BOOK I

[pg 49]BOOK ITHE SHADOW OF THE PERSIAN[pg 50][pg 51]CHAPTER VHERMIONE OF ELEUSISA 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[pg 52]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[pg 53]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 demarch2of 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—[pg 54]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!He has triumphed, our own, our beloved,Before all the myriad’s ken.He has met the swift, has proved swifter!The strong, has proved stronger again!Now glory to him, to his kinfolk,To Athens, and all Athens’ men![pg 55]Meet, run to meet him,The nimblest are not too fleet.Greet him, with raptures greet him,With songs and with twinkling feet.He approaches,—throw flowers before him.Throw poppy and lily and rose;Blow faster, gay pipers, faster,Till your mad music throbs and flows,For his glory and ours flies through Hellas,Wherever the Sun-King goes.Io! Io, pæan! crown with laurel and myrtle and pine,Io, pæan! haste to crown him with olive, Athena’s dark vine.He is with us, he shines in his beauty;Oh, joy of his face the first sight;He has shed on us all his bright honour,Let High Zeus shed on him his light,And thou, Pallas, our gray-eyed protectress,Keep his name and his fame ever bright!”Matching action to the song, they threw over the victor crowns and chains beyond number, till the parsley wreath was hidden from sight. Near the gate of Hermippus the jubilant company halted. The demarch bawled long for silence, won it at last, and approached the chariot. He, good man, had been a long day meditating on his speech of formal congratulation and enjoyed his opportunity. Glaucon’s eyes still roved and questioned, yet the demarch rolled out his windy sentences. But there was something unexpected. Even as the magistrate took breath after reciting the victor’s noble ancestry, there was a cry, a parting of the crowd, and Glaucon the Alcmæonid leaped from the chariot as never on the sands at Corinth. The veil and the violet wreath fell from the head of Hermione when her face went up to her husband’s. The blossoms that had covered the athlete shook over her like a cloud as his face met hers. Then even the honest demarch cut short his eloquence to swell the salvo.[pg 56]“The beautiful to the beautiful! The gods reward well. Here is the fairest crown!”For all Eleusis loved Hermione, and would have forgiven far greater things from her than this.* * * * * * *Hermippus feasted the whole company,—the crowd at long tables in the court, the chosen guests in a more private chamber.“Nothing to excess”was the truly Hellenic maxim of the refined Eleusinian; and he obeyed it. His banquet was elegant without gluttony. The Syracusan cook had prepared a lordly turbot. The wine was choice old Chian but well diluted. There was no vulgar gorging with meat, after the Bœotian manner; but the great Copaic eel,“such as Poseidon might have sent up to Olympus,”made every gourmand clap his hands. The aromatic honey was the choicest from Mt. Hymettus.Since the smaller company was well selected, convention was waived, and ladies were present. Hermione sat on a wide chair beside Lysistra, her comely mother; her younger brothers on stools at either hand. Directly across the narrow table Glaucon and Democrates reclined on the same couch. The eyes of husband and wife seldom left each other; their tongues flew fast; they never saw how Democrates hardly took his gaze from the face of Hermione. Simonides, who reclined beside Themistocles,—having struck a firm friendship with that statesman on very brief acquaintance,—was overrunning with humour and anecdote. The great man beside him was hardly his second in the fence of wit and wisdom. After the fish had given way to the wine, Simonides regaled the company with a gravely related story of how the Dioscuri had personally appeared to him during his last stay in Thessaly and saved him from certain death in a falling building.[pg 57]“You swear this is a true tale, Simonides?”began Themistocles, with one eye in his head.“It’s impiety to doubt. As penalty, rise at once and sing a song in honour of Glaucon’s victory.”“I am no singer or harpist,”returned the statesman, with a self-complacency he never concealed.“I only know how to make Athens powerful.”“Ah! you son of Miltiades,”urged the poet,“at least you will not refuse so churlishly.”Cimon, with due excuses, arose, called for a harp, and began tuning it; but not all the company were destined to hear him. A slave-boy touched Themistocles on the shoulder, and the latter started to go.“The Dioscuri will save you?”demanded Simonides, laughing.“Quite other gods,”rejoined the statesman;“your pardon, Cimon, I return in a moment. An agent of mine is back from Asia, surely with news of weight, if he must seek me at once in Eleusis.”But Themistocles lingered outside; an instant more brought a summons to Democrates, who found Themistocles in an antechamber, deep in talk with Sicinnus,—nominally the tutor of his sons, actually a trusted spy. The first glance at the Asiatic’s keen face and eyes was disturbing. An inward omen—not from the entrails of birds, nor a sign in the heavens—told Democrates the fellow brought no happy tidings.With incisive questions Themistocles had been bringing out everything.“So it is absolutely certain that Xerxes begins his invasion next spring?”“As certain as that Helios will rise to-morrow.”“Forewarned is forearmed. Now where have you been since I sent you off in the winter to visit Asia?”[pg 58]The man, who knew his master loved to do the lion’s share of the talking, answered instantly:—“Sardis, Emesa, Babylon, Susa, Persepolis, Ecbatana.”“Eu!Your commission is well executed. Are all the rumours we hear from the East well founded? Is Xerxes assembling an innumerable host?”“Rumour does not tell half the truth. Not one tribe in Asia but is required to send its fighting men. Two bridges of boats are being built across the Hellespont. The king will have twelve hundred war triremes, besides countless transports. The cavalry are being numbered by hundreds of thousands, the infantry by millions. Such an army was never assembled since Zeus conquered the Giants.”“A merry array!”Themistocles whistled an instant through his teeth; but, never confounded, urged on his questions.“So be it. But is Xerxes the man to command this host? He is no master of war like Darius his father.”“He is a creature for eunuchs and women; nevertheless his army will not suffer.”“And wherefore?”“Because Prince Mardonius, son of Gobryas, and brother-in-law of the king, has the wisdom and valour of Cyrus and Darius together. Name him, and you name the arch-foe of Hellas. He, not Xerxes, will be the true leader of the host.”“You saw him, of course?”“I did not. A Magian in Ecbatana told me a strange story.‘The Prince,’said he,‘hates the details of camps; leaving the preparation to others, he has gone to Greece to spy out the land he is to conquer.’”“Impossible, you are dreaming!”The exclamation came not from Themistocles but Democrates.[pg 59]“I am not dreaming, worthy sir,”returned Sicinnus, tartly;“the Magian may have lied, but I sought the Prince in every city I visited; they always told me,‘He is in another.’He was not at the king’s court. He may have gone to Egypt, to India, or to Arabia;—hemaylikewise have gone to Greece.”“These are serious tidings, Democrates,”remarked Themistocles, with an anxiety his voice seldom betrayed.“Sicinnus is right; the presence of such a man as Mardonius in Hellas explains many things.”“I do not understand.”“Why, the lukewarmness of so many friends we had counted on, the bickerings which arose among the Confederates when we met just now at the Isthmus, the slackness of all Spartans save Leonidas in preparing for war, the hesitancy of Corcyra in joining us. Thebes is Medizing, Crete is Medizing, so is Argos. Thessaly is wavering. I can almost name the princes and great nobles over Hellas who are clutching at Persian money. O Father Zeus,”wound up the Athenian,“if there is not some master-spirit directing all this villany, there is no wisdom in Themistocles, son of Neocles.”“But the coming of Mardonius to Greece?”questioned the younger man;“the peril he runs? the risk of discovery—”“Is all but nothing, except as he comes to Athens, for Medizers will shelter him everywhere. Yet there is one spot—blessed be Athena—”Themistocles’s hands went up in easy piety—“where, let him come if come he dare!”Then with a swift change, as was his wont, the statesman looked straight on Democrates.“Hark you, son of Myscelus; those Persian lords are reckless. He may even test the fates and set foot in Attica. I am cumbered with as many cares as Zeus, but this com[pg 60]mission I give to you. You are my most trusted lieutenant; I can risk no other. Keep watch, hire spies, scatter bribe-money. Rest not day nor night to find if Mardonius the Persian enters Athens. Once in our clutches—and you have done Hellas as fair a turn as Miltiades at Marathon. You promise it? Give me your hand.”“A great task,”spoke Democrates, none too readily.“And one you are worthy to accomplish. Are we not co-workers for Athens and for Hellas?”Themistocles’s hawklike eyes were unescapable. The younger Athenian thought they were reading his soul. He held out his hand....When Democrates returned to the hall, Cimon had ended his song. The guests were applauding furiously. Wine was still going round, but Glaucon and Hermione were not joining. Across the table they were conversing in low sentences that Democrates could not catch. But he knew well enough the meaning as each face flashed back the beauty of the other. And his mind wandered back darkly to the day when Glaucon had come to him, more radiant than even his wont, and cried,“Give me joy, dear comrade, joy! Hermippus has promised me the fairest maiden in Athens.”Some evil god had made Democrates blind to all his boon-companion’s wooing. How many hopes of the orator that day had been shattered! Yet he had even professed to rejoice with the son of Conon.... He sat in sombre silence, until the piping voice of Simonides awakened him.“Friend, if you are a fool, you do a wise thing in keeping still; if a wise man, a very foolish thing.”“Wine, boy,”ordered Democrates;“and less water in it. I feel wretchedly stupid to-day.”He spent the rest of the feast drinking deeply, and with much forced laughter. The dinner ended toward evening.[pg 61]The whole company escorted the victor toward Athens. At Daphni, the pass over the hills, the archons and strategi—highest officials of the state—met them with cavalry and torches and half of the city trailing at their heels. Twenty cubits of the city wall were pulled down to make a gate for the triumphal entry. There was another great feast at the government house. The purse of an hundred drachmæ, due by law to Isthmian victors, was presented. A street was named for Glaucon in the new port-town of Peiræus. Simonides recited a triumphal ode. All Athens, in short, made merry for days. Only one man found it hard to join the mirth whole-heartedly. And this was the victor’s bosom friend,—Democrates.[pg 62]CHAPTER VIATHENSIn Athens! Shall one mount the Acropolis or enter the market place? Worship in the temple of the Virgin Athena, or descend to the Agora and the roar of its getters and spenders? For Athens has two faces—toward the ideal, toward the commonplace. Who can regard both at once? Let the Acropolis, its sculptures, its landscape, wait. It has waited for men three thousand years. And so to the Agora.“Full market time.”The Agora was a beehive. From the round Tholus at the south to the long portico at the north all was babel and traffic. Donkeys raised their wheezing protest against too heavy loads of farm produce. 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 plough[pg 63]ing 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!”[pg 64]“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,[pg 65]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 ahumouroustwinkle. 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[pg 66]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[pg 67]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[pg 68]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 movingOver 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 womenWhen 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[pg 69]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!”Hegias, the“King Archon,”chief of the state religion, took the Bema. His speech was brief and to the point.“All the priests and seers of Attica have consulted. Xenagoras speaks for them all save Hermippus of the house of Eumolpus, who denies the others’ interpretation.”Confusion followed. Men rose, swung their arms, harangued madly from where they stood. The chairman in vain ordered“Silence!”and was fain to bid the Scythian constables restore order. An elderly farmer thrust himself forward, took the wreath, and poured out his rustic wisdom from the Bema. His advice was simple. The oracle said“the wooden wall”would be a bulwark, and by the wooden wall was surely meant the Acropolis which had once been protected by a palisade. Let all Attica shut itself in the citadel and endure a siege.[pg 70]So far he had proceeded garrulously, but the high-strung multitude could endure no more.“Kataba! Kataba!”“Go down! go down!”pealed the yell, emphasized by a shower of pebbles. The elder tore the wreath from his head and fled the Bema. Then out of the confusion came a general cry.“Cimon, son of Miltiades, speak to us!”But that young nobleman preserved a discreet silence, and the multitude turned to another favourite.“Democrates, son of Myscelus, speak to us!”The popular orator only wrapped his cloak about him, as he sat near the chairman’s stand, never answering the call he rejoiced of wont to hear.There were cries for Hermippus, cries even for Glaucon, as if prowess in the pentathlon gave ability to unravel oracles. The athlete sitting beside Democrates merely blushed and drew closer to his friend. Then at last the despairing people turned to their last resource.“Themistocles, son of Neocles, speak to us!”Thrice the call in vain; but at the fourth time a wave of silence swept across the Pnyx. A figure well beloved was taking the wreath and mounting the Bema.The words of Themistocles that day were to ring in his hearer’s ears till life’s end. The careless, almost sybaritic, man of the Isthmus and Eleusis seemed transfigured. For one moment he stood silent, lofty, awe-inspiring. He had a mighty task: to calm the superstitious fears of thirty thousand, to silence the prophets of evil, to infuse those myriads with his own high courage. He began with a voice so low it would have seemed a whisper if not audible to all the Pnyx. Quickly he warmed. His gestures became dramatic. His voice rose to a trumpet-call. He swept his hearers with him as dry leaves before the blast.“When he[pg 71]began to weave his words, one might have deemed him churlish, nay a fool, but when from his chest came his deep voice, and words like unto flakes of winter snow, then who could with him contend?”Thus Homer of Odysseus the Guileful, thus as truly of Themistocles saviour of Hellas.First he told the old, but never wearisome story of the past of Athens. How, from the days of Codrus long ago, Athens had never bowed the knee to an invader, how she had wrested Salamis from greedy Megara, how she had hounded out the tyrannizing sons of Peisistratus, how she had braved all the wrath of Persian Darius and dashed his huge armament back at Marathon. With such a past, only a madman as well as traitor would dream of submitting to Xerxes now. But as for the admonition of Xenagoras to quit Attica and never strike a blow, Themistocles would have none of it. With a clearness that appealed to every home-loving Hellene he pictured the fate of wanderers as only one step better than that of slaves. What, then, was left? The orator had a decisive answer. Was not the“wooden wall”which should endure for the Athenians the great fleet they were just completing? And as for the fate of the battle the speaker had an unexpected solution.“Holy Salamis,”spoke the Pythoness. And would she have said“holy,”if the issue had been only woe to the sons of Athens?“Luckless Salamis”were then more reasonably the word; yet the prophetess so far from predicting defeat had assured them victory.Thus ran the substance of the speech on which many a soul knew hung the mending or ending of Hellas, but lit all through with gleams of wit, shades of pathos, outbursts of eloquence which burned into the hearers’ hearts as though the speaker were a god. Then at the end, Themistocles, knowing his audience was with him, delivered his peroration:—[pg 72]“Let him who trusts in oracles trust then in this, and in the old prophecy of Epimenides that when the Persian comes it is to his hurt. But I will say with Hector of Troy,‘One oracle is best—to fight for one’s native country.’Others may vote as they will. My vote is that if the foe by land be too great, we retire before him to our ships, ay, forsake even well-loved Attica, but only that we may trust to the‘wooden wall,’and fight the Great King by sea at Salamis. We contend not with gods but with men. Let others fear. I will trust to Athena Polias,—the goddess terrible in battle. Hearken then to Solon the Wise (the orator pointed toward the temple upon the soaring Acropolis):—“‘Our Athens need fear no hurtThough gods may conspire her ill.The hand that hath borne us up,It guides us and guards us still.Athena, the child of Zeus,She watches and knows no fear.The city rests safe from harmBeneath her protecting spear.’Thus trusting in Athena, we will meet the foe at Salamis and will destroy him.”“Who wishes to speak?”called the herald. The Pnyx answered together. The vote to retire from Attica if needs be, to strengthen the fleet, to risk all in a great battle, was carried with a shout. Men ran to Themistocles, calling him,“Peitho,—Queen Persuasion.”He made light of their praises, and walked with his handsome head tossed back toward the general’s office by the Agora, to attend to some routine business. Glaucon, Cimon, and Democrates went westward to calm their exhilaration with a ball-game at the gymnasium of Cynosarges. On the way Glaucon called attention to a foreigner that passed them.[pg 73]“Look, Democrates, that fellow is wonderfully like the honest barbarian who applauded me at the Isthmus.”Democrates glanced twice.“Dear Glaucon,”said he,“that fellow had a long blond beard, while this man’s is black as a crow.”And he spoke the truth; yet despite the disguise he clearly recognized the“Cyprian.”

[pg 51]CHAPTER VHERMIONE OF ELEUSISA 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[pg 52]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[pg 53]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 demarch2of 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—[pg 54]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!He has triumphed, our own, our beloved,Before all the myriad’s ken.He has met the swift, has proved swifter!The strong, has proved stronger again!Now glory to him, to his kinfolk,To Athens, and all Athens’ men![pg 55]Meet, run to meet him,The nimblest are not too fleet.Greet him, with raptures greet him,With songs and with twinkling feet.He approaches,—throw flowers before him.Throw poppy and lily and rose;Blow faster, gay pipers, faster,Till your mad music throbs and flows,For his glory and ours flies through Hellas,Wherever the Sun-King goes.Io! Io, pæan! crown with laurel and myrtle and pine,Io, pæan! haste to crown him with olive, Athena’s dark vine.He is with us, he shines in his beauty;Oh, joy of his face the first sight;He has shed on us all his bright honour,Let High Zeus shed on him his light,And thou, Pallas, our gray-eyed protectress,Keep his name and his fame ever bright!”Matching action to the song, they threw over the victor crowns and chains beyond number, till the parsley wreath was hidden from sight. Near the gate of Hermippus the jubilant company halted. The demarch bawled long for silence, won it at last, and approached the chariot. He, good man, had been a long day meditating on his speech of formal congratulation and enjoyed his opportunity. Glaucon’s eyes still roved and questioned, yet the demarch rolled out his windy sentences. But there was something unexpected. Even as the magistrate took breath after reciting the victor’s noble ancestry, there was a cry, a parting of the crowd, and Glaucon the Alcmæonid leaped from the chariot as never on the sands at Corinth. The veil and the violet wreath fell from the head of Hermione when her face went up to her husband’s. The blossoms that had covered the athlete shook over her like a cloud as his face met hers. Then even the honest demarch cut short his eloquence to swell the salvo.[pg 56]“The beautiful to the beautiful! The gods reward well. Here is the fairest crown!”For all Eleusis loved Hermione, and would have forgiven far greater things from her than this.* * * * * * *Hermippus feasted the whole company,—the crowd at long tables in the court, the chosen guests in a more private chamber.“Nothing to excess”was the truly Hellenic maxim of the refined Eleusinian; and he obeyed it. His banquet was elegant without gluttony. The Syracusan cook had prepared a lordly turbot. The wine was choice old Chian but well diluted. There was no vulgar gorging with meat, after the Bœotian manner; but the great Copaic eel,“such as Poseidon might have sent up to Olympus,”made every gourmand clap his hands. The aromatic honey was the choicest from Mt. Hymettus.Since the smaller company was well selected, convention was waived, and ladies were present. Hermione sat on a wide chair beside Lysistra, her comely mother; her younger brothers on stools at either hand. Directly across the narrow table Glaucon and Democrates reclined on the same couch. The eyes of husband and wife seldom left each other; their tongues flew fast; they never saw how Democrates hardly took his gaze from the face of Hermione. Simonides, who reclined beside Themistocles,—having struck a firm friendship with that statesman on very brief acquaintance,—was overrunning with humour and anecdote. The great man beside him was hardly his second in the fence of wit and wisdom. After the fish had given way to the wine, Simonides regaled the company with a gravely related story of how the Dioscuri had personally appeared to him during his last stay in Thessaly and saved him from certain death in a falling building.[pg 57]“You swear this is a true tale, Simonides?”began Themistocles, with one eye in his head.“It’s impiety to doubt. As penalty, rise at once and sing a song in honour of Glaucon’s victory.”“I am no singer or harpist,”returned the statesman, with a self-complacency he never concealed.“I only know how to make Athens powerful.”“Ah! you son of Miltiades,”urged the poet,“at least you will not refuse so churlishly.”Cimon, with due excuses, arose, called for a harp, and began tuning it; but not all the company were destined to hear him. A slave-boy touched Themistocles on the shoulder, and the latter started to go.“The Dioscuri will save you?”demanded Simonides, laughing.“Quite other gods,”rejoined the statesman;“your pardon, Cimon, I return in a moment. An agent of mine is back from Asia, surely with news of weight, if he must seek me at once in Eleusis.”But Themistocles lingered outside; an instant more brought a summons to Democrates, who found Themistocles in an antechamber, deep in talk with Sicinnus,—nominally the tutor of his sons, actually a trusted spy. The first glance at the Asiatic’s keen face and eyes was disturbing. An inward omen—not from the entrails of birds, nor a sign in the heavens—told Democrates the fellow brought no happy tidings.With incisive questions Themistocles had been bringing out everything.“So it is absolutely certain that Xerxes begins his invasion next spring?”“As certain as that Helios will rise to-morrow.”“Forewarned is forearmed. Now where have you been since I sent you off in the winter to visit Asia?”[pg 58]The man, who knew his master loved to do the lion’s share of the talking, answered instantly:—“Sardis, Emesa, Babylon, Susa, Persepolis, Ecbatana.”“Eu!Your commission is well executed. Are all the rumours we hear from the East well founded? Is Xerxes assembling an innumerable host?”“Rumour does not tell half the truth. Not one tribe in Asia but is required to send its fighting men. Two bridges of boats are being built across the Hellespont. The king will have twelve hundred war triremes, besides countless transports. The cavalry are being numbered by hundreds of thousands, the infantry by millions. Such an army was never assembled since Zeus conquered the Giants.”“A merry array!”Themistocles whistled an instant through his teeth; but, never confounded, urged on his questions.“So be it. But is Xerxes the man to command this host? He is no master of war like Darius his father.”“He is a creature for eunuchs and women; nevertheless his army will not suffer.”“And wherefore?”“Because Prince Mardonius, son of Gobryas, and brother-in-law of the king, has the wisdom and valour of Cyrus and Darius together. Name him, and you name the arch-foe of Hellas. He, not Xerxes, will be the true leader of the host.”“You saw him, of course?”“I did not. A Magian in Ecbatana told me a strange story.‘The Prince,’said he,‘hates the details of camps; leaving the preparation to others, he has gone to Greece to spy out the land he is to conquer.’”“Impossible, you are dreaming!”The exclamation came not from Themistocles but Democrates.[pg 59]“I am not dreaming, worthy sir,”returned Sicinnus, tartly;“the Magian may have lied, but I sought the Prince in every city I visited; they always told me,‘He is in another.’He was not at the king’s court. He may have gone to Egypt, to India, or to Arabia;—hemaylikewise have gone to Greece.”“These are serious tidings, Democrates,”remarked Themistocles, with an anxiety his voice seldom betrayed.“Sicinnus is right; the presence of such a man as Mardonius in Hellas explains many things.”“I do not understand.”“Why, the lukewarmness of so many friends we had counted on, the bickerings which arose among the Confederates when we met just now at the Isthmus, the slackness of all Spartans save Leonidas in preparing for war, the hesitancy of Corcyra in joining us. Thebes is Medizing, Crete is Medizing, so is Argos. Thessaly is wavering. I can almost name the princes and great nobles over Hellas who are clutching at Persian money. O Father Zeus,”wound up the Athenian,“if there is not some master-spirit directing all this villany, there is no wisdom in Themistocles, son of Neocles.”“But the coming of Mardonius to Greece?”questioned the younger man;“the peril he runs? the risk of discovery—”“Is all but nothing, except as he comes to Athens, for Medizers will shelter him everywhere. Yet there is one spot—blessed be Athena—”Themistocles’s hands went up in easy piety—“where, let him come if come he dare!”Then with a swift change, as was his wont, the statesman looked straight on Democrates.“Hark you, son of Myscelus; those Persian lords are reckless. He may even test the fates and set foot in Attica. I am cumbered with as many cares as Zeus, but this com[pg 60]mission I give to you. You are my most trusted lieutenant; I can risk no other. Keep watch, hire spies, scatter bribe-money. Rest not day nor night to find if Mardonius the Persian enters Athens. Once in our clutches—and you have done Hellas as fair a turn as Miltiades at Marathon. You promise it? Give me your hand.”“A great task,”spoke Democrates, none too readily.“And one you are worthy to accomplish. Are we not co-workers for Athens and for Hellas?”Themistocles’s hawklike eyes were unescapable. The younger Athenian thought they were reading his soul. He held out his hand....When Democrates returned to the hall, Cimon had ended his song. The guests were applauding furiously. Wine was still going round, but Glaucon and Hermione were not joining. Across the table they were conversing in low sentences that Democrates could not catch. But he knew well enough the meaning as each face flashed back the beauty of the other. And his mind wandered back darkly to the day when Glaucon had come to him, more radiant than even his wont, and cried,“Give me joy, dear comrade, joy! Hermippus has promised me the fairest maiden in Athens.”Some evil god had made Democrates blind to all his boon-companion’s wooing. How many hopes of the orator that day had been shattered! Yet he had even professed to rejoice with the son of Conon.... He sat in sombre silence, until the piping voice of Simonides awakened him.“Friend, if you are a fool, you do a wise thing in keeping still; if a wise man, a very foolish thing.”“Wine, boy,”ordered Democrates;“and less water in it. I feel wretchedly stupid to-day.”He spent the rest of the feast drinking deeply, and with much forced laughter. The dinner ended toward evening.[pg 61]The whole company escorted the victor toward Athens. At Daphni, the pass over the hills, the archons and strategi—highest officials of the state—met them with cavalry and torches and half of the city trailing at their heels. Twenty cubits of the city wall were pulled down to make a gate for the triumphal entry. There was another great feast at the government house. The purse of an hundred drachmæ, due by law to Isthmian victors, was presented. A street was named for Glaucon in the new port-town of Peiræus. Simonides recited a triumphal ode. All Athens, in short, made merry for days. Only one man found it hard to join the mirth whole-heartedly. And this was the victor’s bosom friend,—Democrates.

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[pg 52]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[pg 53]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 demarch2of 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—[pg 54]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!He has triumphed, our own, our beloved,Before all the myriad’s ken.He has met the swift, has proved swifter!The strong, has proved stronger again!Now glory to him, to his kinfolk,To Athens, and all Athens’ men![pg 55]Meet, run to meet him,The nimblest are not too fleet.Greet him, with raptures greet him,With songs and with twinkling feet.He approaches,—throw flowers before him.Throw poppy and lily and rose;Blow faster, gay pipers, faster,Till your mad music throbs and flows,For his glory and ours flies through Hellas,Wherever the Sun-King goes.

“Io! Io, pæan! the parsley-wreathed victor hail!

Io! Io, pæan! sing it out on each breeze, each gale!

He has triumphed, our own, our beloved,

Before all the myriad’s ken.

He has met the swift, has proved swifter!

The strong, has proved stronger again!

Now glory to him, to his kinfolk,

To Athens, and all Athens’ men!

[pg 55]Meet, run to meet him,

The nimblest are not too fleet.

Greet him, with raptures greet him,

With songs and with twinkling feet.

He approaches,—throw flowers before him.

Throw poppy and lily and rose;

Blow faster, gay pipers, faster,

Till your mad music throbs and flows,

For his glory and ours flies through Hellas,

Wherever the Sun-King goes.

Io! Io, pæan! crown with laurel and myrtle and pine,Io, pæan! haste to crown him with olive, Athena’s dark vine.He is with us, he shines in his beauty;Oh, joy of his face the first sight;He has shed on us all his bright honour,Let High Zeus shed on him his light,And thou, Pallas, our gray-eyed protectress,Keep his name and his fame ever bright!”

Io! Io, pæan! crown with laurel and myrtle and pine,

Io, pæan! haste to crown him with olive, Athena’s dark vine.

He is with us, he shines in his beauty;

Oh, joy of his face the first sight;

He has shed on us all his bright honour,

Let High Zeus shed on him his light,

And thou, Pallas, our gray-eyed protectress,

Keep his name and his fame ever bright!”

Matching action to the song, they threw over the victor crowns and chains beyond number, till the parsley wreath was hidden from sight. Near the gate of Hermippus the jubilant company halted. The demarch bawled long for silence, won it at last, and approached the chariot. He, good man, had been a long day meditating on his speech of formal congratulation and enjoyed his opportunity. Glaucon’s eyes still roved and questioned, yet the demarch rolled out his windy sentences. But there was something unexpected. Even as the magistrate took breath after reciting the victor’s noble ancestry, there was a cry, a parting of the crowd, and Glaucon the Alcmæonid leaped from the chariot as never on the sands at Corinth. The veil and the violet wreath fell from the head of Hermione when her face went up to her husband’s. The blossoms that had covered the athlete shook over her like a cloud as his face met hers. Then even the honest demarch cut short his eloquence to swell the salvo.

“The beautiful to the beautiful! The gods reward well. Here is the fairest crown!”

For all Eleusis loved Hermione, and would have forgiven far greater things from her than this.

* * * * * * *

Hermippus feasted the whole company,—the crowd at long tables in the court, the chosen guests in a more private chamber.“Nothing to excess”was the truly Hellenic maxim of the refined Eleusinian; and he obeyed it. His banquet was elegant without gluttony. The Syracusan cook had prepared a lordly turbot. The wine was choice old Chian but well diluted. There was no vulgar gorging with meat, after the Bœotian manner; but the great Copaic eel,“such as Poseidon might have sent up to Olympus,”made every gourmand clap his hands. The aromatic honey was the choicest from Mt. Hymettus.

Since the smaller company was well selected, convention was waived, and ladies were present. Hermione sat on a wide chair beside Lysistra, her comely mother; her younger brothers on stools at either hand. Directly across the narrow table Glaucon and Democrates reclined on the same couch. The eyes of husband and wife seldom left each other; their tongues flew fast; they never saw how Democrates hardly took his gaze from the face of Hermione. Simonides, who reclined beside Themistocles,—having struck a firm friendship with that statesman on very brief acquaintance,—was overrunning with humour and anecdote. The great man beside him was hardly his second in the fence of wit and wisdom. After the fish had given way to the wine, Simonides regaled the company with a gravely related story of how the Dioscuri had personally appeared to him during his last stay in Thessaly and saved him from certain death in a falling building.

“You swear this is a true tale, Simonides?”began Themistocles, with one eye in his head.

“It’s impiety to doubt. As penalty, rise at once and sing a song in honour of Glaucon’s victory.”

“I am no singer or harpist,”returned the statesman, with a self-complacency he never concealed.“I only know how to make Athens powerful.”

“Ah! you son of Miltiades,”urged the poet,“at least you will not refuse so churlishly.”

Cimon, with due excuses, arose, called for a harp, and began tuning it; but not all the company were destined to hear him. A slave-boy touched Themistocles on the shoulder, and the latter started to go.

“The Dioscuri will save you?”demanded Simonides, laughing.

“Quite other gods,”rejoined the statesman;“your pardon, Cimon, I return in a moment. An agent of mine is back from Asia, surely with news of weight, if he must seek me at once in Eleusis.”

But Themistocles lingered outside; an instant more brought a summons to Democrates, who found Themistocles in an antechamber, deep in talk with Sicinnus,—nominally the tutor of his sons, actually a trusted spy. The first glance at the Asiatic’s keen face and eyes was disturbing. An inward omen—not from the entrails of birds, nor a sign in the heavens—told Democrates the fellow brought no happy tidings.

With incisive questions Themistocles had been bringing out everything.

“So it is absolutely certain that Xerxes begins his invasion next spring?”

“As certain as that Helios will rise to-morrow.”

“Forewarned is forearmed. Now where have you been since I sent you off in the winter to visit Asia?”

The man, who knew his master loved to do the lion’s share of the talking, answered instantly:—

“Sardis, Emesa, Babylon, Susa, Persepolis, Ecbatana.”

“Eu!Your commission is well executed. Are all the rumours we hear from the East well founded? Is Xerxes assembling an innumerable host?”

“Rumour does not tell half the truth. Not one tribe in Asia but is required to send its fighting men. Two bridges of boats are being built across the Hellespont. The king will have twelve hundred war triremes, besides countless transports. The cavalry are being numbered by hundreds of thousands, the infantry by millions. Such an army was never assembled since Zeus conquered the Giants.”

“A merry array!”Themistocles whistled an instant through his teeth; but, never confounded, urged on his questions.“So be it. But is Xerxes the man to command this host? He is no master of war like Darius his father.”

“He is a creature for eunuchs and women; nevertheless his army will not suffer.”

“And wherefore?”

“Because Prince Mardonius, son of Gobryas, and brother-in-law of the king, has the wisdom and valour of Cyrus and Darius together. Name him, and you name the arch-foe of Hellas. He, not Xerxes, will be the true leader of the host.”

“You saw him, of course?”

“I did not. A Magian in Ecbatana told me a strange story.‘The Prince,’said he,‘hates the details of camps; leaving the preparation to others, he has gone to Greece to spy out the land he is to conquer.’”

“Impossible, you are dreaming!”The exclamation came not from Themistocles but Democrates.

“I am not dreaming, worthy sir,”returned Sicinnus, tartly;“the Magian may have lied, but I sought the Prince in every city I visited; they always told me,‘He is in another.’He was not at the king’s court. He may have gone to Egypt, to India, or to Arabia;—hemaylikewise have gone to Greece.”

“These are serious tidings, Democrates,”remarked Themistocles, with an anxiety his voice seldom betrayed.“Sicinnus is right; the presence of such a man as Mardonius in Hellas explains many things.”

“I do not understand.”

“Why, the lukewarmness of so many friends we had counted on, the bickerings which arose among the Confederates when we met just now at the Isthmus, the slackness of all Spartans save Leonidas in preparing for war, the hesitancy of Corcyra in joining us. Thebes is Medizing, Crete is Medizing, so is Argos. Thessaly is wavering. I can almost name the princes and great nobles over Hellas who are clutching at Persian money. O Father Zeus,”wound up the Athenian,“if there is not some master-spirit directing all this villany, there is no wisdom in Themistocles, son of Neocles.”

“But the coming of Mardonius to Greece?”questioned the younger man;“the peril he runs? the risk of discovery—”

“Is all but nothing, except as he comes to Athens, for Medizers will shelter him everywhere. Yet there is one spot—blessed be Athena—”Themistocles’s hands went up in easy piety—“where, let him come if come he dare!”Then with a swift change, as was his wont, the statesman looked straight on Democrates.

“Hark you, son of Myscelus; those Persian lords are reckless. He may even test the fates and set foot in Attica. I am cumbered with as many cares as Zeus, but this com[pg 60]mission I give to you. You are my most trusted lieutenant; I can risk no other. Keep watch, hire spies, scatter bribe-money. Rest not day nor night to find if Mardonius the Persian enters Athens. Once in our clutches—and you have done Hellas as fair a turn as Miltiades at Marathon. You promise it? Give me your hand.”

“A great task,”spoke Democrates, none too readily.

“And one you are worthy to accomplish. Are we not co-workers for Athens and for Hellas?”

Themistocles’s hawklike eyes were unescapable. The younger Athenian thought they were reading his soul. He held out his hand....

When Democrates returned to the hall, Cimon had ended his song. The guests were applauding furiously. Wine was still going round, but Glaucon and Hermione were not joining. Across the table they were conversing in low sentences that Democrates could not catch. But he knew well enough the meaning as each face flashed back the beauty of the other. And his mind wandered back darkly to the day when Glaucon had come to him, more radiant than even his wont, and cried,“Give me joy, dear comrade, joy! Hermippus has promised me the fairest maiden in Athens.”Some evil god had made Democrates blind to all his boon-companion’s wooing. How many hopes of the orator that day had been shattered! Yet he had even professed to rejoice with the son of Conon.... He sat in sombre silence, until the piping voice of Simonides awakened him.

“Friend, if you are a fool, you do a wise thing in keeping still; if a wise man, a very foolish thing.”

“Wine, boy,”ordered Democrates;“and less water in it. I feel wretchedly stupid to-day.”

He spent the rest of the feast drinking deeply, and with much forced laughter. The dinner ended toward evening.[pg 61]The whole company escorted the victor toward Athens. At Daphni, the pass over the hills, the archons and strategi—highest officials of the state—met them with cavalry and torches and half of the city trailing at their heels. Twenty cubits of the city wall were pulled down to make a gate for the triumphal entry. There was another great feast at the government house. The purse of an hundred drachmæ, due by law to Isthmian victors, was presented. A street was named for Glaucon in the new port-town of Peiræus. Simonides recited a triumphal ode. All Athens, in short, made merry for days. Only one man found it hard to join the mirth whole-heartedly. And this was the victor’s bosom friend,—Democrates.

[pg 62]CHAPTER VIATHENSIn Athens! Shall one mount the Acropolis or enter the market place? Worship in the temple of the Virgin Athena, or descend to the Agora and the roar of its getters and spenders? For Athens has two faces—toward the ideal, toward the commonplace. Who can regard both at once? Let the Acropolis, its sculptures, its landscape, wait. It has waited for men three thousand years. And so to the Agora.“Full market time.”The Agora was a beehive. From the round Tholus at the south to the long portico at the north all was babel and traffic. Donkeys raised their wheezing protest against too heavy loads of farm produce. 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 plough[pg 63]ing 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!”[pg 64]“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,[pg 65]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 ahumouroustwinkle. 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[pg 66]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[pg 67]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[pg 68]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 movingOver 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 womenWhen 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[pg 69]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!”Hegias, the“King Archon,”chief of the state religion, took the Bema. His speech was brief and to the point.“All the priests and seers of Attica have consulted. Xenagoras speaks for them all save Hermippus of the house of Eumolpus, who denies the others’ interpretation.”Confusion followed. Men rose, swung their arms, harangued madly from where they stood. The chairman in vain ordered“Silence!”and was fain to bid the Scythian constables restore order. An elderly farmer thrust himself forward, took the wreath, and poured out his rustic wisdom from the Bema. His advice was simple. The oracle said“the wooden wall”would be a bulwark, and by the wooden wall was surely meant the Acropolis which had once been protected by a palisade. Let all Attica shut itself in the citadel and endure a siege.[pg 70]So far he had proceeded garrulously, but the high-strung multitude could endure no more.“Kataba! Kataba!”“Go down! go down!”pealed the yell, emphasized by a shower of pebbles. The elder tore the wreath from his head and fled the Bema. Then out of the confusion came a general cry.“Cimon, son of Miltiades, speak to us!”But that young nobleman preserved a discreet silence, and the multitude turned to another favourite.“Democrates, son of Myscelus, speak to us!”The popular orator only wrapped his cloak about him, as he sat near the chairman’s stand, never answering the call he rejoiced of wont to hear.There were cries for Hermippus, cries even for Glaucon, as if prowess in the pentathlon gave ability to unravel oracles. The athlete sitting beside Democrates merely blushed and drew closer to his friend. Then at last the despairing people turned to their last resource.“Themistocles, son of Neocles, speak to us!”Thrice the call in vain; but at the fourth time a wave of silence swept across the Pnyx. A figure well beloved was taking the wreath and mounting the Bema.The words of Themistocles that day were to ring in his hearer’s ears till life’s end. The careless, almost sybaritic, man of the Isthmus and Eleusis seemed transfigured. For one moment he stood silent, lofty, awe-inspiring. He had a mighty task: to calm the superstitious fears of thirty thousand, to silence the prophets of evil, to infuse those myriads with his own high courage. He began with a voice so low it would have seemed a whisper if not audible to all the Pnyx. Quickly he warmed. His gestures became dramatic. His voice rose to a trumpet-call. He swept his hearers with him as dry leaves before the blast.“When he[pg 71]began to weave his words, one might have deemed him churlish, nay a fool, but when from his chest came his deep voice, and words like unto flakes of winter snow, then who could with him contend?”Thus Homer of Odysseus the Guileful, thus as truly of Themistocles saviour of Hellas.First he told the old, but never wearisome story of the past of Athens. How, from the days of Codrus long ago, Athens had never bowed the knee to an invader, how she had wrested Salamis from greedy Megara, how she had hounded out the tyrannizing sons of Peisistratus, how she had braved all the wrath of Persian Darius and dashed his huge armament back at Marathon. With such a past, only a madman as well as traitor would dream of submitting to Xerxes now. But as for the admonition of Xenagoras to quit Attica and never strike a blow, Themistocles would have none of it. With a clearness that appealed to every home-loving Hellene he pictured the fate of wanderers as only one step better than that of slaves. What, then, was left? The orator had a decisive answer. Was not the“wooden wall”which should endure for the Athenians the great fleet they were just completing? And as for the fate of the battle the speaker had an unexpected solution.“Holy Salamis,”spoke the Pythoness. And would she have said“holy,”if the issue had been only woe to the sons of Athens?“Luckless Salamis”were then more reasonably the word; yet the prophetess so far from predicting defeat had assured them victory.Thus ran the substance of the speech on which many a soul knew hung the mending or ending of Hellas, but lit all through with gleams of wit, shades of pathos, outbursts of eloquence which burned into the hearers’ hearts as though the speaker were a god. Then at the end, Themistocles, knowing his audience was with him, delivered his peroration:—[pg 72]“Let him who trusts in oracles trust then in this, and in the old prophecy of Epimenides that when the Persian comes it is to his hurt. But I will say with Hector of Troy,‘One oracle is best—to fight for one’s native country.’Others may vote as they will. My vote is that if the foe by land be too great, we retire before him to our ships, ay, forsake even well-loved Attica, but only that we may trust to the‘wooden wall,’and fight the Great King by sea at Salamis. We contend not with gods but with men. Let others fear. I will trust to Athena Polias,—the goddess terrible in battle. Hearken then to Solon the Wise (the orator pointed toward the temple upon the soaring Acropolis):—“‘Our Athens need fear no hurtThough gods may conspire her ill.The hand that hath borne us up,It guides us and guards us still.Athena, the child of Zeus,She watches and knows no fear.The city rests safe from harmBeneath her protecting spear.’Thus trusting in Athena, we will meet the foe at Salamis and will destroy him.”“Who wishes to speak?”called the herald. The Pnyx answered together. The vote to retire from Attica if needs be, to strengthen the fleet, to risk all in a great battle, was carried with a shout. Men ran to Themistocles, calling him,“Peitho,—Queen Persuasion.”He made light of their praises, and walked with his handsome head tossed back toward the general’s office by the Agora, to attend to some routine business. Glaucon, Cimon, and Democrates went westward to calm their exhilaration with a ball-game at the gymnasium of Cynosarges. On the way Glaucon called attention to a foreigner that passed them.[pg 73]“Look, Democrates, that fellow is wonderfully like the honest barbarian who applauded me at the Isthmus.”Democrates glanced twice.“Dear Glaucon,”said he,“that fellow had a long blond beard, while this man’s is black as a crow.”And he spoke the truth; yet despite the disguise he clearly recognized the“Cyprian.”

In Athens! Shall one mount the Acropolis or enter the market place? Worship in the temple of the Virgin Athena, or descend to the Agora and the roar of its getters and spenders? For Athens has two faces—toward the ideal, toward the commonplace. Who can regard both at once? Let the Acropolis, its sculptures, its landscape, wait. It has waited for men three thousand years. And so to the Agora.

“Full market time.”The Agora was a beehive. From the round Tholus at the south to the long portico at the north all was babel and traffic. Donkeys raised their wheezing protest against too heavy loads of farm produce. 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 plough[pg 63]ing 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,[pg 65]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 ahumouroustwinkle. 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[pg 66]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[pg 67]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[pg 68]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 movingOver 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 womenWhen men scatter the seed, or when they gather the harvest.’”

“‘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[pg 69]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!”

Hegias, the“King Archon,”chief of the state religion, took the Bema. His speech was brief and to the point.

“All the priests and seers of Attica have consulted. Xenagoras speaks for them all save Hermippus of the house of Eumolpus, who denies the others’ interpretation.”

Confusion followed. Men rose, swung their arms, harangued madly from where they stood. The chairman in vain ordered“Silence!”and was fain to bid the Scythian constables restore order. An elderly farmer thrust himself forward, took the wreath, and poured out his rustic wisdom from the Bema. His advice was simple. The oracle said“the wooden wall”would be a bulwark, and by the wooden wall was surely meant the Acropolis which had once been protected by a palisade. Let all Attica shut itself in the citadel and endure a siege.

So far he had proceeded garrulously, but the high-strung multitude could endure no more.“Kataba! Kataba!”“Go down! go down!”pealed the yell, emphasized by a shower of pebbles. The elder tore the wreath from his head and fled the Bema. Then out of the confusion came a general cry.

“Cimon, son of Miltiades, speak to us!”

But that young nobleman preserved a discreet silence, and the multitude turned to another favourite.

“Democrates, son of Myscelus, speak to us!”

The popular orator only wrapped his cloak about him, as he sat near the chairman’s stand, never answering the call he rejoiced of wont to hear.

There were cries for Hermippus, cries even for Glaucon, as if prowess in the pentathlon gave ability to unravel oracles. The athlete sitting beside Democrates merely blushed and drew closer to his friend. Then at last the despairing people turned to their last resource.

“Themistocles, son of Neocles, speak to us!”

Thrice the call in vain; but at the fourth time a wave of silence swept across the Pnyx. A figure well beloved was taking the wreath and mounting the Bema.

The words of Themistocles that day were to ring in his hearer’s ears till life’s end. The careless, almost sybaritic, man of the Isthmus and Eleusis seemed transfigured. For one moment he stood silent, lofty, awe-inspiring. He had a mighty task: to calm the superstitious fears of thirty thousand, to silence the prophets of evil, to infuse those myriads with his own high courage. He began with a voice so low it would have seemed a whisper if not audible to all the Pnyx. Quickly he warmed. His gestures became dramatic. His voice rose to a trumpet-call. He swept his hearers with him as dry leaves before the blast.“When he[pg 71]began to weave his words, one might have deemed him churlish, nay a fool, but when from his chest came his deep voice, and words like unto flakes of winter snow, then who could with him contend?”Thus Homer of Odysseus the Guileful, thus as truly of Themistocles saviour of Hellas.

First he told the old, but never wearisome story of the past of Athens. How, from the days of Codrus long ago, Athens had never bowed the knee to an invader, how she had wrested Salamis from greedy Megara, how she had hounded out the tyrannizing sons of Peisistratus, how she had braved all the wrath of Persian Darius and dashed his huge armament back at Marathon. With such a past, only a madman as well as traitor would dream of submitting to Xerxes now. But as for the admonition of Xenagoras to quit Attica and never strike a blow, Themistocles would have none of it. With a clearness that appealed to every home-loving Hellene he pictured the fate of wanderers as only one step better than that of slaves. What, then, was left? The orator had a decisive answer. Was not the“wooden wall”which should endure for the Athenians the great fleet they were just completing? And as for the fate of the battle the speaker had an unexpected solution.“Holy Salamis,”spoke the Pythoness. And would she have said“holy,”if the issue had been only woe to the sons of Athens?“Luckless Salamis”were then more reasonably the word; yet the prophetess so far from predicting defeat had assured them victory.

Thus ran the substance of the speech on which many a soul knew hung the mending or ending of Hellas, but lit all through with gleams of wit, shades of pathos, outbursts of eloquence which burned into the hearers’ hearts as though the speaker were a god. Then at the end, Themistocles, knowing his audience was with him, delivered his peroration:—

“Let him who trusts in oracles trust then in this, and in the old prophecy of Epimenides that when the Persian comes it is to his hurt. But I will say with Hector of Troy,‘One oracle is best—to fight for one’s native country.’Others may vote as they will. My vote is that if the foe by land be too great, we retire before him to our ships, ay, forsake even well-loved Attica, but only that we may trust to the‘wooden wall,’and fight the Great King by sea at Salamis. We contend not with gods but with men. Let others fear. I will trust to Athena Polias,—the goddess terrible in battle. Hearken then to Solon the Wise (the orator pointed toward the temple upon the soaring Acropolis):—

“‘Our Athens need fear no hurtThough gods may conspire her ill.The hand that hath borne us up,It guides us and guards us still.Athena, the child of Zeus,She watches and knows no fear.The city rests safe from harmBeneath her protecting spear.’

“‘Our Athens need fear no hurt

Though gods may conspire her ill.

The hand that hath borne us up,

It guides us and guards us still.

Athena, the child of Zeus,

She watches and knows no fear.

The city rests safe from harm

Beneath her protecting spear.’

Thus trusting in Athena, we will meet the foe at Salamis and will destroy him.”

“Who wishes to speak?”called the herald. The Pnyx answered together. The vote to retire from Attica if needs be, to strengthen the fleet, to risk all in a great battle, was carried with a shout. Men ran to Themistocles, calling him,“Peitho,—Queen Persuasion.”He made light of their praises, and walked with his handsome head tossed back toward the general’s office by the Agora, to attend to some routine business. Glaucon, Cimon, and Democrates went westward to calm their exhilaration with a ball-game at the gymnasium of Cynosarges. On the way Glaucon called attention to a foreigner that passed them.

“Look, Democrates, that fellow is wonderfully like the honest barbarian who applauded me at the Isthmus.”

Democrates glanced twice.

“Dear Glaucon,”said he,“that fellow had a long blond beard, while this man’s is black as a crow.”And he spoke the truth; yet despite the disguise he clearly recognized the“Cyprian.”

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