A Victor of Salamis. William Stearns Davis

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 VI

       Table of Contents

ATHENS

       Table of Contents

      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!”

      [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