A Victor of Salamis 35Book III · The Loyalty of Lampaxo
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Literature · Adventure
A Victor of Salamis 35
Book III · The Loyalty of Lampaxo
DavisEnglish
The night after his adventure on the hill slope Democrates received in his chambers no less an individual than Hiram. That industrious Phœnician had been several days in Trœzene, occupied in a manner he and his superior discreetly kept to themselves. The orator had a bandage above one eye, where a heavy sandal had kicked him. He was exceedingly pale, and sat in the arm-chair propped with pillows. That he had awaited Hiram eagerly, betrayed itself by the promptness with which he cut short the inevitable salaam.
“Well, my dear rascal, have you found him?”
“May it please your Excellency to hearken to even the least of your slaves?”
“Do you hear, fox?—have you found him?”
“My Lord shall judge for himself.”
“Cerberus eat you, fellow,—though you’d be a poisonous mouthful,—tell your story in as few words as possible. I know that he is lurking about Trœzene.”
“Compassion, your Lordship, compassion,”—Hiram seemed washing his hands in oil, they waved so soothingly—“if your Benignity will grant it, I have a very worthy woman here who, I think, can tell a story that will be interesting.”
“In with her, then.”
The person Hiram escorted into the room proved to be no more nor less than Lampaxo. Two years had not removed the wrinkles from her cheek, the sharpness from her nose, the rasping from her tongue. At sight of her Democrates half rose from his seat and held out his hand affably, the demagogue’s instinct uppermost.
“Ah! my good dame, whom do I recognize? Are you not the wife of our excellent fishmonger, Phormio? A truly sterling man, and how, pray, is your good husband?”
“Poorly, poorly, kyrie.” Lampaxo looked down and fumbled her dirty chiton. Such condescension on the part of a magnate barely less than Themistocles or Aristeides was overpowering.
“Poorly? I grieve to learn it. I was informed that he was comfortably settled here until it was safe to return to Attica, and had even opened a prosperous stall in the market-place.”
“Of course, kyrie; and the trade, considering the times, is not so bad—Athena be praised—and he’s not sick in body. It’s worse, far worse. I was even on the point of going to your Lordship to state my misgivings, when your good friend, the Phœnician, fell into my company, and I found he was searching for the very thing I wanted to reveal.”
“Ah!” Democrates leaned forward and battled against his impatience,—“and what is the matter wherein I can be of service to so deserving a citizen as your husband?”
“I fear me,”—Lampaxo put her apron dutifully to her face and began to sniff,—“your Excellency won’t call him ‘deserving’ any more. Hellas knows your Excellency is patriotism itself. The fact is Phormio has ‘Medized.’ ”
“Medized!” The orator started as became an actor. “Gods and goddesses! what trust is in men if Phormio the Athenian has Medized?”
“Hear my story, mu! mu!” groaned Lampaxo. “It’s a terrible thing to accuse one’s own husband, but duty to Hellas is duty. Your Excellency is a merciful man, if he could only warn Phormio in private.”
“Woman,”—Democrates pulled his most consequential frown,—“Medizing is treason. On your duty as a daughter of Athens I charge you tell everything, then rely on my wisdom.”
“Certainly, kyrie, certainly,” gasped Lampaxo, and so she began a recital mingled with many moans and protestations, which Democrates dared not bid her hasten.
The good woman commenced by reminding the strategus how he had visited her and her brother Polus to question them as to the doings of the Babylonish carpet merchant, and how it had seemed plain to them that Glaucon was nothing less than a traitor. Next she proceeded to relate how her husband had enabled the criminal to fly by sea, and her own part therein—for she loudly accused herself of treason in possessing a guilty knowledge of the outlaw’s manner of escape. As for Bias, he had just now gone on a message to Megara, but Democrates would surely castigate his own slave. “Still,” wound up Lampaxo, “the traitor seemed drowned, and his treason locked up in Phorcys’s strong box, and so I said nothing about him. More’s the pity.”
“The more reason for concealing nothing now.”
“Zeus strike me if I keep back anything. It’s now about ten days since he returned.”
“ ‘He?’ Whom do you mean?”
“It’s not overeasy to tell, kyrie. He calls himself Critias, and wears a long black beard and tangled hair. Phormio brought him home one evening—said he was the prōreus of a Melian trireme caulking at Epidaurus, but was once in the fish trade at Peiræus and an old friend. I told Phormio we had enough these days to fill our own bellies, but my husband would be hospitable. I had to bring out my best honey cakes. Your Lordship knows I take just pride in my honey cakes.”
“Beyond doubt,”—Democrates’s hand twitched with impatience,—“but tell of the stranger.”
“At once, kyrie; well, we all sat down to sup. Phormio kept pressing wine on the fellow as if we had not only one little jar of yellow Rhodian in the cellar. All the time the sailor barely spoke a few words of island Doric, but my heart misgave. He seemed so refined, so handsome. And near the roots of his hair it was not so dark—as if dyed and needing renewal. Trust a woman’s eyes for that. When supper was over Phormio orders me, ‘Up the ladder and to bed. I’ll come shortly, but leave a blanket and pillow for our friend who sleeps on the hearth.’ Your Excellency knows we hired a little house on the ‘Carpenter’s Street,’ very reasonably you will grant—only half a minæ for the winter. I gave the stranger a fine pillow and a blanket embroidered by Stephanium, she was my great-aunt, and left it to me by will, and the beautiful red wool was from Byzantium—”
“But you spoke of Critias?” Democrates could scarce keep upon his seat.
“Yes, kyrie. Well, I warned Phormio not to give him any more wine. Then I went up the ladder. O Mother Demeter, how sharply I listened, but the rascals spoke too low together for me to catch anything, save that Critias had dropped his Doric and spoke good Attic now. At last Phormio came up to me, and I pretended to snore. In the morning, lo! the scoundrelly stranger had slipped away. In the evening he returns late. Phormio harbours him again. So for several nights, coming late, going early. Then to-night he comes a bit before his wont. He and Phormio drank more than common. After Phormio sent me away, they talked a long time and in louder voice.”
“You overheard?” Democrates gripped his arm-chair.
“Yes, kyrie, blessed be Athena! The stranger spoke pure Attic such as your Excellency might use. Many times I heard Hermione named, and yourself once—”
“And how?”
“The stranger said: ‘So she will not wed Democrates. She loathes him. Aphrodite shed joy on her forever.’ Then Phormio answered him, ‘Therefore, dear Glaucon, you should trust the gods a little longer.’ ”
“ ‘Glaucon,’ said he?” Democrates leaped from the chair.
“ ‘Glaucon,’ on my oath by the Styx. Then I covered my head and wept. I knew my husband harboured the arch-traitor. Heaven can tell how he escaped the sea. As soon as Phormio was sleeping snug beside me, I went down the ladder, intending to call the watch. In the street I met a man, this good Phœnician here,—he explained he was suspecting this ‘Critias’ himself, and lurked about in hopes of tracing him in the morning. I told my story. He said it was best to come straight to you. And now I have accused my own husband, Excellency. Ai! was wife ever harder beset? Phormio is a kindly and commonly obedient man, even if he doesn’t know the value of an obol. You will be merciful—”
“Peace,” commanded Democrates, with portentous gravity, “justice first, mercy later. Do you solemnly swear you heard Phormio call this stranger ‘Glaucon’?”
“Yes, kyrie. Woe! woe!”
“And you say he is now asleep in your house?”
“Yes, the wine has made them both very heavy.”
“You have done well.” Democrates extended his hand again. “You are a worthy daughter of Athens. In years to come they will name you with King Codrus who sacrificed his life for the freedom of Attica, for have you not sacrificed what should be dearer than life,—the fair name of your husband? But courage. Your patriotism may extenuate his crime. Only the traitor must be taken.”
“Yes, he was breathing hard when I went out. Ah! seize him quickly.”
“Retire,” commanded Democrates, with a flourish; “leave me to concert with this excellent Hiram the means of thwarting I know not what gross villany.”
The door had hardly closed behind Lampaxo, when Democrates fell as a heap into the cushions. He was ashen and palsied.
“Courage, master,”—Hiram was drawing a suggestive finger across his throat,—“the woman’s tale is true metal. Critias shall sleep snug and sweetly to-night, if perchance too soundly.”
“What will you do?” shrieked the wretched man.
“The thing is marvellously simple, master. The night is not yet old. Hasdrubal and his crew of Carthaginians are here and by the grace of Baal can serve you. This cackling hen will guide us to the house. Heaven has put your enemy off his guard. He and Phormio will never wake to feel their throats cut. Then a good stone on each foot takes the corpses down in the harbour.”
But Democrates dashed his hand in negation.
“No, by the infernal gods, not so! No murder. I cannot bear the curse of the Furies. Seize him, carry him to the ends of the earth, to hardest slavery. Let him never cross my path again. But no bloodshed—”
Hiram almost lost his never failing smile, so much he marvelled.
“But, your Lordship, the man is a giant, mighty as Melkarth.(12) Seizing will be hard. Sheol is the safest prison.”
“No.” Democrates was still shaking. “His ghost came to me a thousand times, though yet he lived. It would hound me mad if I murdered him.”
“You would not murder him. Your slave is not afflicted by dreams.” Hiram’s smile was extremely insinuating.
“Don’t quibble with words. It would be I who slew him, though I never struck the blow. You can seize him. Is he not asleep? Call Hasdrubal—bind Glaucon, gag him, drag him to the ship. But he must not die.”
“Very good, Excellency.” Hiram seldom quarrelled to no purpose with his betters. “Let your Lordship deign to leave this small matter to his slave. By Baal’s favour Hasdrubal and six of his crew sleep on shore to-night. Let us pray they be not deep in wine. Wait for me one hour, perhaps two, and your heart and liver shall be comforted.”
“Go, go! I will wait and pray to Hermes Dolios.”
Hiram even now did not forget his punctilious salaam before departing. Never had he seemed more the beautiful serpent with the shining scales than the instant he bent gracefully at Democrates’s feet, the red light falling on his gleaming ear and nose rings, his smooth brown skin and beady eyes. The door turned on its pivots—closed. Democrates heard the retiring footsteps. No doubt the Phœnician was taking Lampaxo with him. The Athenian staggered across the room to his bed and flung himself on it, laughing hysterically. How absolutely his enemy was delivered into his hands! How the Moræ in sending that Carthaginian ship, to do Lycon’s business and his, had provided the means of ridding him of the haunting terror! How everything conspired to aid him! He need not even kill Glaucon. He would have no blood guiltiness, he need not dread Alecto and her sister Furies. He could trust Hiram and Hasdrubal to see to it that Glaucon never returned to plague him. And Hermione? Democrates laughed again. He was almost frightened at his own glee.
“A month, my nymph, a month, and you and your dear father, yes, Themistocles himself, will be in no state to answer me ‘nay,’—though Glaucon come to claim you.”
Thus he lay a long time, while the drip, drip from the water-clock in the corner told how the night was passing. The lamp flickered and burned lower. He never knew the hours to creep so slowly.
At last, a knock; Scodrus, the yawning valet, ushering in a black and bearded sailor, who crouched eastern fashion at the feet of the strategus.
“You have seized him?”
“Blessed be Moloch, Baal, and Melkarth! They have poured sleep upon my Lord’s enemy.” The sailor’s Greek was harsh and execrable. “Your servants did even as commanded. The woman let us in. The young man my Lord hates was bound and gagged almost ere he could waken, likewise the fishmonger was seized.”
“Bravely done. I never forget good service. And the woman?”
“She is retained likewise. I have hastened hither to learn the further will of my Lord.”
Democrates arose hastily.
“My himation, staff, and shoes, boy!” he ordered. “I will go forth myself. The prisoners are still at the fishmonger’s house?”
“Even so, Excellency.”
“I go back with you. I must see this stranger with my own eyes. There must be no mistake.”
Scodrus stared widely when he saw his master go out into the dark, for his only escort a black Carthaginian sailor with a dirk a cubit long. Democrates did not even ask for a lantern. None of the servants could fathom their master’s doings of late. He gave strappings when they asked questions, and Bias was away.
The streets of Trœzene were utterly deserted when Democrates threaded them. There was no moon, neither he nor his companion were overcertain of the way. Once they missed the right turn, wandered down a blind alley, and plunged into a pile of offal awaiting the scavenger dogs. But finally the seaman stopped at a low door in a narrow street, and a triple rap made it open. The scene was squalid. A rush-candle was burning on a table. Around it squatted seven men who rose and bowed as the strategus entered. In the dim flicker he could just recognize the burly shipmaster Hasdrubal and gigantic Hib, the Libyan “governor,” whose ebon face betrayed itself even there.
“We have expected you, kyrie,” said Hiram, who was one of the group.
“Thanks be to Hermes and to you all. I have told my guide already I will be grateful. Where is he?”
“In the kitchen behind, your Lordship. We were singularly favoured. Hib had the cord around his arms before he wakened. He could scarcely struggle despite his power. The fishmonger awoke before Hasdrubal could nip him. For a moment we feared his outcries would rouse the street. But again the gods blessed us. No one stirred, and we soon throttled him.”
“Take the light,” ordered Democrates. “Come.”
Accompanied by Hiram, the orator entered the kitchen, a small square room. The white-washed ceiling was blacked around the smoke-hole, a few pots and pans lay in the corners, a few dying embers gleamed on the hearth. But Democrates had eyes only for two objects,—human figures tightly bound lying rigid as faggots in the further corner.
“Which is he?” asked Democrates again, stepping softly as though going to danger.
“The further one is Phormio, the nearer is my Lord’s enemy. Your Excellency need not fear to draw close. He is quite secure.”
“Give me the candle.”
Democrates held the light high and trod gently over to the prostrate men. Hiram spoke rightly that his victim was secure. They had lashed him hand and foot, using small chains in lieu of cords. A bit of wood had been thrust into his mouth and tied with twine under the ears. Democrates stood an instant looking down, then very deliberately knelt beside the prisoner and moved the candle closer. He could see now the face hidden half by the tangled black hair and beard and the gag—but who could doubt it?—the deep blue eye, the chiselled profile, the small, fine lips, yes, and the godlike form visible in its comeliness despite the bands. He was gazing upon the man who two years ago had called him “bosom-friend.”
The prisoner looked straight upward. The only thing he could move was his eyes, and these followed Democrates’s least motion. The orator pressed the candle closer yet. He even put out his hand, and touched the face to brush away the hair. A long look—and he was satisfied. No mistake was possible. Democrates arose and stood over the prisoner, then spoke aloud.
“Glaucon, I have played at dice with Fortune. I have conquered. I did not ruin you willingly. There was no other way. A man must first be a friend to himself, and then friendly to others. I have cast in my lot with the Persians. It was I who wrote that letter which blasted you at Colonus. Very soon there will be a great battle fought in Bœotia. Lycon and I will make it certain that Mardonius conquers. I am to be tyrant of Athens. Hermione shall be my wife.” The workings of the prisoner’s face made Democrates wince; from Glaucon’s throat came rattlings, his eyes were terrible. But the other drove recklessly forward. “As for you, you pass this night out of my life. How you escaped the sea I know not and care less. Hasdrubal will take you to Carthage, and sell you into the interior of Libya. I wish you no misery, only you go where you shall never see Hellas again. I am merciful. Your life is in my hands. But I restore it. I am without blood guiltiness. What I have done you would have done, had you loved as I—had you been under necessity as I. Eros is a great god, but Anangkë, Dame Necessity, is yet mightier. So to-night we part—farewell.”
A strong spasm passed through the prisoner’s frame. For a moment Democrates thought the bonds would snap. Too strong. The orator swung on his heel and returned to the outer room.
“The night wanes, kyrie,” remarked Hasdrubal; “if these good people are to be taken to the ship, it must be soon.”
“As you will. I do nothing more concerning them.”
“Fetch down the woman,” ordered Hasdrubal; in the mongrel Greek current amongst Mediterranean sea-folk. Two of his seamen ascended the ladder and returned with Lampaxo, who smirked and simpered at sight of Democrates and bobbed him a courtesy.
“The traitor is seized, your Excellency. I hope your Excellency will see that he drinks hemlock. You will be merciful to my poor husband, even if he must be arrested for the night. Gods and goddesses! what are these men doing to me?”
A stalwart Carthaginian was in the act of knotting a cord around the good woman’s arms preparatory to pinioning them.
“Kyrie! kyrie!” she screamed, “they are binding me, too! Me—the most loyal woman in Attica.”
Democrates scowled and turned his back on her.
“Your Lordship surely intended this woman to be taken also,” suggested Hiram, sweetly. “It cannot be he will leave such a dangerous witness at large.”
“Of course not. Off with her!”
“Kyrie! kyrie!” was her shriek, but quickly ended, for Hasdrubal knitted his fingers around her throat.
“A gag,” he ordered, and with a few more struggles Lampaxo stood helpless and silent.
A little later the band was threading its stealthy way down the black streets. Four of the Carthaginians carried Glaucon, slung hands and feet over a pole. They dared not trust him on his feet. Phormio and Lampaxo walked, closely pinioned and pricked on by the captain’s dagger. They were soon at the deserted strand, and their ship’s pinnace lay upon the beach. Democrates accompanied them as far as the dark marge, and watched while the boat glided out into the gloom of the haven. The orator paced homeward alone. Everything had favoured him. He had even cleared himself of the curse of the Furies and the pursuit of Nemesis. He had, he congratulated himself, shown marvellous qualities of mercy. Glaucon lived? Yes—but the parching sand-plains of Libya would be as fast a prison as the grave, and the life of a slave in Africa was a short one. Glaucon had passed from his horizon forever.
