THE END OF ALCIBIADES.
Three days after the events recorded in the last chapter--it took so
much time for the young man to screw up his courage to the
point--Callias made his way to the ship-yard of Hippocles at an hour
when he knew that he would be pretty certain to find the master there.
He was not disappointed, nor could he help being touched by the warm
sympathy with which he was received.
“Ah! my dear friend,” cried the merchant, “this has been a great
disappointment to me. I must own that I had my fears. I know something,
you see, of my daughter’s temper. I knew that she had always chafed
under our disabilities. Things that have ceased to trouble me--and I
must own that they never troubled me much--are grievous to her. You see
that I have a power of my own which is quite enough to satisfy any
reasonable man. I can’t speak or vote in your assembly, but I have a
voice, if I choose to use it, in your policy. She knows very little
about this, and would not appreciate it if she did. Besides it would not
avail her. No; she feels herself an inferior here, and it galls her; yet
that is scarcely the way to put it, for she was thinking much more of
you than of herself. I believe that she loves you--she has not confided
in me, you must understand, but I guess as much--and she would sooner
cut off her right hand than injure you or yours. And then her pride
comes in also. ‘Am I, daughter of kings as I am,’ she says to herself,
‘am I to be one to bring humiliation into an ancient house?’ Her
mother’s forefathers would be called barbarians here, but they were
kings and heroes for all that. And that is the bitterness of it to her:
to feel herself your equal in birth, and yet to know that to marry you
would be to drag you down.”
“I understand,” said Callias, “it is noble; but just now my heart rebels
very loudly against it. Let us say no more. I have come to ask you what
you would advise. For the present I cannot stay at Athens.”
“That,” said Hippocles, “is exactly what I wanted to talk to you about;
if you had not come to-day I should have sought for you. You wish to
leave Athens, you say. It is well, for it would not be safe for you to
stay. We shall have a bad time in Athens for the next few months,
perhaps for longer. The exiles have come back full of rage and thirsting
for revenge. And then there is Theramenes; he is the man you have to
fear. He has the murder of the generals on his soul. That, perhaps,
would not trouble him much but he fears all who might be disposed to
call him to account for it. He knows that you were the kinsman and dear
friend of Diomedon, and he will take the first opportunity that may
occur of doing you a mischief. And opportunities will not be wanting. I
suspect that for some time to come, with the Oligarchs in power and the
Lacedaemonians to back them up, laws and constitutional forms will not
go for much in Athens.”
“And you advise me to go?” said Callias.
“Certainly there is nothing to keep you. For the present there is no
career for you here. I don’t despair of Athens; but for some time to
come she will have a very humble part to play.”
“Have you anything to suggest?”
“I have been thinking over it for two or three days. Many things have
occurred to me, but nothing so good as was suggested by a letter which I
received this morning. It came from a merchant in Rhodes with whom I
have had dealings for some years past. My correspondent asks for a large
advance in money for a commercial speculation which he says promises
large profits. I have always found the man honest; in fact the outcomes
of my dealings with him in the past have been quite satisfactory. But
this new venture that he proposes is a very large one indeed. I like
what he tells me of it. It opens up quite a new field of enterprise; and
new fields, I need hardly tell you, have a great charm for a man in my
position. The ordinary routine of commerce does not interest me very
much; but something new is very attractive. Now I want you to go to
Rhodes for me. Make all the enquiries you can about the character and
standing of my correspondent, whom, curiously enough, I have never seen.
I will give you introductions to those who will put you in the way of
hearing all that is to be heard. If the man’s credit is shaky at all,
then I shall know that this proposition of his is a desperate venture.
If all is sound, I shall feel pretty sure that he has got hold of a
really good thing.”
“I know very little of such matters,” said the young Callias after a
pause.
“I do not ask you to go that you may judge of this particular
enterprise; I simply want you to find out what people are saying about
Diagoras--that is my correspondent’s name; you will be simply an
Athenian gentleman on his travels. Keep your ears open and you will be
sure to hear something.”
“Well,” said Callias, “I will do my best; but don’t expect too much.”
“Can you start to-morrow?”
“Yes, if you think it necessary.”
“Well, my affair is not urgent for some days, at least. But for
yourself, I fancy you cannot get out of the way too soon. I don’t think
that Theramenes and his friends will stick much at forms and ceremonies.
I own that I shall feel much happier when there are two or three hundred
miles of sea between you and them. Be here an hour after sunset
to-morrow. By that time I shall have arranged for your passage and got
ready your letters of introduction and the rest of it.”
“Well,” said the young man to himself as he went to make his
preparations for departure, “this, it must be confessed, is a little
hard on me. Hermione says, ‘Stop in Athens and stick to your career’;
her father says, ‘If you stop in Athens you are as good as a dead man,
and your career will be cut short by the hemlock cup.’ I have to give up
my love for my career and then give up my career for my life.”
It is needless to relate the incidents of my hero’s voyage to Rhodes or
of his stay on that island. His special mission he was able to
accomplish easily enough. Diagoras’ speculation was, as he soon found
out, the last resource of an embarrassed man; and the loan for which he
asked would be a risk too great for any prudent person to undertake. The
letter in which he communicated what he had heard to Hippocles was
crossed by one from Athens. From this he learned that the political
anticipations of the merchant had been more than fulfilled. The
oligarchical revolution had been carried on with the most outrageous
violence. On the very day on which he had left Athens, an officer of the
government had come with an order for his arrest.
All this was interesting; still more so was a brief communication from
Alcibiades which the merchant enclosed. It ran thus:
“Alcibiades to Callias son of Hipponicus, greeting. Great things are
possible now to the bold of whom I know you to be one. More I do not
say, but come to me as soon as you can. Farewell.”
The merchant had added a postscript. “I leave this for your
consideration. Alcibiades has a certain knack of success. But the risk
will be great.”
“What is risk to me?” said Callias. “I can’t spend my life idling here.”
The next day he left the island, taking his passage in a merchant ship
which, by great good luck was just starting for Smyrna. Smyrna was
reached without any mishap. Four days afterwards, he started with a
guide for the little village in Phrygia from which Alcibiades had dated
his note. Halting at noon on the first day’s journey to rest their
horses, they were accosted by a miserable looking wayfarer, who begged
for some scraps of food, declaring that he had not broken his fast for
four and twenty hours. Something in the man’s voice and face struck
Callias as familiar, and he puzzled in vain for a solution of the
mystery, while the stranger sat eagerly devouring the meal with which he
had been furnished.
“Here,” said Callias, when the man had finished his repast and was
thanking him, “here is something to help you along till you can find
friends or employment.” And he gave him four or five silver pieces.
It was the first time he had spoken in the fugitive’s hearing, and the
man, who, now that his ravenous hunger was appeased, had leisure to
notice other things, started at the sound of his voice. He, on his part,
seemed to recognize something.
“Many thanks, sir,” he said; “the gods pay you back ten-fold. But
surely,” he went on, “I have seen you before. Ah! now I remember. You
are Callias the son of Hipponicus, and you were my master’s guest in
Thrace.”
A light flashed on the young Athenian’s mind. The man had been one of
Alcibiades’ attendants in his Thracian castle.
“Ah! I remember,” he cried, “and your master was Alcibiades. But what do
you here? How does he fare?”
The man burst into tears. “Ah, sir, he is dead, cruelly killed by those
villains of Spartans. He was the very best of masters. I never had a
rough word from him. We all loved him.”
“Tell me,” said Callias, “how it happened. I was on my way to him,” and
he read to the man the brief note that had been forwarded to him at
Rhodes.
“Yes, I understand. I know when that was written. He had great hopes of
being able to do something. I did not rightly understand what it was,
but the common talk among us who were of his household was that he was
going to the Great King to persuade him that the best thing that he
could do would be to set Athens on her feet again to help him against
Sparta. Oh! he was a wonderful man to persuade, was my master. Nobody
could help being taken by him.”
“But tell me the story,” said the young man.
“Well, it happened in this way. My master had gone up to see
Pharnabazus, the Satrap, who had promised to aid him on his way up to
Susa to see the Great King. There were six of us with him; his
secretary, myself and four slaves. There was Timandra, also, whom he
used to call his wife; but his real wife was an Athenian lady,
Hipparete, I have heard say.”
“Yes,” interrupted Callias, “I knew her; a cousin of my own; a most
unhappy marriage. But go on.”
“Well, Pharnabazus received him most hospitably. There was no good house
in the village, so we had three cottages. Alcibiades had one; the
secretary and I another, and the slaves, a third. Every day the satrap
sent a handsome supply of provisions for us; dishes and wine from his
own table for my master, and for us all that we could want for
ourselves. I never fared better in my life. And my master had long talks
with him and seemed in excellent spirits. Everything was going on as
well as possible. Then there came a change. I never could find out
whether my master had heard anything to make him suspicious. If he had,
he certainly told the secretary nothing about it. But he was very much
depressed. First he sent Timandra away. She was very unwilling to go,
poor lady, for she did love my master very much, though, as I say, she
was not really his wife. But my master insisted on it, so she went away
to stay with some friends. After that his spirits grew worse and worse.
He used to tell his secretary the dreams he had. Once he dreamt he was
dressed in Timandra’s clothes, and that she was putting rouge and powder
on his face. At another time he seemed to see himself laid on a funeral
pyre and the people standing round ready to set it on fire. The very
night after he had that dream we were awakened by a tremendous uproar;
the secretary and I got up and looked out. The master’s cottage, which
was about a stadium[58] away from ours was on fire, and there were a
number of Persians, about fifty or sixty, standing round it, shouting
out and cursing him. The next moment we saw the door of the cottage
open, and the master ran out with a cloak round his head, to keep
himself from being choked by the smoke, and with a sword in his hand. As
soon as he was clear of the burning cottage he threw down the cloak and
rushed straight at the nearest Persian. The man turned and ran. There
was not one of them that dared stand for a moment. But they shot at him
with arrows. They had fastened the gates of the enclosure in which the
cottages stood, you must understand, so that he could not escape. In
fact he was climbing over one of them when he was killed.”
“And you; what did you do?”
“Ah! sir,” cried the man, “we were helpless, we had not a sword between
us. We hid ourselves, and the next morning took our master’s body and
carried it to Timandra. She made a great funeral, spending upon it, poor
thing, nearly every drachma she had. When we had seen the last of my
dear master, the secretary said that he had friends at Tarsus, and set
out to go there. I thought that I had best make my way to Smyrna. Thanks
to your goodness, I shall now be able to get there, but I was very
nearly dying of starvation. But what, if I may ask, are you thinking of
doing?”
“That I can’t tell,” replied the Athenian; “as I told you, I was on my
way to Alcibiades.”
“Well, sir, I can tell you this,” rejoined the stranger, “no friends of
my master’s will be safe here. Pharnabazus, I feel sure, had no great
love for him, notwithstanding all his politeness; as for the Spartans,
they hated him; and I did hear that the people who are now in power at
Athens had sent to say that peace could not last unless he were put out
of the way. Yes, sir, if anyone recognizes that you are my master’s
friend, you are a dead man.”
“Why,” said Callias, “I have made no secret of it. In Smyrna I spoke
about him to the people with whom I was staying. No one said a word
against him.”
“Very likely not,” replied the man, “for they thought that he was alive,
and no one liked to have my master for an enemy. He had a wonderful way
of making friends to have the upper hand and contriving that his
adversaries should have the worst of it. But now that he is dead you
will find things very different.”
“What is to be done?” asked the young Athenian.
“Can you trust your guide?”
“I know nothing of the man. I simply hired him because I was told that
he was a fairly honest fellow, knew the country very well, and would not
run away if a robber made his appearance.”
“Well, then get rid of him.”
“But how?”
“Tell him that you have a headache, and that you will come on after him
when you have rested a little and the sun is not so hot, and that he had
better go on, get quarters at the next stage and have everything ready
for you when you shall arrive. As soon as he is gone, get back as fast
as you can to Smyrna. The news will hardly have reached that place yet,
indeed we may be sure that it has not, or you would have heard of it
before you started. Go down to the docks, and take your passage in any
ship that you can find ready to start. Even if it is going to Athens
never mind; you will be able to leave it on the way. Anyhow, get out of
Asia at any risk.”
“And you?”
“Oh, no one will care about me. I am a very insignificant person. But,
as a matter of fact, I shall try to get to Syracuse. I was born there.”
“Syracuse will do as well for me as any other place. Why not come with
me if it can be managed? I was able to do you a little service, and you
have done me a great one. Let us go together.”
The plan was carried out with the greatest success. Callias made the
best of his way to Smyrna, and left his horse at an inn, not, of
course, the one from which he had started. As he had plenty of money for
immediate wants, besides letters of credit from Hippocles, he thought it
safer not to attempt to sell the animal. He then provided himself with
different clothes, purchasing at the same time a suit for his new
acquaintance. These he ordered to be sent to a small house of
entertainment near the docks which they had arranged should be the place
of meeting. Shortly before sunset the man appeared. Meanwhile Callias
had arranged for a passage for himself and his servant in a ship bound
for Corinth. They would not venture into Corinth itself, but would
transfer themselves at the port of Cenchreae into some ship bound for
Sicily.
Before the morning of the next day the two were on their way westward.
Everything went well. At Cenchreae they found a Syracusan merchantman
just about to start, shipped on board her and after a prosperous voyage
found themselves in the chief city of Sicily.
FOOTNOTES:
[58] A stadium was nearly a furlong; to be exact, 202 yards.