An officer laid rough hands on the aged Moschion: “Old bald head, your time on earth is about up, anyway. You may as well journey on without delay. Old Charon is waiting to ferry you across the Styx.”
“Hold!” cried another voice, “I prefer to die first and not witness the end of these my followers.” It was Kyrsilus.
“As you wish,” cried the big Persian, “you are all to go anyway.”
The brave Kyrsilus knelt before his captor whose spear-head disappeared in his breast. His face was convulsed in the agony of death, but with his last faint breath he tried to speak to Persephone. “Perhaps you were right—about the oracle—to the rocks—below—”
Immediately following the tragic death of the leader the remaining men were killed and the rough floor of the little chapel became slippery with blood. A number of the women, following old Kyrsilus’ advice, flung themselves to certain death upon the ground below rather than fall into the hands of Xerxes’ soldiers.
It was Artabazus, one of the most insolent and rapacious of the king’s officers, who discovered Persephone and Ladice cowering in a remote corner.
“Oho, look what I have found here!” he laughed in a coarse loud voice. “Surely such a prize was worth that perilous climb.”
He took a step forward and seized Persephone roughly, but as he did so, he caught the eye of a young officer who had just arrived upon the scene together with Xerxes himself. The king took in the situation at a glance and his narrow eyes gleamed in approbation.
“A brave soldier deserves a fair prize, Artabazus,” he said.
“One moment please!” It was the voice of the young officer Zopyrus. “Did you not, cousin Xerxes, promise me a choice of the fairest maidens of the kingdom? This land of Greece is now a part of your kingdom, O mighty conqueror, and out of it I choose the maiden whom Artabazus now holds.”
“It is all one with me,” cried the impatient monarch, “Artabazus shall have the other maid.”
Zopyrus stepped forward and took the half unconscious form of the beautiful girl in his arms, and amid the coarse jests and ribaldry of the Persian soldiery, fled with his burden to the city below.
“First from the Greeks a tuneful shout uprose,Well omened, and with replication loud,Leaped the blithe echo from the rocky shore.Fear seized the Persian host, no longer trickedBy vain opinion; not like wavering flightBillowed the solemn paean of the Greeks,But like the shout of men to battle urging,With lusty cheer.”Aeschylus.
“First from the Greeks a tuneful shout uprose,
Well omened, and with replication loud,
Leaped the blithe echo from the rocky shore.
Fear seized the Persian host, no longer tricked
By vain opinion; not like wavering flight
Billowed the solemn paean of the Greeks,
But like the shout of men to battle urging,
With lusty cheer.”
Aeschylus.
The Persian forces were now turning from the Acropolis, and drunk with victory, were scattering over the city. Dwellings were plundered and burned, and a few wild-eyed Greeks who had remained to guard their valuable possessions, fled in mad confusion, but were overtaken by the ruthless enemy and slaughtered.
Zopyrus’ one desire was to leave behind him the horrors of massacre and conflagration. With great difficulty he forced his way through jostling crowds of demoniac soldiers, who upon recognition of his uniform and insignia, stayed their impulse which was to murder any who did not take part with them in the destruction of the city.
The heat of a noon-day sun shone upon a scene unparalleled in the gruesome aspect which it presented. Zopyrus turned his face to the west, for in this direction the Persians did not go. Their fiendish work was in the heart of the once glorious city which lay to the north and east. Many too were pursuing a south-west course in the direction of the bay of Phalerum where the Persian navy had its headquarters.
As Zopyrus trudged onward, the limp form of the Greek girl in his arms, he noticed that the road which he had chosen, though now deserted, was of unusual width and well paved. The dazzling heat, reflected from the white pavement, became oppressive, and it was with a feeling of ineffable joy that he saw to the right the cool green shadows of an olive-grove. Looking back between the gnarled trunks of two large trees whose branches were entwined in serpentine fashion, he beheld the Acropolis topped with its smoldering ruins. Once within the cool recesses of the grove he deposited his burden, and as he did so, he received a shock. Where before had he beheld those identical features in the relaxation of death? He looked again intently, thinking it an hallucination, and while his gaze rested upon her face, the maiden opened her eyes. With a look of unspeakable horror she recoiled, then as quickly turned her face in his direction, her features expressing amazement. The refinement of his countenance in combination with his Persian uniform astonished her greatly. She marveled at his attitude of reserve. His gaze met hers and held it with an impelling magnetism till she dropped her eyes in confusion.
“You—are a Greek in disguise?” she faltered.
“On the contrary, I am a Persian officer in the army of Xerxes,” he replied, and perceiving her look of terror, he added, “but I will not harm you, rather I have rescued you from a horrible fate.”
“And I am truly grateful, but I am puzzled as to why you should care to do that for me, a daughter of the enemy.”
“The motives of a Persian are not always altogether base,” he replied somewhat coldly.
“A thousand pardons,” she beseeched, “I am greatly indebted to you for your kindness, but my people have suffered horribly at the hands of yours, and surely you can not wonder at my attitude!”
“No,” he replied more gently, “I do not blame you, but I am glad to prove to you that Ahura-Mazdâo may be as deserving of worship as Zeus.”
To his surprise the suspicion of a smile flitted across her face. Was this bewitching Athenian maiden mocking him? Her features were again serious as she said: “Ahura-Mazdâo and Zeus are one. There is one all-powerful God, and compared with Him the others are quite insignificant.”
“You believe that?” he asked with fresh interest. “I had supposed polytheism to be the unshaken belief of the Greeks.”
“Of the majority that is true,” she replied seriously, “but many of us, while performing the rites due our gods and goddesses, send our prayers to a Deity who is above the petty jealousies of the gods of Olympus. It was a prayer to that Deity which saved me from a tragic fate on the Acropolis!”
He looked at her with a new interest. Not only did he consider her very beautiful, but he was surprised to find her possessing more intellect than was usual among the Persian girls of his acquaintance. He knew too, that the Greek women were educated to be principally home-makers, and that beyond the duties of wives and mothers, their training was somewhat deficient. Therefore he was not a little amazed that this maid of Athens could express her views on religion with the assurance of a man.
“If a prayer to the Deity saved you, can not another such prayer save your ships there at Salamis?” he asked, but so kindly that she did not resent his question.
“Let us go to the shore,” she cried eagerly, “and there I shall pray that success may come to my poor fellow-countrymen who know that their beloved city lies in ashes!”
As they ascended the ravine which intersects the range of Mt. Aegaleos and gazed beyond toward the low hills which lay like purple velvet, fold on fold, it seemed to the man and the maid that hatred and warfare must be altogether odious to a God who had created such beauty. And it seemed to them that man, the crown of his creation, was not fashioned for the murder of his fellows, or to perish on the bloody field of battle. They passed numerous sanctuaries and temples whose white pillars stood like silent ghosts hiding amid the dark foliage of shady groves, or half concealed behind some grassy hillock, but always the great vault of the universal temple impressed upon them their common beliefs. At length from the top of a woody eminence they beheld the silvery sheet of the bay of Salamis, dotted with the Greek triremes.
“Let us take this wooded path to the south,” suggested Zopyrus. “It will take us to the shore at a point considerably north of the Persian forces and out of the danger of meeting any chance pedestrians to Eleusis.”
Persephone had explained that the road which they had traveled up to this point was indeed the Sacred Way which led from Athens to the city of Eleusis where there was a temple dedicated to the worship of Demeter and of Dionysus.
“Many of my friends are now on yonder island,” said Persephone pointing in the direction of the mountains of Salamis which girdled the bay.
“Why were you not with them in this time of peril to your city?” asked the Persian.
“Because my father, who is out there with the Greek fleet, left me in the care of an old friend, Kyrsilus, who believed that Athens could be saved by defending the Acropolis. My father will be frantic with grief when he hears of the fate of Athens, for he lost a son, my twin brother, in the battle of Thermopylæ. My brother Phales, was considered too young to fight and was refused permission to join the naval forces when he applied to Eurybiades, the commander of our fleet, so he united with the Spartans under king Leonidas, and as you know, not one of the three-hundred soldiers escaped death.”
Zopyrus was too overcome with emotion to trust himself to speak. Like a flash the association of her lovely face as she lay passive in his arms, with that other face, so strangely similar, was made clear. His had been the hand that had laid low that youth just on the threshold of manhood, and caused sorrow to the brave father and the devoted sister! In his mind he lived over again that period of mental anguish preceding the battle of Thermopylæ. Then once again as in the heat of battle he saw before him the handsome face of the Greek lad as he lay at his feet in the peace of death. Oh, it was unbearable! He passed his hand across his eyes as if to shut out the haunting vision and lo! as he drew his hand away the same face was before him still, only now it appeared in the fresh vigor of life! As they followed the course of the little by-path, she noticed his sudden silence and wondered if it were possible that he felt any sorrow that a Greek soldier, though her brother, had met death in the pass of Thermopylæ.
No more words passed between them until they stood side by side on a small promontory, the bay, reflecting the glory of an afternoon sun at their feet. Persephone stood shading her eyes and looking eagerly toward the Greek triremes as if she hoped even at that distance to be able to discern a familiar figure on board. It was with new emotions that Zopyrus watched the slender form of the girl silhouetted against a horizon of water and sky like a sylph limned on gauze. She was clad in the flowing white, sleevelesschitonof the women of higher caste, with a plaitedkolpos, giving a puff effect at the waist. Her hair, gold where the sun shone upon it but brown in the shadows, was parted so that it fell in loose waves around her temples. At the back, low in her neck, it was gathered in a soft Psyche knot. Her nose was typically Greek, straight and thin, and the perfect contour of cheek and chin was the same that Zopyrus had observed in the slain lad at Thermopylæ.
“Just so have the opposing fleets lain for days,” she cried. “That is the position in which they were when news was received at Athens that Aristides had arrived from Aegina whither he had been banished.”
“Do you think the Greek fleet would do well to strike first? Why not wait for the Persians to take the initiative?” Zopyrus asked.
“Do you think I will tell you, a Persian, what I think?” she cried angrily.
He thought she was going to leave him, but in that he was mistaken. She walked a few paces away still gazing with shaded eyes toward the triremes. Her features now showed the tragic expression of despair. Themistocles had told the Athenians that the Peloponnesians might withdraw their ships, and this, Persephone knew would mean victory to the Persians, and Asiatic rule in Greece. Why, oh why did the Greek ships hold back! It was in an agony of despair that the girl sank to her knees and would have fallen had Zopyrus not run to her assistance.
“The prayer, oh, I had nearly forgotten the prayer for my people! I said I would pray at the shore and so I shall, for the salvation of Greece and the expulsion of the enemy!” The tears were coursing down her rounded cheeks and her frame shook with sobs. Reverently she raised her eyes to heaven and prayed with greater fervor than she had on the Acropolis. Then a few lives had been at stake, now the future of a nation and possibly races of mankind were involved!
The sun apparently crept a few feet nearer its goal and still the girl remained in her attitude of supplication. All at once she stood erect and turned amazed in the direction of Eleusis and the Sacred Way. Borne on the breeze that was wafted across the picturesque bay of Eleusis came the sound of myriads of voices raised in a mighty pæan of joy. The chant rose and fell in awful grandeur striking fear and adoring wonder to the hearts of Persians and Greeks.
“It is the Hymn to Dionysus!” cried Persephone. “That is the way it sounds at festival times, only this is a thousand times grander. There are none left in Greece to sing that hymn! Do you not see it is a miracle sent by the Deity in answer to my prayer? Listen!”
The volume of sound grew louder and more distinct until it seemed to surround them and they stood dumb with astonishment. Out over the waters of Salamis drifted the pæan of solemn, dignified joy, and into the heart of every Greek it sent its message. Never to hear again in reality the Hymn to Dionysus! Never to walk in joyous procession with the celebrants from Athens to Eleusis, bearing the statue of Iocchos! Never to celebrate the national festivals so dear to the heart of every Greek! Was Greece to be overrun and conquered by Orientals? The pæan died away gradually and was followed by an ominous, death-like silence. Then a very different sound pierced the ears of the two listeners. It was the battle-cry of the Greeks as they sent forth their ships to meet the enemy. All fear had fled. Only one motive actuated the entire fleet and that was to save Greece at any cost.
“Do you see the ship that leads the assault?” cried Persephone excitedly. “That is commanded by Lycomedes, a brave captain well deserving of the honors he has won in previous conflicts, but the ship behind is a close second.”
The leading Greek ship pursued a Persian vessel which was seemingly but a few feet in advance of the Greek boat.
“The Persian vessel is making for that narrow space yonder but I doubt if it will have room to turn about and face its antagonist. It is like sailing between Scylla and Charybdis,” said Zopyrus. “Look it is about to turn, but the space will not permit. There—!”
As he spoke the boat commanded by Lycomedes struck that of the Persian broadside, nearly cutting it in twain with the sharp, strong beak. Instantly the greatest confusion reigned on board the damaged vessel. Soldiers leapt into the water, preferring drowning to death or captivity at the hands of the enemy. Persephone turned away with a shudder. Zopyrus observed her narrowly.
“It pains you to witness the victory of this Lycomedes?” he asked with a touch of sarcasm.
“No, no,” she replied in distressed tones, “I should have been glad to hear of it, but I can not enjoy being an eye-witness to such a terrible scene!”
His feeling of bitterness left and he said more kindly, “Will you not go and rest under the shade of some tree well out of sight and somewhat out of sound of this battle?”
Her reply rather surprised him. “If you can watch so serenely the annihilation of your countrymen, I can endure witnessing the victory of mine. Oh,” here she unconsciously clutched Zopyrus’ arm, unaware of the thrill of contact to the Persian, “the second ship is commanded by my brave uncle, Ameinias. Look, he is pursuing a Persian ship which has so far eluded his beak!”
The battle was now raging in earnest, Persephone and Zopyrus stood with tense interest while at their feet was enacted one of the world’s great tragic dramas. The narrow space in which they were engaged hindered the Persians and rendered their superior number a disadvantage. Becoming panic-stricken, they collided with each other. Oars were broken, and unable to steer, they could not direct their blows with the prows, by which means they sought to sink an enemy ship. The bay was a moving mass of driving beaks and heaving wreckage.
“Whose is the vessel that my uncle still pursues?” asked the girl presently.
“That is the ship of Artemisia, queen of Halicarnassus,” he replied.
No sooner had the words fallen from his lips than the Karian queen’s boat collided with that of one of her countrymen, and Ameinias abandoned the pursuit. But Artemisia’s boat was not damaged and retreated quickly to the Persian side.
“I believe the collision was deliberate,” said Zopyrus more to himself than to his companion. “By apparently becoming a deserter and sinking one of her own ships, she escaped with her life.”
“Who is this Artemisia, that she commands a ship and displays such keen intelligence in naval warfare?” asked Persephone with growing interest.
“She is a companion of Xerxes, and had proven a wise counsellor. Her advice when followed has always been adept, and when unheeded, disaster has resulted. This naval engagement with the Greeks was undertaken entirely against her wishes and this is the result!”
Persephone smiled. “I am glad I do not have to serve in the capacity of king’s counsellor. My talents evidently lie in a different direction. I can not cause battles to be fought or not, at will.”
“No, little maid of Greece, but it seems that by your prayers you can determine the results of the battles thatarefought. Your power is far greater than that of Artemisia!”
Her eyes were filled with tears of happiness. “The One God who is powerful above all othersdoeshear and answer the prayers of earnest suppliants.”
It was difficult to say whether the sweet loveliness in the lines of Persephone’s face, or her majesty of character gave her the greater fascination, but as the youth gazed upon her features illuminated with triumph and joy, he became convinced that she was the most attractive woman he had ever known.
“When the battle is over, where will you go?” he asked.
“Wherever my father or uncle wish,—and you?”
For a moment he hesitated. Should he tell her of his Greek mother and of the conflicting emotions which had been his ever since the beginning of the campaign? She observed his indecision and said softly even seductively: “You have seen much to rouse your sympathy for my people, have you not? Surely the atrocities wrought by the Persians have not met with the approval of one who could rescue a maiden in dire distress, though she were of the enemy!”
Zopyrus was soldier before he was lover. He had come over with the Persian host to aid in subduing Greece, and here he was nearly allowing himself to be swayed by the charms of a Greek maid. For the moment he forgot that his Greek mother had been the strongest influence, barring his vows as an officer, that had as yet actuated him in this campaign. He felt momentarily the sting of the defeat of Salamis.
“I go to the Persians at Phalerum, after I have seen you safe with your people,” he replied coldly.
“There is no danger now,” she answered, and there was a twinkle in her eye. “With the defeat of the Persians, I am secure in my own country.”
He looked at her speechlessly as she stood in an attitude of superb defiance, then moved by a sudden impulse, he strode toward her and gathered her roughly in his arms, crushing her against him till she cried out with pain.
“You see your danger is not over, is it?” he asked fiercely.
She ceased to struggle, and when he looked at her pale face and into her eyes, which are ever truer messengers of the soul than the spoken words of the mouth, he read a truth which bewildered him. Passionately he kissed her lips, once, twice, thrice, then rudely put her from him and strode away in the direction of Phalerum.
“Maid of Athens, ere we part,Give, O, give me back my heart!Or since it has left my breast,Keep it now, and take the rest!”Lord Byron.
“Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, O, give me back my heart!
Or since it has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!”
Lord Byron.
A small barge shot out from the shadows of a cliff through the light spray which spumed about its prow as it cut the billows. Its occupants, in addition to the two oarsmen, were a youth and maiden of comely features. The former was clad in a long, deep borderedchitoncovered with achlamysor cape of semi-military style. His feet were protected by leather sandals, bound with straps about the calves of his legs. In indolent ease he stretched his too graceful form and gazed from beneath half closed eye-lids at the beautiful young woman who reclined upon a cushioned dais at the boat’s prow. The woman, if she were conscious of the other’s gaze, did not make it manifest. Her eyes sought the tranquil water with a dreamy, faraway expression. For some time the two sat thus. At length the man’s attitude of indolence changed abruptly. He leaned forward, drawing his companion’s gaze to his.
“Why this coolness to me, Persephone? You have been a changed girl ever since I found you wandering alone on the shore near Eleusis. Have the horrors of recent events affected your reason, that you do not smile upon me as was your wont?”
“It must be the war, Ephialtes, that makes my spirit so downcast. If only the entire Persian army had retreated across the Hellespont with Xerxes! Hordes of them still remain in Thessaly, rallying, I presume, to attack us again.”
“We are safe here at Salamis for the time being, and if I thought what you have said was the true cause of your listlessness, I should not worry, but I have feared lately that you consider seriously the attentions of Icetes, may Pluto take him!”
Persephone colored to her temples at these words. “Icetes is a sincere and lovable friend. He is no more to me than an elder brother and I will not hear his name so defiled.”
A sneer curled the handsome lips of the Greek but his expression changed quickly to one of passionate adoration. “I have loved you ever since I first saw you, Persephone, and I will not allow another to come between you, the rare object of my affections and me. Your father has consented to a betrothal, has he not?”
The maiden looked away quickly. “Father does not wholly approve of you, Ephialtes, if the truth must be known. You know father has strict ideas and I am his only daughter!”
“Of course you are,” the young man responded irritably, “but he must expect you to wed sometime, and where will he find a better suitor for your hand outside of royalty? I have wealth,” here Ephialtes touched the rich border of his costly garment and the jewel in his dark hair, “good looks, and prospects of political favor.”
Persephone hesitated to state that the doubtful source of Ephialtes’ wealth was one of her father’s objections to him as a prospective son-in-law. Also the fact that he spent his money lavishly upon personal comforts and luxuries, but had failed to donate toward the sum being raised for the rebuilding of Athens, was against him.
“Do not press me for an answer now, Ephialtes. The Persians have not yet been expelled from Greece, and you may have to don helmet and cuirass once again before our beloved country is safe from the oriental invader.”
“When the Athenians return to rebuild Athens will you give me your answer?” persisted Ephialtes.
“I will consider seriously at that time,” replied the girl smiling demurely into the handsome face now close to her own.
Persephone was a true Greek in that she believed that physical beauty was the index of the rarer qualities of mind and heart. The youth who sat opposite possessed physical beauty to an unusual degree. The soft breezes from across the water stirred his dark thick locks, and the dazzling reflection of the late afternoon sun on the dancing waves was reflected a second time from his dark eyes whose light fluctuated even as that upon the oscillating surface of the water.
“Tell me again of your heroism at Thermopylæ,” whispered the maiden.
“No, I would not seem to brag of my gift of valor. It is enough, is it not, that I have told you of my attempt to save the life of Leonidas?”
Persephone smiled at him in approval, then her features became serious as she asked: “Has the traitor of Thermopylæ yet been discovered? But for him, our city would not now be in ashes and thousands of lives would have been spared including that of my dear brother, Phales.”
She raised tear-dimmed eyes to her companion: “Ephialtes, seek the traitor and deliver him to us, that through the agency of man, God may avenge that foul act of treason. Could you do this, Greece would honor your name as it did that of Miltiades.”
The man turned his face away, his mood quickly altered by the girl’s words.
“Humanity is fickle,” he replied with a peculiar air of detachment. “Miltiades did not enjoy public favor for long, you remember. Just because he went on a little trip to avenge a personal wrong, immediately the populace forgot his heroism at Marathon and convicted him for that minor offence.”
“But,” replied the girl, “Miltiades became arrogant and forgot public interests for his own. Zeus always punishes insolence by having Justice recompense in due season.”
Ephialtes was obstinately silent, unmoved by Persephone’s words. He dared say no more for fear of betraying himself. Persephone, he loved to as great an extent as it is possible for one of such selfish instincts to love. She did not possess great wealth, and conscious of his own mercenary nature, he wondered that he could so love where money was no object. He had great respect for her mental superiority, while at the same time he feared it, but it was her physical loveliness which appealed to him most. He longed to possess her, body and soul, and the usual patience with which he could await the attainment of his desires, was becoming depleted. He had always prided himself on his ability to bridle his impulses if he felt that they interfered in any way with the ultimate attainment of a desired goal. Where self-restraint is lacking, there is no order, and no one knew this any better than Ephialtes.
It was that magical hour between daylight and dusk that is of such short duration in the countries of the south. Away to the west stretched the hills of Salamis, the setting sun shedding a flood of glory upon the picturesque undulations. Then one by one the stars began to appear and soon the canopy of the heavens was studded with myriads of twinkling lights.
“Let us hasten back to the island,” said Persephone shivering slightly. “The air is chill and I brought no wrap with me.”
The young man removed his cape and placed it around the shoulders of his companion. Persephone seemed despondent. Even the beauty of the evening on the water beneath the stars did not cheer her. The barge was now, at the request of the maiden, turning its prow toward the promontories of her temporary home.
“Persephone,” pleaded the youth once more, “will you not give me an answer now, and if in the affirmative, I shall be the happiest man in all Greece.”
Persephone smiled a little, but was still troubled.
“Dear Ephialtes,” she said, “you have it in you to be so brave as you proved at Thermopylæ, but before I consent to a marriage between us, I want one more accomplishment that will bring glory to your name. Discover for our country Thermopylæ’s traitor.”
Ephialtes’ brow clouded. “That is a very difficult task. Will not proof of heroic valor in the next conflict with the Persians suffice to bring you to my arms, a willing bride?”
The barge now glided into a cove near the city, and Ephialtes rose to assist his fair companion in alighting from her seat at the prow. As she yielded her arm to his, she raised to his face a countenance, though outwardly serene, yet strangely determined.
“On the day that you deliver to Greece the traitor of Thermopylæ I will become your wife.”
“We climb the ancient steep, which chief and sageMounted before, through many a changeful age;Where Cimon blessed the gods that Greece was free,And Thrasybulus shouted ‘Victory.’”Nicholas Michell.
“We climb the ancient steep, which chief and sage
Mounted before, through many a changeful age;
Where Cimon blessed the gods that Greece was free,
And Thrasybulus shouted ‘Victory.’”
Nicholas Michell.
At the top of the long rugged path by which one mounted the Acropolis, stood a young man of martial bearing. Upon his features contempt and yearning curiously mingled. At his feet lay a city now silent and deserted, which had once teemed with active humanity. Whether he looked to north or south, to east or west, there crowded upon his memory in rapid succession, incidents that brought to him the convincing reality that this city was associated with all that was dear to him.
The fleeting memories that crowded in and out of his mind came from a diversity of experiences. Now there came to him thoughts as he looked toward the Agora[2]that brought a wistful smile to his lips. He was once more a mischievous boy running through the busy market to escape the wrath of the pursuing vender whom he had angered by the theft of a tempting bit of fruit. Then—and his brow clouded while a blush of shame flushed his cheek—he was a wild youth arrogant and proud, and steeped in sin, how deep, he did not realize till later! Then had followed the excitement of war—his father as commander of the Greeks had won a great victory over the Persians at Marathon! His father the great Miltiades, whose name was on every tongue and whose praise was sung throughout Greece, returned, the idol of the hour, and Cimon, though too young to have participated at Marathon, commemorated his parent’s triumph with a sumptuous feast, the like of which had never before nor since been celebrated in Athens. And then—here Cimon’s head sank upon his breast—had followed the disgrace and death of that father whose bravery had been extoled throughout the land. His courageous father who had stood firm before the darts of Datis and Artaphernes, yielded to a desire to avenge a petty, personal wrong, and fell with an arrow in his heart. But after all, Cimon considered, had not the father’s disgrace brought the son to his senses? His former friends shunned him in a way that he knew was due not alone to the paternal disgrace, but to the former arrogance with which he had flaunted his pride of social standing in the faces of his associates.
The blush of shame which mantled his brow gave evidence of the remorse which the young Cimon had suffered. Suddenly he stood erect and held his head high, a triumphant gleam in his blue eyes. Yes he had made a real man of himself after all and had won the respect and confidence of his fellows, not through his poor father’s achievements, but through virtues of his own. He would do what he could yet to bring this beloved city back to her former splendor. The Persians though defeated at Salamis, would he knew, rally for another attack, for they had not left northern Greece, and he, Cimon, would exert himself to the utmost to save the land which his father had so bravely defended ten years before.
His eyes glowed with enthusiasm while visions of the future held him in absorption. What Miltiades had been to Greece, he would be, andmore. His father had been all soldier, but in him, Cimon, were there not mingled some of the qualities necessary to the making of a statesman as well? He turned and viewed with grief the ponderous slabs that had once composed the temple to Athena. Would not Athens soon need another such edifice, grander and of more beautiful proportions than the one which had recently occupied this site? Some leader would arise after this war, why not he? Of course Themistocles, here his brow puckered to a frown, was a great man and had been the savior of Greece at Salamis, but Themistocles would soon be past his prime, whereashewas young. He drew himself to his full height, unconsciously placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword and gazed beyond the north horizon in which direction he knew the Persians rallied for another attack upon the stronghold of Attica.
His mind returned again to the statesman, Themistocles. He had been the last person to see Ladice alive, and it was known for certain that she was among those who ascended the Acropolis with Kyrsilus. Although it was first reported that all of that brave little band had been slaughtered, rumor had been rife that some of the younger women had been spared—but only to meet a worse fate; that of captivity in the harems of the Persians. If that had been Ladice’s fate, far better that she had met death with the others on the Acropolis! But Ladice did not love him. Oh, the sting of that realization! Ladice knew of the wild life that he had led and of the drunken orgies in which he had participated. Perhaps it was presumptuous for him to think with love upon a girl of such stainless character as Ladice, but had he not vowed by all the gods that he would live an upright life and had he not kept that vow for nearly four years?
Slowly he advanced among the ruins which lay about him, mute evidences of a destructive power as yet unconquered.
“She probably offered a last prayer to Athena here,” he surmised as he sadly surveyed what had once been the sanctuary of that goddess. Vainly he strove to suppress the violent agitation of his soul. At last with a despairing cry he sank to his knees, and with uplifted hands prayed to the goddess: “Oh Athena, thou who knowest what took place at thy sanctuary, even though thou wert unable to defend it against the hordes of Xerxes, did Ladice die among the followers of Kyrsilus or was she taken captive by Persian soldiers? If she is now a prisoner among them, is there a chance for her rescue? Is there a chance for this city that is named for thee O Athena? Give me a sign, O Goddess, that is all I ask, a sign that I may set forth with renewed hope and vigor to aid in expelling the dreaded foes from our boundaries!”
Cimon staggered to his feet, his eyes resting wearily on the debris that was piled about him. Presently among the fragments of a demolished pillar he saw something that caused him to doubt the truthfulness of his sight. Here on the top of the Acropolis where destruction through the agency of fire and sword had been followed by chaos, was a bit of living green vegetation! Cimon approached in awe and bewilderment, then he uttered an exclamation of joy, for the sacred olive tree which had been planted in honor of the patron goddess years before, had sent forth a new green shoot a cubit in length. The young man knew as he gazed upon this miracle of life sprung from the ashes of death, that Athena spoke by the olive-branch the promise that Athens should arise from her despair and ruin. With a lighter heart than he had felt for many a weary day, Cimon descended the path, and in his heart not only hope, but a grim determination to help in the restoration of his beloved city, found lodgment.
“How oft when men are at the point of deathHave they been merry!”Shakespeare.
“How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry!”
Shakespeare.
After the defeat of the Persians at Salamis, Xerxes retreated across the Hellespont to Asia, but Mardonius was not so easily disheartened. With three hundred thousand men he wintered in Thessaly making thorough preparations for a second attack upon Athens the following summer. What was his utter amazement upon re-entering the city to find it completely deserted, its citizens having remained at Salamis, Troezen and Aegina. Thereupon he retreated to Thebes in Bœotia there to await the Greek offensive which was to be strengthened by aid from the Spartans.
On a certain evening in spring, ten months after the destruction of Athens, Zopyrus and his friend Masistius, sat outside the entrance of the latter’s tent in the Persian encampment near Thebes. The night was cool for that time of the year, but the chill was warded off to some extent by a brightly blazing fire.
“What think you of this sumptuous feast to be given by the Theban Attaginus, on the morrow?” asked Zopyrus.
“I expect I shall enjoy the feast, but I do not admire the Bœotians,” replied Masistius. “They are unfaithful to their country’s cause, and above all things I loathe a traitor. Of course our outward appearances must be those of friendship, for they are of inestimable service to the Persian cause, but how different from the traitorous Thebans was that little band of Athenians who tried to defend their Acropolis!”
Zopyrus’ brow clouded at memory of that tragic scene. “By the way Masistius, what became of the girl whom Xerxes gave to Artabazus when the latter was forced to surrender the maiden to whom I laid claim?”
Masistius gazed silently into the bright flames and tossed a twig into the fire, watching it a moment before he spoke.
“Her young life will be consumed just as that twig. She was taken away by Artabazus and is now a captive in his harem.”
Masistius paused a moment impressively, then he asked without even glancing in Zopyrus’ direction: “And the other maiden, what of her? But that is a rude question,” he added, laying an affectionate hand upon the other’s shoulder. “I presume by now she is safe with her people.”
Zopyrus turned quickly and sought his companion’s gaze. “Friend Masistius,” he said, “I have kept locked within my breast these ten months, a secret, so precious that I hesitate to share it, and I would not do so were it not approaching the eve of battle, but to you who throughout this entire campaign, have been the only friend whose ideas of life coincide with mine, I will disclose that which I had not thought to reveal to mortal man. Although my acquaintance with the maiden of whom you speak was of short duration, it was, nevertheless, long enough to convince me that I want her for my wife.”
The Persian cavalryman expressed no little surprise at his friend’s disclosure.
“Was the infatuation mutual?” he asked.
“If I possess any ability in interpreting a maiden’s thoughts through her eyes, my love is reciprocated,” said Zopyrus, the color mounting to his temples.
“If that be the case,” spoke Masistius heartily, “may Ahura-Mazdâo bring you together after we have conquered Greece!”
“And if we cannot succeed in subduing the Greeks?”
“Then Zeus may perform the act of reuniting you,” replied Masistius somewhat bitterly.
The fire had by this time died down till only a few glowing embers remained. Zopyrus rose to take his leave.
“Farewell, Masistius, till the feast. Forget the confidences of the past hour. This love of mine can avail nothing.”
“Of that I am not so sure, Zopyrus. The vision of a certain beautiful young woman has kept up my courage that might otherwise have failed me.”
With a friendly hand-clasp, the two parted.
* * * * * * * *
The hall appropriated to the feast was part of the private home of the Theban leader, Attaginus. Through a wide entrance at one side of the hall, the guests glimpsed a court, the floor of which was of variegated mosaic tiles forming intricate designs and patterns. In the center a marble fountain tossed up its silvery cooling spray. Among the potted palms and ferns, birds of bright-colored plumage flitted about adding their sweet notes to that of cithera and flute. Rarest flowers of every hue glowed from sculptured vases among the green foliage of the plants, and sweet spices burned in guilded tripods.
Within the hall the cedar-wood tables[3]groaned under the weight of gold and silver dishes filled with tasty viands. There were thrushes browned to a turn, fish, lentils, olive-oil, cheese, fruit, cakes baked in the shape of Persian and Greek soldiers, and many desserts and dainties to induce thirst for the wine which was to come later.
The astute Attaginus had arranged his guests in such a manner that a Bœotian and a Persian occupied the same couch. In this way he hoped to stimulate the fraternal spirit between Persian and Greek. Thus Artabazus found himself occupying a couch with a Theban cavalryman by the name of Timegenidas, Masistius discovered his companion to be a certain Theban, Asopodorus, while Mardonius and Attaginus were partners.
Zopyrus being an inferior officer to those mentioned, sat among others of equal rank with himself at an end of the hall. In spite of the revel and festivity about him, he labored in vain to throw off a sense of depression. To one of his nature it was impossible to forget the probable tragedies of the morrow in the carousal and merry-making of today. These men about him were trying to veil sorrow with levity; a thing that men have done for countless ages and probably always will; a last expiring effort to enjoy life while it is still in their possession; a desire to crowd out of consciousness the possibility of oblivion by a present rapturous delight in the reality of existence.
The Greek who sat with Zopyrus observed his nonchalance and endeavored to encourage conversation. He plied Zopyrus with questions as to his native city, the details of the campaign from Sardis to Thessaly, until the Persian was forced to make similar inquiries in regard to the Bœotian, who he learned was a citizen of Orchomenus, by the name of Thersander.
At the close of the above mentioned courses servants entered and moved noiselessly about, putting wreaths on the heads and around the necks of the guests and pouring upon them sweet-scented ointments. At this point in the feast Attaginus arose and all eyes were turned in his direction.
“We will appoint a symposiarch[4]by lot,” he explained, “so that Greek and Persian will be treated fairly.”
“I believe my companion here would make an excellent symposiarch,” said Timegenidas, laughingly indicating Artabazus. “I think he would be sparing in the use of water. Am I right, my friend?”
“Where wine, revelry and women, though the latter are sadly wanting here, are concerned,” said Artabazus in a loud voice, “there I am willing to take a prominent part.”