A Victor of Salamis
“Don’t goad me!” Democrates wrung his hands. “I am desperate. Take these
papyri, read, pay, then let me never see your face again.” He flung the
two rolls in the Prince’s lap and sat in abject misery.
The other unrolled the writings deliberately, read slowly, motioned to
Hiram, who also read them with catlike scrutiny. During all this not a
word was spoken. Democrates observed the beautiful mute emerge from an
inner chamber and silently take station at his master’s side, following
the papers also with wonderful, eager eyes. Only after a long interval the
Prince spoke.
“Well—you bring what purports to be private memoranda of Themistocles on
the equipment and arraying of the Athenian fleet. Yet these are only
copies.”
“Copies; the originals cannot stay in my possession. It were ruin to give
them up.”
The Prince turned to Hiram.
“And do you say, from what you know of these things, these memoranda are
genuine?”
“Genuine. That is the scanty wisdom of the least of your Highness’s
slaves.”
The Oriental bowed himself, then stood erect in a manner that reminded
Democrates of some serpent that had just coiled and uncoiled.
“Good,” continued the emissary; “yet I must ask our good Athenian to
confirm them with an oath.”
The orator groaned. He had not expected this last humiliation; but being
forced to drink the cup, he drained it to the lees. He swore by Zeus
Orchios, Watcher of Oaths, and Dike, the Eternal Justice, that he brought
true copies, and that if he was perjured, he called a curse upon himself
and all his line. The Cyprian received his oath with calm satisfaction,
then held out the half of a silver shekel broken in the middle.
“Show this to Mydon, the Sicyonian banker at Phaleron. He holds its
counterpart. He will pay the man who completes the coin ten talents.”
Democrates received the token, but felt that he must stand upon his
dignity.
“I have given an oath, stranger, but give the like to me. What proof have
I of this Mydon?”
The question seemed to rouse the unseen lion in the Cyprian. His eye
kindled. His voice swelled.
“We leave oaths, Hellene, to men of trade and barter, to men of trickery
and guile. The Aryan noble is taught three things: to fear the king, to
bend the bow, to speak the truth. And he learns all well. I have
spoken,—my word is my oath.”
The Athenian shrank at the storm he had roused. But the Prince almost
instantly curbed himself. His voice sank again to its easy tone of
conciliation.
“So much for my word, good friend; yet better than an oath, look here. Can
the man who bears this ring afford to tell a lie?”
He extended his right hand. On the second finger was a huge beryl signet.
Democrates bent over it.
“Two seated Sphynxes and a winged cherub flying above,—the seal of the
royal Achæmenians of Persia! You are sent by Xerxes himself. You are—”
The Prince raised a warning finger. “Hush, Athenian. Think what you will,
but do not name me, though soon my name shall fly through all the world.”
“So be it,” rejoined Democrates, his hands clutching the broken coin as at
a last reprieve from death. “But be warned, even though I bear you no
good-will. Themistocles is suspicious. Sicinnus his agent, a sly cat, is
searching for you. The other day Themistocles, in the boat at Peiræus, was
fain to have you questioned. If detected, I cannot save you.”
The Prince shrugged his shoulders.
“Good Democrates, I come of a race that trusts in the omnipotence of God
and does the right. Duty requires me in Athens. What Ahura-Mazda and
Mithra his glorious vicegerent will, that shall befall me, be I in Hellas
or in safe Ecbatana. The decree of the Most High, written among the stars,
is good. I do not shun it.”
The words were spoken candidly, reverently. Democrates drew toward the
door, and the others did not strive to detain him.
“As you will,” spoke the Athenian; “I have warned you. Trust then your
God. I have sold myself this once, but do not call me friend. Necessity is
a sharp goad. May our paths never cross again!”
“Until you again have need,” said the Prince, not seeking to wring from
the other any promise.
Democrates muttered a sullen farewell and went down the dark stairs. The
light in Phormio’s house was out. No one seemed to be watching. On the way
homeward Democrates comforted himself with the reflection that although
the memoranda he sold were genuine, Themistocles often changed his plans,
and he could see to it this scheme for arraying the war fleet was speedily
altered. No real harm then would come to Hellas. And in his hand was the
broken shekel,—the talisman to save him from destruction. Only when
Democrates thought of Glaucon and Hermione he was fain to grit his teeth,
while many times it returned to him, “They think it was _Glaucon_ who has
been twice now to visit the Babylonish carpet-seller.”
* * * * * * *
As the door had closed behind the orator, the Prince had strode across the
rugs to the window—and spat forth furiously as in extreme disgust.
“Fool, knave, villain! I foul my lips by speaking to his accursed ears!”
The tongue in which he uttered this was the purest “Royal Persian,” such
as one might hear in the king’s court. The beautiful “mute,” mute no
longer, glided across the chamber and laid both hands upon his shoulder
with a gracious caress.
“And yet you bear with these treacherous creatures, you speak them fair?”
was the remark in the same musical tongue.
“Yes, because there is sore need. Because, with all their faithlessness,
covetousness, and guile, these Hellenes are the keenest, subtlest race
beneath Mithra’s glorious light. And we Persians must play with them,
master them, and use them to make us lords of all the world.”
Hiram had disappeared behind a curtain. The Prince lifted her silver
embroidered red cap. Over the graceful shoulders fell a mass of clear gold
hair, so golden one might have hidden shining darics within it. The
shining head pressed against the Persian’s breast. In this attitude, with
the loose dress parting to show the tender lines, there could be no doubt
of the other’s sex. The Prince laid his hand upon her neck and drew her
bright face nearer.
“This is a mad adventure on which we two have come,” he spoke; “how nearly
you were betrayed at the Isthmus, when the Athenian saved you! A blunder
by Hiram, an ill-turn of Fate, will ruin us yet. It is far, Rose of Eran,
from Athens to the pleasant groves of Susa and the sparkling Choaspes.”
“But the adventure is ending,” answered she, with smiling confidence;
“Mazda has guarded us. As you have said—we are in his hand, alike here and
in my brother’s palace. And we have seen Greece and Athens—the country and
city which you will conquer, which you will rule.”
“Yes,” he said, letting his eyes pass from her face to the vista of the
Acropolis, which lay in fair view under the moonlight. “How noble a city
this! Xerxes has promised that I shall be satrap of Hellas, Athens shall
be my capital, and you, O best beloved, you shall be mistress of Athens.”
“I shall be mistress of Athens,” echoed she, “but you, husband and lord,
would that men might give you a higher name than satrap, chief of the
Great King’s slaves!”
“Xerxes is king,” he answered her.
“My brother wears the purple cap. He sits on the throne of Cyrus the Great
and Darius the Dauntless. I would be a loyal Aryan, the king is indeed in
Susa or Babylon. But for me the true king of Media and Persia—is here.”
And she lifted proud eyes to her husband.
“You are bold, Rose of Eran,” he smiled, not angry at her implication;
“more cautious words than these have brought many in peril of the
bow-string. But, by Mithra the Fiend-Smiter, why were you not made a man?
Then truly would your mother Atossa have given Darius an heir right worthy
the twenty kingdoms!”
She gave a gentle laugh.
“The Most High ordains the best. Have I not the noblest kingdom? Am I not
your wife?”
His laugh answered her.
“Then I am greater than Xerxes. I love my empire the best!”
He leaned again from the lattice, “O, fairest of cities, and we shall win
it! See how the tawny rock turns to silver beneath the moonbeams! How
clearly burn the stars over the plain and the mountain! And these Greeks,
clever, wise, beautiful, when we have mastered them, have taught them our
Aryan obedience and love of truth, what servants will they not become! For
we are ordained to conquer. Mazda has given us empire without limit, from
the Indus to the Great Ocean of the West,—all shall be ours; for we are
Persians, the race to rule forever.”
“We will conquer,” she said dreamily, as enchanted as was he by the
beauties of the night.
“From the day Cyrus your grandfather flung down Cambyses the Mede, the
High God has been with us. Egypt, Assyria, Babylon—have all bowed under
our yoke. The Lydian at golden Sardis, the Tartar on the arid steppes, the
Hindoo by his sacred river, all send tribute to our king, and Hellas—” he
held out his arms confidently—“shall be the brightest star in the Persian
tiara. When Darius your father lay dying, I swore to him, ‘Master, fear
not; I will avenge you on Athens and on all the Greeks.’ And in one brief
year, O _fravashi_, soul of the great departed, I may make good the vow. I
will make these untamed Hellenes bow their proud necks to a king.”
Her own eyes brightened, looking on him, as he spoke in pride and power.
“And yet,” she could not keep back the question, “as we have moved through
this Hellas, and seen its people, living without princes, or with princes
of little power, sometimes a strange thought comes. These perverse,
unobedient folk, false as they are, and ununited, have yet a strength to
do great things, a strength which even we Aryans lack.”
He shook his head.
“It cannot be. Mazda ordained a king to rule, the rest to obey. And all
the wits of Hellas have no strength until they learn that lesson well. But
I will teach it them.”
“For some day you will be their king?” spoke the woman. He did not
reprove, but stood beside her, gazing forth upon the night. In the
moonlight the columns and sculptures of the great temple on the Acropolis
stood out in minute tracery They could see all the caverns and jagged
ledges on the massy Rock. The flat roofs of the sleeping city lay like a
dark and peaceful ocean. The mountains spread around in shadow-wrapped
hush. Far away the dark stretch of the sea sent back a silver shimmering
in answer to the moon. A landscape only possible at Athens! The two
sensitive Orientals’ souls were deeply touched. For long they were silent,
then the husband spoke.
“Twenty days more; we are safe in Sardis, the adventure ended. The war
only remains, and the glory, the conquest,—and thou. O Ahura-Mazda,” he
spoke upward to the stars, “give to thy Persians this land. For when Thou
hast given this, Thou wilt keep back nothing of all the world.”
CHAPTER X
DEMOCRATES RESOLVES
Democrates surpassed himself when arraigning the knavish contractor.
“Nestor and Odysseus both speak to us,” shouted Polus in glee, flinging
his black bean in the urn. “What eloquence, what righteous fury when he
painted the man’s infamy to pillage the city in a crisis like this!”
So the criminal was sent to death and Democrates was showered with
congratulations. Only one person seemed hardly satisfied with all the
young orator did,—Themistocles. The latter told his lieutenant candidly he
feared all was not being done to apprehend the Persian emissary.
Themistocles even took it upon himself to send Sicinnus to run down
several suspects, and just on the morning of the day preceding the
Panathenæa—the great summer festival—Democrates received a hint which sent