A Victor of Salamis
Lycon faced again. The twenty thousand sat still as in their sepulchres,
each saying in his heart one word—“Now!” If in the first wrestling the
attack had been impetuous, it was now painfully deliberate. When the
heralds’ wands fell, the two crept like mighty cats across the narrow
sands, frames bent, hands outstretched, watching from the corners of their
eyes a fair chance to rush in and grapple. Then Lycon, whose raging spirit
had the least control, charged. Another dust cloud. When it cleared, the
two were locked together as by iron.
For an instant they swayed, whilst the Spartan tried again his brute
power. It failed him. Glaucon drew strength from the earth like Antæus.
The hushed stadium could hear the pants of the athletes as they locked
closer, closer. Strength failing, the Spartan snatched at his enemy’s
throat; but the Athenian had his wrist gripped fast before the clasp could
tighten, and in the melée Glaucon’s other hand passed beneath Lycon’s
thigh. The two seemed deadlocked. For a moment they grinned face to face,
almost close enough to bite each other’s lips. But breath was too precious
for curses. The Spartan flung his ponderous weight downward. A slip in the
gliding sand would have ruined the Athenian instantly; but Poseidon or
Apollo was with him. His feet dug deep, and found footing. Lycon drew back
baffled, though the clutches of their hands were tightening like vices of
steel. Then again face to face, swaying to and fro, panting, muttering,
while the veins in the bare backs swelled still more.
“He cannot endure it. He cannot! Ah! Athena Polias, pity him! Lycon is
wearing him down,” moaned Pytheas, beside himself with fear, almost
running to Glaucon’s aid.
The stadium resumed its roaring. A thousand conflicting prayers, hopes,
counsels, went forth to the combatants. The gods of Olympus and Hades; all
demigods, heroes, satyrs, were invoked for them. They were besought to
conquer in the name of parents, friends, and native land. Athenians and
Laconians, sitting side by side, took up the combat, grappling fiercely.
And all this time the two strove face to face.
How long had it lasted? Who knew? Least of all that pair who wrestled
perchance for life and for death. Twice again the Spartan strove with his
weight to crush his opponent down. Twice vainly. He could not close his
grip around the Athenian’s throat. He had looked to see Glaucon sink
exhausted; but his foe still looked on him with steadfast, unweakening
eyes. The president was just bidding the heralds, “Pluck them asunder and
declare a tie!” when the stadium gave a shrill long shout. Lycon had
turned to his final resource. Reckless of his own hurt, he dashed his iron
forehead against the Athenian’s, as bull charges bull. Twice and three
times, and the blood leaped out over Glaucon’s fair skin. Again—the rush
of blood was almost blinding. Again—Pytheas screamed with agony—the
Athenian’s clutch seemed weakening. Again—flesh and blood could not stand
such battering long. If Lycon could endure this, there was only one end to
the pentathlon.
“Help thou me, Athena of the Gray Eyes! For the glory of Athens, my
father, my wife!”
The cry of Glaucon—half prayer, half battle-shout—pealed above the
bellowing stadium. Even as he cried it, all saw his form draw upward as
might Prometheus’s unchained. They saw the fingers of the Spartan unclasp.
They saw his bloody face upturned and torn with helpless agony. They saw
his great form totter, topple, fall. The last dust cloud, and into it the
multitude seemed rushing together....
... They caught Glaucon just as he fell himself. Themistocles was the
first to kiss him. Little Simonides wept. Cimon, trying to embrace the
victor, hugged in the confusion a dirty Platæan. Democrates seemed lost in
the whirlpool, and came with greetings later. Perhaps he had stopped to
watch that Oriental who had given Glaucon good wishes in the foot-race.
The fairest praise, however, was from a burly man, who merely held out his
hand and muttered, “Good!” But this was from Leonidas.
* * * * * * *
Very late a runner crowned with pink oleanders panted up to the Athenian
watch by Mount Icarus at the custom-house on the Megarian frontier.
“_Nika!_—He conquers.”
The man fell breathless; but in a moment a clear beacon blazed upon the
height. From a peak in Salamis another answered. In Eleusis, Hermippus the
Noble was running to his daughter. In Peiræus, the harbour-town, the
sailor folk were dancing about the market-place. In Athens, archons,
generals, and elders were accompanying Conon to the Acropolis to give
thanks to Athena. Conon had forgotten how he had disowned his son. Another
beacon glittered from the Acropolis. Another flashed from the lordly crest
of Pentelicus, telling the news to all Attica. There was singing in the
fishers’ boats far out upon the bay. In the goat-herds’ huts on dark
Hymethus the pan-pipes blew right merrily. Athens spent the night in
almost drunken joy. One name was everywhere:—
“Glaucon the Beautiful who honours us all! Glaucon the Fortunate whom the
High Gods love!”
BOOK I
THE SHADOW OF THE PERSIAN
CHAPTER V
HERMIONE OF ELEUSIS
A cluster of white stuccoed houses with a craggy hill behind, and before
them a blue bay girt in by the rocky isle of Salamis—that is
Eleusis-by-the-Sea. Eastward and westward spreads the teeming Thrasian
plain, richest in Attica. Behind the plain the encircling mountain wall
fades away into a purple haze. One can look southward toward Salamis; then
to the left rises the rounded slope of brown Pœcilon sundering Eleusis
from its greater neighbour, Athens. Look behind: there is a glimpse of the
long violet crests of Cithæron and Parnes, the barrier mountains against
Bœotia. Look to right: beyond the summits of Megara lifts a noble cone. It
is an old friend, Acro-Corinthus. The plain within the hills is sprinkled
with thriving farmsteads, green vineyards, darker olive groves. The stony
hill-slopes are painted red by countless poppies. One hears the tinkling
of the bells of roving goats. Thus the more distant view; while at the
very foot of the hill of vision rises a temple with proud columns and
pediments,—the fane of Demeter the “Earth Mother” and the seat of her
Mysteries, renowned through Hellas.
The house of Hermippus the Eumolpid, first citizen of Eleusis, stood to
the east of the temple. On three sides gnarled trunks and sombre leaves of
the sacred olives almost hid the white low walls of the rambling
buildings. On the fourth side, facing the sea, the dusty road wound east
toward Megara. Here, by the gate, were gathered a rustic company:
brown-faced village lads and lasses, toothless graybeards, cackling old
wives. Above the barred gate swung a festoon of ivy, whilst from within
the court came the squeaking of pipes, the tuning of citharas, and shouted
orders—signs of a mighty bustling. Then even while the company grew, a
half-stripped courier flew up the road and into the gate.
“They come,” ran the wiseacre’s comment; but their buzzing ceased, as
again the gate swung back to suffer two ladies to peer forth. Ladies, in
the truth, for the twain had little in common with the ogling village
maids, and whispers were soon busy with them.
“Look—his wife and her mother! How would you, Praxinœ, like to marry an
Isthmionices?”
“Excellently well, but your Hermas won’t so honour you.”
“_Eu!_ see, she lifts her pretty blue veil; I’m glad she’s handsome. Some
beautiful men wed regular hags.”
The two ladies were clearly mother and daughter, of the same noble height,
and dressed alike in white. Both faces were framed in a flutter of Amorgos
gauze: the mother’s was saffron, crowned with a wreath of golden
wheat-ears; the daughter’s blue with a circlet of violets. And now as they
stood with arms entwined the younger brushed aside her veil. The gossips
were right. The robe and the crown hid all but the face and tress of the
lustrous brown hair,—but that face! Had not King Hephæstos wrought every
line of clear Phœnician glass, then touched them with snow and rose, and
shot through all the ichor of life? Perhaps there was a fitful fire in the
dark eyes that awaited the husband’s coming, or a slight twitching of the
impatient lips. But nothing disturbed the high-born repose of face and
figure. Hermione was indeed the worthy daughter of a noble house, and
happy the man who was faring homeward to Eleusis!
Another messenger. Louder bustle in the court, and the voice of Hermippus
arraying his musicians. Now a sharp-faced man, who hid his bald pate under
a crown of lilies, joined the ladies,—Conon, father of the victor. He had
ended his life-feud with Hermippus the night the message flashed from
Corinth. Then a third runner; this time in his hand a triumphant palm
branch, and his one word—“Here!” A crash of music answered from the court,
while Hermippus, a stately nobleman, his fine head just sprinkled with
gray, led out his unmartial army.
Single pipes and double pipes, tinkling lyres and many-stringed citharas,
not to forget herdsmen’s reed flutes, cymbals, and tambours, all made
melody and noise together. An imposing procession that must have crammed
the courtyard wound out into the Corinth road.
Here was the demarch(2) of Eleusis, a pompous worthy, who could hardly
hold his head erect, thanks to an exceeding heavy myrtle wreath. After
him, two by two, the snowy-robed, long-bearded priests of Demeter; behind
these the noisy corps of musicians, and then a host of young men and
women,—bright of eye, graceful of movement,—twirling long chains of ivy,
laurel, and myrtle in time to the music. Palm branches were everywhere.
The procession moved down the road; but even as it left the court a crash
of cymbals through the olive groves answered its uproar. Deep now and
sonorous sounded manly voices as in some triumphal chant. Hermione, as she
stood by the gate, drew closer to her mother. Inflexible Attic custom
seemed to hold her fast. No noblewoman might thrust herself boldly under
the public eye—save at a sacred festival—no, not when the centre of the
gladness was her husband.
“He comes!” So she cried to her mother; so cried every one. Around the
turn in the olive groves swung a car in which Cimon stood proudly erect,
and at his side another. Marching before the chariot were Themistocles,
Democrates, Simonides; behind followed every Athenian who had visited the
Isthmia. The necks of the four horses were wreathed with flowers; flowers
hid the reins and bridles, the chariot, and even its wheels. The victor
stood aloft, his scarlet cloak flung back, displaying his godlike form. An
unhealed scar marred his forehead—Lycon’s handiwork; but who thought of
that, when above the scar pressed the wreath of wild parsley? As the two
processions met, a cheer went up that shook the red rock of Eleusis. The
champion answered with his frankest smile; only his eyes seemed
questioning, seeking some one who was not there.
“Io! Glaucon!” The Eleusinian youths broke from their ranks and fell upon
the chariot. The horses were loosed in a twinkling. Fifty arms dragged the
car onward. The pipers swelled their cheeks, each trying to outblow his
fellow. Then after them sped the maidens. They ringed the chariot round
with a maze of flowers chains. As the car moved, they accompanied it with
a dance of unspeakable ease, modesty, grace. A local poet—not Simonides,
not Pindar, but some humbler bard—had invoked his muse for the grand
occasion. Youths and maidens burst forth into singing.
“Io! Io, pæan! the parsley-wreathed victor hail!
Io! Io, pæan! sing it out on each breeze, each gale!