A Victor of Salamis
“Swim through the surf. I will bear the woman safely.”
“Save her, and be you blessed forever. I die happy. I cannot swim.”
The moment was too terrible for Glaucon to feel amazed at this confession.
To a Hellene swimming was second nature. He thought and spoke quickly.
“Climb on the higher rock. The wave does not cover it entirely. Dig your
toes in the crevices. Cling to the seaweed. I will return for you.”
He never heard what the other cried back to him. He tore the woman clear
of her lashings, threw his left arm about her, and fought his way through
the surf. He could swim like a Delian, the best swimmers in Hellas; but
the task was mighty even for the athlete. Twice the deadly undertow almost
dragged him downward. Then the soft sand was oozing round his feet. He
knew a knot of fisher folk were running to the beach, a dozen hands took
his fainting burden from him. One instant he stood with the water rushing
about his ankles, gasped and drew long breaths, then turned his face
toward the sea.
“Are you crazed?” he heard voices clamouring—they seemed a great way
off,—“a miracle that you lived through the surf once! Leave the other to
fate. Phorcys has doomed him already.”
But Glaucon was past acting by reason now. His head seemed a ball of fire.
Only his hands and feet responded mechanically to the dim impulse of his
bewildered brain. Once more the battling through the surf, this time
against it and threefold harder. Only the man whose strength had borne the
giant Spartan down could have breasted the billows that came leaping to
destroy him. He felt his powers were strained to the last notch. A little
more and he knew he might roll helpless, but even so he struggled onward.
Once again the two black rocks were springing out of the swollen water. He
saw the Barbarian clinging desperately to the higher. Why was he risking
his life for a man who was not a Hellene, who might be even a servant of
the dreaded Xerxes? A strange moment for such questionings, and no time to
answer! He clung to the seaweed beside the Barbarian for an instant, then
through the gale cried to the other to place his hands upon his shoulders.
The Oriental complied intelligently. For a third time Glaucon struggled
across the raging flood. The passage seemed endless, and every receding
breaker dragging down to the graves of Oceanus. The Athenian knew his
power was failing, and doled it out as a miser, counting his strokes,
taking deep gulps of air between each wave. Then, even while consciousness
and strength seemed passing together, again beneath his feet were the
shifting sands, again the voices encouraging, the hands outstretched,
strange forms running down into the surf, strange faces all around him.
They were bearing him and the Barbarian high upon the beach. They laid him
on the hard, wet sand—never a bed more welcome. He was naked. His feet and
hands bled from the tearing of stones and barnacles. His head was in fever
glow. Dimly he knew the Barbarian was approaching him.
“Hellene, you have saved us. What is your name?”
The other barely raised his head. “In Athens, Glaucon the Alcmæonid, but
now I am without name, without country.”
The Oriental answered by kneeling on the sands and touching his head upon
them close to Glaucon’s feet.
“Henceforth, O Deliverer, you shall be neither nameless nor outcast. For
you have saved me and her I love more than self. You have saved
Artazostra, sister of Xerxes, and Mardonius, son of Gobryas, who is not
the least of the Princes of Persia and Eran.”
“Mardonius—arch foe of Hellas!” Glaucon spoke the words in horror. Then
reaction from all he had undergone robbed him of sense. They carried him
to the fisher-village. That night he burned with fever and raved wildly.
It was many days before he knew anything again.
* * * * * * *
Six days later a Byzantine corn-ship brought from Amorgos to Peiræus two
survivors of the _Solon_,—the only ones to escape the swamping of the
pinnace. Their story cleared up the mystery of the fate of “Glaucon the
Traitor.” “The gods,” said every Agora wiseacre, “had rewarded the villain
with their own hands.” The Babylonish carpet-seller and Hiram had
vanished, despite all search, but everybody praised Democrates for saving
the state from a fearful peril. As for Hermione, her father took her to
Eleusis that she might be free from the hoots of the people. Themistocles
went about his business very sorrowful. Cimon lost half his gayety.
Democrates, too, appeared terribly worn. “How he loved his friend!” said
every admirer. Beyond doubt for long Democrates was exceeding thoughtful.
Perhaps a reason for this was that about a month after the going of
Glaucon he learned from Sicinnus that Prince Mardonius was at length in
Sardis,—and possibly Democrates knew on what vessel the carpet-seller had
taken flight.
BOOK II
THE COMING OF THE PERSIAN
CHAPTER XV
THE LOTUS-EATING AT SARDIS
When Glaucon awoke to consciousness, it was with a sense of absolute
weakness, at the same moment with a sense of absolute rest. He knew that
he was lying on pillows “softer than sleep,” that the air he breathed was
laden with perfume, that the golden light which came through his
half-closed eyelids was deliciously tempered, that his ears caught a
musical murmur, as of a plashing fountain. So he lay for long, too
impotent, too contented to ask where he lay, or whence he had departed.
Athens, Hermione, all the thousand and one things of his old life, flitted
through his brain, but only as vague, far shapes. He was too weak even to
long for them. Still the fountain plashed on, and mingling with the
tinkling he thought he heard low flutes breathing. Perhaps it was only a
phantasy of his flagging brain. Then his eyes opened wider. He lifted his
hand. It was a task even to do that little thing,—he was so weak. He
looked at the hand! Surely his own, yet how white it was, how thin; the
bones were there, the blue veins, but all the strength gone out of them.
Was this the hand that had flung great Lycon down? It would be mere sport
for a child to master him now. He touched his face. It was covered with a
thick beard, as of a long month’s growth. The discovery startled him. He
strove to rise on one elbow. Too weak! He sank back upon the cushions and
let his eyes rove inquiringly. Never had he seen tapestries the like of
those that canopied his bed. Scarlet and purple and embroidered in gold
thread with elaborate hunting scenes,—the dogs, the chariots, the slaying
of the deer, the bearing home of the game. He knew the choicest looms of
Sidon must have wrought them. And the linen, so cool, so grateful,
underneath his head—was it not the almost priceless fabric of Borsippa? He
stirred a little, his eyes rested on the floor. It was covered with a rug
worth an Athenian patrician’s ransom,—a lustrous, variegated sheen,
showing a new tint at each change of the light. So much he saw from the
bed, and curiosity was wakened. Again he put forth his hand, and touched
the hanging curtains. The movement set a score of little silver bells that
dangled over the canopy to jingling. As at a signal the flutes grew
louder, mingling with them was the clearer note of lyres. Now the strains
swelled sweetly, now faded away into dreamy sighing, as if bidding the
listener to sink again into the arms of sleep. Another vain effort to rise
on his elbow. Again he was helpless. Giving way to the charm of the music,
he closed his eyes.
“Either I am awaking in Elysium, or the gods send to me pleasant dreams
before I die.”
He was feebly wondering which was the alternative when a new sound roused
him, the sweep and rustle of the dresses of two women as they approached
the bed. He gazed forth listlessly, when lo! above his couch stood two
strangers,—strangers, but either as fair as Aphrodite arising from the
sea. Both were tall, and full of queenly grace, both were dressed in gauzy
white, but the hair of the one was of such gold that Glaucon hardly saw
the circlet which pressed over it. Her eyes were blue, the lustre of her
face was like a white rose. The other’s hair shone like the wing of a
raven. A wreath of red poppies covered it, but over the softly tinted
forehead there peered forth a golden snake with emerald eyes—the Egyptian
uræus, the crown of a princess from the Nile. Her eyes were as black as
the other’s were blue, her lips as red as the dye of Tyre, her hands—But
before Glaucon looked and wondered more, the first, she of the golden
head, laid her hand upon his face,—a warm, comforting hand that seemed to
speed back strength and gladness with the touch. Then she spoke. Her Greek
was very broken, yet he understood her.
“Are you quite awakened, dear Glaucon?”
He looked up marvelling, not knowing how to answer; but the golden goddess
seemed to expect none from him.
“It is now a month since we brought you from Astypalæa. You have wandered
close to the Portals of the Dead. We feared you were beloved by Mazda too
well, that you would never wake that we might bless you. Night and day
have my husband and I prayed to Mithra the Merciful and Hauratât the
Health-Giver in your behalf; each sunrise, at our command, the Magians
have poured out for you the Haôma, the sacred juice dear to the Beautiful
Immortals, and Amenhat, wisest of the physicians of Memphis, has stood by
your bedside without rest. Now at last our prayers and his skill have
conquered; you awake to life and gladness.”
Glaucon lay wondering, not knowing how to reply, and only understanding in
half, when the dark-haired goddess spoke, in purer Greek than her
companion.
“And I, O Glaucon of Athens, would have you suffer me to kiss your feet.
For you have given my brother and my sister back to life.” Then drawing
near she took his hand in hers, while the two smiling looked down on him.
Then at last he found tongue to speak. “O gracious Queens, for such you
are, forgive my roving wits. You speak of great service done. But wise
Zeus knoweth we are strangers—”
The golden goddess tossed her shining head and smiled,—still stroking with
her hand.
“Dear Glaucon, do you remember the Eastern lad you saved from the Spartans
at the Isthmus? Behold him! Recall the bracelet of turquoise,—my first
gratitude. Then again you saved me with my husband. For I am the woman you
bore through the surf at the island. I am Artazostra, wife of Mardonius,
and this is Roxana, his half-sister, whose mother was a princess in
Egypt.”
Glaucon passed his fingers before his face, beckoning back the past.
“It is all far away and strange: the flight, the storm, the wreck, the
tossing spar, the battling through the surges. My head is weak. I cannot
picture it all.”
“Do not try. Lie still. Grow strong and glad, and suffer us to teach you,”
commanded Artazostra.
“Where do I lie? We are not upon the rocky islet still?”
The ladies laughed, not mockingly but so sweetly he wished that they would
never cease.
“This is Sardis,” spoke Roxana, bending over him; “you lie in the palace
of the satrap.”
“And Athens—” he said, wandering.
“Is far away,” said Artazostra, “with all its griefs and false friends and
foul remembrances. The friends about you here will never fail. Therefore
lie still and have peace.”
“You know my story,” cried he, now truly in amaze.
“Mardonius knows all that passes in Athens, in Sparta, in every city of
Hellas. Do not try to tell more. We weary you already. See—Amenhat comes
to bid us begone.”
The curtains parted again. A dark man in a pure white robe, his face and
head smooth-shaven, approached the bed. He held out a broad gold cup, the