A Victor of Salamis. William Stearns Davis

goes by sea?” asked Democrates, casually.

      “By land; no ship went to his liking. He will lie overnight at Eleusis.”

      The friends went their ways. Democrates hardly saw or heard anything until he was in his own chambers. Three [pg 109]things were graven on his mind: Sicinnus was watching, the Babylonian was suspected, Glaucon was implicated and was sending a letter to Argos.

      * * * * * * *

      Bias the Thracian was discovered that afternoon by his master lurking in a corner of the chamber. Democrates seized a heavy dog-whip, lashed the boy unmercifully, then cast him out, threatening that eavesdropping would be rewarded by “cutting into shoe soles.” Then the master resumed his feverish pacings and the nervous twisting of his fingers. Unfortunately, Bias felt certain the threat would never have been uttered unless the weightiest of matters had been on foot. As in all Greek dwellings, Democrates’s rooms were divided not by doors but by hanging curtains, and Bias, letting curiosity master fear, ensconced himself again behind one of these and saw all his master’s doings. What Democrates said and did, however, puzzled his good servant quite sufficiently.

      Democrates had opened the privy cupboard, taken out one of the caskets and scattered its contents upon the table, then selected a papyrus, and seemed copying the writing thereon with extreme care. Next one of the clay seals came into play. Democrates was testing it upon wax. Then the orator rose, dashed the wax upon the floor, put his sandal thereon, tore the papyrus on which he wrote to bits. Again he paced restlessly, his hands clutching his hair, his forehead frowns and blackness, while Bias thought he heard him muttering as he walked:—

      “O Zeus! O Apollo! O Athena! I cannot do this thing! Deliver me! Deliver!”

      Then back to the table again, once more to pick up the mysterious clay, again to copy, to stamp on the wax, to fling down, mutilate, and destroy. The pantomime was [pg 110]gone through three times. Bias could make nothing of it. Since the day his parents—following the barbarous Thracian custom—had sold him into slavery and he had passed into Democrates’s service, the lad had never seen his master acting thus.

      “Clearly the kyrios is mad,” was his own explanation, and growing frightened at following the strange movements of his lord, he crept from his retreat and tried to banish uncanny fears at a safe distance, by tying a thread to the leg of a gold-chafer5 and watching its vain efforts at flight. Yet had he continued his eavesdropping he might have found—if not the key to all Democrates’s doings—at least a partial explanation. For the fourth time the papyrus had been written, for the fourth time the orator had torn it up. Then his eyes went down to the lump of clay before him on the table.

      “Curses upon the miserable stuff!” he swore almost loudly; “it is this which has set the evil thoughts to racing. Destroy that, and the deed is beyond my power.”

      He held up the clay and eyed it as a miser might his gold.

      “What a little lump! Not very hard. I can dash it on the floor and it dissolves in dust. And yet, and yet—all Elysium, all Tartarus, are pent up for me in just this bit of clay.”

      He picked at it with his finger and broke a small piece from the edge.

      “A little more, the stamp is ruined. I could not use it. Better if it were ruined. And yet—and yet—”

      He laid the clay upon the table and sat watching it wistfully.

      “O Father Zeus!” he broke out after silence, “if I were not compelled by fear! Sicinnus is so sharp, Themistocles [pg 111]so unmerciful! It would be a terrible death to die—and every man is justified in shunning death.”

      He looked at the inanimate lump as if he expected it to answer him.

      “Ah, I am all alone. No one to counsel me. In every other trouble when has it been as this? Glaucon? Cimon? Themistocles?—What would they advise?”—he ended with a laugh more bitter than a sob. “And I must save myself, but at such a price!”

      He pressed his hands over his eyes.

      “Curses on the hour I met Lycon! Curses on the Cyprian and his gold! It would have been better to have told Glaucon and let him save me now and hate me forever after. But I have sold myself to the Cyprian. The deed cannot be taken back.”

      But as he said it, he arose, took the charmed bit of clay, replaced in the box, and locked the coffer. His hand trembled as he did it.

      “I cannot do this thing. I have been foolish, wicked—but I must not be driven mad by fear. The Cyprian must quit Athens to-morrow. I can throw Sicinnus off the scent. I shall never be the worse.”

      He walked with the box toward the cupboard, but stopped halfway.

      “It is a dreadful death to die;”—his thoughts raced and were half uttered—“hemlock!—men grow cold limb by limb and keep all their faculties to the end. And the crows in the Barathrum, and the infamy upon my father’s name! When was a son of the house of Codrus branded ‘A Traitor to Athens’? Is it wickedness to save one’s own life?”

      Instead of going to the cupboard he approached the window. The sun beat hotly, but as he leaned forth into the street he shivered as on a winter’s morn. In blank wretch[pg 112]edness he watched the throng beneath the window, pannier-laden asses, venders of hot sausage with their charcoal stoves and trays, youths going to and from the gymnasium, slaves returning from market. How long he stood thus, wretched, helpless, he did not know. At last he stirred himself.

      “I cannot stand gaping like a fool forever. An omen, by every god an omen! Ah! what am I to do?” He glanced toward the sky in vain hope of a lucky raven or eagle winging out of the east, but saw only blue and brightness. Then his eye went down the street, and at the glance the warm blood tingled from his forehead to his heels.

      She was passing—Hermione, child of Hermippus. She walked before, two comely maids went after with her stool and parasol; but they were the peonies beside the rose. She had thrown her blue veil back. The sun played over the sheen of her hair. As she moved, her floating saffron dress of the rare muslin of Amorgos now revealed her delicate form, now clothed her in an enchanting cloud. She held her head high, as if proud of her own grace and of the beauty and fair name of her husband. She never looked upward, nor beheld how Democrates’s eyes grew like bright coals as he gazed on her. He saw her clear high forehead, he heard—or thought he heard despite the jar of the street—the rustle of the muslin robe. Hermione passed, nor ever knew how, by taking this way from the house of a friend, she coloured the skein of life for three mortals—for herself, her husband, and Democrates.

      Democrates followed her with his eyes until she vanished around the fountain at the street corner; then sprang back from the window. The workings of his face were terrible. It was an instant when men grasp the godlike or sink to the demon, when they do deeds never to be recalled.

      “The omen!” he almost cried, “the omen! Not Zeus [pg 113]but Hermes the Guileful sent it. He will be with me. She is Glaucon’s wife. But if not his, whose then but mine? I will do the deed to the uttermost. The god is with me.”

      He flung the casket upon the table and spread its fateful contents again before him. His hand flew over the papyrus with marvellous speed and skill. He knew that all his faculties were at his full command and unwontedly acute.

      Bias was surprised at his sport by a sudden clapping of his master’s hands.

      “What is it, kyrie?”

      “Go to Agis. He keeps the gaming-house in the Ceramicus. You know where. Tell him to come hither instantly. He shall not lack reward. Make your feet fly. Here is something to speed them.”

      He flung at the boy a coin. Bias opened eyes and mouth in wonder. It was not silver, but a golden daric.

      “Don’t blink at it, sheep, but run. Bring Agis,” ordered the master—and Bias’s legs never went faster than on that afternoon.

      Agis came. Democrates knew his man and had no difficulty