A Victor of Salamis 28Book II · The Craft of Odysseus
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Literature · Adventure
A Victor of Salamis 28
Book II · The Craft of Odysseus
DavisEnglish
The stranger drew back the shaggy cap. Simonides and Themistocles saw a young, well-formed man. With his thick beard and the flickering cabin lamps it was impossible to discover more. The newcomer stood silent as if awaiting remark from the others, and they in turn looked on him.
“Well,” spoke the admiral, at length, “who are you? Why are you here?”
“You do not know me?”
“Not in the least, and my memory is good. But your speech now is Attic, not Doric as they told me.”
“It may well be Attic, I am Athenian born.”
“Athenian? And still to me a stranger? Ah! an instant. Your voice is familiar. Where have I heard it before?”
“The last time,” rejoined the stranger, his tones rising, “it was a certain night at Colonus. Democrates and Hermippus were with you—likewise—”
Themistocles leaped back three steps.
“The sea gives up its dead. You are Glaucon son of—”
“Conon,” completed the fugitive, folding his arms calmly, but the admiral was not so calm.
“Miserable youth! What harpy, what evil god has brought you hither? What prevents that I give you over to the crew to crucify at the foremast?”
“Nothing hinders! nothing”—Glaucon’s voice mounted to shrillness—“save that Athens and Hellas need all their sons this night.”
“A loyal son you have been!” darted Themistocles, his lips curling. “Where did you escape the sea?”
“I was washed on Astypalæa.”
“Where have you been since?”
“In Sardis.”
“Who protected you there?”
“Mardonius.”
“Did the Persians treat you so shabbily that you were glad to desert them?”
“They loaded me with riches and honour. Xerxes showered me with benefits.”
“And you accompanied their army to Hellas? You went with the other Greek renegades—the sons of Hippias and the rest?”
Glaucon’s brow grew very red, but he met Themistocles’s arrowlike gaze.
“I did—and yet—”
“Ah, yes—the ‘yet,’ ” observed Themistocles, sarcastically. “I had expected it. Well, I can imagine many motives for coming,—to betray our hopes to the Persians, or even because Athena has put some contrite manhood in your heart. You know, of course, that the resolution we passed recalling the exiles did not extend pardon to traitors.”
“I know it.”
Themistocles flung himself into a chair. The admiral was in a rare condition for him,—truly at a loss to divine the best word and question.
“Sit also, Simonides,” his order, “and you, once Alcmæonid and now outlaw, tell why, after these confessions, I should believe any other part of your story?”
“I do not ask you to believe,”—Glaucon stood like a statue,—“I shall not blame you if you do the worst,—yet you shall hear—”
The admiral made an impatient gesture, commanding “Begin,” and the fugitive poured out his tale. All the voyage from Phaleron he had been nerving himself for this ordeal; his composure did not desert now. He related lucidly, briefly, how the fates had dealt with him since he fled Colonus. Only when he told of his abiding with Leonidas Themistocles’s gaze grew sharper.
“Tell that again. Be careful. I am very good at detecting lies.”
Glaucon repeated unfalteringly.
“What proof that you were with Leonidas?”
“None but my word. Euboulus of Corinth and the Spartans alone knew my name. They are dead.”
“Humph! And you expect me to accept the boast of a traitor with a price upon his head?”
“You said you were good at detecting lies.”
Themistocles’s head went down between his hands; at last he lifted it and gazed the deserter in the face.
“Now, son of Conon, do you still persist that you are innocent? Do you repeat those oaths you swore at Colonus?”
“All. I did not write that letter.”
“Who did, then?”
“A malignant god, I said. I will say it again.”
Themistocles shook his head.
“Gods take human agencies to ruin a man in these days, even Hermes the Trickster. Again I say, who wrote that letter?”
“Athena knows.”
“And unfortunately her Ladyship the Goddess will not tell,” cried the admiral, blasphemously. “Let us fall back on easier questions. Did I write it?”
“Absurd.”
“Did Democrates?”
“Absurd again, still—”
“Do you not see, dearest outlaw,” said Themistocles, mildly, “until you can lay that letter on some other man’s shoulders, I cannot answer, ‘I believe you’?”
“I did not ask that. I have a simpler request. Will you let me serve Hellas?”
“How do I know you are not a spy sent from Mardonius?”
“Because too many deserters and talebearers are flying to Xerxes now to require that I thrust my head in the Hydra’s jaws. You know surely that.”
Themistocles raised his eyebrows.
“There’s truth said there, Simonides. What do you think?” The last question was to the poet.
“That this Glaucon, whatever his guilt a year ago, comes to-night in good faith.”
“Euge! that’s easily said. But what if he betrays us again?”
“If I understand aright,” spoke Simonides, shrewdly, “our case is such there’s little left worth betraying.”
“Not badly put,”—again Themistocles pressed his forehead, while Glaucon stood as passive as hard marble. Then the admiral suddenly began to rain questions like an arrow volley.
“You come from the king’s camp?”
“Yes.”
“And have heard the plans of battle?”
“I was not at the council, but nothing is concealed. The Persians are too confident.”
“Of course. How do their ships lie?”
“Crowded around the havens of Athens. The vassal Ionians have their ships on the left. The Phœnicians, Xerxes’s chief hope, lie on the right, but on the extreme right anchor the Egyptians.”
“How do you know this?”
“From the camp-followers’ talk. Then, too, I rowed by the whole armada while on my way to Salamis. I have eyes. The moon was shining. I was not mistaken.”
“Do you know where rides the trireme of Ariabignes, Xerxes’s admiral-in-chief?”
“Off the entrance to Peiræus. It is easy to find her. She is covered with lights.”
“Ah! and the Egyptian squadron is on the extreme right and closest to Salamis?”
“Very close.”
“If they went up the coast as far as the promontory on Mt. Ægaleos, the strait toward Eleusis would be closed?”
“Certainly.”
“And on the south the way is already blocked by the Ionians.”
“I had trouble in passing even in my skiff.”
More questions, Glaucon not knowing whither they all were drifting. Without warning Themistocles uprose and smote his thigh.
“So you are anxious to serve Hellas?”
“Have I not said it?”
“Dare you die for her?”
“I made the choice once with Leonidas.”
“Dare you do a thing which, if it slip, may give you into the hands of the Barbarians to be torn by wild horses or of the Greeks to be crucified?”
“But it shall not slip!”
“Euge! that is a noble answer. Now let us come.”
“Whither?”
“To Eurybiades’s flag-ship. Then I can know whether you must risk the deed.”
Themistocles touched a bronze gong; a marine adjutant entered.
“My pinnace,” ordered the admiral. As the man went out, Themistocles took a long himation from the locker and wrapped it around the newcomer.
“Since even Simonides and I did not recognize you in your long beard, I doubt if you are in danger of detection to-night. But remember your name is Critias. You can dye your hair if you come safe back from this adventure. Have you eaten?”
“Who has hunger now?”
Themistocles laughed.
“So say all of us. But if the gifts of Demeter cannot strengthen, it is not so with those of Dionysus. Drink.”
He took from a hook a leathern bottle and poured out a hornful of hot Chian. Glaucon did not refuse. After he had finished the admiral did likewise. Then Glaucon in turn asked questions.
“Where is my wife?”
“In the town of Salamis, with her father; do you know she has borne—”
“A son. Are both well?”
“Well. The child is fair as the son of Leto.”
They could see the light flash out of the eyes of the outlaw. He turned toward the statue and stretched out his hand.
“O Aphrodite, I bless thee!” Then again to the admiral, “And Hermione is not yet given to Democrates in marriage?” The words came swiftly.
“Not yet. Hermippus desires it. Hermione resists. She calls Democrates your destroyer.”
Glaucon turned away his face that they might not behold it.
“The god has not yet forgotten mercy,” Simonides thought he heard him say.
“The pinnace is waiting, kyrie,” announced the orderly from the companionway.
“Let the deserter’s skiff be towed behind,” ordered Themistocles, once on deck, “and let Sicinnus also go with me.”
The keen-eyed Asiatic took his place with Themistocles and Glaucon in the stern. The sturdy boatmen sent the pinnace dancing. All through the brief voyage the admiral was at whispers with Sicinnus. As they reached the Spartan flag-ship, half a score of pinnaces trailing behind told how the Peloponnesian admirals were already aboard clamouring at Eurybiades for orders to fly. From the ports of the stern-cabin the glare of many lamps spread wavering bars of light across the water. Voices came, upraised in jarring debate. The marine guard saluted with his spear as Themistocles went up the ladder. Leaving his companions on deck, the admiral hastened below. An instant later he was back and beckoned the Asiatic and the outlaw to the ship’s rail.
“Take Sicinnus to the Persian high admiral,” was his ominous whisper, “and fail not,—fail not, for I say to you except the god prosper you now, not all Olympus can save our Hellas to-morrow.”
Not another word as he turned again to the cabin. The pinnace crew had brought the skiff alongside, Sicinnus entered it, Glaucon took the oars, pulled out a little, as if back to the Nausicaä, then sent the head of the skiff around, pointing across the strait, toward the havens of Athens. Sicinnus sat in silence, but Glaucon guessed the errand. The wind was rising and bringing clouds. This would hide the moon and lessen the danger. But above all things speed was needful. The athlete put his strength upon the oars till the heavy skiff shot across the black void of the water.
It was little short of midnight when Glaucon swung the skiff away from the tall trireme of Ariabignes, the Barbarian’s admiral. The deed was done. He had sat in the bobbing boat while Sicinnus had been above with the Persian chiefs. Officers who had exchanged the wine-cup with Glaucon in the days when he stood at Xerxes’s side passed through the glare of the battle lanterns swaying above the rail. The Athenian had gripped at the dagger in his belt as he watched them. Better in the instant of discovery to slay one’s self than die a few hours afterward by slow tortures! But discovery had not come. Sicinnus had come down the ladder, smiling, jesting, a dozen subalterns salaaming as he went, and offering all manner of service, for had he not been a bearer of great good tidings to the king?
“Till to-morrow,” an olive-skinned Cilician navarch had spoken.
“Till to-morrow,” waved the messenger, lightly. He did all things coolly, as if he had been bearing an invitation to a feast, took his post in the stern of the skiff deliberately, then turned to the silent man with him.
“Pull.”
“Whither?” Glaucon was already tugging the oars.
“To Eurybiades’s ship. Themistocles is waiting. And again all speed.”
The line of twinkling water betwixt the skiff and the Persian widened. For a few moments Glaucon bent himself silently to his task, then for the first time questioned.
“What have you done?”
Even in the darkness he knew Sicinnus grinned and showed his teeth.
“In the name of Themistocles I have told the Barbarian chiefs that the Hellenes are at strife one with another, that they are meditating a hasty flight, that if the king’s captains will but move their ships so as to enclose them, it is likely there will be no battle in the morning, but the Hellenes will fall into the hands of Xerxes unresisting.”
“And the Persian answered?”
“That I and my master would not fail of reward for this service to the king. That the Egyptian ships would be swung at once across the strait to cut off all flight by the Hellenes.”
The outlaw made no answer, but pulled at the oars. The reaction from the day and evening of strain and peril was upon him. He was unutterably weary, though more in mind than in body. The clumsy skiff seemed only to crawl. Trusting the orders of Sicinnus to steer him aright, he closed his eyes. One picture after another of his old life came up before him now he was in the stadium at Corinth and facing the giant Spartan, now he stood by Hermione on the sacred Rock at Athens, now he was at Xerxes’s side with the fleets and the myriads passing before them at the Hellespont, he saw his wife, he saw Roxana, and all other things fair and lovely that had crossed his life. Had he made the best choice? Were the desperate fates of Hellas better than the flower-banked streams of Bactria, whose delights he had forever thrust by? Would his Fortune, guider of every human destiny, bring him at last to a calm haven, or would his life go out amid the crashing ships to-morrow? The oars bumped on the thole-pins. He pulled mechanically, the revery ever deepening, then a sharp hail awoke him.
“O-op! What do you here?”
The call was in Phœnician. Glaucon scarce knew the harsh Semitic speech, but the lembos, a many-oared patrol cutter, was nearly on them. A moment more, and seizure would be followed by identification. Life, death, Hellas, Hermione, all flashed before his eyes as he sat numbed, but Sicinnus saved them both.
“The password to-night? You know it,” he demanded in quick whisper.
“ ‘Hystaspes,’ ” muttered Glaucon, still wool-gathering.
“Who are you? Why here?” An officer in the cutter was rising and upholding an unmasked lantern. “We’ve been ordered to cruise in the channel and snap up deserters, and by Baal, here are twain! The crows will pick at your eyes to-morrow.”
Sicinnus stood upright in the skiff.
“Fool,” he answered in good Sidonian, “dare you halt the king’s privy messenger? It is not our heads that the crows will find the soonest.”
The cutter was close beside them, but the officer dropped his lantern.
“Good, then. Give the password.”
“ ‘Hystaspes.’ ”
They could see the Phœnician’s hand rise to his head in salute.
“Forgive my rudeness, worthy sir. It’s truly needless to seek deserters to-night with the Hellenes’ affairs so desperate, yet we must obey his Eternity’s orders.”
“I pardon you,” quoth the emissary, loftily, “I will commend your vigilance to the admiral.”
“May Moloch give your Lordship ten thousand children,” called back the mollified Semite.
The crew of the cutter dropped their blades into the water. The boats glided apart. Not till there was a safe stretch betwixt them did Glaucon begin to grow hot, then cold, then hot again. Chill Thanatos had passed and missed by a hair’s breadth. Again the bumping of the oars and the slow, slow creeping over the water. The night was darkening. The clouds had hid the moon and all her stars. Sicinnus, shrewd and weatherwise, remarked, “There will be a stiff wind in the morning,” and lapsed into silence. Glaucon toiled on resolutely. A fixed conviction was taking possession of his mind,—one that had come on the day he had been preserved at Thermopylæ, now deepened by the event just passed,—that he was being reserved by the god for some crowning service to Hellas, after which should come peace, whether the peace of a warrior who dies in the arms of victory, whether the peace of a life spent after a deed well done, he scarcely knew, and in the meantime, if the storms must beat and the waves rise up against him, he would bear them still. Like the hero of his race, he could say, “Already have I suffered much and much have I toiled in perils of waves and war, let this be added to the tale of those.”
Bump—bump, the oars played their monotonous music on the thole-pins. Sicinnus stirred on his seat. He was peering northward anxiously, and Glaucon knew what he was seeking. Through the void of the night their straining eyes saw masses gliding across the face of the water. Ariabignes was making his promise good. Yonder the Egyptian fleet were swinging forth to close the last retreat of the Hellenes. Thus on the north, and southward, too, other triremes were thrusting out, bearing—both watchers wisely guessed—a force to disembark on Psyttaleia, the islet betwixt Salamis and the main, a vantage-point in the coming battle.
The coming battle? It was so silent, ghostlike, far away, imagination scarce could picture it. Was this black slumberous water to be the scene at dawn of a combat beside which that of Hector and Achilles under Troy would be only as a tale that is told? And was he, Glaucon, son of Conon the Alcmæonid, sitting there in the skiff alone with Sicinnus, to have a part therein, in a battle the fame whereof should ring through the ages? Bump, bump—still the monologue of the oars. A fish near by leaped from the water, splashing loudly. Then for an instant the clouds broke. Selene uncovered her face. The silvery flash quickly come, more quickly flying, showed him the headlands of that Attica now in Xerxes’s hands. He saw Pentelicus and Hymettus, Parnes and Cithæron, the hills he had wandered over in glad boyhood, the hills where rested his ancestors’ dust. It was no dream. He felt his warm blood quicken. He felt the round-bowed skiff spring over the waves, as with unwearied hands he tugged at the oar. There are moments when the dullest mind grows prophetic, and the mind of the Athenian was not dull. The moonlight had vanished. In its place through the magic darkness seemed gathering all the heroes of his people beckoning him and his compeers onward. Perseus was there, and Theseus and Erechtheus, Heracles the Mighty, and Odysseus the Patient, whose intellect Themistocles possessed, Solon the Wise, Periander the Crafty, Diomedes the Undaunted, men of reality, men of fable, sages, warriors, demigods, crowding together, speaking one message: “Be strong, for the heritage of what you do this coming day shall be passed beyond children’s children, shall be passed down to peoples to whom the tongue, the gods, yea, the name of Hellas, are but as a dream.”
Glaucon felt the weariness fly from him. He was refreshed as never by wine. Then through the void in place of the band of heroes slowly outspread the tracery of a vessel at anchor,—the outermost guardship of the fleet of the Hellenes. They were again amongst friends. The watcher on the trireme was keeping himself awake after the manner of sentries by singing. In the night-stillness the catch from Archilochus rang lustily.
“By my spear I have won my bread,
By spear won my clear, red wine,
On my spear I will lean and drink,—
Show me a merrier life than is mine!”
The trolling called Glaucon back to reality. Guided by Sicinnus, who knew the stations of the Greek fleet better than he, a second time they came beside the Spartan admiral. The lamps were still burning in the stern-cabin. Even before they were alongside, they caught the clamours of fierce debate.
“Still arguing?” quoth Sicinnus to the yawning marine officer who advanced to greet them as they reached the top of the ladder.
“Still arguing,” grunted the Spartan. “I think your master has dragged forth all his old arguments and invented a thousand new ones. He talks continuously, as if battling for time, though only Castor knows wherefore. There’s surely a majority against him.”
The emissary descended the companionway, Themistocles leaped up from his seat in the crowded council. A few whispers, the Asiatic returned to Glaucon on the deck. The two gazed down the companionway, observing everything. They had not long to wait.
