A Victor of Salamis
“You shall be presented to the Athenians as one who, yielding for a moment
to overmastering temptation, has atoned for one error by rendering
infinite service.”
“Then I am to be ‘Glaucon the Traitor’ still, even if ‘Glaucon the
Repentant Traitor’?”
“Your words are hard, son of Conon; what may I say? Have you any new
explanation for the letter to Argos?”
“The old one—I did not write it.”
“Let us not bandy useless arguments. Do you not see I shall be doing all
that is possible?”
“Let me think a little.”
The younger Athenian held down his head, and Themistocles saw his brows
knitting.
“Son of Neocles,” said Glaucon, at length, “I thank you. You are a just
man. Whatever of sorrow has or will be mine, you have no part therein, but
I cannot return—not to Hermione and my child—on any terms you name.”
“Your purpose, then?”
“To-day the gods show mercy to Hellas, later they may show justice to me.
The war is far from ended. Can you not let me serve on some ship of the
allies where none can recognize me? Thus let me wait a year, and trust
that in that year the sphinx will find her riddle answered.”
“To wait thus long is hard,” spoke the other, kindly.
“I have done many hard things, Themistocles.”
“And your wife?”
“Hera pity her! She bade me return when Athens knew me innocent. Better
that she wait a little longer, though in sorrow, when I can return to her
even as she bade me. Nevertheless, promise one thing.”
“Name it.”
“That if her parents are about to give her to Democrates or any other, you
will prevent.”
Themistocles’s face lightened. He laid a friendly hand on the young man’s
shoulder.
“I do not know how to answer your cry of innocency, _philotate_, but this
I know, in all Hellas I think none is fairer in body or soul than you.
Have no fear for Hermione, and in the year to come may Revealer Apollo
make all of your dark things bright.”
Glaucon bowed his head. Themistocles had given everything the outlaw could
ask, and the latter went out of the cabin.
BOOK III
THE PASSING OF THE PERSIAN
CHAPTER XXXI
DEMOCRATES SURRENDERS
Hellas was saved. But whether forever or only for a year the gods kept
hid. Panic-stricken, the “Lord of the World” had fled to Asia after the
great disaster. The eunuchs, the harem women, the soft-handed pages, had
escaped with their master to luxurious Sardis, the remnant of the fleet
fled back across the Ægean. But the brain and right arm of the Persians,
Mardonius the Valiant, remained in Hellas. With him were still the Median
infantry, the Tartar horse-archers, the matchless Persian lancers,—the
backbone of the undefeated army. Hellas was not yet safe.
Democrates had prospered. He had been reëlected strategus. If Themistocles
no longer trusted him quite so freely as once, Aristeides, restored now to
much of his former power, gave him full confidence. Democrates found
constant and honourable employment through the winter in the endless
negotiations at Sparta, at Corinth, and elsewhere, while the jealous Greek
states wrangled and intrigued, more to humiliate some rival than to
advance the safety of Hellas. But amongst all the patriot chiefs none
seemed more devoted to the common weal of Hellas than the Athenian orator.
Hermippus at least was convinced of this. The Eleusinian had settled at
Trœzene on the Argive coast, a hospitable city that received many an
outcast Athenian. He found his daughter’s resistance to another marriage
increasingly unreasonable. Was not Glaucon dead for more than a year?
Ought not any woman to bless Hera who gave her so noble, so eloquent, a
husband as Democrates—pious, rich, trusted by the greatest, and with the
best of worldly prospects?
“If you truly desire any other worthy man, _makaira_,” said Hermippus,
once, “you shall not find me obstinate. Can a loving father say more? But
if you are simply resolved never to marry, I will give you to him despite
your will. A senseless whim must not blast your highest happiness.”
“He ruined Glaucon,” said Hermione, tearfully.
“At least,” returned Lysistra, who like many good women could say
exceeding cruel things, “_he_ has never been a traitor to his country.”
Hermione’s answer was to fly to her chamber, and to weep—as many a time
before—over Phœnix in the cradle. Here old Cleopis found her, took her in
her arms, and sang her the old song about Alphæus chasing Arethusa—a song
more fit for Phœnix than his mother, but most comforting. So the contest
for the moment passed, but after a conference with Hermippus, Democrates
went away on public business to Corinth unusually well pleased with the
world and himself.
It was a tedious, jangling conference held at the Isthmus city. Mardonius
had tempted the Athenians sorely. In the spring had come his envoys
proffering reparation for all injuries in the wars, enlarged territory,
and not slavery, but free alliance with the Great King, if they would but
join against their fellow-Hellenes. The Athenians had met the tempter as
became Athenians. Aristeides had given the envoys the answer of the whole
people.
“We know your power. Yet tell it to Mardonius, that so long as Helios
moves in the heavens we will not make alliance with Xerxes, but rather
trust to the gods whose temples he has burned.”
Bravely said, but when the Athenians looked to Sparta for the great army
to hasten north and give Mardonius his death-stroke, it was the old
wearisome tale of excuses and delay. At the conference in Corinth
Aristeides and Democrates had passed from arguments to all but threats,
even such as Themistocles had used at Salamis. It was after one of these
fruitless debates that Democrates passed out of the gathering at the
Corinthian prytaneum, with his colleagues all breathing forth their wrath
against Dorian stupidity and evasiveness.
Democrates himself crossed the city Agora, seeking the house of the
friendly merchant where he was to sup. He walked briskly, his thoughts
more perhaps on the waiting betrothal feast at Trœzene, than on the
discussion behind him. The Agora scene had little to interest, the same
buyers, booths, and babel as in Athens, only the citadel above was the
mount of Acro-Corinthus, not the tawny rock of Athena. And in late months
he had begun to find his old fears and terrors flee away. Every day he was
growing more certain that his former “missteps”—that was his own name for
certain occurrences—could have no malign influence. “After all,” he was
reflecting, “Nemesis is a very capricious goddess. Often she forgets for a
lifetime, and after death—who knows what is beyond the Styx?”
He was on such noble terms with all about him that he could even give ear
to the whine of a beggar. The man was sitting on the steps between the
pillars of a colonnade, with a tame crow perched upon his fist, and as
Democrates passed he began his doggerel prayer:—
“Good master, a handful of barley bestow
On the child of Apollo, the sage, sable crow.”
The Athenian began to fumble in his belt for an obol, when he was rudely
distracted by a twitch upon his chiton. Turning, he was little pleased to
come face to face with no less a giant than Lycon.
“There was an hour, _philotate_,” spoke the Spartan, with ill-concealed
sneer, “when you did not have so much silver to scatter out to beggars.”
Time had not mended Lycon’s aspect, nor taken from his eye that sinister
twinkle which was so marked a foil to his brutishness.
“I did not invite you, dear fellow,” rejoined the Athenian, “to remind me
of the fact.”
“Yet you should have gratitude, and you have lacked that virtue of late.
It was a sorry plight Mardonius’s money saved you from two years since,
and nobly have you remembered his good service.”
“Worthy Lacedæmonian,” said Democrates, with what patience he could
command, “if you desire to go over all that little business which
concerned us then, at least I would suggest not in the open Agora.” He
started to walk swiftly away. The Spartan’s ponderous strides easily kept
beside him. Democrates looked vainly for an associate whom he could
approach and on some pretext could accompany. None in sight. Lycon kept
fast hold of his cloak. For practical purposes Democrates was prisoner.
“Why in Corinth?” he threw out sullenly.
“For three reasons, _philotate_,” Lycon grinned over his shoulder, “first,
the women at the Grove of Aphrodite here are handsome; second, I am weary
of Sparta and its black broth and iron money; third, and here is the rose
for my garland, I had need to confer with your noble self.”
“Would not Hiram be your dutiful messenger again?” queried the other,
vainly watching for escape.
“Hiram is worth twenty talents as a helper;”—Lycon gave a hound-like
chuckle,—“still he is not Apollo, and there are too many strings on this
lyre for him to play them all. Besides, he failed at Salamis.”
“He did! Zeus blast his importunity and yours likewise. Where are you
taking me? I warn you in advance, you are ‘shearing an ass,’—attempting
the impossible,—if you deceive yourself as to my power. I can do nothing
more to prevent the war from being pressed against Mardonius. It is only
your Laconian ephors that are hindering.”
“We shall see, _philotate_, we shall see,” grunted the Spartan,
exasperatingly cool. “Here is Poseidon’s Temple. Let us sit in the shaded
portico.”
Democrates resigned himself to be led to a stone seat against the wall.
The gray old “dog-watcher” by the gate glanced up to see that no dogs were
straying into the holy house, noted only two gentlemen come for a chat,
and resumed his siesta. Lycon took a long time in opening his business.
“The world has used you well of late, dear fellow.”
“Passing well, by Athena’s favour.”
“You should say by Hermes’s favour, but I would trust you Athenians to
grow fat on successful villany and then bless the righteous gods.”
“I hope you haven’t left Sparta just to revile me!” cried Democrates,
leaping up, to be thrust back by Lycon’s giant paw.
“_Ai!_ mix a little honey with your speech, it costs nothing. Well, the
length and breadth of my errand is this, Mardonius must fight soon, and
must be victorious.”
“That is for your brave ephors to say,” darted Democrates. “According to
their valiant proposals they desire this war to imitate that with Troy,—to
last ten years.”
“Indeed—but I always held my people surpassed in procrastination, as yours
in deceiving. However, their minds will change.”
“Aristeides and Themistocles will bless you for that.”
Lycon shrugged his great shoulders.
“Then I’ll surpass the gods, who can seldom please all men. Still it is
quite true.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Dear Democrates, you know what’s befallen in Sparta. Since Leonidas died,
his rivals from my own side of the royal house have gathered a great deal
more of power. My uncle Nicander is at present head of the board of
ephors, and gladly takes my advice.”
“Ha!” Democrates began to divine the drift.
“It seemed best to me after the affair at Salamis to give the lie to my
calumniators, who hinted that I desired to ‘Medize,’ and that it was by my
intriguing that the late king took so small a force to Thermopylæ.”
“All Hellas knows _your_ patriotism!” cried Democrates, satirically.
“Even so. I have silenced my fiercest abusers. If I have not yet urged in
our assembly that we should fight Mardonius, it is merely because—it is
not yet prudent.”
“Excellent scoundrel,” declared the other, writhing on his seat, “you are
no Spartan, but long-winded as a Sicilian.”
“Patience, _philotate_, a Spartan must either speak in apothegms or take
all day. I have not advised a battle yet because I was not certain of your
aid.”