A Victor of Salamis. William Stearns Davis
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 [pg 28]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 [pg 29]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.”
[pg 30]
“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?
[pg 31]
CHAPTER IV
THE PENTATHLON
In a tent at the lower end of the long stadium stood Glaucon awaiting the final summons to his ordeal. His friends had just cried farewell for the last time: Cimon had kissed him; Themistocles had gripped his hand; Democrates had called “Zeus prosper you!” Simonides had vowed that he was already hunting for the metres of a triumphal ode. The roar from without told how the stadium was filled with its chattering thousands. The athlete’s trainers were bestowing their last officious advice.
“The Spartan will surely win the quoit-throw. Do not be troubled. In everything else you can crush him.”
“Beware of Mœrocles of Mantinea. He’s a knavish fellow; his backers are recalling their bets. But he hopes to win on a trick; beware, lest he trip you in the foot-race.”
“Aim low when you hurl the javelin. Your dart always rises.”
Glaucon received this and much more admonition with his customary smile. There was no flush on the forehead, no flutter of the heart. A few hours later he would be crowned with all the glory which victory in the great games could throw about a Hellene, or be buried in the disgrace to which his ungenerous people consigned the vanquished. But, in the words of his day, “he knew himself” and his own powers. From the day he quitted boyhood he had never met the giant he could not master; the Hermes he could not out[pg 32]run. He anticipated victory as a matter of course, even victory wrested from Lycon, and his thoughts seemed wandering far from the tawny track where he must face his foes.
“Athens—my father—my wife! I will win glory for them all!” was the drift of his revery.
The younger rubber grunted under breath at his athlete’s vacant eye, but Pytheas, the older of the pair, whispered confidently that “when he had known Master Glaucon longer, he would know that victories came his way, just by reaching out his hands.”
“Athena grant it,” muttered the other. “I’ve got my half mina staked on him, too.” Then from the tents at either side began the ominous call of the heralds:—
“Amyntas of Thebes, come you forth.”
“Ctesias of Epidaurus, come you forth.”
“Lycon of Sparta, come you forth.”
Glaucon