A Victor of Salamis
greeting:—Know that Themistocles is aware of your presence in Athens, and
grows suspicious of your identity. Leave Athens to-morrow or all is lost.
The confusion accompanying the festival will then make escape easy. The
man to whom I entrust this letter will devise with Hiram the means for
your flight by ship from the havens. May our paths never cross
again!—_Chaire._”
After Agis was gone the old trembling came again to Democrates. He had
Bias light all the lamps. The room seemed full of lurking
goblins,—harpies, gorgons, the Hydra, the Minotaur, every other foul and
noxious shape was waiting to spring forth. And, most maddening of all, the
chorus of Æschylus, that Song of the Furies Democrates had heard recited
at the Isthmus, rang in the miserable man’s ears:—
“With scourge and with ban
We prostrate the man,
Who with smooth-woven wile,
And a fair-facèd smile
Hath planted a snare for his friend.
Though fleet, we shall find him;
Though strong, we shall bind him,
Who planted a snare for his friend.”
Democrates approached the bust of Hermes standing in one corner. The
brazen face seemed to wear a smile of malignant gladness at the fulfilment
of his will.
“Hermes,” prayed the orator, “Hermes Dolios, god of craft and lies,
thieves’ god, helper of evil,—be with me now. To Zeus, to Athena the pure,
I dare not pray. Prosper me in the deed to which I set my hand,”—he
hesitated, he dared not bribe the shrewd god with too mean a gift, “and I
vow to set in thy temple at Tanagra three tall tripods of pure gold. So be
with me on the morrow, and I will not forget thy favour.”
The brazen face still smiled on; the room was very still. Yet Democrates
took comfort. Hermes was a great god and would help him. When the song of
the Furies grew too loud, Democrates silenced it by summoning back
Hermione’s face and asking one triumphant question:—
“She is Glaucon’s wife. But if not his, whose then but mine?”
CHAPTER XI
THE PANATHENÆA
Flowers on every head, flowers festooned about each pillar, and flowers
under foot when one crossed the Agora. Beneath the sheltering porticos
lurked bright-faced girls who pelted each passer with violets, narcissus,
and hyacinths. For this was the morn of the final crowning day of the
Panathenæa, greatest, gladdest of Athenian festivals.
Athletic contests had preceded it and stately Pyrrhic dances of men in
full armour. There had been feasting and merry-making despite the
darkening shadow of the Persian. Athens seemed awakened only to rejoice.
To-day was the procession to the Acropolis, the bearing of the sacred robe
to Athena, the public sacrifice for all the people. Not even the peril of
Xerxes could hinder a gladsome holiday.
The sun had just risen above Hymettus, the Agora shops were closed, but
the plaza itself and the lesches—the numerous little club houses about
it—overran with gossipers. On the stone bench before one of these buzzed
the select coterie that of wont assembled in Clearchus’s booth; only Polus
the juror now and then nodded and snored. He had sat up all night hearing
the priestesses chant their ceaseless litanies on the Acropolis.
“Guilty—I vote guilty,” the others heard him muttering, as his head sank
lower.
“Wake up, friend,” ordered Clearchus; “you’re not condemning any poor
scoundrel now.”
“_Ai!_ ah!” Polus rubbed his eyes, “I only thought I was dropping the
black bean—”
“Against whom?” quoth Crito, the fat contractor.
“Whom? Why that aristocrat Glaucon, surely,—to-night—” Polus suddenly
checked himself and began to roll his eyes.
“You’ve a dreadful grievance against him,” remarked Clearchus; “the gods
know why.”
“The wise patriot can see many things,” observed Polus, complacently,
“only I repeat—wait till to-night—and then—”
“What then?” demanded all the others.
“Then you shall see,” announced the juror, with an oratorical flourish of
his dirty himation, “and not you only but all of Athens.”
Clearchus grinned.
“Our dear Polus has a vast sense of his own importance. And who has been
making you partner of the state secrets—Themistocles?”
“A man almost his peer, the noble patriot Democrates. Ask Phormio’s wife,
Lampaxo; ask—” Once more he broke off to lay a finger on his lips. “This
will be a notable day for Athens!”
“Our good friend surely thinks so!” rejoined the potter, dryly; “but since
he won’t trust us with his precious secret, I think it much more
interesting to watch the people crossing the square. The procession must
be gathering outside the Dipylon Gate. Yonder rides Themistocles now to
take command.”
The statesman cantered past on a shining white Thessalian. At his heels
were prancing Cimon, Democrates, Glaucon, and many another youth of the
noble houses of Athens. At sight of the son of Conon, Polus had wagged his
head in a manner utterly perplexing to his associates, and they were again
perplexed when they saw Democrates wheel back from the side of his chief
and run up for a hurried word with a man in the crowd they recognized as
Agis.
“Agis is a strange fish to have dealings with a ‘steward’ of the
procession to-day,” wondered Crito.
“You’ll be enlightened to-morrow,” said Polus, exasperatingly. Then as the
band of horsemen cantered down the broad Dromos street, “Ah, me,—I wish I
could afford to serve in the cavalry. It’s far safer than tugging a spear
on foot. But there’s one young man out yonder on whose horse I’d not
gladly be sitting.”
“_Phui_,” complained Clearchus, “you are anxious to eat Glaucon skin and
bones! There goes his wife now, all in white flowers and ribbons, to take
her place in the march with the other young matrons. Zeus! But she is as
handsome as her husband.”
“She needn’t ‘draw up her eyebrows,’ ”(6) growled the juror, viciously;
“they’re marks of disloyalty even in her. Can’t you see she wears shoes of
the Theban model, laced open so as to display her bare feet, though
everybody knows Thebes is Medizing? She’s no better than Glaucon.”
“Hush,” ordered Clearchus, rising, “you have spoken folly enough. Those
trumpets tell us we must hasten if we hope to join in the march
ourselves.”
* * * * * * *
Who can tell the great procession? Not the maker of books,—what words call
down light on the glancing eyes, on the moving lines of colour? Not the
artist,—his pencil may not limn ten thousand human beings, beautiful and
glad, sweeping in bright array across the welcoming city. Nor can the
sculptor’s marble shape the marching forms, the rippling draperies, the
warm and buoyant life. The life of Athens was the crown of Greece. The
festival of the Panathenæa was the crown of Athens.
Never had Helios looked down on fairer landscape or city. The doors of the
patrician houses were opened; for a day unguarded, unconstrained, the
daughters, wives, and mothers of the nobility of Athens walked forth in
their queenly beauty. One could see that the sculptor’s master works were
but rigid counterparts of lovelier flesh and blood. One could see
veterans, stalwart almost as on the day of the old-time battles, but
crowned with the snow of years. One could see youths, and need no longer
marvel the young Apollo was accounted fair. Flowers, fluttering mantles,
purple, gold, the bravery of armour, rousing music—what was missing? All
conjoined to make a perfect spectacle.
The sun had chased the last vapours from the sky. The little ravines on
distant Hymettus stood forth sharply as though near at hand. The sun grew
hot, but men and women walked with bared heads, and few were the untanned
cheeks and shoulders. Children of the South, and lovers of the Sun-King,
the Athenians sought no shelter, their own bright humour rejoicing in the
light.
On the broad parade ground outside the Dipylon, the towering northwestern
gate, the procession gathered. Themistocles the Handsome, never more
gallant than now upon the white Thessalian, was ordering the array, the
ten young men, “stewards of the Panathenæa,” assisting. He sent his last
glance down the long files, his ivory wand signed to the musicians in the
van.
“Play! march!”
Fifty pipers blew, fifty citharas tinkled. The host swept into the city.
Themistocles led. Under the massy double gate caracoled the charger. The
robe of his rider blew out behind him like purple wings. There was the cry
and clang of cymbals and drums. From the gray battlement yellow daisies
rained down like gold. Cantering, halting, advancing, beckoning, the chief
went forward, and behind swept the “knights,” the mounted chivalry of
Athens,—three hundred of the noblest youths of Attica, on beasts sleek and
spirited, and in burnished armour, but about every helm a wreath. Behind
the “knights” rode the magistracy, men white-headed and grave, some
riding, some in flower-decked cars. After these the victors in the games
and contests of the preceding day. Next the elders of Athens—men of
blameless life, beautiful in hale and honoured age. Next the _ephebi_,—the
youths close to manhood, whose fair limbs glistened under their sweeping
chitons. Behind them, their sisters, unveiled, the maidens of Athens,
walking in rhythmic beauty, and with them their attendants, daughters of
resident foreigners. Following upon these was the long line of bleating
victims, black bulls with gilded horns and ribbon-decked rams without
blemish. And next—but here the people leaned from parapet, house-roof,
portico, and shouted louder than ever:
“The car and the robe of Athena! Hail, _Io, pæan!_ hail!”
Up the street on a car shaped like a galley moved the peplus, the great
robe of the sovran goddess. From afar one could see the wide folds spread
on a shipyard and rippling in the breeze. But what a sail! One year long
had the noblest women of Attica wrought on it, and all the love and art
that might breathe through a needle did not fail. It was a sheen of
glowing colour. The strife of Athena with the brutish giants, her contest
with Arachne, the deeds of the heroes of Athens—Erechtheus, Theseus,
Codrus: these were some of the pictures. The car moved noiselessly on
wheels turned by concealed mechanism. Under the shadow of the sail walked
the fairest of its makers, eight women, maids and young matrons, clothed
in white mantles and wreaths, going with stately tread, unmoved by the
shouting as though themselves divine. Seven walked together. But one,
their leader, went before,—Hermione, child of Hermippus.
Many an onlooker remembered this sight of her, the deep spiritual eyes,
the symmetry of form and fold, the perfect carriage. Fair wishes flew out
to her like doves.
“May she be blessed forever! May King Helios forever bring her joy!”
Some cried thus. More thought thus. All seemed more glad for beholding
her.
Behind the peplus in less careful array went thousands of citizens of
every age and station, all in festival dress, all crowned with flowers.
They followed the car up the Dromos Street, across the cheering Agora, and
around the southern side of the Acropolis, making a full circuit of the
citadel. Those who watched saw Glaucon with Democrates and Cimon give
their horses to slaves, and mount the bare knoll of Areopagus, looking
down upon the western face of the Acropolis. As the procession swung about
to mount the steep, Hermione lifted her glance to Areopagus, saw her
husband gazing down on her, raised her hands in delighted gesture, and he
answered her. It was done in the sight of thousands, and the thousands
smiled with the twain.
“Justice! The beautiful salutes the beautiful.” And who thought the less
of Hermione for betraying the woman beneath the mien of the goddess?
But now the march drew to an end. The procession halted, reformed,