A Victor of Salamis. William Stearns Davis

      Phormio the fishmonger had returned from his traffic, and sat in his house-door meditating over a pot of sour wine and watching the last light flickering on the great bulk of the mountain. He had his sorrows—good man—for Lampaxo his worthy wife, long of tongue, short of temper, thrifty and very watchful, was reminding him for the seventh time that he had sold a carp half an obol too cheap. His patience indeed that evening was so near to exhaustion that after [pg 75]cursing inwardly the “match-maker” who had saddled this Amazon upon him, he actually found courage for an outbreak. He threw up his arms after the manner of a tragic actor:—

      “True, true is the word of Hesiod!”

      “True is what?” flew back none too gently.

      “ ‘The fool first suffers and is after wise.’ Woman, I am resolved.”

      “On what?” Lampaxo’s voice was soft as broken glass.

      “Years increase. I shan’t live long. We are childless. I will provide for you in my will by giving you in marriage to Hyperphon.”3

      “Hyperphon!” screamed the virago, “Hyperphon the beggarly hunchback, the laughing-stock of Athens! O Mother Hera!—but I see the villain’s aim. You are weary of me. Then divorce me like an honourable man. Send me back to Polus my dear brother. Ah, you sheep, you are silent! You think of the two-minæ dowry you must then refund. Woe is me! I’ll go to the King Archon. I’ll charge you with gross abuse. The jury will condemn you. There’ll be fines, fetters, stocks, prison—”

      “Peace,” groaned Phormio, terrified at the Gorgon, “I only thought—”

      “How dared you think? What permitted—”

      “Good evening, sweet sister and Phormio!” The salutation came from Polus, who with Clearchus had approached unheralded. Lampaxo smoothed her ruffled feathers. Phormio stifled his sorrows. Dromo, the half-starved slave-boy, brought a pot of thin wine to his betters. The short southern twilight was swiftly passing into night. Groups of young men wandered past, bound homeward from the Cynosarges, the Academy, or some other well-loved gym[pg 76]nasium. In an hour the streets would be dark and still, except for a belated guest going to his banquet, a Scythian constable, or perhaps a cloak thief. For your Athenian, when he had no supper invitation, went to bed early and rose early, loving the sunlight far better than the flicker of his uncertain lamps.

      “And did the jury vote ‘guilty’?” was Phormio’s first question of his brother-in-law.

      “We were patriotically united. There were barely any white beans for acquittal in the urn. The scoundrelly grain-dealer is stripped of all he possesses and sent away to beg in exile. A noble service to Athens!”

      “Despite the evidence,” murmured Clearchus; but Lampaxo’s shrill voice answered her brother:—

      “It’s my opinion you jurors should look into a case directly opposite this house. Spies, I say, Persian spies.”

      “Spies!” cried Polus, leaping up as from a coal; “why, Phormio, haven’t you denounced them? It’s compounding with treason even to fail to report—”

      “Peace, brother,” chuckled the fishmonger, “your sister smells for treason as a dog for salt fish. There is a barbarian carpet merchant—a Babylonian, I presume—who has taken the empty chambers above Demas’s shield factory opposite. He seems a quiet, inoffensive man; there are a hundred other foreign merchants in the city. One can’t cry ‘Traitor!’ just because the poor wight was not born to speak Greek.”

      “I do not like Babylonish merchants,” propounded Polus, dogmatically; “to the jury with him, I say!”

      “At least he has a visitor,” asserted Clearchus, who had long been silent. “See, a gentleman wrapped in a long himation is going up to the door and standing up his walking stick.”

      [pg 77]

      “And if I have eyes,” vowed the juror, squinting through his hands in the half light, “that closely wrapped man is Glaucon the Alcmæonid.”

      “Or Democrates,” remarked Clearchus; “they look much alike from behind. It’s getting dark.”

      “Well,” decided Phormio, “we can easily tell. He has left his stick below by the door. Steal across, Polus, and fetch it. It must be carved with the owner’s name.”

      The juror readily obeyed; but to read the few characters on the crooked handle was beyond the learning of any save Clearchus, whose art demanded the mystery of writing.

      “I was wrong,” he confessed, after long scrutiny, “ ‘Glaucon, son of Conon.’ It is very plain. Put the cane back, Polus.”

      The cane was returned, but the juror pulled a very long face.

      “Dear friends, here is a man I’ve already suspected of undemocratic sentiments conferring with a Barbarian. Good patriots cannot be too vigilant. A plot, I assert. Treason to Athens and Hellas! Freedom’s in danger. Henceforth I shall look on Glaucon the Alcmæonid as an enemy of liberty.”

      “Phui!” almost shouted Phormio, whose sense of humour was keen, “a noble conspiracy! Glaucon the Fortunate calls on a Babylonish merchant by night. You say to plot against Athens. I say to buy his pretty wife a carpet.”

      “The gods will some day explain,” said Clearchus, winding up the argument—and so for a little while the four forgot all about Glaucon.

      * * * * * * *

      Despite the cane, Clearchus was right. The visitor was Democrates. The orator mounted the dark stair above the shield-factory and knocked against a door, calling, “Pai! Pai!” “Boy! boy!” a summons answered by none other than [pg 78]the ever smiling Hiram. The Athenian, however, was little prepared for the luxury, nay splendour, which greeted him, once the Phœnician had opened the door. The bare chamber had been transformed. The foot sank into the glowing carpets of Kerman and Bactria. The gold-embroidered wall tapestries were of Sidonian purple. The divans were covered with wondrous stuff which Democrates could not name—another age would call it silk. A tripod smoked with fragrant Arabian frankincense. Silver lamps, swinging from silver chains, gave brilliant light. The Athenian stood wonderbound, until a voice, not Hiram’s, greeted him.

      “Welcome, Athenian,” spoke the Cyprian, in his quaint, eastern accent. It was the strange guest in the tavern by Corinth. The Prince—prince surely, whatever his other title—was in the same rich dress as at the Isthmus, only his flowing beard had been dyed raven black. Yet Democrates’s eyes were diverted instantly to the peculiarly handsome slave-boy on the divan beside his master. The boy’s dress, of a rare blue stuff, enveloped him loosely. His hair was as golden as the gold thread on the round cap. In the shadows the face almost escaped the orator—he thought he saw clear blue eyes and a marvellously brilliant, almost girlish, bloom and freshness. The presence of this slave caused the Athenian to hesitate, but the Cyprian bade him be seated, with one commanding wave of the hand.

      “This is Smerdis, my constant companion. He is a mute. Yet if otherwise, I would trust him as myself.”

      Democrates, putting by surprise, began to look on his host fixedly.

      “My dear Barbarian, for that you are a Hellene you will not pretend, you realize, I trust, you incur considerable danger in visiting Athens.”

      “I am not anxious,” observed the Prince, composedly. [pg 79]“Hiram is watchful and skilful. You see I have dyed my hair and beard black and pass for a Babylonish merchant.”

      “With all except me, philotate—‘dearest friend,’ as we say in Athens.” Democrates’s smile was not wholly agreeable.

      “With all except you,” assented the Prince, fingering the scarlet tassel of the cushion whereon he sat. “I reckoned confidently that you would come to visit me when I sent Hiram to you. Yes—I have heard the story that is on your tongue: one of Themistocles’s busybodies has brought a rumour that a certain