A Victor of Salamis
“No, a Greek. He affects to speak a kind of Doric dialect.”
Themistocles laughed again, and even more lightly.
“A deserter, you say. Then why, by Athena’s owls, has he left ‘the Land of
Roast Hare’ among the Persians, whither so many are betaking themselves?
We’ve not so many deserters to our cause that to-night we can ignore one.
Fetch him in.”
“But the council with Eurybiades?” implored Simonides, almost on his
knees.
“To the harpies with it! I asked Zeus for an omen. It comes—a fair one.
There is time to hear this deserter, to confound Adeimantus, and to save
Hellas too!”
Themistocles tossed his head. The wavering, the doubting frown was gone.
He was himself again. What he hoped for, what device lay in that
inexhaustible brain of his, Simonides did not know. But the sight itself
of this strong, smiling man gave courage. The officer reëntered, with him
a young man, his face in part concealed by a thick beard and a peaked cap
drawn low upon his forehead. The stranger came boldly across to
Themistocles, spoke a few words, whereat the admiral instantly bade the
officer to quit the cabin.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE CRAFT OF ODYSSEUS
The stranger drew back the shaggy cap. Simonides and Themistocles saw a
young, well-formed man. With his thick beard and the flickering cabin
lamps it was impossible to discover more. The newcomer stood silent as if
awaiting remark from the others, and they in turn looked on him.
“Well,” spoke the admiral, at length, “who are you? Why are you here?”
“You do not know me?”
“Not in the least, and my memory is good. But your speech now is Attic,
not Doric as they told me.”
“It may well be Attic, I am Athenian born.”
“Athenian? And still to me a stranger? Ah! an instant. Your voice is
familiar. Where have I heard it before?”
“The last time,” rejoined the stranger, his tones rising, “it was a
certain night at Colonus. Democrates and Hermippus were with
you—likewise—”
Themistocles leaped back three steps.
“The sea gives up its dead. You are Glaucon son of—”
“Conon,” completed the fugitive, folding his arms calmly, but the admiral
was not so calm.
“Miserable youth! What harpy, what evil god has brought you hither? What
prevents that I give you over to the crew to crucify at the foremast?”
“Nothing hinders! nothing”—Glaucon’s voice mounted to shrillness—“save
that Athens and Hellas need all their sons this night.”
“A loyal son you have been!” darted Themistocles, his lips curling. “Where
did you escape the sea?”
“I was washed on Astypalæa.”
“Where have you been since?”
“In Sardis.”
“Who protected you there?”
“Mardonius.”
“Did the Persians treat you so shabbily that you were glad to desert
them?”
“They loaded me with riches and honour. Xerxes showered me with benefits.”
“And you accompanied their army to Hellas? You went with the other Greek
renegades—the sons of Hippias and the rest?”
Glaucon’s brow grew very red, but he met Themistocles’s arrowlike gaze.
“I did—and yet—”
“Ah, yes—the ‘yet,’ ” observed Themistocles, sarcastically. “I had
expected it. Well, I can imagine many motives for coming,—to betray our
hopes to the Persians, or even because Athena has put some contrite
manhood in your heart. You know, of course, that the resolution we passed
recalling the exiles did not extend pardon to traitors.”
“I know it.”
Themistocles flung himself into a chair. The admiral was in a rare
condition for him,—truly at a loss to divine the best word and question.
“Sit also, Simonides,” his order, “and you, once Alcmæonid and now outlaw,
tell why, after these confessions, I should believe any other part of your
story?”
“I do not ask you to believe,”—Glaucon stood like a statue,—“I shall not
blame you if you do the worst,—yet you shall hear—”
The admiral made an impatient gesture, commanding “Begin,” and the
fugitive poured out his tale. All the voyage from Phaleron he had been
nerving himself for this ordeal; his composure did not desert now. He
related lucidly, briefly, how the fates had dealt with him since he fled
Colonus. Only when he told of his abiding with Leonidas Themistocles’s
gaze grew sharper.
“Tell that again. Be careful. I am very good at detecting lies.”
Glaucon repeated unfalteringly.
“What proof that you were with Leonidas?”
“None but my word. Euboulus of Corinth and the Spartans alone knew my
name. They are dead.”
“Humph! And you expect me to accept the boast of a traitor with a price
upon his head?”
“You said you were good at detecting lies.”
Themistocles’s head went down between his hands; at last he lifted it and
gazed the deserter in the face.
“Now, son of Conon, do you still persist that you are innocent? Do you
repeat those oaths you swore at Colonus?”
“All. I did not write that letter.”
“Who did, then?”
“A malignant god, I said. I will say it again.”
Themistocles shook his head.
“Gods take human agencies to ruin a man in these days, even Hermes the
Trickster. Again I say, who wrote that letter?”
“Athena knows.”
“And unfortunately her Ladyship the Goddess will not tell,” cried the
admiral, blasphemously. “Let us fall back on easier questions. Did I write
it?”
“Absurd.”
“Did Democrates?”
“Absurd again, still—”
“Do you not see, dearest outlaw,” said Themistocles, mildly, “until you
can lay that letter on some other man’s shoulders, I cannot answer, ‘I
believe you’?”
“I did not ask that. I have a simpler request. Will you let me serve
Hellas?”
“How do I know you are not a spy sent from Mardonius?”
“Because too many deserters and talebearers are flying to Xerxes now to
require that I thrust my head in the Hydra’s jaws. You know surely that.”
Themistocles raised his eyebrows.
“There’s truth said there, Simonides. What do you think?” The last
question was to the poet.
“That this Glaucon, whatever his guilt a year ago, comes to-night in good
faith.”
“_Euge!_ that’s easily said. But what if he betrays us again?”
“If I understand aright,” spoke Simonides, shrewdly, “our case is such
there’s little left worth betraying.”
“Not badly put,”—again Themistocles pressed his forehead, while Glaucon
stood as passive as hard marble. Then the admiral suddenly began to rain
questions like an arrow volley.
“You come from the king’s camp?”
“Yes.”
“And have heard the plans of battle?”
“I was not at the council, but nothing is concealed. The Persians are too
confident.”
“Of course. How do their ships lie?”
“Crowded around the havens of Athens. The vassal Ionians have their ships
on the left. The Phœnicians, Xerxes’s chief hope, lie on the right, but on
the extreme right anchor the Egyptians.”
“How do you know this?”
“From the camp-followers’ talk. Then, too, I rowed by the whole armada
while on my way to Salamis. I have eyes. The moon was shining. I was not
mistaken.”
“Do you know where rides the trireme of Ariabignes, Xerxes’s
admiral-in-chief?”
“Off the entrance to Peiræus. It is easy to find her. She is covered with
lights.”
“Ah! and the Egyptian squadron is on the extreme right and closest to
Salamis?”
“Very close.”
“If they went up the coast as far as the promontory on Mt. Ægaleos, the
strait toward Eleusis would be closed?”
“Certainly.”
“And on the south the way is already blocked by the Ionians.”
“I had trouble in passing even in my skiff.”
More questions, Glaucon not knowing whither they all were drifting.
Without warning Themistocles uprose and smote his thigh.
“So you are anxious to serve Hellas?”
“Have I not said it?”
“Dare you die for her?”
“I made the choice once with Leonidas.”
“Dare you do a thing which, if it slip, may give you into the hands of the
Barbarians to be torn by wild horses or of the Greeks to be crucified?”
“But it shall not slip!”
“_Euge!_ that is a noble answer. Now let us come.”
“Whither?”
“To Eurybiades’s flag-ship. Then I can know whether you must risk the
deed.”
Themistocles touched a bronze gong; a marine adjutant entered.
“My pinnace,” ordered the admiral. As the man went out, Themistocles took
a long himation from the locker and wrapped it around the newcomer.
“Since even Simonides and I did not recognize you in your long beard, I
doubt if you are in danger of detection to-night. But remember your name
is Critias. You can dye your hair if you come safe back from this
adventure. Have you eaten?”
“Who has hunger now?”
Themistocles laughed.
“So say all of us. But if the gifts of Demeter cannot strengthen, it is
not so with those of Dionysus. Drink.”
He took from a hook a leathern bottle and poured out a hornful of hot
Chian. Glaucon did not refuse. After he had finished the admiral did
likewise. Then Glaucon in turn asked questions.
“Where is my wife?”
“In the town of Salamis, with her father; do you know she has borne—”
“A son. Are both well?”
“Well. The child is fair as the son of Leto.”
They could see the light flash out of the eyes of the outlaw. He turned
toward the statue and stretched out his hand.
“O Aphrodite, I bless thee!” Then again to the admiral, “And Hermione is
not yet given to Democrates in marriage?” The words came swiftly.
“Not yet. Hermippus desires it. Hermione resists. She calls Democrates
your destroyer.”
Glaucon turned away his face that they might not behold it.
“The god has not yet forgotten mercy,” Simonides thought he heard him say.
“The pinnace is waiting, _kyrie_,” announced the orderly from the
companionway.
“Let the deserter’s skiff be towed behind,” ordered Themistocles, once on
deck, “and let Sicinnus also go with me.”
The keen-eyed Asiatic took his place with Themistocles and Glaucon in the
stern. The sturdy boatmen sent the pinnace dancing. All through the brief
voyage the admiral was at whispers with Sicinnus. As they reached the
Spartan flag-ship, half a score of pinnaces trailing behind told how the
Peloponnesian admirals were already aboard clamouring at Eurybiades for
orders to fly. From the ports of the stern-cabin the glare of many lamps
spread wavering bars of light across the water. Voices came, upraised in
jarring debate. The marine guard saluted with his spear as Themistocles
went up the ladder. Leaving his companions on deck, the admiral hastened
below. An instant later he was back and beckoned the Asiatic and the
outlaw to the ship’s rail.
“Take Sicinnus to the Persian high admiral,” was his ominous whisper, “and
fail not,—fail not, for I say to you except the god prosper you now, not
all Olympus can save our Hellas to-morrow.”
Not another word as he turned again to the cabin. The pinnace crew had
brought the skiff alongside, Sicinnus entered it, Glaucon took the oars,
pulled out a little, as if back to the _Nausicaä_, then sent the head of
the skiff around, pointing across the strait, toward the havens of Athens.
Sicinnus sat in silence, but Glaucon guessed the errand. The wind was
rising and bringing clouds. This would hide the moon and lessen the
danger. But above all things speed was needful. The athlete put his
strength upon the oars till the heavy skiff shot across the black void of
the water.
* * * * * * *
It was little short of midnight when Glaucon swung the skiff away from the
tall trireme of Ariabignes, the Barbarian’s admiral. The deed was done. He
had sat in the bobbing boat while Sicinnus had been above with the Persian
chiefs. Officers who had exchanged the wine-cup with Glaucon in the days
when he stood at Xerxes’s side passed through the glare of the battle
lanterns swaying above the rail. The Athenian had gripped at the dagger in
his belt as he watched them. Better in the instant of discovery to slay