A Victor of Salamis Part 3

On opening there was revealed a bracelet of Egyptian turquoise; the price thereof Simonides wisely set at two minae. Nothing betrayed the ident.i.ty of the giver save a slip of papyrus written in Greek, but in very uncertain hand. "_To the Beautiful Champion of Athens: from one he has greatly served._"

Cimon held the bracelet on high, admiring its perfect l.u.s.tre.

"Themistocles was wrong," he remarked; "the Oriental was not ungrateful.

But what 'slave' or 'lad' was this that Glaucon succoured?"

"Perhaps," insinuated Simonides, "Themistocles was wrong yet again. Who knows if a stranger giving such gifts be not sent forth by Xerxes?"

"Don't chatter foolishness," commanded Democrates, almost peevishly; but Glaucon replaced the bracelet in the casket.

"Since the G.o.d sends this, I will rejoice in it," he declared lightly. "A fair omen for to-morrow, and it will shine rarely on Hermione's arm." The mention of that lady called forth new protests from Cimon, but he in turn was interrupted, for a half-grown boy had entered the tent and stood beckoning to Democrates.

CHAPTER III

THE HAND OF PERSIA

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 Alcmaeonid commands me hence," said the orator, smiling.

"Declare his name."

"Declare _her_ name," cried Simonides, viciously.

"n.o.ble 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 mult.i.tudes 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 Alcaeus'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 n.o.ble aspect reading in clear voice from his scroll.

"aeschylus 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 h.e.l.las 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d has tricked you into believing your fine Athenian has a chance?"

"I have seven minae 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.