“For your part, excellent Tigranes, you must avoid the Hellenic ships at

Delos and come back to Mardonius with your fleet ready to second him at

once after his victory, which will be speedy; then with your aid he can

readily turn the wall at the Isthmus. I send also letters written, as it

were, in the hand of Themistocles. See that they fall into the hands of

the other Greek admirals. They will breed more hurt amongst the Hellenes

than you can accomplish with all your ships. I send, likewise, lists of

such Athenians and Spartans as are friendly to his Majesty, also memoranda

of such secret plans of the Greeks as have come to my knowledge.

“From Trœzene, given into the hands of Hiram on the second of

Metageitnion, in the archonship of Xanthippus. _Chaire!_”

Themistocles ceased. No man spoke a word. It was as if a god had flung a

bolt from heaven. What use to cry against it? Then, in an ominously low

voice, Simonides asked a question.

“What are these letters which purport to come from your pen,

Themistocles?”

The admiral unrolled another papyrus, and as he looked thereon his fine

face contracted with loathing.

“Let another read. I am made to pour contempt and ridicule upon my

fellow-captains. I am made to boast ‘when the war ends, I will be tyrant

of Athens.’ A thousand follies and wickednesses are put in my mouth. Were

this letter true, I were the vilest wretch escaping Orcus. Since forged—”

his hands clinched—“by that man, that man whom I have trusted, loved,

cherished, called ‘younger brother,’ ‘oldest son’—” He spat in rising fury

and was still.

“ ‘Fain would I grip his liver in my teeth,’ ” cried the little poet, even

in storm and stress not forgetting his Homer. And the howl from the

man-of-war’s men was as the howl of beasts desiring their prey. But the

admiral’s burst of anger ended. He stood again an image of calm power. The

voice that had charmed the thousands rang forth in its strength and

sweetness.

“Men of Athens, this is no hour for windy rage. Else I should rage the

most, for who is more wronged than I? One whom we loved is fallen—later

let us weep for him. One whom we trusted is false—later punish him. But

now the work is neither to weep nor to punish, but to save Hellas. A great

battle impends in Bœotia. Except the Zeus of our sires and Athena of the

Pure Eyes be with us, we are men without home, without fatherland.

Pausanias and Aristeides must be warned. The _Nausicaä_ is the

‘Salaminia,’—the swiftest trireme in the fleet. Ours must be the deed, and

ours the glory. Enough of this—the men must hear, and then to the oars.”

Themistocles had changed from despair to a triumph note. There was uplift

even to look upon him. He strode before all his lieutenants up and out

upon the poop. The long tiers of benches and the gangways filled with

rowers peered up at him. They had seen their officers gather in the cabin,

and Dame Rumour, subtlest of Zeus’s messengers, had breathed

“ill-tidings.” Now the admiral stood forth, and in few words told all the

heavy tale. Again a great shout, whilst the bronzed men groaned on the

benches.

“Democrates is a traitor!”

A deity had fallen from their Olympus; the darling of the Athenians’s

democracy was sunk to vilest of the vile. But the admiral knew how to play

on their two hundred hearts better than Orpheus upon his lyre. Again the

note changed from despair to incitement, and when at last he called, “And

can we cross the Ægean as never trireme crossed and pluck back Hellas from

her fate?” thalamite, zygite, and thranite rose, tossing their brawny arms

into the air.

“_We can!_”

Then Themistocles folded his own arms and smiled. He felt the god was

still with him.

* * * * * * *

Yet, eager as was the will, they could not race forth instantly. Orders

must be written to Xanthippus, the Athenian vice-admiral far away, bidding

him at all hazards to keep the Persian fleet near Samos. Cimon was long in

privy council with Themistocles in the state cabin. At the same time a

prisoner was passed aboard the _Nausicaä_, not gently bound,—Hiram, a

precious witness, before the dogs had their final meal on him. But the

rest of the _Bozra’s_ people found a quicker release. The penteconter’s

people decided their fate with a yell.

“Sell such harpies for slaves? The money would stink through our pouches!”

So two by two, tied neck to neck and heel to heel, the wretches were flung

overboard, “because we lack place and wood to crucify you,” called the

_Nausicaä’s_ governor, as he pushed the last pair off into the leaden

sea,—for the day was distant when the destruction of such Barbarian rogues

would weigh even on tender consciences.

So the Carthaginians ceased from troubling, but before the penteconter and

the _Bozra_ bore away to join the remaining fleet, another deed was done

in sight of all three ships. For whilst Themistocles was with Cimon,

Simonides and Sicinnus had taken Glaucon to the _Nausicaä’s_ forecastle.

Now as the penteconter was casting off, again he came to view, and the

shout that greeted him was not of fear this time, but wonder and delight.

The Alcmæonid was clean-shaven, his hair clipped close, the black dye even

in a manner washed away. He had flung off the rough seaman’s dress, and

stood forth in all his godlike beauty.

Before all men Cimon, coming from the cabin, ran and kissed him once more,

whilst the rowers clapped their hands.

“Apollo—it is Delian Apollo! Glaucon the Beautiful lives again. _Io! Io!

pæan!_”

“Yes,” spoke Themistocles, in a burst of gladness. “The gods take one

friend, they restore another. Œdipus has read the sphinx’s riddle. Honour

this man, for he is worthy of honour through Hellas!”

The officers ran to the athlete, after them the sailors. They covered his

face and hands with kisses. He seemed escaped the Carthaginian to perish

in the embrace of his countrymen. Never was his blush more boyish, more

divine. Then a bugle-blast sent every man to his station. Cimon leaped

across to his smaller ship. The rowers of the _Nausicaä_ ran out their

oars, the hundred and seventy blades trailed in the water. Every man took

a long breath and fixed his eyes on the admiral standing on the poop. He

held a golden goblet set with turquoise, and filled with the blood-red

Pramnian wine. Loudly Themistocles prayed.

“Zeus of Olympus and Dodona, Zeus Orchios, rewarder of the oath-breaker,

to whom the Hellenes do not vainly pray, and thou Athena of the Pure Eyes,

give ear. Make our ship swift, our arms strong, our hearts bold. Hold back

the battle that we come not too late. Grant that we confound the guilty,

put to flight the Barbarian, recompense the traitor. So to you and all

other holy gods whose love is for the righteous we will proffer prayer and

sacrifice forever. Amen.”

He poured out the crimson liquor; far into the sea he flung the golden

cup.

“Heaven speed you!” shouted from the penteconter. Themistocles nodded. The

_keleustes_ smote his gavel upon the sounding-board. The triple oar bank

rose as one and plunged into the foam. A long “h-a!” went up from the

benches. The race to save Hellas was begun.

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE RACE TO SAVE HELLAS

The chase had cost the Athenians dear. Before the _Bozra_ had submitted to

her fate, she had led the _Nausicaä_ and her consort well down into the

southern Ægean. A little more and they would have lifted the shaggy

headlands of Crete. The route before the great trireme was a long one. Two

thousand stadia,(13) as the crow flies, sundered them from the Euripus,

the nearest point whence they could despatch a runner to Pausanias and

Aristeides; and what with the twistings around the scattered Cyclades the

route was one-fourth longer. But men had ceased reckoning distance. Their

hearts were in the flying oars, and at first the _Nausicaä_ ran leaping

across the waves as leaps the dolphin,—the long gleaming blades springing

like shuttles in the hands of the ready crew. They had taken from the

penteconter all her spare rowers, and to make the great ship bound over

the steel-gray deep was children’s play. “We must save Hellas, and we

can!” That was the thought of all from Themistocles to the meanest

thranite.

So at the beginning when the task seemed light and hands were strong. The

breeze that had betrayed the _Bozra_ ever sank lower. Presently it died

altogether. The sails they set hung limp on the mast. The navarch had them

furled. The sea spread out before them, a glassy, leaden-coloured floor;

the waves roaring in their wake faded in a wide ripple far behind. To

hearten his men the _keleustes_ ceased his beating on the sounding-board,

and clapped lips to his pipe. The whole trireme chorussed the familiar

song together:—

“Fast and more fast

O’er the foam-spray we’re passed.

And our creaking sails swell

To the swift-breathing blast,

For Poseidon’s wild steeds

With their manifold feet,

Like a hundred white nymphs

On the blue sea-floor fleet.

And we wake as we go

Gray old Phorcys below,

Whilst on shell-clustered trumpets

The loud Tritons blow!

The loud Tritons blow!

“All of Æolus’s train

Springing o’er the blue main

To our pæans reply

With their long, long refrain;

And the sea-folk upleap

From their dark weedy caves;

With a clear, briny laugh

They dance over the waves;

Now their mistress below,—

See bright Thetis go,

As she leads the mad revels,

While loud Tritons blow!

While loud Tritons blow!

“With the foam gliding white,

Where the light flash is bright.

We feel the live keel

Leaping on with delight;

And in melody wild

Men and Nereids and wind

Sing and laugh all their praise,

To the bluff seagods kind;

Whilst deep down below,

Where no storm blasts may go,

On their care-charming trumpets

The loud Tritons blow,

The loud Tritons blow.”

Bravely thus for a while, but at last Themistocles, watching from the poop

with eyes that nothing evaded, saw how here and there the dip of the

blades was weakening, here and there a breast was heaving rapidly, a mouth

was panting for air.

“The relief,” he ordered. And the spare rowers ran gladly to the places of

those who seemed the weariest. Only a partial respite. Fifty

supernumeraries were a poor stop-gap for the one hundred and seventy. Only

the weakest could be relieved, and even those wept and pled to continue at

the benches a little longer. The thunderous threat of Ameinias, that he

who refused a proffered relief must stand all day by the mast with an iron

anchor on his shoulder, alone sufficed to make the malcontents give place.

Yet after a little while the singing died. Breath was too precious to

waste. It was mockery to troll of “Æolus’s winds” whilst the sea was one

motionless mirror of gray. The monotonous “beat,” “beat” of the

_keleustes’s_ hammer, and the creaking of the oars in their leathered

holes alone broke the stillness that reigned through the length of the

trireme. The penteconter and her prize had long since faded below the

horizon. With almost wistful eyes men watched the islets as they glided

past one after another, Thera now, then Ios, and presently the greater

Paros and Naxos lay before them. They relieved oars whenever possible. The

supernumeraries needed no urging after their scanty rest to spring to the

place of him who was fainting, but hardly any man spoke a word.

The first time the relief went in Glaucon had stepped forward.

“I am strong. I am able to pull an oar,” he had cried almost angrily when

Themistocles laid his hand upon him, but the admiral would have none of

it.

“You shall not. Sooner will I go on to the bench myself. You have been

through the gates of Tartarus these last days, and need all your strength.

Are you not the Isthmionices,—the swiftest runner in Hellas?”

Then Glaucon had stepped back and said no more. He knew now for what

Themistocles reserved him,—that after the _Nausicaä_ made land he must

run, as never man ran before across wide Bœotia to bear the tidings to

Pausanias.

They were betwixt Paros and Naxos at last. Wine and barley cakes soaked in

oil were passed among the men at the oars. They ate without leaving the

benches. And still the sea spread out glassy, motionless, and the pennon

hung limp on the mainmast. The _keleustes_ slowed his beatings, but the

men did not obey him. No whipped cattle were they, such as rowed the

triremes of Phœnicia, but freemen born, sons of Athens, who called it joy

to die for her in time of need. Therefore despite the _keleustes’s_ beats,

despite Themistocles’s command, the rowing might not slacken. And the

black wave around the _Nausicaä’s_ bow sang its monotonous music.

But Themistocles ever turned his face eastward, until men thought he was

awaiting some foe in chase, and presently—just as a rower among the

zygites fell back with the blood gushing from mouth and nostrils—the

admiral pointed his finger toward the sky-line of the morning.

“Look! Athena is with us!”

And for the first time in hours those panting, straining men let the hot

oar butts slip from their hands, even trail in the darkling water, whilst

they rose, looked, and blessed their gods.

It was coming, the strong kind Eurus out of the south and east. They could

see the black ripple springing over the glassy sea; they could hear the

singing of the cordage; they could catch the sweet sniff of the brine.

Admiral and rower lifted their hands together at this manifest favour of

heaven.

“Poseidon is with us! Athena is with us! Æolus is with us! We can save

Hellas!”

Soon the sun burst forth above the mist. All the wide ocean floor was

adance with sparkling wavelets. No need of Ameinias’s lusty call to bend

again the sails. The smaller canvas on the foremast and great spread on

the mainmast were bellying to the piping gale. A fair wind, but no storm.

The oars were but helpers now,—men laughed, hugged one another as boys,

wept as girls, and let the benignant wind gods labour for them. Delos the

Holy they passed, and Tenos, and soon the heights of Andros lifted, as the

ship with its lading of fate flew over the island-strewn sea. At last,

just as the day was leaving them, they saw Helios going down into the

fire-tinged waves in a parting burst of glory. Darkness next, but the

kindly wind failed not. Through the night no man on that trireme

slumbered. Breeze or calm, he who had an obol’s weight of power spent it

at the oars.

Long after midnight Themistocles and Glaucon clambered the giddy cordage

to the ship’s top above the swelling mainsail. On the narrow platform,

with the stars above, the dim tracery of the wide sail, the still dimmer

tracery of the long ship below, they seemed transported to another world.

Far beneath by the glimmer of the lanterns they saw the rowers swaying at

their toil. In the wake the phosphorous bubbles ran away, opalescent

gleams springing upward, as if torches of Doris and her dancing Nereids.

So much had admiral and outlaw lived through this day they had thought

little of themselves. Now calmer thought returned. Glaucon could tell of

many things he had heard and thought, of the conversation overheard the

morning before Salamis, of what Phormio had related during the weary

captivity in the hold of the _Bozra_. Themistocles pondered long. Yet for

Glaucon when standing even on that calm pinnacle the trireme must creep

over the deep too slowly.

“O give me wings, Father Zeus,” was his prayer; “yes, the wings of Icarus.

Let me fly but once to confound the traitor and deliver thy Hellas,—after

that, like Icarus let me fall. I am content to die.”

But Themistocles pressed close against his side. “Ask for no wings,”—in

the admiral’s voice was a tremor not there when he sped confidence through

the crew,—“if it be destined we save Hellas, it is destined; if we are to

die, we die. ‘No man of woman born, coward or brave, can shun the fate

assigned.’ Hector said that to Andromache, and the Trojan was right. But

we shall save Hellas. Zeus and Athena are great gods. They did not give us

glory at Salamis to make that glory tenfold vain. We shall save Hellas.

Yet I have fear—”

“Of what, then?”

“Fear that Themistocles will be too merciful to be just. Ah! pity me.”

“I understand—Democrates.”

“I pray he may escape to the Persians, or that Ares may slay him in fair

battle. If not—”

“What will you do?”

The admiral’s hold upon the younger Athenian’s arm tightened.

“I will prove that Aristeides is not the only man in Hellas who deserves

the name of ‘Just.’ When I was young, my tutor would predict great things

of me. ‘You will be nothing small, Themistocles, but great, whether for

good or ill, I know not,—but great you will be.’ And I have always

struggled upward. I have always prospered. I am the first man in Hellas. I

have set my will against all the power of Persia. Zeus willing, I shall

conquer. But the Olympians demand their price. For saving Hellas I must

pay—Democrates. I loved him.”

The two men stood in silence long, whilst below the oars and the rushing

water played their music. At last the admiral relaxed his hand on Glaucon.

“_Eu!_ They will call me ‘Saviour of Hellas’ if all goes well. I shall be

greater than Solon, or Lycurgus, or Periander, and in return I must do

justice to a friend. Fair recompense!”

The laugh of the son of Neocles was harsher than a cry. The other answered

nothing. Themistocles set his foot on the ladder.

“I must return to the men. I would go to an oar, only they will not let

me.”

The admiral left Glaucon for a moment alone. All around him was the

night,—the stars, the black æther, the blacker sea,—but he was not lonely.

He felt as when in the foot-race he turned for the last burst toward the

goal. One more struggle, one supreme summons of strength and will, and

after that the triumph and the rest.—Hellas, Athens, Hermione, he was

speeding back to all. Once again all the things past floated out of the

dream-world and before him,—the wreck, the lotus-eating at Sardis,

Thermopylæ, Salamis, the agony on the _Bozra_. Now came the end, the end

promised in the moment of vision whilst he pulled the boat at Salamis.

What was it? He tried not to ask. Enough it was to be the end. He, like

Themistocles, had supreme confidence that the treason would be thwarted.

The gods were cruel, but not so cruel that after so many deliverances they

would crush him at the last. “The miracles of Zeus are never wrought in

vain.” Had not Zeus wrought miracles for him once and twice? The proverb

was great comfort.

Suddenly whilst he built his palace of phantasy, a cry from the foreship

dissolved it.

“Attica, Attica, hail, all hail!”

He saw upon the sky-line the dim tracery of the Athenian headlands “like a

shield laid on the misty deep.” Again men were springing from the oars,

laughing, weeping, embracing, whilst under the clear, unflagging wind the

_Nausicaä_ sped up the narrowing strait betwixt Eubœa and the mainland.

Dawn glowed at last, unveiling the brown Attic shoreline with Pentelicus

the marble-fretted and all his darker peers.

Hour by hour they ran onward. They skirted the long low coast of Eubœa to

the starboard. They saw Marathon and its plain of fair memories stretching

to port, and now the strait grew closer yet, and it needed all the

governor’s skill at the steering-oars to keep the _Nausicaä_ from the

threatening rocks. Marathon was behind at last. The trireme rounded the

last promontory; the bay grew wider; the prow was set more to westward.

Every man—the faintest—struggled back to his oar if he had left it—this

was the last hundred stadia to Oropus, and after that the _Nausicaä_ might

do no more. Once again the _keleustes_ piped, and his note was swift and

feverish. The blades shot faster, faster, as the trireme raced down the

sandy shore of the Attic “Diacria.” Once in the strait they saw a

brown-sailed fisherboat, and the helm swerved enough to bring her within

hail. The fishermen stared at the flying trireme and her straining,

wide-eyed men.

“Has there been a battle?” cried Ameinias.

“Not yet. We are from Styra on Eubœa; we expect the news daily. The armies

are almost together.”

“And where are they?”

“Near to Platæa.”

That was all. The war-ship left the fishermen rocking in her wake, but

again Themistocles drew his eyebrows close together, while Glaucon

tightened the buckle on his belt. Platæa,—the name meant that the courier

must traverse the breadth of Bœotia, and with the armies face to face how

long would Zeus hold back the battle? How long indeed, with Democrates and

Lycon intent on bringing battle to pass? The ship was more than ever

silent as she rushed on the last stretch of her course. More men fell at

the oars with blood upon their faces. The supernumeraries tossed them

aside like logs of wood, and leaped upon their benches. Themistocles had

vanished with Simonides in the cabin; all knew their work,—preparing

letters to Aristeides and Pausanias to warn of the bitter truth. Then the

haven at last: the white-stuccoed houses of Oropus clustering down upon

the shore, the little mole, a few doltish peasants by the landing gaping

at the great trireme. No others greeted them, for the terror of

Mardonius’s Tartar raiders had driven all but the poorest to some safe

shelter. The oars slipped from numb fingers; the anchor plunged into the

green water; the mainsail rattled down the mast. Men sat on the benches

motionless, gulping down the clear air. They had done their part. The rest

lay in the hands of the gods, and in the speed of him who two days since

they had called “Glaucon the Traitor.” The messenger came from the cabin,

half stripped, on his head a felt skullcap, on his feet high hunter’s

boots laced up to the knees. He had never shone in more noble beauty. The

crew watched Themistocles place a papyrus roll in Glaucon’s belt, and

press his mouth to the messenger’s ear in parting admonition. Glaucon gave

his right hand to Themistocles, his left to Simonides. Fifty men were

ready to man the pinnace to take him ashore. On the beach the _Nausicaä’s_

people saw him stand an instant, as he turned his face upward to the

“dawn-facing” gods of Hellas, praying for strength and swiftness.

“Apollo speed you!” called two hundred after him. He answered from the

beach with a wave of his beautiful arms. A moment later he was hid behind

a clump of olives. The _Nausicaä’s_ people knew the ordeal before him, but

many a man said Glaucon had the easier task. He could run till life failed

him. They now could only fold their hands and wait.

* * * * * * *

It was long past noon when Glaucon left the desolate village of Oropus

behind him. The day was hot, but after the manner of Greece not sultry,

and the brisk breeze was stirring on the hill slopes. Over the distant

mountains hung a tint of deep violet. It was early in Bœdromion.(14) The

fields—where indeed the Barbarian cavalry men had not deliberately burned

them—were seared brown by the long dry summer. Here and there great black

crows were picking, and a red fox would whisk out of a thicket and go with

long bounds across the unharvested fields to some safer refuge. Glaucon

knew his route. Three hundred and sixty stadia lay before him, and those

not over the well-beaten course in the gymnasium, but by rocky goat trails

and by-paths that made his task no easier. He started off slowly. He was

too good an athlete to waste his speed by one fierce burst at the outset.

At first his road was no bad one, for he skirted the willow-hung Asopus,

the boundary stream betwixt Attica and Bœotia. But he feared to keep too

long upon this highway to Tanagra, and of the dangers of the road he soon

met grim warnings.

First, it was a farmstead in black ruin, with the carcass of a horse half

burned lying before the gate. Next, it was the body of a woman, three days

slain, and in the centre of the road,—no pleasant sight, for the crows had

been at their banquet,—and hardened though the Alcmæonid was to war, he

stopped long enough to cast the ceremonial handful of dust on the poor

remains, as symbolic burial, and sped a wish to King Pluto to give peace

to the wanderer’s spirit. Next, people met him: an old man, his wife, his

young son,—wretched shepherd-folk dressed in sheepskins,—the boy helping

his elders as they tottered along on their staves toward the mountain. At

sight of Glaucon they feebly made to fly, but he held out his hand,

showing he was unarmed, and they halted also.

“Whence and whither, good father?”

Whereat the old man began to shake all over and tell a mumbling story, how

they had been set upon by the Scythian troopers in their little farm near

Œnophytæ, how he had seen the farmhouse burn, his two daughters swung

shrieking upon the steeds of the wild Barbarians, and as for himself and

his wife and son, Athena knew what saved them! They had lost all but life,

and fearful for that were seeking a cave on Mt. Parnes. Would not the

young man come with them, a thousand dangers lurked upon the way? But

Glaucon did not wait to hear the story out. On he sped up the rocky road.

“Ah, Mardonius! ah, Artazostra!” he was speaking in his heart, “noble and

brave you are to your peers, but this is your rare handiwork,—and though

you once called me friend, Zeus and Dikē still rule, there is a price for

this and you shall tell it out.”

Yet he bethought himself of the old man’s warning, and left the beaten

way. At the long steady trot learned in the stadium, he went onward under

the greenwood behind the gleaming river, where the vines and branches

whipped on his face; and now and again he crossed a half-dried brook,

where he swept up a little water in his hands, and said a quick prayer to

the friendly nymphs of the stream. Once or twice he sped through fig

orchards, and snatched at the ripe fruit as he ran, eating without

slackening his course. Presently the river began to bend away to westward.

He knew if he followed it, he came soon to Tanagra, but whether that town

were held by the Persians or burned by them, who could tell? He quitted

the Asopus and its friendly foliage. The bare wide plain of Bœotia was

opening. Concealment was impossible, unless indeed he turned far eastward

toward Attica and took refuge on the foothills of the mountains. But speed

was more precious than safety. He passed Scolus, and found the village

desolate, burned. No human being greeted him, only one or two starving

dogs rushed forth to snap, bristle, and be chased away by a well-sent

stone. Here and yonder in the fields were still the clusters of crows

picking at carrion,—more tokens that Mardonius’s Tartar raiders had done

their work too well. Then at last, an hour or more before the sunset, just

as the spurs of Cithæron, the long mountain over against Attica, began to

thrust their bald summits up before the runner’s ken, far ahead upon the

way approached a cloud of dust. The Athenian paused in his run, dashed

into the barren field, and flung himself flat between the furrows. He

heard the hoof-beats of the wiry steppe horses, the clatter of targets and

scabbards, the shrill shouts of the raiders. He lifted his head enough to

see the red streamers on their lance tips flutter past. He let the noise

die away before he dared to take the road once more. The time he lost was

redeemed by a burst of speed. His head was growing very hot, but it was

not time to think of that.

Already the hills were spreading their shadows, and Platæa was many stadia

away. Knowledge of how much remained made him reckless. He ran on without

his former caution. The plain was again changing to undulating foothills.

He had passed Erythræ now,—another village burned and deserted. He mounted

a slope, was descending to mount another, when lo! over the hill before

came eight riders at full speed. What must be done, must be done quickly.

To plunge into the fallow field again were madness, the horsemen had

surely seen him, and their sure-footed beasts could run over the furrows

like rabbits. Glaucon stood stock still and stretched forth both hands, to

show the horsemen he did not resist them.

“O Athena Polias,” uprose the prayer from his heart, “if thou lovest not

me, forget not thy love for Hellas, for Athens, for Hermione my wife.”

The riders were on him instantly, their crooked swords flew out. They

surrounded their captive, uttering outlandish cries and chatterings,

ogling, muttering, pointing with their swords and lances as if debating

among themselves whether to let the stranger go or hew him in pieces.

Glaucon stood motionless, looking from one to another and asking for

wisdom in his soul. Seven were Tartars, low-browed, yellow-skinned, flat

of nose, with the grins of apes. He might expect the worst from these. But

the eighth showed a long blond beard under his leather helm, and Glaucon

rejoiced; the chief of the band was a Persian and more amenable.

The Tartars continued gesturing and debating, flourishing their steel

points right at the prisoner’s breast. He regarded them calmly, so calmly

that the Persian gave vent to his admiration.

“Down with your lance-head, Rūkhs. By Mithra, I think this Hellene is

brave as he is beautiful! See how he stands. We must have him to the

Prince.”

“Excellency,” spoke Glaucon, in his best court Persian, “I am a courier to

the Lord Mardonius. If you are faithful servants of his Eternity the king,

where is your camp?”

The chief started.

“On the life of my father, you speak Persian as if you dwelled in Eran at

the king’s own doors! What do you here alone upon this road in Hellas?”

Glaucon put out his hand before answering, caught the tip of Rūkhs’s

lance, and snapped it short like a reed. He knew the way to win the

admiration of the Barbarians. They yelled with delight, all at least save

Rūkhs.

“Strong as he is brave and handsome,” cried the Persian. “Again—who are

you?”

The Alcmæonid drew himself to full height and gave his head its lordliest

poise.

“Understand, Persian, that I have indeed lived long at the king’s gates.

Yes,—I have learned my Aryan at the Lord Mardonius’s own table, for I am

the son of Attaginus of Thebes, who is not the least of the friends of his

Eternity in Hellas.”

The mention of one of the foremost Medizers of Greece made the subaltern

bend in his saddle. His tone became even obsequious.

“Ah, I understand. Your Excellency is a courier. You have despatches from

the king?”

“Despatches of moment just landed from Asia. Now tell me where the army is

encamped.”

“By the Asopus, much to northward. The Hellenes lie to south. Here, Rūkhs,

take the noble courier behind you on the horse, and conduct him to the

general.”

“Heaven bless your generosity,” cried the runner, with almost precipitate

haste, “but I know the country well, and the worthy Rūkhs will not thank

me if I deprive him of his share in your booty.”

“Ah, yes, we have heard of a farm across the hills at Eleutheræ that’s not

yet been plundered,—handsome wenches, and we’ll make the father dig up his

pot of money. Mazda speed you, sir, for we are off.”

“Yeh! yeh!” yelled the seven Tartars, none more loudly than Rūkhs, who had

no hankering for conducting a courier back into the camp. So the riders

came and went, whilst Glaucon drew his girdle one notch tighter and ran

onward through the gathering evening.

The adventure had been a warning. Once Athena had saved him, not perchance

twice,—again he took to the fields. He did not love the sight of the sun

ever lower, on the long brown ridge of Helicon far to west. Until now he

scarce thought enough of self to realize the terrible draughts he had made

upon his treasure-house of strength. Could it be that he—the Isthmionices,

who had crushed down the giant of Sparta before the cheering myriads—could

faint like a weary girl, when the weal of Hellas was his to win or lose?

Why did his tongue burn in his throat as a coal? Why did those feet—so

swift, so ready when he sped from Oropus—lift so heavily?

As a flash it came over him what he had endured,—the slow agony on the

_Bozra_, the bursting of the bands, the fight for life, the scene with

Themistocles, the sleepless night on the trireme. Now he was running as

the wild hare runs before the baying chase. Could it be that all this race

was vain?

“For Hellas! For Hermione!”

Whilst he groaned through his gritted teeth, some malignant god made him

misstep, stumble. He fell between the hard furrows, bruising his face and

hands. After a moment he rose, but rose to sink back again with keen pain

shooting through an ankle. He had turned it. For an instant he sat

motionless, taking breath, then his teeth came together harder.

“Themistocles trusts me. I carry the fate of Hellas. I can die, but I

cannot fail.”

It was quite dusk now. The brief southern twilight was ending in pale bars

of gold above Helicon. Glaucon rose again; the cold sweat sprang out upon

his forehead. Before his eyes rose darkness, but he did not faint. Some

kind destiny set a stout pole upright in the field,—perhaps for vines to

clamber,—he clutched it, and stood until his sight cleared and the pain a

little abated. He tore the pole from the ground, and reached the roadway.

He must take his chance of meeting more raiders. He had one vast

comfort,—if there had been no battle fought that day, there would be none

before dawn. But he had still weary stadia before him, and running was out

of the question. Ever and anon he would stop his hobbling, take air, and

stare at the vague tracery of the hills,—Cithæron to southward, Helicon to

west, and northward the wide dark Theban plain. He gave up counting how

many times he halted, how many times he spoke the magic words, “For

Hellas! For Hermione!” and forced onward his way. The moon failed, even

the stars were clouded. A kind of brute instinct guided him. At last—he

guessed it was nearly midnight—he caught once more the flashings of a

shallow river and the dim outlines of shrubbery beside the bank—again the

Asopus. He must take care or he would wander straight into Mardonius’s

camp. Therefore he stopped awhile, drank the cool water, and let the

stream purl around his burning foot. Then he set his face to the south,

for there lay Platæa. There he would find the Hellenes.

He was almost unconscious of everything save the fierce pain and the need

to go forward even to the end. At moments he thought he saw the mountains

springing out of their gloom,—Helicon and Cithæron beckoning him on, as

with living fingers.

“Not too late. Marathon was not vain, nor Thermopylæ, nor Salamis. You can

save Hellas.”

Who spoke that? He stared into the solitary night. Was he not alone? Then

phantasms came as on a flood. He was in a kind of euthanasy. The pain of

his foot had ceased. He saw the Paradise by Sardis and its bending

feathery palms; he heard the tinkling of the Lydian harps, and Roxana

singing of the magic Oxus, and the rose valleys of Eran. Next Roxana

became Hermione. He was standing at her side on the knoll of Colonus, and

watching the sun sink behind Daphni making the Acropolis glow with red

fire and gold. Yet all the time he knew he was going onward. He must not

stop.

“For Hellas! For Hermione!”

At last even the vision of the Violet-Crowned City faded to mist. Had he

reached the end,—the rest by the fields of Rhadamanthus, away from human

strife? The night was ever darkening. He saw nothing, felt nothing,

thought nothing save that he was still going onward, onward.

* * * * * * *

At some time betwixt midnight and dawning an Athenian outpost was pacing

his beat outside the lines of Aristeides. The allied Hellenes were

retiring from their position by the Asopus to a more convenient spot by

Platæa, less exposed to the dreaded Persian cavalry, but on the night

march the contingents had become disordered. The Athenians were halting

under arms,—awaiting orders from Pausanias the commander-in-chief. The

outpost—Hippon, a worthy charcoal-burner of Archarnæ—was creeping gingerly

behind the willow hedges, having a well-grounded fear of Tartar arrows.

Presently his fox-keen ears caught footfalls from the road. His shield

went up. He couched his spear. His eyes, sharpened by the long darkness,

saw a man hardly running, nor walking, yet dragging one foot and leaning

on a staff. Here was no Tartar, and Hippon sprang out boldly.

“Halt, stranger, tell your business.”

“For Aristeides.” The apparition seemed holding out something in his hand.

“That’s not the watchword. Give it, or I must arrest you.”

“For Aristeides.”

“Zeus smite you, fellow, can’t you speak Greek? What have you got for our

general?”

“For Aristeides.”

The stranger was hoarse as a crow. He was pushing aside the spear and

forcing a packet into Hippon’s hands. The latter, sorely puzzled, whistled

through his fingers. A moment more the locharch of the scouting division

and three comrades appeared.

“Why the alarm? Where’s the enemy?”

“No enemy, but a madman. Find what he wants.”

The locharch in earlier days had kept an oil booth in the Athens Agora and

knew the local celebrities as well as Phormio.

“Now, friend,” he spoke, “your business, and shortly; we’ve no time for

chaffering.”

“For Aristeides.”

“The fourth time he’s said it,—sheep!” cried Hippon, but as he spoke the

newcomer fell forward heavily, groaned once, and lay on the roadway silent

as the dead. The locharch drew forth the horn lantern he had masked under

his chalmys and leaned over the stranger. The light fell on the seal of

the packet gripped in the rigid fingers.

“Themistocles’s seal,” he cried, and hastily turned the fallen man’s face

upward to the light, when the lantern almost dropped from his own hand.

“Glaucon the Alcmæonid! Glaucon the Traitor who was dead! He or his shade

come back from Tartarus.”

The four soldiers stood quaking like aspen, but their leader was of

stouter stuff. Never had his native Attic shrewdness guided him to more

purpose.

“Ghost, traitor, what not, this man has run himself all but to death. Look

on his face. And Themistocles does not send a courier for nothing. This

packet is for Aristeides, and to Aristeides take it with speed.”

Hippon seized the papyrus. He thought it would fade out of his hands like

a spectre. It did not. The sentinel dropped his spear and ran breathless

toward Platæa, where he knew was his general.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE COUNCIL OF MARDONIUS

Never since Salamis had Persian hopes been higher than that night. What if

the Spartans were in the field at last, and the incessant skirmishing had

been partly to Pausanias’s advantage? Secure in his fortified camp by the

Asopus, Mardonius could confidently wait the turn of the tide. His light

Tartar cavalry had cut to pieces the convoys bringing provisions to the

Hellenes. Rumour told that Pausanias’s army was ill fed, and his captains

were at loggerheads. Time was fighting for Mardonius. A joyful letter he

had sent to Sardis the preceding morning: “Let the king have patience. In

forty days I shall be banqueting even in Sparta.”

In the evening the Prince sat at council with his commanders. Xerxes had

left behind his own war pavilion, and here the Persians met. Mardonius sat

on the high seat of the dais. Gold, purple, a hundred torches, made the

scene worthy of the monarch himself. Beside the general stood a young

page,—beautiful as Armaiti, fairest of the archangels. All looked on the

page, but discreetly kept their thoughts to whispers, though many had

guessed the secret of Mardonius’s companion.

The debate was long and vehement. Especially Artabazus, general of the

rear-guard, was loud in asserting no battle should be risked. He was a

crafty man, who, the Prince suspected, was his personal enemy, but his

opinion was worth respecting.

“I repeat what I said before. The Hellenes showed how they could fight at

Thermopylæ. Let us retire to Thebes.”

“Bravely said, valiant general,” sneered Mardonius, none too civilly.

“It is mine to speak, yours to follow my opinion as you list. I say we can

conquer these Hellenes with folded hands. Retreat to Thebes; money is

plentiful with us; we can melt our gold cups into coin. Sprinkle bribes

among the hostile chiefs. We know their weakness. Not steel but gold will

unlock the way to Sparta.”

The generalissimo stood up proudly.

“Bribes and stealth? Did Cyrus and Darius win us empire with these? No, by

the Fiend-Smiter, it was sharp steel and the song of the bow-string that

made Eran to prosper, and prosper to this day. But lest Artabazus think

that in putting on the lion I have forgotten the fox, let the strangers

now come to us stand forth, that he and every other may know how I have

done all things for the glory of my master and the Persian name.”

He smote with his commander’s mace upon the bronze ewer on the table.

Instantly there appeared two soldiers, between them two men, one of

slight, one of gigantic, stature, but both in Grecian dress. Artabazus

sprang to his feet.

“Who are these men—Thebans?”

“From greater cities than Thebes. You see two new servants of the king,

therefore friends of us all. Behold Lycon of Sparta and Democrates, friend

of Themistocles.”

His speech was Persian, but the newcomers both understood when he named

them. The tall Laconian straightened his bull neck, as in defiance. The

Athenian flushed. His head seemed sinking betwixt his shoulders. Much

wormwood had he drunk of late, but none bitterer than this,—to be welcomed

at the councils of the Barbarian. Artabazus salaamed to his superior half

mockingly.

“Verily, son of Gobryas, I was wrong. You are guileful as a Greek. There

can be no higher praise.”

The Prince’s nostrils twitched. Perhaps he was not saying all he felt.

“Let your praise await the issue,” he rejoined coldly. “Suffice it that

these friends were long convinced of the wisdom of aiding his Eternity,

and to-night come from the camp of the Hellenes to tell all that has

passed and why we should make ready for battle at the dawning.” He turned

to the Greeks, ordering in their own tongue, “Speak forth, I am

interpreter for the council.”

An awkward instant followed. Lycon looked on Democrates.

“You are an Athenian, your tongue is readiest,” he whispered.

“And you the first to Medize. Finish your handiwork,” the retort.

“We are waiting,” prompted Mardonius, and Lycon held up his great head and

began in short sentences which the general deftly turned into Persian.

“Your cavalry has made our position by the Asopus intolerable. All the

springs are exposed. We have to fight every time we try to draw water.

To-day was a meeting of the commanders, many opinions, much wrangling, but

all said we must retire. The town of Platæa is best. It is strong, with

plenty of water. You cannot attack it. To-night our camp has been struck.

The troops begin to retire, but in disorder. The contingent of each city

marches by itself. The Athenians, thanks to Democrates, delay retreating;

the Spartans I have delayed also. I have persuaded Amompharetus, my

cousin, who leads the Pitanate _mora_,(15) and who was not at the council,

that it is cowardly for a Spartan to retreat. He is a sheep-skulled fool

and has believed me. Consequently, he and his men are holding back. The

other Spartans wait for them. At dawn you will find the Athenians and

Spartans alone near their old camping ground, their allies straggling in

the rear. Attack boldly. When the onset joins, Democrates and I will order

our own divisions to retire. The phalanxes will be broken up. With your

cavalry you will have them at mercy, for once the spear-hedge is

shattered, they are lost. The battle will not cost you twenty men.”

Artabazus rose again and showed his teeth.

“A faithful servant of the king, Mardonius,—and so well is all provided,

do we brave Aryans need even to string our bows?”

The Prince winced at the sarcasm.

“I am serving the king, not my own pleasure,” he retorted stiffly. “The

son of Gobryas is too well known to have slurs cast on his courage. And

now what questions would my captains ask these Greeks? Promptly—they must

be again in their own lines, or they are missed.”

An officer here or there threw an interrogation. Lycon answered briefly.

Democrates kept sullen silence. He was clearly present more to prove the

good faith of his Medizing than for anything he might say. Mardonius smote

the ewer again. The soldiers escorted the two Hellenes forth. As the

curtains closed behind them, the curious saw that the features of the

beautiful page by the general’s side were contracted with disgust.

Mardonius himself spat violently.

“Dogs, and sons of dogs, let Angra-Mainyu wither them forever. Bear

witness, men of Persia, how, for the sake of our Lord the King, I hold

converse even with these vilest of the vile!”

Soon the council was broken up. The final commands were given. Every

officer knew his task. The cavalry was to be ready to charge across the

Asopus at gray dawn. With Lycon and Democrates playing their part the

issue was certain, too certain for many a grizzled captain who loved the

ring of steel. In his own tent Mardonius held in his arms the beautiful

page—Artazostra! Her wonderful face had never shone up at his more

brightly than on that night, as he drew back his lips from a long fond

kiss.

“To-morrow—the triumph. You will be conqueror of Hellas. Xerxes will make

you satrap. I wish we could conquer in fairer fight, but what wrong to

vanquish these Hellenes with their own sly weapons? Do you remember what

Glaucon said?”

“What thing?”

“That Zeus and Athena were greater than Mazda the Pure and glorious

Mithra? To-morrow will prove him wrong. I wonder whether he yet

lives,—whether he will ever confess that Persia is irresistible.”

“I do not know. From the evening we parted at Phaleron he has faded from

our world.”

“He was fair as the Amesha-Spentas, was he not? Poor Roxana—she is again

in Sardis now. I hope she has ceased to eat her heart out with vain

longing for her lover. He was noble minded and spoke the truth. How rare

in a Hellene. But what will you do with these two gold-bought traitors,

‘friends of the king’ indeed?”

Mardonius’s face grew stern.

“I have promised them the lordships of Athens and of Sparta. The pledge

shall be fulfilled, but after that,”—Artazostra understood his sinister

smile,—“there are many ways of removing an unwelcome vassal prince, if I

be the satrap of Hellas.”

“And you are that in the morning.”

“For your sake,” was his cry, as again he kissed her, “I would I were not

satrap of Hellas only, but lord of all the world, that I might give it to

you, O daughter of Darius and Atossa.”

“I am mistress of the world,” she answered, “for my world is Mardonius.

To-morrow the battle, the glory, and then what next—Sicily, Carthage,

Italy? For Mazda will give us all things.”

* * * * * * *

Otherwise talked Democrates and Lycon as they quitted the Persian pickets

and made their way across the black plain, back to the lines of the

Hellenes.

“You should be happy to-night,” said the Athenian.

“Assuredly. I draw up my net and find it very full of mullets quite to my

liking.”

“Take care it be not so full that it break.”

“Dear Democrates,”—Lycon slapped his paw on the other’s shoulder,—“why

always imagine evil? Hermes is a very safe guide. I only hope our victory

will be so complete Sparta will submit without fighting. It will be

awkward to rule a plundered city.”

“I shudder at the thought of being amongst even conquered Athenians; I

shall see a tyrannicide in every boy in the Agora.”

“A stout Persian garrison in your Acropolis is the surest physic against

that.”

“By the dog, Lycon, you speak like a Scythian. Hellene you surely are

not.”

“Hellene I am, and show my native wisdom in seeing that Persia must

conquer and trimming sail accordingly.”

“Persia is not irresistible. With a fair battle—”

“It will not be a fair battle. What can save Pausanias? Nothing—except a

miracle sent from Zeus.”

“Such as what?”

“As merciful Hiram’s relenting and releasing your dear Glaucon.” Lycon’s

chuckle was loud.

“Never, as you hope me to be anything save your mortal enemy, mention that

name again.”

“As you like it—it’s no very pretty tale, I grant, even amongst Medizers.

Yet it was most imprudent to let him live.”

“You have never heard the Furies, Lycon.” Democrates’s voice was so grave

as to dry up the Spartan’s banter. “But I shall never see him again, and I

shall possess Hermione.”

“A pretty consolation. _Eu!_ here are our outposts. We must pass for

officers reconnoitring the enemy. You know your part to-morrow. At the

first charge bid your division ‘wheel to rear.’ Three words, and the thing

is done.”

Lycon gave the watchword promptly to one of Pausanias’s outposts. The man

saluted his officers, and said that the Greeks of the lesser states had

retreated far to the rear, that Amompharetus still refused to move his

division, that the Spartans waited for him, and the Athenians for the

Spartans.

“Noble tidings,” whispered the giant, as the two stood an instant, before

each went to his own men. “Behold how Hermes helps us—a great deity.”

“Sometimes I think Nemesis is greater,” said Democrates, once again

refusing Lycon’s proffered hand.

“By noon you’ll laugh at Nemesis, _philotate_, when we both drink Helbon

wine in Xerxes’s tent!” and away went Lycon into the dark.

Democrates went his own way also. Soon he was in the fallow-field, where

under the warm night the Athenians were stretched, each man in armour, his

helmet for a pillow. A few torches were moving. From a distance came the

hum from a group of officers in excited conversation. As the orator picked

his way among the sleeping men, a locharch with a lantern accosted him

suddenly.

“You are Democrates the strategus?”

“Certainly.”

“Aristeides summons you at once. Come.”

There was no reason for refusing. Democrates followed.

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE AVENGING OF LEONIDAS

Morning at last, ruddy and windy. The Persian host had been long prepared.

The Tartar cavalry with their bulls-hide targets and long lances, the

heavy Persian cuirassiers, the Median and Assyrian archers with their

ponderous wicker-shields, stood in rank waiting only the word that should

dash them as sling-stones on Pausanias and his ill-starred following. The

Magi had sacrificed a stallion, and reported that the holy fire gave every

favouring sign. Mardonius went from his tent, all his eunuchs bowing their

foreheads to the earth and chorussing, “Victory to our Lord, to Persia,

and to the King.”

They brought Mardonius his favourite horse, a white steed of the sacred

breed of Nisæa. The Prince had bound around his turban the gemmed tiara

Xerxes had given him on his wedding-day. Few could wield the Babylonish

cimeter that danced in the chieftain’s hand. The captains cheered him

loudly, as they might have cheered the king.

“Life to the general! To the satrap of Hellas!”

But beside the Nisæan pranced another, lighter and with a lighter mount.

The rider was cased in silvered scale-armour, and bore only a steel-tipped

reed.

“The general’s page,” ran the whisper, and other whispers, far softer,

followed. None heard the quick words passed back and forth betwixt the two

riders.

“You may be riding to death, Artazostra. What place is a battle for

women?”

“What place is the camp for the daughter of Darius, when her husband rides

to war? We triumph together; we perish together. It shall be as Mazda

decrees.”

Mardonius answered nothing. Long since he had learned the folly of setting

his will against that of the masterful princess at his side. And was not

victory certain? Was not Artazostra doing even as Semiramis of Nineveh had

done of old?

“The army is ready, Excellency,” declared an adjutant, bowing in his

saddle.

“Forward, then, but slowly, to await the reconnoitring parties sent toward

the Greeks.”

In the gray morning the host wound out of the stockaded camp. The women

and grooms called fair wishes after them. The far slopes of Cithæron were

reddening. A breeze whistled down the hills. It would disperse the mist.

Soon the leader of the scouts came galloping, leaped down and salaamed to

the general. “Let my Lord’s liver find peace. All is even as our friends

declared. The enemy have in part fled far away. The Athenians halt on a

foot-hill of the mountain. The Laconians sit in companies on the ground,

waiting their division that will not retreat. Let my Lord charge, and

glory waits for Eran!”

Mardonius’s cimeter swung high.

“Forward, all! Mazda fights for us. Bid our allies the Thebans(16) attack

the Athenians. Ours is the nobler prey—even the men of Sparta.”

“Victory to the king!” thundered the thousands. Confident of triumph,

Mardonius suffered the ranks to be broken, as his myriads rushed onward.

Over the Asopus and its shallow fords they swept, and raced across the

plain-land. Horse mingled with foot; Persians with Tartars. The howlings

in a score of tongues, the bray of cymbals and kettledrums, the clamour of

spear-butts beaten on armour—who may tell it? Having unleashed his wild

beasts, Mardonius dashed before to guide their ragings as he might. The

white Nisæan and its companion led the way across the hard plain. Behind,

as when in the springtime flood the watery wall goes crashing down the

valley, so spread the thousands. A god looking from heaven would not have

forgotten that sight of whirling plumes, plunging steeds, flying steel, in

all the æons.

Five stadia, six, seven, eight,—so Mardonius led. Already before him he

could see the glistering crests and long files of the Spartans—the prey he

would crush with one stroke as a vulture swoops over the sparrow. Then

nigh involuntarily his hand drew rein. What came to greet him? A man on

foot—no horseman even. A man of huge stature running at headlong speed.

The risen sun was now dazzling. The general clapped his hand above his

eyes. Then a tug on the bridle sent the Nisæan on his haunches.

“Lycon, as Mazda made me!”

The Spartan was beside them soon, he had run so swiftly. He was so dazed

he barely heeded Mardonius’s call to halt and tell his tale. He was almost

naked. His face was black with fear, never more brutish or loathsome.

“All is betrayed. Democrates is seized. Pausanias and Aristeides are

warned. They will give you fair battle. I barely escaped.”

“Who betrayed you?” cried the Prince.

“Glaucon the Alcmæonid, he is risen from the dead. _Ai!_ woe! no fault of

mine.”

Never before had the son of Gobryas smiled so fiercely as when the giant

cowered beneath his darting eyes. The general’s sword whistled down on the

skull of the traitor. The Laconian sprawled in the dust without a groan.

Mardonius laughed horribly.

“A fair price then for unlucky villany. Blessed be Mithra, who suffers me

to give recompense. Wish me joy,”—as his captains came galloping around

him,—“our duty to the king is finished. We shall win Hellas in fair

battle.”

“Then it were well, Excellency,” thrust in Artabazus, “since the plot is

foiled, to retire to the camp.”

Mardonius’s eyes flashed lightnings.

“Woman’s counsel that! Are we not here to conquer Hellas? Yes, by Mithra

the Glorious, we will fight, though every _dæva_ in hell joins against us.

Re-form the ranks. Halt the charge. Let the bowmen crush the Spartans with

their arrows. Then we will see if these Greeks are stouter than

Babylonian, Lydian, and Egyptian who played their game with Persia to sore

cost. And you, Artabazus, to your rear-guard, and do your duty well.”

The general bowed stiffly. He knew the son of Gobryas, and that

disobedience would have brought Mardonius’s cimeter upon his own helmet.

By a great effort the charge was stayed,—barely in time,—for to have flung

that disorganized horde on the waiting Spartan spears would have been

worse than madness. A single stadium sundered the two hosts when Mardonius

brought his men to a stand, set his strong divisions of bowmen in array

behind their wall of shields, and drew up his cavalry on the flanks of the

bowmen. Battle he would give, but it must be cautious battle now, and he

did not love the silence which reigned among the motionless lines of the

Spartans.

It was bright day at last. The two armies—the whole strength of the

Barbarian, the Spartans with only their Tegean allies—stood facing, as

athletes measuring strength before the grapple. The Spartan line was

thinner than Mardonius’s: no cavalry, few bowmen, but shield was set

beside shield, and everywhere tossed the black and scarlet plumes of the

helmets. Men who remembered Thermopylæ gripped their spear-stocks tighter.

No long postponing now. On this narrow field, this bit of pebble and

greensward, the gods would cast the last dice for the destiny of Hellas.

All knew that.

The stolidity of the Spartans was maddening. They stood like bronze

statues. In clear view at the front was a tall man in scarlet chlamys, and

two more in white,—Pausanias and his seers examining the entrails of

doves, seeking a fair omen for the battle. Mardonius drew the turban lower

over his eyes.

“An end to this truce. Begin your arrows.”

A cloud of bolts answered him. The Persian archers emptied their quivers.

They could see men falling among the foe, but still Pausanias stood beside

the seers, still he gave no signal to advance. The omens doubtless were

unfavourable. His men never shifted a foot as the storm of death flew over

them. Their rigidity was more terrifying than any battle-shout. What were

these men whose iron discipline bound so fast that they could be pelted to

death, and no eyelash seem to quiver? The archers renewed their volley.

They shot against a rock. The Barbarians joined in one rending yell,—their

answer was silence.

Deliberately, arrows dropping around him as tree-blossoms in the gale,

Pausanias raised his hand. The omens were good. The gods permitted battle.

Deliberately, while men fell dying, he walked to his post on the right

wing. Deliberately, while heaven seemed shaking with the Barbarians’

clamour, his hand went up again. Through a lull in the tumult pealed a

trumpet. _Then the Spartans marched._

Slowly their lines of bristling spear-points and nodding crests moved on

like the sea-waves. Shrill above the booming Tartar drums, the blaring

Persian war-horns pierced the screams of their pipers. And the Barbarians

heard that which had never met their ears before,—the chanting of their

foes as the long line crept nearer.

“Ah!—la—la—la—la! Ah!—la—la—la—la!” deep, prolonged, bellowed in chorus

from every bronze visor which peered above the serried shields.

“Faster,” stormed the Persian captains to their slingers and bowmen, “beat

these madmen down.” The rain of arrows and sling-stones was like hail,

like hail it rattled from the shields and helms. Here, there, a form sank,

the inexorable phalanx closed and swept onward.

“Ah!—la—la—la! Ah!—la—la—la!”

The chant never ceased. The pipers screamed more shrilly. Eight deep,

unhasting, unresting, Pausanias was bringing his heavy infantry across the

two hundred paces betwixt himself and Mardonius. His Spartan spearmen

might be unlearned, doltish, but they knew how to do one deed and that

surpassingly well,—to march in line though lightnings dashed from heaven,

and to thrust home with their lances. And not a pitiful three hundred, but

ten thousand bold and strong stood against the Barbarian that morning.

Mardonius was facing the finest infantry in the world, and the avenging of

Leonidas was nigh.

“Ah!—la—la—la! Ah!—la—la—la!”

Flesh and blood in the Persian host could not wait the death grip longer.

“Let us charge, or let us flee,” many a stout officer cried to his chief,

and he sitting stern-eyed on the white horse gave to a Tartar troop its

word, “Go!”

Then like a mountain stream the wild Tartars charged. The clods flew high

under the hoofs. The yell of the riders, the shock of spears on shields,

the cry of dying men and dying beasts, the stamping, the dust-cloud, took

but a moment. The chant of the Spartans ceased—an instant. An instant the

long phalanx halted, from end to end bent and swayed. Then the dust-cloud

passed, the chanting renewed. Half of the Tartars were spurring back, with

shivered lances, bleeding steeds. The rest,—but the phalanx shook now

here, now there, as the impenetrable infantry strode over red forms that

had been men and horses. And still the Spartans marched, still the pipes

and the war-chant.

Then for the first time fear entered the heart of Mardonius, son of

Gobryas, and he called to the thousand picked horsemen, who rode beside

him,—not Tartars these, but Persians and Medes of lordly stock, men who

had gone forth conquering and to conquer.

“Now as your fathers followed Cyrus the Invincible and Darius the

Dauntless, follow you me. Since for the honour of Eran and the king I ride

this day.”

“We ride. For Eran and the king!” shouted the thousand. All the host

joined. Mardonius led straight against the Spartan right wing where

Pausanias’s life-guard marched.

* * * * * * *

Old soldiers of Lacedæmon fighting their battles in the after days, when a

warrior of Platæa was as a god to each youth in Hellas, would tell how the

Persian cavalrymen rode their phalanx down.

“And say never,” they always added, “the Barbarians know not how to fight

and how to die. Fools say it, not we of Platæa. For our first line seemed

broken in a twinkling. The Pitanate _mora_ was cut to pieces; Athena

Promachus and Ares the City-Waster alone turned back that charge when

Mardonius led the way.”

But turned it was. And the thousand horse, no thousand now, drifted to the

cover of their shield wall, raging, undaunted, yet beaten back.

Then at last the phalanx locked with the Persian footmen and their rampart

of wicker shields. At short spear length men grinned in each other’s

faces, while their veins were turned to fire. Many a soldier—Spartan,

Aryan—had seen his twenty fights, but never a fight like this. And the

Persians—those that knew Greek—heard words flung through their foemen’s

helmets that made each Hellene fight as ten.

“Remember Leonidas! Remember Thermopylæ!”

Orders there were none; the trumpets were drowned in the tumult. Each man

fought as he stood, knowing only he must slay the man before him, while

slowly, as though by a cord tighter and ever tighter drawn, the Persian

shield wall was bending back before the unrelenting thrusting of the

Spartans. Then as a cord snaps so broke the barrier. One instant down and

the Hellenes were sweeping the light-armed Asiatic footmen before them, as

the scythe sweeps down the standing grain. So with the Persian infantry,

for their scanty armour and short spears were at terrible disadvantage,

but the strength of the Barbarian was not spent. Many times Mardonius led

the cavalry in headlong charge, each repulse the prelude to a fiercer

shock.

“For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!”

The call of the Prince was a call that turned his wild horsemen into

demons, but demons who strove with gods. The phalanx was shaken, halted

even, broken never; and foot by foot, fathom by fathom, it brushed the

Barbarian horde back across the blood-bathed plain,—and to Mardonius’s

shout, a more terrible always answered:—

“Remember Leonidas! Remember Thermopylæ!”

The Prince seemed to bear a charmed life as he fought. He was in the

thickest fray. He sent the white Nisæan against the Laconian spears and

beat down a dozen lance-points with his sword. If one man’s valour could

have turned the tide, his would have wrought the miracle. And always

behind, almost in reach of the Grecian sling-stones, rode that other,—the

page in the silvered mail,—nor did any harm come to this rider. But after

the fight had raged so long that men sank unwounded,—gasping, stricken by

the heat and press,—the Prince drew back a little from the fray to a

rising in the plain, where close by a rural temple of Demeter he could

watch the drifting fight, and he saw the Aryans yielding ground finger by

finger, yet yielding, and the phalanx impregnable as ever. Then he sent an

aide with an urgent message.

“To Artabazus and the reserve. Bid him take from the camp all the guards,

every man, every eunuch that can lift a spear, and come with speed, or the

day is lost.”

The adjutant’s spurs grew red as he pricked away, while Mardonius wheeled

the Nisæan and plunged back into the thickest fight.

“For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!”

His battle-call pealed even above the hellish din. The Persian nobles who

had never ridden to aught save victory turned again. Their last charge was

their fiercest. They bent the phalanx back like an inverted bow. Their

footmen, reckless of self, plunged on the Greeks and snapped off the

spear-points with their naked hands. Mardonius was never prouder of his

host than in that hour. Proud—but the charge was vain. As the tide swept

back, as the files of the Spartans locked once more, he knew his men had

done their uttermost. They had fought since dawn. Their shield wall was

broken. Their quivers were empty. Was not Mazda turning against them? Had

not enough been dared for that king who lounged at ease in Sardis?

“For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!”

Mardonius’s shout had no answer. Here, there, he saw horsemen and footmen,

now singly, now in small companies, drifting backward across the plain to

the last refuge of the defeated, the stockaded camp by the Asopus. The

Prince called on his cavalry, so few about him now.

“Shall we die as scared dogs? Remember the Aryan glory. Another charge!”

His bravest seemed never to hear him. The onward thrust of the phalanx

quickened. It was gaining ground swiftly at last. Then the Spartans were

dashing forward like men possessed.

“The Athenians have vanquished the Thebans. They come to join us. On, men

of Lacedæmon, ours alone must be this victory!”

The shout of Pausanias was echoed by his captains. To the left and not far

off charged a second phalanx,—five thousand nodding crests and gleaming

points,—Aristeides bringing his whole array to his allies’ succour. But

his help was not needed. The sight of his coming dashed out the last

courage of the Barbarians. Before the redoubled shock of the Spartans the

Asiatics crumbled like sand. Even whilst these broke once more, the

adjutant drew rein beside Mardonius.

“Lord, Artabazus is coward or traitor. Believing the battle lost, he has

fled. There is no help to bring.”

The Prince bowed his head an instant, while the flight surged round him.

The Nisæan was covered with blood, but his rider spurred him across the

path of a squadron of flying Medians.

“Turn! Are you grown women!” Mardonius smote the nearest with his sword.

“If we cannot as Aryans conquer, let us at least as Aryans die!”

“_Ai! ai!_ Mithra deserts us. Artabazus is fled. Save who can!”

They swept past him. He flung himself before a band of Tartars. He had

better pleaded with the north wind to stay its course. Horse, foot,

Babylonians, Ethiopians, Persians, Medes, were huddled in fleeing rout.

“To the camp,” their cry, but Mardonius, looking on the onrushing

phalanxes knew there was no refuge there....

And now sing it, O mountains and rivers of Hellas. Sing it, Asopus, to

Spartan Eurotas, and you to hill-girt Alphæus. And let the maidens,

white-robed and poppy-crowned, sweep in thanksgiving up to the welcoming

temples,—honouring Zeus of the Thunders, Poseidon the Earth-Shaker, Athena

the Mighty in War. The Barbarian is vanquished. The ordeal is ended.

Thermopylæ was not in vain, nor Salamis. Hellas is saved, and with her

saved the world.

* * * * * * *

Again on the knoll by the temple, apart from the rushing fugitives,

Mardonius reined. His companion was once more beside him. He leaned that

she might hear him through the tumult.

“The battle is lost. The camp is defenceless. What shall we do?”

Artazostra flung back the gold-laced cap and let the sun play over her

face and hair.

“We are Aryans,” was all her answer.

He understood, but even whilst he was reaching out to catch her bridle

that their horses might run together, he saw her lithe form bend. The

arrow from a Laconian helot had smitten through the silvered mail. He saw

the red spring out over her breast. With a quick grasp he swung her before

him on the white horse. She smiled up in his face, never lovelier.

“Glaucon was right,” she said,—their lips were very close,—“Zeus and

Athena are greater than Mazda and Mithra. The future belongs to Hellas.

But we have naught for shame. We have fought as Aryans, as the children of

conquerors and kings. We shall be glad together in Garonmana the Blessed,

and what is left to dread?”

A quiver passed through her. The Spartan spear-line was close. Mardonius

looked once across the field. His men were fleeing like sheep. And so it

passed,—the dream of a satrapy of Hellas, of wider conquests, of an empire

of the world. He kissed the face of Artazostra and pressed her still form

against his breast.

“For Mazda, for Eran, for the king!” he shouted, and threw away his sword.

Then he turned the head of his wounded steed and rode on the Spartan

lances.

CHAPTER XL

THE SONG OF THE FURIES

Themistocles had started from Oropus with Simonides, a small guard of

mariners, and a fettered prisoner, as soon as the _Nausicaä’s_ people were

a little rested. Half the night they themselves were plodding on wearily.

At Tanagra the following afternoon a runner with a palm branch met them.

“Mardonius is slain. Artabazus with the rear-guard has fled northward. The

Athenians aided by the Spartans stormed the camp. Glory to Athena, who

gives us victory!”

“And the traitors?” Themistocles showed surprisingly little joy.

“Lycon’s body was found drifting in the Asopus. Democrates lies fettered

by Aristeides’s tents.”

Then the other Athenians broke forth into pæans, but Themistocles bowed

his head and was still, though the messenger told how Pausanias and his

allies had taken countless treasure, and now were making ready to attack

disloyal Thebes. So the admiral and his escort went at leisure across

Bœotia, till they reached the Hellenic host still camped near the

battle-field. There Themistocles was long in conference with Aristeides

and Pausanias. After midnight he left Aristeides’s tent.

“Where is the prisoner?” he asked of the sentinel before the headquarters.

“Your Excellency means the traitor?”

“I do.”

“I will guide you.” The soldier took a torch and led the way. The two went

down dark avenues of tents, and halted at one where five hoplites stood

guard with their spears ready, five more slept before the entrance.

“We watch him closely, _kyrie_,” explained the decarch, saluting.

“Naturally we fear suicide as well as escape. Two more are within the

tent.”

“Withdraw them. Do you all stand at distance. For what happens I will be

responsible.”

The two guards inside emerged yawning. Themistocles took the torch and

entered the squalid hair-cloth pavilion. The sentries noticed he had a

casket under his cloak.

“The prisoner sleeps,” said a hoplite, “in spite of his fetters.”

Themistocles set down the casket and carefully drew the tent-flap. With

silent tread he approached the slumberer. The face was upturned; white it

was, but it showed the same winsome features that had won the clappings a

hundred times in the Pnyx. The sleep seemed heavy, dreamless.

Themistocles’s own lips tightened as he stood in contemplation, then he

bent to touch the other’s shoulder.

“Democrates,”—no answer. “Democrates,”—still silence. “Democrates,”—a

stirring, a clanking of metal. The eyes opened,—for one instant a smile.

“_Ei_, Themistocles, it is you?” to be succeeded by a flash of unspeakable

horror. “O Zeus, the gyves! That I should come to this!”

The prisoner rose to a sitting posture upon his truss of straw. His

fettered hands seized his head.

“Peace,” ordered the admiral, gently. “Do not rave. I have sent the

sentries away. No one will hear us.”

Democrates grew calmer. “You are merciful. You do not know how I was

tempted. You will save me.”

“I will do all I can.” Themistocles’s voice was solemn as an æolian harp,

but the prisoner caught at everything eagerly.

“Ah, you can do so much. Pausanias fought the battle, but they call you

the true saviour of Hellas. They will do anything you say.”

“I am glad.” Themistocles’s face was impenetrable as the sphinx’s.

Democrates seized the admiral’s red chlamys with his fettered hands.

“You will save me! I will fly to Sicily, Carthage, the Tin Isles, as you

wish. Have you forgotten our old-time friendship?”

“I loved you,” spoke the admiral, tremulously.

“Ah, recall that love to-night!”

“I do.”

“O piteous Zeus, why then is your face so awful? If you will aid me to

escape—”

“I will aid you.”

“Blessings, blessings, but quick! I fear to be stoned to death by the

soldiers in the morning. They threaten to crucify—”

“They shall not.”

“Blessings, blessings,—can I escape to-night?”

“Yes,” but Themistocles’s tone made the prisoner’s blood run chill. He

cowered helplessly. The admiral stood, his own fine face covered with a

mingling of pity, contempt, pain.

“Democrates, hearken,”—his voice was hard as flint. “We have seized your

camp chest, found the key to your ciphers, and know all your

correspondence with Lycon. We have discovered your fearful power of

forgery. Hermes the Trickster gave it you for your own destruction. We

have brought Hiram hither from the ship. This night he has ridden the

‘Little Horse.’(17) He has howled out everything. We have seized Bias and

heard his story. There is nothing to conceal. From the beginning of your

peculation of the public money, till the moment when, the prisoners say,

you were in Mardonius’s camp, all is known to us. You need not confess.

There is nothing worth confessing.”

“I am glad,”—great beads were on the prisoner’s brow,—“but you do not

realize the temptation. Have you never yourself been betwixt Scylla and

Charybdis? Have I not vowed every false step should be the last? I fought

against Lycon. I fought against Mardonius. They were too strong. Athena

knoweth I did not crave the tyranny of Athens! It was not that which drove

me to betray Hellas.”

“I believe you. But why did you not trust me at the first?”

“I hardly understand.”

“When first your need of money drove you to crime, why did you not come to

me? You knew I loved you. You knew I looked on you as my political son and

heir in the great work of making Athens the light of Hellas. I would have

given you the gold,—yes, fifty talents.”

“_Ai, ai_, if I had only dared! I thought of it. I was afraid.”

“Right.” Themistocles’s lip was curling. “You are more coward than knave

or traitor. Phobos, Black Fear, has been your leading god, not Hermes. And

now—”

“But you have promised I shall escape.”

“You shall.”

“To-night? What is that you have?” Themistocles was opening the casket.

“The papers seized in your chest. They implicate many noble Hellenes in

Corinth, Sicyon, Sparta. Behold—” Themistocles held one papyrus after

another in the torch-flame,—“here is crumbling to ashes the evidence that

would destroy them all as Medizers. Mardonius is dead. Let the war die

with him. Hellas is safe.”

“Blessings, blessings! Help me to escape. You have a sword. Pry off these

gyves. How easy for you to let me fly!”

“Wait!” The admiral’s peremptory voice silenced the prisoner. Themistocles

finished his task. Suddenly, however, Democrates howled with animal fear.

“What are you taking now—a goblet?”

“Wait.” Themistocles was indeed holding a silver cup and flask. “Have I

not said you should escape this captivity—to-night?”

“Be quick, then, the night wanes fast.”

The admiral strode over beside the creature who plucked at his hem.

“Give ear again, Democrates. Your crimes against Athens and Hellas were

wrought under sore temptation. The money you stole from the public chest,

if not returned already, I will myself make good. So much is forgiven.”

“You are a true friend, Themistocles.” The prisoner’s voice was husky, but

the admiral’s eyes flashed like flint-stones struck by the steel.

“Friend!” he echoed. “Yes, by Zeus Orcios, guardian of oaths and

friendship, you had a friend. Where is he now?”

Democrates lay on the turf floor of the tent, not even groaning.

“You had a friend,”—the admiral’s intensity was awful. “You blasted his

good name, you sought his life, you sought his wife, you broke every bond,

human or divine, to destroy him. At last, to silence conscience’ sting,

you thought you did a deed of mercy in sending him in captivity to a death

in life. Fool! Nemesis is not mocked. Glaucon has lain at death’s door. He

has saved Hellas, but at a price. The surgeons say he will live, but that

his foot is crippled. Glaucon can never run again. You have brought him

misery. You have brought anguish to Hermione, the noblest woman in Hellas,

whom you—ah! mockery—professed to hold in love! You have done worse than

murder. Yet I have promised you shall escape this night. Rise up.”

Democrates staggered to his feet clumsily, only half knowing what he did.

Themistocles was extending the silver cup. “Escape. Drink!”

“What is this cup?” The prisoner had turned gray.

“Hemlock, coward! Did you not bid Glaucon to take his life that night in

Colonus? The death you proffered him in his innocency I proffer you now in

your guilt. Drink!”

“You have called me friend. You have said you loved me. I dare not die. A

little time! Pity! Mercy! What god can I invoke?”

“None. Cerberus himself would not hearken to such as you. Drink.”

“Pity, by our old-time friendship!”

The admiral’s tall form straightened.

“Themistocles the Friend is dead; Themistocles the Just is here,—drink.”

“But you promised escape?” The prisoner’s whisper was just audible.

“Ay, truly, from the court-martial before the roaring camp in the morning,

the unmasking of all your accomplices, the deeper shame of every one-time

friend, the blazoning of your infamy in public evidence through Hellas,

the soldiers howling for your blood, the stoning, perchance the plucking

in pieces. By the gods Olympian, by the gods Infernal, do your past lovers

one last service—drink!”

That was not all Themistocles said, that was all Democrates heard. In his

ears sounded, even once again, the song of the Furies,—never so clearly as

now.

“With scourge and with ban

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!”

Nemesis—Nemesis, the implacable goddess, had come for her own at last.

Democrates took the cup.

CHAPTER XLI

THE BRIGHTNESS OF HELIOS

The day that disloyal Thebes surrendered came the tidings of the crowning

of the Hellenes’ victories. At Mycale by Samos the Greek fleets had

disembarked their crews and defeated the Persians almost at the doors of

the Great King in Sardis. Artabazus had escaped through Thrace to Asia in

caitiff flight. The war—at least the perilous part thereof—was at end.

There might be more battles with the Barbarian, but no second Salamis or

Platæa.

The Spartans had found the body of Mardonius pierced with five lances—all

in front. Pausanias had honoured the brave dead,—the Persian had been

carried from the battle-ground on a shield, and covered by the red cloak

of a Laconian general. But the body mysteriously disappeared. Its fate was

never known. Perhaps the curious would have gladly heard what Glaucon on

his sick-bed told Themistocles, and what Sicinnus did afterward. Certain

it is that the shrewd Asiatic later displayed a costly ring which the

satrap Zariaspes, Mardonius’s cousin, sent him “for a great service to the

house of Gobryas.”

* * * * * * *

On the same day that Thebes capitulated the household of Hermippus left

Trœzene to return to Athens. When they had told Hermione all that had

befallen,—the great good, the little ill,—she had not fainted, though

Cleopis had been sure thereof. The colour had risen to her cheeks, the

love-light to her eyes. She went to the cradle where Phœnix cooed and

tossed his baby feet.

“Little one, little one,” she said, while he beamed up at her, “you have

not to avenge your father now. You have a better, greater task, to be as

fair in body and still more in mind as he.”

Then came the rush of tears, the sobbing, the laughter, and Lysistra and

Cleopis, who feared the shock of too much joy, were glad.

The _Nausicaä_ bore them to Peiræus. The harbour towns were in black

ruins, for Mardonius had wasted everything before retiring to Bœotia for

his last battle. In Athens, as they entered it, the houses were roofless,

the streets scattered with rubbish. But Hermione did not think of these

things. The Agora at last,—the porticos were only shattered, fire-scarred

pillars,—and everywhere were tents and booths and bustle,—the brisk

Athenians wasting no time in lamentation, but busy rebuilding and making

good the loss. Above Hermione’s head rose a few blackened columns,—all

that was left of the holy house of Athena,—but the crystalline air and the

red Rock of the Acropolis no Persian had been able to take away.

And even as Hermione crossed the Agora she heard a shouting, a word

running from lip to lip as a wave leaps over the sea.

In the centre of the buzzing mart she stopped. All the blood sprang to her

face, then left it. She passed her fingers over her hair, and waited with

twitching, upturned face. Through the hucksters’ booths, amid the

clamouring buyers and sellers, went a runner, striking left and right with

his staff, for the people were packing close, and he had much ado to clear

the way. Horsemen next, prancing chargers, the prizes from the Barbarian,

and after them a litter. Noble youths bore it, sons of the Eupatrid houses

of Athens. At sight of the litter the buzz of the Agora became a roar.

“The beautiful! The fortunate! The deliverer! _Io! Io, pæan!_”

Hermione stood; only her eyes followed the litter. Its curtains were flung

back; she saw some one within, lying on purple cushions. She saw the

features, beautiful as Pentelic marble and as pale. She cared not for the

people. She cared not that Phœnix, frighted by the shouting, had begun to

wail. The statue in the litter moved, rose on one elbow.

“Ah, dearest and best,”—his voice had the old-time ring, his head the

old-time poise,—“you need not fear to call me husband now!”

“Glaucon,” she cried. “I am not fit to be your wife. I am not fit to kiss

your feet.”

* * * * * * *

They set the litter down. Even little Simonides, though a king among the

curious, found the Acropolis peculiarly worthy of his study. Enough that

Hermione’s hands were pressing her husband, and these two cared not

whether a thousand watched or only Helios on high. Penelope was greeting

the returning Odysseus:—

“Welcome even as to shipmen

On the swelling, raging sea;

When Poseidon flings the whirlwind,

When a thousand blasts roam free,

Then at last the land appeareth;—

E’en so welcome in her sight

Was her lord, her arms long clasped him,

And her eyes shone pure and bright.”

After a long time Glaucon commanded, “Bring me our child,” and Cleopis

gladly obeyed. Phœnix ceased weeping and thrust his red fists in his

father’s face.

“_Ei_, pretty snail,” said Glaucon, pressing him fast by one hand, whilst

he held his mother by the other, “if I say you are a merry wight, the

nurse will not marvel any more.”

But Hermione had already heard from Niobe of the adventure in the

market-place at Trœzene.

The young men were just taking up the litter, when the Agora again broke

into cheers. Themistocles, saviour of Hellas, had crossed to Glaucon. The

admiral—never more worshipped than now, when every plan he wove seemed

perfect as a god’s—took Glaucon and Hermione, one by each hand.

“Ah, _philotatoi_,” he said, “to all of us is given by the sisters above

so much bliss and so much sorrow. Some drink the bitter first, some the

sweet. And you have drained the bitter to the lees. Therefore look up at

the Sun-King boldly. He will not darken for you again.”

“Where now?” asked Hermione, in all things looking to her husband.

“To the Acropolis,” ordered Glaucon. “If the temple is desolate, the Rock

is still holy. Let us give thanks to Athena.”

He even would have left the litter, had not Themistocles firmly forbidden.

In time the Alcmæonid’s strength would return, though never the speed that

had left the stadia behind whilst he raced to save Hellas.

They mounted the Rock. From above, in the old-time brightness, the noonday

light, the sunlight of Athens, sprang down to them. Hermione, looking on

Glaucon’s face, saw him gaze eagerly upon her, his child, the sacred Rock,

and the glory from Helios. Then his face wore a strange smile she could

not understand. She did not know that he was saying in his heart:—

“And I thought for the rose vales of Bactria to forfeit—this!”

They were on the summit. The litter was set down on the projecting spur by

the southwest corner. The area of the Acropolis was desolation, ashes,

drums of overturned pillars, a few lone and scarred columns. The works of

man were in ruin, but the works of the god, of yesterday, to-day, and

forever were yet the same. They turned their backs on the ruin. Westward

they looked—across land and sea, beautiful always, most beautiful now, for

had they not been redeemed with blood and tears? The Barbarian was

vanquished; the impossible accomplished. Hellas and Athens were their own,

with none to take away.

They saw the blue bay of Phaleron. They saw the craggy height of Munychia,

Salamis with its strait of the victory, farther yet the brown dome of

Acro-Corinthus and the wide breast of the clear Saronian sea. To the left

was Hymettus the Shaggy, to right the long crest of Daphni, behind them

rose Pentelicus, home of the marble that should take the shape of the

gods. With one voice they fell to praising Athens and Hellas, wisely or

foolishly, according to their wit. Only Hermione and Glaucon kept silence,

hand within hand, and speaking fast,—not with their lips,—but with their

eyes.

Then at the end Themistocles spoke, and as always spoke the best.

“We have flung back the Barbarian. We have set our might against the

God-King and have conquered. Athens lies in ruins. We shall rebuild her.

We shall make her more truly than before the ‘Beautiful,’ the

‘Violet-Crowned City,’ worthy of the guardian Athena. The conquering of

the Persian was hard. The making of Athens immortal by the beauty of our

lives, and words, and deeds is harder. Yet in this also we shall conquer.

Yea, verily, for the day shall come that wherever the eye is charmed by

the beautiful, the heart is thrilled by the noble, or the soul yearns

after the perfect,—there in the spirit shall stand Athens.”

* * * * * * *

After they had prayed to the goddess, they went down from the Rock and its

vision of beauty. Below a mule car met them. They set Glaucon and Hermione

with the babe therein, and these three were driven over the Sacred Way

toward the purple-bosomed hills, through the olive groves and the pine

trees, across the slope of Daphni, to rest and peace in

Eleusis-by-the-Sea.

STANDARD MACMILLAN FICTION

--------------

_By WILLIAM STEARNS DAVIS_

A Friend of Cæsar

A TALE OF THE FALL OF THE ROMAN REPUBLIC

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“God Wills It”

A TALE OF THE FIRST CRUSADE

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_With Illustrations by Louis Betts_

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Falaise of the Blessed Voice

A TALE OF THE YOUTH OF ST. LOUIS, KING OF FRANCE

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The Saint of the Dragon’s Dale

(In the series of “LITTLE NOVELS BY FAVORITE AUTHORS”)

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RECENT MACMILLAN NOVELS

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FOOTNOTES

1 A word conveying at once “welcome!” and “farewell!”

2 The chief magistrate of an Attic commune.

3 Attic law allowed a husband to will his wife to a friend.

4 A kind of grasshopper peculiar to Greece.

5 A kind of beetle common in Greece.

6 “Give herself airs.”

7 The police magistrates of Athens.

8 A number, of course, grossly exaggerated.

9 A pottage peculiar to Sparta, made of lumps of meat, salt, and much

vinegar.

10 Equivalent to crying “Hound!” in English.

11 The serfs of the Spartans.

12 The Phœnician Hercules.

13 Nearly two hundred miles.

14 Approximately September.

15 A division in the Spartan army.

16 Who in full force had joined the Persians.

17 The rack.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

The author’s footnotes have been moved to the end of the volume.

Blackletter has been marked with asterisks.

The following typographical errors were corrected:

page 6, “gridle” changed to “girdle”

page 8, “seashore” changed to “sea-shore”

page 23, “earthern” changed to “earthen”

page 24, “Thacian” changed to “Thasian”

page 29, “good humoredly” changed to “good-humouredly”

page 31, “Mantineia” changed to “Mantinea”

page 32, “honor” changed to “honour”

page 63, “waterpots” changed to “water-pots”

page 65, “humorous” changed to “humourous”

page 90, “Nausicäa” changed to “Nausicaä”

page 92, “pentaconters” changed to “penteconters”

page 93, missing quote added before “We can say”

page 95, “he” changed to “be”

page 101, comma changed to period after “house was out”

page 107, “fish-monger” changed to “fishmonger”

page 117, added italics to “Ai!”

page 133, “Baylonish” changed to “Babylonish”

page 145, “Neverthless” changed to “Nevertheless”

page 146, “haircloth” changed to “hair-cloth”

page 157, “sailcloth” changed to “sail-cloth”

page 173, semicolon added after “beautiful”

page 176, single quote changed to double quote after “kings reign

forever!”

page 196, “intrust” changed to “entrust”

page 229, “torchlight” changed to “torch-light”

page 230, “goatskin” changed to “goat-skin”

page 238, comma removed after “Themistocles”

page 280, “Ameinas” changed to “Ameinias”

page 283, “Ameinas’s” changed to “Ameinias’s”

page 288, “renegadoes” changed to “renegades”

page 301, “Phelgon’s” changed to “Phlegon’s”

page 324, removed italics from “Artemisia”

page 325, “maelstrom” changed to “mælstrom”

page 327, “Psytalleia” changed to “Psyttaleia”

page 368, “fagots” changed to “faggots”

page 377, “warships” changed to “war-ships”

page 396, “lieutenant” changed to “lieutenants”

page 404, missing period added after “are great gods”

page 419, “bowstring” changed to “bow-string”

page 424, single quote removed after “Such as what?”

page 432, “Pinatate” changed to “Pitanate”

page 445, comma added after “Zariaspes”, “Gobyras” changed to

“Gobryas”

page 451, “Caesar” changed to “Cæsar”

Some variants in spelling, capitalization or hyphenation which cannot be

regarded as simple typographical errors have been retained.