A Victor of Salamis
Democrates.
“And you I deemed more than comrade, for we were boys at school together,
were flogged with the same rod, and drank from the same cup, had like
friends, foes, loves, hates; and have lived since as more than
brothers,—do you too turn utterly away?”
“I would it were otherwise,” came the sullen answer. Again Democrates
pointed to the sword, but Glaucon stood up proudly.
“No. I am neither traitor, nor perjurer, nor coward. If I must perish, it
shall be as becomes an Alcmæonid. If you have resolved to undo me, I know
your power over Athenian juries. I must die. But I shall die with
unspotted heart, calling the curse of the innocent upon the god or man who
plotted to destroy me.”
“We have enough of this direful comedy,” declared Democrates, pale
himself. “Only one thing is left. Call in the Scythians with their gyves,
and hale the traitor to prison.”
He approached the door; the others stood as icy statues, but not Hermione.
She had her back against the door before the orator could open.
“Hold,” she commanded, “for you are doing murder!”
Democrates halted at the menacing light in her eyes. All the fear had gone
out of them. Athena Promachos, “Mistress of Battles,” must have stood in
that awful beauty when aroused. Did the goddess teach her in that dread
moment of her power over the will of the orator? Glaucon was still
standing motionless, helpless, his last appeal having ended in mute
resignation to inevitable fate. She motioned to him desperately.
“Glaucon! Glaucon!” she adjured, “do not throw your life away. They shall
not murder you. Up! Rouse yourself! There is yet time. Fly, or all is
lost.”
“Fly!” spoke the athlete, almost vacantly. “No, I will brave them to the
end.”
“For my sake, fly,” she ordered, and conjured by that potent talisman,
Glaucon moved toward her.
“How? Whither?”
“To the ends of the earth, Scythia, Atlantis, India, and remain till all
Athens knows you are innocent.”
As men move who know not what they do, he approached the door. Held by the
magic of her eyes the others stood rigid. They saw Hermione raise the
latch. Her husband’s face met hers in one kiss. The door opened, closed.
Glaucon was gone, and as the latch clicked Democrates shook off the charm
and leaped forward.
“After the traitor! Not too late!—”
For an instant he wrestled with Hermione hand to hand, but she was strong
through fear and love. He could not master her. Then a heavy grasp fell on
his shoulder—Cimon’s.
“You are beside yourself, Democrates. My memory is longer than yours. To
me Glaucon is still a friend. I’ll not see him dragged to death before my
eyes. When we follow even a fox or a wolf, we give fair start and fair
play. You shall not pursue him yet.”
“Blessing on you!” cried the wife, falling on her knees and seizing
Cimon’s cloak. “Oh, make Themistocles and my father merciful!”
Hermippus—tender-hearted man—was in tears. Themistocles was pacing the
little chamber, his hand tugging his beard, clearly in grievous doubt.
“The Scythians! The constables!” Democrates clamoured frantically; “every
instant gives the traitor better start.”
But Cimon held him fast, and Themistocles was not to be interrupted. Only
after a long time he spoke, and then with authority which brooked no
contradiction.
“There is no hole in the net of Democrates’s evidence that Glaucon is
guilty of foul disloyalty, disloyalty worthy of shameful death. Were he
any other there would be only one way with him and that a short one. But
Glaucon I know, if I know any man. The charges even if proved are nigh
incredible. For of all the thousands in Hellas his soul seemed the purest,
noblest, most ingenuous. Therefore I will not hasten on his death. I will
give the gods a chance to save him. Let Democrates arraign me for
‘misprision of treason’ if he will, and of failing in duty to Athens.
There shall be no pursuit of Glaucon until morning. Then let the Eleven(7)
issue their hue and cry. If they take him, let the law deal with him. Till
then give respite.”
Democrates attempted remonstrance. Themistocles bade him be silent
sharply, and the other bowed his head in cowed acquiescence. Hermione
staggered from the door, her father unbarred, and the whole wretched
company went forth. In the passage hung a burnished steel mirror; Hermione
gave a cry as she passed it. The light borne by Hermippus showed her in
her festival dress, the rippling white drapery, the crown of white
violets.
“My father!” she cried, falling into his arms, “is it still the day of the
Panathenæa, when I marched in the great procession, when all Athens called
me happy? It was a thousand years ago! I can never be glad again—”
He lifted her tenderly as she fainted. Old Cleopis, the Spartan nurse who
had kissed her almost before her mother, ran to her. They carried her to
bed, and Athena in mercy hid her from consciousness that night and all the
following day.
CHAPTER XIII
THE DISLOYALTY OF PHORMIO
On the evening of the Panathenæa, Bias, servant of Democrates, had supped
with Phormio,—for in democratic Athens a humble citizen would not disdain
to entertain even a slave. The Thracian had a merry wit and a
story-teller’s gift that more than paid for the supper of barley-porridge
and salt mackerel, and after the viands had disappeared was ready even to
tell tales against his master.
“I’ve turned my brain inside out, and shaken it like a meal sack. No
wisdom comes. The _kyrios_ has something on his mind. He prays to Hermes
Dolios as often as if he were a cut-purse. Then yesterday he sent me for
Agis—”
“Agis?” Phormio pricked up his ears. “The gambling-house keeper? What does
Democrates with _him_?”
“Answer yourself. My master has been to Agis’s pretty place before to see
his cocks. However, this is different. To-day I met Theon.”
“Who’s he?”
“Agis’s slave, the merriest scoundrel in Athens. Agis, he says, has been
prancing like an ass stuffed with barley. He gave Theon a letter from
Democrates to take to your Babylonian opposite; Theon must hunt up
Seuthes, a Corinthian, and worm out of him when and how he was leaving
Athens. Agis promised Theon a gold stater if all was right.”
Phormio whistled. “You mean the carpet-dealer here? By Athena’s owls,
there is no light in his window to-night!”
“None, indeed,” crackled Lampaxo; “didn’t I see that cursed Babylonian
with his servants gliding out just as Bias entered? Zeus knows whither! I
hope ere dawn Democrates has them by the heels.”
“Democrates does something to-night,” asserted Bias, extending his cup for
wine. “At noon Agis flew up to him, chattered something in his ear,
whereupon Democrates bade me be off and not approach him till to-morrow,
otherwise a cane gets broken on my shoulders.”
“It’s not painful to have a holiday,” laughed Phormio.
“It’s most painful to be curious yet unsatisfied.”
“But why did not you take the letter to the Babylonian?” observed Phormio,
shrewdly.
“I’m perplexed, indeed. Only one thing is possible.”
“And that is—”
“Theon is not known in this street. I am. Perhaps the _kyrios_ didn’t care
to have it rumoured he had dealings with that Babylonian.”
“Silence, undutiful scoundrel,” ordered Lampaxo, from her corner; “what
has so noble a patriot as Democrates to conceal? Ugh! Be off with you!
Phormio, don’t dare to fill up the tipsy fox’s beaker again. I want to
pull on my nightcap and go to bed.”
Bias did not take the hint. Phormio was considering whether it was best to
join combat with his redoubtable spouse, or save his courage for a more
important battle, when a slight noise from the street made all listen.
“Pest light on those bands of young roisterers!” fumed Lampaxo. “They go
around all night, beating on doors and vexing honest folk. Why don’t the
constables trot them all to jail?”
“This isn’t a drunken band, good wife,” remarked Phormio, rising; “some
one is sitting on the stones by the Hermes, near the door, groaning as if
in pain.”
“A drunkard? Let him lie then,” commanded Lampaxo; “let the coat-thieves
come and filch his chiton.”
“He’s hardly drunken,” observed her husband, peering through the lattice
in the door, “but sick rather. Don’t detain me, _philotata_,”—Lampaxo’s
skinny hand had tried to restrain. “I’ll not let even a dog suffer.”
“You’ll be ruined by too much charity,” bewailed the woman, but Bias
followed the fishmonger into the night. The moon shone down the narrow
street, falling over the stranger who half lay, half squatted by the
Hermes. When the two approached him, he tried to stagger to his feet, then
reeled, and Phormio’s strong arms seized him. The man resisted feebly, and
seemed never to hear the fishmonger’s friendly questions.
“I am innocent. Do not arrest me. Help me to the temple of Hephæstos,
where there’s asylum for fugitives. Ah! Hermione, that I should bring you
this!”
Bias leaped back as the moonlight glanced over the face of the stranger.
“Master Glaucon, half naked and mad! _Ai!_ woe!”
“Glaucon the Alcmæonid,” echoed Phormio, in amazement, and the other still
struggled to escape.
“Do you not hear? I am innocent. I never visited the Persian spy. I never
betrayed the fleet. By what god can I swear it, that you may believe?”
Phormio was a man to recover from surprise quickly, and act swiftly and to
the purpose. He made haste to lead his unfortunate visitor inside and lay
him on his one hard couch. Scarcely was this done, however, when Lampaxo
ran up to Glaucon in mingled rage and exultation.
“Phormio doesn’t know what Polus and I told Democrates, or what he told
us! So you thought to escape, you white-skinned traitor? But we’ve watched
you. We know how you went to the Babylonian. We know your guilt. And now
the good gods have stricken you mad and delivered you to justice.” She
waved her bony fists in the prostrate man’s face. “Run, Phormio! don’t
stand gaping like a magpie. Run, I say—”
“Whither? For a physician?”
“To Areopagus, fool! There’s where the constables have their camp. Bring
ten men with fetters. He’s strong and desperate. Bias and I will wait and
guard him. If you stir, traitor,—” she was holding a heavy meat-knife at
the fugitive’s throat,—“I’ll slit your weasand like a chicken.”
But for once in his life Phormio defied his tyrant effectively. With one
hand he tore the weapon from her clutch, the other closed her screaming
mouth.
“Are you mad yourself? Will you rouse the neighbourhood? I don’t know what
you and Polus tattled about to Democrates. I don’t greatly care. As for
going for constables to seize Glaucon the Fortunate—”
“Fortunate!” echoed the miserable youth, rising on one elbow, “say it
never again. The gods have blasted me with one great blow. And you—you are
Phormio, husband and brother-in-law of those who have sworn against
me,—you are the slave of Democrates my destroyer,—and you, woman,—Zeus
soften you!—already clamour for my worthless life, as all Athens does
to-morrow!”
Lampaxo suddenly subsided. Resistance from her spouse was so unexpected
she lost at once arguments and breath. Phormio continued to act promptly;
taking a treasured bottle from a cupboard he filled a mug and pressed it
to the newcomer’s lips. The fiery liquor sent the colour back into
Glaucon’s face. He raised himself higher—strength and mind in a measure
returned. Bias had whispered to Phormio rapidly. Perhaps he had guessed
more of his master’s doings than he had dared to hint before.
“Hark you, Master Glaucon,” began Phormio, not unkindly. “You are with
friends, and never heed my wife. She’s not so steely hearted as she
seems.”
“Seize the traitor,” interjected Lampaxo, with a gasp.
“Tell your story. I’m a plain and simple man, who won’t believe a