A cluster of white stuccoed houses with a craggy hill behind, and before them a blue bay girt in by the rocky isle of Salamis—that is Eleusis-by-the-Sea. Eastward and westward spreads the teeming Thrasian plain, richest in Attica. Behind the plain the encircling mountain wall fades away into a purple haze. One can look southward toward Salamis; then to the left rises the rounded slope of brown Pœcilon sundering Eleusis from its greater neighbour, Athens. Look behind: there is a glimpse of the long violet crests of Cithæron and Parnes, the barrier mountains against Bœotia. Look to right: beyond the summits of Megara lifts a noble cone. It is an old friend, Acro-Corinthus. The plain within the hills is sprinkled with thriving farmsteads, green vineyards, darker olive groves. The stony hill-slopes are painted red by countless poppies. One hears the tinkling of the bells of roving goats. Thus the more distant view; while at the very foot of the hill of vision rises a temple with proud columns and pediments,—the fane of Demeter the “Earth Mother” and the seat of her Mysteries, renowned through Hellas.
The house of Hermippus the Eumolpid, first citizen of Eleusis, stood to the east of the temple. On three sides gnarled trunks and sombre leaves of the sacred olives almost hid the white low walls of the rambling buildings. On the fourth side, facing the sea, the dusty road wound east toward Megara. Here, by the gate, were gathered a rustic company: brown-faced village lads and lasses, toothless graybeards, cackling old wives. Above the barred gate swung a festoon of ivy, whilst from within the court came the squeaking of pipes, the tuning of citharas, and shouted orders—signs of a mighty bustling. Then even while the company grew, a half-stripped courier flew up the road and into the gate.
“They come,” ran the wiseacre’s comment; but their buzzing ceased, as again the gate swung back to suffer two ladies to peer forth. Ladies, in the truth, for the twain had little in common with the ogling village maids, and whispers were soon busy with them.
“Look—his wife and her mother! How would you, Praxinœ, like to marry an Isthmionices?”
“Excellently well, but your Hermas won’t so honour you.”
“Eu! see, she lifts her pretty blue veil; I’m glad she’s handsome. Some beautiful men wed regular hags.”
The two ladies were clearly mother and daughter, of the same noble height, and dressed alike in white. Both faces were framed in a flutter of Amorgos gauze: the mother’s was saffron, crowned with a wreath of golden wheat-ears; the daughter’s blue with a circlet of violets. And now as they stood with arms entwined the younger brushed aside her veil. The gossips were right. The robe and the crown hid all but the face and tress of the lustrous brown hair,—but that face! Had not King Hephæstos wrought every line of clear Phœnician glass, then touched them with snow and rose, and shot through all the ichor of life? Perhaps there was a fitful fire in the dark eyes that awaited the husband’s coming, or a slight twitching of the impatient lips. But nothing disturbed the high-born repose of face and figure. Hermione was indeed the worthy daughter of a noble house, and happy the man who was faring homeward to Eleusis!
Another messenger. Louder bustle in the court, and the voice of Hermippus arraying his musicians. Now a sharp-faced man, who hid his bald pate under a crown of lilies, joined the ladies,—Conon, father of the victor. He had ended his life-feud with Hermippus the night the message flashed from Corinth. Then a third runner; this time in his hand a triumphant palm branch, and his one word—“Here!” A crash of music answered from the court, while Hermippus, a stately nobleman, his fine head just sprinkled with gray, led out his unmartial army.
Single pipes and double pipes, tinkling lyres and many-stringed citharas, not to forget herdsmen’s reed flutes, cymbals, and tambours, all made melody and noise together. An imposing procession that must have crammed the courtyard wound out into the Corinth road.
Here was the demarch(2) of Eleusis, a pompous worthy, who could hardly hold his head erect, thanks to an exceeding heavy myrtle wreath. After him, two by two, the snowy-robed, long-bearded priests of Demeter; behind these the noisy corps of musicians, and then a host of young men and women,—bright of eye, graceful of movement,—twirling long chains of ivy, laurel, and myrtle in time to the music. Palm branches were everywhere. The procession moved down the road; but even as it left the court a crash of cymbals through the olive groves answered its uproar. Deep now and sonorous sounded manly voices as in some triumphal chant. Hermione, as she stood by the gate, drew closer to her mother. Inflexible Attic custom seemed to hold her fast. No noblewoman might thrust herself boldly under the public eye—save at a sacred festival—no, not when the centre of the gladness was her husband.
“He comes!” So she cried to her mother; so cried every one. Around the turn in the olive groves swung a car in which Cimon stood proudly erect, and at his side another. Marching before the chariot were Themistocles, Democrates, Simonides; behind followed every Athenian who had visited the Isthmia. The necks of the four horses were wreathed with flowers; flowers hid the reins and bridles, the chariot, and even its wheels. The victor stood aloft, his scarlet cloak flung back, displaying his godlike form. An unhealed scar marred his forehead—Lycon’s handiwork; but who thought of that, when above the scar pressed the wreath of wild parsley? As the two processions met, a cheer went up that shook the red rock of Eleusis. The champion answered with his frankest smile; only his eyes seemed questioning, seeking some one who was not there.
“Io! Glaucon!” The Eleusinian youths broke from their ranks and fell upon the chariot. The horses were loosed in a twinkling. Fifty arms dragged the car onward. The pipers swelled their cheeks, each trying to outblow his fellow. Then after them sped the maidens. They ringed the chariot round with a maze of flowers chains. As the car moved, they accompanied it with a dance of unspeakable ease, modesty, grace. A local poet—not Simonides, not Pindar, but some humbler bard—had invoked his muse for the grand occasion. Youths and maidens burst forth into singing.
“Io! Io, pæan! the parsley-wreathed victor hail!
Io! Io, pæan! sing it out on each breeze, each gale!
He has triumphed, our own, our beloved,
Before all the myriad’s ken.
He has met the swift, has proved swifter!
The strong, has proved stronger again!
Now glory to him, to his kinfolk,
To Athens, and all Athens’ men!
Meet, run to meet him,
The nimblest are not too fleet.
Greet him, with raptures greet him,
With songs and with twinkling feet.
He approaches,—throw flowers before him.
Throw poppy and lily and rose;
Blow faster, gay pipers, faster,
Till your mad music throbs and flows,
For his glory and ours flies through Hellas,
Wherever the Sun-King goes.
Io! Io, pæan! crown with laurel and myrtle and pine,
Io, pæan! haste to crown him with olive, Athena’s dark vine.
He is with us, he shines in his beauty;
Oh, joy of his face the first sight;
He has shed on us all his bright honour,
Let High Zeus shed on him his light,
And thou, Pallas, our gray-eyed protectress,
Keep his name and his fame ever bright!”
Matching action to the song, they threw over the victor crowns and chains beyond number, till the parsley wreath was hidden from sight. Near the gate of Hermippus the jubilant company halted. The demarch bawled long for silence, won it at last, and approached the chariot. He, good man, had been a long day meditating on his speech of formal congratulation and enjoyed his opportunity. Glaucon’s eyes still roved and questioned, yet the demarch rolled out his windy sentences. But there was something unexpected. Even as the magistrate took breath after reciting the victor’s noble ancestry, there was a cry, a parting of the crowd, and Glaucon the Alcmæonid leaped from the chariot as never on the sands at Corinth. The veil and the violet wreath fell from the head of Hermione when her face went up to her husband’s. The blossoms that had covered the athlete shook over her like a cloud as his face met hers. Then even the honest demarch cut short his eloquence to swell the salvo.
“The beautiful to the beautiful! The gods reward well. Here is the fairest crown!”
For all Eleusis loved Hermione, and would have forgiven far greater things from her than this.
Hermippus feasted the whole company,—the crowd at long tables in the court, the chosen guests in a more private chamber. “Nothing to excess” was the truly Hellenic maxim of the refined Eleusinian; and he obeyed it. His banquet was elegant without gluttony. The Syracusan cook had prepared a lordly turbot. The wine was choice old Chian but well diluted. There was no vulgar gorging with meat, after the Bœotian manner; but the great Copaic eel, “such as Poseidon might have sent up to Olympus,” made every gourmand clap his hands. The aromatic honey was the choicest from Mt. Hymettus.
Since the smaller company was well selected, convention was waived, and ladies were present. Hermione sat on a wide chair beside Lysistra, her comely mother; her younger brothers on stools at either hand. Directly across the narrow table Glaucon and Democrates reclined on the same couch. The eyes of husband and wife seldom left each other; their tongues flew fast; they never saw how Democrates hardly took his gaze from the face of Hermione. Simonides, who reclined beside Themistocles,—having struck a firm friendship with that statesman on very brief acquaintance,—was overrunning with humour and anecdote. The great man beside him was hardly his second in the fence of wit and wisdom. After the fish had given way to the wine, Simonides regaled the company with a gravely related story of how the Dioscuri had personally appeared to him during his last stay in Thessaly and saved him from certain death in a falling building.
“You swear this is a true tale, Simonides?” began Themistocles, with one eye in his head.
“It’s impiety to doubt. As penalty, rise at once and sing a song in honour of Glaucon’s victory.”
“I am no singer or harpist,” returned the statesman, with a self-complacency he never concealed. “I only know how to make Athens powerful.”
“Ah! you son of Miltiades,” urged the poet, “at least you will not refuse so churlishly.”
Cimon, with due excuses, arose, called for a harp, and began tuning it; but not all the company were destined to hear him. A slave-boy touched Themistocles on the shoulder, and the latter started to go.
“The Dioscuri will save you?” demanded Simonides, laughing.
“Quite other gods,” rejoined the statesman; “your pardon, Cimon, I return in a moment. An agent of mine is back from Asia, surely with news of weight, if he must seek me at once in Eleusis.”
But Themistocles lingered outside; an instant more brought a summons to Democrates, who found Themistocles in an antechamber, deep in talk with Sicinnus,—nominally the tutor of his sons, actually a trusted spy. The first glance at the Asiatic’s keen face and eyes was disturbing. An inward omen—not from the entrails of birds, nor a sign in the heavens—told Democrates the fellow brought no happy tidings.
With incisive questions Themistocles had been bringing out everything.
“So it is absolutely certain that Xerxes begins his invasion next spring?”
“As certain as that Helios will rise to-morrow.”
“Forewarned is forearmed. Now where have you been since I sent you off in the winter to visit Asia?”
The man, who knew his master loved to do the lion’s share of the talking, answered instantly:—
“Eu! Your commission is well executed. Are all the rumours we hear from the East well founded? Is Xerxes assembling an innumerable host?”
“Rumour does not tell half the truth. Not one tribe in Asia but is required to send its fighting men. Two bridges of boats are being built across the Hellespont. The king will have twelve hundred war triremes, besides countless transports. The cavalry are being numbered by hundreds of thousands, the infantry by millions. Such an army was never assembled since Zeus conquered the Giants.”
“A merry array!” Themistocles whistled an instant through his teeth; but, never confounded, urged on his questions. “So be it. But is Xerxes the man to command this host? He is no master of war like Darius his father.”
“He is a creature for eunuchs and women; nevertheless his army will not suffer.”
“And wherefore?”
“Because Prince Mardonius, son of Gobryas, and brother-in-law of the king, has the wisdom and valour of Cyrus and Darius together. Name him, and you name the arch-foe of Hellas. He, not Xerxes, will be the true leader of the host.”
“You saw him, of course?”
“I did not. A Magian in Ecbatana told me a strange story. ‘The Prince,’ said he, ‘hates the details of camps; leaving the preparation to others, he has gone to Greece to spy out the land he is to conquer.’ ”
“Impossible, you are dreaming!” The exclamation came not from Themistocles but Democrates.
“I am not dreaming, worthy sir,” returned Sicinnus, tartly; “the Magian may have lied, but I sought the Prince in every city I visited; they always told me, ‘He is in another.’ He was not at the king’s court. He may have gone to Egypt, to India, or to Arabia;—he may likewise have gone to Greece.”
“These are serious tidings, Democrates,” remarked Themistocles, with an anxiety his voice seldom betrayed. “Sicinnus is right; the presence of such a man as Mardonius in Hellas explains many things.”
“I do not understand.”
“Why, the lukewarmness of so many friends we had counted on, the bickerings which arose among the Confederates when we met just now at the Isthmus, the slackness of all Spartans save Leonidas in preparing for war, the hesitancy of Corcyra in joining us. Thebes is Medizing, Crete is Medizing, so is Argos. Thessaly is wavering. I can almost name the princes and great nobles over Hellas who are clutching at Persian money. O Father Zeus,” wound up the Athenian, “if there is not some master-spirit directing all this villany, there is no wisdom in Themistocles, son of Neocles.”
“But the coming of Mardonius to Greece?” questioned the younger man; “the peril he runs? the risk of discovery—”
“Is all but nothing, except as he comes to Athens, for Medizers will shelter him everywhere. Yet there is one spot—blessed be Athena—” Themistocles’s hands went up in easy piety—“where, let him come if come he dare!” Then with a swift change, as was his wont, the statesman looked straight on Democrates.
“Hark you, son of Myscelus; those Persian lords are reckless. He may even test the fates and set foot in Attica. I am cumbered with as many cares as Zeus, but this commission I give to you. You are my most trusted lieutenant; I can risk no other. Keep watch, hire spies, scatter bribe-money. Rest not day nor night to find if Mardonius the Persian enters Athens. Once in our clutches—and you have done Hellas as fair a turn as Miltiades at Marathon. You promise it? Give me your hand.”
“A great task,” spoke Democrates, none too readily.
“And one you are worthy to accomplish. Are we not co-workers for Athens and for Hellas?”
Themistocles’s hawklike eyes were unescapable. The younger Athenian thought they were reading his soul. He held out his hand....
When Democrates returned to the hall, Cimon had ended his song. The guests were applauding furiously. Wine was still going round, but Glaucon and Hermione were not joining. Across the table they were conversing in low sentences that Democrates could not catch. But he knew well enough the meaning as each face flashed back the beauty of the other. And his mind wandered back darkly to the day when Glaucon had come to him, more radiant than even his wont, and cried, “Give me joy, dear comrade, joy! Hermippus has promised me the fairest maiden in Athens.” Some evil god had made Democrates blind to all his boon-companion’s wooing. How many hopes of the orator that day had been shattered! Yet he had even professed to rejoice with the son of Conon.... He sat in sombre silence, until the piping voice of Simonides awakened him.
“Friend, if you are a fool, you do a wise thing in keeping still; if a wise man, a very foolish thing.”
“Wine, boy,” ordered Democrates; “and less water in it. I feel wretchedly stupid to-day.”
He spent the rest of the feast drinking deeply, and with much forced laughter. The dinner ended toward evening. The whole company escorted the victor toward Athens. At Daphni, the pass over the hills, the archons and strategi—highest officials of the state—met them with cavalry and torches and half of the city trailing at their heels. Twenty cubits of the city wall were pulled down to make a gate for the triumphal entry. There was another great feast at the government house. The purse of an hundred drachmæ, due by law to Isthmian victors, was presented. A street was named for Glaucon in the new port-town of Peiræus. Simonides recited a triumphal ode. All Athens, in short, made merry for days. Only one man found it hard to join the mirth whole-heartedly. And this was the victor’s bosom friend,—Democrates.
