BOOK II

A VICTOR OF SALAMIS

The MM Co.

A VICTOR OF SALAMIS

_A TALE OF THE DAYS OF XERXES, LEONIDAS AND THEMISTOCLES_

BY

WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS

AUTHOR OF “A FRIEND OF CÆSAR,” “GOD WILLS IT,”

“BELSHAZZAR,” ETC.

“... On the Ægean shore a city stands,

Built nobly, pure the air and light the soil,

Athens, the eye of Greece.”

*New York*

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.

1907

_All rights reserved_

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.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

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.

W. S. D.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

THE ISTHMIAN GAMES NEAR CORINTH

CHAPTER PAGE

I. GLAUCON THE BEAUTIFUL 3

II. THE ATHLETE 10

III. THE HAND OF PERSIA 21

IV. THE PENTATHLON 31

BOOK I

THE SHADOW OF THE PERSIAN

V. HERMIONE OF ELEUSIS 51

VI. ATHENS 62

VII. DEMOCRATES AND THE TEMPTER 74

VIII. ON THE ACROPOLIS 84

IX. THE CYPRIAN TRIUMPHS 95

X. DEMOCRATES RESOLVES 106

XI. THE PANATHENÆA 116

XII. A TRAITOR TO HELLAS 128

XIII. THE DISLOYALTY OF PHORMIO 141

XIV. MARDONIUS THE PERSIAN 152

BOOK II

THE COMING OF THE PERSIAN

XV. THE LOTUS-EATING AT SARDIS 165

XVI. THE COMING OF XERXES THE GOD-KING 174

XVII. THE CHARMING BY ROXANA 186

XVIII. DEMOCRATES’S TROUBLES RETURN 197

XIX. THE COMMANDMENT OF XERXES 209

XX. THERMOPYLÆ 219

XXI. THE THREE HUNDRED—AND ONE 230

XXII. MARDONIUS GIVES A PROMISE 243

XXIII. THE DARKEST HOUR 253

XXIV. THE EVACUATION OF ATHENS 264

XXV. THE ACROPOLIS FLAMES 268

XXVI. THEMISTOCLES IS THINKING 279

XXVII. THE CRAFT OF ODYSSEUS 287

XXVIII. BEFORE THE DEATH GRAPPLE 300

XXIX. SALAMIS 311

XXX. THEMISTOCLES GIVES A PROMISE 329

BOOK III

THE PASSING OF THE PERSIAN

XXXI. DEMOCRATES SURRENDERS 333

XXXII. THE STRANGER IN TRŒZENE 343

XXXIII. WHAT BEFELL ON THE HILLSIDE 350

XXXIV. THE LOYALTY OF LAMPAXO 360

XXXV. MOLOCH BETRAYS THE PHŒNICIAN 372

XXXVI. THE READING OF THE RIDDLE 388

XXXVII. THE RACE TO SAVE HELLAS 399

XXXVIII. THE COUNCIL OF MARDONIUS 418

XXXIX. THE AVENGING OF LEONIDAS 426

XL. THE SONG OF THE FURIES 438

XLI. THE BRIGHTNESS OF HELIOS 445

PROLOGUE

THE ISTHMIAN GAMES NEAR CORINTH

A VICTOR OF SALAMIS

CHAPTER I

GLAUCON THE BEAUTIFUL

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 Doric; “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 again! Can I never get near enough to place

my two minæ on that Glaucon?”

“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 clear of the

whirlpool. Under one of the graceful pines, which girded the long stadium,

he recovered breath and looked at leisure upon his new acquaintances. Both

were striking men, but in sharp contrast: the taller and darker showed an

aquiline visage betraying a strain of non-Grecian blood. His black eyes

and large mouth were very merry. He wore his green chiton with a

rakishness that proved him anything but a dandy. His companion, addressed

as Democrates, slighter, blonder, showed Simonides a handsome and truly

Greek profile, set off by a neatly trimmed reddish beard. His purple-edged

cloak fell in statuesque folds of the latest mode, his beryl signet-ring,

scarlet fillet, and jewelled girdle bespoke wealth and taste. His face,

too, might have seemed frank and affable, had not Simonides suddenly

recalled an old proverb about mistrusting a man with eyes too close

together.

“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 ‘fair as Delian Apollo,’ ‘graceful as young

Hermes,’ and—here I wonder most,—‘modest as an unwedded girl.’ ” Simonides

drew breath, then faced the others earnestly, “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 and Leonidas can see Glaucon, so

must the first poet of Hellas.”

“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 sea-shore. The scene about was brisk

enough, had they heeded. A dozen chariots passed. Under every tall pine

along the way stood merchants’ booths, each with a goodly crowd. Now a

herd of brown goats came, the offering of a pious Phocian; now a band of

Aphrodite’s priestesses from Corinth whirled by in no overdecorous dance,

to a deafening noise of citharas and castanets. A soft breeze was sending

the brown-sailed fisher boats across the heaving bay. Straight before the

three spread the white stuccoed houses of Cenchræa, the eastern haven of

Corinth; far ahead in smooth semicircle rose the green crests of the

Argive mountains, while to their right upreared the steep lonely pyramid

of brown rock, Acro-Corinthus, the commanding citadel of the thriving

city. But above, beyond these, fairer than them all, spread the clear,

sun-shot azure of Hellas, the like whereof is not over any other land,

save as that land is girt by the crisp foam of the blue Ægean Sea.

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 came from

Democrates, who seemed to look away, avoiding the poet’s keen glance.

“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.

CHAPTER II

THE ATHLETE

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 hips was purple but dirty. To his

companion’s glib Attic he returned only Doric monosyllables.

“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 villany are you up to?”

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

small hand into his crimson belt and drew forth a handful of gold as bribe

for release.

“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 and his friend,—by laying about them with their staves,—won their

way to the front. The king dashed his staff upon the shoulder of a

strapping Laconian who was just hurling himself on Glaucon.

“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 strength and will against

many and feeling ‘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 “_Euge!_” then

extended his own hand, the fingers half closed, and ordered, “Open.”

One long minute, just as Simonides and his companions approached, Athenian

and Spartan stood face to face, hand locked in hand, while Glaucon’s

forehead grew redder, not with blushing. Then blood rushed to the king’s

brow also. His fingers were crimson. They had been forced open.

“_Euge!_” cried the king, again; then, to Themistocles, “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 nor any

sane man in Hellas has the least doubt. Are you not confident, dear

Athenian?”

“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 the persons of the

nobility in Hellas; “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 ‘Medizing,’ ” interrupted Democrates, promptly;

“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 was not ungrateful.

But what ‘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.

CHAPTER III

THE HAND OF PERSIA

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, _philotate_?” cried Glaucon. “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 _her_ name,” cried Simonides, viciously.

“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!_”(1) called the rest; and Democrates left the tent to

follow the slave-boy.

Evening was falling: the sea, rocks, fields, pine groves, were touched by

the red glow dying behind Acro-Corinthus. Torches gleamed amid the trees

where the multitudes were buying, selling, wagering, making merry. All

Greece seemed to have sent its wares to be disposed of at the Isthmia.

Democrates idled along, now glancing at the huckster who displayed his

painted clay dolls and urged the sightseers to remember the little ones at

home. A wine-seller thrust a sample cup of a choice vintage under the

Athenian’s nose, and vainly adjured him to buy. Thessalian easy-chairs,

pottery, slaves kidnapped from the Black Sea, occupied one booth after

another. On a pulpit before a bellowing crowd a pair of marionettes were

rolling their eyes and gesticulating, as a woman pulled the strings.

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 earthen floor, two

clay lamps on a low table, a few stools,—but a tall, lean man in Oriental

dress greeted the Athenian with a salaam which showed his own gold

earrings, swarthy skin, and black mustache.

“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 Thasian wine.”

“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.

“_Pheu!_ you don’t pretend Themistocles distrusts you?” cried the Spartan.

“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 opening a door,—all this passed

after the manner of a vision. And as in a vision Democrates saw a stranger

stepping through the inner portal, as at Lycon’s summons—a man of no huge

stature, but masterful in eye and mien. Another Oriental, but not as the

obsequious Hiram. Here was a lord to command and be obeyed. Gems flashed

from the scarlet turban, the green jacket was embroidered with pearls—and

was not half the wealth of Corinth in the jewels studding the sword hilt?

Tight trousers and high shoes of tanned leather set off a form supple and

powerful as a panther’s. Unlike most Orientals the stranger was fair. A

blond beard swept his breast. His eyes were sharp, steel-blue. Never a

word spoke he; but Democrates looked on him with wide eyes, then turned

almost in awe to the Spartan.

“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 closer. Almost involuntarily

Democrates’s hand responded. They clasped tightly; then, as if Lycon

feared a word too much, the unknown released his hold, bowed with

inimitable though silent courtesy, and was gone behind the door whence he

had come.

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 good-humouredly lighted him to the door. “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?

CHAPTER IV

THE PENTATHLON

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 Mantinea. He’s a knavish fellow; his backers are

recalling their bets. But he hopes to win on a trick; beware, lest he trip

you in the foot-race.”

“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

outrun. He anticipated victory as a matter of course, even victory wrested

from Lycon, and his thoughts seemed wandering far from the tawny track

where he must face his foes.

“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 honour, good friends!” 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: line above line, thousand above thousand of

bright-robed spectators, a sea of faces, tossing arms, waving garments. A

thunderous shout rose as the athletes came to view,—jangling, incoherent;

each city cheered its champion and tried to cry down all the rest:

applause, advice, derision. Glaucon heard the derisive hootings, “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,

Shaker of earth and the harvestless sea;

King of wide Ægæ and Helicon gladsome

Twain are the honours high Zeus sheds on thee!

Thine to be lord of the mettlesome chargers,

Thine to be lord of swift ships as they wing!

Guard thou and guide us, dread prince of the billows,

Safe to their homeland, thy suppliants bring;

Faring by land or by clamorous waters

Be thou their way-god to shield, to defend,

Then shall the smoke of a thousand glad altars,

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 cloak and doubtless muttering wise counsel. The

champion was as calm as his friends were nervous. The stadium had grown

oppressively still; then broke into along “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 Athens is second.

Ctesias of Epidaurus throws poorest and drops from the games.”

“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; once it sprang

beyond upon the sand. Mœrocles, who followed, surpassed him. Amyntas was

hardly worse. Glaucon came last, and won his victory with a dexterous

grace that made all but the hottest Laconian swell the “_Io! paian!_” of

applause. His second cast had been into the centre of the target. His

third had splintered his second javelin as it hung quivering.

“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 would strengthen their favourite’s arm. For

the first time attention was centred on the tall “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.

“ ‘Well begun is half done,’ my lad; but the hottest battle is still

before,” said he, trying to cover his own consuming dread.

“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 shoulders were very red. Lycon rose slowly.

All could hear his rage and curses. The heralds ordered him to contain

himself.

“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 Athenian instantly; but Poseidon or

Apollo was with him. His feet dug deep, and found footing. Lycon drew back

baffled, though the clutches of their hands were tightening like vices of

steel. Then again face to face, swaying to and fro, panting, muttering,

while the veins in the bare backs swelled still more.

“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 blood could not stand

such battering long. If Lycon could endure this, there was only one end to

the pentathlon.

“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 Acropolis to give

thanks to Athena. Conon had forgotten how he had disowned his son. Another

beacon glittered from the Acropolis. Another flashed from the lordly crest

of Pentelicus, telling the news to all Attica. There was singing in the

fishers’ boats far out upon the bay. In the goat-herds’ huts on dark

Hymethus the pan-pipes blew right merrily. Athens spent the night in

almost drunken joy. One name was everywhere:—

“Glaucon the Beautiful who honours us all! Glaucon the Fortunate whom the

High Gods love!”

BOOK I

THE SHADOW OF THE PERSIAN

CHAPTER V

HERMIONE OF ELEUSIS

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 fourth side, facing the sea, the dusty road wound east

toward Megara. Here, by the gate, were gathered a rustic company:

brown-faced village lads and lasses, toothless graybeards, cackling old

wives. Above the barred gate swung a festoon of ivy, whilst from within

the court came the squeaking of pipes, the tuning of citharas, and shouted

orders—signs of a mighty bustling. Then even while the company grew, a

half-stripped courier flew up the road and into the gate.

“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 house, and

happy the man who was faring homeward to Eleusis!

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(2) of Eleusis, a pompous worthy, who could hardly

hold his head erect, thanks to an exceeding heavy myrtle wreath. After

him, two by two, the snowy-robed, long-bearded priests of Demeter; behind

these the noisy corps of musicians, and then a host of young men and

women,—bright of eye, graceful of movement,—twirling long chains of ivy,

laurel, and myrtle in time to the music. Palm branches were everywhere.

The procession moved down the road; but even as it left the court a crash

of cymbals through the olive groves answered its uproar. Deep now and

sonorous sounded manly voices as in some triumphal chant. Hermione, as she

stood by the gate, drew closer to her mother. Inflexible Attic custom

seemed to hold her fast. No noblewoman might thrust herself boldly under

the public eye—save at a sacred festival—no, not when the centre of the

gladness was her husband.

“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!

Io! Io, pæan! sing it out on each breeze, each gale!

He has triumphed, our own, our beloved,

Before all the myriad’s ken.

He has met the swift, has proved swifter!

The strong, has proved stronger again!

Now glory to him, to his kinfolk,

To Athens, and all Athens’ men!

Meet, run to meet him,

The nimblest are not too fleet.

Greet him, with raptures greet him,

With songs and with twinkling feet.

He approaches,—throw flowers before him.

Throw poppy and lily and rose;

Blow faster, gay pipers, faster,

Till your mad music throbs and flows,

For his glory and ours flies through Hellas,

Wherever the Sun-King goes.

Io! Io, pæan! crown with laurel and myrtle and pine,

Io, pæan! haste to crown him with olive, Athena’s dark vine.

He is with us, he shines in his beauty;

Oh, joy of his face the first sight;

He has shed on us all his bright honour,

Let High Zeus shed on him his light,

And thou, Pallas, our gray-eyed protectress,

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 commission I give to you. You are my most trusted

lieutenant; I can risk no other. Keep watch, hire spies, scatter

bribe-money. Rest not day nor night to find if Mardonius the Persian

enters Athens. Once in our clutches—and you have done Hellas as fair a

turn as Miltiades at Marathon. You promise it? Give me your hand.”

“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. The whole company escorted the

victor toward Athens. At Daphni, the pass over the hills, the archons and

strategi—highest officials of the state—met them with cavalry and torches

and half of the city trailing at their heels. Twenty cubits of the city

wall were pulled down to make a gate for the triumphal entry. There was

another great feast at the government house. The purse of an hundred

drachmæ, due by law to Isthmian victors, was presented. A street was named

for Glaucon in the new port-town of Peiræus. Simonides recited a triumphal

ode. All Athens, in short, made merry for days. Only one man found it hard

to join the mirth whole-heartedly. And this was the victor’s bosom

friend,—Democrates.

CHAPTER VI

ATHENS

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 ploughing through the multitude with marble for some new

building. Every instant the noise grew. Pandora’s box had opened, and

every clamour had flitted out.

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, water-pots, and basins. Behind, two apprentices whirled the

wheel, another glazed on the black varnish and painted the jars with

little red loves and dancing girls. Clearchus sat on the counter with

three friends,—come not to trade but to barter the latest gossip from the

barber-shops: Agis the sharp, knavish cockpit and gaming-house keeper,

Crito the fat mine-contractor, and finally Polus, gray and pursy, who

“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 ‘_Io, pæan!_’ as loud as the

others when he came back; still I weary of having a man always so

fortunate.”

“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, who is too highly born to be faithful to the

democracy. He carries a Laconian cane,—sure sign of Spartanizing

tendencies. He may conspire any day to become tyrant.”

“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 humourous twinkle. His arms were crusted with brine. To his

waist he was naked. As the friends edged nearer he held up a turbot,

calling for a bid. A clamour answered him. The throng pressed up the

steps, elbowing and scrambling. The competition was keen but good-natured.

Phormio’s broad jests and witticisms—he called all his customers by

name—aided in forcing up the price. The turbot was knocked down to a rich

gentleman’s cook marketing for his master. The pile of fish decreased, the

bidding sharpened. The “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 stretching cords

dusted with red chalk across all exits from the Agora, save that to the

south. Soon the band began contracting its nets and driving a swarm of

citizens toward the remaining exit, for a red chalk-mark on a mantle meant

a fine. Traffic ceased instantly. Thousands crowded the lane betwixt the

temples and porches, seeking the assembly place,—through a narrow,

ill-built way, but the great area of the Pnyx opened before them like the

slopes of some noble theatre.

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 cloaks were black. “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 Pythoness, saying, ‘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;

Wait not the tramp of the horse, nor the footmen mightily moving

Over the land, but turn your back to the foe, and retire ye.

Yet a day shall arrive when ye shall meet him in battle.

Oh, holy Salamis, thou shalt destroy the offspring of women

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 ships. But if we risk a battle,

we are told slaughter and defeat will follow. The god commands, therefore,

that without resistance we quit Attica, gathering our wives, our children,

and our goods, and sail away to some far country.”

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 began to weave his words, one

might have deemed him churlish, nay a fool, but when from his chest came

his deep voice, and words like unto flakes of winter snow, then who could

with him contend?” 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

Though gods may conspire her ill.

The hand that hath borne us up,

It guides us and guards us still.

Athena, the child of Zeus,

She watches and knows no fear.

The city rests safe from harm

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.”

CHAPTER VII

DEMOCRATES AND THE TEMPTER

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 cursing inwardly the “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.”(3)

“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

gymnasium. In an hour the streets would be dark and still, except for a

belated guest going to his banquet, a Scythian constable, or perhaps a

cloak thief. For your Athenian, when he had no supper invitation, went to

bed early and rose early, loving the sunlight far better than the flicker

of his uncertain lamps.

“And did the jury vote ‘guilty’?” was Phormio’s first question of his

brother-in-law.

“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.”

“_Phui!_” almost shouted Phormio, whose sense of humour was keen, “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 the ever smiling Hiram. The Athenian, however, was little

prepared for the luxury, nay splendour, which greeted him, once the

Phœnician had opened the door. The bare chamber had been transformed. The

foot sank into the glowing carpets of Kerman and Bactria. The

gold-embroidered wall tapestries were of Sidonian purple. The divans were

covered with wondrous stuff which Democrates could not name,—another age

would call it silk. A tripod smoked with fragrant Arabian frankincense.

Silver lamps, swinging from silver chains, gave brilliant light. The

Athenian stood wonderbound, until a voice, not Hiram’s, greeted him.

“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, _philotate_,—‘dearest friend,’ as we say in Athens.”

Democrates’s smile was not wholly agreeable.

“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 unfortunate befalls me, or Hiram, or this my slave Smerdis, while

we are in Athens, a letter comes to your noble chief Themistocles from the

banker Pittacus of Argos.”

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 turned furiously on

the Barbarian. “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,’ as you say here in Athens,—I mean, that at the end of

this month you must account to the people for all the money you have

handled, and at this hour are at your wits’ ends to know whence the

repayment will come.”

“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.”

CHAPTER VIII

ON THE ACROPOLIS

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 “_The Rock_,” 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.

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 gnarled hill of Areopagus, home of the Furies, the buzzing

plaza of the Agora, the closely clustered city. Behind, there spread

mountain, valley, plain,—here green, here brown, here golden,—with

Pentelicus the Mighty rearing behind all, his summits fretted white, not

with winter snows, but with lustrous marble. Look to the left: across the

view passes the shaggy ridge of Hymettus, arid and scarred, as if wrought

by the Titans, home only of goats and bees, of nymphs and satyrs.

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 _your_ friend,” corrected Hermione, thinking only of her husband, “for

I have won no pentathlon.”

“Ah, _makaira_, dearest and best,” he answered, looking not on the

glorious citadel but on her face, “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 and there were numerous shrines and small

temples, and a giant altar for burning a hundred oxen. So hand in hand the

twain went to the bronze portal of the Temple. The kindly old priest on

guard smiled as he sprinkled them with the purifying salt water out of the

brazen laver. The door closed behind them. For a moment they seemed to

stand in the high temple in utter darkness. Then far above through the

marble roof a softened light came creeping toward them. As from unfolding

mist, the great calm face of the ancient goddess looked down with its

unchanging smile. A red coal glowed on the tripod at her feet. Glaucon

shook incense over the brazier. While it smoked, Hermione laid the crown

of lilies between the knees of the half-seen image, then her husband

lifted his hands and prayed aloud.

“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, _makaira_, joy,” he cried, “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 _Nausicaä_, the gift of Hermippus to the state,

a princely gift even in days when every Athenian put his all at the public

service. She would be Themistocles’s flag-ship. The young men noted her

fine lines, her heavy side timbers, the covered decks, an innovation in

Athenian men-of-war, and Themistocles put a loving hand on the keen bronze

beak as they swung around the prow.

“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 penteconters behind the heavy triremes. A few more comments

on Xerxes’s probable naval tactics. Only the knowledge that Themistocles

never committed himself in speech or writing without exhausting every

expedient told the young men of the supreme importance of the paper. After

due inspection the statesman replaced it in his breast.

“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 work of God.’ 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(4) in the black old

olives by the stream made its monotonous music, where great fireflies

gleamed, where Philomela the nightingale called, and the tall plane trees

whispered softly to the pines. When Hermione fell asleep, she had

forgotten about the coming of the Persian, and dreamed that Glaucon was

Eros, she was Psyche, and that Zeus was giving her the wings of a

butterfly and a crown of stars.

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.

CHAPTER IX

THE CYPRIAN TRIUMPHS

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 be horrified at the foul

disclosure. He would save his old comrade from death, but their friendship

would be ended. He would feel in duty bound to tell Themistocles enough to

ruin Democrates’s political prospects for all time. An appeal to Glaucon

was therefore dismissed, and the politician looked for more desperate

remedies.

Democrates enjoyed apartments on the street of the Tripods east of the

Acropolis, a fashionable promenade of Athens. He was regarded as a

confirmed bachelor. If, therefore, two or three dark-eyed flute girls in

Phaleron had helped him to part with a good many minæ, no one scolded too

loudly; the thing had been done genteelly and without scandal. Democrates

affected to be a collector of fine arms and armour. The ceiling of his

living room was hung with white-plumed helmets, on the walls glittered

brass greaves, handsomely embossed shields, inlaid Chalcidian scimitars,

and bows tipped with gold. Under foot were expensive rugs. The orator’s

artistic tastes were excellent. Even as he sat in the deeply pillowed

arm-chair his eye lighted on a Nike,—a statuette of the precious

Corinthian bronze, a treasure for which the dealer’s unpaid account lay

still, alas! in the orator’s coffer.

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 Corinth. This, of course, is Themistocles’s,—how

easily I took it! And this—of less value perhaps to a man of the world—is

of my beloved Glaucon. And here are twenty more. Then the papyri,”—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 dinner. The orator drew into a doorway; the others glided by, seeing

nothing. Only when he came opposite the house of the Cyprian he saw light

spreading from the opposite doorway and knew he must pass under curious

eyes. Phormio was entertaining friends very late. But Democrates took

boldness for safety, strode across the illumined ring, and up to the

Cyprian’s stairway. The buzz of conversation stopped a moment. “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, to men of trickery

and guile. The Aryan noble is taught three things: to fear the king, to

bend the bow, to speak the truth. And he learns all well. I have

spoken,—my word is my oath.”

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 drew toward the

door, and the others did not strive to detain him.

“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 out. No one seemed to be watching. On the way

homeward Democrates comforted himself with the reflection that although

the memoranda he sold were genuine, Themistocles often changed his plans,

and he could see to it this scheme for arraying the war fleet was speedily

altered. No real harm then would come to Hellas. And in his hand was the

broken shekel,—the talisman to save him from destruction. Only when

Democrates thought of Glaucon and Hermione he was fain to grit his teeth,

while many times it returned to him, “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 speak them fair?”

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 Lydian at golden Sardis, the Tartar on the arid steppes, the

Hindoo by his sacred river, all send tribute to our king, and Hellas—” 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.”

CHAPTER X

DEMOCRATES RESOLVES

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 fishmonger?” 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 one other solution

possible. If Democrates could discover the confederate _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 _Nausicaä_. You will

join us?”

“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 things were graven on his mind: Sicinnus

was watching, the Babylonian was suspected, Glaucon was implicated and was

sending a letter to Argos.

* * * * * * *

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 gone through three times. Bias could make nothing of it.

Since the day his parents—following the barbarous Thracian custom—had sold

him into slavery and he had passed into Democrates’s service, the lad had

never seen his master acting thus.

“Clearly the _kyrios_ is mad,” 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-chafer(5) and watching its vain efforts at

flight. Yet had he continued his eavesdropping he might have found—if not

the key to all Democrates’s doings—at least a partial explanation. For the

fourth time the papyrus had been written, for the fourth time the orator

had torn it up. Then his eyes went down to the lump of clay before him on

the table.

“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 so unmerciful! It would be a

terrible death to die,—and every man is justified in shunning death.”

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 wretchedness he watched the throng beneath the window,

pannier-laden asses, venders of hot sausage with their charcoal stoves and

trays, youths going to and from the gymnasium, slaves returning from

market. How long he stood thus, wretched, helpless, he did not know. At

last he stirred himself.

“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 but Hermes the Guileful

sent it. He will be with me. She is Glaucon’s wife. But if not his, whose

then but mine? I will do the deed to the uttermost. The god is with me.”

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-morrow or all is lost.

The confusion accompanying the festival will then make escape easy. The

man to whom I entrust this letter will devise with Hiram the means for

your flight by ship from the havens. May our paths never cross

again!—_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

We prostrate the man,

Who with smooth-woven wile,

And a fair-facèd smile

Hath planted a snare for his friend.

Though fleet, we shall find him;

Though strong, we shall bind him,

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 would help him. When the song of

the Furies grew too loud, Democrates silenced it by summoning back

Hermione’s face and asking one triumphant question:—

“She is Glaucon’s wife. But if not his, whose then but mine?”

CHAPTER XI

THE PANATHENÆA

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.”

“_Ai!_ ah!” Polus rubbed his eyes, “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, Glaucon, and many another youth of the

noble houses of Athens. At sight of the son of Conon, Polus had wagged his

head in a manner utterly perplexing to his associates, and they were again

perplexed when they saw Democrates wheel back from the side of his chief

and run up for a hurried word with a man in the crowd they recognized as

Agis.

“Agis is a strange fish to have dealings with a ‘steward’ of the

procession to-day,” wondered Crito.

“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.”

“_Phui_,” complained Clearchus, “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,’ ”(6) growled the juror, viciously;

“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

glad, sweeping in bright array across the welcoming city. Nor can the

sculptor’s marble shape the marching forms, the rippling draperies, the

warm and buoyant life. The life of Athens was the crown of Greece. The

festival of the Panathenæa was the crown of Athens.

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 were some of the pictures. The car moved noiselessly on

wheels turned by concealed mechanism. Under the shadow of the sail walked

the fairest of its makers, eight women, maids and young matrons, clothed

in white mantles and wreaths, going with stately tread, unmoved by the

shouting as though themselves divine. Seven walked together. But one,

their leader, went before,—Hermione, child of Hermippus.

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. Suddenly from the bastion of the

Acropolis above wafted new music. Low, melancholy at first, as the pipers

and harpers played in the dreamy Lydian mode, till, strengthening into the

bolder Æolic, the strains floated down, inviting, “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,

Thy praise I sing!

Steadfast, all holy, sure ward of our city,

Triton-born rule whom High Zeus doth bring

Forth from his forehead.

Thou springest forth valiant;

The clangour swells far as thy direful arms ring.

“All the Immortals in awed hush are bending,

Beautiful, terrible, thy light thou’rt sending

Flashed from thine eyes and thy pitiless spear.

Under thy presence Olympus is groaning,

Earth heaves in terrors, the blue deeps are moaning;

‘Wisdom, the All-Seeing Goddess is here!’

“Now the sea motionless freezes before thee;

Helios, th’ Sun-Lord, draws rein to adore thee;

Whilst thou, O Queen, puttest on divine might.

Zeus, the deep-councillor, gladly greets thee!

Hail, Holy Virgin—our loud pæan meets 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 fanes and altars, the assembly of

singers and priests, the great temple in its pride of glittering marble.

Clearer, stronger sounded the choral, shot up through the limpid azure;

swaying, burning, throbbing, sobs and shouting, tears and transports, so

mounted new strains of the mighty chorus, lit through with the flames of

Homeric verse. Then stronger yet was the mingling of voices, earth, sky,

deep, beasts’ cry and gods’ cry, all voiced, as chorus answered to chorus.

Now the peplus was wafted on a wave of song toward the temple’s

dawn-facing portal, when from beneath the columns, as the tall valves

turned and the sun leaped into the cella, hidden voices returned the

former strains—mournful at first. Out of the adytum echoed a cry of

anguish, the lament of the Mother of Wisdom at her children’s deathly

ignorance, which plucks them down from the Mount of the Beautiful Vision.

But as the thousands neared, as its pæans became a prayer, as yearning

answered to yearning, lo! the hidden song swelled and soared,—for the

goddess looked for her own, and her own were come to her. And thus in

beneath the massy pediment, in through the wide-flung doors, floated the

peplus, while under its guardian shadow walked Hermione.

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 all favour. After her came the

makers of the peplus, and Hermione rejoined her husband.

“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—was well able to

dispense with companionship, being, in the words of Theognis, “not

absolutely drunk, nor sober quite.” Thus husband and wife found themselves

alone together on the marble bench beneath the old cypress.

“Oh, _makaire_! dearest and best,” asked Hermione, her hands touching his

face, “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 Hermippus, “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.

CHAPTER XII

A TRAITOR TO HELLAS

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, who, watching all his

lieutenant did, bent and seized it instantly; then it dropped from his

hands as a live coal.

“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 Babylonish carpet-seller, name unknown, who had

lodgings above Demas’s shield factory in Alopece.”

“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.

“_Ai_,” cried the accused, shrinking. “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 you, Hermippus?” 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 clamoured frantically; “every

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(7)

issue their hue and cry. If they take him, let the law deal with him. Till

then give respite.”

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.

CHAPTER XIII

THE DISLOYALTY OF PHORMIO

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, _philotata_,”—Lampaxo’s

skinny hand had tried to restrain. “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 newcomer’s lips. The fiery liquor sent the colour back into

Glaucon’s face. He raised himself higher—strength and mind in a measure

returned. Bias had whispered to Phormio rapidly. Perhaps he had guessed

more of his master’s doings than he had dared to hint before.

“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.

“Nevertheless, try to tell what you can,” 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.

“_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—” He rose. A

desperate purpose made his feet steady.

“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 _Solon_, and owes a good turn—”

Quick strides took him to a chest. He dragged forth a sleeveless sailor’s

cloak of hair-cloth. To fling this over Glaucon’s rent chiton took an

instant, another instant to clap on the fugitive’s head a brimless red

cap.

“_Euge!_—you grow transformed. But that white face of yours is dangerous.

See!” he rubbed over the Alcmæonid’s face two handfuls of black ashes

snatched from the hearth and sprang back with a great laugh, “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_, whether your love for Athens is so great you must go to the

Archon to denounce your husband.”

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!

Taller than a mighty man,

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 merchantman was loading her cargo of pottery crates and

oil jars,—to sail with the morning breeze. Swarthy shipmen ran up and down

the planks betwixt quay and ship, balancing their heavy jars on their

heads as women bear water-pots. From the tavern by the mooring came

harping and the clatter of cups, while two women—the worse for wine—ran

out to drag the newcomers in to their revel. Phormio slapped the slatterns

aside with his staff. In the same fearful waking dream Glaucon saw Phormio

demanding the shipmaster. He saw Brasidas—a short man with the face of a

hound and arms to hug like a bear—in converse with the fishmonger, saw the

master at first refusing, then gradually giving reluctant assent to some

demand. Next Phormio was half leading, half carrying the fugitive aboard

the ship, guiding him through a labyrinth of bales, jars, and cordage, and

pointing to a hatchway ladder, illumined by a swinging lantern.

“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.”

“_Phui!_” answered Phormio, with a shrug; “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 _Solon’s_ square mainsail caught the breeze from the warm

southwest. The hill of Munychia and the ports receded. The panorama of

Athens—plain, city, citadel, gray Hymettus, white Pentelicus—spread in a

vista of surpassing beauty—so at least to the eyes of the outlaw when he

clambered to the poop. As the ship ran down the low coast, land and sea

seemed clothed with a robe of rainbow-woven light. Far, near,—islands,

mountains, and deep were burning with saffron, violet, and rose, as the

Sun-God’s car climbed higher above the burning path it marked across the

sea. Glaucon saw all in clear relief,—the Acropolis temple where he had

prayed, the Pnyx and Areopagus, the green band of the olive groves, even

the knoll of Colonus,—where he had left his all. Never had he loved Athens

more than now. Never had she seemed fairer to his eyes than now. He was a

Greek, and to a Greek death was only by one stage a greater ill than

exile.

“O Athena Polias,” he cried, stretching his hands to the fading beauty,

“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 _Solon_ rounded the cape. The headland concealed the city. The

Saronian bay opened into the deeper blue of the Ægean and its sprinkling

of brown islands. Glaucon looked eastward and strove to forget Attica.

* * * * * * *

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.

CHAPTER XIV

MARDONIUS THE PERSIAN

Off Andros the northern gale smote them. The ship had driven helplessly.

Off Tenos only the skill of Brasidas kept the _Solon_ clear of the rocky

shores.

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 _Solon_, however, was near her doom. She was built on the Samian

model, broad, flat, high in poop, low in prow,—excellent for cargo, but

none too seaworthy. The foresail blew in tatters. The closely brailed

mainsail shook the weakened mast. The sailors had dropped their quaint

oaths, and began to pray—sure proof of danger. The dozen passengers seemed

almost too panic-stricken to aid in flinging the cargo overboard. Several

were raving.

“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 _Solon_ lurched.

The wind smote the straining mainsail, and the shivered mainmast tore from

its stays and socket. Above the bawling of wind and water sounded the

crash. The ship, with only a small sail upon the poop, blew about into the

trough of the sea. A mountain of green water thundered over the prow,

bearing away men and wreckage. The “governor,” Brasidas’s mate, flung away

the last steering tiller.

“The _Solon_ is dying, men,” he trumpeted through his hands. “To the boat!

Save who can!”

The pinnace set in the waist was cleared away by frantic hands and axes.

Ominous rumblings from the hold told how the undergirding could not keep

back the water. The pinnace was dragged to the ship’s lee and launched in

the comparative calm of the _Solon’s_ broadside. Pitifully small was the

boat for five and twenty. The sailors, desperate and selfish, leaped in

first, and watched with jealous eyes the struggles of the passengers to

follow. The noisy merchant slipped in the leap, and they heard him scream

once as the wave swallowed him. Brasidas stood in the bow of the pinnace,

clutching a sword to cut the last rope. The boat filled to the gunwales.

The spray dashed into her. The sailors bailed with their caps. Another

passenger leaped across, whereat the men yelled and drew their dirks.

“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 _Solon_ and the

pinnace asunder. With stolid resignation the Orientals retreated to the

poop. The people in the pinnace rowed desperately to keep her out of the

deadly trough of the billows, but Glaucon stood erect on the drifting

wreck and his voice rang through the tumult of the sea.

“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 _Solon_ had settled lower. Every wave washed across the waist.

Nothing seemed to meet his gaze save the leaden sky, the leaden green

water, the foam of the bounding storm-crests. He told himself the gods

were good. Drowning was more merciful death than hemlock. Pelagos, the

untainted sea, was a softer grave than the Barathrum. The memory of the

fearful hour at Colonus, the vision of the face of Hermione, of all things

else that he would fain forget—all these would pass. For what came after

he cared nothing.

So for some moments he stood, clinging upon the poop, awaiting the end.

But the end came slowly. The _Solon_ was a stoutly timbered ship. Much of

her lading had been cast overboard, but more remained and gave buoyancy to

the wreckage. And as the Athenian awaited, almost impatiently, the final

disaster, something called his eye away from the heaving sky-line. Human

life was still about him. Wedged in a refuge, betwixt two capstans, the

Orientals were sitting, awaiting doom like himself. But wonder of

wonders,—he had not relaxed his hold on life too much to marvel,—the

younger Barbarian was beyond all doubt a woman. She sat in her companion’s

lap, lifting her white face to his, and Glaucon knew she was of wondrous

beauty. They were talking together in some Eastern speech. Their arms were

closely twined. It was plain they were passing the last love messages

before entering the great mystery together. Of Glaucon they took no heed.

And he at first was almost angered that strangers should intrude upon this

last hour of life. But as he looked, as he saw the beauty of the woman,

the sheen of her golden hair, the interchange of love by touch and

word,—there came across his own spirit a most unlooked-for change.

Suddenly the white-capped billows seemed pitiless and chill. The warm joy

of life returned. Again memory surged back, but without its former pang.

He saw again the vision of Athens, of Colonus, of Eleusis-by-the-Sea. He

saw Hermione running through the throng to meet him the day he returned

from the Isthmia. He heard the sweet wind singing over the old olives

beside the cool Cephissus. Must these all pass forever? forever? Were

life, friends, love, the light of the sun, eternally lost, and nothing

left save the endless sleep in the unsunned caves of Oceanus? With one

surge the desire to live, to bear hard things, to conquer them, returned.

He dashed the water from his eyes. What he did next was more by instinct

than by reason. He staggered across the reeling deck, approached the

Barbarians, and seized the man by the arm.

“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

sail-cloth drifting from the mast, climbed beside it, and sat astride. The

Athenian sprang at the next favoring wave. His burden made the task hard,

but his stadium training never stood in better stead. The cold water

closed around him. The wave dragged down in its black abyss, but he struck

boldly upward, was beside the friendly spar, and the Barbarian aided him

to mount beside him, then cut the lashings to the _Solon_ with the dagger

that still dangled at his belt. The billows swept them away just as the

wreck reared wildly, and bow foremost plunged into the deep. They bound

the woman—she was hardly conscious now—into the little shelter formed by

the junction of the broken sail-yard and the mast. The two men sat beside

her, shielding her with their bodies from the beat of the spray. Speech

was all but impossible. They were fain to close their eyes and pray to be

delivered from the unceasing screaming of the wind, the howling of the

waters. And so for hours....

Glaucon never knew how long they thus drifted. The _Solon_ had been

smitten very early in the morning. She had foundered perhaps at noon. It

may have been shortly before sunset—though Helios never pierced the clouds

that storm-racked day—when Glaucon knew that the Barbarian was speaking to

him.

“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 heart

still fluttered. She could not endure the surge and the suffocating spray

much longer. The two men sat in silence, but their eyes went out hungrily

toward the stretch of brown as it lifted above the wave crests. The last

moments of the desperate voyage crept by like the pangs of Tantalus.

Slowly they saw unfolding the fog-clothed mountains, a forest, scattered

bits of white they knew were stuccoed houses; but while their eyes brought

joy, their ears brought sadness. The booming of the surf upon an outlying

ledge grew ever clearer. Almost ere they knew it the drifting mast was

stayed with a shock. They saw two rocks swathed in dripping weed that

crusted with knife-like barnacles, thrust their black heads out of the

boiling water. And beyond—fifty paces away—the breakers raced up the sandy

shore where waited refuge.

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 _Solon_,—his would

have been an easier death. Glaucon laid his mouth to the man’s ear.

“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 almost

dragged him downward. Then the soft sand was oozing round his feet. He

knew a knot of fisher folk were running to the beach, a dozen hands took

his fainting burden from him. One instant he stood with the water rushing

about his ankles, gasped and drew long breaths, then turned his face

toward the sea.

“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 while consciousness

and strength seemed passing together, again beneath his feet were the

shifting sands, again the voices encouraging, the hands outstretched,

strange forms running down into the surf, strange faces all around him.

They were bearing him and the Barbarian high upon the beach. They laid him

on the hard, wet sand—never a bed more welcome. He was naked. His feet and

hands bled from the tearing of stones and barnacles. His head was in fever

glow. Dimly he knew the Barbarian was approaching him.

“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 _Solon_,—the only ones to escape the swamping of the

pinnace. Their story cleared up the mystery of the fate of “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 everybody praised Democrates for saving

the state from a fearful peril. As for Hermione, her father took her to

Eleusis that she might be free from the hoots of the people. Themistocles

went about his business very sorrowful. Cimon lost half his gayety.

Democrates, too, appeared terribly worn. “How 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.

BOOK II

THE COMING OF THE PERSIAN