A Victor of Salamis
Yet he bethought himself of the old man’s warning, and left the beaten
way. At the long steady trot learned in the stadium, he went onward under
the greenwood behind the gleaming river, where the vines and branches
whipped on his face; and now and again he crossed a half-dried brook,
where he swept up a little water in his hands, and said a quick prayer to
the friendly nymphs of the stream. Once or twice he sped through fig
orchards, and snatched at the ripe fruit as he ran, eating without
slackening his course. Presently the river began to bend away to westward.
He knew if he followed it, he came soon to Tanagra, but whether that town
were held by the Persians or burned by them, who could tell? He quitted
the Asopus and its friendly foliage. The bare wide plain of Bœotia was
opening. Concealment was impossible, unless indeed he turned far eastward
toward Attica and took refuge on the foothills of the mountains. But speed
was more precious than safety. He passed Scolus, and found the village
desolate, burned. No human being greeted him, only one or two starving
dogs rushed forth to snap, bristle, and be chased away by a well-sent
stone. Here and yonder in the fields were still the clusters of crows
picking at carrion,—more tokens that Mardonius’s Tartar raiders had done
their work too well. Then at last, an hour or more before the sunset, just
as the spurs of Cithæron, the long mountain over against Attica, began to
thrust their bald summits up before the runner’s ken, far ahead upon the
way approached a cloud of dust. The Athenian paused in his run, dashed
into the barren field, and flung himself flat between the furrows. He
heard the hoof-beats of the wiry steppe horses, the clatter of targets and
scabbards, the shrill shouts of the raiders. He lifted his head enough to
see the red streamers on their lance tips flutter past. He let the noise
die away before he dared to take the road once more. The time he lost was
redeemed by a burst of speed. His head was growing very hot, but it was
not time to think of that.
Already the hills were spreading their shadows, and Platæa was many stadia
away. Knowledge of how much remained made him reckless. He ran on without
his former caution. The plain was again changing to undulating foothills.
He had passed Erythræ now,—another village burned and deserted. He mounted
a slope, was descending to mount another, when lo! over the hill before
came eight riders at full speed. What must be done, must be done quickly.
To plunge into the fallow field again were madness, the horsemen had
surely seen him, and their sure-footed beasts could run over the furrows
like rabbits. Glaucon stood stock still and stretched forth both hands, to
show the horsemen he did not resist them.
“O Athena Polias,” uprose the prayer from his heart, “if thou lovest not
me, forget not thy love for Hellas, for Athens, for Hermione my wife.”
The riders were on him instantly, their crooked swords flew out. They
surrounded their captive, uttering outlandish cries and chatterings,
ogling, muttering, pointing with their swords and lances as if debating
among themselves whether to let the stranger go or hew him in pieces.
Glaucon stood motionless, looking from one to another and asking for
wisdom in his soul. Seven were Tartars, low-browed, yellow-skinned, flat
of nose, with the grins of apes. He might expect the worst from these. But
the eighth showed a long blond beard under his leather helm, and Glaucon
rejoiced; the chief of the band was a Persian and more amenable.
The Tartars continued gesturing and debating, flourishing their steel
points right at the prisoner’s breast. He regarded them calmly, so calmly
that the Persian gave vent to his admiration.
“Down with your lance-head, Rūkhs. By Mithra, I think this Hellene is
brave as he is beautiful! See how he stands. We must have him to the
Prince.”
“Excellency,” spoke Glaucon, in his best court Persian, “I am a courier to
the Lord Mardonius. If you are faithful servants of his Eternity the king,
where is your camp?”
The chief started.
“On the life of my father, you speak Persian as if you dwelled in Eran at
the king’s own doors! What do you here alone upon this road in Hellas?”
Glaucon put out his hand before answering, caught the tip of Rūkhs’s
lance, and snapped it short like a reed. He knew the way to win the
admiration of the Barbarians. They yelled with delight, all at least save
Rūkhs.
“Strong as he is brave and handsome,” cried the Persian. “Again—who are
you?”
The Alcmæonid drew himself to full height and gave his head its lordliest
poise.
“Understand, Persian, that I have indeed lived long at the king’s gates.
Yes,—I have learned my Aryan at the Lord Mardonius’s own table, for I am
the son of Attaginus of Thebes, who is not the least of the friends of his
Eternity in Hellas.”
The mention of one of the foremost Medizers of Greece made the subaltern
bend in his saddle. His tone became even obsequious.
“Ah, I understand. Your Excellency is a courier. You have despatches from
the king?”
“Despatches of moment just landed from Asia. Now tell me where the army is
encamped.”
“By the Asopus, much to northward. The Hellenes lie to south. Here, Rūkhs,
take the noble courier behind you on the horse, and conduct him to the
general.”
“Heaven bless your generosity,” cried the runner, with almost precipitate
haste, “but I know the country well, and the worthy Rūkhs will not thank
me if I deprive him of his share in your booty.”
“Ah, yes, we have heard of a farm across the hills at Eleutheræ that’s not
yet been plundered,—handsome wenches, and we’ll make the father dig up his
pot of money. Mazda speed you, sir, for we are off.”
“Yeh! yeh!” yelled the seven Tartars, none more loudly than Rūkhs, who had
no hankering for conducting a courier back into the camp. So the riders
came and went, whilst Glaucon drew his girdle one notch tighter and ran
onward through the gathering evening.
The adventure had been a warning. Once Athena had saved him, not perchance
twice,—again he took to the fields. He did not love the sight of the sun
ever lower, on the long brown ridge of Helicon far to west. Until now he
scarce thought enough of self to realize the terrible draughts he had made
upon his treasure-house of strength. Could it be that he—the Isthmionices,
who had crushed down the giant of Sparta before the cheering myriads—could
faint like a weary girl, when the weal of Hellas was his to win or lose?
Why did his tongue burn in his throat as a coal? Why did those feet—so
swift, so ready when he sped from Oropus—lift so heavily?
As a flash it came over him what he had endured,—the slow agony on the
_Bozra_, the bursting of the bands, the fight for life, the scene with
Themistocles, the sleepless night on the trireme. Now he was running as
the wild hare runs before the baying chase. Could it be that all this race
was vain?
“For Hellas! For Hermione!”
Whilst he groaned through his gritted teeth, some malignant god made him
misstep, stumble. He fell between the hard furrows, bruising his face and
hands. After a moment he rose, but rose to sink back again with keen pain
shooting through an ankle. He had turned it. For an instant he sat
motionless, taking breath, then his teeth came together harder.
“Themistocles trusts me. I carry the fate of Hellas. I can die, but I
cannot fail.”
It was quite dusk now. The brief southern twilight was ending in pale bars
of gold above Helicon. Glaucon rose again; the cold sweat sprang out upon
his forehead. Before his eyes rose darkness, but he did not faint. Some
kind destiny set a stout pole upright in the field,—perhaps for vines to
clamber,—he clutched it, and stood until his sight cleared and the pain a
little abated. He tore the pole from the ground, and reached the roadway.
He must take his chance of meeting more raiders. He had one vast
comfort,—if there had been no battle fought that day, there would be none
before dawn. But he had still weary stadia before him, and running was out
of the question. Ever and anon he would stop his hobbling, take air, and
stare at the vague tracery of the hills,—Cithæron to southward, Helicon to
west, and northward the wide dark Theban plain. He gave up counting how
many times he halted, how many times he spoke the magic words, “For
Hellas! For Hermione!” and forced onward his way. The moon failed, even
the stars were clouded. A kind of brute instinct guided him. At last—he
guessed it was nearly midnight—he caught once more the flashings of a
shallow river and the dim outlines of shrubbery beside the bank—again the
Asopus. He must take care or he would wander straight into Mardonius’s
camp. Therefore he stopped awhile, drank the cool water, and let the
stream purl around his burning foot. Then he set his face to the south,
for there lay Platæa. There he would find the Hellenes.
He was almost unconscious of everything save the fierce pain and the need
to go forward even to the end. At moments he thought he saw the mountains
springing out of their gloom,—Helicon and Cithæron beckoning him on, as
with living fingers.
“Not too late. Marathon was not vain, nor Thermopylæ, nor Salamis. You can
save Hellas.”
Who spoke that? He stared into the solitary night. Was he not alone? Then
phantasms came as on a flood. He was in a kind of euthanasy. The pain of
his foot had ceased. He saw the Paradise by Sardis and its bending
feathery palms; he heard the tinkling of the Lydian harps, and Roxana
singing of the magic Oxus, and the rose valleys of Eran. Next Roxana
became Hermione. He was standing at her side on the knoll of Colonus, and
watching the sun sink behind Daphni making the Acropolis glow with red
fire and gold. Yet all the time he knew he was going onward. He must not
stop.
“For Hellas! For Hermione!”
At last even the vision of the Violet-Crowned City faded to mist. Had he
reached the end,—the rest by the fields of Rhadamanthus, away from human
strife? The night was ever darkening. He saw nothing, felt nothing,
thought nothing save that he was still going onward, onward.
* * * * * * *
At some time betwixt midnight and dawning an Athenian outpost was pacing
his beat outside the lines of Aristeides. The allied Hellenes were
retiring from their position by the Asopus to a more convenient spot by
Platæa, less exposed to the dreaded Persian cavalry, but on the night
march the contingents had become disordered. The Athenians were halting
under arms,—awaiting orders from Pausanias the commander-in-chief. The
outpost—Hippon, a worthy charcoal-burner of Archarnæ—was creeping gingerly
behind the willow hedges, having a well-grounded fear of Tartar arrows.
Presently his fox-keen ears caught footfalls from the road. His shield
went up. He couched his spear. His eyes, sharpened by the long darkness,
saw a man hardly running, nor walking, yet dragging one foot and leaning
on a staff. Here was no Tartar, and Hippon sprang out boldly.
“Halt, stranger, tell your business.”
“For Aristeides.” The apparition seemed holding out something in his hand.
“That’s not the watchword. Give it, or I must arrest you.”
“For Aristeides.”
“Zeus smite you, fellow, can’t you speak Greek? What have you got for our
general?”
“For Aristeides.”
The stranger was hoarse as a crow. He was pushing aside the spear and
forcing a packet into Hippon’s hands. The latter, sorely puzzled, whistled
through his fingers. A moment more the locharch of the scouting division
and three comrades appeared.
“Why the alarm? Where’s the enemy?”
“No enemy, but a madman. Find what he wants.”
The locharch in earlier days had kept an oil booth in the Athens Agora and
knew the local celebrities as well as Phormio.