A Victor of Salamis 10Book I · The Cyprian Triumphs
18
Literature · Adventure
A Victor of Salamis 10
Book I · The Cyprian Triumphs
DavisEnglish
Democrates fronted ruin. What profit later details from Socias of the capture of the merchantman? Unless three days before the coming festival of the Panathenæa the orator could find a large sum, he was forever undone. His sequestering of the ship-money would become public property. He would be tried for his life. Themistocles would turn against him. The jury would hardly wait for the evidence. He would drink the poisonous hemlock and his corpse be picked by the crows in the Barathrum,—an open pit, sole burial place for Athenian criminals.
One thing was possible: to go to Glaucon, confess all, and beg the money. Glaucon was rich. He could have the amount from Conon and Hermippus for the asking. But Democrates knew Glaucon well enough to perceive that while the athlete might find the money, he would be horrified at the foul disclosure. He would save his old comrade from death, but their friendship would be ended. He would feel in duty bound to tell Themistocles enough to ruin Democrates’s political prospects for all time. An appeal to Glaucon was therefore dismissed, and the politician looked for more desperate remedies.
Democrates enjoyed apartments on the street of the Tripods east of the Acropolis, a fashionable promenade of Athens. He was regarded as a confirmed bachelor. If, therefore, two or three dark-eyed flute girls in Phaleron had helped him to part with a good many minæ, no one scolded too loudly; the thing had been done genteelly and without scandal. Democrates affected to be a collector of fine arms and armour. The ceiling of his living room was hung with white-plumed helmets, on the walls glittered brass greaves, handsomely embossed shields, inlaid Chalcidian scimitars, and bows tipped with gold. Under foot were expensive rugs. The orator’s artistic tastes were excellent. Even as he sat in the deeply pillowed arm-chair his eye lighted on a Nike,—a statuette of the precious Corinthian bronze, a treasure for which the dealer’s unpaid account lay still, alas! in the orator’s coffer.
But Democrates was not thinking so much of the unpaid bronze-smith as of divers weightier debts. On the evening in question he had ordered Bias, the sly Thracian, out of the room; with his own hands had barred the door and closed the lattice; then with stealthy step thrust back the scarlet wall tapestry to disclose a small door let into the plaster. A key made the door open into a cupboard, out of which Democrates drew a brass-bound box of no great size, which he carried gingerly to a table and opened with a complex key.
The contents of the box were curious, to a stranger enigmatic. Not money, nor jewels, but rolls of closely written papyri, and things which the orator studied more intently,—a number of hard bits of clay bearing the impressions of seals. As Democrates fingered these, his face might have betrayed a mingling of keen fear and keener satisfaction.
“There is no such collection in all Hellas,—no, not in the world,” ran his commentary; “here is the signet of the Tagos of Thessaly, here of the Bœotarch of Thebes, here of the King of Argos. I was able to secure the seal of Leonidas while in Corinth. This, of course, is Themistocles’s,—how easily I took it! And this—of less value perhaps to a man of the world—is of my beloved Glaucon. And here are twenty more. Then the papyri,”—he unrolled them lovingly, one after another,—“precious specimens, are they not? Ah, by Zeus, I must be a very merciful and pious man, or I’d have used that dreadful power heaven has given me and never have drifted into these straits.”
What that “power” was with which Democrates felt himself endued he did not even whisper to himself. His mood changed suddenly. He closed the box with a snap and locked it hurriedly.
“Cursed casket!—I think I would be happier if Phorcys, the old man of the deep, could drown it all! I would be better for it and kept from foul thoughts.”
He thrust the box back in the cupboard, drew forth a second like it, unlocked it, and took out more writings. Selecting two, he spread ink and papyrus before him, and copied with feverish haste. Once he hesitated, and almost flung back the writings into the casket. Once he glanced at the notes he had prepared for his speech against the defrauding contractor. He grimaced bitterly. Then the hesitation ended. He finished the copying, replaced the second box, and barred and concealed the cupboard. He hid his new copies in his breast and called in Bias.
“I am going out, but I shall not be late.”
“Shall not Hylas and I go with lanterns?” asked the fellow. “Last night there were foot-pads.”
“I don’t need you,” rejoined his master, brusquely.
He went down into the dimly lighted street and wound through the maze of back alleys wherein Athens abounded, but Democrates never missed his way. Once he caught the glint of a lantern—a slave lighting home his master from dinner. The orator drew into a doorway; the others glided by, seeing nothing. Only when he came opposite the house of the Cyprian he saw light spreading from the opposite doorway and knew he must pass under curious eyes. Phormio was entertaining friends very late. But Democrates took boldness for safety, strode across the illumined ring, and up to the Cyprian’s stairway. The buzz of conversation stopped a moment. “Again Glaucon,” he caught, but was not troubled.
“After all,” he reflected, “if seen at all, there is no harm in such a mistake.”
The room was again glittering in its Oriental magnificence. The Cyprian advanced to meet his visitor, smiling blandly.
“Welcome, dear Athenian. We have awaited you. We are ready to heal your calamity.”
Democrates turned away his face.
“You know it already! O Zeus, I am the most miserable man in all Hellas!”
“And wherefore miserable, good friend?” The Cyprian half led, half compelled the visitor to a seat on the divan. “Is it such to be enrolled from this day among the benefactors of my most gracious lord and king?”
“Don’t goad me!” Democrates wrung his hands. “I am desperate. Take these papyri, read, pay, then let me never see your face again.” He flung the two rolls in the Prince’s lap and sat in abject misery.
The other unrolled the writings deliberately, read slowly, motioned to Hiram, who also read them with catlike scrutiny. During all this not a word was spoken. Democrates observed the beautiful mute emerge from an inner chamber and silently take station at his master’s side, following the papers also with wonderful, eager eyes. Only after a long interval the Prince spoke.
“Well—you bring what purports to be private memoranda of Themistocles on the equipment and arraying of the Athenian fleet. Yet these are only copies.”
“Copies; the originals cannot stay in my possession. It were ruin to give them up.”
The Prince turned to Hiram.
“And do you say, from what you know of these things, these memoranda are genuine?”
“Genuine. That is the scanty wisdom of the least of your Highness’s slaves.”
The Oriental bowed himself, then stood erect in a manner that reminded Democrates of some serpent that had just coiled and uncoiled.
“Good,” continued the emissary; “yet I must ask our good Athenian to confirm them with an oath.”
The orator groaned. He had not expected this last humiliation; but being forced to drink the cup, he drained it to the lees. He swore by Zeus Orchios, Watcher of Oaths, and Dike, the Eternal Justice, that he brought true copies, and that if he was perjured, he called a curse upon himself and all his line. The Cyprian received his oath with calm satisfaction, then held out the half of a silver shekel broken in the middle.
“Show this to Mydon, the Sicyonian banker at Phaleron. He holds its counterpart. He will pay the man who completes the coin ten talents.”
Democrates received the token, but felt that he must stand upon his dignity.
“I have given an oath, stranger, but give the like to me. What proof have I of this Mydon?”
The question seemed to rouse the unseen lion in the Cyprian. His eye kindled. His voice swelled.
“We leave oaths, Hellene, to men of trade and barter, to men of trickery and guile. The Aryan noble is taught three things: to fear the king, to bend the bow, to speak the truth. And he learns all well. I have spoken,—my word is my oath.”
The Athenian shrank at the storm he had roused. But the Prince almost instantly curbed himself. His voice sank again to its easy tone of conciliation.
“So much for my word, good friend; yet better than an oath, look here. Can the man who bears this ring afford to tell a lie?”
He extended his right hand. On the second finger was a huge beryl signet. Democrates bent over it.
“Two seated Sphynxes and a winged cherub flying above,—the seal of the royal Achæmenians of Persia! You are sent by Xerxes himself. You are—”
The Prince raised a warning finger. “Hush, Athenian. Think what you will, but do not name me, though soon my name shall fly through all the world.”
“So be it,” rejoined Democrates, his hands clutching the broken coin as at a last reprieve from death. “But be warned, even though I bear you no good-will. Themistocles is suspicious. Sicinnus his agent, a sly cat, is searching for you. The other day Themistocles, in the boat at Peiræus, was fain to have you questioned. If detected, I cannot save you.”
The Prince shrugged his shoulders.
“Good Democrates, I come of a race that trusts in the omnipotence of God and does the right. Duty requires me in Athens. What Ahura-Mazda and Mithra his glorious vicegerent will, that shall befall me, be I in Hellas or in safe Ecbatana. The decree of the Most High, written among the stars, is good. I do not shun it.”
The words were spoken candidly, reverently. Democrates drew toward the door, and the others did not strive to detain him.
“As you will,” spoke the Athenian; “I have warned you. Trust then your God. I have sold myself this once, but do not call me friend. Necessity is a sharp goad. May our paths never cross again!”
“Until you again have need,” said the Prince, not seeking to wring from the other any promise.
Democrates muttered a sullen farewell and went down the dark stairs. The light in Phormio’s house was out. No one seemed to be watching. On the way homeward Democrates comforted himself with the reflection that although the memoranda he sold were genuine, Themistocles often changed his plans, and he could see to it this scheme for arraying the war fleet was speedily altered. No real harm then would come to Hellas. And in his hand was the broken shekel,—the talisman to save him from destruction. Only when Democrates thought of Glaucon and Hermione he was fain to grit his teeth, while many times it returned to him, “They think it was Glaucon who has been twice now to visit the Babylonish carpet-seller.”
As the door had closed behind the orator, the Prince had strode across the rugs to the window—and spat forth furiously as in extreme disgust.
“Fool, knave, villain! I foul my lips by speaking to his accursed ears!”
The tongue in which he uttered this was the purest “Royal Persian,” such as one might hear in the king’s court. The beautiful “mute,” mute no longer, glided across the chamber and laid both hands upon his shoulder with a gracious caress.
“And yet you bear with these treacherous creatures, you speak them fair?” was the remark in the same musical tongue.
“Yes, because there is sore need. Because, with all their faithlessness, covetousness, and guile, these Hellenes are the keenest, subtlest race beneath Mithra’s glorious light. And we Persians must play with them, master them, and use them to make us lords of all the world.”
Hiram had disappeared behind a curtain. The Prince lifted her silver embroidered red cap. Over the graceful shoulders fell a mass of clear gold hair, so golden one might have hidden shining darics within it. The shining head pressed against the Persian’s breast. In this attitude, with the loose dress parting to show the tender lines, there could be no doubt of the other’s sex. The Prince laid his hand upon her neck and drew her bright face nearer.
“This is a mad adventure on which we two have come,” he spoke; “how nearly you were betrayed at the Isthmus, when the Athenian saved you! A blunder by Hiram, an ill-turn of Fate, will ruin us yet. It is far, Rose of Eran, from Athens to the pleasant groves of Susa and the sparkling Choaspes.”
“But the adventure is ending,” answered she, with smiling confidence; “Mazda has guarded us. As you have said—we are in his hand, alike here and in my brother’s palace. And we have seen Greece and Athens—the country and city which you will conquer, which you will rule.”
“Yes,” he said, letting his eyes pass from her face to the vista of the Acropolis, which lay in fair view under the moonlight. “How noble a city this! Xerxes has promised that I shall be satrap of Hellas, Athens shall be my capital, and you, O best beloved, you shall be mistress of Athens.”
“I shall be mistress of Athens,” echoed she, “but you, husband and lord, would that men might give you a higher name than satrap, chief of the Great King’s slaves!”
“Xerxes is king,” he answered her.
“My brother wears the purple cap. He sits on the throne of Cyrus the Great and Darius the Dauntless. I would be a loyal Aryan, the king is indeed in Susa or Babylon. But for me the true king of Media and Persia—is here.” And she lifted proud eyes to her husband.
“You are bold, Rose of Eran,” he smiled, not angry at her implication; “more cautious words than these have brought many in peril of the bow-string. But, by Mithra the Fiend-Smiter, why were you not made a man? Then truly would your mother Atossa have given Darius an heir right worthy the twenty kingdoms!”
She gave a gentle laugh.
“The Most High ordains the best. Have I not the noblest kingdom? Am I not your wife?”
His laugh answered her.
“Then I am greater than Xerxes. I love my empire the best!”
He leaned again from the lattice, “O, fairest of cities, and we shall win it! See how the tawny rock turns to silver beneath the moonbeams! How clearly burn the stars over the plain and the mountain! And these Greeks, clever, wise, beautiful, when we have mastered them, have taught them our Aryan obedience and love of truth, what servants will they not become! For we are ordained to conquer. Mazda has given us empire without limit, from the Indus to the Great Ocean of the West,—all shall be ours; for we are Persians, the race to rule forever.”
“We will conquer,” she said dreamily, as enchanted as was he by the beauties of the night.
“From the day Cyrus your grandfather flung down Cambyses the Mede, the High God has been with us. Egypt, Assyria, Babylon—have all bowed under our yoke. The Lydian at golden Sardis, the Tartar on the arid steppes, the Hindoo by his sacred river, all send tribute to our king, and Hellas—” he held out his arms confidently—“shall be the brightest star in the Persian tiara. When Darius your father lay dying, I swore to him, ‘Master, fear not; I will avenge you on Athens and on all the Greeks.’ And in one brief year, O fravashi, soul of the great departed, I may make good the vow. I will make these untamed Hellenes bow their proud necks to a king.”
Her own eyes brightened, looking on him, as he spoke in pride and power.
“And yet,” she could not keep back the question, “as we have moved through this Hellas, and seen its people, living without princes, or with princes of little power, sometimes a strange thought comes. These perverse, unobedient folk, false as they are, and ununited, have yet a strength to do great things, a strength which even we Aryans lack.”
He shook his head.
“It cannot be. Mazda ordained a king to rule, the rest to obey. And all the wits of Hellas have no strength until they learn that lesson well. But I will teach it them.”
“For some day you will be their king?” spoke the woman. He did not reprove, but stood beside her, gazing forth upon the night. In the moonlight the columns and sculptures of the great temple on the Acropolis stood out in minute tracery They could see all the caverns and jagged ledges on the massy Rock. The flat roofs of the sleeping city lay like a dark and peaceful ocean. The mountains spread around in shadow-wrapped hush. Far away the dark stretch of the sea sent back a silver shimmering in answer to the moon. A landscape only possible at Athens! The two sensitive Orientals’ souls were deeply touched. For long they were silent, then the husband spoke.
“Twenty days more; we are safe in Sardis, the adventure ended. The war only remains, and the glory, the conquest,—and thou. O Ahura-Mazda,” he spoke upward to the stars, “give to thy Persians this land. For when Thou hast given this, Thou wilt keep back nothing of all the world.”
