A Victor of Salamis
talked of him, his beauty, his prowess, his quarrel with his father, his
marriage with Hermione, the divinest maiden in Athens, and how he has gone
to the games to win both the crown and crusty Conon’s forgiveness. I tell
you, every mule-driver along the way seemed to have staked his obol on
him. They praise him as ‘fair as Delian Apollo,’ ‘graceful as young
Hermes,’ and—here I wonder most,—‘modest as an unwedded girl.’ ” Simonides
drew breath, then faced the others earnestly, “You are Athenians; do you
know him?”
“Know him?” Cimon laughed heartily; “have we not left him at the wrestling
ground? Was not Democrates his schoolfellow once, his second self to-day?
And touching his beauty, his valour, his modesty,” the young man’s eyes
shone with loyal enthusiasm, “do not say ‘over-praised’ till you have seen
him.”
Simonides swelled with delight.
“Oh, lucky genius that cast me with you! Take me to him this moment.”
“He is so beset with admirers, his trainers are angry already; besides, he
is still at the wrestling ground.”
“But soon returns to his tents,” added Democrates, instantly; “and
Simonides—is Simonides. If Themistocles and Leonidas can see Glaucon, so
must the first poet of Hellas.”
“O dearest orator,” cried the little man, with an arm around his neck, “I
begin to love you already. Away this moment, that I may worship your new
divinity.”
“Come, then,” commanded Cimon, leading off with strides so long the bard
could hardly follow; “his tent is not distant: you shall see him, though
the trainers change to Gorgons.”
The “Precinct of Poseidon,” the great walled enclosure where were the
temples, porticos, and the stadium of the Isthmus, was quickly behind
them. They walked eastward along the sea-shore. The scene about was brisk
enough, had they heeded. A dozen chariots passed. Under every tall pine
along the way stood merchants’ booths, each with a goodly crowd. Now a
herd of brown goats came, the offering of a pious Phocian; now a band of
Aphrodite’s priestesses from Corinth whirled by in no overdecorous dance,
to a deafening noise of citharas and castanets. A soft breeze was sending
the brown-sailed fisher boats across the heaving bay. Straight before the
three spread the white stuccoed houses of Cenchræa, the eastern haven of
Corinth; far ahead in smooth semicircle rose the green crests of the
Argive mountains, while to their right upreared the steep lonely pyramid
of brown rock, Acro-Corinthus, the commanding citadel of the thriving
city. But above, beyond these, fairer than them all, spread the clear,
sun-shot azure of Hellas, the like whereof is not over any other land,
save as that land is girt by the crisp foam of the blue Ægean Sea.
So much for the picture, but Simonides, having seen it often, saw it not
at all, but plied the others with questions.
“So this Hermione of his is beautiful?”
“Like Aphrodite rising from the sea foam.” The answer came from
Democrates, who seemed to look away, avoiding the poet’s keen glance.
“And yet her father gave her to the son of his bitter enemy?”
“Hermippus of Eleusis is sensible. It is a fine thing to have the
handsomest man in Hellas for son-in-law.”
“And now to the great marvel—did Glaucon truly seek her not for dowry, nor
rank, but for sheer love?”
“Marriages for love are in fashion to-day,” said Democrates, with a side
glance at Cimon, whose sister Elpinice had just made a love match with
Callias the Rich, to the scandal of all the prudes in Athens.
“Then I meet marvels even in my old age. Another Odysseus and his
Penelope! And he is handsome, valiant, high-minded, with a wife his peer?
You raise my hopes too high. They will be dashed.”
“They will not,” protested Democrates, with every sign of loyalty; “turn
here: this lane in the pines leads to his tent. If we have praised too
much, doom us to the labours of Tantalus.”
But here their progress was stopped. A great knot of people were swarming
about a statue under a pine tree, and shrill, angry voices proclaimed not
trafficking, but a brawl.
CHAPTER II
THE ATHLETE
There was ceaseless coming and going outside the Precinct of Poseidon.
Following much the same path just taken by Simonides and his new friends,
two other men were walking, so deep in talk that they hardly heeded how
many made respectful way for them, or how many greeted them. The taller
and younger man, to be sure, returned every salute with a graceful
flourish of his hands, but in a mechanical way, and with eye fixed on his
companion.
The pair were markedly contrasted. The younger was in his early prime,
strong, well developed, and daintily dressed. His gestures were quick and
eloquent. His brown beard and hair were trimmed short to reveal a clear
olive face—hardly regular, but expressive and tinged with an extreme
subtilty. When he laughed, in a strange, silent way, it was to reveal fine
teeth, while his musical tongue ran on, never waiting for answer.
His comrade, however, answered little. He barely rose to the other’s
shoulder, but he had the chest and sinews of an ox. Graces there were
none. His face was a scarred ravine, half covered by scanty stubble. The
forehead was low. The eyes, gray and wise, twinkled from tufted eyebrows.
The long gray hair was tied about his forehead in a braid and held by a
golden circlet. The “chlamys” around his hips was purple but dirty. To his
companion’s glib Attic he returned only Doric monosyllables.
“Thus I have explained: if my plans prosper; if Corcyra and Syracuse send
aid; if Xerxes has trouble in provisioning his army, not merely can we
resist Persia, but conquer with ease. Am I too sanguine, Leonidas?”
“We shall see.”
“No doubt Xerxes will find his fleet untrustworthy. The Egyptian sailors
hate the Phœnicians. Therefore we can risk a sea fight.”
“No rashness, Themistocles.”
“Yes—it is dicing against the Fates, and the stake is the freedom of
Hellas. Still a battle must be risked. If we quit ourselves bravely, our
names shall be remembered as long as Agamemnon’s.”
“Or Priam’s?—his Troy was sacked.”
“And you, my dear king of Sparta, will of course move heaven and earth to
have your Ephors and Council somewhat more forward than of late in
preparing for war? We all count on you.”
“I will try.”
“Who can ask more? But now make an end to statecraft. We were speaking
about the pentathlon and the chances of—”
Here the same brawling voices that had arrested Simonides broke upon
Themistocles and Leonidas also. The cry “A fight!” was producing its
inevitable result. Scores of men, and those not the most aristocratic,
were running pell-mell whither so many had thronged already. In the
confusion scant reverence was paid the king of Sparta and the first
statesman of Athens, who were thrust unceremoniously aside and were barely
witnesses of what followed.
The outcry was begun, after-report had it, by a Sicyonian bronze-dealer
finding a small but valuable lamp missing from the table whereon he showed
his wares. Among the dozen odd persons pressing about the booth his eye
singled out a slight, handsome boy in Oriental dress; and since Syrian
serving-lads were proverbially light-fingered, the Sicyonian jumped
quickly at his conclusion.
“Seize the Barbarian thief!” had been his shout as he leaped and snatched
the alleged culprit’s mantle. The boy escaped easily by the frailness of
his dress, which tore in the merchant’s hands; but a score of bystanders
seized the fugitive and dragged him back to the Sicyonian, whose order to
“search!” would have been promptly obeyed; but at this instant he stumbled
over the missing lamp on the ground before the table, whence probably it
had fallen. The bronze-dealer was now mollified, and would willingly have
released the lad, but a Spartan bystander was more zealous.
“Here’s a Barbarian thief and spy!” he began bellowing; “he dropped the
lamp when he was detected! Have him to the temple and to the wardens of
the games!”
The magic word “spy” let loose the tongues and passions of every man
within hearing. The unfortunate lad was seized again and jostled rudely,
while questions rattled over him like hailstones.
“Whose slave are you? Why here? Where’s your master? Where did you get
that outlandish dress and gold-laced turban? Confess, confess,—or it’ll be
whipped out of you! What villany are you up to?”
If the prisoner had understood Greek,—which was doubtful,—he could scarce
have comprehended this babel. He struggled vainly; tears started to his
eyes. Then he committed a blunder. Not attempting a protest, he thrust a
small hand into his crimson belt and drew forth a handful of gold as bribe
for release.
“A slave with ten darics!” bawled the officious Spartan, never relaxing
his grip. “Hark you, friends, it’s plain as day. Dexippus of Corinth has a
Syrian lad like this. The young scoundrel’s robbed his master and is
running away.”
“That’s it! A runaway! To the temple with him!” chimed a dozen. The
prisoner’s outcries were drowned. He would have been swept off in ungentle
custody had not a strong hand intervened in his favor.
“A moment, good citizens,” called a voice in clear Attic. “Release this
lad. I know Dexippus’s slave; he’s no such fellow.”
The others, low-browed Spartans mostly, turned, ill-pleased at the
interruption of an Athenian, but shrank a step as a name went among them.
“Castor and Pollux—it’s Glaucon the Beautiful!”
With two thrusts of impetuous elbows, the young man was at the assailed
lad’s side. The newcomer was indeed a sight for gods. Beauty and power
seemed wholly met in a figure of perfect symmetry and strength. A face of
fine regularity, a chiselled profile, smooth cheeks, deep blue eyes, a
crown of closely cropped auburn hair, a chin neither weak nor stern, a
skin burnt brown by the sun of the wrestling schools—these were parts of
the picture, and the whole was how much fairer than any part! Aroused now,
he stood with head cast back and a scarlet cloak shaking gracefully from
his shoulders.
“Unhand the lad!” he repeated.
For a moment, compelled by his beauty, the Spartans yielded. The Oriental
pressed against his protector; but the affair was not to end so easily.
“Hark you, Sir Athenian,” rejoined the Spartan leader, “don’t presume on
your good looks. Our Lycon will mar them all to-morrow. Here’s Dexippus’s
slave or else a Barbarian spy: in either case to the temple with him, and
don’t you hinder.”
He plucked at the boy’s girdle; but the athlete extended one slim hand,
seized the Spartan’s arm, and with lightning dexterity laid the busybody
flat on Mother Earth. He staggered upward, raging and calling on his
fellows.
“Sparta insulted by Athens! Vengeance, men of Lacedæmon! Fists! Fists!”
The fate of the Oriental was forgotten in the storm of patriotic fury that
followed. Fortunately no one had a weapon. Half a dozen burly Laconians
precipitated themselves without concert or order upon the athlete. He was
hidden a moment in the rush of flapping gowns and tossing arms. Then like
a rock out of the angry sea shone his golden head, as he shook off the
attack. Two men were on their backs, howling. The others stood at
respectful distance, cursing and meditating another rush. An Athenian
pottery merchant from a neighbouring booth began trumpeting through his
hands.
“Men of Athens, this way!”
His numerous countrymen came scampering from far and wide. Men snatched up
stones and commenced snapping off pine boughs for clubs. The athlete,
centre of all this din, stood smiling, with his glorious head held high,
his eyes alight with the mere joy of battle. He held out his arms. Both
pose and face spoke as clearly as words,—“Prove me!”