A Victor of Salamis 14Book I · The Disloyalty of Phormio
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Literature · Adventure
A Victor of Salamis 14
Book I · The Disloyalty of Phormio
DavisEnglish
On the evening of the Panathenæa, Bias, servant of Democrates, had supped with Phormio,—for in democratic Athens a humble citizen would not disdain to entertain even a slave. The Thracian had a merry wit and a story-teller’s gift that more than paid for the supper of barley-porridge and salt mackerel, and after the viands had disappeared was ready even to tell tales against his master.
“I’ve turned my brain inside out, and shaken it like a meal sack. No wisdom comes. The kyrios has something on his mind. He prays to Hermes Dolios as often as if he were a cut-purse. Then yesterday he sent me for Agis—”
“Agis?” Phormio pricked up his ears. “The gambling-house keeper? What does Democrates with him?”
“Answer yourself. My master has been to Agis’s pretty place before to see his cocks. However, this is different. To-day I met Theon.”
“Who’s he?”
“Agis’s slave, the merriest scoundrel in Athens. Agis, he says, has been prancing like an ass stuffed with barley. He gave Theon a letter from Democrates to take to your Babylonian opposite; Theon must hunt up Seuthes, a Corinthian, and worm out of him when and how he was leaving Athens. Agis promised Theon a gold stater if all was right.”
Phormio whistled. “You mean the carpet-dealer here? By Athena’s owls, there is no light in his window to-night!”
“None, indeed,” crackled Lampaxo; “didn’t I see that cursed Babylonian with his servants gliding out just as Bias entered? Zeus knows whither! I hope ere dawn Democrates has them by the heels.”
“Democrates does something to-night,” asserted Bias, extending his cup for wine. “At noon Agis flew up to him, chattered something in his ear, whereupon Democrates bade me be off and not approach him till to-morrow, otherwise a cane gets broken on my shoulders.”
“It’s not painful to have a holiday,” laughed Phormio.
“It’s most painful to be curious yet unsatisfied.”
“But why did not you take the letter to the Babylonian?” observed Phormio, shrewdly.
“I’m perplexed, indeed. Only one thing is possible.”
“And that is—”
“Theon is not known in this street. I am. Perhaps the kyrios didn’t care to have it rumoured he had dealings with that Babylonian.”
“Silence, undutiful scoundrel,” ordered Lampaxo, from her corner; “what has so noble a patriot as Democrates to conceal? Ugh! Be off with you! Phormio, don’t dare to fill up the tipsy fox’s beaker again. I want to pull on my nightcap and go to bed.”
Bias did not take the hint. Phormio was considering whether it was best to join combat with his redoubtable spouse, or save his courage for a more important battle, when a slight noise from the street made all listen.
“Pest light on those bands of young roisterers!” fumed Lampaxo. “They go around all night, beating on doors and vexing honest folk. Why don’t the constables trot them all to jail?”
“This isn’t a drunken band, good wife,” remarked Phormio, rising; “some one is sitting on the stones by the Hermes, near the door, groaning as if in pain.”
“A drunkard? Let him lie then,” commanded Lampaxo; “let the coat-thieves come and filch his chiton.”
“He’s hardly drunken,” observed her husband, peering through the lattice in the door, “but sick rather. Don’t detain me, philotata,”—Lampaxo’s skinny hand had tried to restrain. “I’ll not let even a dog suffer.”
“You’ll be ruined by too much charity,” bewailed the woman, but Bias followed the fishmonger into the night. The moon shone down the narrow street, falling over the stranger who half lay, half squatted by the Hermes. When the two approached him, he tried to stagger to his feet, then reeled, and Phormio’s strong arms seized him. The man resisted feebly, and seemed never to hear the fishmonger’s friendly questions.
“I am innocent. Do not arrest me. Help me to the temple of Hephæstos, where there’s asylum for fugitives. Ah! Hermione, that I should bring you this!”
Bias leaped back as the moonlight glanced over the face of the stranger.
“Master Glaucon, half naked and mad! Ai! woe!”
“Glaucon the Alcmæonid,” echoed Phormio, in amazement, and the other still struggled to escape.
“Do you not hear? I am innocent. I never visited the Persian spy. I never betrayed the fleet. By what god can I swear it, that you may believe?”
Phormio was a man to recover from surprise quickly, and act swiftly and to the purpose. He made haste to lead his unfortunate visitor inside and lay him on his one hard couch. Scarcely was this done, however, when Lampaxo ran up to Glaucon in mingled rage and exultation.
“Phormio doesn’t know what Polus and I told Democrates, or what he told us! So you thought to escape, you white-skinned traitor? But we’ve watched you. We know how you went to the Babylonian. We know your guilt. And now the good gods have stricken you mad and delivered you to justice.” She waved her bony fists in the prostrate man’s face. “Run, Phormio! don’t stand gaping like a magpie. Run, I say—”
“Whither? For a physician?”
“To Areopagus, fool! There’s where the constables have their camp. Bring ten men with fetters. He’s strong and desperate. Bias and I will wait and guard him. If you stir, traitor,—” she was holding a heavy meat-knife at the fugitive’s throat,—“I’ll slit your weasand like a chicken.”
But for once in his life Phormio defied his tyrant effectively. With one hand he tore the weapon from her clutch, the other closed her screaming mouth.
“Are you mad yourself? Will you rouse the neighbourhood? I don’t know what you and Polus tattled about to Democrates. I don’t greatly care. As for going for constables to seize Glaucon the Fortunate—”
“Fortunate!” echoed the miserable youth, rising on one elbow, “say it never again. The gods have blasted me with one great blow. And you—you are Phormio, husband and brother-in-law of those who have sworn against me,—you are the slave of Democrates my destroyer,—and you, woman,—Zeus soften you!—already clamour for my worthless life, as all Athens does to-morrow!”
Lampaxo suddenly subsided. Resistance from her spouse was so unexpected she lost at once arguments and breath. Phormio continued to act promptly; taking a treasured bottle from a cupboard he filled a mug and pressed it to the newcomer’s lips. The fiery liquor sent the colour back into Glaucon’s face. He raised himself higher—strength and mind in a measure returned. Bias had whispered to Phormio rapidly. Perhaps he had guessed more of his master’s doings than he had dared to hint before.
“Hark you, Master Glaucon,” began Phormio, not unkindly. “You are with friends, and never heed my wife. She’s not so steely hearted as she seems.”
“Seize the traitor,” interjected Lampaxo, with a gasp.
“Tell your story. I’m a plain and simple man, who won’t believe a gentleman with your fair looks, fame, and fortune has pawned them all in a night. Bias has sense. First tell how you came to wander down this way.”
Glaucon sat upright, his hands pressing against his forehead.
“How can I tell? I have run to and fro, seeing yet not seeing whither I went. I know I passed the Acharnican gate, and the watch stared at me. Doubtless I ran hither because here they said the Babylonian lived, and he has been ever in my head. I shudder to go over the scene at Colonus. I wish I were dead. Then I could forget it!”
“Constables—fetters!” howled Lampaxo, as a direful interlude, to be silenced by an angry gesture from her helpmeet.
“Nevertheless, try to tell what you can,” spoke Phormio, mildly, and Glaucon, with what power he had, complied. Broken, faltering, scarce coherent often, his story came at last. He sat silent while Phormio clutched his own head. Then Glaucon darted around wild and hopeless eyes.
“Ai! you believe me guilty. I almost believe so myself. All my best friends have cast me off. Democrates, my friend from youth, has wrought my ruin. My wife I shall never see again. I am resolved—” He rose. A desperate purpose made his feet steady.
“What will you do?” demanded Phormio, perplexed.
“One thing is left. I am sure to be arrested at dawn if not before. I will go to the ‘City-House,’ the public prison, and give myself up. The ignominy will soon end. Then welcome the Styx, Hades, the never ending night—better than this shame!”
He started forth, but Phormio’s hand restrained him. “Not so fast, lad! Thank Olympus, I’m not Lampaxo. You’re too young a turbot for Charon’s fish-net. Let me think a moment.”
The fishmonger stood scratching his thin hairs. Another howl from Lampaxo decided him.
“Are you a traitor, too? Away with the wretch to prison!”
“I’m resolved,” cried Phormio, striking his thigh. “Only an honest man could get such hatred from my wife. If they’ve not tracked you yet, they’re not likely to find you before morning. My cousin Brasidas is master of the Solon, and owes a good turn—”
Quick strides took him to a chest. He dragged forth a sleeveless sailor’s cloak of hair-cloth. To fling this over Glaucon’s rent chiton took an instant, another instant to clap on the fugitive’s head a brimless red cap.
“Euge!—you grow transformed. But that white face of yours is dangerous. See!” he rubbed over the Alcmæonid’s face two handfuls of black ashes snatched from the hearth and sprang back with a great laugh, “you’re a sailor unlading charcoal now. Zeus himself would believe it. All is ready—”
“For the sea, my lad. For Athens is no place for you to-morrow, and Brasidas sails at dawn. Some more wine? It’s a long, brisk walk.”
“To the havens? You trust me? You doubt the accusation which every friend save Hermione believes? O pure Athena—and this is possible!” Again Glaucon’s head whirled. It took more of the fiery wine to stay him up.
“Ay, boy,” comforted Phormio, very gruff, “you shall walk again around Athens with a bold, brave face, though not to-morrow, I fear. Polus trusts his heart and not his head in voting ‘guilty,’ so I trust it voting ‘innocent.’ ”
“I warn you,” Glaucon spoke rapidly, “I’ve no claim on your friendship. If your part in this is discovered, you know our juries.”
“That I know,” laughed Phormio, grimly, “for I know dear Polus. So now my own cloak and we are off.”
But Lampaxo, who had watched everything with accumulating anger, now burst loose. She bounded to the door.
“Constables! Help! Athens is betrayed!”
She bawled that much through the lattice before her husband and Bias dragged her back. Fortunately the street was empty.
“That I should see this! My own husband betraying the city! Aiding a traitor!” Then she began whimpering through her nose. “Mu! mu! leave the villain to his fate. Think of me if not of your own safety. Woe! when was a woman more misused?”
But here her lament ended, for Phormio, with the firmness of a man thoroughly determined, thrust a rag into her mouth and with Bias’s help bound her down upon the couch by means of a convenient fish-cord.
“I am grieved to stop your singing, blessed dear,” spoke the fishmonger, indulging in a rare outburst of sarcasm against his formidable helpmeet, “but we play a game with Fate to-night a little too even to allow unfair chances. Bias will watch you until I return, and then I can discover, philotata, whether your love for Athens is so great you must go to the Archon to denounce your husband.”
The Thracian promised to do his part. His affection for Democrates was clearly not the warmest. Lampaxo’s farewell, as Phormio guided his half-dazed companion into the street, was a futile struggle and a choking. The ways were empty and silent. Glaucon allowed himself to be led by the hand and did not speak. He hardly knew how or whither Phormio was taking him. Their road lay along the southern side of the Acropolis, past the tall columns of the unfinished Temple of Zeus, which reared to giant height in the white moonlight. This, as well as the overshadowing Rock itself, they left behind without incident. Phormio chose devious alleys, and they met neither Scythian constables nor bands of roisterers. Only once the two passed a house bright with lamps. Jovial guests celebrated a late wedding feast. Clearly the two heard the marriage hymn of Sappho.
“The bridegroom comes tall as Ares,
Ho, Hymenæus!
Taller than a mighty man,
Ho, Hymenæus!”
Glaucon stopped like one struck with an arrow.
“They sang that song the night I wedded Hermione. Oh, if I could drink the Lethe water and forget!”
“Come,” commanded Phormio, pulling upon his arm. “The sun will shine again to-morrow.”
Thus the twain went forward, Glaucon saying not a word. He hardly knew how they passed the Itonian Gate and crossed the long stretch of open country betwixt the city and its havens. No pursuit as yet—Glaucon was too perplexed to reason why. At last he knew they entered Phaleron. He heard the slapping waves, the creaking tackle, the shouting sailors. Torches gleamed ruddily. A merchantman was loading her cargo of pottery crates and oil jars,—to sail with the morning breeze. Swarthy shipmen ran up and down the planks betwixt quay and ship, balancing their heavy jars on their heads as women bear water-pots. From the tavern by the mooring came harping and the clatter of cups, while two women—the worse for wine—ran out to drag the newcomers in to their revel. Phormio slapped the slatterns aside with his staff. In the same fearful waking dream Glaucon saw Phormio demanding the shipmaster. He saw Brasidas—a short man with the face of a hound and arms to hug like a bear—in converse with the fishmonger, saw the master at first refusing, then gradually giving reluctant assent to some demand. Next Phormio was half leading, half carrying the fugitive aboard the ship, guiding him through a labyrinth of bales, jars, and cordage, and pointing to a hatchway ladder, illumined by a swinging lantern.
“Keep below till the ship sails; don’t wipe the charcoal from your face till clear of Attica. Officers will board the vessel before she puts off; yet have no alarm, they’ll only come to see she doesn’t violate the law against exporting grain.” Phormio delivered his admonitions rapidly, at the same time fumbling in his belt. “Here—here are ten drachmæ, all I’ve about me, but something for bread and figs till you make new friends,—in which there’ll be no trouble, I warrant. Have a brave heart. Remember that Helios can shine lustily even if you are not in Athens, and pray the gods to give a fair return.”
Glaucon felt the money pressed within his palm. He saw Phormio turning away. He caught the fishmonger’s hard hand and kissed it twice.
“I can never reward you. Not though I live ten thousand years and have all the gold of Gyges.”
“Phui!” answered Phormio, with a shrug; “don’t detain me, it’s time I was home and was unlashing my loving wife.”
And with that he was gone. Glaucon descended the ladder. The cabin was low, dark, unfurnished save with rude pallets of straw, but Glaucon heeded none of these things. Deeper than the accusation by Democrates, than the belief therein by Themistocles and the others, the friendship of the fishmonger touched him. A man base-born, ignorant, uncivil, had believed him, had risked his own life to save him, had given him money out of his poverty, had spoken words of fair counsel and cheer. On the deck above the sailors were tumbling the cargo, and singing at their toil, but Glaucon never heard them. Flinging himself on a straw pallet, for the first time came the comfort of hot tears.
Very early the Solon’s square mainsail caught the breeze from the warm southwest. The hill of Munychia and the ports receded. The panorama of Athens—plain, city, citadel, gray Hymettus, white Pentelicus—spread in a vista of surpassing beauty—so at least to the eyes of the outlaw when he clambered to the poop. As the ship ran down the low coast, land and sea seemed clothed with a robe of rainbow-woven light. Far, near,—islands, mountains, and deep were burning with saffron, violet, and rose, as the Sun-God’s car climbed higher above the burning path it marked across the sea. Glaucon saw all in clear relief,—the Acropolis temple where he had prayed, the Pnyx and Areopagus, the green band of the olive groves, even the knoll of Colonus,—where he had left his all. Never had he loved Athens more than now. Never had she seemed fairer to his eyes than now. He was a Greek, and to a Greek death was only by one stage a greater ill than exile.
“O Athena Polias,” he cried, stretching his hands to the fading beauty, “goddess who determineth all aright,—bless thou this land, though it wakes to call me traitor. Teach it to know I am innocent. Comfort Hermione, my wife. And restore me to Athens, after doing deeds which wipe out all my unearned shame!”
The Solon rounded the cape. The headland concealed the city. The Saronian bay opened into the deeper blue of the Ægean and its sprinkling of brown islands. Glaucon looked eastward and strove to forget Attica.
Two hours later all Athens seemed reading this placard in the Agora:—
NOTICE
For the arrest of GLAUCON, SON OF CONON, charged with high treason, I will pay one talent.
DEXILEUS, Chairman of the Eleven.
Other such placards were posted in Peiræus, in Eleusis, in Marathon, in every Attic village. Men could talk of nothing else.
