The lad who sidled up to Democrates was all but a hunchback. His bare arms were grotesquely tattooed, clear sign that he was a Thracian. His eyes twinkled keenly, uneasily, as in token of an almost sinister intelligence. What he whispered to Democrates escaped the rest, but the latter began girding up his cloak.
“You leave us, philotate?” cried Glaucon. “Would I not have all my friends with me to-night, to fill me with fair thoughts for the morrow? Bid your ugly Bias keep away!”
“A greater friend than even Glaucon the Alcmæonid commands me hence,” said the orator, smiling.
“Declare his name.”
“Declare her name,” cried Simonides, viciously.
“Noble Cean, then I say I serve a most beautiful, high-born dame. Her name is Athens.”
“Curses on your public business,” lamented Glaucon. “But off with you, since your love is the love of us all.”
Democrates kissed the athlete on both cheeks. “I leave you to faithful guardians. Last night I dreamed of a garland of lilies, sure presage of a victory. So take courage.”
“Chaire! chaire!”(1) called the rest; and Democrates left the tent to follow the slave-boy.
Evening was falling: the sea, rocks, fields, pine groves, were touched by the red glow dying behind Acro-Corinthus. Torches gleamed amid the trees where the multitudes were buying, selling, wagering, making merry. All Greece seemed to have sent its wares to be disposed of at the Isthmia. Democrates idled along, now glancing at the huckster who displayed his painted clay dolls and urged the sightseers to remember the little ones at home. A wine-seller thrust a sample cup of a choice vintage under the Athenian’s nose, and vainly adjured him to buy. Thessalian easy-chairs, pottery, slaves kidnapped from the Black Sea, occupied one booth after another. On a pulpit before a bellowing crowd a pair of marionettes were rolling their eyes and gesticulating, as a woman pulled the strings.
But there were more exalted entertainments. A rhapsodist stood on a pine stump chanting in excellent voice Alcæus’s hymn to Apollo. And more willingly the orator stopped on the edge of a throng of the better sort, which listened to a man of noble aspect reading in clear voice from his scroll.
“Æschylus of Athens,” whispered a bystander. “He reads choruses of certain tragedies he says he will perfect and produce much later.”
Democrates knew the great dramatist well, but what he read was new—a “Song of the Furies” calling a terrific curse upon the betrayer of friendship. “Some of his happiest lines,” meditated Democrates, walking away, to be held a moment by the crowd around Lamprus the master-harpist. But now, feeling that he had dallied long enough, the orator turned his back on the two female acrobats who were swinging on a trapeze and struck down a long, straight road which led toward the distant cone of Acro-Corinthus. First, however, he turned on Bias, who all the time had been accompanying, dog-fashion.
“You say he is waiting at Hegias’s inn?”
“Yes, master. It’s by the temple of Bellerophon, just as you begin to enter the city.”
“Good! I don’t want to ask the way. Now catch this obol and be off.”
The boy snatched the flying coin and glided into the crowd.
Democrates walked briskly out of the glare of the torches, then halted to slip the hood of his cloak up about his face.
“The road is dark, but the wise man shuns accidents,” was his reflection, as he strode in the direction pointed by Bias.
The way was dark. No moon; and even the brilliant starlight of summer in Hellas is an uncertain guide. Democrates knew he was traversing a long avenue lined by spreading cypresses, with a shimmer of white from some tall, sepulchral monument. Then through the dimness loomed the high columns of a temple, and close beside it pale light spread out upon the road as from an inn.
“Hegias’s inn,” grumbled the Athenian. “Zeus grant it have no more fleas than most inns of Corinth!”
At sound of his footsteps the door opened promptly, without knocking. A squalid scene revealed itself,—a white-washed room, an earthen floor, two clay lamps on a low table, a few stools,—but a tall, lean man in Oriental dress greeted the Athenian with a salaam which showed his own gold earrings, swarthy skin, and black mustache.
“Fair greetings, Hiram,” spoke the orator, no wise amazed, “and where is your master?”
“At service,” came a deep voice from a corner, so dark that Democrates had not seen the couch where lolled an ungainly figure that now rose clumsily.
“Hail, Democrates.”
“Hail, Lycon.”
Hand joined in hand; then Lycon ordered the Oriental to “fetch the noble Athenian some good Thasian wine.”
“You will join me?” urged the orator.
“Alas! no. I am still in training. Nothing but cheese and porridge till after the victory to-morrow; but then, by Castor, I’ll enjoy ‘the gentleman’s disease’—a jolly drunkenness.”
“Then you are sure of victory to-morrow?”
“Good Democrates, what god has tricked you into believing your fine Athenian has a chance?”
“I have seven minæ staked on Glaucon.”
“Seven staked in the presence of your friends; how many in their absence?”
Democrates reddened. He was glad the room was dark. “I am not here to quarrel about the pentathlon,” he said emphatically.
“Oh, very well. Leave your dear sparrow to my gentle hands.” The Spartan’s huge paws closed significantly: “Here’s the wine. Sit and drink. And you, Hiram, get to your corner.”
The Oriental silently squatted in the gloom, the gleam of his beady eyes just visible. Lycon sat on a stool beside his guest, his Cyclops-like limbs sprawling down upon the floor. Scarred and brutish, indeed, was his face, one ear missing, the other beaten flat by boxing gloves; but Democrates had a distinct feeling that under his battered visage and wiry black hair lurked greater penetration of human motive and more ability to play therewith than the chance observer might allow. The Athenian deliberately waited his host’s first move.
“The wine is good, Democrates?” began Lycon.
“Excellent.”
“I presume you have arranged your wagers to-morrow with your usual prudence.”
“How do you know about them?”
“Oh, my invaluable Hiram, who arranged this interview for us through Bias, has made himself a brother to all the betting masters. I understand you have arranged it so that whether Glaucon wins or loses you will be none the poorer.”
The Athenian set down his cup.
“Because I would not let my dear friend’s sanguine expectations blind all my judgment is no reason why you should seek this interview, Lycon,” he rejoined tartly. “If this is the object of your summons, I’m better back in my own tent.”
Lycon tilted back against the table. His speech was nothing curt or “Laconic”; it was even drawling. “On the contrary, dear Democrates, I was only commending your excellent foresight, something that I see characterizes all you do. You are the friend of Glaucon. Since Aristeides has been banished, only Themistocles exceeds you in influence over the Athenians. Therefore, as a loyal Athenian you must support your champion. Likewise, as a man of judgment you must see that I—though this pentathlon is only a by-play, not my business—will probably break your Glaucon’s back to-morrow. It is precisely this good judgment on your part which makes me sure I do well to ask an interview—for something else.”
“Then quickly to business.”
“A few questions. I presume Themistocles to-day conferred with Leonidas?”
“I wasn’t present with them.”
“But in due time Themistocles will tell you everything?”
Democrates chewed his beard, not answering.
“Pheu! you don’t pretend Themistocles distrusts you?” cried the Spartan.
“I don’t like your questions, Lycon.”
“I am very sorry. I’ll cease them. I only wished to-night to call to your mind the advantage of two such men as you and I becoming friends. I may be king of Lacedæmon before long.”
“I knew that before, but where’s your chariot driving?”
“Dear Athenian, the Persian chariot is now driving toward Hellas. We cannot halt it. Then let us be so wise that it does not pass over us.”
“Hush!” Democrates spilled the cup as he started. “No ‘Medizing’ talk before me. Am I not Themistocles’s friend?”
“Themistocles and Leonidas will seem valiant fools after Xerxes comes. Men of foresight—”
“Are never traitors.”
“Beloved Democrates,” sneered the Spartan, “in one year the most patriotic Hellene will be he who has made the Persian yoke the most endurable. Don’t blink at destiny.”
“Don’t be overcertain.”
“Don’t grow deaf and blind. Xerxes has been collecting troops these four years. Every wind across the Ægean tells how the Great King assembles millions of soldiers, thousands of ships: Median cavalry, Assyrian archers, Egyptian battle-axemen—the best troops in the world. All the East will be marching on our poor Hellas. And when has Persia failed to conquer?”
“At Marathon.”
“A drop of rain before the tempest! If Datis, the Persian general, had only been more prudent!”
“Clearly, noblest Lycon,” said Democrates, with a satirical smile, “for a taciturn Laconian to become thus eloquent for tyranny must have taken a bribe of ten thousand gold darics.”
“But answer my arguments.”
“Well—the old oracle is proved: ‘Base love of gain and naught else shall bear sore destruction to Sparta.’ ”
“That doesn’t halt Xerxes’s advance.”
“An end to your croakings,”—Democrates was becoming angry,—“I know the Persian’s power well enough. Now why have you summoned me?”
Lycon looked on his visitor long and hard. He reminded the Athenian disagreeably of a huge cat just considering whether a mouse were near enough to risk a spring.
“I sent for you because I wished you to give a pledge.”
“I’m in no mood to give it.”
“You need not refuse. Giving or withholding the fate of Hellas will not be altered, save as you wish to make it so.”
“What must I promise?”
“That you will not reveal the presence in Greece of a man I intend to set before you.” Another silence. Democrates knew even then, if vaguely, that he was making a decision on which might hinge half his future. In the after days he looked back on this instant with unspeakable regret. But the Laconian sat before him, smiling, sneering, commanding by his more dominant will. The Athenian answered, it seemed, despite himself:—
“If it is not to betray Hellas.”
“It is not.”
“Then I promise.”
“Swear it then by your native Athena.”
And Democrates—perhaps the wine was strong—lifted his right hand and swore by Athena Polias of Athens he would betray no secret.
Lycon arose with what was part bellow, part laugh. Even then the orator was moved to call back the pledge, but the Spartan acted too swiftly. The short moments which followed stamped themselves on Democrates’s memory. The flickering lamps, the squalid room, the long, dense shadows, the ungainly movements of the Spartan, who was opening a door,—all this passed after the manner of a vision. And as in a vision Democrates saw a stranger stepping through the inner portal, as at Lycon’s summons—a man of no huge stature, but masterful in eye and mien. Another Oriental, but not as the obsequious Hiram. Here was a lord to command and be obeyed. Gems flashed from the scarlet turban, the green jacket was embroidered with pearls—and was not half the wealth of Corinth in the jewels studding the sword hilt? Tight trousers and high shoes of tanned leather set off a form supple and powerful as a panther’s. Unlike most Orientals the stranger was fair. A blond beard swept his breast. His eyes were sharp, steel-blue. Never a word spoke he; but Democrates looked on him with wide eyes, then turned almost in awe to the Spartan.
“This is a prince—” he began.
“His Highness Prince Abairah of Cyprus,” completed Lycon, rapidly, “now come to visit the Isthmian Games, and later your Athens. It is for this I have brought you face to face—that he may be welcome in your city.”
The Athenian cast at the stranger a glance of keenest scrutiny. He knew by every instinct in his being that Lycon was telling a barefaced lie. Why he did not cry out as much that instant he hardly himself knew. But the gaze of the “Cyprian” pierced through him, fascinating, magnetizing, and Lycon’s great hand was on his victim’s shoulder. The “Cyprian’s” own hand went out seeking Democrates’s.
“I shall be very glad to see the noble Athenian in his own city. His fame for eloquence and prudence is already in Tyre and Babylon,” spoke the stranger, never taking his steel-blue eyes from the orator’s face. The accent was Oriental, but the Greek was fluent. The prince—for prince he was, whatever his nation—pressed his hand closer. Almost involuntarily Democrates’s hand responded. They clasped tightly; then, as if Lycon feared a word too much, the unknown released his hold, bowed with inimitable though silent courtesy, and was gone behind the door whence he had come.
It had taken less time than men use to count a hundred. The latch clicked. Democrates gazed blankly on the door, then turned on Lycon with a start.
“Your wine was strong. You have bewitched me. What have I done? By Zeus of Olympus—I have given my hand in pledge to a Persian spy.”
“ ‘A prince of Cyprus’—did you not hear me?”
“Cerberus eat me if that man has seen Cyprus. No Cyprian is so blond. The man is Xerxes’s brother.”
“We shall see, friend; we shall see: ‘Day by day we grow old, and day by day we grow wiser.’ So your own Solon puts it, I think.”
Democrates drew himself up angrily. “I know my duty; I’ll denounce you to Leonidas.”
“You gave a pledge and oath.”
“It were a greater crime to keep than to break it.”
Lycon shrugged his huge shoulders. “Eu! I hardly trusted to that. But I do trust to Hiram’s pretty story about your bets, and still more to a tale that’s told about where and how you’ve borrowed money.”
Democrates’s voice shook either with rage or with fear when he made shift to answer.
“I see I’ve come to be incriminated and insulted. So be it. If I keep my pledge, at least suffer me to wish you and your ‘Cyprian’ a very good night.”
Lycon good-humouredly lighted him to the door. “Why so hot? I’ll do you a service to-morrow. If Glaucon wrestles with me, I shall kill him.”
“Shall I thank the murderer of my friend?”
“Even when that friend has wronged you?”
“Silence! What do you mean?”
Even in the flickering lamplight Democrates could see the Spartan’s evil smile.
“Of course—Hermione.”
“Silence, by the infernal gods! Who are you, Cyclops, for her name to cross your teeth?”
“I’m not angry. Yet you will thank me to-morrow. The pentathlon will be merely a pleasant flute-playing before the great war-drama. You will see more of the ‘Cyprian’ at Athens—”
Democrates heard no more. Forth from that wine-house he ran into the sheltering night, till safe under the shadow of the black cypresses. His head glowed. His heart throbbed. He had been partner in foulest treason. Duty to friend, duty to country,—oath or no oath,—should have sent him to Leonidas. What evil god had tricked him into that interview? Yet he did not denounce the traitor. Not his oath held him back, but benumbing fear,—and what sting lay back of Lycon’s hints and threats the orator knew best. And how if Lycon made good his boast and killed Glaucon on the morrow?
