A Victor of Salamis 37Book III · The Reading of the Riddle
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Literature · Adventure
A Victor of Salamis 37
Book III · The Reading of the Riddle
DavisEnglish
A hard chase. The rowers of the penteconter were well winded before they caught the Bozra. A merchantman making for Asia was, however, undoubted prize; the luckless crew could be sold in the Agora, the cargo of oil, fish, and pottery was likewise of value. Cimon was standing on his poop, listening to the report of his prōreus.
“We’re all a mina richer for the race, captain, and they’ve some jars of their good Numidian wine in the forecastle.”
But here a seaman interrupted, staring blankly.
“Kyrie, here’s a strange prize. Five men lie dead on the deck. The planks are bloody. In the cabin are two men and a woman. All three seem mad. They are Greeks. They keep us out, and bawl, ‘The navarch! show us the navarch, or Hellas is lost.’ And one of them—as true as that I sucked my mother’s milk—is Phormio—”
“Phormio the fishmonger,”—Cimon dropped his steering oar,—“on a Carthaginian ship? You’re mad yourself, man.”
“See with your own eyes, captain. They’ll yield to none save you. The prisoners are howling that one of these men is a giant.”
For the active son of Miltiades to leap from bulwark to bulwark took an instant. Only when he showed himself did the three in the cabin scramble up the ladder, covered with blood, the red lines of the fetters marked into wrist and ankle. Lampaxo had thrown her dress over her head and was screaming still, despite assurances. The third Hellene’s face was hid under a tangle of hair. But Cimon knew the fishmonger. Many a morning had he haggled with him merrily for a fine mackerel or tunny, and the navarch recoiled in horror at his fellow-citizen’s plight.
“Infernal gods! You a prisoner here? Where is this cursed vessel from?”
“From Trœzene,” gasped the refugee; “if you love Athens and Hellas—”
He turned just in time to fling an arm about Hiram, who—carelessly guarded—was gliding down the hatchway.
“Seize that viper, bind, torture; he knows all. Make him tell or Hellas is lost!”
“Control yourself, friend,” adjured Cimon, sorely perplexed, while Hiram struggled and began tugging out a crooked knife, before two brawny seamen nipped him fast and disarmed.
“Ah! you carrion meat,” shouted Phormio, shaking his fists under the helpless creature’s nose. “Honest men have their day at last. There’s a gay hour coming before Zeus claps the lid over you in Tartarus.”
“Peace,” commanded the navarch, who betwixt Phormio’s shouts, Lampaxo’s howls, and Hiram’s moans was at his wit’s end. “Has no one on this ship kept aboard his senses?”
“If you will be so good, sir captain,” the third Hellene at last broke his silence, “you will hearken to me.”
“Who are you?”
“The prōreus of the Alcyone of Melos. More of myself hereafter. But if you love the weal of Hellas, demand of this Hiram where he concealed the treasonable despatches he received at Trœzene and now has aboard.”
“Hiram? O Lord Apollo, I recognize the snake! The one that was always gliding around Lycon at the Isthmus. If despatches he has, I know the way to get them. Now, black-hearted Cyclops,”—Cimon’s tone was not gentle,—“where are your papers?”
Hiram had turned gray as a corpse, but his white teeth came together.
“Phormio is mistaken. Your slave has none.”
“Bah!” threw out Cimon, “I can smell your lies like garlic. Silent still? Good, see how I am better than Asclepius. I make the dumb talk by a miracle. A cord and belaying-pin, Naon.”
The seaman addressed passed a cord about the Phœnician’s forehead with a fearful dexterity, and put the iron pin at the back of the skull.
“Twist!” commanded Cimon. Two mariners gripped the victim’s arms. Naon pressed the cord tighter, tighter. A beastlike groan came through the lips of the Phœnician. His beady eyes started from his head, but he did not speak.
“Again,” thundered the navarch, and as the cord stretched a howl of mortal agony escaped the prisoner.
“Pity! Mercy! My head bursts. I will tell!”
“Tell quick, or we’ll squeeze your brains out. Relax a little, Naon.”
“In the boat mast.” Hiram spit the words out one by one. “In the cabin. There is a peg. Pull it out. The mast is hollowed. You will find the papers. Woe! woe! cursed the day I was born. Cursed my mother for bearing me.”
The miserable creature fell to the deck, pressing his hands to his temples and moaning in agony. No one heeded him now. Cimon himself ran below to the mast, and wrenched the peg from its socket. Papyrus sheets were there, rolled compactly, covered with writing and sealed. The navarch turned over the packet curiously, then to the amazement of the sailors seemed to stagger against the mast. He was as pale as Hiram. He thrust the packet into the hands of his prōreus, who stood near.
“What make you of this seal? As you fear Athena, tell the truth.”
“You need not adjure me so, captain. The device is simple: Theseus slaying the Minotaur.”
“And who, in Zeus’s name, do you know in Athens who uses a seal like that?”
Silence for a moment, then the prōreus himself was pale.
“Your Excellency does not mean—”
“Democrates!” cried the trembling navarch.
“And why not Democrates?” The words came from the released prisoner, who had been so silent, but who had glided down and stood at Cimon’s elbow. He spoke in a changed voice now; again the navarch was startled.
“Is Themistocles on the Nausicaä?” asked the stranger, whilst Cimon gazed on him spellbound, asking if he himself were growing mad.
“Yes—but your voice, your face, your manner—my head is dizzy.”
The stranger touched him gently on the hand.
“Have I so changed, you quite forget me, Cimon?”
The son of Miltiades was a strong man. He had looked on Hiram’s tortures with a laugh. To his own death he would have gone with no eyelash trembling. But now the rest saw him blench; then with a cry, at once of wonder and inexpressible joy, his arms closed round the tattered outlaw’s neck. Treason or no treason—what matter! He forgot all save that before him was his long-time comrade.
“My friend! My boyhood’s friend!” and so for many times they kissed.
The Nausicaä had followed the chase at easy distance, ready with aid in case the Bozra resisted. Themistocles was in his cabin with Simonides, when Cimon and Glaucon came to him. The admiral heard his young navarch’s report, then took the unopened packet and requested Cimon and the poet to withdraw. As their feet sounded on the ladder in the companionway, Themistocles turned on the outlaw, it seemed, fiercely.
“Tell your story.”
Glaucon told it: the encounter on the hillside at Trœzene, the seizure in Phormio’s house, the coming of Democrates and his boasts over the captives, the voyage and the pursuing. The son of Neocles never hastened the recital, though once or twice he widened it by an incisive question. At the end he demanded:—
“And does Phormio confirm all this?”
“All. Question him.”
“Humph! He’s a truthful man in everything save the price of fish. Now let us open the packet.”
Themistocles was exceeding deliberate. He drew his dagger and pried the wrapper open without breaking the seals or tearing the papyrus. He turned the strips of paper carefully one by one, opened a casket, and drew thence a written sheet which he compared painfully with those before him.
“The same hand,” his remark in undertone.
He was so calm that a stranger would have thought him engaged with routine business. Many of the sheets he simply lifted, glanced at, laid down again. They did not seem to interest. So through half the roll, but the outlaw, watching patiently, at last saw he eyebrows of the son of Neocles pressing ever closer,—sign that the inscrutable brain was at its fateful work.
At last he uttered one word, “Cipher.”
A sheet lay before him covered with broken words and phrases—seemingly without meaning—but the admiral knew the secret of the Spartan scytalē, the “cipher wood.” Forth from his casket came a number of rounded sticks of varying lengths. On one after another he wound the sheet spirally until at the fifth trial the scattered words came together. He read with ease. Then Themistocles’s brows grew closer than before. He muttered softly in his beard. But still he said nothing aloud. He read the cipher sheet through once, twice; it seemed thrice. Other sheets he fingered delicately, as though he feared the touch of venom. All without haste, but at the end, when Themistocles arose from his seat, the outlaw trembled. Many things he had seen, but never a face so changed. The admiral was neither flushed nor pale. But ten years seemed added to those lines above his eyes. His cheeks were hollowed. Was it fancy that put the gray into his beard and hair? Slowly he rose; slowly he ordered the marine on guard outside the cabin to summon Simonides, Cimon, and all the officers of the flag-ship. They trooped hither and filled the narrow cabin—fifteen or more hale, handsome Athenians, intent on the orders of the admiral. Were they to dash at once for Samos and surprise the Persian? Or what other adventure waited? The breeze had died. The gray breast of the Ægean rocked the Nausicaä softly. The thranites of the upper oar bank were alone on the benches, and stroking the great trireme along to a singsong chant about Amphitrite and the Tritons. On the poop above two sailors were grumbling lest the penteconter’s people get all the booty of the Bozra. Glaucon heard their grunts and complainings whilst he looked on Themistocles’s awful face.
The officers ranged themselves and saluted stiffly. Themistocles stood before them, his hands closed over the packet. The first time he started to speak his lips closed desperately. The silence grew awkward. Then the admiral gave his head a toss, and drew his form together as a runner before a race.
“Democrates is a traitor. Unless Athena shows us mercy, Hellas is lost.”
“Democrates is a traitor!”
The cry from the startled men rang through the ship. The rowers ceased their chant and their stroking. Themistocles beckoned angrily for silence.
“I did not call you down to wail and groan.” He never raised his voice; his calmness made him terrible. But now the questions broke loose as a flood.
“When? How? Declare.”
“Peace, men of Athens; you conquered the Persian at Salamis, conquer now yourselves. Harken to this cipher. Then to our task and prove our comrades did not die in vain.”
Yet despite him men wept on one another’s shoulders as became true Hellenes, whilst Themistocles, whose inexorable face never relaxed, rewound the papyrus on the cipher stick and read in hard voice the words of doom.
“This is the letter secreted on the Carthaginian. The hand is Democrates’s, the seals are his. Give ear.
“Democrates the Athenian to Tigranes, commander of the hosts of Xerxes on the coasts of Asia, greeting:—Understand, dear Persian, that Lycon and I as well as the other friends of the king among the Hellenes are prepared to bring all things to pass in a way right pleasing to your master. Even now I depart from Trœzene to join the army of the allied Hellenes in Bœotia, and, the gods helping, we cannot fail. Lycon and I will contrive to separate the Athenians and Spartans from their other allies, to force them to give battle, and at the crisis cause the divisions under our personal commands to retire, breaking the phalanx and making Mardonius’s victory certain.
“For your part, excellent Tigranes, you must avoid the Hellenic ships at Delos and come back to Mardonius with your fleet ready to second him at once after his victory, which will be speedy; then with your aid he can readily turn the wall at the Isthmus. I send also letters written, as it were, in the hand of Themistocles. See that they fall into the hands of the other Greek admirals. They will breed more hurt amongst the Hellenes than you can accomplish with all your ships. I send, likewise, lists of such Athenians and Spartans as are friendly to his Majesty, also memoranda of such secret plans of the Greeks as have come to my knowledge.
“From Trœzene, given into the hands of Hiram on the second of Metageitnion, in the archonship of Xanthippus. Chaire!”
Themistocles ceased. No man spoke a word. It was as if a god had flung a bolt from heaven. What use to cry against it? Then, in an ominously low voice, Simonides asked a question.
“What are these letters which purport to come from your pen, Themistocles?”
The admiral unrolled another papyrus, and as he looked thereon his fine face contracted with loathing.
“Let another read. I am made to pour contempt and ridicule upon my fellow-captains. I am made to boast ‘when the war ends, I will be tyrant of Athens.’ A thousand follies and wickednesses are put in my mouth. Were this letter true, I were the vilest wretch escaping Orcus. Since forged—” his hands clinched—“by that man, that man whom I have trusted, loved, cherished, called ‘younger brother,’ ‘oldest son’—” He spat in rising fury and was still.
“ ‘Fain would I grip his liver in my teeth,’ ” cried the little poet, even in storm and stress not forgetting his Homer. And the howl from the man-of-war’s men was as the howl of beasts desiring their prey. But the admiral’s burst of anger ended. He stood again an image of calm power. The voice that had charmed the thousands rang forth in its strength and sweetness.
“Men of Athens, this is no hour for windy rage. Else I should rage the most, for who is more wronged than I? One whom we loved is fallen—later let us weep for him. One whom we trusted is false—later punish him. But now the work is neither to weep nor to punish, but to save Hellas. A great battle impends in Bœotia. Except the Zeus of our sires and Athena of the Pure Eyes be with us, we are men without home, without fatherland. Pausanias and Aristeides must be warned. The Nausicaä is the ‘Salaminia,’—the swiftest trireme in the fleet. Ours must be the deed, and ours the glory. Enough of this—the men must hear, and then to the oars.”
Themistocles had changed from despair to a triumph note. There was uplift even to look upon him. He strode before all his lieutenants up and out upon the poop. The long tiers of benches and the gangways filled with rowers peered up at him. They had seen their officers gather in the cabin, and Dame Rumour, subtlest of Zeus’s messengers, had breathed “ill-tidings.” Now the admiral stood forth, and in few words told all the heavy tale. Again a great shout, whilst the bronzed men groaned on the benches.
“Democrates is a traitor!”
A deity had fallen from their Olympus; the darling of the Athenians’s democracy was sunk to vilest of the vile. But the admiral knew how to play on their two hundred hearts better than Orpheus upon his lyre. Again the note changed from despair to incitement, and when at last he called, “And can we cross the Ægean as never trireme crossed and pluck back Hellas from her fate?” thalamite, zygite, and thranite rose, tossing their brawny arms into the air.
“We can!”
Then Themistocles folded his own arms and smiled. He felt the god was still with him.
Yet, eager as was the will, they could not race forth instantly. Orders must be written to Xanthippus, the Athenian vice-admiral far away, bidding him at all hazards to keep the Persian fleet near Samos. Cimon was long in privy council with Themistocles in the state cabin. At the same time a prisoner was passed aboard the Nausicaä, not gently bound,—Hiram, a precious witness, before the dogs had their final meal on him. But the rest of the Bozra’s people found a quicker release. The penteconter’s people decided their fate with a yell.
“Sell such harpies for slaves? The money would stink through our pouches!”
So two by two, tied neck to neck and heel to heel, the wretches were flung overboard, “because we lack place and wood to crucify you,” called the Nausicaä’s governor, as he pushed the last pair off into the leaden sea,—for the day was distant when the destruction of such Barbarian rogues would weigh even on tender consciences.
So the Carthaginians ceased from troubling, but before the penteconter and the Bozra bore away to join the remaining fleet, another deed was done in sight of all three ships. For whilst Themistocles was with Cimon, Simonides and Sicinnus had taken Glaucon to the Nausicaä’s forecastle. Now as the penteconter was casting off, again he came to view, and the shout that greeted him was not of fear this time, but wonder and delight. The Alcmæonid was clean-shaven, his hair clipped close, the black dye even in a manner washed away. He had flung off the rough seaman’s dress, and stood forth in all his godlike beauty.
Before all men Cimon, coming from the cabin, ran and kissed him once more, whilst the rowers clapped their hands.
“Apollo—it is Delian Apollo! Glaucon the Beautiful lives again. Io! Io! pæan!”
“Yes,” spoke Themistocles, in a burst of gladness. “The gods take one friend, they restore another. Œdipus has read the sphinx’s riddle. Honour this man, for he is worthy of honour through Hellas!”
The officers ran to the athlete, after them the sailors. They covered his face and hands with kisses. He seemed escaped the Carthaginian to perish in the embrace of his countrymen. Never was his blush more boyish, more divine. Then a bugle-blast sent every man to his station. Cimon leaped across to his smaller ship. The rowers of the Nausicaä ran out their oars, the hundred and seventy blades trailed in the water. Every man took a long breath and fixed his eyes on the admiral standing on the poop. He held a golden goblet set with turquoise, and filled with the blood-red Pramnian wine. Loudly Themistocles prayed.
“Zeus of Olympus and Dodona, Zeus Orchios, rewarder of the oath-breaker, to whom the Hellenes do not vainly pray, and thou Athena of the Pure Eyes, give ear. Make our ship swift, our arms strong, our hearts bold. Hold back the battle that we come not too late. Grant that we confound the guilty, put to flight the Barbarian, recompense the traitor. So to you and all other holy gods whose love is for the righteous we will proffer prayer and sacrifice forever. Amen.”
He poured out the crimson liquor; far into the sea he flung the golden cup.
“Heaven speed you!” shouted from the penteconter. Themistocles nodded. The keleustes smote his gavel upon the sounding-board. The triple oar bank rose as one and plunged into the foam. A long “h-a!” went up from the benches. The race to save Hellas was begun.
