A Victor of Salamis. William Stearns Davis

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 a humourous twinkle. His arms were crusted with brine. To his waist he was naked. As the friends edged nearer he held up a turbot, calling for a bid. A clamour answered him. The throng pressed up the steps, elbowing and scrambling. The competition was keen but good-natured. Phormio’s broad jests and witticisms—he called all his customers by name—aided in forcing up the price. The turbot was knocked down to a rich gentleman’s cook marketing for his master. The pile of fish decreased, the bidding sharpened. The “Market Wardens” seemed needed to check the jostling. But as the last eel was held up, came a cry—

      “Look out for the rope!”

      Phormio’s customers scattered. Scythian constables were [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 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