A Victor of Salamis. William Stearns Davis

again!

      Now glory to him, to his kinfolk,

      To Athens, and all Athens’ men!

      [pg 55]Meet, run to meet him,

      The nimblest are not too fleet.

      Greet him, with raptures greet him,

      With songs and with twinkling feet.

      He approaches—throw flowers before him.

      Throw poppy and lily and rose;

      Blow faster, gay pipers, faster,

      Till your mad music throbs and flows,

      For his glory and ours flies through Hellas,

      Wherever the Sun-King goes.

      Io! Io, pæan! crown with laurel and myrtle and pine,

      Io, pæan! haste to crown him with olive, Athena’s dark vine.

      He is with us, he shines in his beauty;

      Oh, joy of his face the first sight;

      He has shed on us all his bright honour,

      Let High Zeus shed on him his light,

      And thou, Pallas, our gray-eyed protectress,

      Keep his name and his fame ever bright!”

      Matching action to the song, they threw over the victor crowns and chains beyond number, till the parsley wreath was hidden from sight. Near the gate of Hermippus the jubilant company halted. The demarch bawled long for silence, won it at last, and approached the chariot. He, good man, had been a long day meditating on his speech of formal congratulation and enjoyed his opportunity. Glaucon’s eyes still roved and questioned, yet the demarch rolled out his windy sentences. But there was something unexpected. Even as the magistrate took breath after reciting the victor’s noble ancestry, there was a cry, a parting of the crowd, and Glaucon the Alcmæonid leaped from the chariot as never on the sands at Corinth. The veil and the violet wreath fell from the head of Hermione when her face went up to her husband’s. The blossoms that had covered the athlete shook over her like a cloud as his face met hers. Then even the honest demarch cut short his eloquence to swell the salvo.

      [pg 56]

      “The beautiful to the beautiful! The gods reward well. Here is the fairest crown!”

      For all Eleusis loved Hermione, and would have forgiven far greater things from her than this.

      * * * * * * *

      Hermippus feasted the whole company—the crowd at long tables in the court, the chosen guests in a more private chamber. “Nothing to excess” was the truly Hellenic maxim of the refined Eleusinian; and he obeyed it. His banquet was elegant without gluttony. The Syracusan cook had prepared a lordly turbot. The wine was choice old Chian but well diluted. There was no vulgar gorging with meat, after the Bœotian manner; but the great Copaic eel, “such as Poseidon might have sent up to Olympus,” made every gourmand clap his hands. The aromatic honey was the choicest from Mt. Hymettus.

      Since the smaller company was well selected, convention was waived, and ladies were present. Hermione sat on a wide chair beside Lysistra, her comely mother; her younger brothers on stools at either hand. Directly across the narrow table Glaucon and Democrates reclined on the same couch. The eyes of husband and wife seldom left each other; their tongues flew fast; they never saw how Democrates hardly took his gaze from the face of Hermione. Simonides, who reclined beside Themistocles—having struck a firm friendship with that statesman on very brief acquaintance—was overrunning with humour and anecdote. The great man beside him was hardly his second in the fence of wit and wisdom. After the fish had given way to the wine, Simonides regaled the company with a gravely related story of how the Dioscuri had personally appeared to him during his last stay in Thessaly and saved him from certain death in a falling building.

      [pg 57]

      “You swear this is a true tale, Simonides?” began Themistocles, with one eye in his head.

      “It’s impiety to doubt. As penalty, rise at once and sing a song in honour of Glaucon’s victory.”

      “I am no singer or harpist,” returned the statesman, with a self-complacency he never concealed. “I only know how to make Athens powerful.”

      “Ah! you son of Miltiades,” urged the poet, “at least you will not refuse so churlishly.”

      Cimon, with due excuses, arose, called for a harp, and began tuning it; but not all the company were destined to hear him. A slave-boy touched Themistocles on the shoulder, and the latter started to go.

      “The Dioscuri will save you?” demanded Simonides, laughing.

      “Quite other gods,” rejoined the statesman; “your pardon, Cimon, I return in a moment. An agent of mine is back from Asia, surely with news of weight, if he must seek me at once in Eleusis.”

      But Themistocles lingered outside; an instant more brought a summons to Democrates, who found Themistocles in an antechamber, deep in talk with Sicinnus—nominally the tutor of his sons, actually a trusted spy. The first glance at the Asiatic’s keen face and eyes was disturbing. An inward omen—not from the entrails of birds, nor a sign in the heavens—told Democrates the fellow brought no happy tidings.

      With incisive questions Themistocles had been bringing out everything.

      “So it is absolutely certain that Xerxes begins his invasion next spring?”

      “As certain as that Helios will rise to-morrow.”

      “Forewarned is forearmed. Now where have you been since I sent you off in the winter to visit Asia?”

      [pg 58]

      The man, who knew his master loved to do the lion’s share of the talking, answered instantly:—

      “Sardis, Emesa, Babylon, Susa, Persepolis, Ecbatana.”

      “Eu! Your commission is well executed. Are all the rumours we hear from the East well founded? Is Xerxes assembling an innumerable host?”

      “Rumour does not tell half the truth. Not one tribe in Asia but is required to send its fighting men. Two bridges of boats are being built across the Hellespont. The king will have twelve hundred war triremes, besides countless transports. The cavalry are being numbered by hundreds of thousands, the infantry by millions. Such an army was never assembled since Zeus conquered the Giants.”

      “A merry array!” Themistocles whistled an instant through his teeth; but, never confounded, urged on his questions. “So be it. But is Xerxes the man to command this host? He is no master of war like Darius his father.”

      “He is a creature for eunuchs and women; nevertheless his army will not suffer.”

      “And wherefore?”

      “Because Prince Mardonius, son of Gobryas, and brother-in-law of the king, has the wisdom and valour of Cyrus and Darius together. Name him, and you name the arch-foe of Hellas. He, not Xerxes, will be the true leader of the host.”

      “You saw him, of course?”

      “I did not. A Magian in Ecbatana told me a strange story. ‘The Prince,’ said he, ‘hates the details of camps; leaving the preparation to others, he has gone to Greece to spy out the land he is to conquer.’ ”

      “Impossible, you are dreaming!” The exclamation came not from Themistocles but Democrates.

      [pg 59]

      “I am not dreaming, worthy sir,” returned Sicinnus, tartly; “the Magian may have lied, but I sought the Prince in every city I visited; they always told me, ‘He is in another.’ He was not at the king’s court. He may have gone to Egypt, to India, or to Arabia;—he may likewise have gone to Greece.”

      “These are serious tidings, Democrates,”