In Athens! Shall one mount the Acropolis or enter the market place? Worship in the temple of the Virgin Athena, or descend to the Agora and the roar of its getters and spenders? For Athens has two faces—toward the ideal, toward the commonplace. Who can regard both at once? Let the Acropolis, its sculptures, its landscape, wait. It has waited for men three thousand years. And so to the Agora.
“Full market time.” The Agora was a beehive. From the round Tholus at the south to the long portico at the north all was babel and traffic. Donkeys raised their wheezing protest against too heavy loads of farm produce. Megarian swine squealed and tugged at their leg-cords. An Asiatic sailor clamoured at the money-changer’s stall for another obol in change for a Persian daric. “Buy my oil!” bawled the huckster from his wicker booth beside the line of Hermes-busts in the midst of the square. “Buy my charcoal!” roared back a companion, whilst past both was haled a grinning negro with a crier who bade every gentleman to “mark his chance” for a fashionable servant. Phocian the quack was hawking his toothache salve from the steps of the Temple of Apollo. Deira, the comely flower girl, held out crowns of rose, violet, and narcissus to the dozen young dandies who pressed about her. Around the Hermes-busts idle crowds were reading the legal notices plastered on the base of each statue. A file of mules and wagons was ploughing through the multitude with marble for some new building. Every instant the noise grew. Pandora’s box had opened, and every clamour had flitted out.
At the northern end, where the porticos and the long Dromos street ran off toward the Dipylon gate, stood the shop of Clearchus the potter. A low counter was covered with the owner’s wares,—tall amphoræ for wine, flat beakers, water-pots, and basins. Behind, two apprentices whirled the wheel, another glazed on the black varnish and painted the jars with little red loves and dancing girls. Clearchus sat on the counter with three friends,—come not to trade but to barter the latest gossip from the barber-shops: Agis the sharp, knavish cockpit and gaming-house keeper, Crito the fat mine-contractor, and finally Polus, gray and pursy, who “devoted his talents to the public weal,” in other words was a perpetual juryman and likewise busybody.
The latest rumour about Xerxes having been duly chewed, conversation began to lag.
“An idle day for you, my Polus,” threw out Clearchus.
“Idle indeed! No jury sits to-day in the King Archon’s Porch or the ‘Red Court’; I can’t vote to condemn that Heraclius who’s exported wheat contrary to the law.”
“Condemn?” cried Agis; “wasn’t the evidence very weak?”
“Ay,” snorted Polus, “very weak, and the wretch pleaded piteously, setting his wife and four little ones weeping on the stand. But we are resolved. ‘You are boiling a stone—your plea’s no profit,’ thought we. Our hearts vote ‘guilty,’ if our heads say ‘innocent.’ One mustn’t discourage honest informers. What’s a patriot on a jury for if only to acquit? Holy Father Zeus, but there’s a pleasure in dropping into the voting-urn the black bean which condemns!”
“Athena keep us, then, from litigation,” murmured Clearchus; while Crito opened his fat lips to ask, “And what adjourns the courts?”
“A meeting of the assembly, to be sure. The embassy’s come back from Delphi with the oracle we sought about the prospects of the war.”
“Then Themistocles will speak,” observed the potter; “a very important meeting.”
“Very important,” choked the juror, fishing a long piece of garlic from his wallet and cramming it into his mouth with both hands. “What a noble statesman Themistocles is! Only young Democrates will ever be like him.”
“Democrates?” squeaked out Crito.
“Why, yes. Almost as eloquent as Themistocles. What zeal for democracy! What courage against Persia! A Nestor, I say, in wisdom—”
Agis gave a whistle.
“A Nestor, perhaps. Yet if you knew, as I do, how some of his nights pass,—dice, Rhodian fighting-cocks, dancing-girls, and worse things,—”
“I’ll scarce believe it,” grunted the juror; yet then confessed somewhat ruefully, “however, he is unfortunate in his bosom friend.”
“What do you mean?” demanded the potter.
“Glaucon the Alcmæonid, to be sure. I cried ‘Io, pæan!’ as loud as the others when he came back; still I weary of having a man always so fortunate.”
“Even as you voted to banish Aristeides, Themistocles’s rival, because you were tired of hearing him called ‘the Just.’ ”
“There’s much in that. Besides, he’s an Alcmæonid, and since their old murder of Cylon the house has been under a blood curse. He has married the daughter of Hermippus, who is too highly born to be faithful to the democracy. He carries a Laconian cane,—sure sign of Spartanizing tendencies. He may conspire any day to become tyrant.”
“Hush,” warned Clearchus, “there he passes now, arm in arm with Democrates as always, and on his way to the assembly.”
“The men are much alike in build,” spoke Crito, slowly, “only Glaucon is infinitely handsomer.”
“And infinitely less honest. I distrust your too beautiful and too lucky men,” snapped Polus.
“Envious dog,” commented Agis; and bitter personalities might have followed had not a bell jangled from an adjacent portico.
“Phormio, my brother-in-law, with fresh fish from Phaleron,” announced Polus, drawing a coin from his wonted purse,—his cheek; “quick, friends, we must buy our dinners.”
Between the columns of the portico stood Phormio the fishmonger, behind a table heaped with his scaly wares. He was a thick, florid man with blue eyes lit by a humourous twinkle. His arms were crusted with brine. To his waist he was naked. As the friends edged nearer he held up a turbot, calling for a bid. A clamour answered him. The throng pressed up the steps, elbowing and scrambling. The competition was keen but good-natured. Phormio’s broad jests and witticisms—he called all his customers by name—aided in forcing up the price. The turbot was knocked down to a rich gentleman’s cook marketing for his master. The pile of fish decreased, the bidding sharpened. The “Market Wardens” seemed needed to check the jostling. But as the last eel was held up, came a cry—
“Look out for the rope!”
Phormio’s customers scattered. Scythian constables were stretching cords dusted with red chalk across all exits from the Agora, save that to the south. Soon the band began contracting its nets and driving a swarm of citizens toward the remaining exit, for a red chalk-mark on a mantle meant a fine. Traffic ceased instantly. Thousands crowded the lane betwixt the temples and porches, seeking the assembly place,—through a narrow, ill-built way, but the great area of the Pnyx opened before them like the slopes of some noble theatre.
No seats; rich and poor sat down upon the rocky ground. Under the open azure, at the focus of the semicircle, with clear view before of the city, and to right of the red cliffs of the Acropolis, rose a low platform hewn in the rock,—the “Bema,” the orator’s pulpit. A few chairs for the magistrates and a small altar were its sole furnishings. The multitude entered the Pnyx through two narrow entrances pierced in the massy engirdling wall and took seats at pleasure; all were equals—the Alcmæonid, the charcoal-seller from Acharnæ. Amid silence the chairman of the Council arose and put on the myrtle crown,—sign that the sitting was opened. A herald besought blessings on the Athenians and the Platæans their allies. A wrinkled seer carefully slaughtered a goose, proclaimed that its entrails gave good omen, and cast the carcass on the altar. The herald assured the people there was no rain, thunder, or other unlucky sign from heaven. The pious accordingly breathed easier, and awaited the order of the day.
The decree of the Council convening the assembly was read; then the herald’s formal proclamation:—
“Who wishes to speak?”
The answer was a groan from nigh every soul present. Three men ascended the Bema. They bore the olive branches and laurel garlands, suppliants at Delphi; but their cloaks were black. “The oracle is unfavourable! The gods deliver us to Xerxes!” The thrill of horror went around the Pnyx.
The three stood an instant in gloomy silence. Then Callias the Rich, solemn and impressive, their spokesman, told their eventful story.
“Athenians, by your orders we have been to Delphi to inquire of the surest oracle in Greece your destinies in the coming war. Hardly had we completed the accustomed sacrifices in the Temple of Apollo, when the Pythoness Aristonice, sitting above the sacred cleft whence comes the inspiring vapour, thus prophesied.” And Callias repeated the hexameters which warned the Athenians that resistance to Xerxes would be worse than futile; that Athens was doomed; concluding with the fearful line, “Get from this temple afar, and brood on the ills that await ye.”
In the pause, as Callias’s voice fell, the agony of the people became nigh indescribable. Sturdy veterans who had met the Persian spears at Marathon blinked fast. Many groaned, some cursed. Here and there a bold spirit dared to open his heart to doubt, and to mutter, “Persian gold, the Pythoness was corrupted,” but quickly hushed even such whispers as rank impiety. Then a voice close to the Bema rang out loudly:—
“And is this all the message, Callias?”
“The voice of Glaucon the Fortunate,” cried many, finding relief in words. “He is a friend to the ambassador. There is a further prophecy.”
The envoy, who had made his theatrical pause too long, continued:—
“Such, men of Athens, was the answer; and we went forth in dire tribulation. Then a certain noble Delphian, Timon by name, bade us take the olive branches and return to the Pythoness, saying, ‘O King Apollo, reverence these boughs of supplication, and deliver a more comfortable answer concerning our dear country. Else we will not leave thy sanctuary, but stay here until we die.’ Whereat the priestess gave us a second answer, gloomy and riddling, yet not so evil as the first.”
Again Callias recited his lines of doom, “that Athena had vainly prayed to Zeus in behalf of her city, and that it was fated the foe should overrun all Attica, yet
“ ‘Safe shall the wooden wall continue for thee and thy children; Wait not the tramp of the horse, nor the footmen mightily moving Over the land, but turn your back to the foe, and retire ye. Yet a day shall arrive when ye shall meet him in battle. Oh, holy Salamis, thou shalt destroy the offspring of women When men scatter the seed, or when they gather the harvest.’ ”
“And that is all?” demanded fifty voices.
“That is all,” and Callias quitted the Bema. Whereupon if agony had held the Pnyx before, perplexity held it now. “The wooden wall?” “Holy Salamis?” “A great battle, but who is to conquer?” The feverish anxiety of the people at length found its vent in a general shout.
“The seers! Call the seers! Explain the oracle!”
The demand had clearly been anticipated by the president of the Council.
“Xenagoras the Cerycid is present. He is the oldest seer. Let us hearken to his opinion.”
The head of the greatest priestly family in Athens arose. He was a venerable man, wearing his ribbon-decked robes of office. The president passed him the myrtle crown, as token that he had the Bema. In a tense hush his voice sounded clearly.
“I was informed of the oracles before the assembly met. The meaning is plain. By the ‘wooden wall’ is meant our ships. But if we risk a battle, we are told slaughter and defeat will follow. The god commands, therefore, that without resistance we quit Attica, gathering our wives, our children, and our goods, and sail away to some far country.”
Xenagoras paused with the smile of him who performs a sad but necessary duty, removed the wreath, and descended the Bema.
“Quit Attica without a blow! Our fathers’ fathers’ sepulchres, the shrines of our gods, the pleasant farmsteads, the land where our Attic race have dwelt from dimmest time!”
The thought shot chill through the thousands. Men sat in helpless silence, while many a soul, as the gaze wandered up to the temple-crowned Acropolis, asked once, yes twice, “Is not the yoke of Persia preferable to that?” Then after the silence broke the clamour of voices.
“The other seers! Do all agree with Xenagoras? Stand forth! stand forth!”
Hegias, the “King Archon,” chief of the state religion, took the Bema. His speech was brief and to the point.
“All the priests and seers of Attica have consulted. Xenagoras speaks for them all save Hermippus of the house of Eumolpus, who denies the others’ interpretation.”
Confusion followed. Men rose, swung their arms, harangued madly from where they stood. The chairman in vain ordered “Silence!” and was fain to bid the Scythian constables restore order. An elderly farmer thrust himself forward, took the wreath, and poured out his rustic wisdom from the Bema. His advice was simple. The oracle said “the wooden wall” would be a bulwark, and by the wooden wall was surely meant the Acropolis which had once been protected by a palisade. Let all Attica shut itself in the citadel and endure a siege.
So far he had proceeded garrulously, but the high-strung multitude could endure no more. “Kataba! Kataba!” “Go down! go down!” pealed the yell, emphasized by a shower of pebbles. The elder tore the wreath from his head and fled the Bema. Then out of the confusion came a general cry.
“Cimon, son of Miltiades, speak to us!”
But that young nobleman preserved a discreet silence, and the multitude turned to another favourite.
“Democrates, son of Myscelus, speak to us!”
The popular orator only wrapped his cloak about him, as he sat near the chairman’s stand, never answering the call he rejoiced of wont to hear.
There were cries for Hermippus, cries even for Glaucon, as if prowess in the pentathlon gave ability to unravel oracles. The athlete sitting beside Democrates merely blushed and drew closer to his friend. Then at last the despairing people turned to their last resource.
“Themistocles, son of Neocles, speak to us!”
Thrice the call in vain; but at the fourth time a wave of silence swept across the Pnyx. A figure well beloved was taking the wreath and mounting the Bema.
The words of Themistocles that day were to ring in his hearer’s ears till life’s end. The careless, almost sybaritic, man of the Isthmus and Eleusis seemed transfigured. For one moment he stood silent, lofty, awe-inspiring. He had a mighty task: to calm the superstitious fears of thirty thousand, to silence the prophets of evil, to infuse those myriads with his own high courage. He began with a voice so low it would have seemed a whisper if not audible to all the Pnyx. Quickly he warmed. His gestures became dramatic. His voice rose to a trumpet-call. He swept his hearers with him as dry leaves before the blast. “When he began to weave his words, one might have deemed him churlish, nay a fool, but when from his chest came his deep voice, and words like unto flakes of winter snow, then who could with him contend?” Thus Homer of Odysseus the Guileful, thus as truly of Themistocles saviour of Hellas.
First he told the old, but never wearisome story of the past of Athens. How, from the days of Codrus long ago, Athens had never bowed the knee to an invader, how she had wrested Salamis from greedy Megara, how she had hounded out the tyrannizing sons of Peisistratus, how she had braved all the wrath of Persian Darius and dashed his huge armament back at Marathon. With such a past, only a madman as well as traitor would dream of submitting to Xerxes now. But as for the admonition of Xenagoras to quit Attica and never strike a blow, Themistocles would have none of it. With a clearness that appealed to every home-loving Hellene he pictured the fate of wanderers as only one step better than that of slaves. What, then, was left? The orator had a decisive answer. Was not the “wooden wall” which should endure for the Athenians the great fleet they were just completing? And as for the fate of the battle the speaker had an unexpected solution. “Holy Salamis,” spoke the Pythoness. And would she have said “holy,” if the issue had been only woe to the sons of Athens? “Luckless Salamis” were then more reasonably the word; yet the prophetess so far from predicting defeat had assured them victory.
Thus ran the substance of the speech on which many a soul knew hung the mending or ending of Hellas, but lit all through with gleams of wit, shades of pathos, outbursts of eloquence which burned into the hearers’ hearts as though the speaker were a god. Then at the end, Themistocles, knowing his audience was with him, delivered his peroration:—
“Let him who trusts in oracles trust then in this, and in the old prophecy of Epimenides that when the Persian comes it is to his hurt. But I will say with Hector of Troy, ‘One oracle is best—to fight for one’s native country.’ Others may vote as they will. My vote is that if the foe by land be too great, we retire before him to our ships, ay, forsake even well-loved Attica, but only that we may trust to the ‘wooden wall,’ and fight the Great King by sea at Salamis. We contend not with gods but with men. Let others fear. I will trust to Athena Polias,—the goddess terrible in battle. Hearken then to Solon the Wise (the orator pointed toward the temple upon the soaring Acropolis):—
“ ‘Our Athens need fear no hurt
Though gods may conspire her ill.
The hand that hath borne us up,
It guides us and guards us still.
Athena, the child of Zeus,
She watches and knows no fear.
The city rests safe from harm
Beneath her protecting spear.’
Thus trusting in Athena, we will meet the foe at Salamis and will destroy him.”
“Who wishes to speak?” called the herald. The Pnyx answered together. The vote to retire from Attica if needs be, to strengthen the fleet, to risk all in a great battle, was carried with a shout. Men ran to Themistocles, calling him, “Peitho,—Queen Persuasion.” He made light of their praises, and walked with his handsome head tossed back toward the general’s office by the Agora, to attend to some routine business. Glaucon, Cimon, and Democrates went westward to calm their exhilaration with a ball-game at the gymnasium of Cynosarges. On the way Glaucon called attention to a foreigner that passed them.
“Look, Democrates, that fellow is wonderfully like the honest barbarian who applauded me at the Isthmus.”
Democrates glanced twice.
“Dear Glaucon,” said he, “that fellow had a long blond beard, while this man’s is black as a crow.” And he spoke the truth; yet despite the disguise he clearly recognized the “Cyprian.”
