A Victor of Salamis
gentleman with your fair looks, fame, and fortune has pawned them all in a
night. Bias has sense. First tell how you came to wander down this way.”
Glaucon sat upright, his hands pressing against his forehead.
“How can I tell? I have run to and fro, seeing yet not seeing whither I
went. I know I passed the Acharnican gate, and the watch stared at me.
Doubtless I ran hither because here they said the Babylonian lived, and he
has been ever in my head. I shudder to go over the scene at Colonus. I
wish I were dead. Then I could forget it!”
“Constables—fetters!” howled Lampaxo, as a direful interlude, to be
silenced by an angry gesture from her helpmeet.
“Nevertheless, try to tell what you can,” spoke Phormio, mildly, and
Glaucon, with what power he had, complied. Broken, faltering, scarce
coherent often, his story came at last. He sat silent while Phormio
clutched his own head. Then Glaucon darted around wild and hopeless eyes.
“_Ai!_ you believe me guilty. I almost believe so myself. All my best
friends have cast me off. Democrates, my friend from youth, has wrought my
ruin. My wife I shall never see again. I am resolved—” He rose. A
desperate purpose made his feet steady.
“What will you do?” demanded Phormio, perplexed.
“One thing is left. I am sure to be arrested at dawn if not before. I will
go to the ‘City-House,’ the public prison, and give myself up. The
ignominy will soon end. Then welcome the Styx, Hades, the never ending
night—better than this shame!”
He started forth, but Phormio’s hand restrained him. “Not so fast, lad!
Thank Olympus, I’m not Lampaxo. You’re too young a turbot for Charon’s
fish-net. Let me think a moment.”
The fishmonger stood scratching his thin hairs. Another howl from Lampaxo
decided him.
“Are you a traitor, too? Away with the wretch to prison!”
“I’m resolved,” cried Phormio, striking his thigh. “Only an honest man
could get such hatred from my wife. If they’ve not tracked you yet,
they’re not likely to find you before morning. My cousin Brasidas is
master of the _Solon_, and owes a good turn—”
Quick strides took him to a chest. He dragged forth a sleeveless sailor’s
cloak of hair-cloth. To fling this over Glaucon’s rent chiton took an
instant, another instant to clap on the fugitive’s head a brimless red
cap.
“_Euge!_—you grow transformed. But that white face of yours is dangerous.
See!” he rubbed over the Alcmæonid’s face two handfuls of black ashes
snatched from the hearth and sprang back with a great laugh, “you’re a
sailor unlading charcoal now. Zeus himself would believe it. All is
ready—”
“For prison?” asked Glaucon, clearly understanding little.
“For the sea, my lad. For Athens is no place for you to-morrow, and
Brasidas sails at dawn. Some more wine? It’s a long, brisk walk.”
“To the havens? You trust me? You doubt the accusation which every friend
save Hermione believes? O pure Athena—and this is possible!” Again
Glaucon’s head whirled. It took more of the fiery wine to stay him up.
“Ay, boy,” comforted Phormio, very gruff, “you shall walk again around
Athens with a bold, brave face, though not to-morrow, I fear. Polus trusts
his heart and not his head in voting ‘guilty,’ so I trust it voting
‘innocent.’ ”
“I warn you,” Glaucon spoke rapidly, “I’ve no claim on your friendship. If
your part in this is discovered, you know our juries.”
“That I know,” laughed Phormio, grimly, “for I know dear Polus. So now my
own cloak and we are off.”
But Lampaxo, who had watched everything with accumulating anger, now burst
loose. She bounded to the door.
“Constables! Help! Athens is betrayed!”
She bawled that much through the lattice before her husband and Bias
dragged her back. Fortunately the street was empty.
“That I should see this! My own husband betraying the city! Aiding a
traitor!” Then she began whimpering through her nose. “_Mu! mu!_ leave the
villain to his fate. Think of me if not of your own safety. Woe! when was
a woman more misused?”
But here her lament ended, for Phormio, with the firmness of a man
thoroughly determined, thrust a rag into her mouth and with Bias’s help
bound her down upon the couch by means of a convenient fish-cord.
“I am grieved to stop your singing, blessed dear,” spoke the fishmonger,
indulging in a rare outburst of sarcasm against his formidable helpmeet,
“but we play a game with Fate to-night a little too even to allow unfair
chances. Bias will watch you until I return, and then I can discover,
_philotata_, whether your love for Athens is so great you must go to the
Archon to denounce your husband.”
The Thracian promised to do his part. His affection for Democrates was
clearly not the warmest. Lampaxo’s farewell, as Phormio guided his
half-dazed companion into the street, was a futile struggle and a choking.
The ways were empty and silent. Glaucon allowed himself to be led by the
hand and did not speak. He hardly knew how or whither Phormio was taking
him. Their road lay along the southern side of the Acropolis, past the
tall columns of the unfinished Temple of Zeus, which reared to giant
height in the white moonlight. This, as well as the overshadowing Rock
itself, they left behind without incident. Phormio chose devious alleys,
and they met neither Scythian constables nor bands of roisterers. Only
once the two passed a house bright with lamps. Jovial guests celebrated a
late wedding feast. Clearly the two heard the marriage hymn of Sappho.
“The bridegroom comes tall as Ares,
Ho, Hymenæus!
Taller than a mighty man,
Ho, Hymenæus!”
Glaucon stopped like one struck with an arrow.
“They sang that song the night I wedded Hermione. Oh, if I could drink the
Lethe water and forget!”
“Come,” commanded Phormio, pulling upon his arm. “The sun will shine again
to-morrow.”
Thus the twain went forward, Glaucon saying not a word. He hardly knew how
they passed the Itonian Gate and crossed the long stretch of open country
betwixt the city and its havens. No pursuit as yet—Glaucon was too
perplexed to reason why. At last he knew they entered Phaleron. He heard
the slapping waves, the creaking tackle, the shouting sailors. Torches
gleamed ruddily. A merchantman was loading her cargo of pottery crates and
oil jars,—to sail with the morning breeze. Swarthy shipmen ran up and down
the planks betwixt quay and ship, balancing their heavy jars on their
heads as women bear water-pots. From the tavern by the mooring came
harping and the clatter of cups, while two women—the worse for wine—ran
out to drag the newcomers in to their revel. Phormio slapped the slatterns
aside with his staff. In the same fearful waking dream Glaucon saw Phormio
demanding the shipmaster. He saw Brasidas—a short man with the face of a
hound and arms to hug like a bear—in converse with the fishmonger, saw the
master at first refusing, then gradually giving reluctant assent to some
demand. Next Phormio was half leading, half carrying the fugitive aboard
the ship, guiding him through a labyrinth of bales, jars, and cordage, and
pointing to a hatchway ladder, illumined by a swinging lantern.
“Keep below till the ship sails; don’t wipe the charcoal from your face
till clear of Attica. Officers will board the vessel before she puts off;
yet have no alarm, they’ll only come to see she doesn’t violate the law
against exporting grain.” Phormio delivered his admonitions rapidly, at
the same time fumbling in his belt. “Here—here are ten drachmæ, all I’ve
about me, but something for bread and figs till you make new friends,—in
which there’ll be no trouble, I warrant. Have a brave heart. Remember that
Helios can shine lustily even if you are not in Athens, and pray the gods
to give a fair return.”
Glaucon felt the money pressed within his palm. He saw Phormio turning
away. He caught the fishmonger’s hard hand and kissed it twice.
“I can never reward you. Not though I live ten thousand years and have all
the gold of Gyges.”
“_Phui!_” answered Phormio, with a shrug; “don’t detain me, it’s time I
was home and was unlashing my loving wife.”
And with that he was gone. Glaucon descended the ladder. The cabin was
low, dark, unfurnished save with rude pallets of straw, but Glaucon heeded
none of these things. Deeper than the accusation by Democrates, than the
belief therein by Themistocles and the others, the friendship of the
fishmonger touched him. A man base-born, ignorant, uncivil, had believed
him, had risked his own life to save him, had given him money out of his
poverty, had spoken words of fair counsel and cheer. On the deck above the
sailors were tumbling the cargo, and singing at their toil, but Glaucon
never heard them. Flinging himself on a straw pallet, for the first time
came the comfort of hot tears.
* * * * * * *
Very early the _Solon’s_ square mainsail caught the breeze from the warm
southwest. The hill of Munychia and the ports receded. The panorama of
Athens—plain, city, citadel, gray Hymettus, white Pentelicus—spread in a
vista of surpassing beauty—so at least to the eyes of the outlaw when he
clambered to the poop. As the ship ran down the low coast, land and sea
seemed clothed with a robe of rainbow-woven light. Far, near,—islands,
mountains, and deep were burning with saffron, violet, and rose, as the
Sun-God’s car climbed higher above the burning path it marked across the
sea. Glaucon saw all in clear relief,—the Acropolis temple where he had
prayed, the Pnyx and Areopagus, the green band of the olive groves, even
the knoll of Colonus,—where he had left his all. Never had he loved Athens
more than now. Never had she seemed fairer to his eyes than now. He was a
Greek, and to a Greek death was only by one stage a greater ill than
exile.
“O Athena Polias,” he cried, stretching his hands to the fading beauty,
“goddess who determineth all aright,—bless thou this land, though it wakes
to call me traitor. Teach it to know I am innocent. Comfort Hermione, my
wife. And restore me to Athens, after doing deeds which wipe out all my
unearned shame!”
The _Solon_ rounded the cape. The headland concealed the city. The
Saronian bay opened into the deeper blue of the Ægean and its sprinkling
of brown islands. Glaucon looked eastward and strove to forget Attica.
* * * * * * *
Two hours later all Athens seemed reading this placard in the Agora:—
NOTICE
For the arrest of GLAUCON, SON OF CONON, charged with high
treason, I will pay one talent.
DEXILEUS, Chairman of the Eleven.
Other such placards were posted in Peiræus, in Eleusis, in Marathon, in
every Attic village. Men could talk of nothing else.
CHAPTER XIV
MARDONIUS THE PERSIAN
Off Andros the northern gale smote them. The ship had driven helplessly.
Off Tenos only the skill of Brasidas kept the _Solon_ clear of the rocky
shores.
As they raced past holy Delos the frightened passengers had vowed twelve
oxen to Apollo if he saved them.
Near Naxos, Brasidas, after vainly trying to make a friendly haven, bade
his sailors undergird the ship with heavy cables, for the timbers seemed
starting. Finally he suffered his craft to drive,—hoping at least to find
some islet with a sandy shore where he could beach her with safety.
The _Solon_, however, was near her doom. She was built on the Samian
model, broad, flat, high in poop, low in prow,—excellent for cargo, but
none too seaworthy. The foresail blew in tatters. The closely brailed
mainsail shook the weakened mast. The sailors had dropped their quaint
oaths, and began to pray—sure proof of danger. The dozen passengers seemed