A Victor of Salamis
Thus he lay a long time, while the drip, drip from the water-clock in the
corner told how the night was passing. The lamp flickered and burned
lower. He never knew the hours to creep so slowly.
* * * * * * *
At last, a knock; Scodrus, the yawning valet, ushering in a black and
bearded sailor, who crouched eastern fashion at the feet of the strategus.
“You have seized him?”
“Blessed be Moloch, Baal, and Melkarth! They have poured sleep upon my
Lord’s enemy.” The sailor’s Greek was harsh and execrable. “Your servants
did even as commanded. The woman let us in. The young man my Lord hates
was bound and gagged almost ere he could waken, likewise the fishmonger
was seized.”
“Bravely done. I never forget good service. And the woman?”
“She is retained likewise. I have hastened hither to learn the further
will of my Lord.”
Democrates arose hastily.
“My himation, staff, and shoes, boy!” he ordered. “I will go forth myself.
The prisoners are still at the fishmonger’s house?”
“Even so, Excellency.”
“I go back with you. I must see this stranger with my own eyes. There must
be no mistake.”
Scodrus stared widely when he saw his master go out into the dark, for his
only escort a black Carthaginian sailor with a dirk a cubit long.
Democrates did not even ask for a lantern. None of the servants could
fathom their master’s doings of late. He gave strappings when they asked
questions, and Bias was away.
The streets of Trœzene were utterly deserted when Democrates threaded
them. There was no moon, neither he nor his companion were overcertain of
the way. Once they missed the right turn, wandered down a blind alley, and
plunged into a pile of offal awaiting the scavenger dogs. But finally the
seaman stopped at a low door in a narrow street, and a triple rap made it
open. The scene was squalid. A rush-candle was burning on a table. Around
it squatted seven men who rose and bowed as the strategus entered. In the
dim flicker he could just recognize the burly shipmaster Hasdrubal and
gigantic Hib, the Libyan “governor,” whose ebon face betrayed itself even
there.
“We have expected you, _kyrie_,” said Hiram, who was one of the group.
“Thanks be to Hermes and to you all. I have told my guide already I will
be grateful. Where is he?”
“In the kitchen behind, your Lordship. We were singularly favoured. Hib
had the cord around his arms before he wakened. He could scarcely struggle
despite his power. The fishmonger awoke before Hasdrubal could nip him.
For a moment we feared his outcries would rouse the street. But again the
gods blessed us. No one stirred, and we soon throttled him.”
“Take the light,” ordered Democrates. “Come.”
Accompanied by Hiram, the orator entered the kitchen, a small square room.
The white-washed ceiling was blacked around the smoke-hole, a few pots and
pans lay in the corners, a few dying embers gleamed on the hearth. But
Democrates had eyes only for two objects,—human figures tightly bound
lying rigid as faggots in the further corner.
“Which is he?” asked Democrates again, stepping softly as though going to
danger.
“The further one is Phormio, the nearer is my Lord’s enemy. Your
Excellency need not fear to draw close. He is quite secure.”
“Give me the candle.”
Democrates held the light high and trod gently over to the prostrate men.
Hiram spoke rightly that his victim was secure. They had lashed him hand
and foot, using small chains in lieu of cords. A bit of wood had been
thrust into his mouth and tied with twine under the ears. Democrates stood
an instant looking down, then very deliberately knelt beside the prisoner
and moved the candle closer. He could see now the face hidden half by the
tangled black hair and beard and the gag—but who could doubt it?—the deep
blue eye, the chiselled profile, the small, fine lips, yes, and the
godlike form visible in its comeliness despite the bands. He was gazing
upon the man who two years ago had called him “bosom-friend.”
The prisoner looked straight upward. The only thing he could move was his
eyes, and these followed Democrates’s least motion. The orator pressed the
candle closer yet. He even put out his hand, and touched the face to brush
away the hair. A long look—and he was satisfied. No mistake was possible.
Democrates arose and stood over the prisoner, then spoke aloud.
“Glaucon, I have played at dice with Fortune. I have conquered. I did not
ruin you willingly. There was no other way. A man must first be a friend
to himself, and then friendly to others. I have cast in my lot with the
Persians. It was I who wrote that letter which blasted you at Colonus.
Very soon there will be a great battle fought in Bœotia. Lycon and I will
make it certain that Mardonius conquers. I am to be tyrant of Athens.
Hermione shall be my wife.” The workings of the prisoner’s face made
Democrates wince; from Glaucon’s throat came rattlings, his eyes were
terrible. But the other drove recklessly forward. “As for you, you pass
this night out of my life. How you escaped the sea I know not and care
less. Hasdrubal will take you to Carthage, and sell you into the interior
of Libya. I wish you no misery, only you go where you shall never see
Hellas again. I am merciful. Your life is in my hands. But I restore it. I
am without blood guiltiness. What I have done you would have done, had you
loved as I—had you been under necessity as I. Eros is a great god, but
Anangkë, Dame Necessity, is yet mightier. So to-night we part—farewell.”
A strong spasm passed through the prisoner’s frame. For a moment
Democrates thought the bonds would snap. Too strong. The orator swung on
his heel and returned to the outer room.
“The night wanes, _kyrie_,” remarked Hasdrubal; “if these good people are
to be taken to the ship, it must be soon.”
“As you will. I do nothing more concerning them.”
“Fetch down the woman,” ordered Hasdrubal; in the mongrel Greek current
amongst Mediterranean sea-folk. Two of his seamen ascended the ladder and
returned with Lampaxo, who smirked and simpered at sight of Democrates and
bobbed him a courtesy.
“The traitor is seized, your Excellency. I hope your Excellency will see
that he drinks hemlock. You will be merciful to my poor husband, even if
he must be arrested for the night. Gods and goddesses! what are these men
doing to me?”
A stalwart Carthaginian was in the act of knotting a cord around the good
woman’s arms preparatory to pinioning them.
“_Kyrie! kyrie!_” she screamed, “they are binding me, too! Me—the most
loyal woman in Attica.”
Democrates scowled and turned his back on her.
“Your Lordship surely intended this woman to be taken also,” suggested
Hiram, sweetly. “It cannot be he will leave such a dangerous witness at
large.”
“Of course not. Off with her!”
“_Kyrie! kyrie!_” was her shriek, but quickly ended, for Hasdrubal knitted
his fingers around her throat.
“A gag,” he ordered, and with a few more struggles Lampaxo stood helpless
and silent.
A little later the band was threading its stealthy way down the black
streets. Four of the Carthaginians carried Glaucon, slung hands and feet
over a pole. They dared not trust him on his feet. Phormio and Lampaxo
walked, closely pinioned and pricked on by the captain’s dagger. They were
soon at the deserted strand, and their ship’s pinnace lay upon the beach.
Democrates accompanied them as far as the dark marge, and watched while
the boat glided out into the gloom of the haven. The orator paced homeward
alone. Everything had favoured him. He had even cleared himself of the
curse of the Furies and the pursuit of Nemesis. He had, he congratulated
himself, shown marvellous qualities of mercy. Glaucon lived? Yes—but the
parching sand-plains of Libya would be as fast a prison as the grave, and
the life of a slave in Africa was a short one. Glaucon had passed from his
horizon forever.
CHAPTER XXXV
MOLOCH BETRAYS THE PHŒNICIAN
Even whilst the boat pulled out to the trader, Hiram suggested that since
his superior’s “unfortunate scruples” forbade them to shed blood, at least
they could disable the most dangerous captive by putting out his eyes. But
Hasdrubal, thrifty Semite, would not hearken.
“Is not the fellow worth five hundred shekels in the Carthage market?—but
who will give two for a blind dog?”
And once at the ship the prisoners were stowed in the hold so securely
that even Hiram ceased to concern himself. In the morning some of the
neighbours indeed wondered at Phormio’s closed door and the silence of the
jangling voice of Lampaxo; but the fishmonger was after all an exile, and
might have returned suddenly to Attica, now the Persians had retreated
again to Bœotia, and before these surmises could change to misdoubting,
the _Bozra_ was bearing forth into the Ægean.
The business of Hasdrubal with the _Bozra_ at Trœzene appeared simple. The
war had disturbed the Greek harvests. He had come accordingly with a cargo
of African corn, and was taking a light return lading of olive oil and
salt fish. But those who walked along the harbour front remarked that the
_Bozra_ was hardly a common merchantman. She was a “sea-mouse,” long,
shallow, and very fast under sail; she also carried again an unwontedly
heavy crew. When Hasdrubal’s cargo seemed completed, he lingered a couple
of days, alleging he was repairing a cable; then the third morning after
his nocturnal adventure a cipher letter to Democrates sent the
Carthaginian to sea. The letter went thus:—
“Lycon, in the camp of the Greeks in Bœotia, to Democrates in Trœzene,
greeting:—The armies have now faced many days. The soothsayers declare
that the aggressor is sure to be defeated, still there has been some
skirmishing in which your Athenians slew Masistes, Mardonius’s chief of
cavalry. This, however, is no great loss to us. Your presence with
Aristeides is now urgently needed. Send Hasdrubal and Hiram at once to
Asia with the papers we arranged in Corinth. Come yourself with speed to
the army. Ten days and this merry dice-throwing is ended. _Chaire!_”
Democrates immediately after this gave Hiram a small packet of papyrus
sheets rolled very tight, with the ominous injunction to “conceal
carefully, weight it with lead, and fling it overboard if there is danger
of capture.” At which Hiram bowed more elegantly than usual and answered,
“Fear not; it shall be guarded as the priests guard the ark of Moloch, and
when next your slave comes, it is to salute my Lord as the sovran of
Athens.”
Hiram smiled fulsomely and departed. An hour later the _Bozra_ ran out on
the light wind around the point of Calauria and into the sparkling sea to
eastward. Democrates stood gazing after her until she was a dark speck on
the horizon.
The speck at last vanished. The strategus walked homeward. Glaucon was
gone. The fateful packet binding Democrates irrevocably to the Persian
cause was gone. He could not turn back. At the gray of morning with a few
servants he quitted Trœzene, and hastened to join Aristeides and Pausanias
in Bœotia.
* * * * * * *
In the hold of the _Bozra_, where Hasdrubal had stowed his unwilling
passengers, there crept just enough sunlight to make darkness visible. The
gags had been removed from the prisoners, suffering them to eat, whereupon
Lampaxo had raised a truly prodigious outcry which must needs be silenced
by a vigorous anointing with Hasdrubal’s whip of bullock’s hide. Her
husband and Glaucon disdained to join a clamour which could never escape
the dreary cavern of the hold, and which only drew the hoots of their
unmagnanimous guardians. The Carthaginians had not misinterpreted
Glaucon’s silence, however. They knew well they had a Titan in custody,