A Victor of Salamis 32Book III · Democrates Surrenders
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Literature · Adventure
A Victor of Salamis 32
Book III · Democrates Surrenders
DavisEnglish
Hellas was saved. But whether forever or only for a year the gods kept hid. Panic-stricken, the “Lord of the World” had fled to Asia after the great disaster. The eunuchs, the harem women, the soft-handed pages, had escaped with their master to luxurious Sardis, the remnant of the fleet fled back across the Ægean. But the brain and right arm of the Persians, Mardonius the Valiant, remained in Hellas. With him were still the Median infantry, the Tartar horse-archers, the matchless Persian lancers,—the backbone of the undefeated army. Hellas was not yet safe.
Democrates had prospered. He had been reëlected strategus. If Themistocles no longer trusted him quite so freely as once, Aristeides, restored now to much of his former power, gave him full confidence. Democrates found constant and honourable employment through the winter in the endless negotiations at Sparta, at Corinth, and elsewhere, while the jealous Greek states wrangled and intrigued, more to humiliate some rival than to advance the safety of Hellas. But amongst all the patriot chiefs none seemed more devoted to the common weal of Hellas than the Athenian orator.
Hermippus at least was convinced of this. The Eleusinian had settled at Trœzene on the Argive coast, a hospitable city that received many an outcast Athenian. He found his daughter’s resistance to another marriage increasingly unreasonable. Was not Glaucon dead for more than a year? Ought not any woman to bless Hera who gave her so noble, so eloquent, a husband as Democrates—pious, rich, trusted by the greatest, and with the best of worldly prospects?
“If you truly desire any other worthy man, makaira,” said Hermippus, once, “you shall not find me obstinate. Can a loving father say more? But if you are simply resolved never to marry, I will give you to him despite your will. A senseless whim must not blast your highest happiness.”
“He ruined Glaucon,” said Hermione, tearfully.
“At least,” returned Lysistra, who like many good women could say exceeding cruel things, “he has never been a traitor to his country.”
Hermione’s answer was to fly to her chamber, and to weep—as many a time before—over Phœnix in the cradle. Here old Cleopis found her, took her in her arms, and sang her the old song about Alphæus chasing Arethusa—a song more fit for Phœnix than his mother, but most comforting. So the contest for the moment passed, but after a conference with Hermippus, Democrates went away on public business to Corinth unusually well pleased with the world and himself.
It was a tedious, jangling conference held at the Isthmus city. Mardonius had tempted the Athenians sorely. In the spring had come his envoys proffering reparation for all injuries in the wars, enlarged territory, and not slavery, but free alliance with the Great King, if they would but join against their fellow-Hellenes. The Athenians had met the tempter as became Athenians. Aristeides had given the envoys the answer of the whole people.
“We know your power. Yet tell it to Mardonius, that so long as Helios moves in the heavens we will not make alliance with Xerxes, but rather trust to the gods whose temples he has burned.”
Bravely said, but when the Athenians looked to Sparta for the great army to hasten north and give Mardonius his death-stroke, it was the old wearisome tale of excuses and delay. At the conference in Corinth Aristeides and Democrates had passed from arguments to all but threats, even such as Themistocles had used at Salamis. It was after one of these fruitless debates that Democrates passed out of the gathering at the Corinthian prytaneum, with his colleagues all breathing forth their wrath against Dorian stupidity and evasiveness.
Democrates himself crossed the city Agora, seeking the house of the friendly merchant where he was to sup. He walked briskly, his thoughts more perhaps on the waiting betrothal feast at Trœzene, than on the discussion behind him. The Agora scene had little to interest, the same buyers, booths, and babel as in Athens, only the citadel above was the mount of Acro-Corinthus, not the tawny rock of Athena. And in late months he had begun to find his old fears and terrors flee away. Every day he was growing more certain that his former “missteps”—that was his own name for certain occurrences—could have no malign influence. “After all,” he was reflecting, “Nemesis is a very capricious goddess. Often she forgets for a lifetime, and after death—who knows what is beyond the Styx?”
He was on such noble terms with all about him that he could even give ear to the whine of a beggar. The man was sitting on the steps between the pillars of a colonnade, with a tame crow perched upon his fist, and as Democrates passed he began his doggerel prayer:—
“Good master, a handful of barley bestow
On the child of Apollo, the sage, sable crow.”
The Athenian began to fumble in his belt for an obol, when he was rudely distracted by a twitch upon his chiton. Turning, he was little pleased to come face to face with no less a giant than Lycon.
“There was an hour, philotate,” spoke the Spartan, with ill-concealed sneer, “when you did not have so much silver to scatter out to beggars.”
Time had not mended Lycon’s aspect, nor taken from his eye that sinister twinkle which was so marked a foil to his brutishness.
“I did not invite you, dear fellow,” rejoined the Athenian, “to remind me of the fact.”
“Yet you should have gratitude, and you have lacked that virtue of late. It was a sorry plight Mardonius’s money saved you from two years since, and nobly have you remembered his good service.”
“Worthy Lacedæmonian,” said Democrates, with what patience he could command, “if you desire to go over all that little business which concerned us then, at least I would suggest not in the open Agora.” He started to walk swiftly away. The Spartan’s ponderous strides easily kept beside him. Democrates looked vainly for an associate whom he could approach and on some pretext could accompany. None in sight. Lycon kept fast hold of his cloak. For practical purposes Democrates was prisoner.
“Why in Corinth?” he threw out sullenly.
“For three reasons, philotate,” Lycon grinned over his shoulder, “first, the women at the Grove of Aphrodite here are handsome; second, I am weary of Sparta and its black broth and iron money; third, and here is the rose for my garland, I had need to confer with your noble self.”
“Would not Hiram be your dutiful messenger again?” queried the other, vainly watching for escape.
“Hiram is worth twenty talents as a helper;”—Lycon gave a hound-like chuckle,—“still he is not Apollo, and there are too many strings on this lyre for him to play them all. Besides, he failed at Salamis.”
“He did! Zeus blast his importunity and yours likewise. Where are you taking me? I warn you in advance, you are ‘shearing an ass,’—attempting the impossible,—if you deceive yourself as to my power. I can do nothing more to prevent the war from being pressed against Mardonius. It is only your Laconian ephors that are hindering.”
“We shall see, philotate, we shall see,” grunted the Spartan, exasperatingly cool. “Here is Poseidon’s Temple. Let us sit in the shaded portico.”
Democrates resigned himself to be led to a stone seat against the wall. The gray old “dog-watcher” by the gate glanced up to see that no dogs were straying into the holy house, noted only two gentlemen come for a chat, and resumed his siesta. Lycon took a long time in opening his business.
“The world has used you well of late, dear fellow.”
“Passing well, by Athena’s favour.”
“You should say by Hermes’s favour, but I would trust you Athenians to grow fat on successful villany and then bless the righteous gods.”
“I hope you haven’t left Sparta just to revile me!” cried Democrates, leaping up, to be thrust back by Lycon’s giant paw.
“Ai! mix a little honey with your speech, it costs nothing. Well, the length and breadth of my errand is this, Mardonius must fight soon, and must be victorious.”
“That is for your brave ephors to say,” darted Democrates. “According to their valiant proposals they desire this war to imitate that with Troy,—to last ten years.”
“Indeed—but I always held my people surpassed in procrastination, as yours in deceiving. However, their minds will change.”
“Aristeides and Themistocles will bless you for that.”
Lycon shrugged his great shoulders.
“Then I’ll surpass the gods, who can seldom please all men. Still it is quite true.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Dear Democrates, you know what’s befallen in Sparta. Since Leonidas died, his rivals from my own side of the royal house have gathered a great deal more of power. My uncle Nicander is at present head of the board of ephors, and gladly takes my advice.”
“Ha!” Democrates began to divine the drift.
“It seemed best to me after the affair at Salamis to give the lie to my calumniators, who hinted that I desired to ‘Medize,’ and that it was by my intriguing that the late king took so small a force to Thermopylæ.”
“All Hellas knows your patriotism!” cried Democrates, satirically.
“Even so. I have silenced my fiercest abusers. If I have not yet urged in our assembly that we should fight Mardonius, it is merely because—it is not yet prudent.”
“Excellent scoundrel,” declared the other, writhing on his seat, “you are no Spartan, but long-winded as a Sicilian.”
“Patience, philotate, a Spartan must either speak in apothegms or take all day. I have not advised a battle yet because I was not certain of your aid.”
“Ay, by Zeus,” broke out Democrates, “that ointment I sniffed a long way off. I can give you quick answer. Fly back to Sparta, swift as Boreas; plot, conspire, earn Tartarus, to your heart’s content—you’ll get no more help from me.”
“I expected that speech.” Lycon’s coolness drove his victim almost frantic.
“In the affair of Tempē I bent to you for the last time,” Democrates charged desperately. “I have counted the cost. Perhaps you can use against me certain documents, but I am on a surer footing than once. In the last year I have done such service to Hellas I can even hope to be forgiven, should these old mistakes be proved. And if you drive me to bay, be sure of this, I will see to it that all the dealings betwixt the Barbarian and your noble self are expounded to your admiring countrymen.”
“You show truly excellent courage, dear Democrates,” cried Lycon, in pseudo-admiration. “That speech was quite worthy of a tragic actor.”
“If we’re in the theatre, let the chorus sing its last strophe and have done. You disgust me.”
“Peace, peace,” ordered Lycon, his hand still on the Athenian’s shoulder, “I will make all the haste I can, but obstinacy is disagreeable. I repeat, you are needed, sorely needed, by Mardonius to enable him to complete the conquest of Hellas. You shall not call the Persians ungrateful—the tyranny of Athens under the easy suzerainty of the king, is that no dish to whet your appetite?”
“I knew of the offer before.”
“A great pity you are not more eager. Hermes seldom sends such chances twice. I hoped to have you for ‘my royal brother’ when they gave me the like lordship of Lacedæmon. However, the matter does not end with your refusal.”
“I have said, ‘Do your worst.’ ”
“And my worst is—Agis.”
For an instant Lycon was dismayed. He thought he had slain his victim with one word. Democrates dropped from his clutch and upon the pavement as though stricken through the heart by an arrow. He was pallid as a corpse, at first he only groaned.
“Eu! eu! good comrade,” cried the Spartan, dragging him up, half triumphant, half sympathetic, “I did not know I was throwing Zeus’s thunderbolts.”
The Athenian sat with his head on his hands. In all his dealings with the Spartan he had believed he had covered the details of the fate of Glaucon. Lycon could surmise what he liked, but the proof to make the damning charges good Democrates believed he had safe in his own keeping. Only one man could have unlocked the casket of infamy—Agis—and the mention of his name was as a bolt from the blue.
“Where is he? I heard he was killed at Artemisium.” Lycon hardly understood his victim’s thick whispers.
“Wounded indeed, philotate, taken prisoner, and sent to Thebes. There friends of mine found he had a story to tell—greatly to my advantage. It is only a little time since he came to Sparta.”
“What lies has he told?”
“Several, dear fellow, although if they are lies, then Aletheia, Lady Truth, must almost own them for her children. At least they are interesting lies; as, for example, how you advised the Cyprian to escape from Athens, how you gave Agis a letter to hide in the boots of Glaucon’s messenger, of your interviews with Lampaxo and Archias, of the charming art you possess of imitating handwritings and seals.”
“Base-born swine! who will believe him?”
“Base born, Democrates, but hardly swinish. He can tell a very clear story. Likewise, Lampaxo and Archias must testify at the trial, also your slave Bias can tell many interesting things.”
“Only if I consent to produce him.”
“When did a master ever refuse to let his slave testify, if demanded, unless he wished to blast his own cause with the jury? No, makaire, you will not enjoy the day when Themistocles arrays the testimony against you.”
Democrates shivered. The late spring sun was warm. He felt no heat. A mere charge of treason he was almost prepared now to endure. If Mistress Fortune helped him, he might refute it, but to be branded before Hellas as the destroyer of his bosom friend, and that by guile the like whereof Tantalus, Sisyphus, and Ixion conjoined had never wrought—what wonder his knees smote together? Why had he not foreseen that Agis would fall into Lycon’s hands? Why had he trusted that lying tale from Artemisium? And worst of all, worse than the howls of the people who would tear his body asunder like dogs, not waiting the work of the hemlock, was the thought of Hermione. She hated him now. How she would love him, though he sat on Xerxes’s throne, if once her suspicion rose to certainty! He saw himself ruined in life and in love, and blazoned as infamous forever.
Lycon was wise enough to sit some moments, letting his utterance do its work. He was confident, and rightly. Democrates looked on him at last. The workings of the Athenian’s face were terrible.
“I am your slave, Spartan. Had you bought me for ten minæ and held the bill of sale, I were not yours more utterly. Your wish?”
Lycon chose his words and answered slowly.
“You must serve Persia. Not for a moment, but for all time. You must place that dreadful gift of yours at our disposal. And in return take what is promised,—the lordship of Athens.”
“No word of that,” groaned the wretched man, “what will you do?”
“Aristeides is soon going to Sparta to press home his demands that the Lacedæmonians march in full force against Mardonius. I can see to it that his mission succeeds. A great battle will be fought in Bœotia. We can see to it that Mardonius is so victorious that all further resistance becomes a dream.”
“And my part in this monster’s work?”
The demands and propositions with which Lycon answered this despairing question will unfold themselves in due place and time. Suffice it here, that when he let the Athenian go his way Lycon was convinced that Democrates had bound himself heart and soul to forward his enterprise. The orator was no merry guest for his Corinthian hosts that night. He returned to his old manner of drinking unmixed wine. “Thirsty as a Macedonian!” cried his companions, in vain endeavour to drive him into a laugh. They did not know that once more the chorus of the Furies was singing about his ears, and he could not still it by the deepest wine-cup. They did not know that every time he closed his eyes he was seeing the face of Glaucon. That morning he had mocked at Nemesis. That night he heard the beating of her brazen wings.
