A Victor of Salamis 27Book II · Themistocles Is Thinking
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Literature · Adventure
A Victor of Salamis 27
Book II · Themistocles Is Thinking
DavisEnglish
Leonidas was taken. Themistocles was left,—left to bear as crushing a load as ever weighed on man,—to fight two battles, one with the Persian, one with his own unheroic allies, and the last was the harder. Three hundred and seventy Greek triremes rode off Salamis, half from Athens, but the commander-in-chief was Eurybiades of Sparta, the sluggard state that sent only sixteen ships, yet the only state the bickering Peloponnesians would obey. Hence Themistocles’s sore problems.
Different from the man of unruffled brow who ruled from the bema was he who paced the state cabin of the Nausicaä a few nights after the evacuation. For he at least knew the morn would bring Hellas her doom. There had been a gloomy council that afternoon. They had seen the Acropolis flame two days before. The great fleet of Xerxes rode off the Attic havens. At the gathering of the Greek chiefs in Eurybiades’s cabin Themistocles had spoken one word many times,—“Fight!”
To which Adeimantus, the craven admiral of Corinth, and many another had answered:—
“Delay! Back to the Isthmus! Risk nothing!”
Then at last the son of Neocles silenced them, not with arguments but threats. “Either here in the narrow straits we can fight the king or not at all. In the open seas his numbers can crush us. Either vote to fight here or we Athenians sail for Italy and leave you to stem Xerxes as you can.”
There had been sullen silence after that, the admirals misliking the furrow drawn above Themistocles’s eyes. Then Eurybiades had haltingly given orders for battle.
That had been the command, but as the Athenian left the Spartan flag-ship in his pinnace he heard Globryas, the admiral of Sicyon, muttering, “Headstrong fool—he shall not destroy us!” and saw Adeimantus turn back for a word in Eurybiades’s ear. The Spartan had shaken his head, but Themistocles did not deceive himself. In the battle at morn half of the Hellenes would go to battle asking more “how escape?” than “how conquer?” and that was no question to ask before a victory.
The cabin was empty now save for the admiral. On the deck above the hearty shouts of Ameinias the trierarch, and chanting of the seamen told that on the Nausicaä at least there would be no slackness in the fight. The ship was being stripped for action, needless spars and sails sent ashore, extra oars made ready, and grappling-irons placed. “Battle” was what every Athenian prayed for, but amongst the allies Themistocles knew it was otherwise. The crucial hour of his life found him nervous, moody, silent. He repelled the zealous subalterns who came for orders.
“My directions have been given. Execute them. Has Aristeides come yet?” The last question was to Simonides, who had been half-companion, half-counsellor, in all these days of storm.
“He is not yet come from Ægina.”
“Leave me, then.”
Themistocles’s frown deepened. The others went out.
The state cabin was elegant, considering its place. Themistocles had furnished it according to his luxurious taste,—stanchions cased in bronze hammered work, heavy rugs from Carthage, lamps swinging from chains of precious Corinthian brass. Behind a tripod stood an image of Aphrodite of Fair Counsel, the admiral’s favourite deity. By force of habit now he crossed the cabin, took the golden box, and shook a few grains of frankincense upon the tripod.
“Attend, O queen,” he said mechanically, “and be thou propitious to all my prayers.”
He knew the words meant nothing. The puff of night air from the port-hole carried the fragrance from the room. The image wore its unchanging, meaningless smile, and Themistocles smiled too, albeit bitterly.
“So this is the end. A losing fight, cowardice, slavery—no, I shall not live to see that last.”
He looked from the port-hole. He could see the lights of the Barbarian fleet clearly. He took long breaths of the clear brine.
“So the tragedy ends—worse than Phrynicus’s poorest, when they pelted his chorus from the orchestra with date-stones. And yet—and yet—”
He never formulated what came next even in his own mind.
“Eu!” he cried, springing back with part of his old lightness, “I have borne a brave front before it all. I have looked the Cyclops in the face, even when he glowered the fiercest. But it all will pass. I presume Thersytes the caitiff and Agamemnon the king have the same sleep and the same dreams in Orchus. And a few years more or a few less in a man’s life make little matter. But it would be sweeter to go out thinking ‘I have triumphed’ than ‘I have failed, and all the things I loved fail with me.’ And Athens—”
Again he stopped. When he resumed his monologue, it was in a different key.
“There are many things I cannot understand. They cannot unlock the riddles at Delphi, no seer can read them in the omens of birds. Why was Glaucon blasted? Was he a traitor? What was the truth concerning his treason? Since his going I have lost half my faith in mortal men.”
Once more his thoughts wandered.
“How they trust me, my followers of Athens! Is it not better to be a leader of one city of freemen than a Xerxes, master of a hundred million slaves? How they greeted me, as if I were Apollo the Saviour, when I returned to Peiræus! And must it be written by the chroniclers thereafter, ‘About this time Themistocles, son of Neocles, aroused the Athenians to hopeless resistance and drew on them utter destruction’? O Father Zeus, must men say that? Am I a fool or crazed for wishing to save my land from the fate of Media, Lydia, Babylonia, Egypt, Ionia? Has dark Atropos decreed that the Persians should conquer forever? Then, O Zeus, or whatever be thy name, O Power of Powers, look to thine empire! Xerxes is not a king, but a god; he will besiege Olympus, even thy throne.”
He crossed the cabin with hard strides.
“How can I?” he cried half-aloud, beating his forehead. “How can I make these Hellenes fight?”
His hand tightened over his sword-hilt.
“This is the only place where we can fight to advantage. Here in the strait betwixt Salamis and Attica we have space to deploy all our ships, while the Barbarians will be crowded by numbers. And if we once retreat?—Let Adeimantus and the rest prate about—‘The wall, the wall across the Isthmus! The king can never storm it.’ Nor will he try to, unless his councillors are turned stark mad. Will he not have command of the sea? can he not land his army behind the wall, wherever he wills? Have I not dinned that argument in those doltish Peloponnesians’ ears until I have grown hoarse? Earth and gods! suffer me rather to convince a stone statue than a Dorian. The task is less hard. Yet they call themselves reasoning beings.”
A knock upon the cabin door. Simonides reëntered.
“You do not come on deck, Themistocles? The men ask for you. Ameinias’s cook has prepared a noble supper—anchovies and tunny—will you not join the other officers and drink a cup to Tychē, Lady Fortune, that she prosper us in the morning?”
“I am at odds with Tychē, Simonides. I cannot come with you.”
“The case is bad, then?”
“Ay, bad. But keep a brave face before the men. There’s no call to pawn our last chance.”
“Has it come to that?” quoth the little poet, in curiosity and concern.
“Leave me!” ordered Themistocles, with a sweep of the hand, and Simonides was wise enough to obey.
Themistocles took a pen from the table, but instead of writing on the outspread sheet of papyrus, thrust the reed between his teeth and bit it fiercely.
“How can I? How can I make these Hellenes fight? Tell that, King Zeus, tell that!”
Then quickly his eager brain ran from expedient to expedient.
“Another oracle, some lucky prediction that we shall conquer? But I have shaken the oracle books till there is only chaff in them. Or a bribe to Adeimantus and his fellows? But gold can buy only souls, not courage. Or another brave speech and convincing argument? Had I the tongue of Nestor and the wisdom of Thales, would those doltish Dorians listen?”
Again the knock, still again Simonides. The dapper poet’s face was a cubit long.
“Oh, grief to report it! Cimon sends a boat from his ship the Perseus. He says the Dikē, the Sicyonian ship beside him, is not stripping for battle, but rigging sail on her spars as if to flee away.”
“Is that all?” asked Themistocles, calmly.
“And there is also a message that Adeimantus and many other admirals who are minded like him have gone again to Eurybiades to urge him not to fight.”
“I expected it.”
“Will the Spartan yield?” The little poet was whitening.
“Very likely. Eurybiades would be a coward if he were not too much of a fool.”
“And you are not going to him instantly, to confound the faint hearts and urge them to quit themselves like Hellenes?”
“Not yet.”
“By the dog of Egypt, man,” cried Simonides, seizing his friend’s arm, “don’t you know that if nothing’s done, we’ll all walk the asphodel to-morrow?”
“Of course. I am doing all I can.”
“All? You stand with folded hands!”
“All—for I am thinking.”
“Thinking—oh, make actions of your thoughts!”
“I will.”
“When?”
“When the god opens the way. Just now the way is fast closed.”
“Ai! woe—and it is already far into the evening, and Hellas is lost.”
Themistocles laughed almost lightly.
“No, my friend. Hellas will not be lost until to-morrow morning, and much can happen in a night. Now go, and let me think yet more.”
Simonides lingered. He was not sure Themistocles was master of himself. But the admiral beckoned peremptorily, the poet’s hand was on the cabin door, when a loud knock sounded on the other side. The prōreus, commander of the fore-deck and Ameinas’s chief lieutenant, entered and saluted swiftly.
“Your business?” questioned the admiral, sharply.
“May it please your Excellency, a deserter.”
“A deserter, and how and why here?”
“He came to the Nausicaä in a skiff. He swears he has just come from the Barbarians at Phaleron. He demands to see the admiral.”
“He is a Barbarian?”
“No, a Greek. He affects to speak a kind of Doric dialect.”
Themistocles laughed again, and even more lightly.
“A deserter, you say. Then why, by Athena’s owls, has he left ‘the Land of Roast Hare’ among the Persians, whither so many are betaking themselves? We’ve not so many deserters to our cause that to-night we can ignore one. Fetch him in.”
“But the council with Eurybiades?” implored Simonides, almost on his knees.
“To the harpies with it! I asked Zeus for an omen. It comes—a fair one. There is time to hear this deserter, to confound Adeimantus, and to save Hellas too!”
Themistocles tossed his head. The wavering, the doubting frown was gone. He was himself again. What he hoped for, what device lay in that inexhaustible brain of his, Simonides did not know. But the sight itself of this strong, smiling man gave courage. The officer reëntered, with him a young man, his face in part concealed by a thick beard and a peaked cap drawn low upon his forehead. The stranger came boldly across to Themistocles, spoke a few words, whereat the admiral instantly bade the officer to quit the cabin.
