A Victor of Salamis 13Book I · A Traitor to Hellas
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Literature · Adventure
A Victor of Salamis 13
Book I · A Traitor to Hellas
DavisEnglish
Before the house six riders were reining,—five Scythian “bowmen” of the constabulary of Athens, tow-headed Barbarians, grinning but mute; the sixth was Democrates. He dismounted with a bound, and as he did so the friends saw that his face was red as with pent-up excitement. Themistocles advanced hastily.
“What’s this? Your hands seem a-quiver. Whom has that constable tied up behind him?”
“Seuthes!” cried Glaucon, bounding back, “Seuthes, by every god, and pinioned like a felon.”
“Ay!” groaned the prisoner, lashed to a horse, “what have I done to be seized and tried like a bandit? Why should I be set upon by these gentlemen while I was enjoying a quiet pot of wine in the tavern at Daphni, and be haled away as if to crucifixion? Mu! Mu! make them untie me, dear Master Glaucon.”
“Put down your prisoner,” ordered Democrates, “and all you constables stay without the house. I ask Themistocles, Hermippus, and Glaucon to come to an inner room. I must examine this man. The matter is serious.”
“Serious?” echoed the bewildered athlete, “I can vouch for Seuthes—an excellent Corinthian, come to Athens to sell some bales of wool—”
“Answer, Glaucon,” Democrates’s voice was stern. “Has he no letters from you for Argos?”
“Certainly.”
“You admit it?”
“By the dog of Egypt, do you doubt my word?”
“Friends,” called Democrates, dramatically, “mark you that Glaucon admits he has employed this Seuthes as his courier.”
“Whither leads this mummery?” cried the athlete, growing at last angry.
“If to nothing, I, Democrates, rejoice the most. Now I must bid you to follow me.”
Seizing the snivelling Seuthes, the orator led into the house and to a private chamber. The rest followed, in blank wonderment. Cimon had recovered enough to follow—none too steadily. But when Hermione approached, Democrates motioned her back.
“Do not come. A painful scene may be impending.”
“What my husband can hear, that can I,” was her retort. “Ah! but why do you look thus dreadfully on Glaucon?”
“I have warned you, lady. Do not blame me if you hear the worst,” rejoined Democrates, barring the door. A single swinging lamp shed a fitful light on the scene—the whimpering prisoner, the others all amazed, the orator’s face, tense and white. Democrates’s voice seemed metallic as he continued:—
“Now, Seuthes, we must search you. Produce first the letter from Glaucon.”
The fat florid little Corinthian was dressed as a traveller, a gray chalmys to his hips, a brimmed brown hat, and high black boots. His hands were now untied. He tugged from his belt a bit of papyrus which Democrates handed to Themistocles, enjoining “Open.”
Glaucon flushed.
“Are you mad, Democrates, to violate my private correspondence thus?”
“The weal of Athens outweighs even the pleasure of Glaucon,” returned the orator, harshly, “and you, Themistocles, note that Glaucon does not deny that the seal here is his own.”
“I do not deny,” cried the angry athlete. “Open, Themistocles, and let this stupid comedy end.”
“And may it never change to tragedy!” proclaimed Democrates. “What do you read, Themistocles?”
“A courteous letter of thanks to Ageladas.” The senior statesman was frowning. “Glaucon is right. Either you are turned mad, or are victim of some prank,—is it yours, Cimon?”
“I am as innocent as a babe. I’d swear it by the Styx,” responded that young man, scratching his muddled head.
“I fear we are not at the end of the examination,” observed Democrates, with ominous slowness. “Now, Seuthes, recollect your plight. Have you no other letter about you?”
“None!” groaned the unheroic Corinthian. “Ah! pity, kind sirs; what have I done? Suffer me to go.”
“It is possible,” remarked his prosecutor, “you are an innocent victim, or at least do not realize the intent of what you bear. I must examine the lining of your chalmys. Nothing. Your girdle. Nothing. Your hat, remove it. Quite empty. Blessed be Athena if my fears prove groundless. But my first duty is to Athens and Hellas. Ah! Your high boots. Remove the right one.” The orator felt within, and shook the boot violently. “Nothing again. The left one, empty it seems. Ei! what is this?”
In a tense silence he shook from the boot a papyrus, rolled and sealed. It fell on the floor at the feet of Themistocles, who, watching all his lieutenant did, bent and seized it instantly; then it dropped from his hands as a live coal.
“The seal! The seal! May Zeus smite me blind if I see aright!”
Hermippus, who had been following all the scene in silence, bent, lifted the fateful paper, and he too gave a cry of grief.
“It is the seal of Glaucon. How came it here?”
“Glaucon,”—hard as Democrates’s voice had been that night, it rang like cold iron now,—“as the friend of your boyhood, and one who would still do for you all he may, I urge you as you love me to look upon this seal.”
“I am looking,” but as he spoke paleness followed the angry flush on the athlete’s forehead. He needed no omen to tell him something fearful was about to ensue.
“The seal is yours?”
“The very same, two dancing mænads and over them a winged Eros. But how came this letter here? I did not—”
“As you love life or death, as you preserve any regard for our friendship, I adjure you,—not to brave it longer, but to confess—”
“Confess what? My head is reeling.”
“The treason in which you have dipped your hands, your dealings with the Persian spy, your secret interviews, and last of all this letter,—I fear a gross betrayal of all trust,—to some agent of Xerxes. I shudder when I think of what may be its contents.”
“And—this—from—you! Oh,—Democrates,—”
The accused man’s hands snatched at the air. He sank upon a chest.
“He does not deny it,” threw out the orator, but Glaucon’s voice rang shrilly:—
“Ever! Ever will I deny! Though the Twelve Gods all cried out ‘guilty!’ The charge is monstrous.”
“It is time, Democrates,” said Themistocles, who had preserved a grim silence, “that you showed us clearly whither your path is leading. This is a fearful accusation you launch against your best-loved friend.”
“Themistocles is right,” assented the orator, moving away from the luckless Seuthes as from a pawn no longer important in the game of life and death. “The whole of the wretched story I fear I must tell on the Bema to all Athens. I must be brief, but believe me, I can make good all I say. Since my return from the Isthmia, I have been observed to be sad. Rightly—for knowing Glaucon as I did, I grew suspicious, and I loved him. You have thought me not diligent in hunting down the Persian spy. You were wrong. But how could I ruin my friend without full proof? I made use of Agis,—no genteel confederate, to be sure, but honest, patriotic, indefatigable. I soon had my eyes on the suspected Babylonish carpet-seller. I observed Glaucon’s movements closely, they gave just ground for suspicion. The Babylonian, I came to feel, was none other than an agent of Xerxes himself. I discovered that Glaucon had been making this emissary nocturnal visits.”
“A lie!” groaned the accused, in agony.
“I would to Athena I believed you,” was the unflinching answer; “I have direct evidence from eye-witnesses that you went to him. In a moment I can produce it. Yet still I hesitated. Who would blast a friend without damning proof? Then yesterday with your own lips you told me you sent a messenger to disloyal Argos. I suspected two messages, not one, were entrusted to Seuthes, and that you proclaimed the more innocent matter thus boldly simply to blind my eyes. Before Seuthes started forth this morning Agis informed me he had met him in a wine-shop—”
“True,” whimpered the unhappy prisoner.
“And this fellow as much as admitted he carried a second and secret message—”
“Liar!” roared Seuthes.
“Men hint strange things in wine-shops,” observed Democrates, sarcastically. “Enough that a second papyrus with Glaucon’s seal has been found hidden upon you.”
“Open it then, and know the worst,” interjected Themistocles, his face like a thunder-cloud; but Democrates forbade him.
“A moment. Let me complete my story. This afternoon I received warning that the Babylonish carpet-vender had taken sudden flight, presumably toward Thebes. I have sent mounted constables after him. I trust they can seize him at the pass of Phyle. In the meantime, I may assure you I have irrefutable evidence—needless to present here—that the man was a Persian agent, and to more purpose hear this affidavit, sworn to by very worthy patriots.
“Polus, son of Phodrus of the Commune of Diomea, and Lampaxo his sister take oath by Zeus, Dike, and Athena, thus: We swear we saw and recognized Glaucon, son of Conon, twice visiting by night in the past month of Scirophorion a certain Babylonish carpet-seller, name unknown, who had lodgings above Demas’s shield factory in Alopece.”
“Details lack,” spoke Themistocles, keenly.
“To be supplied in full measure at the trial,” rejoined the orator. “And now to the second letter itself.”
“Ay, the letter, whatever the foul Cyclops that wrought it!” groaned Glaucon through his teeth.
Themistocles took the document from Hermippus’s trembling hands. His own trembled whilst he broke the seal.
“The handwriting of Glaucon. There is no doubt,” was his despairing comment. His frown darkened. Then he attempted to read.
“Glaucon of Athens to Cleophas of Argos wishes health:—
“Cleophas leads the Medizers of Argos, the greatest friend of Xerxes in Greece. O Zeus, what is this next—
“Our dear friend, whom I dare not name, to-day departs for Thebes, and in a month will be safe in Sardis. His visit to Athens has been most fruitful. Since you at present have better opportunity than we for forwarding packets to Susa, do not fail to despatch this at once. A happy chance led Themistocles to explain to me his secret memorandum for the arraying of the Greek fleet. You can apprize its worth, for the only others to whom it is entrusted are Democrates and later Leonidas—”
Themistocles flung the papyrus down. His voice was broken. Tears stood in his eyes.
“O Glaucon, Glaucon,—whom I have trusted? Was ever trust so betrayed! May Apollo smite me blind, if so I could forget what I read here! It is all written—the secret ordering of the fleet—”
For a terrible moment there was silence in the little room, a silence broken by a wild, shrill cry,—Hermione’s, as she cast her arms about her husband.
“A lie! A snare! A wicked plot! Some jealous god has devised this guile, seeing we were too happy!”
She shook with sobs, and Glaucon, roused to manhood by her grief, uprose and faced the stern face of Democrates, the blenching faces of the rest.
“I am the victim of a conspiracy of all the fiends in Tartarus,”—he strove hard to speak steadily; “I did not write that second letter. It is a forgery.”
“But who, then,” groaned Themistocles, hopelessly, “can claim this handiwork? Democrates or I?—for no other has seen the memorandum,—that I swear. It has not yet gone to Leonidas. It has been guarded as the apple of my eye. We three alone knew thereof. And it is in this narrow room the betrayer of Hellas must stand.”
“I cannot explain.” Glaucon staggered back to his seat. His wife’s head sank upon his lap. The two sat in misery.
“Confess, by the remnants of our friendship I implore, confess,” ordered Democrates, “and then Themistocles and I will strive to lighten if possible your inevitable doom.”
The accused man sat dumb, but Hermione struck back as some wild creature driven to bay. She lifted her head.
“Has Glaucon here no friend but me, his wife?” She sent beseeching eyes about the room. “Do you all cry ‘guilty, guilty’? Then is your friendship false, for when is friendship proved, save in the hour of need?”
The appeal brought an answer from her father, who had been standing silent; and in infinite distress kindly, cautious, charitable Hermippus began:—
“Dear Glaucon, Hermione is wrong; we were never more your friends. We are willing to believe the best and not the worst. Therefore tell all frankly. You have been a victim of great temptation. The Isthmian victory has turned your head. The Persian was subtle, plausible. He promised I know not what. You did not realize all you were doing. You had confederates here in Athens who are more guilty. We can make allowances. Tell only the truth, and the purse and influence of Hermippus of Eleusis shall never be held back to save his son-in-law.”
“Nor mine, nor mine,” cried Themistocles, snatching at every straw; “only confess, the temptation was great, others were more guilty, everything then may be done—”
Glaucon drew himself together and looked up almost proudly. Slowly he was recovering strength and wit.
“I have nothing to confess,” he spoke, “nothing. I know nothing of this Persian spy. Can I swear the god’s own oath—by Earth, by Sky, by the Styx—”
Themistocles shook his head wearily.
“How can we say you are innocent? You never visited the Babylonian?”
“Never. Never!”
“Polus and Lampaxo swear otherwise. The letter?”
“A forgery.”
“Impossible. Is the forger Democrates or I?”
“Some god has done this thing in malice, jealous of my great joy.”
“I fear Hermes no longer strides so frequently about Athens. The hand and seal are yours,—and still you do not confess?”
“If I must die,” Glaucon was terribly pale, but his voice was steady, “it is not as a perjurer!”
Themistocles turned his back with a groan.
“I can do nothing for you. This is the saddest hour in my life.” He was silent, but Democrates sprang to the athlete’s side.
“Have I not prayed each god to spare me this task?” he spoke. “Can I forget our friendship? Do not brave it to the end. Pity at least your friends, your wife—”
He threw back his cloak, pointing to a sword.
“Ai,” cried the accused, shrinking. “What would you have me do?”
“Save the public disgrace, the hooting jury, the hemlock, the corpse flung into the Barathrum. Strike this into your breast and end the shame.”
No further. Glaucon smote him so that he reeled. The athlete’s tone was terrible.
“Villain! You shall not tempt me.” Then he turned to the rest, and stood in his white agony, yet beautiful as ever, holding out his arms.
“O friends, do you all believe the worst? Do you, Themistocles, turn silently against me?” No answer. “And you, Hermippus?” No answer again. “And you, Cimon, who praised me as the fairest friend in all the world?” The son of Miltiades simply tore his hair. Then the athlete turned to Democrates.
“And you I deemed more than comrade, for we were boys at school together, were flogged with the same rod, and drank from the same cup, had like friends, foes, loves, hates; and have lived since as more than brothers,—do you too turn utterly away?”
“I would it were otherwise,” came the sullen answer. Again Democrates pointed to the sword, but Glaucon stood up proudly.
“No. I am neither traitor, nor perjurer, nor coward. If I must perish, it shall be as becomes an Alcmæonid. If you have resolved to undo me, I know your power over Athenian juries. I must die. But I shall die with unspotted heart, calling the curse of the innocent upon the god or man who plotted to destroy me.”
“We have enough of this direful comedy,” declared Democrates, pale himself. “Only one thing is left. Call in the Scythians with their gyves, and hale the traitor to prison.”
He approached the door; the others stood as icy statues, but not Hermione. She had her back against the door before the orator could open.
“Hold,” she commanded, “for you are doing murder!”
Democrates halted at the menacing light in her eyes. All the fear had gone out of them. Athena Promachos, “Mistress of Battles,” must have stood in that awful beauty when aroused. Did the goddess teach her in that dread moment of her power over the will of the orator? Glaucon was still standing motionless, helpless, his last appeal having ended in mute resignation to inevitable fate. She motioned to him desperately.
“Glaucon! Glaucon!” she adjured, “do not throw your life away. They shall not murder you. Up! Rouse yourself! There is yet time. Fly, or all is lost.”
“Fly!” spoke the athlete, almost vacantly. “No, I will brave them to the end.”
“For my sake, fly,” she ordered, and conjured by that potent talisman, Glaucon moved toward her.
“How? Whither?”
“To the ends of the earth, Scythia, Atlantis, India, and remain till all Athens knows you are innocent.”
As men move who know not what they do, he approached the door. Held by the magic of her eyes the others stood rigid. They saw Hermione raise the latch. Her husband’s face met hers in one kiss. The door opened, closed. Glaucon was gone, and as the latch clicked Democrates shook off the charm and leaped forward.
“After the traitor! Not too late!—”
For an instant he wrestled with Hermione hand to hand, but she was strong through fear and love. He could not master her. Then a heavy grasp fell on his shoulder—Cimon’s.
“You are beside yourself, Democrates. My memory is longer than yours. To me Glaucon is still a friend. I’ll not see him dragged to death before my eyes. When we follow even a fox or a wolf, we give fair start and fair play. You shall not pursue him yet.”
“Blessing on you!” cried the wife, falling on her knees and seizing Cimon’s cloak. “Oh, make Themistocles and my father merciful!”
Hermippus—tender-hearted man—was in tears. Themistocles was pacing the little chamber, his hand tugging his beard, clearly in grievous doubt.
“The Scythians! The constables!” Democrates clamoured frantically; “every instant gives the traitor better start.”
But Cimon held him fast, and Themistocles was not to be interrupted. Only after a long time he spoke, and then with authority which brooked no contradiction.
“There is no hole in the net of Democrates’s evidence that Glaucon is guilty of foul disloyalty, disloyalty worthy of shameful death. Were he any other there would be only one way with him and that a short one. But Glaucon I know, if I know any man. The charges even if proved are nigh incredible. For of all the thousands in Hellas his soul seemed the purest, noblest, most ingenuous. Therefore I will not hasten on his death. I will give the gods a chance to save him. Let Democrates arraign me for ‘misprision of treason’ if he will, and of failing in duty to Athens. There shall be no pursuit of Glaucon until morning. Then let the Eleven(7) issue their hue and cry. If they take him, let the law deal with him. Till then give respite.”
Democrates attempted remonstrance. Themistocles bade him be silent sharply, and the other bowed his head in cowed acquiescence. Hermione staggered from the door, her father unbarred, and the whole wretched company went forth. In the passage hung a burnished steel mirror; Hermione gave a cry as she passed it. The light borne by Hermippus showed her in her festival dress, the rippling white drapery, the crown of white violets.
“My father!” she cried, falling into his arms, “is it still the day of the Panathenæa, when I marched in the great procession, when all Athens called me happy? It was a thousand years ago! I can never be glad again—”
He lifted her tenderly as she fainted. Old Cleopis, the Spartan nurse who had kissed her almost before her mother, ran to her. They carried her to bed, and Athena in mercy hid her from consciousness that night and all the following day.
