A Victor of Salamis
purpose with half an eye.”
“Cleopis, Nania, what is this vile tattling that I hear?”
The young mistress’s eyes blazed fury. Nania turned pale. Hermione was
quite capable of giving her a sound whipping, but Cleopis mustered a bold
front and a ready lie:
“_Ei!_ dear little lady, don’t flash up so! I was only talking with Nania
about how Phryne the scullion maid was making eyes at Scylax the groom.”
“I heard you quite otherwise,” was the nigh tremulous answer. But Hermione
was not anxious to push matters to an issue. From the moment of Glaucon’s
downfall she had believed—what even her own mother had mildly derided—that
Democrates had been the author of her husband’s ruin. And now that the
intent of her parents ever more clearly dawned on her, she was close upon
despair. Hermippus, however,—whatever his purpose,—was considerate, nay
kindly. He regarded Hermione’s feelings as pardonable, if not laudable. He
would wait for time to soothe her. But the consciousness that her father
purposed such a fate for her, however far postponed, was enough to double
all the unanswered longing, the unstilled pain.
Glaucon was gone. And with him gone, could Hermione’s sun ever rise again?
Could she hope, across the end of the æons, to clasp hands even in the dim
House of Hades with her glorious husband? If there was chance thereof,
dark Hades would grow bright as Olympus. How gladly she would fare out to
the shade land, when Hermes led down his troops of helpless dead.
“Downward, down the long dark pathway,
Past Oceanus’s great streams,
Past the White Rock, past the Sun’s gates
Downward to the land of Dreams:
There they reach the wide dim borders
Of the fields of asphodel,
Where the spectres and the spirits
Of wan, outworn mortals dwell.”
But was this the home of Glaucon the Fair; should the young, the strong,
the pure in heart, share one condemnation with the mean and the guilty?
Homer the Wise left all hid. Yet he told of some not doomed to the common
lot. Thus ran the promise to Menelaus, espoused to Helen.
“Far away the gods shall bear you:
To the fair Elysian plains,
Where the time fleets gladly, swiftly,
Where bright Rhadamanthus reigns:
Snow is not, nor rain, nor winter,
But clear zephyrs from the west,
Singing round the streams of Ocean
Round the islands of the Blest.”
Was the pledge for Menelaus only?
The boats came, the boats went, on the blue bay. But as the spring grew
warm, Hermione thought less of them, less almost of the last dread vision
of Glaucon.
* * * * * * *
The cloud of the Persian hung ever darkening over Athens. Continual
rumours made Xerxes’s power terrible even beyond fact. It was hard to go
on eating, drinking, frequenting the jury or the gymnasium, when men knew
to a certainty the coming summer would bring Athens face to face with
slavery or destruction. Wise men grew silent. Fools took to carousing to
banish care. But one word not the frailest uttered—“submission.” Worldly
prudence forbade that. The women would have stabbed the craven to death
with their bodkins. For the women were braver than the men. They knew the
fate of conquered Ionia: for the men only merciful death, for the women
the living death of the Persian harems and indignities words may not
utter. Whether Hellas forsook her or aided, Athens had chosen her fate.
Xerxes might annihilate her. Conquer her he could not.
Yet the early spring came back sweetly as ever. The warm breeze blew from
Egypt. Philomela sang in the olive groves. The snows on Pentelicus faded.
Around the city ran bands of children singing the “swallow’s song,” and
beseeching the spring donation of honey cakes:—
“She is here, she is here, the swallow;
Fair seasons bringing,—fair seasons to follow.”
And many a housewife, as she rewarded the singers, dropped a silent tear,
wondering whether another spring would see the innocents anywhere save in
a Persian slave-pen, or, better fate, in Orchus.
Yet to one woman that spring there came consolation. On Hermippus’s door
hung a glad olive wreath. Hermione had borne a son. “The fairest babe she
had ever seen,” cried the midwife. “Phœnix,” the mother called him, “for
in him shall Glaucon the Beautiful live again.” Democrates sent a runner
every day to Eleusis to inquire for Hermione until all danger was passed.
On the “name-day,” ten days after the birth, he was absent from the
gathering of friends and kinsmen, but sent a valuable statuette to
Hermione, who left it, however, to her father to thank him.
The day after Phœnix was born old Conon, Glaucon’s father, died. The old
man had never recovered from the blow given by the dishonourable death of
the son with whom he had so lately quarrelled. He left a great landed
estate at Marathon to his new-born grandson. The exact value thereof
Democrates inquired into sharply, and when a distant cousin talked of
contesting the will, the orator announced he would defend the infant’s
rights. The would-be plaintiff withdrew at once, not anxious to cross
swords with this favourite of the juries, and everybody said that
Democrates was showing a most scrupulous regard for his unfortunate
friend’s memory.
Indeed, seemingly, Democrates ought to have been the happiest man in
Athens. He had been elected “strategus,” to serve on the board of generals
along with Themistocles. He had plenty of money, and gave great banquets
to this or that group of prominent citizens. During the winter he had
asked Hermippus for his daughter in marriage. The Eumolpid told him that
since Glaucon’s fearful end, he was welcome as a son-in-law. Still he
could not conceal that Hermione never spoke of him save in hate, and in
view of her then delicate condition it was well not to press the matter.
The orator had seemed well content. “Woman’s fantasies would wear away in
time.” But the rumour of this negotiation, outrunning truth, grew into the
lying report of an absolute betrothal,—the report which was to drift to
Asia and turn Glaucon’s heart to stone, gossip having always wrought more
harm than malignant lying.
Yet flies were in Democrates’s sweet ointment. He knew Themistocles hardly
trusted him as frankly as of yore. Little Simonides, a man of wide
influence and keen insight, treated him very coldly. Cimon had cooled
also. But worse than all was a haunting dread. Democrates knew, if hardly
another in Hellas, that the Cyprian—in other words Mardonius—was safe in
Asia, and likewise that he had fled on the _Solon_. Mardonius, then, had
escaped the storm. What if the same miracle had saved the outlaw? What if
the dead should awake? The chimera haunted Democrates night and day.
Still he was beginning to shake off his terrors. He believed he had washed
his hands fairly clean of his treason, even if the water had cost his
soul. He joined with all his energies in seconding Themistocles. His voice
was loudest at the Pnyx, counselling resistance. He went on successful
embassies to Sicyon and Ægina to get pledges of alliance. In the summer he
did his uttermost to prepare the army which Themistocles and Evænetus the
Spartan led to defend the pass of Tempē. The expedition sailed amid high
hopes for a noble defence of Hellas. Democrates was proud and sanguine.
Then, like a thunderbolt, there came one night a knock at his door. Bias
led to his master no less a visitor than the sleek and smiling
Phœnician—Hiram.
The orator tried to cover his terrors by windy bluster. He broke in before
the Oriental could finish his elaborate salaam.
“Of all the harpies and gorgons you are the least welcome. Were you not
warned when you fled Athens for Argos never to show your face in Attica
again?”
“Your Excellency said so,” was the bland reply.
“Admirably you obey it. It remains for me to reward the obedience. Bias,
go to the street; summon two Scythian watchmen.”
The Thracian darted out. Hiram simply stood with hands folded.
“It is well, Excellency, the lad is gone. I have many things to say in
confidence to your Nobility. At Lacedæmon my Lord Lycon was gracious
enough to give certain commands for me to transmit to you.”
“Commands? To me? Earth and gods! am I to be commanded by an adder like
you? You shall pay for this on the rack.”
“Your slave thinks otherwise,” observed Hiram, humbly. “If your Lordship
will deign to read this letter, it will save your slave many words and
your Lordship many cursings.”
He knelt again before he offered a papyrus. Democrates would rather have
taken fire, but he could not refuse. And thus he read:—
“Lycon of Lacedæmon to Democrates of Athens, greeting:—Can he who Medizes
in the summer Hellenize in the spring? I know your zeal for Themistocles.
Was it for this we plucked you back from exposure and ruin? Do then as
Hiram bids you, or repay the money you clutched so eagerly. Fail not, or
rest confident all the documents you betrayed shall go to Hypsichides the
First Archon, your enemy. Use then your eloquence on Attic juries! But you
will grow wise; what need of me to threaten? You will hearken to Hiram.
“From Sparta, on the festival of Bellerophon, in the ephorship of
Theudas.—_Chaire!_”
Democrates folded the papyrus and stood long, biting his whitened lips in
silence. Perhaps he had surmised the intent of the letter the instant
Hiram extended it.
“What do you desire?” he said thickly, at last.
“Let my Lord then hearken—” began the Phœnician, to be interrupted by the
sudden advent of Bias.
“The Scythians are at the door, _kyrie_,” he was shouting; “shall I order
them in and drag this lizard out by the tail?”
“No, in Zeus’s name, no! Bid them keep without. And do you go also. This
honest fellow is on private business which only I must hear.”
Bias slammed the door. Perhaps he stood listening. Hiram, at least, glided
nearer to his victim and spoke in a smooth whisper, taking no chances of
an eavesdropper.
“Excellency, the desire of Lycon is this. The army has been sent to Tempē.
At Lacedæmon Lycon used all his power to prevent its despatch, but
Leonidas is omnipotent to-day in Sparta, and besides, since Lycon’s
calamity at the Isthmia, his prestige, and therefore his influence, is not
a little abated. Nevertheless, the army must be recalled from Tempē.”
“And the means?”
“Yourself, Excellency. It is within your power to find a thousand good
reasons why Themistocles and Evænetus should retreat. And you will do so
at once, Excellency.”
“Do not think you and your accursed masters can drive me from infamy to
infamy. I can be terrible if pushed to bay.”
“Your Nobility has read Lycon’s letter,” observed the Phœnician, with
folded arms.
There was a sword lying on the tripod by which Democrates stood; he
regretted for all the rest of his life that he had not seized it and ended
the snakelike Oriental then and there. The impulse came, and went. The
opportunity never returned. The orator’s head dropped down upon his
breast.
“Go back to Sparta, go back instantly,” he spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“Tell that Polyphemus you call your master there that I will do his will.
And tell him, too, that if ever the day comes for vengeance on him, on the
Cyprian, on you,—my vengeance will be terrible.”
“Your slave’s ears hear the first part of your message with joy,”—Hiram’s
smile never grew broader,—“the second part, which my Lord speaks in
anger,—I will forget.”
“Go! go!” ordered the orator, furiously. He clapped his hands. Bias
reëntered.
“Tell the constables I don’t need them. Here is an obol apiece for their
trouble. Conduct this man out. If he comes hither again, do you and the
other slaves beat him till there is not a whole spot left on his body.”
Hiram’s genuflexion was worthy of Xerxes’s court.