A Victor of Salamis

William Stearns Davis

A Victor of Salamis

EAN 8596547208440

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [email protected]

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I

GLAUCON THE BEAUTIFUL

CHAPTER II

THE ATHLETE

CHAPTER III

THE HAND OF PERSIA

CHAPTER IV

THE PENTATHLON

BOOK I

THE SHADOW OF THE PERSIAN

CHAPTER V

HERMIONE OF ELEUSIS

CHAPTER VI

ATHENS

CHAPTER VII

DEMOCRATES AND THE TEMPTER

CHAPTER VIII

ON THE ACROPOLIS

CHAPTER IX

THE CYPRIAN TRIUMPHS

CHAPTER X

DEMOCRATES RESOLVES

CHAPTER XI

THE PANATHENÆA

CHAPTER XII

A TRAITOR TO HELLAS

CHAPTER XIII

THE DISLOYALTY OF PHORMIO

CHAPTER XIV

MARDONIUS THE PERSIAN

BOOK II

THE COMING OF THE PERSIAN

CHAPTER XV

THE LOTUS-EATING AT SARDIS

CHAPTER XVI

THE COMING OF XERXES THE GOD-KING

CHAPTER XVII

THE CHARMING BY ROXANA

CHAPTER XVIII

DEMOCRATES’S TROUBLES RETURN

CHAPTER XIX

THE COMMANDMENT OF XERXES

CHAPTER XX

THERMOPYLÆ

CHAPTER XXI

THE THREE HUNDRED—AND ONE

CHAPTER XXII

MARDONIUS GIVES A PROMISE

CHAPTER XXIII

THE DARKEST HOUR

CHAPTER XXIV

THE EVACUATION OF ATHENS

CHAPTER XXV

THE ACROPOLIS FLAMES

CHAPTER XXVI

THEMISTOCLES IS THINKING

CHAPTER XXVII

THE CRAFT OF ODYSSEUS

CHAPTER XXVIII

BEFORE THE DEATH GRAPPLE

CHAPTER XXIX

SALAMIS

CHAPTER XXX

THEMISTOCLES GIVES A PROMISE

BOOK III

THE PASSING OF THE PERSIAN

CHAPTER XXXI

DEMOCRATES SURRENDERS

CHAPTER XXXII

THE STRANGER IN TRŒZENE

CHAPTER XXXIII

WHAT BEFELL ON THE HILLSIDE

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE LOYALTY OF LAMPAXO

CHAPTER XXXV

MOLOCH BETRAYS THE PHŒNICIAN

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE READING OF THE RIDDLE

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE RACE TO SAVE HELLAS

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE COUNCIL OF MARDONIUS

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE AVENGING OF LEONIDAS

CHAPTER XL

THE SONG OF THE FURIES

CHAPTER XLI

THE BRIGHTNESS OF HELIOS

STANDARD MACMILLAN FICTION

RECENT MACMILLAN NOVELS

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CHAPTER I

GLAUCON THE BEAUTIFUL

Table of Contents

The crier paused for the fifth time. The crowd—knotty Spartans, keen Athenians, perfumed Sicilians—pressed his pulpit closer, elbowing for the place of vantage. Amid a lull in their clamour the crier recommenced.

And now, men of Hellas, another time hearken. The sixth contestant in the pentathlon, most honourable of the games held at the Isthmus, is Glaucon, son of Conon the Athenian; his grandfather— a jangling shout drowned him.

The most beautiful man in Hellas! But an effeminate puppy! Of the noble house of Alcmæon! The family’s accursed! A great god helps him—even Eros. Ay—the fool married for mere love. He needs help. His father disinherited him.

Peace, peace, urged the crier; I’ll tell all about him, as I have of the others. Know then, my masters, that he loved, and won in marriage, Hermione, daughter of Hermippus of Eleusis. Now Hermippus is Conon’s mortal enemy; therefore in great wrath Conon disinherited his son,—but now, consenting to forgive him if he wins the parsley crown in the pentathlon—

A safe promise, interrupted a Spartan in broadest [pg 4]Doric; the pretty boy has no chance against Lycon, our Laconian giant.

Boaster! retorted an Athenian. Did not Glaucon bend open a horseshoe yesterday?

Our Mœrocles did that, called a Mantinean; whereupon the crier, foregoing his long speech on Glaucon’s noble ancestry, began to urge the Athenians to show their confidence by their wagers.

How much is staked that Glaucon can beat Ctesias of Epidaurus?

We don’t match our lion against mice! roared the noisiest Athenian.

Or Amyntas of Thebes?

Not Amyntas! Give us Lycon of Sparta.

Lycon let it be,—how much is staked and by whom, that Glaucon of Athens, contending for the first time in the great games, defeats Lycon of Sparta, twice victor at Nemea, once at Delphi, and once at Olympia?

The second rush and outcry put the crier nearly at his wits’ end to record the wagers that pelted him, and which testified how much confidence the numerous Athenians had in their unproved champion. The brawl of voices drew newcomers from far and near. The chariot race had just ended in the adjoining hippodrome; and the idle crowd, intent on a new excitement, came surging up like waves. In such a whirlpool of tossing arms and shoving elbows, he who was small of stature and short of breath stood a scanty chance of getting close enough to the crier’s stand to have his wager recorded. Such, at least, was the fate of a gray but dignified little man, who struggled vainly—even with risk to his long linen chiton—to reach the front.

Ugh! ugh! Make way, good people,—Zeus confound you, brute of a Spartan, your big sandals crush my toes [pg 5]again! Can I never get near enough to place my two minæ on that Glaucon?

Keep back, graybeard, snapped the Spartan; thank the god if you can hold your money and not lose it, when Glaucon’s neck is wrung to-morrow. Whereupon he lifted his own voice with, Thirty drachmæ to place on Lycon, Master Crier! So you have it—

And two minæ on Glaucon, piped the little man, peering up with bright, beady eyes; but the crier would never have heard him, save for a sudden ally.

Who wants to stake on Glaucon? burst in a hearty young Athenian who had wagered already. You, worthy sir? Then by Athena’s owls they shall hear you! Lend us your elbow, Democrates.

The latter request was to a second young Athenian close by. With his stalwart helpers thrusting at either side, the little man was soon close to the crier.

Two minæ? quoth the latter, leaning, two that Glaucon beats Lycon, and at even odds? But your name, sir—

The little man straightened proudly.

Simonides of Ceos.

The crowd drew back by magic. The most bristling Spartan grew respectful. The crier bowed as his ready stylus made the entry.

Simonides of Ceos, Simonides the most noted poet in Hellas! cried the first of his two rescuers; it’s a great honour to have served so famous a man. Pray let me take your hand.

With all the joy in the world. The little poet coloured with delight at the flattery. You have saved me, I avow, from the forge and anvil of Hephæstus. What a vulgar mob! Do stand apart; then I can try to thank you.

Aided again by his two protectors, Simonides was soon [pg 6]clear of the whirlpool. Under one of the graceful pines, which girded the long stadium, he recovered breath and looked at leisure upon his new acquaintances. Both were striking men, but in sharp contrast: the taller and darker showed an aquiline visage betraying a strain of non-Grecian blood. His black eyes and large mouth were very merry. He wore his green chiton with a rakishness that proved him anything but a dandy. His companion, addressed as Democrates, slighter, blonder, showed Simonides a handsome and truly Greek profile, set off by a neatly trimmed reddish beard. His purple-edged cloak fell in statuesque folds of the latest mode, his beryl signet-ring, scarlet fillet, and jewelled girdle bespoke wealth and taste. His face, too, might have seemed frank and affable, had not Simonides suddenly recalled an old proverb about mistrusting a man with eyes too close together.

And now, said the little poet, quite as ready to pay compliments as to take them, let me thank my noble deliverers, for I am sure two such valorous young men as you must come of the best blood of Attica.

I am not ashamed of my father, sir, spoke the taller Athenian; Hellas has not yet forgotten Miltiades, the victor of Marathon.

Then I clasp the hand of Cimon, the son of the saviour of Hellas. The little poet’s eyes danced. Oh! the pity I was in Thessaly so long, and let you grow up in my absence. A noble son of a noble father! And your friend—did you name him Democrates?

I did so.

Fortunate old rascal I am! For I meet Cimon the son of Miltiades, and Democrates, that young lieutenant of Themistocles who all the world knows is gaining fame already as Nestor and Odysseus, both in one, among the orators of Athens.

[pg 7]

Your compliments exceed all truth, exclaimed the second Athenian, not at all angered by the praise. But Simonides, whose tongue was brisk, ran on with a torrent of flattery and of polite insinuation, until Cimon halted him, with a query.

Yet why, dear Cean, since, as you say, you only arrived this afternoon at the Isthmus, were you so anxious to stake that money on Glaucon?

Why? Because I, like all Greece outside of Sparta, seem to be turning Glaucon-mad. All the way from Thessaly—in Bœotia, in Attica, in Megara—men talked of him, his beauty, his prowess, his quarrel with his father, his marriage with Hermione, the divinest maiden in Athens, and how he has gone to the games to win both the crown and crusty Conon’s forgiveness. I tell you, every mule-driver along the way seemed to have staked his obol on him. They praise him as ‘fair as Delian Apollo,’ ‘graceful as young Hermes,’ and—here I wonder most,—‘modest as an unwedded girl.’ Simonides drew breath, then faced the others earnestly, You are Athenians; do you know him?

Know him? Cimon laughed heartily; have we not left him at the wrestling ground? Was not Democrates his schoolfellow once, his second self to-day? And touching his beauty, his valour, his modesty, the young man’s eyes shone with loyal enthusiasm, do not say ‘over-praised’ till you have seen him.

Simonides swelled with delight.

Oh, lucky genius that cast me with you! Take me to him this moment.

He is so beset with admirers, his trainers are angry already; besides, he is still at the wrestling ground.

But soon returns to his tents, added Democrates, instantly; and Simonides—is Simonides. If Themistocles [pg 8]and Leonidas can see Glaucon, so must the first poet of Hellas.

O dearest orator, cried the little man, with an arm around his neck, I begin to love you already. Away this moment, that I may worship your new divinity.

Come, then, commanded Cimon, leading off with strides so long the bard could hardly follow; his tent is not distant: you shall see him, though the trainers change to Gorgons.

The Precinct of Poseidon, the great walled enclosure where were the temples, porticos, and the stadium of the Isthmus, was quickly behind them. They walked eastward along the sea-shore. The scene about was brisk enough, had they heeded. A dozen chariots passed. Under every tall pine along the way stood merchants’ booths, each with a goodly crowd. Now a herd of brown goats came, the offering of a pious Phocian; now a band of Aphrodite’s priestesses from Corinth whirled by in no overdecorous dance, to a deafening noise of citharas and castanets. A soft breeze was sending the brown-sailed fisher boats across the heaving bay. Straight before the three spread the white stuccoed houses of Cenchræa, the eastern haven of Corinth; far ahead in smooth semicircle rose the green crests of the Argive mountains, while to their right upreared the steep lonely pyramid of brown rock, Acro-Corinthus, the commanding citadel of the thriving city. But above, beyond these, fairer than them all, spread the clear, sun-shot azure of Hellas, the like whereof is not over any other land, save as that land is girt by the crisp foam of the blue Ægean Sea.

So much for the picture, but Simonides, having seen it often, saw it not at all, but plied the others with questions.

So this Hermione of his is beautiful?

Like Aphrodite rising from the sea foam. The answer [pg 9]came from Democrates, who seemed to look away, avoiding the poet’s keen glance.

And yet her father gave her to the son of his bitter enemy?

Hermippus of Eleusis is sensible. It is a fine thing to have the handsomest man in Hellas for son-in-law.

And now to the great marvel—did Glaucon truly seek her not for dowry, nor rank, but for sheer love?

Marriages for love are in fashion to-day, said Democrates, with a side glance at Cimon, whose sister Elpinice had just made a love match with Callias the Rich, to the scandal of all the prudes in Athens.

Then I meet marvels even in my old age. Another Odysseus and his Penelope! And he is handsome, valiant, high-minded, with a wife his peer? You raise my hopes too high. They will be dashed.

They will not, protested Democrates, with every sign of loyalty; turn here: this lane in the pines leads to his tent. If we have praised too much, doom us to the labours of Tantalus.

But here their progress was stopped. A great knot of people were swarming about a statue under a pine tree, and shrill, angry voices proclaimed not trafficking, but a brawl.

[pg 10]

CHAPTER II

THE ATHLETE

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There was ceaseless coming and going outside the Precinct of Poseidon. Following much the same path just taken by Simonides and his new friends, two other men were walking, so deep in talk that they hardly heeded how many made respectful way for them, or how many greeted them. The taller and younger man, to be sure, returned every salute with a graceful flourish of his hands, but in a mechanical way, and with eye fixed on his companion.

The pair were markedly contrasted. The younger was in his early prime, strong, well developed, and daintily dressed. His gestures were quick and eloquent. His brown beard and hair were trimmed short to reveal a clear olive face—hardly regular, but expressive and tinged with an extreme subtilty. When he laughed, in a strange, silent way, it was to reveal fine teeth, while his musical tongue ran on, never waiting for answer.

His comrade, however, answered little. He barely rose to the other’s shoulder, but he had the chest and sinews of an ox. Graces there were none. His face was a scarred ravine, half covered by scanty stubble. The forehead was low. The eyes, gray and wise, twinkled from tufted eyebrows. The long gray hair was tied about his forehead in a braid and held by a golden circlet. The chlamys around his [pg 11]hips was purple but dirty. To his companion’s glib Attic he returned only Doric monosyllables.

Thus I have explained: if my plans prosper; if Corcyra and Syracuse send aid; if Xerxes has trouble in provisioning his army, not merely can we resist Persia, but conquer with ease. Am I too sanguine, Leonidas?

We shall see.

No doubt Xerxes will find his fleet untrustworthy. The Egyptian sailors hate the Phœnicians. Therefore we can risk a sea fight.

No rashness, Themistocles.

Yes—it is dicing against the Fates, and the stake is the freedom of Hellas. Still a battle must be risked. If we quit ourselves bravely, our names shall be remembered as long as Agamemnon’s.

Or Priam’s?—his Troy was sacked.

And you, my dear king of Sparta, will of course move heaven and earth to have your Ephors and Council somewhat more forward than of late in preparing for war? We all count on you.

I will try.

Who can ask more? But now make an end to statecraft. We were speaking about the pentathlon and the chances of—

Here the same brawling voices that had arrested Simonides broke upon Themistocles and Leonidas also. The cry A fight! was producing its inevitable result. Scores of men, and those not the most aristocratic, were running pell-mell whither so many had thronged already. In the confusion scant reverence was paid the king of Sparta and the first statesman of Athens, who were thrust unceremoniously aside and were barely witnesses of what followed.

[pg 12]

The outcry was begun, after-report had it, by a Sicyonian bronze-dealer finding a small but valuable lamp missing from the table whereon he showed his wares. Among the dozen odd persons pressing about the booth his eye singled out a slight, handsome boy in Oriental dress; and since Syrian serving-lads were proverbially light-fingered, the Sicyonian jumped quickly at his conclusion.

Seize the Barbarian thief! had been his shout as he leaped and snatched the alleged culprit’s mantle. The boy escaped easily by the frailness of his dress, which tore in the merchant’s hands; but a score of bystanders seized the fugitive and dragged him back to the Sicyonian, whose order to search! would have been promptly obeyed; but at this instant he stumbled over the missing lamp on the ground before the table, whence probably it had fallen. The bronze-dealer was now mollified, and would willingly have released the lad, but a Spartan bystander was more zealous.

Here’s a Barbarian thief and spy! he began bellowing; he dropped the lamp when he was detected! Have him to the temple and to the wardens of the games!

The magic word spy let loose the tongues and passions of every man within hearing. The unfortunate lad was seized again and jostled rudely, while questions rattled over him like hailstones.

Whose slave are you? Why here? Where’s your master? Where did you get that outlandish dress and gold-laced turban? Confess, confess,—or it’ll be whipped out of you! What villany are you up to?

If the prisoner had understood Greek,—which was doubtful,—he could scarce have comprehended this babel. He struggled vainly; tears started to his eyes. Then he committed a blunder. Not attempting a protest, he thrust [pg 13]a small hand into his crimson belt and drew forth a handful of gold as bribe for release.

A slave with ten darics! bawled the officious Spartan, never relaxing his grip. Hark you, friends, it’s plain as day. Dexippus of Corinth has a Syrian lad like this. The young scoundrel’s robbed his master and is running away.

That’s it! A runaway! To the temple with him! chimed a dozen. The prisoner’s outcries were drowned. He would have been swept off in ungentle custody had not a strong hand intervened in his favor.

A moment, good citizens, called a voice in clear Attic. Release this lad. I know Dexippus’s slave; he’s no such fellow.

The others, low-browed Spartans mostly, turned, ill-pleased at the interruption of an Athenian, but shrank a step as a name went among them.

Castor and Pollux—it’s Glaucon the Beautiful!

With two thrusts of impetuous elbows, the young man was at the assailed lad’s side. The newcomer was indeed a sight for gods. Beauty and power seemed wholly met in a figure of perfect symmetry and strength. A face of fine regularity, a chiselled profile, smooth cheeks, deep blue eyes, a crown of closely cropped auburn hair, a chin neither weak nor stern, a skin burnt brown by the sun of the wrestling schools—these were parts of the picture, and the whole was how much fairer than any part! Aroused now, he stood with head cast back and a scarlet cloak shaking gracefully from his shoulders.

Unhand the lad! he repeated.

For a moment, compelled by his beauty, the Spartans yielded. The Oriental pressed against his protector; but the affair was not to end so easily.

Hark you, Sir Athenian, rejoined the Spartan leader, [pg 14]don’t presume on your good looks. Our Lycon will mar them all to-morrow. Here’s Dexippus’s slave or else a Barbarian spy: in either case to the temple with him, and don’t you hinder.

He plucked at the boy’s girdle; but the athlete extended one slim hand, seized the Spartan’s arm, and with lightning dexterity laid the busybody flat on Mother Earth. He staggered upward, raging and calling on his fellows.

Sparta insulted by Athens! Vengeance, men of Lacedæmon! Fists! Fists!

The fate of the Oriental was forgotten in the storm of patriotic fury that followed. Fortunately no one had a weapon. Half a dozen burly Laconians precipitated themselves without concert or order upon the athlete. He was hidden a moment in the rush of flapping gowns and tossing arms. Then like a rock out of the angry sea shone his golden head, as he shook off the attack. Two men were on their backs, howling. The others stood at respectful distance, cursing and meditating another rush. An Athenian pottery merchant from a neighbouring booth began trumpeting through his hands.

Men of Athens, this way!

His numerous countrymen came scampering from far and wide. Men snatched up stones and commenced snapping off pine boughs for clubs. The athlete, centre of all this din, stood smiling, with his glorious head held high, his eyes alight with the mere joy of battle. He held out his arms. Both pose and face spoke as clearly as words,—Prove me!

Sparta is insulted. Away with the braggart! the Laconians were clamouring. The Athenians answered in kind. Already a dark sailor was drawing a dirk. Everything promised broken heads, and perhaps blood, when Leonidas [pg 15]and his friend,—by laying about them with their staves,—won their way to the front. The king dashed his staff upon the shoulder of a strapping Laconian who was just hurling himself on Glaucon.

Fools! Hold! roared Leonidas, and the moment the throng saw what newcomers they faced, Athenian and Spartan let their arms drop and stood sheepish and silent. Themistocles instantly stepped forward and held up his hand. His voice, trumpet-clear, rang out among the pines. In three sentences he dissolved the tumult.

Fellow-Hellenes, do not let Dame Discord make sport of you. I saw all that befell. It is only an unlucky misunderstanding. You are quite satisfied, I am sure, Master Bronze-Dealer?

The Sicyonian, who saw in a riot the ruin of his evening’s trade, nodded gladly.

He says there was no thieving, and he is entirely satisfied. He thanks you for your friendly zeal. The Oriental was not Dexippus’s slave, and Xerxes does not need such boys for spies. I am certain Glaucon would not insult Sparta. So let us part without bad blood, and await the judgment of the god in the contest to-morrow.

Not a voice answered him. The crash of music from the sacrificial embassy of Syracuse diverted everybody’s attention; most of the company streamed away to follow the flower-decked chariots and cattle back to the temple. Themistocles and Leonidas were left almost alone to approach the athlete.

You are ever Glaucon the Fortunate, laughed Themistocles; had we not chanced this way, what would not have befallen?

Ah, it was delightful, rejoined the athlete, his eyes still kindled; the shock, the striving, the putting one’s own [pg 16]strength and will against many and feeling ‘I am the stronger.’

Delightful, no doubt replied the statesman, though Zeus spare me fighting one against ten! But what god possessed you to meddle in this brawl, and imperil all chances for to-morrow?

I was returning from practice at the palæstra. I saw the lad beset and knew he was not Dexippus’s slave. I ran to help him. I thought no more about it.

And risked everything for a sly-eyed Oriental. Where is the rascal?

But the lad—author of the commotion—had disappeared completely.

Behold his fair gratitude to his rescuer, cried Themistocles, sourly, and then he turned to Leonidas. Well, very noble king of Sparta, you were asking to see Glaucon and judge his chances in the pentathlon. Your Laconians have just proved him; are you satisfied?

But the king, without a word of greeting, ran his eyes over the athlete from head to heel, then blurted out his verdict:

Too pretty.

Glaucon blushed like a maid. Themistocles threw up his hands in deprecation.

But were not Achilles and many another hero beautiful as brave? Does not Homer call them so many times ‘godlike’?

Poetry doesn’t win the pentathlon, retorted the king; then suddenly he seized the athlete’s right arm near the shoulder. The muscles cracked. Glaucon did not wince. The king dropped the arm with a "Euge! then extended his own hand, the fingers half closed, and ordered, Open."

One long minute, just as Simonides and his companions [pg 17]approached, Athenian and Spartan stood face to face, hand locked in hand, while Glaucon’s forehead grew redder, not with blushing. Then blood rushed to the king’s brow also. His fingers were crimson. They had been forced open.

"Euge! cried the king, again; then, to Themistocles, He will do."

Whereupon, as if satisfied in his object and averse to further dalliance, he gave Cimon and his companions the stiffest of nods and deliberately turned on his heel. Speech was too precious coin for him to be wasted on mere adieus. Only over his shoulder he cast at Glaucon a curt mandate.

I hate Lycon. Grind his bones.

Themistocles, however, lingered a moment to greet Simonides. The little poet was delighted, despite overweening hopes, at the manly beauty yet modesty of the athlete, and being a man who kept his thoughts always near his tongue, made Glaucon blush more manfully than ever.

Master Simonides is overkind, had ventured the athlete; but I am sure his praise is only polite compliment.

What misunderstanding! ran on the poet. How you pain me! I truly desired to ask a question. Is it not a great delight to know that so many people are gladdened just by looking on you?

How dare I answer? If ‘no,’ I contradict you—very rude. If ‘yes,’ I praise myself—far ruder.

Cleverly turned. The face of Paris, the strength of Achilles, the wit of Periander, all met in one body; but seeing the athlete’s confusion more profound than ever, the Cean cut short. Heracles! if my tongue wounds you, lo! it’s clapped back in its sheath; I’ll be revenged in an ode of fifty iambs on your victory. For that you will conquer, neither [pg 18]I nor any sane man in Hellas has the least doubt. Are you not confident, dear Athenian?

I am confident in the justice of the gods, noble Simonides, said the athlete, half childishly, half in deep seriousness.

Well you may be. The gods are usually ‘just’ to such as you. It’s we graybeards that Tyche, ‘Lady Fortune,’ grows tired of helping.

Perhaps! Glaucon passed his hand across his eyes with a dreamy gesture. Yet sometimes I almost say, ‘Welcome a misfortune, if not too terrible,’ just to ward off the god’s jealousy of too great prosperity. In all things, save my father’s anger, I have prospered. To-morrow I can appease that, too. Yet you know Solon’s saying, ‘Call no man fortunate till he is dead.’

Simonides was charmed at this frank confession on first acquaintance. Yes, but even one of the Seven Sages can err.

I do not know. I only hope—

Hush, Glaucon, admonished Democrates. There’s no worse dinner before a contest than one of flighty thoughts. When safe in Athens—

In Eleusis you mean, corrected the athlete.

Pest take you, cried Cimon; you say Eleusis because there is Hermione. But make this day-dreaming end ere you come to grips with Lycon.

He will awaken, smiled Themistocles. Then, with another gracious nod to Simonides, the statesman hastened after Leonidas, leaving the three young men and the poet to go to Glaucon’s tent in the pine grove.

And why should Leonidas wish Glaucon to grind the bones of the champion of Sparta? asked Cimon, curiously.

Quickly answered, replied Simonides, who knew half [pg 19]the persons of the nobility in Hellas; first, Lycon is of the rival kingly house at Sparta; second, he’s suspected of ‘Medizing,’ of favouring Persia.

I’ve heard that story of ‘Medizing,’ interrupted Democrates, promptly; I can assure you it is not true.

Enough if he’s suspected, cried the uncompromising son of Miltiades; honest Hellenes should not even be blown upon in times like this. Another reason then for hating him—

Peace! ordered Glaucon, as if starting from a long revery, and with a sweep of his wonderful hands; let the Medes, the Persians, and their war wait. For me the only war is the pentathlon,—and then by Zeus’s favour the victory, the glory, the return to Eleusis! Ah—wish me joy!

Verily, the man is mad, reflected the poet; he lives in his own bright world, sufficient to himself. May Zeus never send storms to darken it! For to bear disaster his soul seems never made.

* * * * * * *

At the tent Manes, the athlete’s body-servant, came running to his master, with a small box firmly bound.

A strange dark man brought this only a moment since. It is for Master Glaucon.

On opening there was revealed a bracelet of Egyptian turquoise; the price thereof Simonides wisely set at two minæ. Nothing betrayed the identity of the giver save a slip of papyrus written in Greek, but in very uncertain hand. "To the Beautiful Champion of Athens: from one he has greatly served."

Cimon held the bracelet on high, admiring its perfect lustre.

Themistocles was wrong, he remarked; the Oriental [pg 20]was not ungrateful. But what ‘slave’ or ‘lad’ was this that Glaucon succoured?

Perhaps, insinuated Simonides, Themistocles was wrong yet again. Who knows if a stranger giving such gifts be not sent forth by Xerxes?

Don’t chatter foolishness, commanded Democrates, almost peevishly; but Glaucon replaced the bracelet in the casket.

Since the god sends this, I will rejoice in it, he declared lightly. A fair omen for to-morrow, and it will shine rarely on Hermione’s arm. The mention of that lady called forth new protests from Cimon, but he in turn was interrupted, for a half-grown boy had entered the tent and stood beckoning to Democrates.

[pg 21]

CHAPTER III

THE HAND OF PERSIA

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The lad who sidled up to Democrates was all but a hunchback. His bare arms were grotesquely tattooed, clear sign that he was a Thracian. His eyes twinkled keenly, uneasily, as in token of an almost sinister intelligence. What he whispered to Democrates escaped the rest, but the latter began girding up his cloak.

"You leave us, philotate? cried Glaucon. Would I not have all my friends with me to-night, to fill me with fair thoughts for the morrow? Bid your ugly Bias keep away!"

A greater friend than even Glaucon the Alcmæonid commands me hence, said the orator, smiling.

Declare his name.

"Declare her name," cried Simonides, viciously.

Noble Cean, then I say I serve a most beautiful, high-born dame. Her name is Athens.

Curses on your public business, lamented Glaucon. But off with you, since your love is the love of us all.

Democrates kissed the athlete on both cheeks. I leave you to faithful guardians. Last night I dreamed of a garland of lilies, sure presage of a victory. So take courage.

"Chaire! chaire!"¹ called the rest; and Democrates left the tent to follow the slave-boy.