A Victor of Salamis
“The weal of Athens outweighs even the pleasure of Glaucon,” returned the
orator, harshly, “and you, Themistocles, note that Glaucon does not deny
that the seal here is his own.”
“I do not deny,” cried the angry athlete. “Open, Themistocles, and let
this stupid comedy end.”
“And may it never change to tragedy!” proclaimed Democrates. “What do you
read, Themistocles?”
“A courteous letter of thanks to Ageladas.” The senior statesman was
frowning. “Glaucon is right. Either you are turned mad, or are victim of
some prank,—is it yours, Cimon?”
“I am as innocent as a babe. I’d swear it by the Styx,” responded that
young man, scratching his muddled head.
“I fear we are not at the end of the examination,” observed Democrates,
with ominous slowness. “Now, Seuthes, recollect your plight. Have you no
other letter about you?”
“None!” groaned the unheroic Corinthian. “Ah! pity, kind sirs; what have I
done? Suffer me to go.”
“It is possible,” remarked his prosecutor, “you are an innocent victim, or
at least do not realize the intent of what you bear. I must examine the
lining of your chalmys. Nothing. Your girdle. Nothing. Your hat, remove
it. Quite empty. Blessed be Athena if my fears prove groundless. But my
first duty is to Athens and Hellas. Ah! Your high boots. Remove the right
one.” The orator felt within, and shook the boot violently. “Nothing
again. The left one, empty it seems. _Ei!_ what is this?”
In a tense silence he shook from the boot a papyrus, rolled and sealed. It
fell on the floor at the feet of Themistocles, who, watching all his
lieutenant did, bent and seized it instantly; then it dropped from his
hands as a live coal.
“The seal! The seal! May Zeus smite me blind if I see aright!”
Hermippus, who had been following all the scene in silence, bent, lifted
the fateful paper, and he too gave a cry of grief.
“It is the seal of Glaucon. How came it here?”
“Glaucon,”—hard as Democrates’s voice had been that night, it rang like
cold iron now,—“as the friend of your boyhood, and one who would still do
for you all he may, I urge you as you love me to look upon this seal.”
“I am looking,” but as he spoke paleness followed the angry flush on the
athlete’s forehead. He needed no omen to tell him something fearful was
about to ensue.
“The seal is yours?”
“The very same, two dancing mænads and over them a winged Eros. But how
came this letter here? I did not—”
“As you love life or death, as you preserve any regard for our friendship,
I adjure you,—not to brave it longer, but to confess—”
“Confess what? My head is reeling.”
“The treason in which you have dipped your hands, your dealings with the
Persian spy, your secret interviews, and last of all this letter,—I fear a
gross betrayal of all trust,—to some agent of Xerxes. I shudder when I
think of what may be its contents.”
“And—this—from—you! Oh,—Democrates,—”
The accused man’s hands snatched at the air. He sank upon a chest.
“He does not deny it,” threw out the orator, but Glaucon’s voice rang
shrilly:—
“Ever! Ever will I deny! Though the Twelve Gods all cried out ‘guilty!’
The charge is monstrous.”
“It is time, Democrates,” said Themistocles, who had preserved a grim
silence, “that you showed us clearly whither your path is leading. This is
a fearful accusation you launch against your best-loved friend.”
“Themistocles is right,” assented the orator, moving away from the
luckless Seuthes as from a pawn no longer important in the game of life
and death. “The whole of the wretched story I fear I must tell on the Bema
to all Athens. I must be brief, but believe me, I can make good all I say.
Since my return from the Isthmia, I have been observed to be sad.
Rightly—for knowing Glaucon as I did, I grew suspicious, and I loved him.
You have thought me not diligent in hunting down the Persian spy. You were
wrong. But how could I ruin my friend without full proof? I made use of
Agis,—no genteel confederate, to be sure, but honest, patriotic,
indefatigable. I soon had my eyes on the suspected Babylonish
carpet-seller. I observed Glaucon’s movements closely, they gave just
ground for suspicion. The Babylonian, I came to feel, was none other than
an agent of Xerxes himself. I discovered that Glaucon had been making this
emissary nocturnal visits.”
“A lie!” groaned the accused, in agony.
“I would to Athena I believed you,” was the unflinching answer; “I have
direct evidence from eye-witnesses that you went to him. In a moment I can
produce it. Yet still I hesitated. Who would blast a friend without
damning proof? Then yesterday with your own lips you told me you sent a
messenger to disloyal Argos. I suspected two messages, not one, were
entrusted to Seuthes, and that you proclaimed the more innocent matter
thus boldly simply to blind my eyes. Before Seuthes started forth this
morning Agis informed me he had met him in a wine-shop—”
“True,” whimpered the unhappy prisoner.
“And this fellow as much as admitted he carried a second and secret
message—”
“Liar!” roared Seuthes.
“Men hint strange things in wine-shops,” observed Democrates,
sarcastically. “Enough that a second papyrus with Glaucon’s seal has been
found hidden upon you.”
“Open it then, and know the worst,” interjected Themistocles, his face
like a thunder-cloud; but Democrates forbade him.
“A moment. Let me complete my story. This afternoon I received warning
that the Babylonish carpet-vender had taken sudden flight, presumably
toward Thebes. I have sent mounted constables after him. I trust they can
seize him at the pass of Phyle. In the meantime, I may assure you I have
irrefutable evidence—needless to present here—that the man was a Persian
agent, and to more purpose hear this affidavit, sworn to by very worthy
patriots.
“Polus, son of Phodrus of the Commune of Diomea, and Lampaxo his sister
take oath by Zeus, Dike, and Athena, thus: We swear we saw and recognized
Glaucon, son of Conon, twice visiting by night in the past month of
Scirophorion a certain Babylonish carpet-seller, name unknown, who had
lodgings above Demas’s shield factory in Alopece.”
“Details lack,” spoke Themistocles, keenly.
“To be supplied in full measure at the trial,” rejoined the orator. “And
now to the second letter itself.”
“Ay, the letter, whatever the foul Cyclops that wrought it!” groaned
Glaucon through his teeth.
Themistocles took the document from Hermippus’s trembling hands. His own
trembled whilst he broke the seal.
“The handwriting of Glaucon. There is no doubt,” was his despairing
comment. His frown darkened. Then he attempted to read.
“Glaucon of Athens to Cleophas of Argos wishes health:—
“Cleophas leads the Medizers of Argos, the greatest friend of Xerxes in
Greece. O Zeus, what is this next—
“Our dear friend, whom I dare not name, to-day departs for Thebes, and in
a month will be safe in Sardis. His visit to Athens has been most
fruitful. Since you at present have better opportunity than we for
forwarding packets to Susa, do not fail to despatch this at once. A happy
chance led Themistocles to explain to me his secret memorandum for the
arraying of the Greek fleet. You can apprize its worth, for the only
others to whom it is entrusted are Democrates and later Leonidas—”
Themistocles flung the papyrus down. His voice was broken. Tears stood in
his eyes.
“O Glaucon, Glaucon,—whom I have trusted? Was ever trust so betrayed! May
Apollo smite me blind, if so I could forget what I read here! It is all
written—the secret ordering of the fleet—”
For a terrible moment there was silence in the little room, a silence
broken by a wild, shrill cry,—Hermione’s, as she cast her arms about her
husband.
“A lie! A snare! A wicked plot! Some jealous god has devised this guile,
seeing we were too happy!”
She shook with sobs, and Glaucon, roused to manhood by her grief, uprose
and faced the stern face of Democrates, the blenching faces of the rest.
“I am the victim of a conspiracy of all the fiends in Tartarus,”—he strove
hard to speak steadily; “I did not write that second letter. It is a
forgery.”
“But who, then,” groaned Themistocles, hopelessly, “_can_ claim this
handiwork? Democrates or I?—for no other has seen the memorandum,—that I
swear. It has not yet gone to Leonidas. It has been guarded as the apple
of my eye. We three alone knew thereof. And it is in this narrow room the
betrayer of Hellas must stand.”
“I cannot explain.” Glaucon staggered back to his seat. His wife’s head
sank upon his lap. The two sat in misery.
“Confess, by the remnants of our friendship I implore, confess,” ordered
Democrates, “and then Themistocles and I will strive to lighten if
possible your inevitable doom.”
The accused man sat dumb, but Hermione struck back as some wild creature
driven to bay. She lifted her head.
“Has Glaucon here no friend but me, his wife?” She sent beseeching eyes
about the room. “Do you all cry ‘guilty, guilty’? Then is your friendship
false, for when is friendship proved, save in the hour of need?”
The appeal brought an answer from her father, who had been standing
silent; and in infinite distress kindly, cautious, charitable Hermippus
began:—
“Dear Glaucon, Hermione is wrong; we were never more your friends. We are
willing to believe the best and not the worst. Therefore tell all frankly.
You have been a victim of great temptation. The Isthmian victory has
turned your head. The Persian was subtle, plausible. He promised I know
not what. You did not realize all you were doing. You had confederates
here in Athens who are more guilty. We can make allowances. Tell only the
truth, and the purse and influence of Hermippus of Eleusis shall never be
held back to save his son-in-law.”
“Nor mine, nor mine,” cried Themistocles, snatching at every straw; “only
confess, the temptation was great, others were more guilty, everything
then may be done—”
Glaucon drew himself together and looked up almost proudly. Slowly he was
recovering strength and wit.
“I have nothing to confess,” he spoke, “nothing. I know nothing of this
Persian spy. Can I swear the god’s own oath—by Earth, by Sky, by the
Styx—”
Themistocles shook his head wearily.
“How can we say you are innocent? You never visited the Babylonian?”
“Never. Never!”
“Polus and Lampaxo swear otherwise. The letter?”
“A forgery.”
“Impossible. Is the forger Democrates or I?”
“Some god has done this thing in malice, jealous of my great joy.”
“I fear Hermes no longer strides so frequently about Athens. The hand and
seal are yours,—and still you do not confess?”
“If I must die,” Glaucon was terribly pale, but his voice was steady, “it
is not as a perjurer!”
Themistocles turned his back with a groan.
“I can do nothing for you. This is the saddest hour in my life.” He was
silent, but Democrates sprang to the athlete’s side.
“Have I not prayed each god to spare me this task?” he spoke. “Can I
forget our friendship? Do not brave it to the end. Pity at least your
friends, your wife—”
He threw back his cloak, pointing to a sword.
“_Ai_,” cried the accused, shrinking. “What would you have me do?”
“Save the public disgrace, the hooting jury, the hemlock, the corpse flung
into the Barathrum. Strike this into your breast and end the shame.”
No further. Glaucon smote him so that he reeled. The athlete’s tone was
terrible.
“Villain! You shall not tempt me.” Then he turned to the rest, and stood
in his white agony, yet beautiful as ever, holding out his arms.
“O friends, do you all believe the worst? Do you, Themistocles, turn
silently against me?” No answer. “And you, Hermippus?” No answer again.
“And you, Cimon, who praised me as the fairest friend in all the world?”
The son of Miltiades simply tore his hair. Then the athlete turned to