A Victor of Salamis
Megarian swine squealed and tugged at their leg-cords. An Asiatic sailor
clamoured at the money-changer’s stall for another obol in change for a
Persian daric. “Buy my oil!” bawled the huckster from his wicker booth
beside the line of Hermes-busts in the midst of the square. “Buy my
charcoal!” roared back a companion, whilst past both was haled a grinning
negro with a crier who bade every gentleman to “mark his chance” for a
fashionable servant. Phocian the quack was hawking his toothache salve
from the steps of the Temple of Apollo. Deira, the comely flower girl,
held out crowns of rose, violet, and narcissus to the dozen young dandies
who pressed about her. Around the Hermes-busts idle crowds were reading
the legal notices plastered on the base of each statue. A file of mules
and wagons was ploughing through the multitude with marble for some new
building. Every instant the noise grew. Pandora’s box had opened, and
every clamour had flitted out.
At the northern end, where the porticos and the long Dromos street ran off
toward the Dipylon gate, stood the shop of Clearchus the potter. A low
counter was covered with the owner’s wares,—tall amphoræ for wine, flat
beakers, water-pots, and basins. Behind, two apprentices whirled the
wheel, another glazed on the black varnish and painted the jars with
little red loves and dancing girls. Clearchus sat on the counter with
three friends,—come not to trade but to barter the latest gossip from the
barber-shops: Agis the sharp, knavish cockpit and gaming-house keeper,
Crito the fat mine-contractor, and finally Polus, gray and pursy, who
“devoted his talents to the public weal,” in other words was a perpetual
juryman and likewise busybody.
The latest rumour about Xerxes having been duly chewed, conversation began
to lag.
“An idle day for you, my Polus,” threw out Clearchus.
“Idle indeed! No jury sits to-day in the King Archon’s Porch or the ‘Red
Court’; I can’t vote to condemn that Heraclius who’s exported wheat
contrary to the law.”
“Condemn?” cried Agis; “wasn’t the evidence very weak?”
“Ay,” snorted Polus, “very weak, and the wretch pleaded piteously, setting
his wife and four little ones weeping on the stand. But we are resolved.
‘You are boiling a stone—your plea’s no profit,’ thought we. Our hearts
vote ‘guilty,’ if our heads say ‘innocent.’ One mustn’t discourage honest
informers. What’s a patriot on a jury for if only to acquit? Holy Father
Zeus, but there’s a pleasure in dropping into the voting-urn the black
bean which condemns!”
“Athena keep us, then, from litigation,” murmured Clearchus; while Crito
opened his fat lips to ask, “And what adjourns the courts?”
“A meeting of the assembly, to be sure. The embassy’s come back from
Delphi with the oracle we sought about the prospects of the war.”
“Then Themistocles will speak,” observed the potter; “a very important
meeting.”
“Very important,” choked the juror, fishing a long piece of garlic from
his wallet and cramming it into his mouth with both hands. “What a noble
statesman Themistocles is! Only young Democrates will ever be like him.”
“Democrates?” squeaked out Crito.
“Why, yes. Almost as eloquent as Themistocles. What zeal for democracy!
What courage against Persia! A Nestor, I say, in wisdom—”
Agis gave a whistle.
“A Nestor, perhaps. Yet if you knew, as I do, how some of his nights
pass,—dice, Rhodian fighting-cocks, dancing-girls, and worse things,—”
“I’ll scarce believe it,” grunted the juror; yet then confessed somewhat
ruefully, “however, he is unfortunate in his bosom friend.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the potter.
“Glaucon the Alcmæonid, to be sure. I cried ‘_Io, pæan!_’ as loud as the
others when he came back; still I weary of having a man always so
fortunate.”
“Even as you voted to banish Aristeides, Themistocles’s rival, because you
were tired of hearing him called ‘the Just.’ ”
“There’s much in that. Besides, he’s an Alcmæonid, and since their old
murder of Cylon the house has been under a blood curse. He has married the
daughter of Hermippus, who is too highly born to be faithful to the
democracy. He carries a Laconian cane,—sure sign of Spartanizing
tendencies. He may conspire any day to become tyrant.”
“Hush,” warned Clearchus, “there he passes now, arm in arm with Democrates
as always, and on his way to the assembly.”
“The men are much alike in build,” spoke Crito, slowly, “only Glaucon is
infinitely handsomer.”
“And infinitely less honest. I distrust your too beautiful and too lucky
men,” snapped Polus.
“Envious dog,” commented Agis; and bitter personalities might have
followed had not a bell jangled from an adjacent portico.
“Phormio, my brother-in-law, with fresh fish from Phaleron,” announced
Polus, drawing a coin from his wonted purse,—his cheek; “quick, friends,
we must buy our dinners.”
Between the columns of the portico stood Phormio the fishmonger, behind a
table heaped with his scaly wares. He was a thick, florid man with blue
eyes lit by a humourous twinkle. His arms were crusted with brine. To his
waist he was naked. As the friends edged nearer he held up a turbot,
calling for a bid. A clamour answered him. The throng pressed up the
steps, elbowing and scrambling. The competition was keen but good-natured.
Phormio’s broad jests and witticisms—he called all his customers by
name—aided in forcing up the price. The turbot was knocked down to a rich
gentleman’s cook marketing for his master. The pile of fish decreased, the
bidding sharpened. The “Market Wardens” seemed needed to check the
jostling. But as the last eel was held up, came a cry—
“Look out for the rope!”
Phormio’s customers scattered. Scythian constables were stretching cords
dusted with red chalk across all exits from the Agora, save that to the
south. Soon the band began contracting its nets and driving a swarm of
citizens toward the remaining exit, for a red chalk-mark on a mantle meant
a fine. Traffic ceased instantly. Thousands crowded the lane betwixt the
temples and porches, seeking the assembly place,—through a narrow,
ill-built way, but the great area of the Pnyx opened before them like the
slopes of some noble theatre.
No seats; rich and poor sat down upon the rocky ground. Under the open
azure, at the focus of the semicircle, with clear view before of the city,
and to right of the red cliffs of the Acropolis, rose a low platform hewn
in the rock,—the “Bema,” the orator’s pulpit. A few chairs for the
magistrates and a small altar were its sole furnishings. The multitude
entered the Pnyx through two narrow entrances pierced in the massy
engirdling wall and took seats at pleasure; all were equals—the Alcmæonid,
the charcoal-seller from Acharnæ. Amid silence the chairman of the Council
arose and put on the myrtle crown,—sign that the sitting was opened. A
herald besought blessings on the Athenians and the Platæans their allies.
A wrinkled seer carefully slaughtered a goose, proclaimed that its
entrails gave good omen, and cast the carcass on the altar. The herald
assured the people there was no rain, thunder, or other unlucky sign from
heaven. The pious accordingly breathed easier, and awaited the order of
the day.
The decree of the Council convening the assembly was read; then the
herald’s formal proclamation:—
“Who wishes to speak?”
The answer was a groan from nigh every soul present. Three men ascended
the Bema. They bore the olive branches and laurel garlands, suppliants at
Delphi; but their cloaks were black. “The oracle is unfavourable! The gods
deliver us to Xerxes!” The thrill of horror went around the Pnyx.
The three stood an instant in gloomy silence. Then Callias the Rich,
solemn and impressive, their spokesman, told their eventful story.
“Athenians, by your orders we have been to Delphi to inquire of the surest
oracle in Greece your destinies in the coming war. Hardly had we completed
the accustomed sacrifices in the Temple of Apollo, when the Pythoness
Aristonice, sitting above the sacred cleft whence comes the inspiring
vapour, thus prophesied.” And Callias repeated the hexameters which warned
the Athenians that resistance to Xerxes would be worse than futile; that
Athens was doomed; concluding with the fearful line, “Get from this temple
afar, and brood on the ills that await ye.”
In the pause, as Callias’s voice fell, the agony of the people became nigh
indescribable. Sturdy veterans who had met the Persian spears at Marathon
blinked fast. Many groaned, some cursed. Here and there a bold spirit
dared to open his heart to doubt, and to mutter, “Persian gold, the
Pythoness was corrupted,” but quickly hushed even such whispers as rank
impiety. Then a voice close to the Bema rang out loudly:—
“And is this all the message, Callias?”
“The voice of Glaucon the Fortunate,” cried many, finding relief in words.
“He is a friend to the ambassador. There is a further prophecy.”
The envoy, who had made his theatrical pause too long, continued:—
“Such, men of Athens, was the answer; and we went forth in dire
tribulation. Then a certain noble Delphian, Timon by name, bade us take
the olive branches and return to the Pythoness, saying, ‘O King Apollo,
reverence these boughs of supplication, and deliver a more comfortable
answer concerning our dear country. Else we will not leave thy sanctuary,
but stay here until we die.’ Whereat the priestess gave us a second
answer, gloomy and riddling, yet not so evil as the first.”
Again Callias recited his lines of doom, “that Athena had vainly prayed to
Zeus in behalf of her city, and that it was fated the foe should overrun
all Attica, yet
“ ‘Safe shall the wooden wall continue for thee and thy children;
Wait not the tramp of the horse, nor the footmen mightily moving
Over the land, but turn your back to the foe, and retire ye.
Yet a day shall arrive when ye shall meet him in battle.
Oh, holy Salamis, thou shalt destroy the offspring of women
When men scatter the seed, or when they gather the harvest.’ ”
“And that is all?” demanded fifty voices.
“That is all,” and Callias quitted the Bema. Whereupon if agony had held
the Pnyx before, perplexity held it now. “The wooden wall?” “Holy
Salamis?” “A great battle, but who is to conquer?” The feverish anxiety of
the people at length found its vent in a general shout.
“The seers! Call the seers! Explain the oracle!”
The demand had clearly been anticipated by the president of the Council.
“Xenagoras the Cerycid is present. He is the oldest seer. Let us hearken
to his opinion.”
The head of the greatest priestly family in Athens arose. He was a
venerable man, wearing his ribbon-decked robes of office. The president
passed him the myrtle crown, as token that he had the Bema. In a tense
hush his voice sounded clearly.
“I was informed of the oracles before the assembly met. The meaning is
plain. By the ‘wooden wall’ is meant our ships. But if we risk a battle,
we are told slaughter and defeat will follow. The god commands, therefore,
that without resistance we quit Attica, gathering our wives, our children,
and our goods, and sail away to some far country.”
Xenagoras paused with the smile of him who performs a sad but necessary
duty, removed the wreath, and descended the Bema.
“Quit Attica without a blow! Our fathers’ fathers’ sepulchres, the shrines
of our gods, the pleasant farmsteads, the land where our Attic race have
dwelt from dimmest time!”
The thought shot chill through the thousands. Men sat in helpless silence,
while many a soul, as the gaze wandered up to the temple-crowned
Acropolis, asked once, yes twice, “Is not the yoke of Persia preferable to
that?” Then after the silence broke the clamour of voices.
“The other seers! Do all agree with Xenagoras? Stand forth! stand forth!”