There was ceaseless coming and going outside the Precinct of Poseidon. Following much the same path just taken by Simonides and his new friends, two other men were walking, so deep in talk that they hardly heeded how many made respectful way for them, or how many greeted them. The taller and younger man, to be sure, returned every salute with a graceful flourish of his hands, but in a mechanical way, and with eye fixed on his companion.
The pair were markedly contrasted. The younger was in his early prime, strong, well developed, and daintily dressed. His gestures were quick and eloquent. His brown beard and hair were trimmed short to reveal a clear olive face—hardly regular, but expressive and tinged with an extreme subtilty. When he laughed, in a strange, silent way, it was to reveal fine teeth, while his musical tongue ran on, never waiting for answer.
His comrade, however, answered little. He barely rose to the other’s shoulder, but he had the chest and sinews of an ox. Graces there were none. His face was a scarred ravine, half covered by scanty stubble. The forehead was low. The eyes, gray and wise, twinkled from tufted eyebrows. The long gray hair was tied about his forehead in a braid and held by a golden circlet. The “chlamys” around his hips was purple but dirty. To his companion’s glib Attic he returned only Doric monosyllables.
“Thus I have explained: if my plans prosper; if Corcyra and Syracuse send aid; if Xerxes has trouble in provisioning his army, not merely can we resist Persia, but conquer with ease. Am I too sanguine, Leonidas?”
“We shall see.”
“No doubt Xerxes will find his fleet untrustworthy. The Egyptian sailors hate the Phœnicians. Therefore we can risk a sea fight.”
“No rashness, Themistocles.”
“Yes—it is dicing against the Fates, and the stake is the freedom of Hellas. Still a battle must be risked. If we quit ourselves bravely, our names shall be remembered as long as Agamemnon’s.”
“Or Priam’s?—his Troy was sacked.”
“And you, my dear king of Sparta, will of course move heaven and earth to have your Ephors and Council somewhat more forward than of late in preparing for war? We all count on you.”
“I will try.”
“Who can ask more? But now make an end to statecraft. We were speaking about the pentathlon and the chances of—”
Here the same brawling voices that had arrested Simonides broke upon Themistocles and Leonidas also. The cry “A fight!” was producing its inevitable result. Scores of men, and those not the most aristocratic, were running pell-mell whither so many had thronged already. In the confusion scant reverence was paid the king of Sparta and the first statesman of Athens, who were thrust unceremoniously aside and were barely witnesses of what followed.
The outcry was begun, after-report had it, by a Sicyonian bronze-dealer finding a small but valuable lamp missing from the table whereon he showed his wares. Among the dozen odd persons pressing about the booth his eye singled out a slight, handsome boy in Oriental dress; and since Syrian serving-lads were proverbially light-fingered, the Sicyonian jumped quickly at his conclusion.
“Seize the Barbarian thief!” had been his shout as he leaped and snatched the alleged culprit’s mantle. The boy escaped easily by the frailness of his dress, which tore in the merchant’s hands; but a score of bystanders seized the fugitive and dragged him back to the Sicyonian, whose order to “search!” would have been promptly obeyed; but at this instant he stumbled over the missing lamp on the ground before the table, whence probably it had fallen. The bronze-dealer was now mollified, and would willingly have released the lad, but a Spartan bystander was more zealous.
“Here’s a Barbarian thief and spy!” he began bellowing; “he dropped the lamp when he was detected! Have him to the temple and to the wardens of the games!”
The magic word “spy” let loose the tongues and passions of every man within hearing. The unfortunate lad was seized again and jostled rudely, while questions rattled over him like hailstones.
“Whose slave are you? Why here? Where’s your master? Where did you get that outlandish dress and gold-laced turban? Confess, confess,—or it’ll be whipped out of you! What villany are you up to?”
If the prisoner had understood Greek,—which was doubtful,—he could scarce have comprehended this babel. He struggled vainly; tears started to his eyes. Then he committed a blunder. Not attempting a protest, he thrust a small hand into his crimson belt and drew forth a handful of gold as bribe for release.
“A slave with ten darics!” bawled the officious Spartan, never relaxing his grip. “Hark you, friends, it’s plain as day. Dexippus of Corinth has a Syrian lad like this. The young scoundrel’s robbed his master and is running away.”
“That’s it! A runaway! To the temple with him!” chimed a dozen. The prisoner’s outcries were drowned. He would have been swept off in ungentle custody had not a strong hand intervened in his favor.
“A moment, good citizens,” called a voice in clear Attic. “Release this lad. I know Dexippus’s slave; he’s no such fellow.”
The others, low-browed Spartans mostly, turned, ill-pleased at the interruption of an Athenian, but shrank a step as a name went among them.
“Castor and Pollux—it’s Glaucon the Beautiful!”
With two thrusts of impetuous elbows, the young man was at the assailed lad’s side. The newcomer was indeed a sight for gods. Beauty and power seemed wholly met in a figure of perfect symmetry and strength. A face of fine regularity, a chiselled profile, smooth cheeks, deep blue eyes, a crown of closely cropped auburn hair, a chin neither weak nor stern, a skin burnt brown by the sun of the wrestling schools—these were parts of the picture, and the whole was how much fairer than any part! Aroused now, he stood with head cast back and a scarlet cloak shaking gracefully from his shoulders.
“Unhand the lad!” he repeated.
For a moment, compelled by his beauty, the Spartans yielded. The Oriental pressed against his protector; but the affair was not to end so easily.
“Hark you, Sir Athenian,” rejoined the Spartan leader, “don’t presume on your good looks. Our Lycon will mar them all to-morrow. Here’s Dexippus’s slave or else a Barbarian spy: in either case to the temple with him, and don’t you hinder.”
He plucked at the boy’s girdle; but the athlete extended one slim hand, seized the Spartan’s arm, and with lightning dexterity laid the busybody flat on Mother Earth. He staggered upward, raging and calling on his fellows.
“Sparta insulted by Athens! Vengeance, men of Lacedæmon! Fists! Fists!”
The fate of the Oriental was forgotten in the storm of patriotic fury that followed. Fortunately no one had a weapon. Half a dozen burly Laconians precipitated themselves without concert or order upon the athlete. He was hidden a moment in the rush of flapping gowns and tossing arms. Then like a rock out of the angry sea shone his golden head, as he shook off the attack. Two men were on their backs, howling. The others stood at respectful distance, cursing and meditating another rush. An Athenian pottery merchant from a neighbouring booth began trumpeting through his hands.
“Men of Athens, this way!”
His numerous countrymen came scampering from far and wide. Men snatched up stones and commenced snapping off pine boughs for clubs. The athlete, centre of all this din, stood smiling, with his glorious head held high, his eyes alight with the mere joy of battle. He held out his arms. Both pose and face spoke as clearly as words,—“Prove me!”
“Sparta is insulted. Away with the braggart!” the Laconians were clamouring. The Athenians answered in kind. Already a dark sailor was drawing a dirk. Everything promised broken heads, and perhaps blood, when Leonidas and his friend,—by laying about them with their staves,—won their way to the front. The king dashed his staff upon the shoulder of a strapping Laconian who was just hurling himself on Glaucon.
“Fools! Hold!” roared Leonidas, and the moment the throng saw what newcomers they faced, Athenian and Spartan let their arms drop and stood sheepish and silent. Themistocles instantly stepped forward and held up his hand. His voice, trumpet-clear, rang out among the pines. In three sentences he dissolved the tumult.
“Fellow-Hellenes, do not let Dame Discord make sport of you. I saw all that befell. It is only an unlucky misunderstanding. You are quite satisfied, I am sure, Master Bronze-Dealer?”
The Sicyonian, who saw in a riot the ruin of his evening’s trade, nodded gladly.
“He says there was no thieving, and he is entirely satisfied. He thanks you for your friendly zeal. The Oriental was not Dexippus’s slave, and Xerxes does not need such boys for spies. I am certain Glaucon would not insult Sparta. So let us part without bad blood, and await the judgment of the god in the contest to-morrow.”
Not a voice answered him. The crash of music from the sacrificial embassy of Syracuse diverted everybody’s attention; most of the company streamed away to follow the flower-decked chariots and cattle back to the temple. Themistocles and Leonidas were left almost alone to approach the athlete.
“You are ever Glaucon the Fortunate,” laughed Themistocles; “had we not chanced this way, what would not have befallen?”
“Ah, it was delightful,” rejoined the athlete, his eyes still kindled; “the shock, the striving, the putting one’s own strength and will against many and feeling ‘I am the stronger.’ ”
“Delightful, no doubt” replied the statesman, “though Zeus spare me fighting one against ten! But what god possessed you to meddle in this brawl, and imperil all chances for to-morrow?”
“I was returning from practice at the palæstra. I saw the lad beset and knew he was not Dexippus’s slave. I ran to help him. I thought no more about it.”
“And risked everything for a sly-eyed Oriental. Where is the rascal?”
But the lad—author of the commotion—had disappeared completely.
“Behold his fair gratitude to his rescuer,” cried Themistocles, sourly, and then he turned to Leonidas. “Well, very noble king of Sparta, you were asking to see Glaucon and judge his chances in the pentathlon. Your Laconians have just proved him; are you satisfied?”
But the king, without a word of greeting, ran his eyes over the athlete from head to heel, then blurted out his verdict:
“Too pretty.”
Glaucon blushed like a maid. Themistocles threw up his hands in deprecation.
“But were not Achilles and many another hero beautiful as brave? Does not Homer call them so many times ‘godlike’?”
“Poetry doesn’t win the pentathlon,” retorted the king; then suddenly he seized the athlete’s right arm near the shoulder. The muscles cracked. Glaucon did not wince. The king dropped the arm with a “Euge!” then extended his own hand, the fingers half closed, and ordered, “Open.”
One long minute, just as Simonides and his companions approached, Athenian and Spartan stood face to face, hand locked in hand, while Glaucon’s forehead grew redder, not with blushing. Then blood rushed to the king’s brow also. His fingers were crimson. They had been forced open.
“Euge!” cried the king, again; then, to Themistocles, “He will do.”
Whereupon, as if satisfied in his object and averse to further dalliance, he gave Cimon and his companions the stiffest of nods and deliberately turned on his heel. Speech was too precious coin for him to be wasted on mere adieus. Only over his shoulder he cast at Glaucon a curt mandate.
“I hate Lycon. Grind his bones.”
Themistocles, however, lingered a moment to greet Simonides. The little poet was delighted, despite overweening hopes, at the manly beauty yet modesty of the athlete, and being a man who kept his thoughts always near his tongue, made Glaucon blush more manfully than ever.
“Master Simonides is overkind,” had ventured the athlete; “but I am sure his praise is only polite compliment.”
“What misunderstanding!” ran on the poet. “How you pain me! I truly desired to ask a question. Is it not a great delight to know that so many people are gladdened just by looking on you?”
“How dare I answer? If ‘no,’ I contradict you—very rude. If ‘yes,’ I praise myself—far ruder.”
“Cleverly turned. The face of Paris, the strength of Achilles, the wit of Periander, all met in one body;” but seeing the athlete’s confusion more profound than ever, the Cean cut short. “Heracles! if my tongue wounds you, lo! it’s clapped back in its sheath; I’ll be revenged in an ode of fifty iambs on your victory. For that you will conquer, neither I nor any sane man in Hellas has the least doubt. Are you not confident, dear Athenian?”
“I am confident in the justice of the gods, noble Simonides,” said the athlete, half childishly, half in deep seriousness.
“Well you may be. The gods are usually ‘just’ to such as you. It’s we graybeards that Tyche, ‘Lady Fortune,’ grows tired of helping.”
“Perhaps!” Glaucon passed his hand across his eyes with a dreamy gesture. “Yet sometimes I almost say, ‘Welcome a misfortune, if not too terrible,’ just to ward off the god’s jealousy of too great prosperity. In all things, save my father’s anger, I have prospered. To-morrow I can appease that, too. Yet you know Solon’s saying, ‘Call no man fortunate till he is dead.’ ”
Simonides was charmed at this frank confession on first acquaintance. “Yes, but even one of the Seven Sages can err.”
“I do not know. I only hope—”
“Hush, Glaucon,” admonished Democrates. “There’s no worse dinner before a contest than one of flighty thoughts. When safe in Athens—”
“In Eleusis you mean,” corrected the athlete.
“Pest take you,” cried Cimon; “you say Eleusis because there is Hermione. But make this day-dreaming end ere you come to grips with Lycon.”
“He will awaken,” smiled Themistocles. Then, with another gracious nod to Simonides, the statesman hastened after Leonidas, leaving the three young men and the poet to go to Glaucon’s tent in the pine grove.
“And why should Leonidas wish Glaucon to grind the bones of the champion of Sparta?” asked Cimon, curiously.
“Quickly answered,” replied Simonides, who knew half the persons of the nobility in Hellas; “first, Lycon is of the rival kingly house at Sparta; second, he’s suspected of ‘Medizing,’ of favouring Persia.”
“I’ve heard that story of ‘Medizing,’ ” interrupted Democrates, promptly; “I can assure you it is not true.”
“Enough if he’s suspected,” cried the uncompromising son of Miltiades; “honest Hellenes should not even be blown upon in times like this. Another reason then for hating him—”
“Peace!” ordered Glaucon, as if starting from a long revery, and with a sweep of his wonderful hands; “let the Medes, the Persians, and their war wait. For me the only war is the pentathlon,—and then by Zeus’s favour the victory, the glory, the return to Eleusis! Ah—wish me joy!”
“Verily, the man is mad,” reflected the poet; “he lives in his own bright world, sufficient to himself. May Zeus never send storms to darken it! For to bear disaster his soul seems never made.”
At the tent Manes, the athlete’s body-servant, came running to his master, with a small box firmly bound.
“A strange dark man brought this only a moment since. It is for Master Glaucon.”
On opening there was revealed a bracelet of Egyptian turquoise; the price thereof Simonides wisely set at two minæ. Nothing betrayed the identity of the giver save a slip of papyrus written in Greek, but in very uncertain hand. “To the Beautiful Champion of Athens: from one he has greatly served.”
Cimon held the bracelet on high, admiring its perfect lustre.
“Themistocles was wrong,” he remarked; “the Oriental was not ungrateful. But what ‘slave’ or ‘lad’ was this that Glaucon succoured?”
“Perhaps,” insinuated Simonides, “Themistocles was wrong yet again. Who knows if a stranger giving such gifts be not sent forth by Xerxes?”
“Don’t chatter foolishness,” commanded Democrates, almost peevishly; but Glaucon replaced the bracelet in the casket.
“Since the god sends this, I will rejoice in it,” he declared lightly. “A fair omen for to-morrow, and it will shine rarely on Hermione’s arm.” The mention of that lady called forth new protests from Cimon, but he in turn was interrupted, for a half-grown boy had entered the tent and stood beckoning to Democrates.
