A Victor of Salamis
night waves lapped softly. The wind had sunk to warm puffs from the
southward. They heard the rattle of anchor-chains and tackle-blocks, but
from far away. Beyond the vague promontory of Peiræus rose dark mountains
and headlands, at their foot lay a sprinkling of lights.
“Salamis!” cried Glaucon, pointing. “Yonder are the ships of Hellas.”
Mardonius walked with him upon the shelving shore. A skiff, small but
stanch, was ready with oars.
“What else will you?” asked the bow-bearer. “Gold?”
“Nothing. Yet take this.” Glaucon unclasped from his waist the golden belt
Xerxes had bestowed at Sardis. “A Hellene I went forth, a Hellene I
return.”
He made to kiss the Persian’s dress, but Mardonius would not suffer it.
“Did I not desire you for my brother?” he said, and they embraced. As
their arms parted, the bow-bearer spoke three words in earnest whisper:—
“Beware of Democrates.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can say no more. Yet be wise. Beware of Democrates.”
The attendants, faithful body-servants of Mardonius, and mute witnesses of
all that passed, were thrusting the skiff into the water. There were no
long farewells. Both knew that the parting was absolute, that Glaucon
might be dead on the morrow. A last clasping of the hands and quickly the
boat was drifting out upon the heaving waters. Glaucon stood one moment
watching the figures on the beach and pondering on Mardonius’s strange
warning. Then he set himself to the oars, rowing westward, skirting the
Barbarian fleet as it rode at anchor, observing its numbers and array and
how it was aligned for battle. After that, with more rapid stroke, he sent
the skiff across the dark ribbon toward Salamis.
CHAPTER XXVI
THEMISTOCLES IS THINKING
Leonidas was taken. Themistocles was left,—left to bear as crushing a load
as ever weighed on man,—to fight two battles, one with the Persian, one
with his own unheroic allies, and the last was the harder. Three hundred
and seventy Greek triremes rode off Salamis, half from Athens, but the
commander-in-chief was Eurybiades of Sparta, the sluggard state that sent
only sixteen ships, yet the only state the bickering Peloponnesians would
obey. Hence Themistocles’s sore problems.
Different from the man of unruffled brow who ruled from the bema was he
who paced the state cabin of the _Nausicaä_ a few nights after the
evacuation. For _he_ at least knew the morn would bring Hellas her doom.
There had been a gloomy council that afternoon. They had seen the
Acropolis flame two days before. The great fleet of Xerxes rode off the
Attic havens. At the gathering of the Greek chiefs in Eurybiades’s cabin
Themistocles had spoken one word many times,—“Fight!”
To which Adeimantus, the craven admiral of Corinth, and many another had
answered:—
“Delay! Back to the Isthmus! Risk nothing!”
Then at last the son of Neocles silenced them, not with arguments but
threats. “Either here in the narrow straits we can fight the king or not
at all. In the open seas his numbers can crush us. Either vote to fight
here or we Athenians sail for Italy and leave you to stem Xerxes as you
can.”
There had been sullen silence after that, the admirals misliking the
furrow drawn above Themistocles’s eyes. Then Eurybiades had haltingly
given orders for battle.
That had been the command, but as the Athenian left the Spartan flag-ship
in his pinnace he heard Globryas, the admiral of Sicyon, muttering,
“Headstrong fool—he shall not destroy us!” and saw Adeimantus turn back
for a word in Eurybiades’s ear. The Spartan had shaken his head, but
Themistocles did not deceive himself. In the battle at morn half of the
Hellenes would go to battle asking more “how escape?” than “how conquer?”
and that was no question to ask before a victory.
The cabin was empty now save for the admiral. On the deck above the hearty
shouts of Ameinias the trierarch, and chanting of the seamen told that on
the _Nausicaä_ at least there would be no slackness in the fight. The ship
was being stripped for action, needless spars and sails sent ashore, extra
oars made ready, and grappling-irons placed. “Battle” was what every
Athenian prayed for, but amongst the allies Themistocles knew it was
otherwise. The crucial hour of his life found him nervous, moody, silent.
He repelled the zealous subalterns who came for orders.
“My directions have been given. Execute them. Has Aristeides come yet?”
The last question was to Simonides, who had been half-companion,
half-counsellor, in all these days of storm.
“He is not yet come from Ægina.”
“Leave me, then.”
Themistocles’s frown deepened. The others went out.
The state cabin was elegant, considering its place. Themistocles had
furnished it according to his luxurious taste,—stanchions cased in bronze
hammered work, heavy rugs from Carthage, lamps swinging from chains of
precious Corinthian brass. Behind a tripod stood an image of Aphrodite of
Fair Counsel, the admiral’s favourite deity. By force of habit now he
crossed the cabin, took the golden box, and shook a few grains of
frankincense upon the tripod.
“Attend, O queen,” he said mechanically, “and be thou propitious to all my
prayers.”
He knew the words meant nothing. The puff of night air from the port-hole
carried the fragrance from the room. The image wore its unchanging,
meaningless smile, and Themistocles smiled too, albeit bitterly.
“So this is the end. A losing fight, cowardice, slavery—no, I shall not
live to see that last.”
He looked from the port-hole. He could see the lights of the Barbarian
fleet clearly. He took long breaths of the clear brine.
“So the tragedy ends—worse than Phrynicus’s poorest, when they pelted his
chorus from the orchestra with date-stones. And yet—and yet—”
He never formulated what came next even in his own mind.
“_Eu!_” he cried, springing back with part of his old lightness, “I have
borne a brave front before it all. I have looked the Cyclops in the face,
even when he glowered the fiercest. But it all will pass. I presume
Thersytes the caitiff and Agamemnon the king have the same sleep and the
same dreams in Orchus. And a few years more or a few less in a man’s life
make little matter. But it would be sweeter to go out thinking ‘I have
triumphed’ than ‘I have failed, and all the things I loved fail with me.’
And Athens—”
Again he stopped. When he resumed his monologue, it was in a different
key.
“There are many things I cannot understand. They cannot unlock the riddles
at Delphi, no seer can read them in the omens of birds. Why was Glaucon
blasted? Was he a traitor? What was the truth concerning his treason?
Since his going I have lost half my faith in mortal men.”
Once more his thoughts wandered.
“How they trust me, my followers of Athens! Is it not better to be a
leader of one city of freemen than a Xerxes, master of a hundred million
slaves? How they greeted me, as if I were Apollo the Saviour, when I
returned to Peiræus! And must it be written by the chroniclers thereafter,
‘About this time Themistocles, son of Neocles, aroused the Athenians to
hopeless resistance and drew on them utter destruction’? O Father Zeus,
must men say _that_? Am I a fool or crazed for wishing to save my land
from the fate of Media, Lydia, Babylonia, Egypt, Ionia? Has dark Atropos
decreed that the Persians should conquer forever? Then, O Zeus, or
whatever be thy name, O Power of Powers, look to thine empire! Xerxes is
not a king, but a god; he will besiege Olympus, even thy throne.”
He crossed the cabin with hard strides.
“How can I?” he cried half-aloud, beating his forehead. “How can I make
these Hellenes fight?”
His hand tightened over his sword-hilt.
“This is the only place where we can fight to advantage. Here in the
strait betwixt Salamis and Attica we have space to deploy all our ships,
while the Barbarians will be crowded by numbers. And if we once
retreat?—Let Adeimantus and the rest prate about—‘The wall, the wall
across the Isthmus! The king can never storm it.’ Nor will he try to,
unless his councillors are turned stark mad. Will he not have command of
the sea? can he not land his army behind the wall, wherever he wills? Have
I not dinned that argument in those doltish Peloponnesians’ ears until I
have grown hoarse? Earth and gods! suffer me rather to convince a stone
statue than a Dorian. The task is less hard. Yet they call themselves
reasoning beings.”
A knock upon the cabin door. Simonides reëntered.
“You do not come on deck, Themistocles? The men ask for you. Ameinias’s
cook has prepared a noble supper—anchovies and tunny—will you not join the
other officers and drink a cup to Tychē, Lady Fortune, that she prosper us
in the morning?”
“I am at odds with Tychē, Simonides. I cannot come with you.”
“The case is bad, then?”
“Ay, bad. But keep a brave face before the men. There’s no call to pawn
our last chance.”
“Has it come to that?” quoth the little poet, in curiosity and concern.
“Leave me!” ordered Themistocles, with a sweep of the hand, and Simonides
was wise enough to obey.
Themistocles took a pen from the table, but instead of writing on the
outspread sheet of papyrus, thrust the reed between his teeth and bit it
fiercely.
“How can I? How can I make these Hellenes fight? Tell that, King Zeus,
tell that!”
Then quickly his eager brain ran from expedient to expedient.
“Another oracle, some lucky prediction that we shall conquer? But I have
shaken the oracle books till there is only chaff in them. Or a bribe to
Adeimantus and his fellows? But gold can buy only souls, not courage. Or
another brave speech and convincing argument? Had I the tongue of Nestor
and the wisdom of Thales, would those doltish Dorians listen?”
Again the knock, still again Simonides. The dapper poet’s face was a cubit
long.
“Oh, grief to report it! Cimon sends a boat from his ship the _Perseus_.
He says the _Dikē_, the Sicyonian ship beside him, is not stripping for
battle, but rigging sail on her spars as if to flee away.”
“Is that all?” asked Themistocles, calmly.
“And there is also a message that Adeimantus and many other admirals who
are minded like him have gone again to Eurybiades to urge him not to
fight.”
“I expected it.”
“Will the Spartan yield?” The little poet was whitening.
“Very likely. Eurybiades would be a coward if he were not too much of a
fool.”
“And you are not going to him instantly, to confound the faint hearts and
urge them to quit themselves like Hellenes?”
“Not yet.”
“By the dog of Egypt, man,” cried Simonides, seizing his friend’s arm,
“don’t you know that if nothing’s done, we’ll all walk the asphodel
to-morrow?”
“Of course. I am doing all I can.”
“All? You stand with folded hands!”
“All—for I am thinking.”
“Thinking—oh, make actions of your thoughts!”
“I will.”
“When?”
“When the god opens the way. Just now the way is fast closed.”
“_Ai!_ woe—and it is already far into the evening, and Hellas is lost.”
Themistocles laughed almost lightly.
“No, my friend. Hellas will not be lost until to-morrow morning, and much
can happen in a night. Now go, and let me think yet more.”
Simonides lingered. He was not sure Themistocles was master of himself.
But the admiral beckoned peremptorily, the poet’s hand was on the cabin
door, when a loud knock sounded on the other side. The _prōreus_,
commander of the fore-deck and Ameinas’s chief lieutenant, entered and
saluted swiftly.
“Your business?” questioned the admiral, sharply.
“May it please your Excellency, a deserter.”
“A deserter, and how and why here?”
“He came to the _Nausicaä_ in a skiff. He swears he has just come from the
Barbarians at Phaleron. He demands to see the admiral.”
“He is a Barbarian?”