A Victor of Salamis
straight road which led toward the distant cone of Acro-Corinthus. First,
however, he turned on Bias, who all the time had been accompanying,
dog-fashion.
“You say he is waiting at Hegias’s inn?”
“Yes, master. It’s by the temple of Bellerophon, just as you begin to
enter the city.”
“Good! I don’t want to ask the way. Now catch this obol and be off.”
The boy snatched the flying coin and glided into the crowd.
Democrates walked briskly out of the glare of the torches, then halted to
slip the hood of his cloak up about his face.
“The road is dark, but the wise man shuns accidents,” was his reflection,
as he strode in the direction pointed by Bias.
The way was dark. No moon; and even the brilliant starlight of summer in
Hellas is an uncertain guide. Democrates knew he was traversing a long
avenue lined by spreading cypresses, with a shimmer of white from some
tall, sepulchral monument. Then through the dimness loomed the high
columns of a temple, and close beside it pale light spread out upon the
road as from an inn.
“Hegias’s inn,” grumbled the Athenian. “Zeus grant it have no more fleas
than most inns of Corinth!”
At sound of his footsteps the door opened promptly, without knocking. A
squalid scene revealed itself,—a white-washed room, an earthen floor, two
clay lamps on a low table, a few stools,—but a tall, lean man in Oriental
dress greeted the Athenian with a salaam which showed his own gold
earrings, swarthy skin, and black mustache.
“Fair greetings, Hiram,” spoke the orator, no wise amazed, “and where is
your master?”
“At service,” came a deep voice from a corner, so dark that Democrates had
not seen the couch where lolled an ungainly figure that now rose clumsily.
“Hail, Democrates.”
“Hail, Lycon.”
Hand joined in hand; then Lycon ordered the Oriental to “fetch the noble
Athenian some good Thasian wine.”
“You will join me?” urged the orator.
“Alas! no. I am still in training. Nothing but cheese and porridge till
after the victory to-morrow; but then, by Castor, I’ll enjoy ‘the
gentleman’s disease’—a jolly drunkenness.”
“Then you are sure of victory to-morrow?”
“Good Democrates, what god has tricked you into believing your fine
Athenian has a chance?”
“I have seven minæ staked on Glaucon.”
“Seven staked in the presence of your friends; how many in their absence?”
Democrates reddened. He was glad the room was dark. “I am not here to
quarrel about the pentathlon,” he said emphatically.
“Oh, very well. Leave your dear sparrow to my gentle hands.” The Spartan’s
huge paws closed significantly: “Here’s the wine. Sit and drink. And you,
Hiram, get to your corner.”
The Oriental silently squatted in the gloom, the gleam of his beady eyes
just visible. Lycon sat on a stool beside his guest, his Cyclops-like
limbs sprawling down upon the floor. Scarred and brutish, indeed, was his
face, one ear missing, the other beaten flat by boxing gloves; but
Democrates had a distinct feeling that under his battered visage and wiry
black hair lurked greater penetration of human motive and more ability to
play therewith than the chance observer might allow. The Athenian
deliberately waited his host’s first move.
“The wine is good, Democrates?” began Lycon.
“Excellent.”
“I presume you have arranged your wagers to-morrow with your usual
prudence.”
“How do you know about them?”
“Oh, my invaluable Hiram, who arranged this interview for us through Bias,
has made himself a brother to all the betting masters. I understand you
have arranged it so that whether Glaucon wins or loses you will be none
the poorer.”
The Athenian set down his cup.
“Because I would not let my dear friend’s sanguine expectations blind all
my judgment is no reason why you should seek this interview, Lycon,” he
rejoined tartly. “If this is the object of your summons, I’m better back
in my own tent.”
Lycon tilted back against the table. His speech was nothing curt or
“Laconic”; it was even drawling. “On the contrary, dear Democrates, I was
only commending your excellent foresight, something that I see
characterizes all you do. You are the friend of Glaucon. Since Aristeides
has been banished, only Themistocles exceeds you in influence over the
Athenians. Therefore, as a loyal Athenian you must support your champion.
Likewise, as a man of judgment you must see that I—though this pentathlon
is only a by-play, not my business—will probably break your Glaucon’s back
to-morrow. It is precisely this good judgment on your part which makes me
sure I do well to ask an interview—for something else.”
“Then quickly to business.”
“A few questions. I presume Themistocles to-day conferred with Leonidas?”
“I wasn’t present with them.”
“But in due time Themistocles will tell you everything?”
Democrates chewed his beard, not answering.
“_Pheu!_ you don’t pretend Themistocles distrusts you?” cried the Spartan.
“I don’t like your questions, Lycon.”
“I am very sorry. I’ll cease them. I only wished to-night to call to your
mind the advantage of two such men as you and I becoming friends. I may be
king of Lacedæmon before long.”
“I knew that before, but where’s your chariot driving?”
“Dear Athenian, the Persian chariot is now driving toward Hellas. We
cannot halt it. Then let us be so wise that it does not pass over us.”
“Hush!” Democrates spilled the cup as he started. “No ‘Medizing’ talk
before me. Am I not Themistocles’s friend?”
“Themistocles and Leonidas will seem valiant fools after Xerxes comes. Men
of foresight—”
“Are never traitors.”
“Beloved Democrates,” sneered the Spartan, “in one year the most patriotic
Hellene will be he who has made the Persian yoke the most endurable. Don’t
blink at destiny.”
“Don’t be overcertain.”
“Don’t grow deaf and blind. Xerxes has been collecting troops these four
years. Every wind across the Ægean tells how the Great King assembles
millions of soldiers, thousands of ships: Median cavalry, Assyrian
archers, Egyptian battle-axemen—the best troops in the world. All the East
will be marching on our poor Hellas. And when has Persia failed to
conquer?”
“At Marathon.”
“A drop of rain before the tempest! If Datis, the Persian general, had
only been more prudent!”
“Clearly, noblest Lycon,” said Democrates, with a satirical smile, “for a
taciturn Laconian to become thus eloquent for tyranny must have taken a
bribe of ten thousand gold darics.”
“But answer my arguments.”
“Well—the old oracle is proved: ‘Base love of gain and naught else shall
bear sore destruction to Sparta.’ ”
“That doesn’t halt Xerxes’s advance.”
“An end to your croakings,”—Democrates was becoming angry,—“I know the
Persian’s power well enough. Now why have you summoned me?”
Lycon looked on his visitor long and hard. He reminded the Athenian
disagreeably of a huge cat just considering whether a mouse were near
enough to risk a spring.
“I sent for you because I wished you to give a pledge.”
“I’m in no mood to give it.”
“You need not refuse. Giving or withholding the fate of Hellas will not be
altered, save as you wish to make it so.”
“What must I promise?”
“That you will not reveal the presence in Greece of a man I intend to set
before you.” Another silence. Democrates knew even then, if vaguely, that
he was making a decision on which might hinge half his future. In the
after days he looked back on this instant with unspeakable regret. But the
Laconian sat before him, smiling, sneering, commanding by his more
dominant will. The Athenian answered, it seemed, despite himself:—
“If it is not to betray Hellas.”
“It is not.”
“Then I promise.”
“Swear it then by your native Athena.”
And Democrates—perhaps the wine was strong—lifted his right hand and swore
by Athena Polias of Athens he would betray no secret.
Lycon arose with what was part bellow, part laugh. Even then the orator
was moved to call back the pledge, but the Spartan acted too swiftly. The
short moments which followed stamped themselves on Democrates’s memory.
The flickering lamps, the squalid room, the long, dense shadows, the
ungainly movements of the Spartan, who was opening a door,—all this passed
after the manner of a vision. And as in a vision Democrates saw a stranger
stepping through the inner portal, as at Lycon’s summons—a man of no huge
stature, but masterful in eye and mien. Another Oriental, but not as the
obsequious Hiram. Here was a lord to command and be obeyed. Gems flashed
from the scarlet turban, the green jacket was embroidered with pearls—and
was not half the wealth of Corinth in the jewels studding the sword hilt?
Tight trousers and high shoes of tanned leather set off a form supple and
powerful as a panther’s. Unlike most Orientals the stranger was fair. A
blond beard swept his breast. His eyes were sharp, steel-blue. Never a
word spoke he; but Democrates looked on him with wide eyes, then turned
almost in awe to the Spartan.
“This is a prince—” he began.
“His Highness Prince Abairah of Cyprus,” completed Lycon, rapidly, “now
come to visit the Isthmian Games, and later your Athens. It is for this I
have brought you face to face—that he may be welcome in your city.”
The Athenian cast at the stranger a glance of keenest scrutiny. He knew by
every instinct in his being that Lycon was telling a barefaced lie. Why he
did not cry out as much that instant he hardly himself knew. But the gaze
of the “Cyprian” pierced through him, fascinating, magnetizing, and
Lycon’s great hand was on his victim’s shoulder. The “Cyprian’s” own hand
went out seeking Democrates’s.
“I shall be very glad to see the noble Athenian in his own city. His fame
for eloquence and prudence is already in Tyre and Babylon,” spoke the
stranger, never taking his steel-blue eyes from the orator’s face. The
accent was Oriental, but the Greek was fluent. The prince—for prince he
was, whatever his nation—pressed his hand closer. Almost involuntarily
Democrates’s hand responded. They clasped tightly; then, as if Lycon
feared a word too much, the unknown released his hold, bowed with
inimitable though silent courtesy, and was gone behind the door whence he
had come.
It had taken less time than men use to count a hundred. The latch clicked.
Democrates gazed blankly on the door, then turned on Lycon with a start.
“Your wine was strong. You have bewitched me. What have I done? By Zeus of
Olympus—I have given my hand in pledge to a Persian spy.”
“ ‘A prince of Cyprus’—did you not hear me?”
“Cerberus eat me if that man has seen Cyprus. No Cyprian is so blond. The
man is Xerxes’s brother.”
“We shall see, friend; we shall see: ‘Day by day we grow old, and day by
day we grow wiser.’ So your own Solon puts it, I think.”
Democrates drew himself up angrily. “I know my duty; I’ll denounce you to
Leonidas.”
“You gave a pledge and oath.”
“It were a greater crime to keep than to break it.”
Lycon shrugged his huge shoulders. “_Eu!_ I hardly trusted to that. But I
do trust to Hiram’s pretty story about your bets, and still more to a tale
that’s told about where and how you’ve borrowed money.”
Democrates’s voice shook either with rage or with fear when he made shift
to answer.
“I see I’ve come to be incriminated and insulted. So be it. If I keep my
pledge, at least suffer me to wish you and your ‘Cyprian’ a very good
night.”
Lycon good-humouredly lighted him to the door. “Why so hot? I’ll do you a
service to-morrow. If Glaucon wrestles with me, I shall kill him.”
“Shall I thank the murderer of my friend?”
“Even when that friend has wronged you?”
“Silence! What do you mean?”
Even in the flickering lamplight Democrates could see the Spartan’s evil
smile.
“Of course—Hermione.”
“Silence, by the infernal gods! Who are you, Cyclops, for _her_ name to
cross your teeth?”