A Victor of Salamis. William Stearns Davis

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.

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      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:—

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      “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 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.

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      “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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CHAPTER VII

       Table of Contents

DEMOCRATES AND THE TEMPTER

       Table of Contents

      In the northern quarter of Athens the suburb of Alopece thrust itself under the slopes of Mt. Lycabettus, that pyramid of tawny rock which formed the rear bulwark, as it were, of every landscape of Athens. The dwellings in the suburb were poor, though few even in the richer quarters were at all handsome; the streets barely sixteen feet wide, ill-paved, filthy, dingy. A line of dirty gray stucco house-fronts was broken only by the small doors and the smaller windows in the second story. Occasionally a two-faced bust of Hermes stood before a portal,