of fierce debate.
Still arguing?
quoth Sicinnus to the yawning marine officer who advanced to greet
them as they reached the top of the ladder.
Still arguing,
grunted the Spartan. I think your master has dragged forth all
his old arguments and invented a thousand new ones. He talks continuously, as if
battling for time, though only Castor knows wherefore. There’s surely a majority
against him.
The emissary descended the companionway, Themistocles leaped up from his seat in the crowded council. A few whispers, the Asiatic returned to Glaucon on the deck. The two gazed down the companionway, observing everything. They had not long to wait.
For the fourth time the subaltern who stood at Eurybiades’s elbow turned the water-glass that marked the passing of the hours. The lamps in the low-ceiled cabin were flickering dimly. Men glared on one another across the narrow table with drawn and heated faces. Adeimantus of Corinth was rising to reply to the last appeal of the Athenian.
We have had enough, Eurybiades, of Themistocles’s wordy folly. Because the Athenian
admiral is resolved to lead all Hellas to destruction, is no reason that we should
follow. As for his threat that he will desert us with his ships if we refuse to fight,
I fling it in his face that he dare not make it good. Why go all over the
well-threshed straw again? Is not the fleet of the king overwhelming? Were we not
saved by a miracle from overthrow at Artemisium? Do not the scouts tell us the
Persians are advancing beyond Eleusis toward Megara and the Isthmus? Is not our best
fighting blood here in the fleet? Then if the Isthmus is threatened, our business is
to defend it and save the Peloponnesus, the last remnant of Hellas unconquered. Now
then, headstrong son of Neocles, answer that!
The Corinthian, a tall domineering man, threw back his shoulders like a boxer awaiting battle. Themistocles did not answer, but only smiled up at him from his seat opposite.
I have silenced you, grinning babbler, at last,
thundered and I demand of you, O Eurybiades, that we end this tedious
debate. If we are to retreat, let us retreat. A vote, I say, a vote!
Eurybiades rose at the head of the table. He was a heavy, florid individual with more than the average Spartan’s slowness of tongue and intellect. Physically he was no coward, but he dreaded responsibility.
Much has been said,
he announced ponderously, many opinions offered. It would
seem the majority of the council favour the decision to retire forthwith. Has
Themistocles anything more to say why the vote should not be taken?
Nothing,
rejoined the Athenian, with an equanimity that made Adeimantus snap his
teeth.
We will therefore take the vote city by city,
went on Eurybiades. Do you,
Phlegon of Seriphos, give your vote.
Seriphos—wretched islet—sent only one ship, but thanks to the Greek mania for equality
Salamis is not defensible,
announced the Seriphian, shortly. Retreat.
And you, Charmides of Melos?
Retreat.
And you, Phoibodas of Trœzene?
Retreat, by all the gods.
And you, Hippocrates of Ægina?
Stay and fight. If you go back to the Isthmus, Ægina must be abandoned to the
Barbarians. I am with Themistocles.
Record his vote,
shouted Adeimantus, ill-naturedly, he is but one against
twenty. But I warn you, Eurybiades, do not call for Themistocles’s vote, or the rest
of us will be angry. The man whose city is under the power of the Bar
The Athenian sprang from his seat, his aspect as threatening as Apollo descending Olympus in wrath.
Where is my country, Adeimantus? Yonder!
he pointed out the open port-hole, there rides the array of our Athenian ships. What other state in Hellas sends so many
and sets better men within them? Athens still lives, though her Acropolis be wrapped
in flames.
Strong-hearted men and naught else are warp and woof of a city.
Do
you forget Alcæus’s word so soon, O Boaster from Corinth? Yes, by Athena Promachos,
Mistress of Battles, while those nine score ships ride on the deep, I have a city
fairer, braver, than yours. And will you still deny me equal voice and vote with this
noble trierarch from Siphinos with his one, or with his comrade from Melos with his
twain?
Themistocles’s voice rang like a trumpet. Adeimantus winced. Eurybiades broke in with soothing tones.
No one intends to deny your right to vote, Themistocles. The excellent Corinthian did
but jest.
A fitting hour for jesting!
muttered the Athenian, sinking back into his seat.
The vote, the vote!
urged the Sicyonian chief, from Adeimantus’s elbow, and the
voting went on. Of more than twenty voices only three—Themistocles’s and those of the
Æginetan and Megarian admirals—were in favour of abiding the onset. Yet even when
Eurybiades arose to announce the decision, the son of Neocles sat with his hands
sprawling on the table, his face set in an inscrutable smile as he looked on Adeimantus.
It is the plain opinion,
—Eurybiades hemmed and hawed with his words,—the
plain opinion, I say, of this council that the allied fleet retire at once to the
Isthmus. There
Well said,
shouted Adeimantus, already on his feet; now to obey.
But with him rose Themistocles. He stood tall and calm, his thumbs thrust in his girdle. His smile was a little broader, his head held a little higher, than of wont.
Good Eurybiades, I grieve to blast the wisdom of all these valiant gentlemen, but
they cannot retire if they wish.
Explain!
a dozen shouted.
Very simply. I have had good reason to know that the king has moved forward the
western horn of his fleet, so as to enclose our anchorage at Salamis. It is impossible
to retire save through the Persian line of battle.
Perseus upholding the Gorgon’s head before Polydectes’s guests and turning them to stone wrought hardly more of a miracle than this calm announcement of Themistocles. Men stared at him vacantly, stunned by the tidings, then Adeimantus’s frightened wrath broke loose.
Fox!
Hound!
in English.
I did not ask you to thank me,
was the easy
answer. philotate,It is, however, urgent to consider whether you wish to be taken unresisting
in the morning.
The Corinthian shook his fist across the table.
Liar, as a last device to ruin us, you invent this folly.
It is easy to see if I lie,
rejoined Themistocles; send out a pinnace and note
where the Persians anchor. It will not take long.
For an instant swords seemed about to leap from their scabbards, and the enraged
Peloponnesians to sheathe them in the Athenian’s breast. He stood unflinching, smiling,
Hands clasped heartily as the twain stood face to face.
Our rivalry forever more shall be a rivalry which of us can do most to profit
Athens,
spoke the returning exile; then Aristeides told how he had even now come
from Ægina, how he had heard of the clamours to retreat, how retreat was impossible, for
the Persians were pressing in. A laugh from Themistocles interrupted.
My handiwork! Come to the council. They will not believe me, no, not my oath.
Aristeides told his story, and how his vessel to Salamis had scarce escaped the
Egyptian triremes, and how by this time all entrance and exit was surely closed. But
even now many an angry captain called him liar.
The strife of words was at white
heat when Eurybiades himself silenced the fiercest doubter.
Captains of Hellas, a trireme of Teos has deserted from the Barbarian to us. Her
navarch sends word that all is even as Themistocles and Aristeides tell. The Egyptians
hold the passage to Eleusis. Infantry are disembarked on Psyttaleia. The Phœnicians
and Ionians enclose us on the eastern strait. We are hemmed in.
Once more the orderly turned the water-clock. It was past midnight. The clouds had blown apart before the rising wind. The debate must end. Eurybiades stood again to take the votes of the wearied, tense-strung men.
In view of the report of the Teans, what is your voice and vote?
Before all the rest up leaped Adeimantus. He was no craven at heart, though an evil genius had possessed him.
You have your will, Themistocles,
he made the concession sullenly yet firmly, you have your will. May Poseidon prove you in the right. If it is battle or slavery
at dawn, the choice is quick. Battle!
Battle!
shouted the twenty, arising together, and Eurybiades had no need to
declare the vote. The commanders scattered to their flag-ships, to give orders to be
ready to fight at dawn. Themistocles went to his pinnace last. He walked proudly. He
knew that whatever glory he might gain on the morrow, he could never win a fairer
victory than he had won that night. When his barge came alongside, his boat crew knew
that his eyes were dancing, that his whole mien was of a man in love with his fortune.
Many times, as Glaucon sat beside him, he heard the son of Neocles repeating as in
ecstasy:—
They must fight. They must fight.
Glaucon sat mutely in the pinnace which had headed not for the
I must confer with the strategi as to the morning,
Themistocles declared after a
long interval, at which Sicinnus broke in anxiously:—
You will not sleep,
kyrie?
Sleep?
laughed the admiral, as at an excellent jest, I have forgotten there
was such a god as Hypnos.
Then, ignoring Sicinnus, he addressed the outlaw.
I am grateful to you, my friend,
he did not call Glaucon by name before the
others, you have saved me, and I have
Give me a part to play to-morrow.
Thermopylæ was not brisk enough fighting, ha? Can you still fling a javelin?
I can try.
He let his voice drop. Euge! Try you shall.Do not
forget your name henceforth is Critias. The
Command me,
said the Asiatic. kyrie,
A strange time and place, but you must do it. Find some dark dye for this man’s hair
to-night, and at dawn have him aboard the flag-ship.
The thing can be done,
kyrie.
After that, lie down and sleep. Because Themistocles is awake, is no cause for
others’ star-gazing. Sleep sound. Pray Apollo and Hephæstus to make your eye sure,
your hand strong. Then awake to see the glory of Hellas.
Confidence, yes, power came through the tones of the admiral’s voice. Themistocles
went away to the belated council. Sicinnus led his charge through the crooked streets of
the town of Salamis. Sailors were sleeping in the open night, and they stumbled over
them. At last they found a small tavern where a dozen shipmen sprawled on the earthen
floor, and a gaping host was just quenching his last lamp. Sicinnus, however, seemed to
know him. There was much protesting and headshaking, at last ended by the glint of a
daric. The man grumbled, departed, returned after a tedious interval with a pot of
ointment, found Hermes knew
You know the art well,
observed the outlaw.
Assuredly; the agent of Themistocles must be a Proteus with his disguises.
Sicinnus laid down his pot and brushes. They had no mirror, but Glaucon knew that he was transformed. The host got his daric. Again they went out into the night and forsaking the crowded town sought the seaside. The strand was broad, the sand soft and cool, the circling stars gave three hours yet of night, and they lay down to rest. The sea and the shore stretched away, a magic vista with a thousand mystic shapes springing out of the charmed darkness, made and unmade as overwrought fancy summoned them. As from an unreal world Glaucon—whilst he lay—saw the lights of the scattered ships, heard the clank of chains, the rattling of tacklings. Nature slept. Only man was waking.
The mountain brows, the rocks, the peaks are sleeping,
And each bird folds his wing over his head.
The school-learned lines of Alcman, with a thousand other trivial things, swarmed back
through the head of Glaucon the Alcmæonid. How much he had lived through that night, how
much he would live through,—if indeed he was to live,—upon the morrow! The thought was
benumbing in its greatness. His head swam with confused memories. Then at last all
things dimmed. Once more he dreamed. He was with Hermione gathering red poppies on the
hill above
This was the day.
This was the day!
Some moments he lay trying to realize the fact in its full moment. A thin mist rested
on the black water waiting to be dispelled by the sun. From afar came sounds not of
seamen’s trumpets, but horns, harps, kettledrums, from the hidden mainland across the
strait, as of a host advancing along the shore. Xerxes goes down to the marge with
his myriads,
Glaucon told himself. Have not all his captains bowed and smiled,
But here the
Athenian shut his teeth. Your Eternity’s victory is certain. Come and behold.
People at length were passing up and down the strand. The coast was waking. The gray bar was becoming silver. Friends passed, deep in talk,—perchance for the last time. Glaucon lay still a moment longer, and as he rested caught a voice so familiar he felt all the blood surge to his forehead,—Democrates’s voice.
I tell you, Hiram,—I told you before,—I have no part in the ordering of the fleet.
Were I to interfere with ever so good a heart, it would only breed trouble for us
all.
So close were the twain, the orator’s trailing chiton almost fell on Glaucon’s face. The latter marvelled that his own heart did not spring from its prison in his breast, so fierce were its beatings.
If my Lord would go to Adeimantus and suggest,
—the other’s Greek came with a
marked Oriental accent.
Harpy! Adeimantus is no Medizer. He is pushed to bay now, and is sure to fight. Have
you Barbarians no confidence? Has not the king two triremes to our one? Only fools can
demand more. Tell Lycon, your master, I have long since done my uttermost to serve
him.
Yet remember, Excellency.
Begone, scoundrel. Don’t threaten again. If I know your power over me, I can also
promise you not to go down to Orchus alone, but take excellent pains to have fair
company.
I am sorry to bear such tidings to Lycon, Excellency.
Away with you!
Do not raise your voice,
spoke Hiram, never more
blandly, kyrie,here is a man asleep.
The hint sent Democrates from the spot almost on a run. Hiram disappeared in the
opposite direction. Glaucon rose, shook the sand from his cloak, and stood an instant
with his head whirling. The voice of his boyhood friend, of the man who had ruined him
because of a suspicion of treason—and now deep in compromising talk with the agent of
the chief of the peace party at Sparta! And wherefore had Mardonius spoken those
mysterious words at their parting, Beware of Democrates
? For an instant the
problems evoked made him forget even the coming battle.
A clear trumpet-blast down the strand gave a truce to questioning. Sicinnus
reappeared, and led Glaucon to one of the great fires roaring on the beach, where the
provident Greek sailors were breakfasting on barley porridge and meat broth before
dining on spears and arrow-heads. A silent company, no laughter, no jesting. All knew
another sun for them might never rise. Glaucon ate not because he hungered, but because
duty ordered it. As the light strengthened, the
Go, then. Quit yourselves as Hellenes. That is all the task. And I say to you, in the
after days this shall be your joy, to hear the greatest declare of you,
Reverence
this man, for he saved us all at Salamis.
The company dispersed, each man to his ship. Themistocles went to his pinnace, and a
cheer uprose from sea and land as the boat shot out to the
The son of Neocles, standing in the boat, uplifted his face to the now golden east.
Be witness, Helios,
he cried aloud, be witness when thou comest, I have done
all things possible. And do thou and thy fellow-gods on bright Olympus rule our battle
now; the lot is in your hands!
Sunrise. The thranites of the upper tier, the
zygites of the middle, the thalamites of
the lower,—one hundred and seventy swart, nervous-eyed men, sat on their benches, and
let their hands close tight upon those oars which trailed now in the drifting water, but
which soon and eagerly should spring to life. At the belt of every oarsman dangled a
sword, for boarders’ work was more than likely. Thirty spare rowers rested impatiently
on the centre deck, ready to leap wherever needed. On the forecastle commanded the prōreus, Ameinias’s lieutenant, keleustes, the oar master who must give time
on his sounding-board for the rowing, and never fail,—not though the ships around
reeled down to watery grave. And finally on the poop by the captain stood the governor,
—knotted, grizzled, and keen,—the man whose touch upon the heavy
steering oars might give the
The trireme is ready, admiral,
reported Ameinias, as Themistocles came up
leisurely from the stern-cabin.
The son of Neocles threw back his helmet, that all might see his calm, untroubled face. He wore a cuirass of silvered scale-armour over his purple chiton. At his side walked a young man, whom the ship’s people imagined the deserter of the preceding night, but he had drawn his helmet close.
This is Critias,
said Themistocles, briefly, to the navarch; he is a good
caster. See that he has plenty of darts.
One of Themistocles’s secret agents,
muttered the captain to the governor, we
should have guessed it.
And they all had other things to think of than the whence
and wherefore of this stranger.
It was a weary, nervous interval. Men had said everything, done everything, hoped and
feared everything. They were in no mood even to invoke the gods. In desperation some
jested riotously as they gripped the oars on the benches,—demonstrations which the prōreus quelled with a loud Silence in the ship.
The
morning mist was breaking. A brisk wind was coming with the sun. Clear and strong sang
the Notus, the breeze of the kindly south. It covered the blue bay with crisping
whitecaps, it sent the surf foaming up along the Attic shore across the strait.
Themistocles watched it all with silent eyes, but eyes that spoke of gladness. He knew
the waves would beat with full force on the Persian
Æolus fights for us. The first omen and a fair one.
The word ran in whispers down
the benches, and every soul on the trireme rejoiced.
How long did they sit thus? An æon? Would Eurybiades never draw out his line of battle? Would Adeimantus prove craven at the end? Would treachery undo Hellas to-day, as once before at Lade when the Ionian Greeks had faced the Persian fleet in vain? Now as the vapour broke, men began to be able to look about them, and be delivered from their own thoughts. The shores of Salamis were alive,—old men, women, little children,—the fugitives from Attica were crowding to the marge in thousands to watch the deed that should decide their all. And many a bronze-cheeked oarsman arose from his bench to wave farewell to the wife or father or mother, and sank back again,—a clutching in his throat, a mist before his eyes, while his grip upon the oar grew like to steel.
As the
You rowed and wrought too much last night, Critias,
spoke Themistocles, who had
eyes for everything. To the cabin, Sicinnus, bring a cup of Chian.
No wine, for Athena’s sake!
cried the outlaw, drawing himself together, it is
passed. I am strong again.
A great shout from the shores and the waiting fleet made him forget even the sight of Hermione.
They come! The Persians! The Persians!
The fleet of the Barbarians was advancing from the havens of Athens.
The sun rose higher. He was far above Hymettus now, and shooting his bright javelins over mainland, islands, and waters. With his rising the southern breeze sang ever clearer, making the narrow channel betwixt Salamis and Attica white, and tossing each trireme merrily. Not a cloud hung upon Pentelicus, Hymettus, or the purple northern range of Parnes. Over the desolate Acropolis hovered a thin mist,—smoke from the smouldering temple, the sight of which made every Attic sailor blink hard and think of the vengeance.
Yonder on the shore of the mainland the host of the Persian was moving: horsemen in
gilded panoply, Hydarnes’s spearmen in armour like suns. They stood by myriads in
glittering masses about a little spur of Mt. Ægaleos, where a holy close of Heracles
looked out upon the sea. To them were coming more horsemen, chariots, litters, and
across the strait drifted the thunderous acclamation, Victory to the king!
For
here on the ivory throne, with his mighty men, his captains, his harem, about him, the
Lord of the World
Now the Barbarians began to move forth by sea. From the havens of Peiræus and their anchorages along the shore swept their galleys,—Phœnician, Cilician, Egyptian, and, sorrow of sorrows, Ionian—Greek arrayed against Greek! Six hundred triremes and more they were, taller in poop and prow than the Hellenes, and braver to look upon.
Each vied with each in the splendour of the scarlet, purple, and gold upon stern and
foreship. Their thousands of white oars moved like the onward march of an army as they
trampled down the foam. From the masts of their many admirals flew innumerable gay
signal-flags. The commands shouted through trumpets in a dozen strange tongues—the
shrill pipings of the oar masters, the hoarse shouts of the rowers—went up to heaven in
a clamorous babel. Swallows’ chatter,
cried the deriding Hellenes, but hearts
were beating quicker, breath was coming faster in many a breast by Salamis then,—and no
shame. For now was the hour of trial, the wrestle of Olympian Zeus with Ahura-Mazda. Now
would a mighty one speak from the heavens to Hellas, and say to her Die!
or Be!
The Barbarians’ armadas were forming. Their black beaks, all pointing toward Salamis,
stretched in two bristling lines from the islet of Psyttaleia—whence the shields of the
landing force glittered—to that brighter glitter on the promontory by Ægaleos where sat
the king. To charge their array seemed charging a moving hedge of spears, impenetrable
in defence, invincible in attack. Slowly, rocked by the sea and rowing in steady order,
the armament approached Salamis. And still the Greek ships lay spread out along the
shore, each trireme swinging at the end of the cable which moored her to the land, each
mariner listening
All could read the order of battle at last as squadron lay against squadron. On the west, under Xerxes’s own eye, the Athenians must charge the serried Phœnicians, at the centre the Æginetans must face the Cilicians, on the east Adeimantus and his fellows from Peloponnese must make good against the vassal Ionians. But would the signal to row and strike never come? Had some god numbed Eurybiades’s will? Was treachery doing its darkest work? With men so highly wrought moments were precious. The bow strung too long will lose power. And wherefore did Eurybiades tarry?
Every soul in the
Zeus prosper you!
A roar from the fleet, the tearing of countless blades on the thole-pins answered them. Eurybiades had spoken. There was no treason. All now was in the hand of the god.
Across the strait they went, and the Barbarians seemed springing to meet them. From
the mainland a tumult of voices was rising, the myriads around Xerxes encouraging
And as they charged, the foemen’s lines seemed so dense, their ships so tall, their
power so vast, that involuntarily hesitancy came over the Greeks. Their strokes slowed.
The whole line lagged. Here an Æginetan galley dropped behind, yonder a Corinthian
navarch suffered his men to back water. Even the keleustes of the
Dare you meet me?
The Greek line became almost
stationary. Some ships were backing water. It was a moment which, suffered to slip
unchecked, leads to irreparable disaster. Then like a god sprang Themistocles upon the
capstan on his poop. He had torn off his helmet. The crews of scores of triremes saw
him. His voice was like Stentor’s, the herald whose call was strong as fifty common men.
In a lull amidst the howls of the Barbarians his call rang up and down the flagging ships:—
O Sons of Hellas! save your land,
Now dare and do, for ye have staked your all!
Now dare and do, for ye have staked your all!
Navarch shouted it to navarch. The
cry went up and loud
as when billows lash the beetling crags.
The trailing oars beat again into the
water, and even as the ships once more gained way, Themistocles nodded to Ameinias, and
he to the keleustes. The master oarsman leaped from his seat and
crashed his gavel down upon the sounding-board.
Aru! Aru! Aru! Put it on, my men!
The
Can we risk the trick?
his swift question to Ameinias.
The captain nodded. With this crew—yes.
Two stadia, one stadium, half a stadium, a ship’s length, the triremes were charging
prow to prow, rushing on a common death, when Ameinias clapped a whistle to his lips and
blew shrilly. As one man every rower on the port-side leaped to his feet and dragged his
oar inward through its row-hole. The deed was barely done ere the Sidonian was on them.
They heard the roaring water round her prow, the cracking of the whips as the petty
officers ran up and down the gangways urging on the panting cattle at the oars. Then
almost at the shock the governor touched his steering oar. The diekplous, favourite trick of the Grecian seamen, had never been
done more fairly.
Now was Themistocles’s chance. He used it. There was no need for him to give orders to
the oar master. Automatically every rower on the port-tiers of the
was the shout of the oar master; again the
Aru! Aru! Aru!
Back water,
thundered Ameinias, clear the vortex, she is going down!
The
A shout was pealing from the ships of the Hellenes. Zeus is with us! Athena is with
us!
At the outset of the battle, when advantage tells the most, advantage had been won. Themistocles’s deed had fused all the Greeks with hopeful courage. Eurybiades was charging. Adeimantus was charging. Their ships and all the rest went racing to meet the foe.
But the mêlée of ships which had just begun, she must play her part robbed
of her keenest weapon. The sinking of the Barbarian had been met with cheers by the
Hellenes, by howls of revengeful rage by the host against them. Not lightly were the
Asiatics who fought beneath the eyes of the king to be daunted. They came crowding up
the strait in such masses that sheer numbers hindered them, leaving no space for the
play of the oars, much less for fine manœuvre. Yet for an instant it seemed as if mere
weight would sweep the Hellenes back to Salamis. Then the lines of battle dissolved into
confused fragments. Captains singled out an opponent and charged home desperately,
unmindful how it fared elsewhere in the battle. Here an Egyptian ran down a Eubœan,
there a Sicyonian grappled a Cilician and flung her boarders on to the foeman’s decks.
To the onlookers the scene could have meant naught save confusion. A hundred duels, a
hundred varying victories, but to which side the final glory would fall, who
knew?—perchance not even Zeus.
In the roaring mêlée the
Do you know this ship?
asked Themistocles, at Glaucon’s side on the poop.
A Tyrian, the newest in their fleet, but her captain is the admiral Ariamenes,
Xerxes’s brother.
She is attacking us, Excellency,
called Ameinias, in his chief’s ear. The din
which covered the sea was beyond telling.
Themistocles measured the water with his eye.
She will be alongside then in a moment,
was his answer, and the beak is
gone?
Gone, and ten of our best rowers are dead.
Themistocles drew down the helmet, covering his face.
Euge! Since the choice is to grapple or fly, we had better
grapple.
The governor shifted again the steering paddles. The head of the prōreus lay with half his men. Glaucon never
counted how many missiles dinted his helmet and buckler. The next instant the two ships
were drifting without steerage-way. The grappling-irons dashed down upon the Athenian,
and simultaneously the brown Phœnician boarders were scrambling like cats upon her
decks.
Swords, men!
called Themistocles, never less daunted than at the pinch, up and
feed them with iron!
Three times the Phœnicians poured as a flood over the now the Hellenes were mad fools to look her brother’s power in the face? From the
shores of Attica and of Salamis, where the myriads rejoiced or wept as the scattered
battle changed, the cries were rising, falling, like the throb of a tragic chorus,—a
chorus of Titans, with the actors gods.
Another charge!
shouted Ameinias, through the din, meet them briskly,
lads!
Once more the hoarse Semitic war-shout, the dark-faced Asiatics dropping upon the
decks, the whir of javelins, the scream of dying men, the clash of steel on steel. A
frantic charge, but stoutly met. Themistocles was in the thickest mêlée. With his own spear he dashed two Tyrians overboard, as they sprang upon
the poop. The band that had leaped down among the oar benches were hewn in pieces by the
seamen. The remnant of the attackers recoiled in howls of despair. On the Phœnician’s
decks the Greeks saw the officers laying the lash mercilessly across their men, but the
disheartened creatures did not stir. Now could be seen Ariamenes, the high admiral
himself, a giant warrior in his purple and gilded armour, going up and down the poop,
cursing, praying, threatening,—all in vain. The
Enough! They have enough! Glory to Athens!
But here Ameinias gripped Themistocles’s arm. The chief turned, and all the Hellenes
with him. The cheer died on their lips. A tall trireme was bearing down on them in full
charge even while the
Save, Athena! Save! It is Artemisia! The queen of Halicarnassus!
The heavy trireme of the amazon princess was a magnificent sight as they looked on
her. Her oars flew in a flashing rhythm. The foam leaped in a cataract over her ram. The
sun made fire of the tossing weapons on her prow. A yell of triumph rose from the
Phœnicians. On the
To your places, men!
rang his shout, as he faced the foe unmoved, and die as
Athenians!
Then even while men glanced up at the sun to greet Helios for the last time, there was a marvel. The threatening beak shot around. The trireme flew past them, her oars leaping madly, her people too intent on escape even to give a flight of javelins. And again the Athenians cheered.
The
Not three ships’ lengths behind the Halicarnassian raced the ship of the son of
Miltiades. They knew now why
Need you help?
called Cimon, from his poop, as Themistocles waved his sword.
None, press on, smite the Barbarian! Athena is with us!
Athena is with us! Zeus is with us!
The
Onward! Up and after them,
rang Ameinias’s blast, she is our own, we will take
her under the king’s own eye.
The javelins and arrows were pelting from the Barbarian. The Athenians mocked the
shower as they leaped the void from bulwark to bulwark. Vainly the Phœnicians strove to
clear the grapples. Too firm! Their foes came on to their decks with long leaps, or here
and there ran deftly on projecting spars, for what athlete of Hellas could not run the
tight rope? In an instant the long rowers’ deck of the Tyrian was won, and the attackers
cheered and blessed Athena. But this was only storming the first outpost. Like castles
forward and aft reared the prow and poop, whither the sullen defenders retreated.
Turning at bay, the Phœnicians swarmed back into the waist, waiting no scourging from
their officers. Now their proud admiral himself plunged into the mêlée, laying about with a mighty sword worthy of Ajax at Troy, showing he was a
prince of the Aryans indeed. It took all the steadiness of Ameinias and his stoutest men
to stop the rush, and save the Athenians in turn from being driven overboard. The rush
was halted finally, though this was mere respite before a fiercer breaking of the storm.
The two ships were drifting yet closer to the strand. Only the fear of striking their
own men kept the Persians around the king from clouding the air with arrows. Glaucon saw
the grandees near Xerxes’s throne brandishing their swords. In imagination he saw the
monarch leaping from his throne in agony as at Thermopylæ.
Back to the charge,
pealed Ariamenes’s summons to the Tyrians; will you be
cowards and dogs beneath the very eyes of the king?
The defenders answered with a second rush. Others again hurled darts from the stern
and foreship. Then out of the
The admiral—lost!
Athenians shuddered together, but with the groan shot a
javelin. Clear through the scales of the cuirass it tore, and into the Persian’s
shoulder,—Glaucon’s cast, never at the Isthmus truer with hand or eye. The ponderous
blade turned, grazed the Athenian’s corselet, clattered on the deck. The Persian sprang
back disarmed and powerless. At sight thereof the Phœnicians flung down their swords.
True Orientals, in the fate of their chief they saw decreeing Destiny,—what use to
resist it?
Yield, my Lord, yield,
called Glaucon, in Persian, the battle is against you,
and no fault of yours. Save the lives of your men.
Ariamenes gave a toss of his princely head, and with his left hand plucked the javelin from his shoulder.
A prince of the Aryans knows how to die, but not how to yield,
he cast back, and
before the Athenians guessed his intent he sprang upon the bulwark. There in the sight
of his king he stood and bowed his head and with his left arm made the sign of
adoration.
Seize him!
shouted Ameinias, divining his intent, but too late. The Persian
leaped into the water. In his heavy mail he sank like lead. The wave closed over him, as
he passed forever from the sight of man.
There was stillness on the Tyrian for a moment. A groan of helpless horror was rising
from the Barbarians on the shore. Then the Phœnicians fell upon their knees, crying in
their harsh tongue, Quarter! Quarter!
and embracing and
Themistocles mounted the poop of the captured flag-ship, and Glaucon with him. The
wind was wafting them again into the centre of the channel. For the first time for many
moments they were able to look about them, to ask, How goes the battle?
Not the
petty duel they had fought, but the great battle of battles which was the life-struggle
of Hellas. And behold, as they gazed they pressed their hands upon their eyes and looked
and looked again, for the thing they saw seemed overgood for truth. Where the great
Barbarian line had been pushing up the strait, were only bands of scattered ships, and
most of these turning their beaks from Salamis. The waves were strewn with wrecks, and
nigh every one a Persian. And right, left, and centre the triumphant Hellenes were
pressing home, ramming, grappling, capturing. Even whilst the fight raged, pinnaces were
thrusting out from Salamis—Aristeides’s deed, they later heard—crowded with martial
graybeards who could not look idly on while their sons fought on the ships, and who
speedily landed on
The He had done it—their admiral. He had saved Hellas under the eyes of the vaunting
demigod who thought to be her destroyer. They called to Themistocles, they worshipped as
if he were the Olympian himself.
After the
Son of Conon, last night you gave me the thought whereby I could save Hellas. To-day
your javelin saved me from death. I owe you much. I will repay in true coin. To-morrow
I can give you back to your wife and all your friends if you will but suffer me.
The younger man flushed a little, but his eyes did not brighten. He felt Themistocles’s reservation.
On what terms?
You shall be presented to the Athenians as one who, yielding for a moment to
overmastering temptation, has atoned for one error by rendering infinite service.
Then I am to be
Glaucon the Traitor
still, even if Glaucon the Repentant
Traitor
?
Your words are hard, son of Conon; what may I say? Have you any new explanation for
the letter to Argos?
The old one—I did not write it.
Let us not bandy useless arguments. Do you not see I shall be doing all that is
possible?
Let me think a little.
The younger Athenian held down his head, and Themistocles saw his brows knitting.
Son of Neocles,
said Glaucon, at length, I thank you. You are a just man.
Whatever of sorrow has or will be mine, you have no part therein, but I cannot
return—not to Hermione and my child—on any terms you name.
Your purpose, then?
To-day the gods show mercy to Hellas, later they may show justice to me. The war is
far from ended. Can you not let me serve on some ship of the allies where none can
recognize me? Thus let me wait a year, and trust that in that year the sphinx will
find her riddle answered.
To wait thus long is hard,
spoke the other, kindly.
I have done many hard things, Themistocles.
And your wife?
Hera pity her! She bade me return when Athens knew me innocent. Better that she wait
a little longer, though in sorrow, when I can return to her even as she bade me.
Nevertheless, promise one thing.
Name it.
That if her parents are about to give her to Democrates or any other, you will
prevent.
Themistocles’s face lightened. He laid a friendly hand on the young man’s shoulder.
I do not know how to answer your cry of innocency,
philotate,
but this I know, in all Hellas I think none is fairer in body or soul than you. Have
no fear for Hermione, and in the year to come may Revealer Apollo make all of your
dark things bright.
Glaucon bowed his head. Themistocles had given everything the outlaw could ask, and the latter went out of the cabin.
Hellas was saved. But whether forever or only for a year the gods kept hid.
Panic-stricken, the Lord of the World
had fled to Asia after the great disaster.
The eunuchs, the harem women, the soft-handed pages, had escaped with their master to
luxurious Sardis, the remnant of the fleet fled back across the Ægean. But the brain and
right arm of the Persians, Mardonius the Valiant, remained in Hellas. With him were
still the Median infantry, the Tartar horse-archers, the matchless Persian lancers,—the
backbone of the undefeated army. Hellas was not yet safe.
Democrates had prospered. He had been reëlected strategus. If Themistocles no longer trusted him quite so freely as once, Aristeides, restored now to much of his former power, gave him full confidence. Democrates found constant and honourable employment through the winter in the endless negotiations at Sparta, at Corinth, and elsewhere, while the jealous Greek states wrangled and intrigued, more to humiliate some rival than to advance the safety of Hellas. But amongst all the patriot chiefs none seemed more devoted to the common weal of Hellas than the Athenian orator.
Hermippus at least was convinced of this. The Eleusinian had settled at Trœzene on the
Argive coast, a hospitable city that received many an outcast Athenian. He found his
If you truly desire any other worthy man,
said
Hermippus, once, makaira,you shall not find me obstinate. Can a loving father say more? But
if you are simply resolved never to marry, I will give you to him despite your will. A
senseless whim must not blast your highest happiness.
He ruined Glaucon,
said Hermione, tearfully.
At least,
returned Lysistra, who like many good women could say exceeding cruel
things, he has never been a traitor to his country.
Hermione’s answer was to fly to her chamber, and to weep—as many a time before—over Phœnix in the cradle. Here old Cleopis found her, took her in her arms, and sang her the old song about Alphæus chasing Arethusa—a song more fit for Phœnix than his mother, but most comforting. So the contest for the moment passed, but after a conference with Hermippus, Democrates went away on public business to Corinth unusually well pleased with the world and himself.
It was a tedious, jangling conference held at the Isthmus city. Mardonius had tempted the Athenians sorely. In the spring had come his envoys proffering reparation for all injuries in the wars, enlarged territory, and not slavery, but free alliance with the Great King, if they would but join against their fellow-Hellenes. The Athenians had met the tempter as became Athenians. Aristeides had given the envoys the answer of the whole people.
We know your power. Yet tell it to Mardonius, that so long as Helios moves in the
heavens we will not make
Bravely said, but when the Athenians looked to Sparta for the great army to hasten north and give Mardonius his death-stroke, it was the old wearisome tale of excuses and delay. At the conference in Corinth Aristeides and Democrates had passed from arguments to all but threats, even such as Themistocles had used at Salamis. It was after one of these fruitless debates that Democrates passed out of the gathering at the Corinthian prytaneum, with his colleagues all breathing forth their wrath against Dorian stupidity and evasiveness.
Democrates himself crossed the city Agora, seeking the house of the friendly merchant
where he was to sup. He walked briskly, his thoughts more perhaps on the waiting
betrothal feast at Trœzene, than on the discussion behind him. The Agora scene had
little to interest, the same buyers, booths, and babel as in Athens, only the citadel
above was the mount of Acro-Corinthus, not the tawny rock of Athena. And in late months
he had begun to find his old fears and terrors flee away. Every day he was growing more
certain that his former missteps
—that was his own name for certain
occurrences—could have no malign influence. After all,
he was reflecting, Nemesis is a very capricious goddess. Often she forgets for a lifetime, and after
death—who knows what is beyond the Styx?
He was on such noble terms with all about him that he could even give ear to the whine of a beggar. The man was sitting on the steps between the pillars of a colonnade, with a tame crow perched upon his fist, and as Democrates passed he began his doggerel prayer:—
Good master, a handful of barley bestow
On the child of Apollo, the sage, sable crow.
The Athenian began to fumble in his belt for an obol, when he was rudely distracted by a twitch upon his chiton. Turning, he was little pleased to come face to face with no less a giant than Lycon.
There was an hour,
spoke the Spartan, with
ill-concealed sneer, philotate,when you did not have so much silver to scatter out to
beggars.
Time had not mended Lycon’s aspect, nor taken from his eye that sinister twinkle which was so marked a foil to his brutishness.
I did not invite you, dear fellow,
rejoined the Athenian, to remind me of the
fact.
Yet you should have gratitude, and you have lacked that virtue of late. It was a
sorry plight Mardonius’s money saved you from two years since, and nobly have you
remembered his good service.
Worthy Lacedæmonian,
said Democrates, with what patience he could command, if
you desire to go over all that little business which concerned us then, at least I
would suggest not in the open Agora.
He started to walk swiftly away. The
Spartan’s ponderous strides easily kept beside him. Democrates looked vainly for an
associate whom he could approach and on some pretext could accompany. None in sight.
Lycon kept fast hold of his cloak. For practical purposes Democrates was prisoner.
Why in Corinth?
he threw out sullenly.
For three reasons,
Lycon grinned over his
shoulder, philotate,first, the women at the Grove of Aphrodite here are handsome; second, I am
weary of Sparta and its black broth and iron money; third, and here is the rose for my
garland, I had need to confer with your noble self.
Would not Hiram be your dutiful messenger again?
queried the other, vainly
watching for escape.
Hiram is worth twenty talents as a helper;
—Lycon gave a hound-like chuckle,—still he is not Apollo, and there are too many strings on this lyre for him to play
them all. Besides, he failed at Salamis.
He did! Zeus blast his importunity and yours likewise. Where are you taking me? I
warn you in advance, you are
shearing an ass,
—attempting the impossible,—if
you deceive yourself as to my power. I can do nothing more to prevent the war from
being pressed against Mardonius. It is only your Laconian ephors that are
hindering.
We shall see,
grunted the
Spartan, exasperatingly cool. philotate, we shall see,Here is Poseidon’s Temple. Let us sit in the shaded
portico.
Democrates resigned himself to be led to a stone seat against the wall. The gray old
dog-watcher
by the gate glanced up to see that no dogs were straying into the
holy house, noted only two gentlemen come for a chat, and resumed his siesta. Lycon took
a long time in opening his business.
The world has used you well of late, dear fellow.
Passing well, by Athena’s favour.
You should say by Hermes’s favour, but I would trust you Athenians to grow fat on
successful villany and then bless the righteous gods.
I hope you haven’t left Sparta just to revile me!
cried Democrates, leaping up,
to be thrust back by Lycon’s giant paw.
Ai! mix a little honey with your speech, it costs nothing.
Well, the length and breadth of my errand is this, Mardonius must fight soon, and must
be victorious.
That is for your brave ephors to say,
darted Democrates. According to their
valiant proposals they desire this war to imitate that with Troy,—to last ten
years.
Indeed—but I always held my people surpassed in procrastination, as yours in
deceiving. However, their minds will change.
Aristeides and Themistocles will bless you for that.
Lycon shrugged his great shoulders.
Then I’ll surpass the gods, who can seldom please all men. Still it is quite
true.
I’m glad to hear it.
Dear Democrates, you know what’s befallen in Sparta. Since Leonidas died, his rivals
from my own side of the royal house have gathered a great deal more of power. My uncle
Nicander is at present head of the board of ephors, and gladly takes my advice.
Ha!
Democrates began to divine the drift.
It seemed best to me after the affair at Salamis to give the lie to my calumniators,
who hinted that I desired to
Medize,
and that it was by my intriguing that the
late king took so small a force to Thermopylæ.
All Hellas knows
cried Democrates,
satirically. your patriotism!
Even so. I have silenced my fiercest abusers. If I have not yet urged in our assembly
that we should fight Mardonius, it is merely because—it is not yet prudent.
Excellent scoundrel,
declared the other, writhing on his seat, you are no
Spartan, but long-winded as a Sicilian.
Patience,
philotate, a Spartan must either speak in apothegms
or take all day. I have not advised a battle yet because I was not certain of your
aid.
Ay, by Zeus,
broke out Democrates, that ointment I sniffed a long way off. I
can give you quick answer. Fly back to Sparta, swift as Boreas; plot, conspire, earn
Tartarus, to your heart’s content—you’ll get no more help from me.
I expected that speech.
Lycon’s coolness drove his victim almost frantic.
In the affair of Tempē I bent to you for the last time,
Democrates charged
desperately. I have counted the cost. Perhaps you can use against me certain
documents, but I am on a surer footing than once. In the last year I have done such
service to Hellas I can even hope to be forgiven, should these old mistakes be proved.
And if you drive me to bay, be sure of this, I will see to it that all the dealings
betwixt the Barbarian and your noble self are expounded to your admiring
countrymen.
You show truly excellent courage, dear Democrates,
cried Lycon, in
pseudo-admiration. That speech was quite worthy of a tragic actor.
If we’re in the theatre, let the chorus sing its last strophe and have done. You
disgust me.
Peace, peace,
ordered Lycon, his hand still on the Athenian’s shoulder, I will
make all the haste I can, but obstinacy is disagreeable. I repeat, you are needed,
sorely needed, by Mardonius to enable him to complete the conquest of Hellas. You
shall not call the Persians ungrateful—the tyranny of Athens under the easy
suzerainty of the king, is that no dish to whet your appetite?
I knew of the offer before.
A great pity you are not more eager. Hermes seldom sends such chances twice. I hoped
to have you for
my royal brother
when they gave me the like lordship of
Lacedæmon. However, the matter does not end with your refusal.
I have said,
Do your worst.
And my worst is—Agis.
For an instant Lycon was dismayed. He thought he had slain his victim with one word.
Democrates dropped from his clutch and upon the pavement as though stricken through
cried the Spartan, dragging him up,
half triumphant, half sympathetic, Eu! eu! good comrade,I did not know I was throwing Zeus’s
thunderbolts.
The Athenian sat with his head on his hands. In all his dealings with the Spartan he had believed he had covered the details of the fate of Glaucon. Lycon could surmise what he liked, but the proof to make the damning charges good Democrates believed he had safe in his own keeping. Only one man could have unlocked the casket of infamy—Agis—and the mention of his name was as a bolt from the blue.
Where is he? I heard he was killed at Artemisium.
Lycon hardly understood his
victim’s thick whispers.
Wounded indeed,
philotate, taken prisoner, and sent to Thebes.
There friends of mine found he had a story to tell—greatly to my advantage. It is
only a little time since he came to Sparta.
What lies has he told?
Several, dear fellow, although if they are lies, then Aletheia, Lady Truth, must
almost own them for her children. At least they are interesting lies; as, for example,
how you advised the Cyprian to escape from Athens, how you gave Agis a letter to hide
in the boots of Glaucon’s messenger, of your interviews with Lampaxo and Archias, of
the charming art you possess of imitating handwritings and seals.
Base-born swine! who will believe him?
Base born, Democrates, but hardly swinish. He can tell a very clear story. Likewise,
Lampaxo and Archias must testify at the trial, also your slave Bias can tell many
interesting things.
Only if I consent to produce him.
When did a master ever refuse to let his slave testify,
makaire, you will not enjoy the day when Themistocles arrays
the testimony against you.
Democrates shivered. The late spring sun was warm. He felt no heat. A mere charge of treason he was almost prepared now to endure. If Mistress Fortune helped him, he might refute it, but to be branded before Hellas as the destroyer of his bosom friend, and that by guile the like whereof Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Ixion conjoined had never wrought—what wonder his knees smote together? Why had he not foreseen that Agis would fall into Lycon’s hands? Why had he trusted that lying tale from Artemisium? And worst of all, worse than the howls of the people who would tear his body asunder like dogs, not waiting the work of the hemlock, was the thought of Hermione. She hated him now. How she would love him, though he sat on Xerxes’s throne, if once her suspicion rose to certainty! He saw himself ruined in life and in love, and blazoned as infamous forever.
Lycon was wise enough to sit some moments, letting his utterance do its work. He was confident, and rightly. Democrates looked on him at last. The workings of the Athenian’s face were terrible.
I am your slave, Spartan. Had you bought me for ten minæ and held the bill of sale, I
were not yours more utterly. Your wish?
Lycon chose his words and answered slowly.
You must serve Persia. Not for a moment, but for all time. You must place that
dreadful gift of yours at our disposal. And in return take what is promised,—the
lordship of Athens.
No word of that,
groaned the wretched man, what will you do?
Aristeides is soon going to Sparta to press home his demands that the Lacedæmonians
march in full force against Mardonius. I can see to it that his mission succeeds. A
great battle will be fought in Bœotia.
We can see to it that
Mardonius is so victorious that all further resistance becomes a dream.
And my part in this monster’s work?
The demands and propositions with which Lycon answered this despairing question will
unfold themselves in due place and time. Suffice it here, that when he let the Athenian
go his way Lycon was convinced that Democrates had bound himself heart and soul to
forward his enterprise. The orator was no merry guest for his Corinthian hosts that
night. He returned to his old manner of drinking unmixed wine. Thirsty as a
Macedonian!
cried his companions, in vain endeavour to drive him into a laugh.
They did not know that once more the chorus of the Furies was singing about his ears,
and he could not still it by the deepest wine-cup. They did not know that every time he
closed his eyes he was seeing the face of Glaucon. That morning he had mocked at
Nemesis. That night he heard the beating of her brazen wings.
Despite exile, life had moved pleasantly for Hermippus’s household that spring. The
Trœzenians had surpassed all duties to Zeus Xenios—the stranger’s god—in entertaining
the outcast Athenians. The fugitives had received two obols per day to keep them in figs
and porridge. Their children had been suffered to roam and plunder the orchards. But
Hermippus had not needed such generosity. He had placed several talents at interest in
Corinth; likewise bonds of guest-friendship
with prominent Trœzenians made his
residence very agreeable. He had hired a comfortable house, and could enjoy even luxury
with his wife, daughter, young sons, and score of slaves.
Little Phœnix grew marvellously day by day, as if obeying his mother’s command to wax strong and avenge his father. Old Cleopis vowed he was the healthiest, least tearful babe, as well as the handsomest, she had ever known,—and she spoke from wide experience. When he was one year old, he was so active they had to tie him in the cradle. When the golden spring days came, he would ride forth upon his nurse’s back, surveying the Hellas he was born to inherit, and seeming to find it exceeding good.
But as spring verged on summer, Hermione demanded so much of Cleopis’s care that even
Phœnix ceased to be the focus of attention. The lordly Alcmæonid fell into the cusserving-gentlemen
to waste
on her charge any unreciprocated adoration. So on one day, just as the dying grass told
the full reign of the Sun King, she went forth with her precious bundle wriggling in her
arms, but her thoughts hardly on Master Phœnix. Procles the steward had been cold of
late, he had even cast sly glances at Jocasta, Lysistra’s tiring-woman. Mistress Niobe
was ready—since fair means of recalling the fickle Apollo failed—to resort to foul.
Instead, therefore, of going to the promenade over the sea, she went—burden and all—to
the Agora, where she was sure old Dion, who kept a soothsayer’s shop, would give due
assistance in return for half a drachma.
The market was just thinning. Niobe picked her way amongst the vegetable women, fought off a boy who thrust on her a pair of geese, and found in a quiet corner by a temple porch the booth of Dion, who grinned with his toothless gums in way of greeting. He listened with paternal interest to her story, soothed her when she sniffled at Procles’s name, and made her show her silver, then began pulling over his bags and vials of strange powders and liquids.
Ah, kind Master Dion,
began Niobe, for the sixth time, if only some philtre
could make Procles loath that abominable Jocasta!
muttered the old sinner, Eu! eu!it’s hard to say
what’s best,—powder of toad’s bone or the mixture of wormwood and adder’s fat. The
safest thing is to consult the god—
What do you mean?
Why, my holy cock here, hatched at Delphi with Apollo’s blessings on him.
Dion
pointed with his thumb to the small coop at his feet. The oracle is simple. You cast
Excellent,
cried Niobe, brightening.
But, of course, we must use only consecrated corn, that’s two obols more.
Niobe’s face fell. I’ve only this half-drachma.
Then,
said Dion, kindly but firmly, philotata,we had
better wait a little longer.
Niobe wept. Ai! woe. A little longer
and Jocasta has
Procles. I can’t ask Hermione again for money. Ai! ai!
Two round tears did not move Dion in the slightest. Niobe was sobbing, at her small wits’ end, when a voice sounded behind her.
What’s there wrong, lass? By Zeus, but you carry a handsome child!
Niobe glanced, and instantly stopped weeping. A young man dressed roughly as a sailor, and with long black hair and beard, had approached her, but despite dress and beard she was quite aware he was far handsomer than even Procles.
I beg pardon,
—she said kyrie,
by instinct,—kyrieI’m only an honest maid. Dion is terribly
extortionate.
She cast down her eyes, expecting instant succour from the
susceptible seaman, but to her disgust she saw he was admiring only the babe, not
herself.
Ah! Gods and goddesses, what a beautiful child! A girl?
A boy,
answered Niobe, almost sullenly.
Blessed the house in Trœzene then that can boast of such a son.
Oh, he’s not Trœzenian, but one of the exiles from
volunteered Dion, who kept all the tittle-tattle of the little city in
stock along with his philtres.
An Athenian! Praised be Athena Polias, then. I am from Athens myself. And his
father?
The brat will never boast of his father,
quoth Dion, rolling his eyes. He left
the world in a way, I wager five minæ, the mother hopes she can hide from her darling,
but the babe’s of right good stock, an Alcmæonid, and the grandfather is that
Hermippus—
Hermippus?
The stranger seemed to catch the word out of Dion’s mouth. A donkey
had broken loose at the upper end of the Agora; he turned and stared at it and its
pursuers intently.
If you’re Athenian,
went on the soothsayer, the story’s an old one—of Glaucon
the Traitor.
The stranger turned back again. For a moment Dion saw he was blinking, but no doubt it was dust. Then he suddenly began to fumble in his girdle.
What do you want, girl?
he demanded of Niobe, nigh fiercely.
Two obols.
Take two drachmæ. I was once a friend to that Glaucon, and traitor though he has been
blazed, his child is yet dear to me. Let me take him.
Without waiting her answer he thrust the coin into her hands, and caught the child out
of them. Phœnix looked up into the strange, bearded face, and deliberated an instant
whether to crow or to weep. Then some friendly god decided him. He laughed as sweetly,
as musically, as ever one can at his most august age. With both chubby hands he plucked
at the black beard and held tight. The strange sailor answered laugh with laugh, and
released himself right gayly. Then whilst Niobe and Dion watched and
An old family servant,
threw out Dion, in a whisper.
Sheep!
retorted the nurse, do you call yourself wise? Do you think a man with
that face and those long hands ever felt the stocks or the whip? He’s gentleman born,
by Demeter!
War makes many changes,
rejoined Dion. Ai! is he beside
himself or a kidnapper? He is walking off with the babe.
The stranger indeed had seemed to forget them all and was going with swift strides up the Agora, but just before Niobe could begin her outcry he wheeled, and brought his merry burden back to the nurse’s arms.
You ought to be exceeding proud, my girl,
he remarked almost severely, to have
such a precious babe in charge. I trust you are dutiful.
So I strive,
kyrie, but he grows very strong. One cannot keep
the swaddling clothes on him now. They say he will be a mighty athlete like his
father.
Ah, yes—his father—
The sailor looked down.
You knew Master Glaucon well?
pressed Dion, itching for a new bit of gossip.
Well,
answered the sailor, standing gazing on the child as though something held
him fascinated, then shot another question. And does the babe’s lady-mother
prosper?
She is passing well in body,
kyrie, but grievously ill in
mind. Hera give her a release from all her sorrow!
Sorrow?
The man’s eyes were opening wider, wider. What mean you?
Why, all Trœzene knows it, I’m sure.
I’m not from Trœzene. My ship made port from Naxos this morning. Speak, girl!
He seized Niobe’s wrist in a grip which she thought would crush the bone.
Ai! Let go, sir, you hurt. Don’t stare so. I’m frightened.
I’ll tell as fast as I can. Master Democrates has come back from Corinth. Hermippus is
resolved to make the kyria wed him, however bitterly she
resists. It’s taken a long time for her father to determine to break her will, but now
his mind’s made up. The betrothal is in three days, the wedding ten days
thereafter.
The sailor had dropped her hand. She shrank at the pallor of his face. He seemed struggling for words; when they came she made nothing of them.
Themistocles, Themistocles—your promise!
Then by some giant exercise of will he steadied. His speech grew more coherent.
Give me the child,
he commanded, and Niobe mutely obeyed. He kissed Phœnix on
both cheeks, mouth, forehead. They saw that tears were running down his bronzed face. He
handed back the babe and again held out money,—a coin for both the slave girl and the
soothsayer,—gold half-darics, that they gaped at wonderingly.
Say nothing!
ordered the sailor, nothing of what I have said or done, or as
Helios shines this noon, I will kill you both.
Not waiting reply, he went down the Agora at a run, and never looked back. It took some moments for Dion and Niobe to recover their equanimity; they would have believed it all a dream, but lo! in their hands gleamed the money.
There are times,
remarked the soothsayer, dubiously at last, when I begin to
think the gods again walk the earth and work wonders. This is a very high matter. Even
I
Niobe got her philtre,—though whether it reconquered Procles is not contained in this history. Likewise, she heeded Dion’s injunction. There was something uncanny about the strange sailor; she hid away the half-daric, and related nothing of her adventure even to her confidant Cleopis.
Three days later Democrates was not drinking wine at his betrothal feast, but sending
this cipher letter by a swift and trusty distance-runner
to Sparta.
Democrates to Lycon, greeting:—At Corinth I cursed you.
Rejoice therefore; you are my only hope. I am with you whether your path leads to
Olympus or to Hades. Tartarus is opened at my feet. You must save me. My words are
confused, do you think? Then hear this, and ask if I have not cause for turning
mad.
Yesterday, even as Hermippus hung garlands on his house, and summoned the guests to
witness the betrothal contract, Themistocles returned suddenly from Eubœa. He called
Hermippus and myself aside.
he said, Glaucon lives,and with the god’s help we’ll prove his innocence.
Hermippus at once broke off
the betrothal. No one else knows aught thereof, not even Hermione. Themistocles
refuses all further details. Glaucon lives,
—I can think of nothing else. Where
is he? What does he? How soon will the awful truth go flying through Hellas? I
trembled when I heard he was dead. But name my terrors now I know he is alive! Send
Hiram. He, if any snake living, can find me my enemy before it is too late. And speed
the victory of Mardonius! Chaire.
Glaucon lives.
Democrates had only written one least part of his terrors. Two
words—but enough to make the orator the most miserable man in Hellas, the most supple
of Xerxes’s hundred million slaves.
Once more the Persians pressed into Attica, once more the Athenians,—or such few of them as had ventured home in the winter,—fled with their movables to Salamis or Peloponnesus, and an embassy, headed by Aristeides, hastened to Sparta to demand for the last time that the tardy ephors make good their promise in sending forth their infantry to hurl back the invader. If not, Aristeides spoke plainly, his people must perforce close alliance with Mardonius.
Almost to the amazement of the Athenian chiefs, so accustomed were they to Dorian
doltishness and immobility, after a ten days’ delay and excuses that they must
celebrate their festival the Hyacinthia,
the ephors called forth their whole levy.
Ten thousand heavy infantrymen with a host of lightly armed helots
At last we will have a great land battle, and an end to the Barbarian.
All was excitement in the Athenian colony at Trœzene. The board of strategi met and
voted that now was the time taxiarch’s
cloak, were from the needle of his daughter. Hermione kissed
him as she stood with her mother in the aula. He coughed gruffly when he answered their
farewell.
The house door closed behind him, and Hermione and Lysistra ran into
one another’s arms. They had given to Hellas their best, and now must look to Athena.
Hermippus and Aristeides were gone, Democrates remained in Trœzene. His business, he
said, was more diplomatic than military, and he was expecting advices from the islands
which he must take to Pausanias in person. He had a number of interviews with
Themistocles, when it was observed that every time he came away with clouded brow and
gruff answers to all who accosted. It began to be hinted that all was not as well as
formerly between the admiral and the orator, that Democrates had chosen to tie too
closely to Aristeides for the son of Neocles’s liking, and that as soon as the campaign
was decided, a bitter feud would break out betwixt them. But this was merest gossip.
Outwardly Democrates and Themistocles continued friends, dined together, exchanged
civilities. On the day when Themistocles was to sail for Delos he walked arm in arm with
Democrates to the quay. The hundreds of onlookers saw him embrace the young strategus in
a manner belying any rumour of estrangement, whilst Democrates stood on the sand waving
his good wishes until the admiral climbed the ladder of the
It was another day and landscape which the stranger in Hellas would have remembered
long. The haven of Trœzene, noblest in Peloponnesus, girt by its two mountain
promontories, Methana and the holy hill Calauria, opened its bright blue into the deeper
blue of the Saronic bay. Under the eye of the beholder Ægina and the coasts of Attica
stood forth, a fit frame to the far horizon. Sun, sea, hills, and shore wrought together
to make one glorious harmony, endless variety, yet ordered and fashioned into a divine
whole. Euopis,
The Fair-Faced,
the beauty-loving dwellers of the country called it, and they
named aright.
Something of the beauty touched even Hermione as she
The people had wandered homeward. Cleopis set the parasol on the dry grass where it
would shade her mistress and betook herself to the shelter of a rock. If Hermione was
pleased to meditate so long, she would not deny her slave a siesta. So the Athenian sat
and mused, now sadly, now
A speaker near by her called her out of her reverie.
You sit long,
kyria, and gaze forth as if you were Zeus in
Olympus and could look on all the world.
Hermione had not exchanged a word with Democrates since that day she cast scorn on him on that other hill slope at Munychia, but this did not make his intrusion more welcome. With mortification she realized that she had forgotten herself. That she lay on the sunny bank with her feet outstretched and her hair shaken loose on her shoulders. Her feet she instantly covered with her long himation. Her hands flew instantly to her hair. Then she uprose, flushing haughtily.
It has pleased my father, sir,
she spoke with frigid dignity, to tell me that
you are some day perchance to be my husband. The fulfilment lies with the gods. But
to-day the strategus Democrates knows our customs too well to thrust himself upon an
Attic gentlewoman who finds herself alone save for one servant.
Ah,
Democrates was marvellously at his ease
despite her frowns, kyria; pardon the word, it’s overcold; makaira, I’d say more gladly,your noble father will take nothing amiss if I ask you to sit
again that we may talk together.
I do not think so.
Hermione drew herself up at full height. But Democrates
deliberately placed himself in the path up the hillside. To have run toward the water
seemed folly. She could expect no help from Cleopis, who would hardly oppose a man soon
probably to be her master. As the less of evils, Hermione did not indeed sit as desired,
but stood facing her unloved lover and hearkening.
How long I’ve desired this instant!
Democrates looked as if he might seize her
hands to kiss them, but she thrust I know you hate me bitterly because, touching your late husband, I did my duty.
Your duty?
Nestor’s eloquence was in her incredulous echo.
If I have pained you beyond telling, do you think my act was a pleasant one for me? A
bosom friend to ruin, the most sacred bonds to sever, last and not least, to give
infinite sorrow to her I love?
I hardly understand.
Democrates drew a step nearer.
Ah! Hera, Artemis, Aphrodite the Golden—by what name shall I call my goddess?
Hermione drew back a step. There was danger in his eyes. I have loved you, loved you
long. Before Glaucon took you in marriage I loved you. But Eros and Hymen hearkened to
his prayers, not mine. You became his bride. I wore a bright face at your wedding. You
remember I was Glaucon’s groomsman, and rode beside you in the bridal car. You loved
him, he seemed worthy of you. Therefore I trod my own grief down into my heart, and
rejoiced with my friends. But to cease loving you I could not. Truly they say Eros is
the strongest god, and pitiless—do not the poets say bloody Ares begat him—
Spare me mythologies,
interposed Hermione, with another step back.
As you will, but you shall hearken. I have desired this moment for two years. Not as
the weak girl given by her father, but as the fair goddess who comes to me gladly, I
do desire you. And I know you will smile on me when you have heard me through.
Keep back your eloquence. You have destroyed Glaucon. That is enough.
Hear me.
Democrates cried desperately now. Her
Say on, then. But remember I am a woman and alone save for Cleopis. If you profess to
love me, you will not forget that.
But Democrates was passing almost beyond the limits of coherent speech.
Oh, when you come to me, you will not know what a price I have paid for you. In
Homer’s day men wooed their wives with costly gifts, but I—have I not paid for you
with my soul? My soul, I say—honour, friendship, country, what has weighed against
Himeros,
Master Desire,
—the desire ever for you!
She hardly understood him, his speech flowed so thick. She knew he was on the edge of reason, and feared to answer lest she drive beyond it.
Do you hear the price I have paid? Do you still look on in cold hate, lady? Ah, by
Zeus, even in your coldest, most forbidding mood you are fair as the Paphian when she
sprang above the sea! And I will win you, lady, I will win your heart, for they shall
do you homage, even all Athens, and I will make you a queen. Yes! the house of Athena
on the Acropolis shall be your palace if you will, and they will cry in the Agora,
Way, way for Hermione, glorious consort of Democrates our king!
Sir,
spoke Hermione, while her hands grew chill, for now she was sure he raved,
I have not the joy to comprehend. There is no king in Athens, please Athena, there
never will be. Treason and blasphemy you speak all in one.
She sought vainly with
her eyes for refuge. None in sight. The hill slope seemed empty save for the scattered
brown boulders. Far away a goat was wandering. She motioned to Cleopis. The old woman
was staring now, and doubtless
Treason and blasphemy,
cried Democrates, dropping on his knees, his frame shaking
with dishonest passion, yes! call them so now. They will be blessed truth for me in a
month, for me, for you. Hermes the Trickster is a mighty god. He has befriended Eros.
I shall possess Athens and possess you. I shall be the most fortunate mortal upon
earth as now I am most miserable. Ah! but I have waited so long.
He sprang to his
feet. Tarry,
makaira, tarry! A kiss!
Hermione screamed at last shrilly and turned to fly. Instantly Democrates was upon her. In that fluttering white dress escape was hopeless.
Apollo pursuing Daphne!
—his crazed shout as his arms closed around her,—but
Daphne becomes no laurel this time. Her race is lost. She shall pay the forfeit.
She felt him seize her girdle. He swung her face to face. She saw his wide eyes, his mad smile. His hot breath smote her cheek. Cleopis at last was screaming.
Mine,
he triumphed, while he forced her resisting head to his own, there is
none to hinder!
But even while the woman’s flesh crept back at his impure kiss, a giant power came
rending the twain apart. A man had sundered them, sprung from the ground or from heaven
belike, or from behind a boulder? He tore Democrates’s hands away as a lion tears a
lamb. He dashed the mad orator prone upon the sod, and kicked him twice, as of mingled
hatred and contempt. All this Hermione only knew in half, while her senses swam. Then
she came to herself enough to see that the stranger was a young man in a sailor’s loose
dress, his features almost hidden under the dishevelled hair and beard. All this time he
uttered no word, but having smitten
But all this while Cleopis was screaming. People were hastening up the hill,—fishermen from a skiff upon the beach, slaves who had been carrying bales to the haven. In a moment they would be surrounded by a dozen. The strange sailor turned as if to fly. He had not spoken one word. Hermione herself at last called to him.
My preserver! Your name! Blessed be you forever!
The fisherfolk were very close. Cleopis was still screaming. The sailor looked once into the lady’s eyes.
I am nameless! You owe me nothing!
And with that he was gone up the hill slopes,
springing with long bounds that would have mocked pursuing, had any attempted. But
Cleopis quenched her outcry instantly; her screams had been drowned by a louder scream
from Hermione, who fell upon the greensward, no marble whiter than her face. The nurse
ran to her mistress. Democrates staggered to his feet. Whatever else the chastisement
had given him, it had restored his balance of mind. He told the fisherfolk a glib story
that a sailor wandering along the strand had accosted Hermione, that he himself had
chased the villain off, but had tripped whilst trying to follow. If the tale was not of
perfect workmanship at all points, there was no one with interest to gainsay it. A few
ran up the hill slope, but the sailor was nowhere in sight. Hermione was still
speechless.
Glaucon! I have seen Glaucon!
You have had a strange dream,
soothed Lysistra,
shifting the pillows, philotata,lie still and rest.
But Hermione shook her shining brown head and repeated, many times:—
No dream! No dream! I have seen Glaucon face to face. In that instant he spoke and
looked on me I knew him. He lives. He saved me. Ah! why does he stay away?
Lysistra, whose husband had not deemed it prudent to inform her of Themistocles’s
revelations, was infinitely distressed. She sent for the best physicians of the city,
and despatched a slave to the temple of Asclepius at Epidaurus—not distant—to
sacrifice two cocks for her daughter’s recovery. The doctors looked wise and recommended
heavy doses of spiced wine, and if those did not suffice, said that the patient might
spend a night in the temple of the Healer, who would no doubt explain the true remedy in
a dream. A wise woman
who had great following among the slaves advised that a
young puppy be tied upon Hermione’s temples to absorb the disaffection of her brain.
Lysistra was barely persuaded not to follow her admonitions. After a few days the
patient grew better, recovered strength, took an interest in her child. Yet ever and
anon she would repeat over Phœnix’s cradle:—
Your father lives! I have seen him! I have seen him!
What, however, puzzled Lysistra most, was the fact that Cleopis did not contradict her young mistress in the least, but maintained a mysterious silence about the whole adventure.
The night after his adventure on the hill slope Democrates received in his chambers no less an individual than Hiram. That industrious Phœnician had been several days in Trœzene, occupied in a manner he and his superior discreetly kept to themselves. The orator had a bandage above one eye, where a heavy sandal had kicked him. He was exceedingly pale, and sat in the arm-chair propped with pillows. That he had awaited Hiram eagerly, betrayed itself by the promptness with which he cut short the inevitable salaam.
Well, my dear rascal, have you found him?
May it please your Excellency to hearken to even the least of your slaves?
Do you hear, fox?—have you found him?
My Lord shall judge for himself.
Cerberus eat you, fellow,—though you’d be a poisonous mouthful,—tell your story in
as few words as possible. I
know that he is lurking about
Trœzene.
Compassion, your Lordship, compassion,
—Hiram seemed washing his hands in oil,
they waved so soothingly—if your Benignity will grant it, I have a very worthy woman
here who, I think, can tell a story that will be interesting.
In with her, then.
The person Hiram escorted into the room proved to be no more nor less than Lampaxo.
Two years had not removed
Ah! my good dame, whom do I recognize? Are you not the wife of our excellent
fishmonger, Phormio? A truly sterling man, and how, pray, is your good husband?
Poorly, poorly,
Lampaxo looked down and fumbled her
dirty chiton. Such condescension on the part of a magnate barely less than Themistocles
or Aristeides was overpowering. kyrie.
Poorly? I grieve to learn it. I was informed that he was comfortably settled here
until it was safe to return to Attica, and had even opened a prosperous stall in the
market-place.
Of course,
kyrie; and the trade, considering the times, is not
so bad—Athena be praised—and he’s not sick in body. It’s worse, far worse. I was
even on the point of going to your Lordship to state my misgivings, when your good
friend, the Phœnician, fell into my company, and I found he was searching for the very
thing I wanted to reveal.
Ah!
Democrates leaned forward and battled against his impatience,—and what is
the matter wherein I can be of service to so deserving a citizen as your husband?
I fear me,
—Lampaxo put her apron dutifully to her face and began to sniff,—your Excellency won’t call him
deserving
any more. Hellas knows your
Excellency is patriotism itself. The fact is Phormio has Medized.
Medized!
The orator started as became an actor. Gods and goddesses! what trust
is in men if Phormio the Athenian has Medized?
Hear my story,
groaned Lampaxo. mu! mu!It’s a terrible
thing to accuse one’s own husband, but duty to
Woman,
—Democrates pulled his most consequential frown,—Medizing is treason.
On your duty as a daughter of Athens I charge you tell everything, then rely on my
wisdom.
Certainly,
gasped Lampaxo, and so she
began a recital mingled with many moans and protestations, which Democrates dared not
bid her hasten. kyrie, certainly,
The good woman commenced by reminding the strategus how he had visited her and her
brother Polus to question them as to the doings of the Babylonish carpet merchant, and
how it had seemed plain to them that Glaucon was nothing less than a traitor. Next she
proceeded to relate how her husband had enabled the criminal to fly by sea, and her own
part therein—for she loudly accused herself of treason in possessing a guilty knowledge
of the outlaw’s manner of escape. As for Bias, he had just now gone on a message to
Megara, but Democrates would surely castigate his own slave. Still,
wound up
Lampaxo, the traitor seemed drowned, and his treason locked up in Phorcys’s strong
box, and so I said nothing about him. More’s the pity.
The more reason for concealing nothing now.
Zeus strike me if I keep back anything. It’s now about ten days since
he returned.
He?
Whom do you mean?
It’s not overeasy to tell,
kyrie. He calls himself Critias,
and wears a long black beard and tangled hair. Phormio brought him home one
evening—said he was the prōreus of a Melian trireme
caulking at Epidaurus, but was once in the fish trade at Peiræus and an old friend. I
told Phormio we had enough these days to fill our own bellies, but my husband would be
hospitable. I had to bring out my best honey
Beyond doubt,
—Democrates’s hand twitched with impatience,—but tell of the
stranger.
At once,
kyrie; well, we all sat down to sup. Phormio kept
pressing wine on the fellow as if we had not only one little jar of yellow Rhodian in
the cellar. All the time the sailor barely spoke a few words of island Doric, but my
heart misgave. He seemed so refined, so handsome. And near the roots of his hair it
was not so dark—as if dyed and needing renewal. Trust a woman’s eyes for that. When
supper was over Phormio orders me, Up the ladder and to bed. I’ll come shortly, but
leave a blanket and pillow for our friend who sleeps on the hearth.
Your
Excellency knows we hired a little house on the Carpenter’s Street,
very
reasonably you will grant—only half a minæ for the winter. I gave the stranger a fine
pillow and a blanket embroidered by Stephanium, she was my great-aunt, and left it to
me by will, and the beautiful red wool was from Byzantium—
But you spoke of Critias?
Democrates could scarce keep upon his seat.
Yes,
kyrie. Well, I warned Phormio not to give him any more
wine. Then I went up the ladder. O Mother Demeter, how sharply I listened, but the
rascals spoke too low together for me to catch anything, save that Critias had dropped
his Doric and spoke good Attic now. At last Phormio came up to me, and I pretended to
snore. In the morning, lo! the scoundrelly stranger had slipped away. In the evening
he returns late. Phormio harbours him again. So for several nights, coming late, going
early. Then to-night he comes a bit before his wont. He and Phormio drank more than
common. After Phormio sent me away, they talked a long time and in louder voice.
You overheard?
Democrates gripped his arm-chair.
Yes,
kyrie, blessed be Athena! The stranger spoke pure Attic
such as your Excellency might use. Many times I heard Hermione named, and yourself
once—
And how?
The stranger said:
So she will not wed Democrates. She loathes him. Aphrodite shed
joy on her forever.
Then Phormio answered him, Therefore, dear Glaucon, you
should trust the gods a little longer.
Democrates leaped from the chair. Glaucon,
said he?
Glaucon,
on my oath by the Styx. Then I covered my head and wept. I knew my
husband harboured the arch-traitor. Heaven can tell how he escaped the sea. As soon as
Phormio was sleeping snug beside me, I went down the ladder, intending to call the
watch. In the street I met a man, this good Phœnician here,—he explained he was
suspecting this Critias
himself, and lurked about in hopes of tracing him in
the morning. I told my story. He said it was best to come straight to you. And now I
have accused my own husband, Excellency. Ai! was wife ever
harder beset? Phormio is a kindly and commonly obedient man, even if he doesn’t know
the value of an obol. You will be merciful—
Peace,
commanded Democrates, with portentous gravity, justice first, mercy
later. Do you solemnly swear you heard Phormio call this stranger
Glaucon
?
Yes,
kyrie. Woe! woe!
And you say he is now asleep in your house?
Yes, the wine has made them both very heavy.
You have done well.
Democrates extended his hand again. You are a worthy
daughter of Athens. In years to come they will name you with King Codrus who
sacrificed his life for the freedom of Attica, for have you not sacrificed what should
be dearer than life,—the fair name of your
Yes, he was breathing hard when I went out. Ah! seize him quickly.
Retire,
commanded Democrates, with a flourish; leave me to concert with this
excellent Hiram the means of thwarting I know not what gross villany.
The door had hardly closed behind Lampaxo, when Democrates fell as a heap into the cushions. He was ashen and palsied.
Courage, master,
—Hiram was drawing a suggestive finger across his throat,—the woman’s tale is true metal. Critias shall sleep snug and sweetly to-night, if
perchance too soundly.
What will you do?
shrieked the wretched man.
The thing is marvellously simple, master. The night is not yet old. Hasdrubal and his
crew of Carthaginians are here and by the grace of Baal can serve you. This cackling
hen will guide us to the house. Heaven has put your enemy off his guard. He and
Phormio will never wake to feel their throats cut. Then a good stone on each foot
takes the corpses down in the harbour.
But Democrates dashed his hand in negation.
No, by the infernal gods, not so! No murder. I cannot bear the curse of the Furies.
Seize him, carry him to the ends of the earth, to hardest slavery. Let him never cross
my path again. But no bloodshed—
Hiram almost lost his never failing smile, so much he marvelled.
But, your Lordship, the man is a giant, mighty as Melkarth.
No.
Democrates was still shaking. His ghost came to me a thousand times,
though yet he lived. It would hound me mad if I murdered him.
Hiram’s smile was extremely insinuating. You would not murder him. Your slave is not afflicted by
dreams.
Don’t quibble with words. It would be I who slew him, though I never struck the blow.
You can seize him. Is he not asleep? Call Hasdrubal—bind Glaucon, gag him, drag him
to the ship. But he must not die.
Very good, Excellency.
Hiram seldom quarrelled to no purpose with his betters. Let your Lordship deign to leave this small matter to his slave. By Baal’s favour
Hasdrubal and six of his crew sleep on shore to-night. Let us pray they be not deep in
wine. Wait for me one hour, perhaps two, and your heart and liver shall be
comforted.
Go, go! I will wait and pray to Hermes Dolios.
Hiram even now did not forget his punctilious salaam before departing. Never had he
seemed more the beautiful serpent with the shining scales than the instant he bent
gracefully at Democrates’s feet, the red light falling on his gleaming ear and nose
rings, his smooth brown skin and beady eyes. The door turned on its pivots—closed.
Democrates heard the retiring footsteps. No doubt the Phœnician was taking Lampaxo with
him. The Athenian staggered across the room to his bed and flung himself on it, laughing
hysterically. How absolutely his enemy was delivered into his hands! How the Moræ in
sending that Carthaginian ship, to do Lycon’s business and his, had provided the means
of ridding him of the haunting terror! How everything conspired to aid him! He need not
even kill Glaucon. He would have no blood guiltiness, he need not dread Alecto and her
sister Furies. He could trust Hiram and Hasdrubal to see to it that Glaucon never re
A month, my nymph, a month, and you and your dear father, yes, Themistocles himself,
will be in no state to answer me
nay,
—though Glaucon come to claim you.
Thus he lay a long time, while the drip, drip from the water-clock in the corner told how the night was passing. The lamp flickered and burned lower. He never knew the hours to creep so slowly.
At last, a knock; Scodrus, the yawning valet, ushering in a black and bearded sailor, who crouched eastern fashion at the feet of the strategus.
You have seized him?
Blessed be Moloch, Baal, and Melkarth! They have poured sleep upon my Lord’s
enemy.
The sailor’s Greek was harsh and execrable. Your servants did even as
commanded. The woman let us in. The young man my Lord hates was bound and gagged
almost ere he could waken, likewise the fishmonger was seized.
Bravely done. I never forget good service. And the woman?
She is retained likewise. I have hastened hither to learn the further will of my
Lord.
Democrates arose hastily.
My himation, staff, and shoes, boy!
he ordered. I will go forth myself. The
prisoners are still at the fishmonger’s house?
Even so, Excellency.
I go back with you. I must see this stranger with my own eyes. There must be no
mistake.
Scodrus stared widely when he saw his master go out into the dark, for his only escort
a black Carthaginian sailor
The streets of Trœzene were utterly deserted when Democrates threaded them. There was
no moon, neither he nor his companion were overcertain of the way. Once they missed the
right turn, wandered down a blind alley, and plunged into a pile of offal awaiting the
scavenger dogs. But finally the seaman stopped at a low door in a narrow street, and a
triple rap made it open. The scene was squalid. A rush-candle was burning on a table.
Around it squatted seven men who rose and bowed as the strategus entered. In the dim
flicker he could just recognize the burly shipmaster Hasdrubal and gigantic Hib, the
Libyan governor,
whose ebon face betrayed itself even there.
We have expected you,
said Hiram, who was one of
the group. kyrie,
Thanks be to Hermes and to you all. I have told my guide already I will be grateful.
Where is he?
In the kitchen behind, your Lordship. We were singularly favoured. Hib had the cord
around his arms before he wakened. He could scarcely struggle despite his power. The
fishmonger awoke before Hasdrubal could nip him. For a moment we feared his outcries
would rouse the street. But again the gods blessed us. No one stirred, and we soon
throttled him.
Take the light,
ordered Democrates. Come.
Accompanied by Hiram, the orator entered the kitchen, a small square room. The
white-washed ceiling was blacked around the smoke-hole, a few pots and pans lay in the
corners, a few dying embers gleamed on the hearth. But Democrates had eyes only for two
objects,—human figures tightly bound lying rigid as
Which is he?
asked Democrates again, stepping softly as though going to danger.
The further one is Phormio, the nearer is my Lord’s enemy. Your Excellency need not
fear to draw close. He is quite secure.
Give me the candle.
Democrates held the light high and trod gently over to the prostrate men. Hiram spoke
rightly that his victim was secure. They had lashed him hand and foot, using small
chains in lieu of cords. A bit of wood had been thrust into his mouth and tied with
twine under the ears. Democrates stood an instant looking down, then very deliberately
knelt beside the prisoner and moved the candle closer. He could see now the face hidden
half by the tangled black hair and beard and the gag—but who could doubt it?—the deep
blue eye, the chiselled profile, the small, fine lips, yes, and the godlike form visible
in its comeliness despite the bands. He was gazing upon the man who two years ago had
called him bosom-friend.
The prisoner looked straight upward. The only thing he could move was his eyes, and these followed Democrates’s least motion. The orator pressed the candle closer yet. He even put out his hand, and touched the face to brush away the hair. A long look—and he was satisfied. No mistake was possible. Democrates arose and stood over the prisoner, then spoke aloud.
Glaucon, I have played at dice with Fortune. I have conquered. I did not ruin you
willingly. There was no other way. A man must first be a friend to himself, and then
friendly to others. I have cast in my lot with the Persians. It was I who wrote that
letter which blasted you at Colonus. Very soon there will be a great battle fought in
Bœotia. Lycon and I will make it certain that Mardonius
The workings of the prisoner’s face made Democrates wince; from Glaucon’s throat came
rattlings, his eyes were terrible. But the other drove recklessly forward. As for
you, you pass this night out of my life. How you escaped the sea I know not and care
less. Hasdrubal will take you to Carthage, and sell you into the interior of Libya. I
wish you no misery, only you go where you shall never see Hellas again. I am merciful.
Your life is in my hands. But I restore it. I am without blood guiltiness. What I have
done you would have done, had you loved as I—had you been under necessity as I. Eros
is a great god, but Anangkë, Dame Necessity, is yet mightier. So to-night we
part—farewell.
A strong spasm passed through the prisoner’s frame. For a moment Democrates thought the bonds would snap. Too strong. The orator swung on his heel and returned to the outer room.
The night wanes,
remarked Hasdrubal; kyrie,if these
good people are to be taken to the ship, it must be soon.
As you will. I do nothing more concerning them.
Fetch down the woman,
ordered Hasdrubal; in the mongrel Greek current amongst
Mediterranean sea-folk. Two of his seamen ascended the ladder and returned with Lampaxo,
who smirked and simpered at sight of Democrates and bobbed him a courtesy.
The traitor is seized, your Excellency. I hope your Excellency will see that he
drinks hemlock. You will be merciful to my poor husband, even if he must be arrested
for the night. Gods and goddesses! what are these men doing to me?
A stalwart Carthaginian was in the act of knotting a cord
she screamed, Kyrie! kyrie!they are binding me, too!
Me—the most loyal woman in Attica.
Democrates scowled and turned his back on her.
Your Lordship surely intended this woman to be taken also,
suggested Hiram,
sweetly. It cannot be he will leave such a dangerous witness at large.
Of course not. Off with her!
was her shriek, but quickly ended, for
Hasdrubal knitted his fingers around her throat. Kyrie! kyrie!
A gag,
he ordered, and with a few more struggles Lampaxo stood helpless and
silent.
A little later the band was threading its stealthy way down the black streets. Four of the Carthaginians carried Glaucon, slung hands and feet over a pole. They dared not trust him on his feet. Phormio and Lampaxo walked, closely pinioned and pricked on by the captain’s dagger. They were soon at the deserted strand, and their ship’s pinnace lay upon the beach. Democrates accompanied them as far as the dark marge, and watched while the boat glided out into the gloom of the haven. The orator paced homeward alone. Everything had favoured him. He had even cleared himself of the curse of the Furies and the pursuit of Nemesis. He had, he congratulated himself, shown marvellous qualities of mercy. Glaucon lived? Yes—but the parching sand-plains of Libya would be as fast a prison as the grave, and the life of a slave in Africa was a short one. Glaucon had passed from his horizon forever.
Even whilst the boat pulled out to the trader, Hiram suggested that since his
superior’s unfortunate scruples
forbade them to shed blood, at least they could
disable the most dangerous captive by putting out his eyes. But Hasdrubal, thrifty
Semite, would not hearken.
Is not the fellow worth five hundred shekels in the Carthage market?—but who will
give two for a blind dog?
And once at the ship the prisoners were stowed in the hold so securely that even Hiram
ceased to concern himself. In the morning some of the neighbours indeed wondered at
Phormio’s closed door and the silence of the jangling voice of Lampaxo; but the
fishmonger was after all an exile, and might have returned suddenly to Attica, now the
Persians had retreated again to Bœotia, and before these surmises could change to
misdoubting, the
The business of Hasdrubal with the sea-mouse,
long, shallow, and very
fast under sail; she also carried again an unwontedly heavy crew. When
Lycon, in the camp of the Greeks in Bœotia, to Democrates in Trœzene,
greeting:—The armies have now faced many days. The soothsayers declare that the
aggressor is sure to be defeated, still there has been some skirmishing in which your
Athenians slew Masistes, Mardonius’s chief of cavalry. This, however, is no great loss
to us. Your presence with Aristeides is now urgently needed. Send Hasdrubal and Hiram
at once to Asia with the papers we arranged in Corinth. Come yourself with speed to
the army. Ten days and this merry dice-throwing is ended.
Chaire!
Democrates immediately after this gave Hiram a small packet of papyrus sheets rolled
very tight, with the ominous injunction to conceal carefully, weight it with lead,
and fling it overboard if there is danger of capture.
At which Hiram bowed more
elegantly than usual and answered, Fear not; it shall be guarded as the priests guard
the ark of Moloch, and when next your slave comes, it is to salute my Lord as the
sovran of Athens.
Hiram smiled fulsomely and departed. An hour later the
The speck at last vanished. The strategus walked homeward. Glaucon was gone. The fateful packet binding Democrates irrevocably to the Persian cause was gone. He could not turn back. At the gray of morning with a few servants he quitted Trœzene, and hastened to join Aristeides and Pausanias in Bœotia.
In the hold of the
So one day, another, and another, while the
So noble a patriot! An evil god bewitched him into letting these harpies take us.
Woe! woe! What misfortune!
To which plaint the others only smiled horribly and ground their teeth.
Phormio as well as Glaucon had heard the avowal of Democrates on the night of the
seizure. There was no longer any doubt of the answer to the great riddle. But
disheartening, benumbing beyond all personal anguish was the dread for Hellas. The
sacrifice at Thermopylæ vain. The glory of Salamis vain. Hellas and Athens enslaved. The
will of
O gods, if indeed there be gods!
Glaucon was greatly doubting that at last; if
ye have any power, if justice, truth, and honour weigh against iniquity, put that
power forth, or never claim the prayers and sacrifice of men again.
Glaucon was past dreading for himself. He prayed that Hermione might be spared a long life of tears, and that Artemis might slay her quickly by her silent arrows. To follow his thoughts in all their dark mazes were profitless. Suffice it that the night which had brooded over his soul from the hour he fled from Colonus was never so dark as now. He was too despairing even to curse.
The last hope fled when they heard the rattling of the cables weighing anchor. Soon
the soft slap of the water around the bow and the regular heaving motion told that the
O Queen Hera! O Queen Hera, I die for a breath of air—I, the most patriotic woman in
Athens!
Silence, goodwife,
muttered Phormio, twisting desperately on the filthy straw
under him. Have I not enough to fret about without the addition of your pipings?
And he muttered underbreath the old saw of Hesiod:—
He who doth a woman trust,
Doth trust a den of thieves.
Silence below there, you squealing sow,
ordered Hib, from the hatchway. Must I
tan your hide again?
Lampaxo subsided. Phormio tugged vainly at his feet in the stocks. Glaucon said
nothing. A terrible hope had
The because,
said Hasdrubal
piously, he had vowed two black lambs to the Wind God,
the breeze came clear and
cool from the north, which, if not wholly favourable, enabled the merchantman to plough
onward. It was the fifth day, finally, after quitting Trœzene, that the headlands of
Naxos came in sight at dawn, and the master began to take comfort. The fleet of the
Greeks—a fisherboat had told him—was swinging inactive at Delos well to the north and
westward, and he could fairly consider himself in waters dominated by the king.
A fortunate voyage,
the master was boasting to Hiram, as he sat at breakfast in
the stern-cabin above a platter of boiled dolphin; two talents from the Persians for
acting as their messenger; a thousand drachmæ profit on the corn; a hundred from
Master Democrates in return for our little service, not to mention the profit on the
return cargo, and last but not least the three slaves.
Yes, the three slaves. I had almost forgotten about them.
You see, my dear Hiram,
quoth the master, betwixt two unwontedly huge mouthfuls,
you see what folly it was of you to suggest putting out that handsome fellow’s
eyes. I am strongly thinking of selling him not to Carthage, but to Babylon. I know a
trader at Ephesus who makes a specialty of handsome youths. The satrap Artabozares has
commissioned him to find as many good-looking out-runners as possible. Also for his
harem—if this Glaucon were only a eunuch—
Hiram, breaking a large disk of bread, was smiling very suggestively before making reply, when a sailor shouted at the hatch:—
Ships, master! Ships with oars!
In what quarter?
Hasdrubal sprang up, letting the dishes clatter.
From Myconus. They come up fast. Hib at the masthead counts eleven triremes.
Baal preserve us!
The master at once clambered on deck. The Greek fleet may be
quitting Delos. We must pray for wind.
It was a gray, hazy day after a dozen bright ones. The northerly breeze seemed
falling. The water spread out a sombre lead colour. The heights of Naxos were in sight
to starboard, but none too clearly. Much more interesting to Hasdrubal was the line of
dots spreading on the horizon to northwest. Despite the distance his keen eyes could
catch the rise and fall of the oar banks—
They are far off. Put the ship before the wind.
The sea-mouse was fleet indeed for a trader, but unlike a trireme must count on her canvas for her speed. With a piping breeze she could mock pursuit. In a calm she was fearfully handicapped. However, for a moment Hasdrubal congratulated himself he could slip away unnoticed. The distance was very great. Then his dark lips cursed.
Moloch consume me! If I see aright, we are chased.
Two vessels, in fact, seemed turning away from the rest. They were heading straight
after the
The whole crew, forty black-visaged, black-eyed creatures, were soon busy over the
dozen great sweeps in a frantic attempt to force the
Hasdrubal began to shout desperately: Wind, Baal, wind! Fill the sails, and seven
he-goats await thy altar in Carthage!
Either the god found the bribe too small or lacked the power to accept it. The breeze did not stiffen. The sailors strove like demons at the sweeps, but almost imperceptibly the gap betwixt them and the war-ships was narrowing.
Hiram, who had been rowing, now left his post to approach the master.
What of the captives? Crucifixion waits us all if they are found on the ship and tell
their story. Kill them at once and fling the bodies overboard.
Hasdrubal shook his head.
Not yet. Still a good chance. I’ll not cast five hundred bright shekels to the fish
till harder pressed. The breeze may strengthen.
Then he redoubled his shout. Wind, Baal, wind!
But a little later the gap betwixt the sea-mouse and the penteconter had so dwindled that even the master’s inborn thrift began to yield to prudence.
Hark you, Hib,
he cried from the helm. Take Adherbal and Lars the Etruscan.
It’s a good ten furlongs to that cursed galley still, but we must have those prisoners
ready on deck. Over they go if the chase gets a bit closer.
The giant Libyan hastened to comply, while all the crew joined in the captain’s howl,
Wind, Baal, wind!
and cried reckless vows, while they scanned the fateful
stretch of gray-green water behind the stern, whereon liberty if not life depended.
The trireme, pulling only one of her banks, was dropping behind, her navarch leaving the tiring chase to the penteconter, but the latter hung on doggedly.
Curse those war-ships with their long oars and heavy crews,
growled Hib,
reappearing above the hatch with the prisoners. The penteconter’s only nine furlongs
off.
He had been obliged to release the captives from the stocks, but Hib had taken the
precaution to place on the formidable athlete a pair of leg irons joined by a shackle.
Not merely were Glaucon’s arms pinioned by a stout cord, but the great
Have ready sand-bags,
ordered Hasdrubal, to tie to these wretches’ feet. Set
them by the boat mast, so the sail can hide our pretty deed from the penteconter. Have
ready an axe. We’ll bide a little longer, though, before we say
farewell
to our
passengers. The gods may help yet.
Hib and his fellows were marching the prisoners to the poop, when the sight of the war-ship told Phormio all the story. No gag now hindered his tongue.
Oh, dragons from Carthage, are you going to murder us?
he began in tones more
indignant than terrified.
No, save as Heaven enjoins it!
quoth the master, clapping his hands to urge on
the rowing stroke. Pray, then, your Æolus, Hellene, to stiffen the breeze.
Pray, then, to Pluto, whelps,
bawled the undaunted fishmonger, to give you a
snug berth in Orcus. Ha! but it’s a merry thought of you and all your pretty lads
stretched on crosses and waiting for the crows.
But a violent screech came from Lampaxo, who had just comprehended the fate awaiting.
she bawled toward the
penteconter, Ai! ai! save me, fellow-Hellenes!a citizeness of Athens, the most patriotic woman in the city,
slaughtered by Barbarians—
Silence the squealing sow!
roared Hasdrubal. They’ll
But as they dragged Lampaxo on the poop, her outcry rose to a tempest till Lars the Etruscan clapped his hand upon her mouth. Her screaming stilled, but his own outcry more than replaced it. In a twinkling the virago’s hard teeth closed over his fingers. Two ran from the oars to him. But the woman, conscious that she fought for life or death, held fast. Curses, blows, even a dagger pried betwixt her lips—all bootless. She seemed as a thing possessed. And all the time the Etruscan howled in mortal agony.
The thin dagger, bent too hard, snapped betwixt her teeth. Lars’s clamour could surely be heard on the penteconter. Again the breeze was falling.
They seized the fury’s throat, and pressed it till she turned black, but the grip of her jaw only tightened.
groaned the victim, Attatai! attatai!forbear. Don’t
throttle her. Her teeth are iron. They are biting through the bone. If you strangle
her, they will never relax.
Attatai! attatai!
Nip him tight, little wife,
called Phormio, for once regarding his spouse with
supreme satisfaction. It’s a dainty morsel you have in your mouth. Chew it well!
Lampaxo’s attackers paused an instant, uncertain how to release the Etruscan. To their threats of torture the woman was deaf as the mainmast, and still the Etruscan screamed.
Glaucon had stood perfectly passive during all this grim by-play. Once Phormio saw his fellow-captive’s face twist into a smile, but in the excitement of the moment the fishmonger as well as the Carthaginians almost forgot the Isthmionices, and Hib relaxed his grip and guard. Lars’s finger was streaming red, when Hasdrubal threw away the steering-paddle in a rage.
Silence her forever! The axe, Hib. Split her skull open!
The axe lay at the Libyan’s feet. One instant, only one, betook his hands from the athlete’s wrists to seize the weapon, but in that instant the yell from all the crew drowned even the howls of Lars. Had any watched, they might have seen all the muscles in the Alcmæonid’s glorious body contract, might have seen the fire spring from his eyes as he put forth a godlike might. Heracles and Athena Polias had been with him when he threw his strength upon the bands that held his arms. The crushing of Lycon down had been no feat like this. In a twinkling the cords about his wrists were snapped. He swung his free hands in the air.
Athens!
he shouted, whilst the crew stood spellbound. Hermione! Glaucon is
still Glaucon!
Hib had grasped the axe, but he never knew what smote him once behind the ear and sent him rolling lifeless against the bulwark. In an instant his bright weapon was swinging high above the athlete’s head. Glaucon stood terrible as Achilles before the cowering Trojans.
Woe! woe! he is Melkarth. We are lost men!
groaned the crew.
At him, fools!
bawled Hasdrubal, first to recover wits, his feet are still
shackled.
But whilst the master called to them, the axe dashed down upon the fetters, and one
great stroke smote the coupling-link in twain. The Athenian stood a moment looking right
and left, the axe dancing as a toy in his grasp, and a smile on his face inviting, Prove me.
A javelin singing from the hand of Adherbal flew at him. An imperceptible bending of
the body, a red streak on Glaucon’s naked side, and it dug into the deck. Yet whilst it
quivered, was out again and hurled through the Cartha
Another howl from the sailors.
Not Melkarth, but Baal the Dragon-Slayer. We are lost. Who can contend with him?
Cowards!
thundered Hasdrubal, whipping the sword from his thigh, do you not
know these three sniff our true business? If they live when the penteconter comes,
it’s not prison but Sheol that’s waiting. Their lives or ours. One rush and we have
this madman down!
But their terrible adversary gave the master no time to gather his myrmidons. One stroke of the axe had already released Phormio, who clutched the arms of his wife.
The cabin!
the ready-witted fishmonger commanded, and Lampaxo, scarce knowing
what she did, released her ungentle hold on Lars and suffered her husband to drag her
down the ladder. Glaucon went last; no man loving death enough to come within reach of
the axe. Hasdrubal saw his victims escaping under his eyes and groaned.
There is only one hatchway. We must force it. Darts, belaying-pins, ballast
stones—fling anything down. It’s for life or death!
The penteconter is four furlongs away!
shrieked a sailor, growing gray under his
dark skin.
And Democrates’s despatches are hid in the cabin,
added Hiram, chattering. If
they do not go overboard, our deaths will be terrible.
Hear, King Moloch!
called Hasdrubal, lifting his swarthy arms to heaven, then
striking them with his sword till the blood gushed down, suffer us to escape this
calamity and I vow thee even my daughter Tibaït,—a child in her tenth year,—she
shall die in thy holy furnace a sacrifice.
Hear, Baal! Hear, Moloch!
chorussed the crew; and
But below the released prisoners had not been idle. Never—Glaucon knew it—had his brain been clearer, his invention more fertile than now, and Phormio was not too old to cease to be a valiant helper. The cabin was small. A few spears and swords stood in the rack about the mast. The athlete bolted the sliding hatch-cover, and tore down the weapons.
Release your wife,
he ordered Phormio; yonder sea chest is strong. Drag it
over to bar the hatch-ladder. Work as Titans if you hope for another sun.
screeched Lampaxo, who had released Lars’s
fingers only to resume her din, Ai, ai, ai!we all perish. They are hewing the hatch-cover with
their axes. Hera preserve us! The wood splinters. We die.
We have no time to die,
called the athlete, but only to save Hellas.
A dozen blows beat the frail hatch-cover to splinters. A dark face with grinning teeth showed itself. A heavy ballast stone grazed the athlete’s shoulder, but the intruder fell back with a gurgling in his throat, his hands clutching the empty air. Glaucon had sent a heavy spear clean through him.
More ballast stones, but the Titanic Alcmæonid had torn a mattress from a bunk, and held it as effective shield. By main force the others dragged the chest across to the hatchway, making the entrance doubly narrow. Vainly Hasdrubal stormed at his men to rush down boldly. They barely dared to fling stones and darts, so fast their adversary sped them back, and to the mark.
A god! a god! We fight against Heaven!
bleated the seamen.
Their groans were answered by the screechings of Lampaxo through the port-hole and the taunts of Phormio.
Sing, sing, pretty Pisinoë, sweetest of the sirens,
tossed the fishmonger,
playing his part at Glaucon’s side; lure that dear penteconter a little nearer. And
you, brave, gentle sirs, don’t try
to flay a skinned dog
by thrusting down
here. Your hands are just itching for the nails, I warrant!
Hasdrubal redoubled his vows to Moloch. In place of his daughter he substituted his son, though the lad was fourteen years old and the darling of his parents. But the god was not tempted even now. The attack on the cabin had called the sailors from the oars. The penteconter consequently had gained fast upon them. The trireme behind was manning her other banks and drawing down apace. Hiram cast a hopeless glance toward her.
I know those
eyes
—those red hawse-holes—the
He approached the splintered hatchway and outstretched his hands—weaponless.
Ah, good and gracious Master Glaucon, and your honest friends, your gods of Hellas
are very great and have delivered us, your poor slaves, into your hands. Your friends
approach. We will resist no longer. Come on deck; and when the ship is taken, entreat
the navarch to be merciful and generous.
Bah!
spat Phormio, you write your promises in water, or better in oil,
black-scaled viper. We know what time of day it is with us, and what for you.
Hiram saw Glaucon’s hand rise with a javelin, and shrank shivering.
They won’t hearken. All’s lost,
he whimpered, his smile becoming ghastly.
Another rush, men!
pleaded Hasdrubal.
Lead the charge yourself, master!
retorted the seamen, sullenly.
The captain, swinging a cutlass, leaped down the bloodstained hatch. One moment the desperate fury of his attack carried Glaucon backward. The two fought—sword against axe—in doubtful combat.
Follow! follow!
called Hasdrubal, dashing Phormio aside with the flat of his
blade. I have him at last!
But just as Hiram was leading down a dozen more, the
athlete’s axe swept past the sword, and fell like a millstone on the master’s skull. He
never screamed as he crashed upon the planks.
This was enough. The seamen were at the end of their valour. If they must die, they must die. What use resisting destiny?
Slowly, slowly the moments crept for the three in the cabin. Even Lampaxo grew still.
They heard Hiram pleading frantically, vainly, for another attempt, and raving strange
things about Democrates, Lycon, and the Persian. Then behind the Mercy! mercy!
as
they embraced the boarders’ feet, then the prōreus, in hearty
Attic, calling, Secure the prisoners and rummage the prize!
Glaucon had suffered many things of late. He had faced intolerable captivity, immediate death. Now around his eyes swam hot mist. He fell upon a sea chest, and for a little cared not for anything around, whilst down his cheeks would flow the tears.
A hard chase. The rowers of the penteconter were well winded before they caught the
prōreus.
We’re all a mina richer for the race, captain, and they’ve some jars of their good
Numidian wine in the forecastle.
But here a seaman interrupted, staring blankly.
Kyrie, here’s a strange prize. Five men lie dead on the deck.
The planks are bloody. In the cabin are two men and a woman. All three seem mad. They
are Greeks. They keep us out, and bawl, The navarch! show us the navarch, or Hellas
is lost.
And one of them—as true as that I sucked my mother’s milk—is
Phormio—
Phormio the fishmonger,
—Cimon dropped his steering oar,—on a Carthaginian
ship? You’re mad yourself, man.
See with your own eyes, captain. They’ll yield to none save you. The prisoners are
howling that one of these men is a giant.
For the active son of Miltiades to leap from bulwark to bulwark took an instant. Only
when he showed himself did the three in the cabin scramble up the ladder, covered with
Infernal gods! You a prisoner here? Where is this cursed vessel from?
From Trœzene,
gasped the refugee; if you love Athens and Hellas—
He turned just in time to fling an arm about Hiram, who—carelessly guarded—was gliding down the hatchway.
Seize that viper, bind, torture; he knows all. Make him tell or Hellas is lost!
Control yourself, friend,
adjured Cimon, sorely perplexed, while Hiram struggled
and began tugging out a crooked knife, before two brawny seamen nipped him fast and
disarmed.
Ah! you carrion meat,
shouted Phormio, shaking his fists under the helpless
creature’s nose. Honest men have their day at last. There’s a gay hour coming before
Zeus claps the lid over you in Tartarus.
Peace,
commanded the navarch, who betwixt Phormio’s shouts, Lampaxo’s howls, and
Hiram’s moans was at his wit’s end. Has no one on this ship kept aboard his
senses?
If you will be so good, sir captain,
the third Hellene at last broke his silence,
you will hearken to me.
Who are you?
The
prōreus of the
Hiram? O Lord Apollo, I recognize the snake! The one that was always gliding around
Lycon at the Isthmus. If despatches he has, I know the way to get them. Now,
black-hearted Cyclops,
—Cimon’s tone was not gentle,—where are your
papers?
Hiram had turned gray as a corpse, but his white teeth came together.
Phormio is mistaken. Your slave has none.
Bah!
threw out Cimon, I can smell your lies like garlic. Silent still? Good,
see how I am better than Asclepius. I make the dumb talk by a miracle. A cord and
belaying-pin, Naon.
The seaman addressed passed a cord about the Phœnician’s forehead with a fearful dexterity, and put the iron pin at the back of the skull.
Twist!
commanded Cimon. Two mariners gripped the victim’s arms. Naon pressed the
cord tighter, tighter. A beastlike groan came through the lips of the Phœnician. His
beady eyes started from his head, but he did not speak.
Again,
thundered the navarch, and as the cord stretched a howl of mortal agony
escaped the prisoner.
Pity! Mercy! My head bursts. I will tell!
Tell quick, or we’ll squeeze your brains out. Relax a little, Naon.
In the boat mast.
Hiram spit the words out one by one. In the cabin. There is
a peg. Pull it out. The mast is hollowed. You will find the papers. Woe! woe! cursed
the day I was born. Cursed my mother for bearing me.
The miserable creature fell to the deck, pressing his hands to his temples and moaning
in agony. No one heeded him now. Cimon himself ran below to the mast, and wrenched the
peg from its socket. Papyrus sheets were there, rolled compactly, covered with writing
and sealed. The navarch prōreus, who stood near.
What make you of this seal? As you fear Athena, tell the truth.
You need not adjure me so, captain. The device is simple: Theseus slaying the
Minotaur.
And who, in Zeus’s name, do you know in Athens who uses a seal like that?
Silence for a moment, then the prōreus himself was pale.
Your Excellency does not mean—
Democrates!
cried the trembling navarch.
And why not Democrates?
The words came from the released prisoner, who had been
so silent, but who had glided down and stood at Cimon’s elbow. He spoke in a changed
voice now; again the navarch was startled.
Is Themistocles on the
asked the stranger,
whilst Cimon gazed on him spellbound, asking if he himself were growing mad.
Yes—but your voice, your face, your manner—my head is dizzy.
The stranger touched him gently on the hand.
Have I so changed, you quite forget me, Cimon?
The son of Miltiades was a strong man. He had looked on Hiram’s tortures with a laugh. To his own death he would have gone with no eyelash trembling. But now the rest saw him blench; then with a cry, at once of wonder and inexpressible joy, his arms closed round the tattered outlaw’s neck. Treason or no treason—what matter! He forgot all save that before him was his long-time comrade.
My friend! My boyhood’s friend!
and so for many times they kissed.
The
Tell your story.
Glaucon told it: the encounter on the hillside at Trœzene, the seizure in Phormio’s house, the coming of Democrates and his boasts over the captives, the voyage and the pursuing. The son of Neocles never hastened the recital, though once or twice he widened it by an incisive question. At the end he demanded:—
And does Phormio confirm all this?
All. Question him.
Humph! He’s a truthful man in everything save the price of fish. Now let us open the
packet.
Themistocles was exceeding deliberate. He drew his dagger and pried the wrapper open without breaking the seals or tearing the papyrus. He turned the strips of paper carefully one by one, opened a casket, and drew thence a written sheet which he compared painfully with those before him.
The same hand,
his remark in undertone.
He was so calm that a stranger would have thought him engaged with routine business. Many of the sheets he simply lifted, glanced at, laid down again. They did not seem to interest. So through half the roll, but the outlaw, watching patiently, at last saw he eyebrows of the son of Neocles pressing ever closer,—sign that the inscrutable brain was at its fateful work.
At last he uttered one word, Cipher.
A sheet lay before him covered with broken words and phrases—seemingly without
meaning—but the admiral knew the secret of the Spartan scytalē, the cipher wood.
Forth from his casket came a number of rounded
sticks of varying lengths. On one after another he wound the sheet spirally until at the
fifth trial the scattered words came together. He read with ease. Then Themistocles’s
brows grew closer than before. He muttered softly in his beard. But still he said
nothing aloud. He read the cipher sheet through once, twice; it seemed thrice. Other
sheets he fingered delicately, as though he feared the touch of venom. All without
haste, but at the end, when Themistocles arose from his seat, the outlaw trembled. Many
things he had seen, but never a face so changed. The admiral was neither flushed nor
pale. But ten years seemed added to those lines above his eyes. His cheeks were
hollowed. Was it fancy that put the gray into his beard and hair? Slowly he rose; slowly
he ordered the marine on guard outside the cabin to summon Simonides, Cimon, and all the
officers of the flag-ship. They trooped hither and filled the narrow cabin—fifteen or
more hale, handsome Athenians, intent on the orders of the admiral. Were they to dash at
once for Samos and surprise the Persian? Or what other adventure waited? The breeze had
died. The gray breast of the Ægean rocked the
The officers ranged themselves and saluted stiffly. Themistocles stood before them,
his hands closed over the packet.
Democrates is a traitor. Unless Athena shows us mercy, Hellas is lost.
Democrates is a traitor!
The cry from the startled men rang through the ship. The rowers ceased their chant and their stroking. Themistocles beckoned angrily for silence.
I did not call you down to wail and groan.
He never raised his voice; his
calmness made him terrible. But now the questions broke loose as a flood.
When? How? Declare.
Peace, men of Athens; you conquered the Persian at Salamis, conquer now yourselves.
Harken to this cipher. Then to our task and prove our comrades did not die in
vain.
Yet despite him men wept on one another’s shoulders as became true Hellenes, whilst Themistocles, whose inexorable face never relaxed, rewound the papyrus on the cipher stick and read in hard voice the words of doom.
This is the letter secreted on the Carthaginian. The hand is
Democrates’s, the seals are his. Give ear.
Democrates the Athenian to Tigranes, commander of the hosts of
Xerxes on the coasts of Asia, greeting:—Understand, dear Persian, that Lycon and I as
well as the other friends of the king among the Hellenes are prepared to bring all
things to pass in a way right pleasing to your master. Even now I depart from Trœzene
to join the army of the allied Hellenes in Bœotia, and, the gods helping, we cannot
fail. Lycon and I will contrive to separate the Athenians and Spartans from their
other allies, to force them to give battle, and at the crisis cause the divisions
under our personal commands to retire, breaking the phalanx and making Mardonius’s
victory certain.
For your part, excellent Tigranes, you must avoid the Hellenic
ships at Delos and come back to Mardonius with your fleet ready to second him at once
after his victory, which will be speedy; then with your aid he can readily turn the
wall at the Isthmus. I send also letters written, as it were, in the hand of
Themistocles. See that they fall into the hands of the other Greek admirals. They will
breed more hurt amongst the Hellenes than you can accomplish with all your ships. I
send, likewise, lists of such Athenians and Spartans as are friendly to his Majesty,
also memoranda of such secret plans of the Greeks as have come to my knowledge.
From Trœzene, given into the hands of Hiram on the second of Metageitnion, in the
archonship of Xanthippus.
Chaire!
Themistocles ceased. No man spoke a word. It was as if a god had flung a bolt from heaven. What use to cry against it? Then, in an ominously low voice, Simonides asked a question.
What are these letters which purport to come from your pen, Themistocles?
The admiral unrolled another papyrus, and as he looked thereon his fine face contracted with loathing.
Let another read. I am made to pour contempt and ridicule upon my fellow-captains. I
am made to boast
his hands clinched—when the war ends, I will be tyrant of Athens.
A thousand
follies and wickednesses are put in my mouth. Were this letter true, I were the vilest
wretch escaping Orcus. Since forged—by that man, that man
whom I have trusted, loved, cherished, called
He spat in rising fury and was still. younger brother,
oldest son
—
cried the little poet, even in
storm and stress not forgetting his Homer. And the howl from the man-of-war’s men was as
the howl of beasts desiring their prey. But the admiral’s burst of anger ended. He stood
again an image of calm power. The voice that Fain would I grip his liver in my teeth,
Men of Athens, this is no hour for windy rage. Else I should rage the most, for who
is more wronged than I? One whom we loved is fallen—later let us weep for him. One
whom we trusted is false—later punish him. But now the work is neither to weep nor to
punish, but to save Hellas. A great battle impends in Bœotia. Except the Zeus of our
sires and Athena of the Pure Eyes be with us, we are men without home, without
fatherland. Pausanias and Aristeides must be warned. The
Salaminia,
—the swiftest trireme in the fleet. Ours must
be the deed, and ours the glory. Enough of this—the men must hear, and then to the
oars.
Themistocles had changed from despair to a triumph note. There was uplift even to look
upon him. He strode before all his ill-tidings.
Now the admiral stood forth, and in
few words told all the heavy tale. Again a great shout, whilst the bronzed men groaned
on the benches.
Democrates is a traitor!
A deity had fallen from their Olympus; the darling of the Athenians’s democracy was
sunk to vilest of the vile. But the admiral knew how to play on their two hundred hearts
better than Orpheus upon his lyre. Again the note changed from despair to incitement,
and when at last he called, And can we cross the Ægean as never trireme crossed and
pluck back Hellas from her fate?
thalamite, zygite, and thranite rose, tossing
their brawny arms into the air.
We can!
Then Themistocles folded his own arms and smiled. He felt the god was still with him.
Yet, eager as was the will, they could not race forth instantly. Orders must be
written to Xanthippus, the Athenian vice-admiral far away, bidding him at all hazards to
keep the Persian fleet near Samos. Cimon was long in privy council with Themistocles in
the state cabin. At the same time a prisoner was passed aboard the
Sell such harpies for slaves? The money would stink through our pouches!
So two by two, tied neck to neck and heel to heel, the wretches were flung overboard,
because we lack place and wood to crucify you,
called the
So the Carthaginians ceased from troubling, but before the penteconter and the
Before all men Cimon, coming from the cabin, ran and
Apollo—it is Delian Apollo! Glaucon the Beautiful lives again.
Io!
Io! pæan!
Yes,
spoke Themistocles, in a burst of gladness. The gods take one friend,
they restore another. Œdipus has read the sphinx’s riddle. Honour this man, for he is
worthy of honour through Hellas!
The officers ran to the athlete, after them the sailors. They covered his face and
hands with kisses. He seemed escaped the Carthaginian to perish in the embrace of his
countrymen. Never was his blush more boyish, more divine. Then a bugle-blast sent every
man to his station. Cimon leaped across to his smaller ship. The rowers of the
Zeus of Olympus and Dodona, Zeus Orchios, rewarder of the oath-breaker, to whom the
Hellenes do not vainly pray, and thou Athena of the Pure Eyes, give ear. Make our ship
swift, our arms strong, our hearts bold. Hold back the battle that we come not too
late. Grant that we confound the guilty, put to flight the Barbarian, recompense the
traitor. So to you and all other holy gods whose love is for the righteous we will
proffer prayer and sacrifice forever. Amen.
He poured out the crimson liquor; far into the sea he flung the golden cup.
Heaven speed you!
shouted from the penteconter. Themistocles nodded. The keleustes smote his gavel upon the sounding-board. The triple oar
bank rose as one and plunged into the foam. A long h-a!
went up from the benches.
The race to save Hellas was begun.
The chase had cost the Athenians dear. Before the We must
save Hellas, and we can!
That was the thought of all from Themistocles to the
meanest thranite.
So at the beginning when the task seemed light and hands were strong. The breeze that
had betrayed the keleustes ceased his beating on the
sounding-board, and clapped lips to his pipe. The whole trireme chorussed the familiar
song together:—
Fast and more fast
All of Æolus’s train
With the foam gliding white,
The loud Tritons blow.
Bravely thus for a while, but at last Themistocles, watching from the poop with eyes that nothing evaded, saw how here and there the dip of the blades was weakening, here and there a breast was heaving rapidly, a mouth was panting for air.
The relief,
he ordered. And the spare rowers ran gladly to the places of those
who seemed the weariest. Only a partial respite. Fifty supernumeraries were a poor
stop-gap for the one hundred and seventy. Only the weakest could be relieved, and even
those wept and pled to continue at the benches a little longer. The thunderous threat of
Ameinias, that he who refused a proffered relief must stand all day by the mast with an
iron anchor on his shoulder, alone sufficed to make the malcontents give place. Yet
after a little while the singing died. Breath was too precious to waste. It was mockery
to troll of Æolus’s winds
whilst the sea was one motionless mirror of gray. The
monotonous beat,
beat
of the keleustes’s hammer, and the creaking of the
oars in their leathered holes alone broke the stillness that reigned through the length
of the trireme. The penteconter and her prize had long since faded below the horizon.
With almost wistful eyes men watched the islets as they glided past one after another,
Thera now, then Ios, and presently the greater Paros and Naxos lay before them. They
relieved oars whenever possible. The supernumeraries needed no urging after their scanty
rest to spring to the place of him who was fainting, but hardly any man spoke a word.
The first time the relief went in Glaucon had stepped forward.
I am strong. I am able to pull an oar,
he had cried almost angrily when
Themistocles laid his hand upon him, but the admiral would have none of it.
You shall not. Sooner will I go on to the bench myself. You have been through the
gates of Tartarus these last days, and need all your strength. Are you not the
Isthmionices,—the swiftest runner in Hellas?
Then Glaucon had stepped back and said no more. He knew now for what Themistocles
reserved him,—that after the
They were betwixt Paros and Naxos at last. Wine and barley cakes soaked in oil were
passed among the men at the oars. They ate without leaving the benches. And still the
sea spread out glassy, motionless, and the pennon hung limp on the mainmast. The keleustes slowed his beatings, but the men did not obey him. No
whipped cattle were they, such as rowed the triremes of Phœnicia, but freemen born, sons
of Athens, who called it joy to die for her in time of need. Therefore despite the keleustes’s beats, despite Themistocles’s command, the rowing might
not slacken. And the black wave around the
But Themistocles ever turned his face eastward, until men thought he was awaiting some foe in chase, and presently—just as a rower among the zygites fell back with the blood gushing from mouth and nostrils—the admiral pointed his finger toward the sky-line of the morning.
Look! Athena is with us!
And for the first time in hours those panting, straining men let the hot oar butts
slip from their hands, even trail
It was coming, the strong kind Eurus out of the south and east. They could see the black ripple springing over the glassy sea; they could hear the singing of the cordage; they could catch the sweet sniff of the brine. Admiral and rower lifted their hands together at this manifest favour of heaven.
Poseidon is with us! Athena is with us! Æolus is with us! We can save Hellas!
Soon the sun burst forth above the mist. All the wide ocean floor was adance with sparkling wavelets. No need of Ameinias’s lusty call to bend again the sails. The smaller canvas on the foremast and great spread on the mainmast were bellying to the piping gale. A fair wind, but no storm. The oars were but helpers now,—men laughed, hugged one another as boys, wept as girls, and let the benignant wind gods labour for them. Delos the Holy they passed, and Tenos, and soon the heights of Andros lifted, as the ship with its lading of fate flew over the island-strewn sea. At last, just as the day was leaving them, they saw Helios going down into the fire-tinged waves in a parting burst of glory. Darkness next, but the kindly wind failed not. Through the night no man on that trireme slumbered. Breeze or calm, he who had an obol’s weight of power spent it at the oars.
Long after midnight Themistocles and Glaucon clambered the giddy cordage to the ship’s
top above the swelling mainsail. On the narrow platform, with the stars above, the dim
tracery of the wide sail, the still dimmer tracery of the long ship below, they seemed
transported to another world. Far beneath by the glimmer of the lanterns they saw the
rowers swaying at their toil. In the wake the phosphorous bubbles ran away, opalescent
gleams springing upward, as if torches of Doris and her dancing Nereids. So much had
O give me wings, Father Zeus,
was his prayer; yes, the wings of Icarus. Let me
fly but once to confound the traitor and deliver thy Hellas,—after that, like Icarus
let me fall. I am content to die.
But Themistocles pressed close against his side. Ask for no wings,
—in the
admiral’s voice was a tremor not there when he sped confidence through the crew,—if
it be destined we save Hellas, it is destined; if we are to die, we die.
No man of
woman born, coward or brave, can shun the fate assigned.
Hector said that to
Andromache, and the Trojan was right. But we shall save Hellas. Zeus and Athena are
great
Of what, then?
Fear that Themistocles will be too merciful to be just. Ah! pity me.
I understand—Democrates.
I pray he may escape to the Persians, or that Ares may slay him in fair battle. If
not—
What will you do?
The admiral’s hold upon the younger Athenian’s arm tightened.
I will prove that Aristeides is not the only man in Hellas who deserves the name of
Just.
When I was young, my You will be nothing small, Themistocles, but great,
whether for good or ill, I know not,—but great you will be.
And I have always
struggled upward. I have always prospered. I am the first man in Hellas. I have set my
will against all the power of Persia. Zeus willing, I shall conquer. But the Olympians
demand their price. For saving Hellas I must pay—Democrates. I loved him.
The two men stood in silence long, whilst below the oars and the rushing water played their music. At last the admiral relaxed his hand on Glaucon.
Eu! They will call me Saviour of Hellas
if all goes
well. I shall be greater than Solon, or Lycurgus, or Periander, and in return I must
do justice to a friend. Fair recompense!
The laugh of the son of Neocles was harsher than a cry. The other answered nothing. Themistocles set his foot on the ladder.
I must return to the men. I would go to an oar, only they will not let me.
The admiral left Glaucon for a moment alone. All around him was the night,—the stars,
the black æther, the blacker sea,—but he was not lonely. He felt as when in the
foot-race he turned for the last burst toward the goal. One more struggle, one supreme
summons of strength and will, and after that the triumph and the rest.—Hellas, Athens,
Hermione, he was speeding back to all. Once again all the things past floated out of the
dream-world and before him,—the wreck, the lotus-eating at Sardis, Thermopylæ, Salamis,
the agony on the The miracles of Zeus are never wrought in vain.
Had not Zeus wrought miracles for
him once and twice? The proverb was great comfort.
Suddenly whilst he built his palace of phantasy, a cry from the foreship dissolved it.
Attica, Attica, hail, all hail!
He saw upon the sky-line the dim tracery of the Athenian headlands like a shield
laid on the misty deep.
Again men were springing from the oars, laughing, weeping,
embracing, whilst under the clear, unflagging wind the
Hour by hour they ran onward. They skirted the long low coast of Eubœa to the
starboard. They saw Marathon and its plain of fair memories stretching to port, and now
the strait grew closer yet, and it needed all the governor’s skill at the steering-oars
to keep the keleustes piped, and his note was swift and feverish. The blades shot faster,
faster, as the trireme raced down the sandy shore of the Attic Diacria.
Once in
the strait they saw a brown-sailed fisherboat, and the helm swerved enough to bring her
within hail. The fishermen stared at the flying trireme and her straining, wide-eyed
men.
Has there been a battle?
cried Ameinias.
Not yet. We are from Styra on Eubœa; we expect the news daily. The armies are almost
together.
And where are they?
Near to Platæa.
That was all. The war-ship left the fishermen rocking in her wake, but again
Themistocles drew his eyebrows close together, while Glaucon tightened the buckle on his
belt. Platæa,—the name meant that the courier must traverse the breadth of Bœotia, and
with the armies face to face how long would Zeus hold back the battle? How long indeed,
with Democrates and Lycon intent on bringing battle to pass? The ship was more than ever
silent as she rushed on the last stretch of her course. More men fell at the oars with
blood upon their faces. The supernumeraries tossed them aside like logs of wood, and
leaped upon their benches. Themistocles had vanished with Simonides in the cabin; all
knew their work,—preparing letters to Aristeides and Pausanias to warn of the bitter
truth. Then the haven at last: the white-stuccoed houses of Oropus clustering down upon
the shore, the little mole, a few doltish peasants by the landing gaping at the great
trireme. No others greeted them, for the terror of Mardonius’s Tartar raiders had driven
all but the poorest to some safe shelter. The oars slipped from numb fingers; the anchor
plunged into the green water; the mainsail rattled down the mast. Men sat on the benches
motionless, gulping down the clear air. They had done their part. The rest lay in the
hands of the gods, and in the speed of him who two days since they had called Glaucon
the Traitor.
The messenger came from the cabin, half stripped, on his head a felt
skullcap, on his feet high hunter’s boots laced up to the knees. He had never shone in
more noble beauty. The crew watched Themistocles place a papyrus dawn-facing
gods of Hellas, praying for strength and swiftness.
Apollo speed you!
called two hundred after him. He answered from the beach with a
wave of his beautiful arms. A moment later he was hid behind a clump of olives. The
It was long past noon when Glaucon left the desolate village of Oropus behind him. The
day was hot, but after the manner of Greece not sultry, and the brisk breeze was
stirring on the hill slopes. Over the distant mountains hung a tint of deep violet. It
was early in Bœdromion.
First, it was a farmstead in black ruin, with the carcass of a horse half burned lying before the gate. Next, it was the body of a woman, three days slain, and in the centre of the road,—no pleasant sight, for the crows had been at their banquet,—and hardened though the Alcmæonid was to war, he stopped long enough to cast the ceremonial handful of dust on the poor remains, as symbolic burial, and sped a wish to King Pluto to give peace to the wanderer’s spirit. Next, people met him: an old man, his wife, his young son,—wretched shepherd-folk dressed in sheepskins,—the boy helping his elders as they tottered along on their staves toward the mountain. At sight of Glaucon they feebly made to fly, but he held out his hand, showing he was unarmed, and they halted also.
Whence and whither, good father?
Whereat the old man began to shake all over and tell a mumbling story, how they had been set upon by the Scythian troopers in their little farm near Œnophytæ, how he had seen the farmhouse burn, his two daughters swung shrieking upon the steeds of the wild Barbarians, and as for himself and his wife and son, Athena knew what saved them! They had lost all but life, and fearful for that were seeking a cave on Mt. Parnes. Would not the young man come with them, a thousand dangers lurked upon the way? But Glaucon did not wait to hear the story out. On he sped up the rocky road.
Ah, Mardonius! ah, Artazostra!
he was speaking in his heart, noble and brave
you are to your peers, but this is your rare handiwork,—and though you once called me
friend, Zeus and Dikē still rule, there is a price for this and you shall tell it
out.
Yet he bethought himself of the old man’s warning, and left the beaten way. At the
long steady trot learned in the stadium, he went onward under the greenwood behind the
gleaming river, where the vines and branches whipped on his face; and now and again he
crossed a half-dried brook, where he swept up a little water in his hands, and said a
quick prayer to the friendly nymphs of the stream. Once or twice he sped through fig
orchards, and snatched at the ripe fruit as he ran, eating without slackening his
course. Presently the river began to bend away to westward. He knew if he followed it,
he came soon to Tanagra, but whether that town were held by the Persians or burned by
them, who could tell? He quitted the Asopus and its friendly foliage. The bare wide
plain of Bœotia was opening. Concealment was impossible, unless indeed he turned far
eastward toward Attica and took refuge on the foothills of the mountains. But speed was
more precious than safety. He passed Scolus, and found the village desolate, burned. No
human being greeted him, only one or two starving dogs rushed forth to snap, bristle,
and be chased away by a well-sent stone. Here and yonder in the fields were still the
clusters of crows picking at carrion,—more tokens that Mardonius’s Tartar raiders had
done their work too well. Then at last, an hour or more before the sunset, just as the
spurs of Cithæron, the long mountain over against Attica, began to thrust their bald
summits up before the runner’s ken, far ahead upon the way approached a cloud of dust.
The Athenian paused in his run, dashed into the barren field, and flung himself flat
between the furrows. He heard the hoof-beats of the wiry steppe horses, the clatter of
targets and scabbards, the shrill shouts of the raiders. He lifted his head enough to
see the red streamers on their lance tips flutter past. He let the noise die away before
he dared to take the road once more.
Already the hills were spreading their shadows, and Platæa was many stadia away. Knowledge of how much remained made him reckless. He ran on without his former caution. The plain was again changing to undulating foothills. He had passed Erythræ now,—another village burned and deserted. He mounted a slope, was descending to mount another, when lo! over the hill before came eight riders at full speed. What must be done, must be done quickly. To plunge into the fallow field again were madness, the horsemen had surely seen him, and their sure-footed beasts could run over the furrows like rabbits. Glaucon stood stock still and stretched forth both hands, to show the horsemen he did not resist them.
O Athena Polias,
uprose the prayer from his heart, if thou lovest not me,
forget not thy love for Hellas, for Athens, for Hermione my wife.
The riders were on him instantly, their crooked swords flew out. They surrounded their captive, uttering outlandish cries and chatterings, ogling, muttering, pointing with their swords and lances as if debating among themselves whether to let the stranger go or hew him in pieces. Glaucon stood motionless, looking from one to another and asking for wisdom in his soul. Seven were Tartars, low-browed, yellow-skinned, flat of nose, with the grins of apes. He might expect the worst from these. But the eighth showed a long blond beard under his leather helm, and Glaucon rejoiced; the chief of the band was a Persian and more amenable.
The Tartars continued gesturing and debating, flourishing their steel points right at
the prisoner’s breast. He regarded
Down with your lance-head, Rūkhs. By Mithra, I think this Hellene is brave as he
is beautiful! See how he stands. We must have him to the Prince.
Excellency,
spoke Glaucon, in his best court Persian, I am a courier to the
Lord Mardonius. If you are faithful servants of his Eternity the king, where is your
camp?
The chief started.
On the life of my father, you speak Persian as if you dwelled in Eran at the king’s
own doors! What do you here alone upon this road in Hellas?
Glaucon put out his hand before answering, caught the tip of Rūkhs’s lance, and snapped it short like a reed. He knew the way to win the admiration of the Barbarians. They yelled with delight, all at least save Rūkhs.
Strong as he is brave and handsome,
cried the Persian. Again—who are you?
The Alcmæonid drew himself to full height and gave his head its lordliest poise.
Understand, Persian, that I have indeed lived long at the king’s gates. Yes,—I have
learned my Aryan at the Lord Mardonius’s own table, for I am the son of Attaginus of
Thebes, who is not the least of the friends of his Eternity in Hellas.
The mention of one of the foremost Medizers of Greece made the subaltern bend in his saddle. His tone became even obsequious.
Ah, I understand. Your Excellency is a courier. You have despatches from the
king?
Despatches of moment just landed from Asia. Now tell me where the army is
encamped.
By the Asopus, much to northward. The Hellenes lie to
Heaven bless your generosity,
cried the runner, with almost precipitate haste, but I know the country well, and the worthy Rūkhs will not thank me if I deprive
him of his share in your booty.
Ah, yes, we have heard of a farm across the hills at Eleutheræ that’s not yet been
plundered,—handsome wenches, and we’ll make the father dig up his pot of money. Mazda
speed you, sir, for we are off.
Yeh! yeh!
yelled the seven Tartars, none more loudly than Rūkhs, who had no
hankering for conducting a courier back into the camp. So the riders came and went,
whilst Glaucon drew his girdle one notch tighter and ran onward through the gathering
evening.
The adventure had been a warning. Once Athena had saved him, not perchance twice,—again he took to the fields. He did not love the sight of the sun ever lower, on the long brown ridge of Helicon far to west. Until now he scarce thought enough of self to realize the terrible draughts he had made upon his treasure-house of strength. Could it be that he—the Isthmionices, who had crushed down the giant of Sparta before the cheering myriads—could faint like a weary girl, when the weal of Hellas was his to win or lose? Why did his tongue burn in his throat as a coal? Why did those feet—so swift, so ready when he sped from Oropus—lift so heavily?
As a flash it came over him what he had endured,—the slow agony on the
For Hellas! For Hermione!
Whilst he groaned through his gritted teeth, some malignant god made him misstep, stumble. He fell between the hard furrows, bruising his face and hands. After a moment he rose, but rose to sink back again with keen pain shooting through an ankle. He had turned it. For an instant he sat motionless, taking breath, then his teeth came together harder.
Themistocles trusts me. I carry the fate of Hellas. I can die, but I cannot fail.
It was quite dusk now. The brief southern twilight was ending in pale bars of gold
above Helicon. Glaucon rose again; the cold sweat sprang out upon his forehead. Before
his eyes rose darkness, but he did not faint. Some kind destiny set a stout pole upright
in the field,—perhaps for vines to clamber,—he clutched it, and stood until his sight
cleared and the pain a little abated. He tore the pole from the ground, and reached the
roadway. He must take his chance of meeting more raiders. He had one vast comfort,—if
there had been no battle fought that day, there would be none before dawn. But he had
still weary stadia before him, and running was out of the question. Ever and anon he
would stop his hobbling, take air, and stare at the vague tracery of the
hills,—Cithæron to southward, Helicon to west, and northward the wide dark Theban
plain. He gave up counting how many times he halted, how many times he spoke the magic
words, For Hellas! For Hermione!
and forced onward his way. The moon failed, even
the stars were clouded. A kind of brute instinct guided him. At last—he guessed it was
nearly midnight—he caught once more the flashings of a shallow river and the dim
outlines of shrubbery beside the bank—again the Asopus. He must take care or he would
wander straight into Mardonius’s camp. Therefore
He was almost unconscious of everything save the fierce pain and the need to go forward even to the end. At moments he thought he saw the mountains springing out of their gloom,—Helicon and Cithæron beckoning him on, as with living fingers.
Not too late. Marathon was not vain, nor Thermopylæ, nor Salamis. You can save
Hellas.
Who spoke that? He stared into the solitary night. Was he not alone? Then phantasms came as on a flood. He was in a kind of euthanasy. The pain of his foot had ceased. He saw the Paradise by Sardis and its bending feathery palms; he heard the tinkling of the Lydian harps, and Roxana singing of the magic Oxus, and the rose valleys of Eran. Next Roxana became Hermione. He was standing at her side on the knoll of Colonus, and watching the sun sink behind Daphni making the Acropolis glow with red fire and gold. Yet all the time he knew he was going onward. He must not stop.
For Hellas! For Hermione!
At last even the vision of the Violet-Crowned City faded to mist. Had he reached the end,—the rest by the fields of Rhadamanthus, away from human strife? The night was ever darkening. He saw nothing, felt nothing, thought nothing save that he was still going onward, onward.
At some time betwixt midnight and dawning an Athenian outpost was pacing his beat
outside the lines of Aristeides. The allied Hellenes were retiring from their position
by the Asopus to a more convenient spot by Platæa, less exposed to the dreaded Persian
cavalry, but on the night march the
Halt, stranger, tell your business.
For Aristeides.
The apparition seemed holding out something in his hand.
That’s not the watchword. Give it, or I must arrest you.
For Aristeides.
Zeus smite you, fellow, can’t you speak Greek? What have you got for our general?
For Aristeides.
The stranger was hoarse as a crow. He was pushing aside the spear and forcing a packet into Hippon’s hands. The latter, sorely puzzled, whistled through his fingers. A moment more the locharch of the scouting division and three comrades appeared.
Why the alarm? Where’s the enemy?
No enemy, but a madman. Find what he wants.
The locharch in earlier days had kept an oil booth in the Athens Agora and knew the local celebrities as well as Phormio.
Now, friend,
he spoke, your business, and shortly; we’ve no time for
chaffering.
For Aristeides.
The fourth time he’s said it,—sheep!
cried Hippon, but as he spoke the newcomer
fell forward heavily, groaned once, and lay on the roadway silent as the dead. The
locharch drew forth the horn lantern he had masked under his chalmys and leaned over the
stranger. The light fell on the seal of the packet gripped in the rigid fingers.
Themistocles’s seal,
he cried, and hastily turned the fallen man’s face upward to
the light, when the lantern almost dropped from his own hand.
Glaucon the Alcmæonid! Glaucon the Traitor who was dead! He or his shade come back
from Tartarus.
The four soldiers stood quaking like aspen, but their leader was of stouter stuff. Never had his native Attic shrewdness guided him to more purpose.
Ghost, traitor, what not, this man has run himself all but to death. Look on his
face. And Themistocles does not send a courier for nothing. This packet is for
Aristeides, and to Aristeides take it with speed.
Hippon seized the papyrus. He thought it would fade out of his hands like a spectre. It did not. The sentinel dropped his spear and ran breathless toward Platæa, where he knew was his general.
Never since Salamis had Persian hopes been higher than that night. What if the
Spartans were in the field at last, and the incessant skirmishing had been partly to
Pausanias’s advantage? Secure in his fortified camp by the Asopus, Mardonius could
confidently wait the turn of the tide. His light Tartar cavalry had cut to pieces the
convoys bringing provisions to the Hellenes. Rumour told that Pausanias’s army was ill
fed, and his captains were at loggerheads. Time was fighting for Mardonius. A joyful
letter he had sent to Sardis the preceding morning: Let the king have patience. In
forty days I shall be banqueting even in Sparta.
In the evening the Prince sat at council with his commanders. Xerxes had left behind his own war pavilion, and here the Persians met. Mardonius sat on the high seat of the dais. Gold, purple, a hundred torches, made the scene worthy of the monarch himself. Beside the general stood a young page,—beautiful as Armaiti, fairest of the archangels. All looked on the page, but discreetly kept their thoughts to whispers, though many had guessed the secret of Mardonius’s companion.
The debate was long and vehement. Especially Artabazus, general of the rear-guard, was
loud in asserting no battle should be risked. He was a crafty man, who, the Prince
I repeat what I said before. The Hellenes showed how they could fight at Thermopylæ.
Let us retire to Thebes.
Bravely said, valiant general,
sneered Mardonius, none too civilly.
It is mine to speak, yours to follow my opinion as you list. I say we can conquer
these Hellenes with folded hands. Retreat to Thebes; money is plentiful with us; we
can melt our gold cups into coin. Sprinkle bribes among the hostile chiefs. We know
their weakness. Not steel but gold will unlock the way to Sparta.
The generalissimo stood up proudly.
Bribes and stealth? Did Cyrus and Darius win us empire with these? No, by the
Fiend-Smiter, it was sharp steel and the song of the
He smote with his commander’s mace upon the bronze ewer on the table. Instantly there appeared two soldiers, between them two men, one of slight, one of gigantic, stature, but both in Grecian dress. Artabazus sprang to his feet.
Who are these men—Thebans?
From greater cities than Thebes. You see two new servants of the king, therefore
friends of us all. Behold Lycon of Sparta and Democrates, friend of Themistocles.
His speech was Persian, but the newcomers both understood when he named them. The tall
Laconian straightened his bull neck, as in defiance. The Athenian flushed. His head
seemed sinking betwixt his shoulders. Much worm
Verily, son of Gobryas, I was wrong. You are guileful as a Greek. There can be no
higher praise.
The Prince’s nostrils twitched. Perhaps he was not saying all he felt.
Let your praise await the issue,
he rejoined coldly. Suffice it that these
friends were long convinced of the wisdom of aiding his Eternity, and to-night come
from the camp of the Hellenes to tell all that has passed and why we should make ready
for battle at the dawning.
He turned to the Greeks, ordering in their own tongue,
Speak forth, I am interpreter for the council.
An awkward instant followed. Lycon looked on Democrates.
You are an Athenian, your tongue is readiest,
he whispered.
And you the first to Medize. Finish your handiwork,
the retort.
We are waiting,
prompted Mardonius, and Lycon held up his great head and began in
short sentences which the general deftly turned into Persian.
Your cavalry has made our position by the Asopus intolerable. All the springs are
exposed. We have to fight every time we try to draw water. To-day was a meeting of the
commanders, many opinions, much wrangling, but all said we must retire. The town of
Platæa is best. It is strong, with plenty of water. You cannot attack it. To-night our
camp has been struck. The troops begin to retire, but in disorder. The contingent of
each city marches by itself. The Athenians, thanks to Democrates, delay retreating;
the Spartans I have delayed also. I have per
mora,
Artabazus rose again and showed his teeth.
A faithful servant of the king, Mardonius,—and so well is all provided, do we brave
Aryans need even to string our bows?
The Prince winced at the sarcasm.
I am serving the king, not my own pleasure,
he retorted stiffly. The son of
Gobryas is too well known to have slurs cast on his courage. And now what questions
would my captains ask these Greeks? Promptly—they must be again in their own lines,
or they are missed.
An officer here or there threw an interrogation. Lycon answered briefly. Democrates kept sullen silence. He was clearly present more to prove the good faith of his Medizing than for anything he might say. Mardonius smote the ewer again. The soldiers escorted the two Hellenes forth. As the curtains closed behind them, the curious saw that the features of the beautiful page by the general’s side were contracted with disgust. Mardonius himself spat violently.
Dogs, and sons of dogs, let Angra-Mainyu wither them
Soon the council was broken up. The final commands were given. Every officer knew his task. The cavalry was to be ready to charge across the Asopus at gray dawn. With Lycon and Democrates playing their part the issue was certain, too certain for many a grizzled captain who loved the ring of steel. In his own tent Mardonius held in his arms the beautiful page—Artazostra! Her wonderful face had never shone up at his more brightly than on that night, as he drew back his lips from a long fond kiss.
To-morrow—the triumph. You will be conqueror of Hellas. Xerxes will make you satrap.
I wish we could conquer in fairer fight, but what wrong to vanquish these Hellenes
with their own sly weapons? Do you remember what Glaucon said?
What thing?
That Zeus and Athena were greater than Mazda the Pure and glorious Mithra? To-morrow
will prove him wrong. I wonder whether he yet lives,—whether he will ever confess
that Persia is irresistible.
I do not know. From the evening we parted at Phaleron he has faded from our
world.
He was fair as the Amesha-Spentas, was he not? Poor Roxana—she is again in Sardis
now. I hope she has ceased to eat her heart out with vain longing for her lover. He
was noble minded and spoke the truth. How rare in a Hellene. But what will you do with
these two gold-bought traitors,
friends of the king
indeed?
Mardonius’s face grew stern.
I have promised them the lordships of Athens and of Sparta. The pledge shall be
fulfilled, but after that,
—there are many ways of removing an unwelcome vassal prince, if I
be the satrap of Hellas.
And you are that in the morning.
For your sake,
was his cry, as again he kissed her, I would I were not satrap
of Hellas only, but lord of all the world, that I might give it to you, O daughter of
Darius and Atossa.
I am mistress of the world,
she answered, for my world is Mardonius. To-morrow
the battle, the glory, and then what next—Sicily, Carthage, Italy? For Mazda will
give us all things.
Otherwise talked Democrates and Lycon as they quitted the Persian pickets and made their way across the black plain, back to the lines of the Hellenes.
You should be happy to-night,
said the Athenian.
Assuredly. I draw up my net and find it very full of mullets quite to my liking.
Take care it be not so full that it break.
Dear Democrates,
—Lycon slapped his paw on the other’s shoulder,—why always
imagine evil? Hermes is a very safe guide. I only hope our victory will be so complete
Sparta will submit without fighting. It will be awkward to rule a plundered city.
I shudder at the thought of being amongst even conquered Athenians; I shall see a
tyrannicide in every boy in the Agora.
A stout Persian garrison in your Acropolis is the surest physic against that.
By the dog, Lycon, you speak like a Scythian. Hellene you surely are not.
Hellene I am, and show my native wisdom in seeing that Persia must conquer and
trimming sail accordingly.
Persia is not irresistible. With a fair battle—
It will not be a fair battle. What can save Pausanias? Nothing—except a miracle sent
from Zeus.
Such as what?
As merciful Hiram’s relenting and releasing your dear Glaucon.
Lycon’s chuckle
was loud.
Never, as you hope me to be anything save your mortal enemy, mention that name
again.
As you like it—it’s no very pretty tale, I grant, even amongst Medizers. Yet it was
most imprudent to let him live.
You have never heard the Furies, Lycon.
Democrates’s voice was so grave as to dry
up the Spartan’s banter. But I shall never see him again, and I shall possess
Hermione.
A pretty consolation.
Eu! here are our outposts. We must pass
for officers reconnoitring the enemy. You know your part to-morrow. At the first
charge bid your division wheel to rear.
Three words, and the thing is done.
Lycon gave the watchword promptly to one of Pausanias’s outposts. The man saluted his officers, and said that the Greeks of the lesser states had retreated far to the rear, that Amompharetus still refused to move his division, that the Spartans waited for him, and the Athenians for the Spartans.
Noble tidings,
whispered the giant, as the two stood an instant, before each went
to his own men. Behold how Hermes helps us—a great deity.
Sometimes I think Nemesis is greater,
said Democrates, once again refusing
Lycon’s proffered hand.
By noon you’ll laugh at Nemesis,
and away went Lycon into the dark. philotate, when we both drink
Helbon wine in Xerxes’s tent!
Democrates went his own way also. Soon he was in the fallow-field, where under the warm night the Athenians were stretched, each man in armour, his helmet for a pillow. A few torches were moving. From a distance came the hum from a group of officers in excited conversation. As the orator picked his way among the sleeping men, a locharch with a lantern accosted him suddenly.
You are Democrates the strategus?
Certainly.
Aristeides summons you at once. Come.
There was no reason for refusing. Democrates followed.
Morning at last, ruddy and windy. The Persian host had been long prepared. The Tartar
cavalry with their bulls-hide targets and long lances, the heavy Persian cuirassiers,
the Median and Assyrian archers with their ponderous wicker-shields, stood in rank
waiting only the word that should dash them as sling-stones on Pausanias and his
ill-starred following. The Magi had sacrificed a stallion, and reported that the holy
fire gave every favouring sign. Mardonius went from his tent, all his eunuchs bowing
their foreheads to the earth and chorussing, Victory to our Lord, to Persia, and to
the King.
They brought Mardonius his favourite horse, a white steed of the sacred breed of Nisæa. The Prince had bound around his turban the gemmed tiara Xerxes had given him on his wedding-day. Few could wield the Babylonish cimeter that danced in the chieftain’s hand. The captains cheered him loudly, as they might have cheered the king.
Life to the general! To the satrap of Hellas!
But beside the Nisæan pranced another, lighter and with a lighter mount. The rider was cased in silvered scale-armour, and bore only a steel-tipped reed.
The general’s page,
ran the whisper, and other whispers, far softer, followed.
None heard the quick words passed back and forth betwixt the two riders.
You may be riding to death, Artazostra. What place is a battle for women?
What place is the camp for the daughter of Darius, when her husband rides to war? We
triumph together; we perish together. It shall be as Mazda decrees.
Mardonius answered nothing. Long since he had learned the folly of setting his will against that of the masterful princess at his side. And was not victory certain? Was not Artazostra doing even as Semiramis of Nineveh had done of old?
The army is ready, Excellency,
declared an adjutant, bowing in his saddle.
Forward, then, but slowly, to await the reconnoitring parties sent toward the
Greeks.
In the gray morning the host wound out of the stockaded camp. The women and grooms
called fair wishes after them. The far slopes of Cithæron were reddening. A breeze
whistled down the hills. It would disperse the mist. Soon the leader of the scouts came
galloping, leaped down and salaamed to the general. Let my Lord’s liver find peace.
All is even as our friends declared. The enemy have in part fled far away. The
Athenians halt on a foot-hill of the mountain. The Laconians sit in companies on the
ground, waiting their division that will not retreat. Let my Lord charge, and glory
waits for Eran!
Mardonius’s cimeter swung high.
Forward, all! Mazda fights for us. Bid our allies the Thebans
Victory to the king!
thundered the thousands. Confident of triumph, Mardonius
suffered the ranks to be broken, as his myriads rushed onward. Over the Asopus and its
Five stadia, six, seven, eight,—so Mardonius led. Already before him he could see the glistering crests and long files of the Spartans—the prey he would crush with one stroke as a vulture swoops over the sparrow. Then nigh involuntarily his hand drew rein. What came to greet him? A man on foot—no horseman even. A man of huge stature running at headlong speed.
The risen sun was now dazzling. The general clapped his hand above his eyes. Then a tug on the bridle sent the Nisæan on his haunches.
Lycon, as Mazda made me!
The Spartan was beside them soon, he had run so swiftly. He was so dazed he barely heeded Mardonius’s call to halt and tell his tale. He was almost naked. His face was black with fear, never more brutish or loathsome.
All is betrayed. Democrates is seized. Pausanias and Aristeides are warned. They will
give you fair battle. I barely escaped.
Who betrayed you?
cried the Prince.
Glaucon the Alcmæonid, he is risen from the dead.
Ai! woe! no
fault of mine.
Never before had the son of Gobryas smiled so fiercely as when the giant cowered beneath his darting eyes. The general’s sword whistled down on the skull of the traitor. The Laconian sprawled in the dust without a groan. Mardonius laughed horribly.
A fair price then for unlucky villany. Blessed be Mithra, who suffers me to give
recompense. Wish me joy,
—as his captains came galloping around him,—our duty
to the king is finished. We shall win Hellas in fair battle.
Then it were well, Excellency,
thrust in Artabazus, since the plot is foiled,
to retire to the camp.
Mardonius’s eyes flashed lightnings.
Woman’s counsel that! Are we not here to conquer Hellas? Yes, by Mithra the Glorious,
we will fight, though every
dæva in hell joins against us.
Re-form the ranks. Halt the charge. Let the bowmen crush the Spartans with their
arrows. Then we will see if these Greeks are stouter than Babylonian, Lydian, and
Egyptian who played their game with Persia to sore cost. And you, Artabazus, to your
rear-guard, and do your duty well.
The general bowed stiffly. He knew the son of Gobryas, and that disobedience would have brought Mardonius’s cimeter upon his own helmet. By a great effort the charge was stayed,—barely in time,—for to have flung that disorganized horde on the waiting Spartan spears would have been worse than madness. A single stadium sundered the two hosts when Mardonius brought his men to a stand, set his strong divisions of bowmen in array behind their wall of shields, and drew up his cavalry on the flanks of the bowmen. Battle he would give, but it must be cautious battle now, and he did not love the silence which reigned among the motionless lines of the Spartans.
It was bright day at last. The two armies—the whole
The stolidity of the Spartans was maddening. They stood like bronze statues. In clear view at the front was a tall man in scarlet chlamys, and two more in white,—Pausanias and his seers examining the entrails of doves, seeking a fair omen for the battle. Mardonius drew the turban lower over his eyes.
An end to this truce. Begin your arrows.
A cloud of bolts answered him. The Persian archers emptied their quivers. They could see men falling among the foe, but still Pausanias stood beside the seers, still he gave no signal to advance. The omens doubtless were unfavourable. His men never shifted a foot as the storm of death flew over them. Their rigidity was more terrifying than any battle-shout. What were these men whose iron discipline bound so fast that they could be pelted to death, and no eyelash seem to quiver? The archers renewed their volley. They shot against a rock. The Barbarians joined in one rending yell,—their answer was silence.
Deliberately, arrows dropping around him as tree-blossoms in the gale, Pausanias
raised his hand. The omens were good. The gods permitted battle. Deliberately, while men
fell dying, he walked to his post on the right wing. Deliberately, while heaven seemed
shaking with the Barbarians’ Then the
Spartans marched.
Slowly their lines of bristling spear-points and nodding crests moved on like the sea-waves. Shrill above the booming Tartar drums, the blaring Persian war-horns pierced the screams of their pipers. And the Barbarians heard that which had never met their ears before,—the chanting of their foes as the long line crept nearer.
Ah!—la—la—la—la! Ah!—la—la—la—la!
deep, prolonged, bellowed in chorus
from every bronze visor which peered above the serried shields.
Faster,
stormed the Persian captains to their slingers and bowmen, beat these
madmen down.
The rain of arrows and sling-stones was like hail, like hail it
rattled from the shields and helms. Here, there, a form sank, the inexorable phalanx
closed and swept onward.
Ah!—la—la—la! Ah!—la—la—la!
The chant never ceased. The pipers screamed more shrilly. Eight deep, unhasting, unresting, Pausanias was bringing his heavy infantry across the two hundred paces betwixt himself and Mardonius. His Spartan spearmen might be unlearned, doltish, but they knew how to do one deed and that surpassingly well,—to march in line though lightnings dashed from heaven, and to thrust home with their lances. And not a pitiful three hundred, but ten thousand bold and strong stood against the Barbarian that morning. Mardonius was facing the finest infantry in the world, and the avenging of Leonidas was nigh.
Ah!—la—la—la! Ah!—la—la—la!
Flesh and blood in the Persian host could not wait the death grip longer. Let us
charge, or let us flee,
many a stout officer cried to his chief, and he sitting
stern-eyed on the white horse gave to a Tartar troop its word, Go!
Then like a mountain stream the wild Tartars charged. The clods flew high under the hoofs. The yell of the riders, the shock of spears on shields, the cry of dying men and dying beasts, the stamping, the dust-cloud, took but a moment. The chant of the Spartans ceased—an instant. An instant the long phalanx halted, from end to end bent and swayed. Then the dust-cloud passed, the chanting renewed. Half of the Tartars were spurring back, with shivered lances, bleeding steeds. The rest,—but the phalanx shook now here, now there, as the impenetrable infantry strode over red forms that had been men and horses. And still the Spartans marched, still the pipes and the war-chant.
Then for the first time fear entered the heart of Mardonius, son of Gobryas, and he called to the thousand picked horsemen, who rode beside him,—not Tartars these, but Persians and Medes of lordly stock, men who had gone forth conquering and to conquer.
Now as your fathers followed Cyrus the Invincible and Darius the Dauntless, follow
you me. Since for the honour of Eran and the king I ride this day.
We ride. For Eran and the king!
shouted the thousand. All the host joined.
Mardonius led straight against the Spartan right wing where Pausanias’s life-guard
marched.
Old soldiers of Lacedæmon fighting their battles in the after days, when a warrior of Platæa was as a god to each youth in Hellas, would tell how the Persian cavalrymen rode their phalanx down.
And say never,
they always added, the Barbarians know not how to fight and how
to die. Fools say it, not we of Platæa. For our first line seemed broken in a
twinkling. The
mora
was cut to pieces; Athena Pro
But turned it was. And the thousand horse, no thousand now, drifted to the cover of their shield wall, raging, undaunted, yet beaten back.
Then at last the phalanx locked with the Persian footmen and their rampart of wicker shields. At short spear length men grinned in each other’s faces, while their veins were turned to fire. Many a soldier—Spartan, Aryan—had seen his twenty fights, but never a fight like this. And the Persians—those that knew Greek—heard words flung through their foemen’s helmets that made each Hellene fight as ten.
Remember Leonidas! Remember Thermopylæ!
Orders there were none; the trumpets were drowned in the tumult. Each man fought as he stood, knowing only he must slay the man before him, while slowly, as though by a cord tighter and ever tighter drawn, the Persian shield wall was bending back before the unrelenting thrusting of the Spartans. Then as a cord snaps so broke the barrier. One instant down and the Hellenes were sweeping the light-armed Asiatic footmen before them, as the scythe sweeps down the standing grain. So with the Persian infantry, for their scanty armour and short spears were at terrible disadvantage, but the strength of the Barbarian was not spent. Many times Mardonius led the cavalry in headlong charge, each repulse the prelude to a fiercer shock.
For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!
The call of the Prince was a call that turned his wild horsemen into demons, but demons who strove with gods. The phalanx was shaken, halted even, broken never; and foot by foot, fathom by fathom, it brushed the Barbarian horde back across the blood-bathed plain,—and to Mardonius’s shout, a more terrible always answered:—
Remember Leonidas! Remember Thermopylæ!
The Prince seemed to bear a charmed life as he fought. He was in the thickest fray. He sent the white Nisæan against the Laconian spears and beat down a dozen lance-points with his sword. If one man’s valour could have turned the tide, his would have wrought the miracle. And always behind, almost in reach of the Grecian sling-stones, rode that other,—the page in the silvered mail,—nor did any harm come to this rider. But after the fight had raged so long that men sank unwounded,—gasping, stricken by the heat and press,—the Prince drew back a little from the fray to a rising in the plain, where close by a rural temple of Demeter he could watch the drifting fight, and he saw the Aryans yielding ground finger by finger, yet yielding, and the phalanx impregnable as ever. Then he sent an aide with an urgent message.
To Artabazus and the reserve. Bid him take from the camp all the guards, every man,
every eunuch that can lift a spear, and come with speed, or the day is lost.
The adjutant’s spurs grew red as he pricked away, while Mardonius wheeled the Nisæan and plunged back into the thickest fight.
For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!
His battle-call pealed even above the hellish din. The Persian nobles who had never
ridden to aught save victory turned again. Their last charge was their fiercest. They
bent the phalanx back like an inverted bow. Their footmen, reckless of self, plunged on
the Greeks and snapped off the spear-points with their naked hands. Mardonius was never
prouder of his host than in that hour. Proud—but the charge was vain. As the tide swept
back, as the files of the Spartans locked once more, he knew his men had done their
uttermost. They had fought since dawn. Their shield wall was broken.
For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!
Mardonius’s shout had no answer. Here, there, he saw horsemen and footmen, now singly, now in small companies, drifting backward across the plain to the last refuge of the defeated, the stockaded camp by the Asopus. The Prince called on his cavalry, so few about him now.
Shall we die as scared dogs? Remember the Aryan glory. Another charge!
His bravest seemed never to hear him. The onward thrust of the phalanx quickened. It was gaining ground swiftly at last. Then the Spartans were dashing forward like men possessed.
The Athenians have vanquished the Thebans. They come to join us. On, men of
Lacedæmon, ours alone must be this victory!
The shout of Pausanias was echoed by his captains. To the left and not far off charged a second phalanx,—five thousand nodding crests and gleaming points,—Aristeides bringing his whole array to his allies’ succour. But his help was not needed. The sight of his coming dashed out the last courage of the Barbarians. Before the redoubled shock of the Spartans the Asiatics crumbled like sand. Even whilst these broke once more, the adjutant drew rein beside Mardonius.
Lord, Artabazus is coward or traitor. Believing the battle lost, he has fled. There
is no help to bring.
The Prince bowed his head an instant, while the flight surged round him. The Nisæan was covered with blood, but his rider spurred him across the path of a squadron of flying Medians.
Turn! Are you grown women!
Mardonius smote the nearest with his sword. If we
cannot as Aryans conquer, let us at least as Aryans die!
Ai! ai! Mithra deserts us. Artabazus is fled. Save who
can!
They swept past him. He flung himself before a band of Tartars. He had better pleaded
with the north wind to stay its course. Horse, foot, Babylonians, Ethiopians, Persians,
Medes, were huddled in fleeing rout. To the camp,
their cry, but Mardonius,
looking on the onrushing phalanxes knew there was no refuge there....
And now sing it, O mountains and rivers of Hellas. Sing it, Asopus, to Spartan Eurotas, and you to hill-girt Alphæus. And let the maidens, white-robed and poppy-crowned, sweep in thanksgiving up to the welcoming temples,—honouring Zeus of the Thunders, Poseidon the Earth-Shaker, Athena the Mighty in War. The Barbarian is vanquished. The ordeal is ended. Thermopylæ was not in vain, nor Salamis. Hellas is saved, and with her saved the world.
Again on the knoll by the temple, apart from the rushing fugitives, Mardonius reined. His companion was once more beside him. He leaned that she might hear him through the tumult.
The battle is lost. The camp is defenceless. What shall we do?
Artazostra flung back the gold-laced cap and let the sun play over her face and hair.
We are Aryans,
was all her answer.
He understood, but even whilst he was reaching out to catch her bridle that their
horses might run together, he saw her lithe form bend. The arrow from a Laconian helot
had smitten through the silvered mail. He saw the red
Glaucon was right,
she said,—their lips were very close,—Zeus and Athena are
greater than Mazda and Mithra. The future belongs to Hellas. But we have naught for
shame. We have fought as Aryans, as the children of conquerors and kings. We shall be
glad together in Garonmana the Blessed, and what is left to dread?
A quiver passed through her. The Spartan spear-line was close. Mardonius looked once across the field. His men were fleeing like sheep. And so it passed,—the dream of a satrapy of Hellas, of wider conquests, of an empire of the world. He kissed the face of Artazostra and pressed her still form against his breast.
For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!
he shouted, and threw away his sword. Then he
turned the head of his wounded steed and rode on the Spartan lances.
Themistocles had started from Oropus with Simonides, a small guard of mariners, and a
fettered prisoner, as soon as the
Mardonius is slain. Artabazus with the rear-guard has fled northward. The Athenians
aided by the Spartans stormed the camp. Glory to Athena, who gives us victory!
And the traitors?
Themistocles showed surprisingly little joy.
Lycon’s body was found drifting in the Asopus. Democrates lies fettered by
Aristeides’s tents.
Then the other Athenians broke forth into pæans, but Themistocles bowed his head and was still, though the messenger told how Pausanias and his allies had taken countless treasure, and now were making ready to attack disloyal Thebes. So the admiral and his escort went at leisure across Bœotia, till they reached the Hellenic host still camped near the battle-field. There Themistocles was long in conference with Aristeides and Pausanias. After midnight he left Aristeides’s tent.
Where is the prisoner?
he asked of the sentinel before the headquarters.
Your Excellency means the traitor?
I do.
I will guide you.
The soldier took a torch and led the way. The two went down
dark avenues of tents, and halted at one where five hoplites stood guard with their
spears ready, five more slept before the entrance.
We watch him closely,
explained the decarch,
saluting. kyrie,Naturally we fear suicide as well as escape. Two more are within the
tent.
Withdraw them. Do you all stand at distance. For what happens I will be
responsible.
The two guards inside emerged yawning. Themistocles took the torch and entered the squalid hair-cloth pavilion. The sentries noticed he had a casket under his cloak.
The prisoner sleeps,
said a hoplite, in spite of his fetters.
Themistocles set down the casket and carefully drew the tent-flap. With silent tread he approached the slumberer. The face was upturned; white it was, but it showed the same winsome features that had won the clappings a hundred times in the Pnyx. The sleep seemed heavy, dreamless.
Themistocles’s own lips tightened as he stood in contemplation, then he bent to touch the other’s shoulder.
Democrates,
—no answer. Democrates,
—still silence. Democrates,
—a
stirring, a clanking of metal. The eyes opened,—for one instant a smile.
to be succeeded by a flash of
unspeakable horror. Ei, Themistocles, it is you?O Zeus, the gyves! That I should come to this!
The prisoner rose to a sitting posture upon his truss of straw. His fettered hands seized his head.
Peace,
ordered the admiral, gently. Do not rave. I have sent the sentries
away. No one will hear us.
Democrates grew calmer. You are merciful. You do not know how I was tempted. You
will save me.
I will do all I can.
Themistocles’s voice was solemn as an æolian harp, but the
prisoner caught at everything eagerly.
Ah, you can do so much. Pausanias fought the battle, but they call you the true
saviour of Hellas. They will do anything you say.
I am glad.
Themistocles’s face was impenetrable as the sphinx’s. Democrates
seized the admiral’s red chlamys with his fettered hands.
You will save me! I will fly to Sicily, Carthage, the Tin Isles, as you wish. Have
you forgotten our old-time friendship?
I loved you,
spoke the admiral, tremulously.
Ah, recall that love to-night!
I do.
O piteous Zeus, why then is your face so awful? If you will aid me to escape—
I will aid you.
Blessings, blessings, but quick! I fear to be stoned to death by the soldiers in the
morning. They threaten to crucify—
They shall not.
Blessings, blessings,—can I escape to-night?
Yes,
but Themistocles’s tone made the prisoner’s blood run chill. He cowered
helplessly. The admiral stood, his own fine face covered with a mingling of pity,
contempt, pain.
Democrates, hearken,
—his voice was hard as flint. We have seized your camp
chest, found the key to your ciphers, and know all your correspondence with Lycon. We
have discovered your fearful power of forgery. Hermes the Trickster gave it you for
your own destruction. We have
Little Horse.
I am glad,
—great beads were on the prisoner’s brow,—but you do not realize
the temptation. Have you never yourself been betwixt Scylla and Charybdis? Have I not
vowed every false step should be the last? I fought against Lycon. I fought against
Mardonius. They were too strong. Athena knoweth I did not crave the tyranny of Athens!
It was not that which drove me to betray Hellas.
I believe you. But why did you not trust me at the first?
I hardly understand.
When first your need of money drove you to crime, why did you not come to me? You
knew I loved you. You knew I looked on you as my political son and heir in the great
work of making Athens the light of Hellas. I would have given you the gold,—yes,
fifty talents.
Ai, ai, if I had only dared! I thought of it. I was
afraid.
Right.
Themistocles’s lip was curling. You are more coward than knave or
traitor. Phobos, Black Fear, has been your leading god, not Hermes. And now—
But you have promised I shall escape.
You shall.
To-night? What is that you have?
Themistocles was opening the casket.
The papers seized in your chest. They implicate many
Themistocles held one
papyrus after another in the torch-flame,—here is crumbling to ashes the evidence
that would destroy them all as Medizers. Mardonius is dead. Let the war die with him.
Hellas is safe.
Blessings, blessings! Help me to escape. You have a sword. Pry off these gyves. How
easy for you to let me fly!
Wait!
The admiral’s peremptory voice silenced the prisoner. Themistocles finished
his task. Suddenly, however, Democrates howled with animal fear.
What are you taking now—a goblet?
Wait.
Themistocles was indeed holding a silver cup and flask. Have I not said
you should escape this captivity—to-night?
Be quick, then, the night wanes fast.
The admiral strode over beside the creature who plucked at his hem.
Give ear again, Democrates. Your crimes against Athens and Hellas were wrought under
sore temptation. The money you stole from the public chest, if not returned already, I
will myself make good. So much is forgiven.
You are a true friend, Themistocles.
The prisoner’s voice was husky, but the
admiral’s eyes flashed like flint-stones struck by the steel.
Friend!
he echoed. Yes, by Zeus Orcios, guardian of oaths and friendship, you
had a friend. Where is he now?
Democrates lay on the turf floor of the tent, not even groaning.
You had a friend,
—the admiral’s intensity was awful. You blasted his good
name, you sought his life, you sought his wife, you broke every bond, human or divine,
to destroy him. At last, to silence conscience’ sting, you thought you
Democrates staggered to his feet clumsily, only half knowing what he did. Themistocles
was extending the silver cup. Escape. Drink!
What is this cup?
The prisoner had turned gray.
Hemlock, coward! Did you not bid Glaucon to take his life that night in Colonus? The
death you proffered him in his innocency I proffer you now in your guilt. Drink!
You have called me friend. You have said you loved me. I dare not die. A little time!
Pity! Mercy! What god can I invoke?
None. Cerberus himself would not hearken to such as you. Drink.
Pity, by our old-time friendship!
The admiral’s tall form straightened.
Themistocles the Friend is dead; Themistocles the Just is here,—drink.
But you promised escape?
The prisoner’s whisper was just audible.
Ay, truly, from the court-martial before the roaring camp in the morning, the
unmasking of all your accomplices, the deeper shame of every one-time friend, the
blazoning of your infamy in public evidence through Hellas, the soldiers howling for
your blood, the stoning, perchance the plucking
That was not all Themistocles said, that was all Democrates heard. In his ears sounded, even once again, the song of the Furies,—never so clearly as now.
With scourge and with ban
Who planted a snare for his friend!
Nemesis—Nemesis, the implacable goddess, had come for her own at last.
Democrates took the cup.
The day that disloyal Thebes surrendered came the tidings of the crowning of the Hellenes’ victories. At Mycale by Samos the Greek fleets had disembarked their crews and defeated the Persians almost at the doors of the Great King in Sardis. Artabazus had escaped through Thrace to Asia in caitiff flight. The war—at least the perilous part thereof—was at end. There might be more battles with the Barbarian, but no second Salamis or Platæa.
The Spartans had found the body of Mardonius pierced with five lances—all in front.
Pausanias had honoured the brave dead,—the Persian had been carried from the
battle-ground on a shield, and covered by the red cloak of a Laconian general. But the
body mysteriously disappeared. Its fate was never known. Perhaps the curious would have
gladly heard what Glaucon on his sick-bed told Themistocles, and what Sicinnus did
afterward. Certain it is that the shrewd Asiatic later displayed a costly ring which the
satrap for a
great service to the house of
On the same day that Thebes capitulated the household of Hermippus left Trœzene to
return to Athens. When they had told Hermione all that had befallen,—the great good,
Little one, little one,
she said, while he beamed up at her, you have not to
avenge your father now. You have a better, greater task, to be as fair in body and
still more in mind as he.
Then came the rush of tears, the sobbing, the laughter, and Lysistra and Cleopis, who feared the shock of too much joy, were glad.
The
And even as Hermione crossed the Agora she heard a shouting, a word running from lip to lip as a wave leaps over the sea.
In the centre of the buzzing mart she stopped. All the blood sprang to her face, then
left it. She passed her fingers over her hair, and waited with twitching, upturned face.
Through the hucksters’ booths, amid the clamouring buyers and sellers, went a runner,
striking left and right with his staff, for the people were packing close, and he had
much ado to
The beautiful! The fortunate! The deliverer!
Io! Io, pæan!
Hermione stood; only her eyes followed the litter. Its curtains were flung back; she saw some one within, lying on purple cushions. She saw the features, beautiful as Pentelic marble and as pale. She cared not for the people. She cared not that Phœnix, frighted by the shouting, had begun to wail. The statue in the litter moved, rose on one elbow.
Ah, dearest and best,
—his voice had the old-time ring, his head the old-time
poise,—you need not fear to call me husband now!
Glaucon,
she cried. I am not fit to be your wife. I am not fit to kiss your
feet.
They set the litter down. Even little Simonides, though a king among the curious, found the Acropolis peculiarly worthy of his study. Enough that Hermione’s hands were pressing her husband, and these two cared not whether a thousand watched or only Helios on high. Penelope was greeting the returning Odysseus:—
Welcome even as to shipmen
And her eyes shone pure and bright.
After a long time Glaucon commanded, Bring me our child,
and Cleopis gladly
obeyed. Phœnix ceased weeping and thrust his red fists in his father’s face.
said Glaucon, pressing him fast by one
hand, whilst he held his mother by the other, Ei, pretty snail,if I say you are a merry wight, the
nurse will not marvel any more.
But Hermione had already heard from Niobe of the adventure in the market-place at Trœzene.
The young men were just taking up the litter, when the Agora again broke into cheers. Themistocles, saviour of Hellas, had crossed to Glaucon. The admiral—never more worshipped than now, when every plan he wove seemed perfect as a god’s—took Glaucon and Hermione, one by each hand.
Ah,
he said, philotatoi,to all of us is given by the
sisters above so much bliss and so much sorrow. Some drink the bitter first, some the
sweet. And you have drained the bitter to the lees. Therefore look up at the Sun-King
boldly. He will not darken for you again.
Where now?
asked Hermione, in all things looking to her husband.
To the Acropolis,
ordered Glaucon. If the temple is desolate, the Rock is
still holy. Let us give thanks to Athena.
He even would have left the litter, had not Themistocles firmly forbidden. In time the Alcmæonid’s strength would return, though never the speed that had left the stadia behind whilst he raced to save Hellas.
They mounted the Rock. From above, in the old-time brightness, the noonday light, the
sunlight of Athens, sprang down to them. Hermione, looking on Glaucon’s face, saw him
gaze eagerly upon her, his child, the sacred Rock, and the glory from Helios. Then his
face wore a strange smile
And I thought for the rose vales of Bactria to forfeit—this!
They were on the summit. The litter was set down on the projecting spur by the southwest corner. The area of the Acropolis was desolation, ashes, drums of overturned pillars, a few lone and scarred columns. The works of man were in ruin, but the works of the god, of yesterday, to-day, and forever were yet the same. They turned their backs on the ruin. Westward they looked—across land and sea, beautiful always, most beautiful now, for had they not been redeemed with blood and tears? The Barbarian was vanquished; the impossible accomplished. Hellas and Athens were their own, with none to take away.
They saw the blue bay of Phaleron. They saw the craggy height of Munychia, Salamis with its strait of the victory, farther yet the brown dome of Acro-Corinthus and the wide breast of the clear Saronian sea. To the left was Hymettus the Shaggy, to right the long crest of Daphni, behind them rose Pentelicus, home of the marble that should take the shape of the gods. With one voice they fell to praising Athens and Hellas, wisely or foolishly, according to their wit. Only Hermione and Glaucon kept silence, hand within hand, and speaking fast,—not with their lips,—but with their eyes.
Then at the end Themistocles spoke, and as always spoke the best.
We have flung back the Barbarian. We have set our might against the God-King and have
conquered. Athens lies in ruins. We shall rebuild her. We shall make her more truly
than before the
Beautiful,
the Violet-Crowned City,
worthy of the
guardian Athena. The conquering
After they had prayed to the goddess, they went down from the Rock and its vision of beauty. Below a mule car met them. They set Glaucon and Hermione with the babe therein, and these three were driven over the Sacred Way toward the purple-bosomed hills, through the olive groves and the pine trees, across the slope of Daphni, to rest and peace in Eleusis-by-the-Sea.
By WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS
A Friend of
A Tale of the Fall of the Roman Republic
As a story ... there can be no question of its success.... While the beautiful love of
Cornelia and Drusus lies at the sound sweet heart of the story, to say so is to give a
most meagre idea of the large sustained interest of the whole.... There are many
incidents so vivid, so brilliant, that they fix themselves in the memory.
—The Bookman.
Cloth, 12mo, $1.50
God Wills It
A Tale of the First Crusade
Not since Sir Walter Scott cast his spell over us with
—Ivanhoe,
Count Robert of Paris,
and Quentin Durward
have we been so completely
captivated by a story as by God Wills It,
by William Stearns Davis. It grips the
attention of the reader in the first chapter and holds it till the last.... It is a
story of strenuous life, the spirit of which might well be applied in some of our modern
Crusades. While true to life in its local coloring, it is sweet and pure, and leaves no
after-taste of bitterness. The author’s first book, A Friend of Cæsar,
revealed
his power, and God Wills It
confirms and deepens the impression made.Christian Endeavor World.
With Illustrations by Louis Betts
Cloth, 12mo, $1.50
Falaise of the Blessed Voice
A Tale of the Youth of St. Louis, King of France
The story of how his enemies plotted to separate him from his fair Queen Margaret, and
even from his throne itself; of how he grew from a pale lad to a most manly king, and of
the part played in his life by the blind singer of Pontoise, the maid called Falaise of
the Blessed Voice.
Cloth, 12mo, $1.50
The Saint of the Dragon’s Dale
(In the series of
) Little Novels by Favorite Authors
Cloth, decorated cover, 16mo, 50 cents
Each, cloth, $1.50
The Long Road
By JOHN OXENHAM
... It is a thrilling and an absorbing story. Through all the tragedy of life ... there
is a rarely sweet accompaniment of tender tones, of love and heroism and intermittent,
never quite lost hope. It is a touching and beautiful story.
—Buffalo Evening News.
Coniston
By WINSTON CHURCHILL
Coniston has a lighter, gayer spirit, and a deeper, tenderer touch than Mr. Churchill
has ever achieved before.... It is one of the finest and truest transcripts of modern
American life thus far achieved in our fiction.
—Chicago
Record-Herald.
Cloth, illustrated, $1.50
Lady Baltimore
By OWEN WISTER
That the author of
—The Virginian
could deal deliciously with such a rich field
... might be assumed. But with what charm and delicacy, fine humor and insight, the work
has been done, only a direct acquaintance with the finished volume can justly show. The
Southerner will certainly find enchanting home touches in it, and every reader will feel
the spell of the quiet old southern town and all the tender, dainty, and humorous
southern life and atmosphere that hang about it.St. Louis Globe
Democrat.
Cloth, $1.50
The Garden, You and I
By MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT
Few books published in this country recently have been of a kind to make an author so
proud. Hers are immensely fine and sweet.
—St. Louis
Democrat.
The new book by the author of The Garden of a Commuter’s Wife
and People of
the Whirlpool,
is a story of new friends as charming in their own way as Barbara
herself. Their highly original vacation is described from more than one point
of view, each more deliciously funny than the next.
Cloth, $1.50
A Lady of Rome
By F. MARION CRAWFORD
His skill in making his portraits live before the reader’s eyes is unsurpassed; and in
the production of story-value and prolonged suspense, Mr. Crawford has no peer.
—Boston Herald.
Cloth, 12mo, $1.50
White Fang
By JACK LONDON
Jack London is the apostle of strength and courage. In
—White Fang
he has full
play ... in his chosen field. He has done this work so well that he makes the interest
as intense as if he were telling the story of a man.Globe
Democrat.
Illustrated in colors, cloth, $1.50
When Love Speaks
By WILL PAYNE
One of the most interesting novels ever written on the conflict between law and honesty
on one side and the alliance of low politics and high finance on the other. Stirring
love story woven in with the fight against an unscrupulous whiskey trust. A fine, clean
American story, of interest alike to men and women.
—Chicago
Record-Herald.
$1.50
If Youth But Knew
By AGNES and EGERTON CASTLE
They should be the most delightful of comrades, for their writing is so apt, so
responsive, so saturated with the promptings and the glamour of spring. It is because
—If Youth But Knew
has all these adorable qualities that it is so
fascinating.Cleveland Leader.
Cloth, $1.50
Disenchanted
By PIERRE LOTI
Our romantic son of Hercules wields in defence of Liberty a slender, aromatic
sorcerer’s wand. And his magic has lost nothing of its might. We dare not begin quoting
a book of which every page is a picture.
—The London Times.
Cloth, 12mo, $1.50
The Sin of George Warrener
By Miss VAN VORST
For acute comprehension of human nature both masculine and feminine, and a keen
apprehension of a phase of our social conditions, the book is a piece of rare
artistry.
—Phila. Evening Tel.
$1.50
Her Majesty’s Rebels
By SIDNEY R. LYSAGHT
A story of Irish people that is neither prejudiced nor patronizing.... A rare and
charming novel ... racy and convincing.
—World.
Cloth, 12mo, $1.50
Listener’s Lure
By E. V. LUCAS
A Kensington Comedy
which proves that the delightful fellow-wanderer in Holland and
in London has a keen sense of humor and a gift for semi-satirical portrait sketching.
Cloth, 12mo, $1.50
The Amulet
By CHARLES E. CRADDOCK
... A little old-fashioned, perhaps, according to modern sensational standards, but
written with force and feeling, full of local color and character, wholesome and
interesting from cover to cover, and so far as one can judge, a truthful picture of a
most picturesque phase of pioneer history that has not been exploited to the point of
tiresomeness.
—The New York Times.
Cloth, $1.50
The Romance of John Bainbridge
By HENRY GEORGE, Jr.
Belongs to the large class of present-day novels in which a young man of high ideals
goes into politics in order to do battle with the dragons of bribery and corruption. The
particular demon in this case is a perpetual street railway franchise. The love story
betrays the apprentice hand, but the description of the fight in the aldermanic council
is a capital piece of work.
—The Congregationalist.
$1.50
The Way of the Gods
By JOHN LUTHER LONG
As the readers of Madam Butterfly
know, there is no one, since the death of
Lafcadio Hearn, who can make Japanese life so charming as does Mr. Long. This story of the
little samurai, hardly big enough to be a soldier, and of how the fair eta Hoshiko met his
obligations for him, is very real and appealing.
Cloth, $1.50
The Vine of Sibmah
By Dr. ANDREW MACPHAIL
The book is taut with action and breathless climaxes. Its principal character, a
soldier, has for his friend a most engaging pirate. This combination alone makes
interesting reading.
—Chicago Evening Post.
Cloth, $1.50
The author’s footnotes have been moved to the end of the volume.
Blackletter has been marked with asterisks.
Blackletter has been rendered as bold face.
The following typographical errors were corrected:
gridlechanged to
girdle
seashorechanged to
sea-shore
earthernchanged to
earthen
Thacianchanged to
Thasian
good humoredlychanged to
good-humouredly
Mantineiachanged to
Mantinea
honorchanged to
honour
waterpotschanged to
water-pots
humorouschanged to
humourous
Nausicäachanged to
Nausicaä
pentaconterschanged to
penteconters
We can say
hechanged to
be
house was out
fish-mongerchanged to
fishmonger
Ai!
Baylonishchanged to
Babylonish
Neverthlesschanged to
Nevertheless
hairclothchanged to
hair-cloth
sailclothchanged to
sail-cloth
beautiful
kings reign forever!
intrustchanged to
entrust
torchlightchanged to
torch-light
goatskinchanged to
goat-skin
Themistocles
Ameinaschanged to
Ameinias
Ameinas’schanged to
Ameinias’s
renegadoeschanged to
renegades
Phelgon'schanged to
Phlegon’s
Artemisia
maelstromchanged to
mælstrom
Psytalleiachanged to
Psyttaleia
fagotschanged to
faggots
warshipschanged to
war-ships
lieutenantchanged to
lieutenants
are great gods
bowstringchanged to
bow-string
Such as what?
Pinatatechanged to
Pitanate
Zariaspes,
Gobyraschanged to
Gobryas
Caesarchanged to
Cæsar
Some variants in spelling, capitalization or hyphenation which cannot be regarded as simple typographical errors have been retained.