Beyond the Dipylon Gate.
“Athens, the stately-walled, magnificent!”
Pindar.
The sun sank in an unclouded blaze, but with the approach of evening the
toilers did not cease. The builders of the pyramids of Egypt could boast
no greater zeal than that with which the Athenians fortified their city.
Men, women and children, rich, middle-class and poor worked together for
the attainment of but one end; the erection of a wall about their city
which would protect it from over-ambitious states and cities. Stones
from partly demolished buildings, broken pieces of statuary, the debris
of structures once the pride of every loyal Athenian, added bit by bit
to the work of defense.
Zopyrus labored near the Diomean Gate lifting the large stones into
places which had been freshly spread with mortar by the women and
children. In vain his eyes searched the throng for a figure, the memory
of which occupied his thoughts almost constantly since Salamis. He had
worked at different sections of the wall in the hope that somewhere he
would see her employed in the common task of all, but though he
anxiously scanned a thousand faces during the course of his labor, hers
was not among them.
A young man at his side nudged his elbow. “By tomorrow at this time the
wall should be of sufficient height for Aristides and his companion to
leave for Sparta to join Themistocles who awaits them.”
Zopyrus agreed with the youth’s statement and added, “It was a clever
scheme of Themistocles to go to Sparta apparently to argue about the
feasibility of building a wall around Athens, the while he planned to
have all Athenians erect such a wall. By having Aristides delay in
joining him he made it possible for us to get the wall to a height
sufficient for defense.”
“Themistocles is very clever, no doubt,” replied his companion, “but the
calm judgment of Aristides is not to be discredited.”
“Of course not,” said Zopyrus, “but it is the wit of Themistocles which
will frustrate the ambitions of Sparta this time. Aristides is like the
moon which is now rising on the other side of the city, as compared with
the sun, Themistocles.”
At this moment Abronychus, a youth whom Zopyrus had met after the battle
of Platæa, approached the two with a friendly clap upon the shoulder of
each.
“Zopyrus and Lysimachus! I am glad to see you two together. In my mind I
have always associated you as men of like temperament.”
“But,” said Zopyrus jocosely, “an argument has engaged us both up to the
present moment. Your friend puts much confidence in the opinions of
Aristides, while I maintain Themistocles to be the superior of the two.”
Abronychus’ smile spread into a broad grin. Turning to Lysimachus he
said, “Your father wishes to talk with you at once. I met him at the
shop of Aphobus where he awaits you.”
As the figure of Lysimachus disappeared in the crowd Zopyrus remarked,
“A likely young fellow. I liked his upright manner, though his opinions
differed from mine.”
“His father summons him,” said the other, “that he may bid farewell
before leaving in the morning, at least twelve hours before he expected
to make the trip. You see his father is Aristides who is to join
Themistocles at Sparta.”
“Aristides his father!” exclaimed the crest-fallen Zopyrus. “Well I like
him and hope he will not resent my remarks.”
“If I know Lysimachus,” said the other, “he will take no offense at what
you said. I hope you will see him again. He has worked near the Diomean
Gate ever since the wall was commenced. Your energies have not been so
concentrated, for if I remember correctly, I have seen you at the gate
of Diocharus and upon another occasion you were unloading stones at the
north of the city beyond the Acharman Gate.”
“I will tell you the reason for my scattered efforts, though I maintain
I have worked diligently wherever I happened to be. I began at the east
side of the city, working near the different gates, a half day at a time
and traveling northward. I am searching for a girl whom I met at the
time of the battle of Salamis. I have not seen her since, and I know not
where to find her.”
“Her name?” inquired Abronychus.
“Alas I did not ask it, but her face I can not forget! Eyes that reflect
the heaven’s blue, straight brows, delicately chiseled nose, a mouth
that——.”
Abronychus threw up his hands in deprecation. “I have not seen her, or I
have seen hundreds of her! Which shall I say, my friend? I must be going
now and I wish you success in your search for the missing lady.”
After the departure of Abronychus, Zopyrus toiled lifting rocks and
pieces of masonry. It was with a feeling of ineffable relief that he
heard the orders of the night-guard and saw that others were coming to
take the places of those who had labored since mid-afternoon. Presently
an approaching female figure caught his eye and in an instant he
recognized Ladice whom he had rescued from the coarse Persian officer.
She was conversing with an older woman and Zopyrus tried to attract her
attention, for from her he hoped to learn the identity of her companion
on the Acropolis. The tired workers in their eagerness to get to their
homes for rest, pressed between him and Ladice, and he soon lost sight
of her. He was pleased to know that she had reached Athens in safety,
but his heart was filled with anxiety for the maiden whom he had rescued
on the Acropolis.
As Zopyrus passed the Sacred Gate he glanced down the broad white road
that he had followed the day he bore in his arms the unconscious Greek
girl. The moon back of him shed its soft ethereal light over a scene
that had recurred to him again and again in memory. Moved by an
unexplainable impulse, he passed through the city-gate and pursued his
course along the road that stretched luringly into the distance,
bordered by the dusky shadows of olive trees.
Scarcely had he proceeded a furlong when he became aware of a figure
several paces ahead. The man, for so it proved to be, was lost in
thought and walked slowly, his head bent forward in meditation. Zopyrus’
first impulse was to return to the city, but something familiar in the
man’s dress and figure arrested his notice, so he carried out his
original intention of taking a moonlight stroll along the Sacred Way.
Before the man turned Zopyrus had recognized the poet Aeschylus and
simultaneously with the recognition came a feeling of joy that this much
revered man could be his companion upon such an occasion. Aeschylus
recognized the youth as he approached and placed an arm across his
shoulders as together they proceeded to the northwest.
For some moments only the sound of their sandals on the stony pavement
broke the stillness, but at length Zopyrus asked: “Did this road
stretching into the distance lure you too as you passed the gate?”
“It always entices me, for it is the way to my home. I live at Eleusis.”
Zopyrus expressed no little surprise, for he had always thought of
Aeschylus as a native of Athens.
“I had planned to move to Athens,” continued the poet, “so my elder son
could attend the Academy, but God saw fit to snatch him forever from me
in the late war with the oriental barbarians.”
Aeschylus stood a moment, his head bent forward, his attitude that of a
man in complete subjection to a master. Zopyrus imagined that his lips
moved but there was no sound forthcoming. Then there came to the Persian
the memory of the maiden’s prayer, followed by the song from a myriad
unseen throats, the mighty pæan that had saved Greece. Zopyrus as he
watched the poet in silence knew that he too prayed. When the latter
raised his head Zopyrus said tensely: “Your prayer is the second of its
kind that I have seen. It ascends straight to God—“—then after a
moment’s pause, “Tell me how do you explain the miracle of Salamis?”
Aeschylus gazed long and earnestly into the eyes of the young man before
he answered.
“It was a word from the invisible, unapproachable Spirit of the
universe.”
Zopyrus was greatly moved by the poet’s words.
“You believe that in great crises Zeus will help those whom He believes
to be in the right?”
“Yes, but I believe that this God must have been approached by a devout
suppliant, and that this was his answer to an earnest prayer.”
“Aeschylus,” said the young man, and he stood and faced his companion so
that the moon shone full into his face revealing his emotion, “I was
myself a witness, the only one, to the prayer that saved Greece.”
“You a witness to such a prayer!” exclaimed the incredulous poet.
Zopyrus nodded, then as the two resumed their nocturnal promenade he
related to the interested philosopher in detail, trying not to reveal
his identity, the facts of his meeting with the girl upon whom he had
not laid eyes for a year. After his narration had been concluded he was
conscious of the fixed gaze of his companion upon him.
“Zopyrus,” said Aeschylus, “I have decided to begin work on a tragedy
which will present the Persian point of view and especially that of the
royal family in this war, I would be very grateful would you acquaint me
with many details of life at Susa.”
Zopyrus was startled. Had his words or manner of speech betrayed him to
the friend whom above all others he esteemed most highly? It was
apparent that even if Aeschylus did know him to be a Persian by birth,
he was neither rebuking nor condemning him for that fact, but rather was
he mildly assuring him that his birth need be no detriment to him in his
present surroundings. Zopyrus believed that Aeschylus was convinced of
his sincerity in the present interests of Greece.
“I shall be pleased to assist you in your great work,” he replied in a
quiet tone. “Having spent a few months out of each year at the Persian
court, I should know something of the Persian view-point.”
“Were you a servant or a member of the nobility?” questioned the poet
quickly.
“Must I tell you that?” asked the younger man.
“I should like to know.”
“Very well, I am a cousin of king Xerxes. My father was satrap of Sardis
and an own brother of Darius Hystaspis.”
The older man turned quickly and his brow clouded as he cried:—
“What do you mean by parading in Greek clothes and looking with love
upon a maiden of Hellas? Think you that a pure lovely girl of our land
would return the affections of a cousin of the profligate Xerxes?”
Zopyrus’ reply was made with becoming dignity. “I sincerely believe that
the girl returns my affections, and as for my Persian ancestry, what
think you of my features?”
Aeschylus’ expression of anger softened as he looked upon the young
man’s face.
“There is the mystery,” he said in a puzzled voice, “I can think of no
other than Theseus when I behold you. Your face is the type that
characterizes our people.”
“From my departed mother have I inherited the features in which you
behold a likeness to one of your national heroes, but not alone in face
and form do I resemble the Greeks, but in nature too am I truly one of
you. My mother was a Greek whose parents were members of the family of
Ceryces.”
“Ceryces!” exclaimed Aeschylus in surprise. “Outside of the family of
Eumolpidæ, I know no better in all this fair land. I bid you welcome to
Greece and into our midst. I was not mistaken in my first impressions of
you. Will you overlook the hasty words I spoke a few minutes ago?”
“I was not offended,” replied Zopyrus, “for I knew that after mature
deliberation you would be convinced of the reality of my sincerity. My
conscience has been my guide. I have always tried to obey it, thus
keeping it ever sensitive.”
The poet smiled kindly into the earnest young face flushed with emotion.
“Young man, perfection lies in just that,” he said, “keeping the
conscience sensitive. If you continue thus to strive after perfection in
your youth you will be laying up virtues which will serve you in the
crises of life which come later.”
“But I have often thought,” said Zopyrus puzzled, “that sometimes it is
very difficult to determine between virtues and vices. That may sound
very strange to you who consider them to be exactly opposite, but
occasionally even a sensitive conscience can not discriminate. It seems
to me that virtues and vices are very closely allied. How easy it is for
one who is the very soul of generosity to over-step the bound and become
a spendthrift! Might not one who possessed the virtue of thrift pass
over the hair-breadth boundary into the vice of miserliness? Might not
one of a loving nature tend toward licentiousness if not watchful, or
one of self-restraint become too cold? Then again if one is neat and
careful about one’s personal appearance might he not become vain if not
watchful, or on the other hand if indifferent to the appearance of his
body because the weightier matters of the soul concerned him more, might
he not have the tendency to grow filthy and untidy in appearance? So it
seems to me, my good Aeschylus, that it takes a very alert and sensitive
conscience indeed to distinguish between the so-called virtues and
vices, and to pass judgment correctly.”
“You are right, my boy, it does, and remember this; that in letting your
conscience decide matters, you must not forget that no man lives unto
himself, for everything he does affects another, but I see you are
tired,” he said. “You have worked hard at the wall. In that you have
done rightly, for toil is mankind’s greatest boon and life without
industry is sin.”
Zopyrus glanced toward the sky, “The moon is beginning its descent and I
must return to the house of Pasicles.”
“One moment before you go,” said the poet, laying a detaining hand upon
the other’s arm, “You as a member of the Ceryces family should be
initiated into the divine mysteries of Eleusis. Had your departed mother
never mentioned them to you?”
“As a very young child I remember my mother’s having mentioned, upon
several occasions when we were alone, the Eleusinian Mysteries and my
childish mind nourished by an exceptionally vivid imagination, dwelt a
great deal upon the probable nature of these enigmatical rites.”
“At two months from this time when the moon is again in its fullness, I
will act in the capacity of mystagogue for you. Till then I will see you
occasionally at Athens in the home of our mutual friend. May the God who
is powerful above all others protect you.”
With these words he was gone leaving Zopyrus puzzled but greatly elated.