A Victor of Salamis
the king. “Well, tell him his Lord is grateful. He shall not be forgotten.
If his wounds do not mend, call in my body-physicians. And I will send him
something in gratitude—a golden cimeter, perhaps, or it may be another
cream Nisæan charger.”
A general rode up to the chariot with his report, and Mardonius was
suffered to gallop to his own tents, blessing Mazda; he had saved the
Athenian, yet had not told a lie.
* * * * * * *
The ever ready eunuchs of Artazostra ran to tell Mardonius of the
Hellene’s strange desertion, even before their lord dismounted. Mardonius
was not astonished now, however much the tidings pained him. The Greek had
escaped more than trifling wounds; ten days would see him sound and hale,
but the stunning blow had left his wits still wandering. He had believed
himself dead at first, and demanded why Charon took so long with his
ferry-boat. He had not recognized Roxana, but spoke one name many
times—“Hermione!” And the Egyptian, understanding too well, went to her
own tent weeping bitterly.
“He has forsaken us,” spoke Artazostra, harshly, to her husband. “He has
paid kindness with disloyalty. He has chosen the lot of his desperate race
rather than princely state amongst the Aryans. Your sister is in agony.”
“And I with her,” returned the bow-bearer, gravely, “but let us not forget
one thing—this man has saved our lives. And all else weighs small in the
balance.”
When Mardonius went to him, Glaucon was again himself. He lay on bright
pillows, his forehead swathed in linen. His eyes were unnaturally bright.
“You know what has befallen?” asked Mardonius.
“They have told me. I almost alone of all the Hellenes have not been
called to the heroes’ Elysium, to the glory of Theseus and Achilles, the
glory that shall not die. Yet I am content. For plainly the Olympians have
destined that I should see and do great things in Hellas, otherwise they
would not have kept me back from Leonidas’s glory.”
The Athenian’s voice rang confidently. None of the halting weakness
remained that had made it falter once when Mardonius asked him, “Will your
Hellenes fight?” He spoke as might one returned crowned with the victor’s
laurel.
“And wherefore are you grown so bold?” The bow-bearer was troubled as he
looked on him. “Nobly you and your handful fought. We Persians honour the
brave, and full honour we give to you. But was it not graven upon the
stars what should befall? Were not Leonidas, his men, and you all mad—”
“Ah, yes! divinely mad.” Brighter still grew the Athenian’s eyes. “For
that moment of exultation when we charged to meet the king I would again
pay a lifetime.”
“Yet the gateway of Hellas is unlocked. Your bravest are fallen. Your land
is defenceless. What else can be written hereafter save, ‘The Hellenes
strove with fierce courage to fling back Xerxes. Their valour was
foolishness. The god turned against them. The king prevailed.’ ”
But Glaucon met the Persian’s glance with one more bold.
“No, Mardonius, good friend, for do not think that we must be foes one to
another because our people are at war,—I can answer you with ease.
Leonidas you have slain, and his handful, and you have pierced the
mountain wall of Œta, and no doubt your king’s host will march even to
Athens. But do not dream Hellas is conquered by striding over her land.
Before you shall possess the land you must first possess the men. And I
say to you, Athens is still left, and Sparta left, free and strong, with
men whose hearts and hands can never fail. I doubted once. But now I doubt
no more. And our gods will fight for us. Your Ahura-Mazda has still to
prevail over Zeus the Thunderer and Athena of the Pure Heart.”
“And you?” asked the Persian.
“And as for me, I know I have cast away by my own act all the good things
you and your king would fain bestow upon me. Perhaps I deserve death at
your hands. I will never plead for respite, but this I know, whether I
live or die, it shall be as Glaucon of Athens who owns no king but Zeus,
no loyalty save to the land that bore him.”
There was stillness in the tent. The wounded man sank back on the pillows,
breathing deep, closing his eyes, expectant almost of a burst of wrath
from the Persian. But Mardonius answered without trace of anger.
“Friend, your words cut keenly, and your boasts are high. Only the Most
High knoweth whether you boast aright. Yet this I say, that much as I
desire your friendship, would see you my brother, even,—you know that,—I
dare not tell you you do wholly wrong. A man is given one country and one
manner of faith in God. He does not choose them. I was born to serve the
lord of the Aryans, and to spread the triumphs of Mithra the Glorious, and
you were born in Athens. I would it were otherwise. Artazostra and I would
fain have made you Persian like ourselves. My sister loves you. Yet we
cannot strive against fate. Will you go back to your own people and share
their lot, however direful?”
“Since life is given me, I will.”
Mardonius stepped to the bedside and gave the Athenian his right hand.
“At the island you saved my life and that of my best beloved. Let it never
be said that Mardonius, son of Gobryas, is ungrateful. To-day, in some
measure, I have repaid the debt I owe. If you will have it so, as speedily
as your strength returns and opportunity offers I will return you to your
people. And amongst them may your own gods show you favour, for you will
have none from ours!”
Glaucon took the proffered hand in silent gratitude. He was still very
weak and rested on the pillows, breathing hard. The bow-bearer went out to
his wife and his sister and told his promise. There was little to be said.
The Athenian must go his path, and they go theirs, unless he were to be
handed over to Xerxes to die a death of torments. And not even Roxana,
keenly as pierced her sorrow, would think of that.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE DARKEST HOUR
A city of two hundred thousand awaiting a common sentence of death,—such
seemed the doom of Athens.
Every morning the golden majesty of the sun rose above the wall of
Hymettus, but few could lift their hands to Lord Helios and give praise
for another day of light. “Each sunrise brings Xerxes nearer.” The bravest
forgot not that.
Yet Athens was never more truly the “Violet-Crowned City” than on these
last days before the fearful advent. The sun at morn on Hymettus, the sun
at night on Daphni, the nightingales and cicadas in the olives by
Cephissus, the hum of bees on the sweet thyme of the mountain, the purple
of the hills, the blue and the fire of the bay, the merry tinkle of the
goat bells upon the rocks, the laugh of little children in the streets—all
these made Athens fair, but could not take the cloud from the hearts of
the people.
Trade was at standstill in the Agora. The most careless frequented the
temples. Old foes composed their cases before the arbitrator. The courts
were closed, but there was meeting after meeting in the Pnyx, with
incessant speeches on one theme—how Athens must resist to the bitter end.
And why should not the end be bitter? Argos and Crete had Medized. Corcyra
promised and did nothing. Thebes was weakening. Thessaly had sent earth
and water. Corinth, Ægina, and a few lesser states were moderately loyal,
but great Sparta only procrastinated and despatched no help to her
Athenian ally. So every day the Persian thunder-cloud was darkening.
But one man never faltered, nor suffered others about him to
falter,—Themistocles. The people heard him gladly—he would never talk of
defeat. He had a thousand reasons why the invader should be baffled, from
a convenient hexameter in old Bacis’s oracle book, up to the fact that the
Greeks used the longest spears. If he found it weary work looking the
crowding peril in the face and smiling still, he never confessed it. His
friends would marvel at his serenity. Only when they saw him sit silent,
saw his brows knit, his hand comb at his beard, they knew his
inexhaustible brain was weaving the web which should ensnare the lord of
the Aryans.
Thus day after day—while men thought dark things in their hearts.
* * * * * * *
Hermippus had come down to his city house from Eleusis, and with him his
wife and daughter. The Eleusinian was very busy. He was a member of the
Areopagus, the old council of ex-archons, an experienced body that found
much to do. Hermippus had strained his own resources to provide shields
for the hoplites. He was constantly with Themistocles, which implied being
much with Democrates. The more he saw of the young orator, the better the
Eleusinian liked him. True, not every story ran to Democrates’s credit,
but Hermippus knew the world, and could forgive a young man if he had
occasionally spent a jolly night. Democrates seemed to have forsworn
Ionian harp-girls now. His patriotism was self-evident. The Eleusinian saw
in him a most desirable protector in the perils of war for Hermione and
her child. Hermione’s dislike for her husband’s destroyer was
natural,—nay, in bounds, laudable,—but one must not give way too much to
women’s phantasies. The lady was making a Cyclops of Democrates by sheer
imagination; an interview would dispel her prejudices. Therefore Hermippus
planned, and his plan was not hard to execute.
On the day the fleet sailed to Artemisium, Hermione went with her mother
to the havens, as all the city went, to wish godspeed to the “wooden wall”
of Hellas.
One hundred and twenty-seven triremes were to go forth, and three and
fifty to follow, bearing the best and bravest of Athens with them.
Themistocles was in absolute command, and perhaps in his heart of hearts
Democrates was not mournful if it lay out of his power to do a second
ill-turn to his country.
It was again summer, and again such a day as when Glaucon with glad
friends had rowed toward Salamis. The Saronian bay flashed fairest azure.
The scattered isles and the headlands of Argolis rose in clear beauty. The
city had emptied itself. Mothers hung on the necks of sons as the latter
strode toward Peiræus; friends clasped hands for the last time as he who
remained promised him who went that the wife and little ones should never
be forgotten. Only Hermione, as she stood on the hill of Munychia above
the triple havens, shed no tear. The ship bearing her all was gone long
since. Themistocles would never lead it back. Hermippus was at the quay in
Peiræus, taking leave of the admiral. Old Cleopis held the babe as
Hermione stood by her mother. The younger woman had suffered her gaze to
wander to far Ægina, where a featherlike cloud hung above the topmost
summit of the isle, when her mother’s voice called her back.
“They go.”
A line of streamers blew from the foremast of the _Nausicaä_ as the piper
on the flag-ship gave the time to the oars. The triple line of blades,
pumiced white, splashed with a steady rhythm. The long black hull glided
away. The trailing line of consorts swiftly followed. From the hill and
the quays a shout uprose from the thousands, to be answered by the
fleet,—a cheer or a prayer to sea-ruling Poseidon those who gave it hardly
knew. The people stood silent till the last dark hull crept around the
southern headland; then, still in silence, the multitudes dissolved. The
young and the strong had gone from them. For Athens this was the beginning
of the war.
Hermione and Lysistra awaited Hermippus before setting homeward, but the
Eleusinian was delayed. The fleet had vanished. The havens were empty. In
Cleopis’s arms little Phœnix wept. His mother was anxious to be gone, when
she was surprised to see a figure climbing the almost deserted slope. A