A Victor of Salamis
The night after his adventure on the hill slope Democrates received in his
chambers no less an individual than Hiram. That industrious Phœnician had
been several days in Trœzene, occupied in a manner he and his superior
discreetly kept to themselves. The orator had a bandage above one eye,
where a heavy sandal had kicked him. He was exceedingly pale, and sat in
the arm-chair propped with pillows. That he had awaited Hiram eagerly,
betrayed itself by the promptness with which he cut short the inevitable
salaam.
“Well, my dear rascal, have you found him?”
“May it please your Excellency to hearken to even the least of your
slaves?”
“Do you hear, fox?—have you found him?”
“My Lord shall judge for himself.”
“Cerberus eat you, fellow,—though you’d be a poisonous mouthful,—tell your
story in as few words as possible. I _know_ that he is lurking about
Trœzene.”
“Compassion, your Lordship, compassion,”—Hiram seemed washing his hands in
oil, they waved so soothingly—“if your Benignity will grant it, I have a
very worthy woman here who, I think, can tell a story that will be
interesting.”
“In with her, then.”
The person Hiram escorted into the room proved to be no more nor less than
Lampaxo. Two years had not removed the wrinkles from her cheek, the
sharpness from her nose, the rasping from her tongue. At sight of her
Democrates half rose from his seat and held out his hand affably, the
demagogue’s instinct uppermost.
“Ah! my good dame, whom do I recognize? Are you not the wife of our
excellent fishmonger, Phormio? A truly sterling man, and how, pray, is
your good husband?”
“Poorly, poorly, _kyrie_.” Lampaxo looked down and fumbled her dirty
chiton. Such condescension on the part of a magnate barely less than
Themistocles or Aristeides was overpowering.
“Poorly? I grieve to learn it. I was informed that he was comfortably
settled here until it was safe to return to Attica, and had even opened a
prosperous stall in the market-place.”
“Of course, _kyrie_; and the trade, considering the times, is not so
bad—Athena be praised—and he’s not sick in body. It’s worse, far worse. I
was even on the point of going to your Lordship to state my misgivings,
when your good friend, the Phœnician, fell into my company, and I found he
was searching for the very thing I wanted to reveal.”
“Ah!” Democrates leaned forward and battled against his impatience,—“and
what is the matter wherein I can be of service to so deserving a citizen
as your husband?”
“I fear me,”—Lampaxo put her apron dutifully to her face and began to
sniff,—“your Excellency won’t call him ‘deserving’ any more. Hellas knows
your Excellency is patriotism itself. The fact is Phormio has ‘Medized.’ ”
“Medized!” The orator started as became an actor. “Gods and goddesses!
what trust is in men if Phormio the Athenian has Medized?”
“Hear my story, _mu! mu!_” groaned Lampaxo. “It’s a terrible thing to
accuse one’s own husband, but duty to Hellas is duty. Your Excellency is a
merciful man, if he could only warn Phormio in private.”
“Woman,”—Democrates pulled his most consequential frown,—“Medizing is
treason. On your duty as a daughter of Athens I charge you tell
everything, then rely on my wisdom.”
“Certainly, _kyrie_, certainly,” gasped Lampaxo, and so she began a
recital mingled with many moans and protestations, which Democrates dared
not bid her hasten.
The good woman commenced by reminding the strategus how he had visited her
and her brother Polus to question them as to the doings of the Babylonish
carpet merchant, and how it had seemed plain to them that Glaucon was
nothing less than a traitor. Next she proceeded to relate how her husband
had enabled the criminal to fly by sea, and her own part therein—for she
loudly accused herself of treason in possessing a guilty knowledge of the
outlaw’s manner of escape. As for Bias, he had just now gone on a message
to Megara, but Democrates would surely castigate his own slave. “Still,”
wound up Lampaxo, “the traitor seemed drowned, and his treason locked up
in Phorcys’s strong box, and so I said nothing about him. More’s the
pity.”
“The more reason for concealing nothing now.”
“Zeus strike me if I keep back anything. It’s now about ten days since
_he_ returned.”
“ ‘He?’ Whom do you mean?”
“It’s not overeasy to tell, _kyrie_. He calls himself Critias, and wears a
long black beard and tangled hair. Phormio brought him home one
evening—said he was the _prōreus_ of a Melian trireme caulking at
Epidaurus, but was once in the fish trade at Peiræus and an old friend. I
told Phormio we had enough these days to fill our own bellies, but my
husband would be hospitable. I had to bring out my best honey cakes. Your
Lordship knows I take just pride in my honey cakes.”
“Beyond doubt,”—Democrates’s hand twitched with impatience,—“but tell of
the stranger.”
“At once, _kyrie_; well, we all sat down to sup. Phormio kept pressing
wine on the fellow as if we had not only one little jar of yellow Rhodian
in the cellar. All the time the sailor barely spoke a few words of island
Doric, but my heart misgave. He seemed so refined, so handsome. And near
the roots of his hair it was not so dark—as if dyed and needing renewal.
Trust a woman’s eyes for that. When supper was over Phormio orders me, ‘Up
the ladder and to bed. I’ll come shortly, but leave a blanket and pillow
for our friend who sleeps on the hearth.’ Your Excellency knows we hired a
little house on the ‘Carpenter’s Street,’ very reasonably you will
grant—only half a minæ for the winter. I gave the stranger a fine pillow
and a blanket embroidered by Stephanium, she was my great-aunt, and left
it to me by will, and the beautiful red wool was from Byzantium—”
“But you spoke of Critias?” Democrates could scarce keep upon his seat.
“Yes, _kyrie_. Well, I warned Phormio not to give him any more wine. Then
I went up the ladder. O Mother Demeter, how sharply I listened, but the
rascals spoke too low together for me to catch anything, save that Critias
had dropped his Doric and spoke good Attic now. At last Phormio came up to
me, and I pretended to snore. In the morning, lo! the scoundrelly stranger
had slipped away. In the evening he returns late. Phormio harbours him
again. So for several nights, coming late, going early. Then to-night he
comes a bit before his wont. He and Phormio drank more than common. After
Phormio sent me away, they talked a long time and in louder voice.”
“You overheard?” Democrates gripped his arm-chair.
“Yes, _kyrie_, blessed be Athena! The stranger spoke pure Attic such as
your Excellency might use. Many times I heard Hermione named, and yourself
once—”
“And how?”
“The stranger said: ‘So she will not wed Democrates. She loathes him.
Aphrodite shed joy on her forever.’ Then Phormio answered him, ‘Therefore,
dear Glaucon, you should trust the gods a little longer.’ ”
“ ‘Glaucon,’ said he?” Democrates leaped from the chair.
“ ‘Glaucon,’ on my oath by the Styx. Then I covered my head and wept. I
knew my husband harboured the arch-traitor. Heaven can tell how he escaped
the sea. As soon as Phormio was sleeping snug beside me, I went down the
ladder, intending to call the watch. In the street I met a man, this good
Phœnician here,—he explained he was suspecting this ‘Critias’ himself, and
lurked about in hopes of tracing him in the morning. I told my story. He
said it was best to come straight to you. And now I have accused my own
husband, Excellency. _Ai!_ was wife ever harder beset? Phormio is a kindly
and commonly obedient man, even if he doesn’t know the value of an obol.
You will be merciful—”
“Peace,” commanded Democrates, with portentous gravity, “justice first,
mercy later. Do you solemnly swear you heard Phormio call this stranger
‘Glaucon’?”
“Yes, _kyrie_. Woe! woe!”
“And you say he is now asleep in your house?”
“Yes, the wine has made them both very heavy.”
“You have done well.” Democrates extended his hand again. “You are a
worthy daughter of Athens. In years to come they will name you with King
Codrus who sacrificed his life for the freedom of Attica, for have you not
sacrificed what should be dearer than life,—the fair name of your husband?
But courage. Your patriotism may extenuate his crime. Only the traitor
must be taken.”
“Yes, he was breathing hard when I went out. Ah! seize him quickly.”
“Retire,” commanded Democrates, with a flourish; “leave me to concert with
this excellent Hiram the means of thwarting I know not what gross
villany.”
The door had hardly closed behind Lampaxo, when Democrates fell as a heap
into the cushions. He was ashen and palsied.
“Courage, master,”—Hiram was drawing a suggestive finger across his
throat,—“the woman’s tale is true metal. Critias shall sleep snug and
sweetly to-night, if perchance too soundly.”
“What will you do?” shrieked the wretched man.
“The thing is marvellously simple, master. The night is not yet old.
Hasdrubal and his crew of Carthaginians are here and by the grace of Baal
can serve you. This cackling hen will guide us to the house. Heaven has
put your enemy off his guard. He and Phormio will never wake to feel their
throats cut. Then a good stone on each foot takes the corpses down in the
harbour.”
But Democrates dashed his hand in negation.
“No, by the infernal gods, not so! No murder. I cannot bear the curse of
the Furies. Seize him, carry him to the ends of the earth, to hardest
slavery. Let him never cross my path again. But no bloodshed—”
Hiram almost lost his never failing smile, so much he marvelled.
“But, your Lordship, the man is a giant, mighty as Melkarth.(12) Seizing
will be hard. Sheol is the safest prison.”
“No.” Democrates was still shaking. “His ghost came to me a thousand
times, though yet he lived. It would hound me mad if I murdered him.”
“_You_ would not murder him. Your slave is not afflicted by dreams.”
Hiram’s smile was extremely insinuating.
“Don’t quibble with words. It would be I who slew him, though I never
struck the blow. You can seize him. Is he not asleep? Call Hasdrubal—bind
Glaucon, gag him, drag him to the ship. But he must not die.”
“Very good, Excellency.” Hiram seldom quarrelled to no purpose with his
betters. “Let your Lordship deign to leave this small matter to his slave.
By Baal’s favour Hasdrubal and six of his crew sleep on shore to-night.
Let us pray they be not deep in wine. Wait for me one hour, perhaps two,
and your heart and liver shall be comforted.”
“Go, go! I will wait and pray to Hermes Dolios.”
Hiram even now did not forget his punctilious salaam before departing.
Never had he seemed more the beautiful serpent with the shining scales
than the instant he bent gracefully at Democrates’s feet, the red light
falling on his gleaming ear and nose rings, his smooth brown skin and
beady eyes. The door turned on its pivots—closed. Democrates heard the
retiring footsteps. No doubt the Phœnician was taking Lampaxo with him.
The Athenian staggered across the room to his bed and flung himself on it,
laughing hysterically. How absolutely his enemy was delivered into his
hands! How the Moræ in sending that Carthaginian ship, to do Lycon’s
business and his, had provided the means of ridding him of the haunting
terror! How everything conspired to aid him! He need not even kill
Glaucon. He would have no blood guiltiness, he need not dread Alecto and
her sister Furies. He could trust Hiram and Hasdrubal to see to it that
Glaucon never returned to plague him. And Hermione? Democrates laughed
again. He was almost frightened at his own glee.
“A month, my nymph, a month, and you and your dear father, yes,
Themistocles himself, will be in no state to answer me ‘nay,’—though
Glaucon come to claim you.”