THE DARKEST HOUR
A city of two hundred thousand awaiting a common sentence of death,—such
seemed the doom of Athens.
Every morning the golden majesty of the sun rose above the wall of
Hymettus, but few could lift their hands to Lord Helios and give praise
for another day of light. “Each sunrise brings Xerxes nearer.” The bravest
forgot not that.
Yet Athens was never more truly the “Violet-Crowned City” than on these
last days before the fearful advent. The sun at morn on Hymettus, the sun
at night on Daphni, the nightingales and cicadas in the olives by
Cephissus, the hum of bees on the sweet thyme of the mountain, the purple
of the hills, the blue and the fire of the bay, the merry tinkle of the
goat bells upon the rocks, the laugh of little children in the streets—all
these made Athens fair, but could not take the cloud from the hearts of
the people.
Trade was at standstill in the Agora. The most careless frequented the
temples. Old foes composed their cases before the arbitrator. The courts
were closed, but there was meeting after meeting in the Pnyx, with
incessant speeches on one theme—how Athens must resist to the bitter end.
And why should not the end be bitter? Argos and Crete had Medized. Corcyra
promised and did nothing. Thebes was weakening. Thessaly had sent earth
and water. Corinth, Ægina, and a few lesser states were moderately loyal,
but great Sparta only procrastinated and despatched no help to her
Athenian ally. So every day the Persian thunder-cloud was darkening.
But one man never faltered, nor suffered others about him to
falter,—Themistocles. The people heard him gladly—he would never talk of
defeat. He had a thousand reasons why the invader should be baffled, from
a convenient hexameter in old Bacis’s oracle book, up to the fact that the
Greeks used the longest spears. If he found it weary work looking the
crowding peril in the face and smiling still, he never confessed it. His
friends would marvel at his serenity. Only when they saw him sit silent,
saw his brows knit, his hand comb at his beard, they knew his
inexhaustible brain was weaving the web which should ensnare the lord of
the Aryans.
Thus day after day—while men thought dark things in their hearts.
* * * * * * *
Hermippus had come down to his city house from Eleusis, and with him his
wife and daughter. The Eleusinian was very busy. He was a member of the
Areopagus, the old council of ex-archons, an experienced body that found
much to do. Hermippus had strained his own resources to provide shields
for the hoplites. He was constantly with Themistocles, which implied being
much with Democrates. The more he saw of the young orator, the better the
Eleusinian liked him. True, not every story ran to Democrates’s credit,
but Hermippus knew the world, and could forgive a young man if he had
occasionally spent a jolly night. Democrates seemed to have forsworn
Ionian harp-girls now. His patriotism was self-evident. The Eleusinian saw
in him a most desirable protector in the perils of war for Hermione and
her child. Hermione’s dislike for her husband’s destroyer was
natural,—nay, in bounds, laudable,—but one must not give way too much to
women’s phantasies. The lady was making a Cyclops of Democrates by sheer
imagination; an interview would dispel her prejudices. Therefore Hermippus
planned, and his plan was not hard to execute.
On the day the fleet sailed to Artemisium, Hermione went with her mother
to the havens, as all the city went, to wish godspeed to the “wooden wall”
of Hellas.
One hundred and twenty-seven triremes were to go forth, and three and
fifty to follow, bearing the best and bravest of Athens with them.
Themistocles was in absolute command, and perhaps in his heart of hearts
Democrates was not mournful if it lay out of his power to do a second
ill-turn to his country.
It was again summer, and again such a day as when Glaucon with glad
friends had rowed toward Salamis. The Saronian bay flashed fairest azure.
The scattered isles and the headlands of Argolis rose in clear beauty. The
city had emptied itself. Mothers hung on the necks of sons as the latter
strode toward Peiræus; friends clasped hands for the last time as he who
remained promised him who went that the wife and little ones should never
be forgotten. Only Hermione, as she stood on the hill of Munychia above
the triple havens, shed no tear. The ship bearing her all was gone long
since. Themistocles would never lead it back. Hermippus was at the quay in
Peiræus, taking leave of the admiral. Old Cleopis held the babe as
Hermione stood by her mother. The younger woman had suffered her gaze to
wander to far Ægina, where a featherlike cloud hung above the topmost
summit of the isle, when her mother’s voice called her back.
“They go.”
A line of streamers blew from the foremast of the _Nausicaä_ as the piper
on the flag-ship gave the time to the oars. The triple line of blades,
pumiced white, splashed with a steady rhythm. The long black hull glided
away. The trailing line of consorts swiftly followed. From the hill and
the quays a shout uprose from the thousands, to be answered by the
fleet,—a cheer or a prayer to sea-ruling Poseidon those who gave it hardly
knew. The people stood silent till the last dark hull crept around the
southern headland; then, still in silence, the multitudes dissolved. The
young and the strong had gone from them. For Athens this was the beginning
of the war.
Hermione and Lysistra awaited Hermippus before setting homeward, but the
Eleusinian was delayed. The fleet had vanished. The havens were empty. In
Cleopis’s arms little Phœnix wept. His mother was anxious to be gone, when
she was surprised to see a figure climbing the almost deserted slope. A
moment more and she was face to face with Democrates, who advanced
outstretching his hand and smiling.
The orator wore the dress of his new office of strategus. The purple-edged
cloak, the light helmet wreathed with myrtle, the short sword at his side,
all became him well. If there were deeper lines about his face than on the
day Hermione last saw him, even an enemy would confess a leader of the
Athenians had cause to be thoughtful. He was cordially greeted by Lysistra
and seemed not at all abashed that Hermione gave only a sullen nod. From
the ladies he turned with laughter to Cleopis and her burden.
“A new Athenian!” spoke he, lightly, “and I fear Xerxes will have been
chased away before he has a chance to prove his valour. But fear not,
there will be more brave days in store.”
Hermione shook her head, ill-pleased.
“Blessed be Hera, my babe is too young to know aught of wars. And if we
survive this one, will not just Zeus spare us from further bloodshed?”
Democrates, without answering, approached the nurse, and Phœnix—for
reasons best known to himself—ceased lamenting and smiled up in the
orator’s face.
“His mother’s features and eyes,” cried Democrates. “I swear it—ay, by all
Athena’s owls—that young Hermes when he lay in Maia’s cave on Mt. Cylene
was not finer or lustier than he. His mother’s face and eyes, I say.”
“His father’s,” corrected Hermione. “Is not his name Phœnix? In him will
not Glaucon the Beautiful live again? Will he not grow to man’s estate to
avenge his murdered father?” The lady spoke without passion, but with a
cold bitterness that made Democrates cease from smiling. He turned away
from the babe.
“Forgive me, dear lady,” he answered her, “I am wiser at ruling the
Athenians than at ruling children, but I see nothing of Glaucon about the
babe, though much of his beautiful mother.”
“You had once a better memory, Democrates,” said Hermione, reproachfully.
“I do not understand your Ladyship.”
“I mean that Glaucon has been dead one brief year. Can you forget _his_
face in so short a while?”
But here Lysistra interposed with all good intent.
“You are fond and foolish, Hermione, and like all young mothers are
enraged if all the world does not see his father’s image in their
first-born.”
“Democrates knows what I would say,” said the younger woman, soberly.
“Since your Ladyship is pleased to speak in riddles and I am no seer nor
oracle-monger, I must confess I cannot follow. But we will contend no more
concerning little Phœnix. Enough that he will grow up fair as the Delian
Apollo and an unspeakable joy to his mother.”
“Her only joy,” was Hermione’s icy answer. “Wrap up the child, Cleopis. My
father is coming. It is a long walk home to the city.”
With a rustle of white Hermione went down the slope in advance of her
mother. Hermippus and Lysistra were not pleased. Plainly their daughter
kept all her prejudice against Democrates. Her cold contempt was more
disappointing even than open fury.
Once at home Hermione held little Phœnix long to her heart and wept over
him. For the sake of her dead husband’s child, if for naught else, how
could she suffer them to give her to Democrates? That the orator had
destroyed Glaucon in black malice had become a corner-stone in her belief.
She could at first give for it only a woman’s reason—blind intuition. She
could not discuss her conviction with her mother or with any save a
strange confidant—Phormio.
She had met the fishmonger in the Agora once when she went with the slaves
to buy a mackerel. The auctioneer had astonished everybody by knocking
down to her a noble fish an obol under price, then under pretext of
showing her a rare Bœotian eel got her aside into his booth and whispered
a few words that made the red and white come and go from her cheeks, after
which the lady’s hand went quickly to her purse, and she spoke quick words
about “the evening” and “the garden gate.”
Phormio refused the drachma brusquely, but kept the tryst. Cleopis had the
key to the garden, and would contrive anything for her mistress—especially
as all Athens knew Phormio was harmless save with his tongue. That evening
for the first time Hermione heard the true story of Glaucon’s escape by
the _Solon_, but when the fishmonger paused she hung down her head closer.
“You saved him, then? I bless you. But was the sea more merciful than the
executioner?”
The fishmonger let his voice fall lower.
“Democrates is unhappy. Something weighs on his mind. He is afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Bias his slave came to see me again last night. Many of his master’s
doings have been strange to him. Many are riddles still, but one thing at
last is plain. Hiram has been to see Democrates once more, despite the
previous threats. Bias listened. He could not understand everything, but
he heard Lycon’s name passed many times, then one thing he caught clearly.
‘_The Babylonish carpet-seller was the Prince Mardonius._’ ‘The Babylonian
fled on the _Solon_.’ ‘The Prince is safe in Sardis.’ If Mardonius could
escape the storm and wreck, why not Glaucon, a king among swimmers?”
Hermione clapped her hands to her head.
“Don’t torture me. I’ve long since trodden out hope. Why has he sent me no
word in all these months of pain?”
“It is not the easiest thing to get a letter across the Ægean in these
days of roaring war.”
“I dare not believe it. What else did Bias hear?”
“Very little. Hiram was urging something. Democrates always said,
‘Impossible.’ Hiram went away with a very sour grin. However, Democrates
caught Bias lurking.”
“And flogged him?”
“No, Bias ran into the street and cried out he would flee to the Temple of
Theseus, the slave’s sanctuary, and demand that the archon sell him to a
kinder master. Then suddenly Democrates forgave him and gave him five
drachmæ to say no more about it.”
“And so Bias at once told you?” Hermione could not forbear a smile, but
her gesture was of desperation. “O Father Zeus—only the testimony of a
slave to lean on, I a weak woman and Democrates one of the chief men in
Athens! O for strength to wring out all the bitter truth!”
“Peace, _kyria_,” said Phormio, not ungently, “Aletheia, Mistress Truth,
is a patient dame, but she says her word at last. And you see that hope is
not quite dead.”
“I dare not cherish it. If I were but a man!” repeated Hermione. But she
thanked Phormio many times, would not let him refuse her money, and bade
him come often again and bring her all the Agora gossip about the war.
“For we are friends,” she concluded; “you and I are the only persons who
hold Glaucon innocent in all the world. And is that not tie enough?”
So Phormio came frequently, glad perhaps to escape the discipline of his
spouse. Now he brought a rumour of Xerxes’s progress, now a bit of Bias’s
tattling about his master. The talebearing counted for little, but went to
make Hermione’s conviction like adamant. Every night she would speak over
Phœnix as she held him whilst he slept.
“Grow fast, _makaire_, grow strong, for there is work for you to do! Your
father cries, ‘Avenge me well,’ even from Hades.”
* * * * * * *
After the departure of the fleet Athens seemed silent as the grave. On the
streets one met only slaves and graybeards. In the Agora the hucksters’
booths were silent, but little groups of white-headed men sat in the
shaded porticos and watched eagerly for the appearing of the archon before
the government house to read the last despatch of the progress of Xerxes.
The Pnyx was deserted. The gymnasia were closed. The more superstitious
scanned the heavens for a lucky or unlucky flight of hawks. The
priestesses sang litanies all day and all night on the Acropolis where the
great altar to Athena smoked with victims continually. At last, after the
days of uncertainty and wavering rumour, came surer tidings of battles.
“Leonidas is fighting at Thermopylæ. The fleets are fighting at
Artemisium, off Eubœa. The first onsets of the Barbarians have failed, but
nothing is decided.”
This was the substance, and tantalizingly meagre. And the strong army of
Sparta and her allies still tarried at the Isthmus instead of hasting to
aid the pitiful handful at Thermopylæ. Therefore the old men wagged their
heads, the altars were loaded with victims, and the women wept over their
children.
So ended the first day after news came of the fighting. The second was
like it—only more tense. Hermione never knew that snail called time to
creep more slowly. Never had she chafed more against the iron custom which
commanded Athenian gentlewomen to keep, tortoise-like, at home in days of
distress and tumult. On the evening of the second day came once more the
dusty courier. Leonidas was holding the gate of Hellas. The Barbarians had
perished by thousands. At Artemisium, Themistocles and the allied Greek
admirals were making head against the Persian armadas. But still nothing
was decided. Still the Spartan host lingered at the Isthmus, and Leonidas
must fight his battle alone. The sun sank that night with tens of
thousands wishing his car might stand fast. At gray dawn Athens was awake
and watching. Men forgot to eat, forgot to drink. One food would have
contented—news!
* * * * * * *
It was about noon—“the end of market time,” had there been any market then
at Athens—when Hermione knew by instinct that news had come from the
battle and that it was evil. She and her mother had sat since dawn by the
upper window, craning forth their heads up the street toward the Agora,
where they knew all couriers must hasten. Along the street in all the
houses other women were peering forth also. When little Phœnix cried in
his cradle, his mother for the first time in his life almost angrily bade
him be silent. Cleopis, the only one of the fluttering servants who went
placidly about the wonted tasks, vainly coaxed her young mistress with
figs and a little wine. Hermippus was at the council. The street, save for
the leaning heads of the women, was deserted. Then suddenly came a change.
First a man ran toward the Agora, panting,—his himation blew from his
shoulders, he never stopped to recover it. Next shouts, scattered in the
beginning, then louder, and coming not as a roar but as a wailing, rising,
falling like the billows of the howling sea,—as if the thousands in the
market-place groaned in sore agony. Shrill and hideous they rose, and a
hand of ice fell on the hearts of the listening women. Then more runners,
until the street seemed alive by magic, slaves and old men all crowding to
the Agora. And still the shout and ever more dreadful. The women leaned
from the windows and cried vainly to the trampling crowd below.
“Tell us! In the name of Athena, tell us!” No answer for long, till at
last a runner came not toward the Agora but from it. They had hardly need
to hear what he was calling.
“Leonidas is slain. Thermopylæ is turned! Xerxes is advancing!”
Hermione staggered back from the lattice. In the cradle Phœnix awoke;
seeing his mother bending over him, he crowed cheerily and flung his
chubby fists in her face. She caught him up and again could not fight the
tears away.
“Glaucon! Glaucon!” she prayed,—for her husband was all but a deity in her
sight,—“hear us wherever you are, even if in the blessed land of
Rhadamanthus. Take us thither, your child and me, for there is no peace or
shelter left on earth!”
Then, seeing her panic-stricken women flying hither and thither like
witless birds, her patrician blood asserted itself. She dashed the drops
from her eyes and joined her mother in quieting the maids. Whatever there
was to hope or fear, their fate would not be lightened by wild moaning.
Soon the direful wailing from the Agora ceased. A blue flag waved over the
Council House, a sign that the “Five Hundred” had been called in hurried
session. Simultaneously a dense column of smoke leaped up from the
market-place. The archons had ordered the hucksters’ booths to be burned,
as a signal to all Attica that the worst had befallen.
After inexpressibly long waiting Phormio came, then Hermippus, to tell all
they knew. Leonidas had perished gloriously. His name was with the
immortals, but the mountain wall of Hellas had been unlocked. No Spartan
army was in Bœotia. The bravest of Athens were in the fleet. The easy
Attic passes of Phyle and Decelea could never be defended. Nothing could
save Athens from Xerxes. The calamity had been foreseen, but to foresee is
not to realize. That night in Athens no man slept.