A Victor of Salamis
destined to do and suffer greater things than were wrought beside the
poet-sung Simois and Scamander, till at last they came to the Hellespont,
the green river seven furlongs wide, that sundered conquered Asia from the
Europe yet to be conquered.
Here were the two bridges of ships, more than three hundred in each, held
by giant cables, and which upbore a firm earthen road, protected by a high
bulwark, that the horses and camels might take no fright at the water.
Here, also, the fleet met them,—the armaments of the East, Phœnicians,
Cilicians, Egyptians, Cyprians,—more triremes and transports than had ever
before ridden upon the seas. And as he saw all this power, all directed by
one will, Glaucon grew even more despondent. How could puny, faction-rent
Hellas bear up against this might? Only when he looked on the myriads
passing, and saw how the captains swung long whips and cracked the lash
across the backs of their spearmen, as over driven cattle, did a little
comfort come. For he knew there was still a fire in Athens and Sparta, a
fire not in Susa nor in Babylon, which kindled free souls and free hands
to dare and do great things. “Whom will the high Zeus prosper when the
_slaves_ of Xerxes stand face to face with _men_?”
A proud thought,—but it ceased to comfort him, as all that afternoon he
stood near the marble throne of the “Lord of the World,” whence Xerxes
overlooked his myriads while they filed by, watched the races of swift
triremes, and heard the proud assurances of his officers that “no king
since the beginning of time, not Thothmes of Egypt, not Sennacherib of
Assyria, not Cyrus nor Darius, had arrayed such hosts as his that day.”
Then evening came. Glaucon was, after his wont, in the private pavilion of
Mardonius,—itself a palace walled with crimson tapestry in lieu of marble.
He sat silent and moody for long, the bright fence of the ladies or of the
bow-bearer seldom moving him to answer. And at last Artazostra could
endure it no more.
“What has tied your tongue, Prexaspes? Surely my brother in one of his
pleasantries has not ordered that it be cut out? Your skin is too fair to
let you be enrolled amongst his Libyan mutes.”
The Hellene answered with a pitiful attempt at laughter.
“Silent, am I? Then silent because I am admiring your noble ladyship’s
play of wit.”
Artazostra shook her head.
“Impossible. Your eyes were glazed like the blue of Egyptian beads. You
were not listening to me. You were seeing sights and hearkening to voices
far away.”
“You press me hard, lady,” he confessed; “how can I answer? No man is
master of his roving thoughts,—at least, not I.”
“You were seeing Athens. Are you so enamoured of your stony country that
you believe no other land can be so fair?”
“Stony it is, lady,—you have seen it,—but there is no sun like the sun
that gilds the Acropolis; no birds sing like the nightingales from the
grove by the Cephissus; no trees speak with the murmur of the olives at
Colonus, or on the hill slope at Eleusis-by-the-Sea. I can answer you in
the words of Homer, the singer of Hellas, the words he sets on the tongue
of a wanderer and outcast, even as I. ‘A rugged land, yet nurse of noble
men, and for myself I can see naught sweeter than a man’s own country.’ ”
The praise of his native land had brought the colour into the cheeks of
the Athenian, his voice rose to enthusiasm. He knew that Roxana was
watching him intently.
“Beautiful it must be, dear Hellene,” she spoke, as she sat upon the
footstool below the couch of her brother, “yet you have not seen all the
world. You have not seen the mystic Nile, Memphis, Thebes, and Saïs, our
wondrous cities; have not seen how the sun rises over the desert, how it
turns the sand hills to red gold, how at sunset the cliffs glow like walls
of beryl and sard and golden jasper.”
“Tell then of Egypt,” said Glaucon, clearly taking pleasure in the music
of her voice.
“Not to-night. I have praised it before. Rather I will praise also the
rose valleys of Persia and Bactria, whither Mardonius took me after my
dear father died.”
“Are they very beautiful also?”
“Beautiful as the Egyptian’s House of the Blessed, for those who have
passed the dread bar of Osiris; beautiful as Airyana-Væya, the home land
of the Aryans, whence Ahura-Mazda sent them forth. The winters are short,
the summers bright and long. Neither too much rain nor burning heat. The
Paradise by Sardis is nothing beside them. One breathes in the roses, and
hearkens to the bulbuls—our Aryan nightingales—all day and all night long.
The streams bubble with cool water. At Susa the palace is fairer than word
may tell. Hither the court comes each summer from the tedious glories of
Babylon. The columns of the palace reach up to heaven, but no walls
engirdle them, only curtains green, white, and blue,—whilst the warm sweet
breeze blows always thither from green prairies.”
“You draw a picture fair as the plains of Elysium, dear lady,” spoke
Glaucon, his own gaze following the light that burned in hers, “and yet I
would not seek refuge even in the king’s court with all its beauty. There
are times when I long to pray the god, ‘Give to me wings, eagle wings from
Zeus’s own bird, and let me go to the ends of the earth, and there in some
charmed valley I may find at last the spring of Lethe water, the water of
forgetfulness that gives peace.’ ”
Roxana looked on him; pity was in her eyes, and he knew he was taking
pleasure in her pitying.
“The magic water you ask is not to be drunk from goblets,” she answered
him, “but the charmed valley lies in the vales of Bactria, the ‘Roof of
the World,’ high amid mountains crowned with immortal snows. Every good
tree and flower are here, and here winds the mystic Oxus, the great river
sweeping northward. And here, if anywhere, on Mazda’s wide, green earth,
can the trouble-tossed have peace.”
“Then it is so beautiful?” said the Athenian.
“Beautiful,” answered Mardonius and Artazostra together. And Roxana, with
an approving nod from her brother, arose and crossed the tent where hung a
simple harp.
“Will my Lord Prexaspes listen,” she asked, “if I sing him one of the
homely songs of the Aryans in praise of the vales by the Oxus? My skill is
small.”
“It should suffice to turn the heart of Persephone, even as did Orpheus,”
answered the Athenian, never taking his gaze from her.
The soft light of the swinging lamps, the heavy fragrance of the
frankincense which smouldered on the brazier, the dark lustre of the
singer’s eyes—all held Glaucon as by a spell. Roxana struck the harp. Her
voice was sweet, and more than desire to please throbbed through the
strings and song.
“O far away is gliding
The pleasant Oxus’s stream,
I see the green glades darkling,
I see the clear pools gleam.
I hear the bulbuls calling
From blooming tree to tree.
Wave, bird, and tree are singing,
‘Away! ah, come with me!’
“By Oxus’s stream is rising
Great Cyrus’s marble halls;
Like rain of purest silver,
His tinkling fountain falls;
To his cool verdant arbours
What joy with thee to flee.
I’ll join with bird and river,
‘Away! rest there with me!’
“Forget, forget old sorrows,
Forget the dear things lost!
There comes new peace, new brightness,
When darksome waves are crossed;
By Oxus’s streams abiding,
From pang and strife set free,
I’ll teach thee love and gladness,—
Rest there, for aye, with me!”
The light, the fragrance, the song so pregnant with meaning, all wrought
upon Glaucon of Athens. He felt the warm glow in his cheeks; he felt
subtle hands outstretching as if drawing forth his spirit. Roxana’s eyes
were upon him as she ended. Their gaze met. She was very fair, high-born,
sensitive. She was inviting him to put away Glaucon the outcast from
Hellas, to become body and soul Prexaspes the Persian, “Benefactor of the
King,” and sharer in all the glories of the conquering race. All the past
seemed slipping away from him as unreal. Roxana stood before him in her
dark Oriental beauty; Hermione was in Athens—and they were giving her in
marriage to Democrates. What wonder he felt no mastery of himself, though
all that day he had kept from wine?
“A simple song,” spoke Mardonius, who seemed marvellously pleased at all
his sister did, “yet not lacking its sweetness. We Aryans are without the
elaborate music the Greeks and Babylonians affect.”
“Simplicity is the highest beauty,” answered the Greek, as if still in his
trance, “and when I hear Euphrosyne, fairest of the Graces, sing with the
voice of Erato, the Song-Queen, I grow afraid. For a mortal may not hear
things too divine and live.”
Roxana replaced the harp and made one of her inimitable Oriental
courtesies,—a token at once of gratitude and farewell for the evening.
Glaucon never took his gaze from her, until with a rustle and sweep of her
blue gauze she had glided out of the tent. He did not see the meaning
glances exchanged by Mardonius and Artazostra before the latter left them.
When the two men were alone, the bow-bearer asked a question.
“Dear Prexaspes, do you not think I should bless the twelve archangels I
possess so beautiful a sister?”
“She is so fair, I wonder that Zeus does not haste from Olympus to
enthrone her in place of Hera.”
The bow-bearer laughed.
“No, I crave for her only a mortal husband. Though there are few in
Persia, in Media, in the wide East, to whom I dare entrust her.
Perhaps,”—his laugh grew lighter,—“I would do well to turn my eyes
westward.”
Glaucon did not see Roxana again the next day nor for several following,
but in those days he thought much less on Hermione and on Athens.
CHAPTER XVIII
DEMOCRATES’S TROUBLES RETURN
All through that year to its close and again to the verge of springtime
the sun made violet haze upon the hills and pure fire of the bay at
Eleusis-by-the-Sea. Night by night the bird song would be stilled in the
old olives along the dark waters. There Hermione would sit looking off
into the void, as many another in like plight has sat and wearily waited,
asking of the night and the sea the questions that are never answered. As
the bay shimmered under the light of morning, she could gaze toward the
brown crags of Salamis and the open Ægean beyond. The waves kept their
abiding secret. The tall triremes, the red-sailed fishers’ boats, came and
went from the havens of Athens, but Hermione never saw the ship that had
borne away her all.
The roar and scandal following the unmasking of Glaucon had long since
abated. Hermippus—himself full five years grayer on account of the
calamity—had taken his daughter again to quiet Eleusis, where there was
less to remind her of that terrible night at Colonus. She spent the autumn
and winter in an unbroken shadow life, with only her mother and old
Cleopis for companions. Reasons not yet told to the world gave her a
little hope and comfort. But in mere desire to make her dark cloud break,
her parents were continually giving Hermione pain. She guessed it long
before her father’s wishes passed beyond vaguest hints. She heard him
praising Democrates, his zeal for Athens and Hellas, his fair worldly
prospects, and there needed no diviner to reveal Hermippus’s hidden
meaning. Once she overheard Cleopis talking with another maid.
“Her Ladyship has taken on terribly, to be sure, but I told her mother
‘when a fire blazes too hot, it burns out simply the faster.’ Democrates
is just the man to console in another year.”
“Yes,” answered the other wiseacre, “she’s far too young and pretty to
stay unwedded very long. Aphrodite didn’t make her to sit as an old maid
carding wool and munching beans. One can see Hermippus’s and Lysistra’s