A Victor of Salamis Part 12

"Do not, however, affect to be more virtuous than your race. Persians make their boast of truth-telling and fidelity. You h.e.l.lenes, I hear, have even a G.o.d-Hermes Dolios,-who teaches you lying and thieving. The customs of nations differ. Mazda the Almighty alone knoweth which is best. Follow then the customs of h.e.l.lenes."

"You speak in riddles."

"Plainer, then. You know the master I serve. You guess who I am, though you shall not name me. For what sum will you serve Xerxes the Great King?"

The orator's breath came deep. His hands clasped and unclasped, then were pressed behind his head.

"I told Lycon, and I tell you, I am no traitor to h.e.l.las."

"Which means, of course, you demand a fair price. I am not angry. You will find a Persian pays like the lord he is, and that his darics always ring true metal."

"I'll hear no more. I was a fool to meet Lycon at Corinth, doubly a fool to meet you to-night. Farewell."

Democrates seized the latch. The door was locked. He turned furiously on the Barbarian. "Do you keep me by force? Have a care. I can be terrible if driven to bay. The window is open. One shout-"

The Cyprian had risen, and quietly, but with a grip like iron on Democrates's wrist, led the orator back to the divan.

"You can go free in a twinkling, but hear you shall. Before you boast of your power, you shall know all of mine. I will recite your condition.

Contradict if I say anything amiss. Your father Myscelus was of the n.o.ble house of Codrus, a great name in Athens, but he left you no large estate.

You were ambitious to s.h.i.+ne as an orator and leader of the Athenians. To win popularity you have given great feasts. At the last festival of the Theseia you fed the poor of Athens on sixty oxen washed down with good Rhodian wine. All that made havoc in your patrimony."

"By Zeus, you speak as if you lived all your life in Athens!"

"I have said 'I have many eyes.' But to continue. You gave the price of the tackling for six of the triremes with which Themistocles pretends to believe he can beat back my master. Worse still, you have squandered many minae on flute girls, dice, c.o.c.k-fights, and other gentle pleasures. In short your patrimony is not merely exhausted but overspent. That, however, is not the most wonderful part of my recital."

"How dare you pry into my secrets?"

"Be appeased, dear Athenian; it is much more interesting to know you deny nothing of all I say. It is now five months since you were appointed by your sagacious Athenian a.s.sembly as commissioner to administer the silver taken from the mines at Laurium and devoted to your navy. You fulfilled the people's confidence by diverting much of this money to the payment of your own great debts to the banker Pittacus of Argos. At present you are 'watching the moon,' as you say here in Athens,-I mean, that at the end of this month you must account to the people for all the money you have handled, and at this hour are at your wits' ends to know whence the repayment will come."

"That is all you know of me?"

"All."

Democrates sighed with relief. "Then you have yet to complete the story, my dear Barbarian. I have adventured on half the cargo of a large merchantman bringing timber and tin from Ma.s.salia; I look every day for a messenger from Corinth with news of her safe arrival. Upon her coming I can make good all I owe and still be a pa.s.sing rich man."

If the Cyprian was discomposed at this announcement, he did not betray it.

"The sea is frightfully uncertain, good Democrates. Upon it, as many fortunes are lost as are made."

"I have offered due prayers to Poseidon, and vowed a gold tripod on the s.h.i.+p's arrival."

"So even your G.o.ds in h.e.l.las have their price," was the retort, with an ill-concealed sneer. "Do not trust them. Take ten talents from me and to-night sleep sweetly."

"Your price?" the words slipped forth involuntarily.

"Themistocles's private memoranda for the battle-order of your new fleet."

"Avert it, G.o.ds! The s.h.i.+p will reach Corinth, I warn you-" Democrates's gestures became menacing, as again he rose, "I will set you in Themistocles's hand as soon-"

"But not to-night." The Prince rose, smiled, held out his hand. "Unbar the door for his Excellency, Hiram. And you, n.o.ble sir, think well of all I said at Corinth on the certain victory of my master; think also-" the voice fell-"how Democrates the Codrid could be sovereign of Athens under the protection of Persia."

"I tyrant of Athens?" the orator clapped his hand behind his back; "you say enough. Good evening."

He was on the threshold, when the slave-boy touched his master's hand in silent signal.

"And if there be any fair woman you desire,"-how gliding the Cyprian's voice!-"shall not the power of Xerxes the great give her unto you?"

Why did Democrates feel his forehead turn to flame? Why-almost against will-did he stretch forth his hand to the Cyprian? He went down the stair scarce feeling the steps beneath him. At the bottom voices greeted him from across the darkened street.

"A fair evening, Master Glaucon."

"A fair evening," his mechanical answer; then to himself; as he walked away, "Wherefore call me Glaucon? I have somewhat his height, though not his shoulder. Ah,-I know it, I have chanced to borrow his carved walking-stick. Impudent creatures to read the name!"

He had not far to go. Athens was compactly built, all quarters close together. Yet before he reached home and bed, he was fighting back an ill-defined but terrible thought. "Glaucon! They think I am Glaucon. If I chose to betray the Cyprian-" Further than that he would not suffer the thought to go. He lay sleepless, fighting against it. The dark was full of the harpies of uncanny suggestion. He arose unrefreshed, to proffer every G.o.d the same prayer: "Deliver me from evil imaginings. Speed the s.h.i.+p to Corinth."

CHAPTER VIII

ON THE ACROPOLIS

The Acropolis of Athens rises as does no other citadel in the world. Had no workers in marble or bronze, no weavers of eloquence or song, dwelt beneath its shadow, it would stand the centre and cynosure of a remarkable landscape. It is "_The Rock_," no other like unto it. Is it enough to say its ruddy limestone rises as a huge boulder one hundred and fifty feet above the plain, that its breadth is five hundred, its length one thousand? Numbers and measures can never disclose a soul,-and the Rock of Athens has all but a soul: a soul seems to glow through its adamant when the fire-footed morning steals over the long crest of Hymettus, and touches the citadel's red bulk with unearthly brightness; a soul when the day falls to sleep in the arms of night as Helios sinks over the western hill by Daphni. Then the Rock seems to throb and burn with life again.

It is so bare that the hungry goats can hardly crop one spear of gra.s.s along its jagged slopes. It is so steep it scarce needs defence against an army. It is so commanding that he who stands on the westmost pinnacle can look across the windy hill of the Pnyx, across the brown plain-land and down to the sparkling blue sea with the busy havens of Peiraeus and Phalerum, the scattered gray isles of the aegean, and far away to the domelike crest of Acro-Corinthus. Let him turn to the right: below him nestles the gnarled hill of Areopagus, home of the Furies, the buzzing plaza of the Agora, the closely cl.u.s.tered city. Behind, there spread mountain, valley, plain,-here green, here brown, here golden,-with Pentelicus the Mighty rearing behind all, his summits fretted white, not with winter snows, but with l.u.s.trous marble. Look to the left: across the view pa.s.ses the s.h.a.ggy ridge of Hymettus, arid and scarred, as if wrought by the t.i.tans, home only of goats and bees, of nymphs and satyrs.

That was almost the self-same vision in the dim past when the first savage clambered this "Citadel of Cecrops" and spoke, "Here is my dwelling-place." This will be the vision until earth and ocean are no more. The human habitation changes, the temples rise and crumble; the red and gray rock, the crystalline air, the sapphire sea, come from the G.o.d, and these remain.

Glaucon and Hermione were come together to offer thanks to Athena for the glory of the Isthmus. The athlete had already mounted the citadel heading a myrtle-crowned procession to bear a formal thanksgiving, but his wife had not then been with him. Now they would go together, without pomp. They walked side by side. Nimble Chloe tripped behind with her mistress's parasol. Old Manes bore the bloodless sacrifice, but Hermione said in her heart there came two too many.

Many a friendly eye, many a friendly word, followed as they crossed the Agora, where traffic was in its morning bustle. Glaucon answered every greeting with his winsome smile.

"All Athens seems our friend!" he said, as close by the Tyrannicides'

statues at the upper end of the plaza a grave councilman bowed and an old bread woman left her stall to bob a courtesy.

"Is _your_ friend," corrected Hermione, thinking only of her husband, "for I have won no pentathlon."

"Ah, _makaira_, dearest and best," he answered, looking not on the glorious citadel but on her face, "could I have won the parsley wreath had there been no better wreath awaiting me at Eleusis? And to-day I am gladdest of the glad. For the G.o.ds have sent me blessings beyond desert, I no longer fear their envy as once. I enjoy honour with all good men. I have no enemy in the world. I have the dearest of friends, Cimon, Themistocles-beyond all, Democrates. I am blessed in love beyond Peleus espoused to Thetis, or Anchises beloved of Aphrodite, for my golden Aphrodite lives not on Olympus, nor Paphos, nor comes on her doves from Cythera, but dwells-"

"Peace." The hand laid on his mouth was small but firm. "Do not anger the G.o.ddess by likening me unto her. It is joy enough for me if I can look up at the sun and say, 'I keep the love of Glaucon the Fortunate and the Good.' "

Walking thus in their golden dream, the two crossed the Agora, turned to the left from the Pnyx, and by crooked lanes went past the craggy rock of Areopagus, till before them rose a wooden palisade and a gate. Through this a steep path led upward to the citadel. Not to the Acropolis of fame.

The buildings then upon the Rock in one short year would lie in heaps of fire-scarred ruin. Yet in that hour before Glaucon and Hermione a not unworthy temple rose, the old "House of Athena," prototype of the later Parthenon. In the morning light it stood in beauty-a hundred Doric columns, a sculptured pediment, flas.h.i.+ng with white marble and with tints of scarlet, blue, and gold. Below it, over the irregular plateau of the Rock, spread avenues of votive statues of G.o.ds and heroes in stone, bronze, or painted wood. Here and there were numerous shrines and small temples, and a giant altar for burning a hundred oxen. So hand in hand the twain went to the bronze portal of the Temple. The kindly old priest on guard smiled as he sprinkled them with the purifying salt water out of the brazen laver. The door closed behind them. For a moment they seemed to stand in the high temple in utter darkness. Then far above through the marble roof a softened light came creeping toward them. As from unfolding mist, the great calm face of the ancient G.o.ddess looked down with its unchanging smile. A red coal glowed on the tripod at her feet. Glaucon shook incense over the brazier. While it smoked, Hermione laid the crown of lilies between the knees of the half-seen image, then her husband lifted his hands and prayed aloud.

"Athena, Virgin, Queen, Deviser of Wisdom,-whatever be the name thou lovest best,-accept this offering and hear. Bless now us both. Give us to strive for the n.o.blest, to speak the wise word, to love one another. Give us prosperity, but not unto pride. Bless all our friends; but if we have enemies, be thou their enemy also. And so shall we praise thee forever."