A Victor of Salamis
“I was too young to bear a spear at Marathon,” was the unflinching answer.
“Learn then to wield it in another army. Where is the archsecretary?”
That functionary was present instantly. Mardonius, taking the whispers of
the king, dictated an order which the scribe stamped on his tablet of wet
clay with a rapid stylus.
“Now the chief proclaimer,” was the king’s order, which brought a tall man
in a bright scarlet caftan salaaming to the dais.
He took the tablet from the secretary and gave a resounding blow upon the
brass gong dangling from his elbow. The clatter of wine cups ceased. The
drinkers were silent on pain of death. The herald sent his proclamation in
stentorian voice down the hall:—
“_In the name of Xerxes the Achæmenian, king of kings, king of Persia,
Media, Babylon, and Lydia; smiter of the Scythians, dominator of the
Indians, terror of the Hellenes; to all peoples of the world his
slaves,—hear ye!_
“Says Xerxes the king, whose word changes not. Forasmuch as Glaucon the
Athenian did save from death my servant and my sister, Mardonius and
Artazostra, I do enroll him among the ‘Benefactors of the King,’ a sharer
of my bounty forever. Let his name henceforth be not Glaucon, but
Prexaspes. Let my purple cap be touched upon his head. Let him be given
the robe of honour and the girdle of honour. Let the treasurer pay him a
talent of gold. Let my servants honour him. Let those who mock at him be
impaled. And this I proclaim as my decree.”
What followed Glaucon was too bewildered to recall clearly. He knew that
the archchamberlain lifted the great jewel-crusted hat from the king’s
head and set it on his own for an instant, that they brought him a flowing
purple robe, and clasped about his waist a golden belt, every link set
with a stone of price. The hall arose _en masse_ to drink to the man whom
the sovran delighted to honour.
“Hail! Thrice hail to the Lord Prexaspes! Justly rewarded by our gracious
king!”
No man refused his plaudit, and Glaucon never knew how many envious
courtiers cheered with their lips and in their hearts muttered dark things
against “the manner in which his Majesty loved to play the god and promote
this unknown Hellene above the heads of so many faithful subjects.”
Glaucon had made shift to speak some words of deprecation and gratitude to
royalty; his bow was deeper when the supreme usher led him away from the
throne than when he approached it. As he made his way out of the
banqueting hall, a score of noblemen, captains of thousands, over-eunuchs,
and more trailed at his heels, salaaming, fawning, congratulating,
offering all manner of service. Not on the days following his victory at
the Isthmia had his head been in such a whirl. He hardly heard the
well-meant warning which Artabanus, the shrewd old vizier, gave as he
passed the door of the great hall.
“Play the game well, my new Lord Prexaspes. The king can make you satrap
or he can crucify you. Play the game well, the stakes are high.”
Neither did he hear the conversation betwixt Xerxes and the bow-bearer
whilst he was being conducted away.
“Have I done well to honour this man, Mardonius?”
“Your Eternity was never more wise. Bear with his uncourtliness now, for
he is truthful, upright, and noble in soul—qualities rare in a Hellene.
Give me but time. I will make him a worthy Persian indeed.”
“Do not fail therein,” ordered the monarch, “for the youth has such
beauty, both of body and mind, I am grieved he was born in Athens. Yet
there is one short way to wean him from his doomed and miserable country.”
“Will Omnipotence but name it?”
“Search out for him a Persian wife, no, three or four wives—although I
have heard the custom of these witless Greeks is to be content with only
one. There is no surer way to turn his heart than that.”
“I thank your Eternity for your commandment. It shall not be forgotten.”
Mardonius bowed himself. Xerxes called for more wine. The feast lasted
late and ended in an orgy.
CHAPTER XVII
THE CHARMING BY ROXANA
Glaucon’s longing for the old life ebbed and flowed. Sometimes the return
of memory maddened him. Who had done it?—had forged that damning letter
and then hid it with Seuthes? Themistocles? Impossible. Democrates?—“the
friend with the understanding heart no less than a brother dear,” as Homer
said? More impossible. An unknown enemy, then, had stolen the fleet order
from Themistocles? But what man had hated Glaucon? One answer
remained,—unwittingly the athlete had offended some god, forgotten some
vow, or by sheer good fortune had awakened divine jealousy. Poseidon had
been implacable toward Odysseus, Athena toward Hector, Artemis toward
Niobe,—Glaucon could only pray that his present welcome amongst the
Persians might not draw down another outburst of Heaven’s anger.
More than all else was the keen longing for Hermione. He saw her in the
night. Vainly, amidst the storms of the gathering war, he had sought a
messenger to Athens. In this he dared ask no help from Mardonius. Then
almost from the blue a bolt fell that made him wish to tear Hermione from
his heart.
A Carian slave, a trusted steward at the Athenian silver mines of Laurium,
had loved his liberty and escaped to Sardis. The Persians questioned him
eagerly, for he knew all the gossip of Athens. Glaucon met the runaway,
who did not know then who he was, so many Greek refugees were always
fluttering around the king’s court. The Carian told of a new honour for
Democrates.
“He is elected strategus for next year because of his proud patriotism.
There is talk, too, of a more private bit of good fortune.”
“What is it?”
“That he has made successful suit to Hermippus of Eleusis for his
daughter,—the widow of Glaucon, the dead outlaw. They say the marriage
follows at the end of the year of mourning—Sir, you are not well!”
“I was never better.” But the other had turned ashen. He quitted the
Carian abruptly and shut himself in his chamber. It was good that he wore
no sword. He might have slain himself.
Yet, he communed in his heart, was it not best? Was he not dead to Athens?
Must Hermione mourn him down to old age? And whom better could she take
than Democrates, the man who had sacrificed even friendship for love of
country?
Artabanus, the vizier, gave a great feast that night. They drank the
pledge, “Victory to the king, destruction to his enemies.” The lords all
looked on Glaucon to see if he would touch the cup. He drank deeply. They
applauded him. He remained long at the wine, the slaves bore him home
drunken. In the morning Mardonius said Xerxes ordered him to serve in the
cavalry guards, a post full of honour and chance for promotion. Glaucon
did not resist. Mardonius sent him a silvered cuirass and a black horse
from the steppes of Bactria,—fleet as the north wind. In his new armour he
went to the chambers of Artazostra and Roxana. They had never seen him in
panoply before. The brilliant mail became him rarely. The ladies were
delighted.
“You grow Persian apace, my Lord Prexaspes,”—Roxana always called him by
his new name now,—“soon we shall hail you as ‘your Magnificence’ the
satrap of Parthia or Asia or some other kingly province in the East.”
“I do well to become Persian,” he answered bitterly, unmoved by the
admiration, “for yesterday I heard that which makes it more than ever
manifest that Glaucon the Athenian is dead. And whether he shall ever rise
to live again, Zeus knoweth; but from me it is hid.”
Artazostra did not approach, but Roxana came near, as if to draw the
buckle of the golden girdle—the gift of Xerxes. He saw the turquoise
shining on the tiara that bound her jet-black hair, the fine dark profile
of her face, her delicate nostrils, the sweep of drapery that half
revealed the form so full of grace. Was there more than passing friendship
in the tone with which she spoke to him?
“You have heard from Athens?”
“Yes.”
“And the tidings were evil.”
“Why call them evil, princess? My friends all believe me dead. Can they
mourn for me forever? They can forget me, alas! more easily than I in my
lonesomeness can forget them.”
“You are very lonely?”—the hand that drew the buckle worked slowly. How
soft it was, how delicately the Nile sun had tinted it!
“Do you say you have no friends? None? Not in Sardis? Not among the
Persians?”
“I said not that, dear lady,—but when can a man have more than one native
country?—and mine is Attica, and Attica is far away.”
“And you can never have another? Can new friendships never take the place
of those that lie forever dead?”
“I do not know.”
“Ah, believe, new home, new friends, new love, are more than possible,
will you but open your heart to suffer them.”
The voice both thrilled and trembled now, then suddenly ceased. The colour
sprang into Roxana’s forehead. Glaucon bowed and kissed her hand. It
seemed to rise to his lips very willingly.
“I thank you for your fair hopes. Farewell.” That was all he said, but as
he went forth from Roxana’s presence, the pang of the tidings brought by
the Carian seemed less keen.
* * * * * * *
The hosts gathered daily. Xerxes spent his time in dicing, hunting,
drinking, or amusing himself with his favourite by-play, wood-carving. He
held a few solemn state councils, at which he appeared to determine all
things and was actually guided by Artabanus and Mardonius. Now, at last,
all the colossal machinery which was to crush down Hellas was being set in
motion. Glaucon learned how futile was Themistocles’s hope of succour to
Athens from the Sicilian Greeks, for,—thanks to Mardonius’s indefatigable
diplomacy,—it was arranged that the Phœnicians of Carthage should launch a
powerful armament against the Sicilians, the same moment Xerxes descended
on Sparta and Athens. With calm satisfaction Mardonius watched the
completion of his efforts. All was ready,—the army of hundreds of
thousands, the twelve hundred war-ships, the bridges across the
Hellespont, the canal at Mt. Athos. Glaucon’s admiration for the son of
Gobryas grew apace. Xerxes was the outward head of the attack on Hellas.
Mardonius was the soul. He was the idol of the army—its best archer and
rider. Unlike his peers, he maintained no huge harem of jealous concubines
and conspiring eunuchs. Artazostra he worshipped. Roxana he loved. He had
no time for other women. No servant of Xerxes seemed outwardly more
obedient than he. Night and day he wrought for the glory of Persia.
Therefore, Glaucon looked on him with dread. In him Themistocles and
Leonidas would find a worthy foeman.
Daily Glaucon felt the Persian influence stealing upon him. He grew even
accustomed to think of himself under his new name. Greeks were about him:
Demaratus, the outlawed “half-king” of Sparta, and the sons of Hippias,
late tyrant of Athens. He scorned the company of these renegades. Yet
sometimes he would ask himself wherein was he better than they,—had
Democrates’s accusation been true, could he have asked a greater reward
from the Barbarian? And what he would do on the day of battle he did not
dare to ask of his own soul.
* * * * * * *
Xerxes left Sardis with the host amidst the same splendour with which he
had entered. Glaucon rode in the Life Guard, and saw royalty frequently,
for the king loved to meet handsome men. Once he held the stirrup as
Xerxes dismounted—an honour which provoked much envious grumbling.
Artazostra and Roxana travelled in their closed litters with the train of
women and eunuchs which followed every Persian army. Thus the myriads
rolled onward through Lydia and Mysia, drinking the rivers dry by their
numbers; and across the immortal plains of Troy passed that army which was