A Victor of Salamis
“And you, Hippocrates of Ægina?”
“Stay and fight. If you go back to the Isthmus, Ægina must be abandoned to
the Barbarians. I am with Themistocles.”
“Record his vote,” shouted Adeimantus, ill-naturedly, “he is but one
against twenty. But I warn you, Eurybiades, do not call for Themistocles’s
vote, or the rest of us will be angry. The man whose city is under the
power of the Barbarian has no vote in this council, however much we
condescend to listen to his chatterings.”
The Athenian sprang from his seat, his aspect as threatening as Apollo
descending Olympus in wrath.
“Where is my country, Adeimantus? Yonder!” he pointed out the open
port-hole, “there rides the array of our Athenian ships. What other state
in Hellas sends so many and sets better men within them? Athens still
lives, though her Acropolis be wrapped in flames. ‘Strong-hearted men and
naught else are warp and woof of a city.’ Do you forget Alcæus’s word so
soon, O Boaster from Corinth? Yes, by Athena Promachos, Mistress of
Battles, while those nine score ships ride on the deep, I have a city
fairer, braver, than yours. And will you still deny me equal voice and
vote with this noble trierarch from Siphinos with his one, or with his
comrade from Melos with his twain?”
Themistocles’s voice rang like a trumpet. Adeimantus winced. Eurybiades
broke in with soothing tones.
“No one intends to deny your right to vote, Themistocles. The excellent
Corinthian did but jest.”
“A fitting hour for jesting!” muttered the Athenian, sinking back into his
seat.
“The vote, the vote!” urged the Sicyonian chief, from Adeimantus’s elbow,
and the voting went on. Of more than twenty voices only
three—Themistocles’s and those of the Æginetan and Megarian admirals—were
in favour of abiding the onset. Yet even when Eurybiades arose to announce
the decision, the son of Neocles sat with his hands sprawling on the
table, his face set in an inscrutable smile as he looked on Adeimantus.
“It is the plain opinion,”—Eurybiades hemmed and hawed with his
words,—“the plain opinion, I say, of this council that the allied fleet
retire at once to the Isthmus. Therefore, I, as admiral-in-chief, do order
each commander to proceed to his own flag-ship and prepare his triremes to
retire at dawn.”
“Well said,” shouted Adeimantus, already on his feet; “now to obey.”
But with him rose Themistocles. He stood tall and calm, his thumbs thrust
in his girdle. His smile was a little broader, his head held a little
higher, than of wont.
“Good Eurybiades, I grieve to blast the wisdom of all these valiant
gentlemen, but they cannot retire if they wish.”
“Explain!” a dozen shouted.
“Very simply. I have had good reason to know that the king has moved
forward the western horn of his fleet, so as to enclose our anchorage at
Salamis. It is impossible to retire save through the Persian line of
battle.”
Perseus upholding the Gorgon’s head before Polydectes’s guests and turning
them to stone wrought hardly more of a miracle than this calm announcement
of Themistocles. Men stared at him vacantly, stunned by the tidings, then
Adeimantus’s frightened wrath broke loose.
“Fox!(10) Was this your doing?”
“I did not ask you to thank me, _philotate_,” was the easy answer. “It is,
however, urgent to consider whether you wish to be taken unresisting in
the morning.”
The Corinthian shook his fist across the table.
“Liar, as a last device to ruin us, you invent this folly.”
“It is easy to see if I lie,” rejoined Themistocles; “send out a pinnace
and note where the Persians anchor. It will not take long.”
For an instant swords seemed about to leap from their scabbards, and the
enraged Peloponnesians to sheathe them in the Athenian’s breast. He stood
unflinching, smiling, while a volley of curses flew over him. Then an
orderly summoned him on deck, while Adeimantus and his fellows foamed and
contended below. Under the battle lantern Themistocles saw a man who was
his elder in years, rugged in feature, with massive forehead and wise gray
eyes. This was Aristeides the Just, the admiral’s enemy, but their feud
had died when Xerxes drew near to Athens.
Hands clasped heartily as the twain stood face to face.
“Our rivalry forever more shall be a rivalry which of us can do most to
profit Athens,” spoke the returning exile; then Aristeides told how he had
even now come from Ægina, how he had heard of the clamours to retreat, how
retreat was impossible, for the Persians were pressing in. A laugh from
Themistocles interrupted.
“My handiwork! Come to the council. They will not believe me, no, not my
oath.”
Aristeides told his story, and how his vessel to Salamis had scarce
escaped the Egyptian triremes, and how by this time all entrance and exit
was surely closed. But even now many an angry captain called him “liar.”
The strife of words was at white heat when Eurybiades himself silenced the
fiercest doubter.
“Captains of Hellas, a trireme of Teos has deserted from the Barbarian to
us. Her navarch sends word that all is even as Themistocles and Aristeides
tell. The Egyptians hold the passage to Eleusis. Infantry are disembarked
on Psyttaleia. The Phœnicians and Ionians enclose us on the eastern
strait. We are hemmed in.”
* * * * * * *
Once more the orderly turned the water-clock. It was past midnight. The
clouds had blown apart before the rising wind. The debate must end.
Eurybiades stood again to take the votes of the wearied, tense-strung men.
“In view of the report of the Teans, what is your voice and vote?”
Before all the rest up leaped Adeimantus. He was no craven at heart,
though an evil genius had possessed him.
“You have your will, Themistocles,” he made the concession sullenly yet
firmly, “you have your will. May Poseidon prove you in the right. If it is
battle or slavery at dawn, the choice is quick. Battle!”
“Battle!” shouted the twenty, arising together, and Eurybiades had no need
to declare the vote. The commanders scattered to their flag-ships, to give
orders to be ready to fight at dawn. Themistocles went to his pinnace
last. He walked proudly. He knew that whatever glory he might gain on the
morrow, he could never win a fairer victory than he had won that night.
When his barge came alongside, his boat crew knew that his eyes were
dancing, that his whole mien was of a man in love with his fortune. Many
times, as Glaucon sat beside him, he heard the son of Neocles repeating as
in ecstasy:—
“They must fight. They must fight.”
* * * * * * *
Glaucon sat mutely in the pinnace which had headed not for the _Nausicaä_,
but toward the shore, where a few faint beacons were burning.
“I must confer with the strategi as to the morning,” Themistocles declared
after a long interval, at which Sicinnus broke in anxiously:—
“You will not sleep, _kyrie_?”
“Sleep?” laughed the admiral, as at an excellent jest, “I have forgotten
there was such a god as Hypnos.” Then, ignoring Sicinnus, he addressed the
outlaw.
“I am grateful to you, my friend,” he did not call Glaucon by name before
the others, “you have saved me, and I have saved Hellas. You brought me a
new plan when I seemed at the last resource. How can the son of Neocles
reward you?”
“Give me a part to play to-morrow.”
“Thermopylæ was not brisk enough fighting, ha? Can you still fling a
javelin?”
“I can try.”
“_Euge!_ Try you shall.” He let his voice drop. “Do not forget your name
henceforth is Critias. The _Nausicaä’s_ crew are mostly from Sunium and
the Mesogia. They’d hardly recognize you under that beard; still Sicinnus
must alter you.”
“Command me, _kyrie_,” said the Asiatic.
“A strange time and place, but you must do it. Find some dark dye for this
man’s hair to-night, and at dawn have him aboard the flag-ship.”
“The thing can be done, _kyrie_.”
“After that, lie down and sleep. Because Themistocles is awake, is no
cause for others’ star-gazing. Sleep sound. Pray Apollo and Hephæstus to
make your eye sure, your hand strong. Then awake to see the glory of
Hellas.”
Confidence, yes, power came through the tones of the admiral’s voice.
Themistocles went away to the belated council. Sicinnus led his charge
through the crooked streets of the town of Salamis. Sailors were sleeping
in the open night, and they stumbled over them. At last they found a small
tavern where a dozen shipmen sprawled on the earthen floor, and a gaping
host was just quenching his last lamp. Sicinnus, however, seemed to know
him. There was much protesting and headshaking, at last ended by the glint
of a daric. The man grumbled, departed, returned after a tedious interval
with a pot of ointment, found Hermes knew where. By a rush-candle’s
flicker Sicinnus applied the dark dye with a practised hand.
“You know the art well,” observed the outlaw.
“Assuredly; the agent of Themistocles must be a Proteus with his
disguises.”
Sicinnus laid down his pot and brushes. They had no mirror, but Glaucon
knew that he was transformed. The host got his daric. Again they went out
into the night and forsaking the crowded town sought the seaside. The
strand was broad, the sand soft and cool, the circling stars gave three
hours yet of night, and they lay down to rest. The sea and the shore
stretched away, a magic vista with a thousand mystic shapes springing out
of the charmed darkness, made and unmade as overwrought fancy summoned
them. As from an unreal world Glaucon—whilst he lay—saw the lights of the
scattered ships, heard the clank of chains, the rattling of tacklings.
Nature slept. Only man was waking.
“The mountain brows, the rocks, the peaks are sleeping,
Uplands and gorges hush!
The thousand moorland things are silence keeping,
The beasts under each bush
Crouch, and the hived bees
Rest in their honeyed ease;
In the purple sea fish lie as they were dead,
And each bird folds his wing over his head.”
The school-learned lines of Alcman, with a thousand other trivial things,
swarmed back through the head of Glaucon the Alcmæonid. How much he had
lived through that night, how much he would live through,—if indeed he was
to live,—upon the morrow! The thought was benumbing in its greatness. His
head swam with confused memories. Then at last all things dimmed. Once
more he dreamed. He was with Hermione gathering red poppies on the hill
above Eleusis. She had filled her basket full. He called to her to wait
for him. She ran away. He chased, she fled with laughter and sparkling
eyes. He could hear the wavings of her dress, the little cries she flung
back over her shoulder. Then by the sacred well near the temple he caught
her. He felt her struggling gayly. He felt her warm breath upon his face,
her hair was touching his forehead. Rejoicing in his strength, he was
bending her head toward his—but here he wakened. Sicinnus had disappeared.
A bar of gray gold hung over the water in the east.
“This was the day. _This was the day!_”
Some moments he lay trying to realize the fact in its full moment. A thin
mist rested on the black water waiting to be dispelled by the sun. From
afar came sounds not of seamen’s trumpets, but horns, harps, kettledrums,
from the hidden mainland across the strait, as of a host advancing along
the shore. “Xerxes goes down to the marge with his myriads,” Glaucon told
himself. “Have not all his captains bowed and smiled, ‘Your Eternity’s
victory is certain. Come and behold.’ ” But here the Athenian shut his
teeth.
People at length were passing up and down the strand. The coast was
waking. The gray bar was becoming silver. Friends passed, deep in
talk,—perchance for the last time. Glaucon lay still a moment longer, and