A Victor of Salamis. William Stearns Davis
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.”
[pg 24]
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.”
[pg 25]
“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.”
[pg 26]
“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.’ ”
[pg 27]
“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