Chapter IV: Preface (4)

Hipyllos thrust Myrmex aside and, while he mentioned his master’s name, he himself put his lips to the door and replied in a low tone:

“Zeus Philios and Nike.”

This was evidently a preconcerted watch-word, for the door instantly opened. The door-keeper, a big, strong slave, with dark-brown hair and beard, raised the smoking lamp aloft and, recognizing Hipyllos, said in a mysterious tone: “Xenocles and Acestor have come.” Then he led him across a courtyard only five or six paces wide to a room from which echoed loud voices and laughter.

VI.

Hipyllos raised the curtain hanging over the door and entered a small, low chamber, lighted by a lamp with two wicks placed on a high bronze pedestal. The rest of the furniture consisted of four couches and a table covered with goblets, wreaths, fillets for the hair, and alabaster phials of perfume with necks so narrow that the precious contents could only ooze out drop by drop.

In this room were three men. Two reclined on the same couch, half resting against each other, the third stood before them with folded arms, talking to the pair. One of the couple on the couch was a small, white-haired, white-robed man, with a pair of strangely brilliant eyes, the other was a stately personage with long black locks and rings on his fingers, clad in a showy yellow robe. The one who stood before them was a large, stout bald man, with a weather-beaten face and a grey beard, very plainly dressed in a grey chiton, but there was something in his bearing which attracted attention. He carried his head high, and his whole outer man bore the impress of unwavering self-confidence and unbending pride. He was evidently a man of action, and had more than once held command when the point in question was life and death. His manner clearly showed that he was host and the others were his guests.

When Hipyllos entered he advanced several steps to meet him, patted him on the shoulder, and said in a curt, loud tone: “I like a youth who comes at the right hour--spite of chariot-races, dice, women, and wine. By Zeus, when I was young--I always came late.”

Thuphrastos--this was the speaker’s name--had formerly been a captain of horsemen and was known by the name of Cōdōn, the barker. From asthma or habit, he rarely uttered more than five or six words at a time, and so abruptly that his speech really bore some resemblance to a dog’s barking.

“Ha! ha! ha!” chimed in the little white-haired man. “And I was often outside the house till late into the night. But, though my father was only a poor miller, he watched his household strictly enough. For a long time I told our old slave-woman to put a pair of dusty sandals outside of my door, so that he should think I was at home. One night, however, he found the chamber empty, so that trick was over. Ah, I was a young fellow then--it seems so short a time ago--yet now I am old.”

Hipyllos greeted the speaker with marked respect. He was the architect Xenocles, the lovely Clytie’s father.

“Old!” repeated the man in the yellow robe--the orator and tragedian Acestor--“old, don’t say that!” And, glancing at the others, he added “Spite of his white hair, Xenocles is the most active man among us. Like the swan, the bird of Phoebus Apollo--he has no age.”

“Hm,” muttered Thuphrastos tartly, “don’t listen to him. Orators are cunning flatterers. Old friend,” he continued, laying his hand on Xenocles’ shoulder, “we both know better. Age is a sickness of the whole body. We can--at a hundred paces--distinguish a _Koppa_-stallion from an animal destined for sacrifice; we can, if necessary, chew our barley bread, but--the girls turn their backs upon us.”

Hipyllos exchanged a cold greeting with the stately Acestor, Clytie’s acknowledged suitor.

The latter scarcely seemed to notice the young man; for Hipyllos was not known by many, while every child recognized the orator Acestor. He well knew what pleased the multitude, and talked with equal ease and fluency about campaigns, legal cases, art, the working of mines, and the cultivation of vineyards. He was indebted for what he had learned solely and entirely to his excellent memory--he was far from rich enough to own a library. Books were extraordinarily expensive. Three small treatises by Philolaos, the Pythagorean philosopher, cost 110 minae.[J]

[J] About 1800 dollars.

Whether from lack of will or lack of conviction, Acestor was in one respect an incapable orator. He could never control an assembly that was unfavorable to him. Signs of disapproval from the majority completely upset him, clouded his brain, and made him contradict himself. Yet he was able to sway an audience as he pleased when sure of having his hearers with him. He seemed created to delude credulous folk; thousands on thousands had applauded him, and many thought that, as orator and debater, he surpassed Antiphon the Rhamnusian, and as a tragedian he deserved to rank by the side of the great Pratinas. The more sagacious, on the other hand, held a totally different opinion; they said that he “puffed himself up till the city was too small for him,” thought his voice shrill and his statements untrustworthy and as to his tragedy they remarked with old Cratinus that he “ought to be flogged until he learned to write more briefly.”

His worst opponents went still farther. They openly called him _Carian_ or _Phrygian_, nay even gave him the slave-name of _Sacas_--all to intimate that they did not consider him a native Athenian, but a foreigner who had smuggled himself into the list of citizens. The punishment for this imposition was very severe, and consisted of having the hair clipped and being enslaved. Yet nothing was more common than for foreigners, nay, even fugitive slaves, to bribe the recording clerks and be entered in the register of citizens. A revision of this register had led to the perplexing, almost incredible discovery, that no fewer than 4,760 persons had insinuated themselves among 14,240 native citizens.

Hipyllos had not yet taken his seat when the slave-boy’s resonant voice was again heard outside. The blow of the knocker on the door echoed through the house, and the dog in the outer hall snuffed but, remembering the kick, contented itself with growling. Shortly after a peculiarly firm step echoed across the peristyle.

“Hush!” exclaimed little Xenocles. “What a step. If Heracles himself was approaching, it could not sound different. I’ll wager that is Lamon.”

VII.

The door-curtain was drawn aside admitting a broad-shouldered man of middle height, with muscular limbs, sunburnt skin, short neck, curling locks, and thick beard. He wore a purple fillet around his hair and was clad in a robe of dazzling whiteness. This was Lamon, famed for his remarkable strength, who in the 88th Olympiad would have won the prize for wrestling, had he not unintentionally crushed to death his opponent, a Heracleotian athlete. Lamon was a fuller by trade. In those days, when the white robe was commonly worn, the business was a very general and very profitable occupation, since the fine woollen stuff, every time it was to be cleansed from stains and soils, had to be entrusted to the fuller where, among other processes, it was subjected to a skilful bleaching. Lamon was therefore regarded, certainly with good reason, as a very well-to-do citizen.

There was silent admiration, mingled with a touch of submission, in the greeting of all. At that time strength was a power to which every one bowed. Thuphrastos alone showed no special reverence. This man, who belonged to one of the most distinguished families in Athens, had early given numerous proofs of intelligence and courage. One day, during the expedition against rebellious Megara, he was separated from the heavily armed troops by a dense fog and very hard pressed by the foe. At night he ordered each of his men to collect _two_ beds of leaves, and in the early dawn he retreated. The Megarians pursued, counted the heaps of leaves, and believing the Attic horsemen to be twice as numerous as they really were, did not dare to attack them, but held a council. Meantime Pericles came up with his heavily armed troops and the Megarians were surrounded, which ended the campaign.

But Thuphrastos was conscious of his distinction. He had a peculiar way of using his eyes, lowering them slowly as though measuring the person with whom he was conversing from head to foot. Lamon was thus inspected, after which he greeted him, with a certain reserve, it is true, as one great man salutes another, yet with evident good-will.

Stately Acestor sprang up from his couch, went to meet the fuller, and pressing his hand, said:

“I greet you, Heracles of our day!” Then, turning to the others--he usually seemed to speak to as many persons as possible at once--“With Lamon among us we can laugh at all informers and slaves of the city police force. Lamon be praised, he is our shield, our armor!”

With these words Acestor raised his head and arched his chest as though, having bowed to another, he hastened to take the place that was his due.

Lamon who, like most remarkably strong men, was somewhat grave and taciturn, now opened his mouth for the first time and, without paying the least heed to Acestor’s flattery, said:

“It is late. If Sthenelus and Lysiteles would come, we could begin.”

With these words he reclined on the couch opposite to Xenocles and beckoned to Hipyllos.

VIII.

Lamon’s wish appeared to be uttered in a lucky hour; for it was scarcely spoken when again a stir arose in the house and, directly after, voices echoed in the peristyle outside. It was a peculiar exchange of words, which could scarcely be called a conversation, since only every other sentence was heard. One of the speakers, especially, had a voice so low that it was lost in a faint murmur. The other, on the contrary, talked in very high, clear tones, emphasizing each syllable with a distinctness that could only proceed from long training. It was easy to perceive that his mode of speech was connected with his profession of addressing words to a numerous assembly. Yet, though his voice was so well developed, there was something frivolous, mocking, almost insolent in the tone, which precluded the thought that the man might be an orator.

The dialogue outside began with a whining mutter, which sounded almost as if it came from a disconsolate dog.

“Why!” replied the loud-voiced speaker, “what is there strange in that? Where should two ragamuffins like ourselves meet better than in the Himatiopolis Agora (Rag-market)?”

Again a mutter was heard, that sounded like a feeble remonstrance.

“Simpleton!” replied the loud voice, and each of the sonorous Attic words rang out so distinctly that it was impossible not to listen. “How can you make yourself richer than you are? My cloak, my robe, every thread I have belong to the clothes-dealers, I own that! But the wine I have here” (the listeners knew that the speaker patted himself in the stomach) “belongs to me, it is my own,--my own, do you understand?--even if it isn’t paid for. So am I not right in esteeming wine more than clothes?”

The question was answered by a rude laugh, which could scarcely have proceeded from the low-voiced man, but was doubtless uttered by the door-keeper as he followed the guests across the peristyle.

“Good!” cried Xenocles smiling, “there is our merry brother Sthenelus the actor.”

“And the other,” added Acestor, as if the last comer was not worth mentioning by name.

The curtain was raised and two persons entered, each a queer figure in his own way. The loud-tongued man, Sthenelus the comedian, was a plump fellow about forty years old, with a red face, a still rosier nose, small, piercing eyes, and tousled brown hair. His costume consisted of a shabby grey robe, whose white border was full of spots. At the first step through the door he sank low on one side--he was very lame. He had not been born with this infirmity, but once, on one of the great festivals, while personating Cecrops with floating plumes, gold-broidered cloak, and sword with an ivory hilt by his side, he had carelessly stepped off the boards and fallen. Half stunned by the accident he had heard, as though in a dream, the frantic laughter of the crowd. For where was Cecrops? The hero’s helmet and mask were lying in the dust, and the comedian’s red face suddenly appeared, while beneath the magnificent garments were some shabby rags with a pair of thin legs, whose lack of proportion to the huge _cothurni_ would alone have been sufficient to awake the mirth of the populace. But this fall, amid the laughter of thousands upon thousands of people, had serious consequences; from that day Sthenelus was lame.

No one pitied him. Who knew much about a poor comedian? In whatever character he appeared the spectators saw only a close linen mask, which covered the whole head, and a costume that suited the mask. An Agonistēs might appear in three or four parts, year after year on the great holidays, might grow old on the stage, but win admiration and affection--impossible! It was the lifelike disguise, the mask and robe which the populace applauded. _Who_ was concealed beneath no one knew and no one cared to know.

As Sthenelus’ lameness had rendered him useless as an actor, he was obliged to fight his way through the world as he best could. The scanty alms bestowed by the state upon all cripples was far from being sufficient for his needs. He first sold his stage paraphernalia, his masks, daggers, etc., and then wandered through the small towns in the neighborhood of Athens, making merriment for the inhabitants. He went, as he himself said, from tragedy to comedy. Jesting became his means of livelihood, and to keep up his courage he drank whenever opportunity offered, and in those days opportunities were not rare.

“Why! why!” he said as he entered, “you are as solemn as the Areopagites themselves. By Heracles, it was far livelier where I’ve been! I come from Halipedon; the good folks there were amusing themselves by jumping on leather bottles. Finally a fat sausage-dealer set his flat feet on one so that it burst with a loud report--and over he went slap on his back in the midst of the mire. There wasn’t a dry thread on him. Ha! ha! ha!”

The other new-comer, Lysiteles, a small, wizened, hump-backed man, plucked Sthenelus’ robe to warn him to be less noisy. Then he greeted the assembled group, but in an awkward, humble way, as though he knew no one would notice the salutation, after which he shrank into himself still more, so that nothing was seen of his face except a big pale forehead covered with a network of wrinkles.

This man was one of the utterly ruined idlers, of whom there were so many in Athens. As a youth he had been attractive, gay, haughty, and extravagant, but all that was left of the “magnificent” Lysiteles was a decrepit old man of sixty who, with age, had red, rheumy eyes. The jester Meidias asserted that Hermes had changed his eyes to two fountains, which wept for his lost fortune day and night. On the whole Lysiteles was accustomed to be made the butt of jests. Some dissolute young fellows had once dragged him in to a dinner at the house of Ægidion, a well-known hetaera from Corinth. After the banquet the question was asked.

“Can any one tell why Lysiteles is more crooked and bent than any other Athenian?”

Ægidion who, clad in a robe of semi-transparent stuff from Amorgos, was reclining on a couch, stretched out her smooth arm adorned with a gold bracelet and beckoned to Lysiteles. Fixing her dark eyes on him, she gave him a light tap on his lean stomach and said: “It’s hard for an empty sack to stand upright.”

IX.

Thuphrastos invited the last arrivals to be seated.

Lysiteles took the couch farthest in the rear, while Sthenelus stretched himself at full length on one of the front ones, close beside the master of the house.

Then a tall mixing-vessel was placed on the tiled floor. It was a vase made of burnt clay, adorned with a mask of Silenus, surrounded by fruits and flowers. Into this beautiful vessel the Chian wine was poured, after being mixed--by the general desire--in the proportion of one part wine to three of water. Sthenelus alone demurred. “It’s frog’s wine, not human beings’ wine!” he said.

Thuphrastos gave each of his guests a wreath, and set small tables bearing goblets in front of the couches.

To any one familiar with Attic customs there was something remarkable in these preparations. Not a single slave was present to wait upon the company. This exclusion of the servants was scarcely natural; but it agreed with having a watchword demanded at the door of the house. This was evidently no ordinary drinking-bout.

When the goblets were filled Thuphrastos stood forth among the men with a certain solemnity of manner. Pouring a little of the mixed wine into a shallow drinking-cup, he said: “To the good spirit,” sipped the liquor, and passed the cup to his next neighbor.

While the wine was going the round of the company, he gazed around the circle with an earnest look, then, raising his voice, he said in his singularly abrupt fashion:

“In a short time--on the eleventh day of the month--there will be a popular assembly and election of magistrates. Who can foresee the result? Shall we come forth rejoicing as victors or grieving and exasperated by defeat?”

One of the wicks of the lamp flared up. Thuphrastos’ eyes rested on Lysiteles, who sat cowering at the back of the group. The old captain did not consider his manner sufficiently attentive.

“Man!” he shouted, as if he wanted to rouse him from sleep.

Lysiteles started and approached with unsteady steps, looking still more hump-backed than before.

“The elections are close at hand,” repeated Thuphrastos, raising his voice as though speaking to a deaf man. “Many,” he added, laying his hand on Lysiteles’ shoulder, “see in you a man sorely persecuted by the gods--to whom no one ought to refuse anything. Others have formerly been your friends and table companions. You can win votes--many votes, if you choose.”

“But,” said Acestor, “he is feather-brained; he might betray us.”

Sthenelus half started from his couch. There seemed to be a singular comradeship existing between him and Lysiteles. He himself jeered at him, but he would not allow any one else to do so.

“Feather-brained?” he repeated, and staring fixedly at Acestor he rolled the rug spread over the couch into a bundle and, propping his elbow on it, raised himself a little. “My friends,” he continued, waving his hand with the gesture of an orator, “lend me your ears! I know a man who in former days was handsome, wealthy, and extravagant. He was called “the Magnificent.” Now he is only a shadow, and considers himself a worm. I know another man too. He’s as showy and stately as one of Pyrilampes’ peacocks, as hollow and noisy as a drum; but, because many admire him, he fancies himself a demi-god and behaves as though he had vanquished the king of Persia himself. Now, I ask, which of these two is the more feather-brained?”

“By Zeus, the second!” cried little Xenocles, with more haste than prudence.

All except the grave Lamon burst into a peal of laughter, because it was Xenocles, Acestor’s friend, who had made this answer.

An angry sparkle flashed into Acestor’s eyes; his lips parted. But Thuphrastos anticipated him.

“No quarrelling!” he shouted harshly. “Lysiteles has sworn faith. He will keep his oath.”

“That he will,” said Sthenelus with a glance at Acestor. “Doesn’t he know--as we all do--that a drawn sword is hanging over our heads?”

“Ah!” added Xenocles, “these are evil days. What changes have happened during the last few months! First happiness, rejoicing, the intoxication of battle when the expedition to Sicily was determined. The younger men flocked to the wrestling-schools and baths, the older ones to the work-shops and wine-rooms; the island was described and sketched with the surrounding sea and the cities facing Libya. All quoted Alcibiades’ words: ‘Sicily is only the earnest money--Libya and Karchēdon are the wages of the battle. When we once possess them, we will conquer Italy and surround the Peloponnesus. A great future is before us; Athens is worthy to rule the world!”

“Yes,” said Acestor, “and lo--in the midst of the rejoicings came evil signs and omens. What did men whisper in each other’s ears? Socrates’ good spirit had predicted evil--the soothsayers, and the oracle of Ammon foretold terrible things--a man mutilated himself on the altar of the twelve gods--and ravens had pecked the golden fruits on the bronze palm-tree at Delphi.”

“In truth,” continued Xenocles, “the omens were not false. Soon came that fateful morning when all the hermae in the market-place except those outside of Leagoras’ house, were found broken and shamefully disfigured. Many insolent hands must have united to accomplish so much mischief in a single night. Who will ever forget the frightful tumult in the city when the sacrilege was reported? All the morning the heralds’ voices were heard, first summoning men to the council and afterwards to the popular assembly. Just before noon, a reward of ten thousand drachmae was offered for the first accusation. This opened the door to all the powers of evil. Citizens, metic, and slaves vied with each other in making indictments in the council. What did it avail that Alcibiades was ordered to sail with the fleet? That didn’t end the matter....”

“On the contrary,” muttered Thuphrastos, “day by day there was more and more legal prosecution. Every time the heralds summoned the people to a council terror and confusion arose. Peaceful citizens talking together in the market hastily separated from each other--every one feared a false accusation and sought refuge beside his own hearth-stone.”

“And not without reason,” observed Xenocles. “What has become of those denounced like Diocleides or the rich metic Teucros?--all gone, either fugitives or sentenced to death! Remember the two members of the council, who first sought refuge at the altar of the gods, and afterwards--when bail had been given for them--mounted their horses to leave wives, children and all they possessed--glad to escape with only their lives! The gods be praised that it has been more quiet in the city lately.”

“Don’t be too secure,” said Acestor in a warning tone. “Phanus, Cleon’s clerk and confidential man, has not forgotten the time when his master was treasurer. He bore all the hetaeriae ill-will, but he has been three times worse since Cleon’s death. Now that he has joined Peisandros, Charicles, and the other open or secret rulers, he sees in every convivial meeting of friends a threat against the safety of the state, and has in his pay a whole pack of informers who, like sleuth-hounds, understand how to scent an hetaeria, often without any other clue than a chance word or a vague hint.”

Lysiteles groaned; all the others were silent.

X.

It was some time before the conversation was resumed. There seemed to be no special friendship between these “friends;” each had his own hopes and wishes.

Thuphrastos’ desire was to be elected state envoy to one of the tributary cities which threatened revolt. It was an office that lasted only thirty days, but during this short time afforded an excellent opportunity for money-making. The envoy only needed to inspire the city with the fear of a stern punishment, to induce it to enter into an agreement in which he placed his demands as high as possible and required the payment for each separate item in ready money. This was the universal method of proceeding and Thuphrastos had no hesitation in following it. In and for itself the proud captain of horse set little value on money; but he was a poor manager and continually in debt. This was not without peril at a period when an irresponsible debtor might be sold as a slave, so it was extremely important for him to be elected, and he anticipated with anxiety and suspense what the next popular assembly would bring.

Xenocles did not aspire so high. He wanted to be superintendent of the public aqueducts. These, which were supplied from the neighboring mountains, bore no resemblance to the Roman aqueducts, but consisted of deep canals with reservoirs from which the water was distributed to the city. No one was more familiar with this gigantic work than Xenocles; for in his youth he had been employed by Meton who had superintended the excavations and masonry of the whole of the newest portion.

“Had you not been a member of our hetaeria,” said Sthenelus, “you should never have had my vote.” And when Xenocles asked the reason he replied: “Because, by Zeus, you know the aqueducts far too well--you’ll be a costly superintendent.”

Lamon cherished wholly different wishes. He wanted to be gymnasiarch[K]--a post for which he was fitted both by his dexterity in physical exercises and his unusual strength. He was one of those who daily visited the Lyceium. It was a pleasure and delight to wander among the crowd in the roofless marble halls around the open squares, and gaze over the yellowish-white sand, where hundreds of the handsomest youths, wrestling nude in the sunlight, displayed their agility and strength.

[K] Inspector of the gymnasia.

Acestor agreed with Thuphrastos, flattered Lamon, and said what he thought would please Xenocles; but in his heart he despised them all and considered himself the chief man in the hetaeria. Nevertheless he appeared to desire nothing except to become one of the people’s advocates. Every one who knew his high opinion of himself wondered that he did not aspire to some greater goal. Hipyllos had also noticed that Acestor had been unusually silent at the last meetings of the hetaeria and concluded that he was cherishing some secret plan. Thuphrastos also thought his manner strange, and determined to keep a watchful eye upon him.

Hipyllos was very differently situated. As, with his fortune, he belonged to the class of “knights” and was bound to serve in the mounted troops with the weapons, horses, and other costly outfit incidental to this duty, the thought of obtaining the position of a captain in the police force was natural. By the aid of Thuphrastos and others he succeeded in being elected, and had thus attained the end of his desires, but in doing so had by no means loosened the bond uniting them to the hetaeria.

Sthenelus would have liked to be public herald, but he was a cripple and the heralds, these sacred and unblemished men with the serpent staves, the “friends of Zeus,” must be persons without any physical defects. Therefore, like Lysiteles, he was obliged to wait until one of their more fortunately situated “friends” had been elected. Many of those chosen to fill public offices could have clerks, and to Sthenelus and Lysiteles, from whose houses smoke was never seen to rise, a clerk’s salary, though small, would have been a real blessing from the gods.

Thuphrastos talked of the numerous law cases that would pour in upon him when the time of his embassy had expired. Oppressed citizens, informers who knew that he had obtained money, envious fellow solicitors--would all rush to him.

“So it’s worth while, Friends, to be firm,” he said. “You, Hipyllos,” he added with a winning smile, “must contrive to have your uncle appear before the court.”

This was evidently an allusion to a very aristocratic and distinguished man. It was a common custom to bring powerful families into the courts of justice to make an impression upon the judges. Xenocles who, from his impoverished youth, had cherished a special reverence for all prominent personages, raised his head like a horse pricking its ears.

“Hipyllos’ uncle?” he asked, “who is that?”

“The former archon, Euthydemus.”

“An archon!” repeated Xenocles, gazing at Hipyllos as though the latter had suddenly grown taller.

Hipyllos thought of pretty Clytie, and did not lose his opportunity.

“Why yes,” he said carelessly, “our family is said to descend from the Pallantidae, Theseus’ old antagonists. It has numbered not a few archons, among them one whose name you all know--Lacrateides.”

“What!” exclaimed Lamon with unexpected energy, “the one in whose archonship the severe winter happened. My grandmother often spoke of it. The roads were covered with snow, and poor people struggled for room in the baths so that some fell on the stoves and were burned.”

Xenocles stared at Hipyllos.

“A descendant of Lacrateides!” he exclaimed, clasping both his hands. “Excellent young man! You belong to one of the noblest races in Athens--and you never mentioned it till now!”

Thuphrastos, to whom this interruption seemed long, loudly cleared his throat.

“To business!” he said harshly. “What do you think? Shall we deal with Megas, the dyer?”

“He is a man highly esteemed,” replied Lamon. “His whole family connection see with his eyes and speak with his lips. He disposes of numerous votes.”

“Megas!” exclaimed Sthenelus, “The dyer without a work-shop ... yes, by Zeus, I know him. He’s a man of strict Spartan manners--always goes plainly dressed and bare-footed.... But when this pattern of manly sobriety meets his companions at night there is--I swear to you--no infamy that is not committed. To me that Megas is detestable.”

“Well, there is Medon, the brass-founder,” said Xenocles. “He’s a pleasanter fellow to bargain with. Do you know him?--A stout, sun-burned man, who loves wine and is always laughing. His family is even more numerous than the one of which Megas is head.”

“Why not win them both?” asked Hipyllos.

“There isn’t money enough,” replied Thuphrastos.

“Shall it be Medon?” said Xenocles.

After some discussion, this was generally approved.

“But,” said Hipyllos, more thoughtful than some of the older men, “if Megas finds out that we go to Medon--will he not be vexed and perhaps betray us?”

XI.

As a captain in the mounted police Hipyllos was obliged to have a helmet, breast-plate, shield, lance, sword, and spurs; besides the armor required for the forehead, chest, and flanks of the horse. The greater part of this costly equipment was made by the armorer Sauros. The latter did not live, like most of those who followed his trade, in the Scambonidae quarter of the city, but in the street of the sun-dials, and his forge was in the alley obliquely opposite to the side-building of Xenocles’ house. This was a place Hipyllos never wearied of visiting; merely to know he was near pretty Clytie was a delight to him.

The day after the meeting at Thuphrastos’ house, he was to try on the cuirass. He reached Sauros’ shop just at twilight. The smith had gone out, but a young slave who was filing a metal plate thought he would soon return. The work-shop was filled with smoke and unpleasant odors, so Hipyllos preferred to wait outside.

A luxuriant garden extended to a slope, along which ran a walk overgrown with vines supported on cross-bars resting on tall poles. The end of this walk, where Hipyllos stood, was closed by a dilapidated wall.

A wide view was obtained from this place. At the left rose the hill of the Museium and farther on the Acropolis towered into the air. The streets, trees, and houses between stood forth in dusky outlines amid the gloom of twilight. Lamps shone here and there. The sky was slightly overcast, and the foliage exhaled a strong odor as though it was going to rain. Ever and anon a sleepy gust of wind stirred the damp air. Everything expressed peace and rest, and the most profound silence reigned in this quarter of the city.

Suddenly light footsteps and mysterious whispers were heard at a little distance.

Hipyllos looked through a gap in the ruined wall, and saw several women approaching from the other end of the walk. The first one carried a lantern with horn sides and seemed to be showing the second the way. A third figure followed.

The woman with the lantern was dressed in a strange, outlandish costume. Over her head a blue cloth wrought with silver stars was drawn in long folds, two of which hung down on her breast, and on her hair above the brow, in place of a clasp, glittered a gold sun. She wore a blue robe, and across her bosom and shoulder passed a broad white band upon which were embroidered golden suns, crescents, and stars.

At this time there lived in Athens a woman of foreign birth named Ninus, who called herself a priestess of the Phrygian god Sabazius. She foretold future events and brewed love-potions, while invoking gods and demons. Rumor said that she had a large number of customers, especially women.

Hipyllos did not doubt that this was the person he saw. She seemed to be about forty years old; her face was still beautiful, though uncommonly pale, and as cold and motionless as if hewn from stone.

Her companion was closely-veiled and wrapped in a long, dark robe drawn over her face like a hood. Hipyllos could not catch the smallest glimpse of her features, but so far as he could judge from her figure, bearing, and gait, she was young, and so, too, seemed the female slave who followed her.

The new-comers directed their steps towards the vine-covered alley where Hipyllos was standing. The priestess of Sabazius set the lantern on a stone table just inside the ruined wall, and took from a basket a quantity of strange things. As well as Hipyllos could see by the dim light, among them were metal bowls, laurel branches, purple wool, an iron gridiron, some wax figures, and a wheel.

During these preparations her veiled companion had often showed signs of impatience.

“Oh, if I had never come!” she exclaimed. “A daughter outside of her father’s house after dark! If my mother should miss me--what a disgrace!”

The voice which echoed in clear, musical tones on the stillness of evening made Hipyllos’ heart throb. He had never heard Clytie speak, but it seemed to him that she _must_ speak thus.

“Have no fear, pretty maid,” said Ninus in a singularly deep voice with a foreign accent. “Let Doris run back and keep watch. Then you can be called at once.”

“Yes, dear Doris, run, run!”

The slave lingered, but was obliged to obey.

Hearing the name of Doris strengthened Hipyllos in the belief that Clytie stood before him, for the slave through whom he had learned from Manodoros that her mistress loved him was called Doris.

“Make haste, good Ninus,” said the veiled figure when she was left alone with the priestess. “I am trembling with fright.”

“Give me time,” muttered Ninus. “Do you suppose the gods can be invoked as we draw water or chop wood? It would be a pity,” she added, pointing to the numerous articles on the table, “if all this should have been done in vain. I was obliged to bargain with and bribe slaves. How else could I get a man’s shoe or the fringe from his upper garment? But to bargain and bribe....”

Ninus paused, casting a side-glance at the young girl, who remained silent. The priestess saw that she must speak more plainly.

“But to bribe,” she added, “requires money, a great deal of money.”

“I haven’t any; I’ve never had money.”

This was evidently not the first time the answer had been given to Ninus. She understood how to help herself.

“Well, well!” she cried, “if you have no money, my pretty one, you probably have many rings, clasps, and such things.”

The veiled figure threw back her cloak; two dazzlingly white arms appeared a moment and unfastened a brooch from her forehead. But the light from the lantern was so faint that Hipyllos rather imagined than saw the features which to him were the dearest in the world.

“Take this ornament,” she said; “I have many of them.... Take this pin and clasp too.”

Ninus bent her head to conceal her delight.

“Generous girl!” she exclaimed, “who would not gladly serve a maiden fair as Aphrodite and blooming as Artemis?”

“Offer your thanks to Doris,” said the veiled figure. “She persuaded me to come. She has told you all, even that terrible thing--the worst misfortune which could befall me.”

XII.

Hipyllos strained his attention to the utmost.

Ninus herself seemed to become somewhat thoughtful at hearing the girl’s words.

“Why don’t you speak to your mother?” she said.

“Ah, no, no! Mother will not venture to help me. She wants only what my father desires.”

Ninus was silent a moment.

“Yet there is no other way,” she said. “You must either go to your mother or do what Doris advises.”

“Follow Doris’ advice?” cried the veiled figure impetuously. “No, never, never! What are you asking? I should die with shame.”

How eagerly Hipyllos listened. Here was something he did not understand.

“True,” replied Ninus, “it must be torture to a respectable girl. Yet to _him_....”

The muffled figure hastily interrupted her.

“Yes,” she said, “I know whom you mean.”

A faint smile flitted over Ninus’ pallid features.

“Aha!” she murmured. “You are afraid I might utter his name, and that it might be an ill-omen. So you think of him very often, pretty maid?”

The young girl bent her head with a bewitching air of embarrassment.

“Then it is true,” Ninus persisted, “you often think of him?”

“Always,” was the reply.

Hipyllos could have hugged the sorceress for that one word.

“Girl,” said Ninus suddenly, “is your mind devout and your body pure?”

“Before coming here I prayed to the gods and anointed myself.”

Ninus was silent for a time, then going close to the muffled form she asked in a whisper:

“Have you ever heard of stones animated with souls, which have fallen from the skies? We call them _baetyli_, but among your people they are known by the name of _orites_ or _siderites_.”

“I know nothing about them,” replied the young girl, then seizing the priestess’ hand with an enquiring gesture she murmured: “Tell me, what do these _baetyli_ give?”

“Counsel.”

“What! Stones--talk?”

“Hush, hush! In the name of the gods--silence. It is a great mystery.”

Hipyllos listened attentively. He had already heard of a strange connection between demons and stones; he knew that in the temple of Apollo at Delphi there was a stone that had fallen from the sky, which was daily anointed with oil. This was the stone Rhea had let Cronos swallow instead of Zeus.

“As you know, fair maid,” Ninus continued, “I will gladly serve you.”

“I shall not be ungrateful.”

Ninus shook her head.

“Promises are words written in water,” she murmured.

The young girl, without answering, began to draw a ring from her finger but Ninus prevented it.

“The ring is worth eight drachmae,” she said. “Conjuring with the stone will cost ten times as much. Know that hitherto no Hellene has made a _baetylus_ speak. Such things can only be learned in Phrygia.... Farewell, maiden; we must part....”

“Don’t leave me!” cried the girl, seizing Ninus’ robe. “Look!” she added drawing from her arm a glittering gold band, “if this is enough, take it.”

“I am easily satisfied,” said Ninus, snatching the gold. “Well then, I’ll tell you everything. Before a _baetylus_ will show its power one must fast thrice seven days and hold no conversation with men; then the stone must be washed in spring-water and clad in swaddling clothes like a little child. Even this is not enough. A lamp must be lighted in a clean room in the house, incense offered, and prayers repeated. All this I have done from the hour Doris first told me.”

Ninus now thrust both hands down into the basket and, with great care, drew out a smooth oval stone, wrapped in swaddling clothes like a new-born child.

Holding out the stone, she bowed low.

Hipyllos felt like a person who, at some untimely hour, had entered a sanctuary and beheld things no mortal eye ought to see.

“Maiden,” whispered Ninus, “take the _baetylus_ in your arms and rock it to and fro. But beware of dropping it; for then it would be angry.”

The veiled figure received the stone with evident anxiety.

Ninus now lighted some charcoal on the gridiron by the flame of the lantern, scattered incense upon it, and let the smoke rise before the _baetylus_. Then, taking it from Clytie’s hands, she removed the swaddling clothes and anointed it with oil.

“Look!” she cried, raising it in the air, “the soul is coming.”

Hipyllos felt a slight thrill of awe. He fancied he saw the stone make a slight movement in the priestess’ hands.

Ninus now rocked it more violently and in a strange tone, that sounded like the monotonous buzzing of an Egyptian sistrum, chanted the following words:

Orites, lend thine ear,
Stone smooth and splendid,
Let us the spirit hear
Within thy heart hid.
Stone that thyself canst stir,
From earth arising,
Lipless art thou, yet murmur
Counsel inspiring.

Again the stone seemed to make a slight movement.

The priestess of Sabazius, bending over it, whispered:

“By the two great mysteries, life and death, I conjure thee, Orites, raise thy voice and answer. Shall this maiden apply to her mother or shall she follow the advice of the slave-girl, Doris?”

A whimpering sound like an infant’s cry was heard.

Ninus bent lower and kissed the stone three times--a strange, weak voice, which seemed to issue from it with difficulty, said slowly, syllable by syllable, the two words:

“_O-bey Do-ris!_”

Hipyllos had been made no wiser by this scene. He did not yet know what terrible thing had happened to Clytie or for what reason she sought advice.

The priestess of Sabazius wiped the perspiration from her forehead, and in absolute silence washed the _baetylus_ and put on its swaddling clothes.

“See!” she said as she replaced it in the basket, “the spirit is departing again.... But know one thing, girl; you must do what the _baetylus_ advised; the ‘Unknown’ do not give their counsel in vain.”

“I will do it,” replied the muffled figure sighing. “But--the other thing of which Doris told you?”

Ninus smiled.

“You haven’t seen him for ten days,” she murmured. “And you think that he has forgotten you?”

“Dear Ninus!” cried the girl, pressing her hand upon her bosom. “He is my hope, my only hope. Your spells will not harm him?”

There was such tender anxiety in the question, that Hipyllos felt an almost unconquerable desire to spring forward and clasp the young girl in his arms.

“No,” replied Ninus. “These spells will do no harm. But, since I fulfil your wishes in this, give me the ring you showed me just now.”

Clytie hastened to comply with the demand.

Ninus then drew out an article wrapped in a cloth. “This is one of his sandals,” she whispered. Scattering sulphur on the charcoal she held the sandal in the smoke, then flung salt into the flame, saying in a slow, solemn tone:

“Hi-pyl-los, Cly-ti-e!”

The young man felt a shiver run through his limbs at hearing his name so suddenly.

Ninus glanced around. This was the moment when the person summoned, drawn by an invincible power, ought to appear and fall at his loved one’s feet.

The priestess shrugged her shoulders.

“Hm!” she muttered, as though baffled. “Your fear was not groundless, pretty maid. Take this vessel I use in pouring libations and wrap the purple wool around it, put these laurel branches on the flames, hold the wax near them, and set the dish beneath.”

At the same time Ninus raised aloft a tri-colored wax image and flung fragrant boughs upon the fire before it.

“Hear me, most terrible of goddesses, mysterious Hecate!” she cried, “mercifully aid us and make our spells more powerful than those of Medea and Circe. Let his blood burn as these laurel leaves are consumed in the flame, and his heart bleed and melt with tenderness for this maiden as this wax melts from the heat.”

Ninus started and listened.

The baying of a dog was heard in the stillness of the night.

“Hush!” she muttered. “I hear dogs barking. Hecate is near--in the cross-road yonder, where her altar stands. Strike these metal basins against each other--let the sound tell her that we feel her approach. Oh, Hecate, stern, exalted goddess, I will pour three libations in thy honor! Thrice accursed be each new fancy of the man this maiden loves. Let him instantly desert her rivals, as Theseus deserted the hapless Ariadne.”

Then, seizing the wheel, she set it in motion.

“Let his footsteps circle around this maiden’s dwelling, as this wheel turns on its axle. Direct his steps hither, lofty goddess,” continued Ninus, throwing a powder upon the charcoal. “_Appear, oh Hipyllos, appear!_” she called loudly. A clear yellow flame shot high into the air and vanished with a faint crackling sound, like a flash of lightning.

By the glow the young girl had seen Hipyllos’ face appear and disappear like a vision in a dream--a wall seemed to open and close over it. Terror and surprise made her utter a piercing shriek. Ninus fancied herself watched and blew out the light.

While Hipyllos, dazzled by the blaze, was groping his way around the corner of the wall he heard the dry twigs snapping under hurried footsteps. It was the two women, who were stealing away through the other end of the long arbor. He wanted to follow them, but ran into the arms of the armorer’s slave who was looking for him to say that his master had come. Almost at the same moment the door of Xenocles’ house closed with a bang, rendering farther pursuit useless.

He followed the slave into the shop. Sauros deserved credit for his work; the cuirass fitted admirably. But Hipyllos did not hear the smith’s long explanations; his sole desire was to be alone with his thoughts. So, when the fitting was over, he hastily took his leave, called his slave, told him to light a torch and set out on his homeward way. His disappointment at pretty Clytie’s escape had already vanished; nay even his anxiety about the trouble threatening her was forced to yield to the blissful thought of being beloved by the fairest maiden in Athens. He knew that now from her own lips--for it did not occur to him to doubt that the muffled figure was Clytie herself.

XIII.

The following day Hipyllos returned from the race-course shortly after noon and flung himself upon a couch; but his blood was too keenly stirred for him to find immediate repose. He still saw and heard only the chariot-races. A long, long course, marble benches filled with passionately excited spectators, slanting rows of chariot sheds, falling barricades, horses dashing forward four abreast, clouds of dust, clapping of hands, and shouts of: “Speude, speude!” (haste) and: “Aristeue!” (keep ahead)--all this had gone to his head like intoxication. Gradually his excitement died away into a pleasant lassitude, and at the same time his thoughts wandered to the conjuration the day before in Sauros’ garden. Again he heard the priestess of Sabazius say: “You think of him very often, pretty maid?” and recalled the bewitching movement with which the young girl had bent her head and whispered the one word: “Always!” that had almost made him betray himself in his delight. He had reached this point in his love-dream, when the door-keeper entered.

“A young slave-girl wants to speak to you,” he said. “She has a letter from her mistress.”

Hipyllos started from the couch.

“Bring her in--quick.”

He understood two things--that some misfortune must really have befallen Clytie, and that what Doris had advised and the _baetylus_ confirmed was--to write to him.

A young slave with a bright face entered and, folding her arms across her breast, bowed before him.

Hipyllos hastily advanced to meet her.

“In the name of the gods, what has happened?” he asked.

“This letter will tell you,” replied Doris--for it was she--and handed him two wax-tablets folded together.

Hipyllos broke the ribbon that confined them, opened the tablets, and read the lines traced upon the wax. They ran as follows:

“Clytie, Xenocles’ daughter, greets Hipyllos, Chaeretades’ son.

“It is necessary, doubly necessary, for me to write, first for
the sake of the matter itself and secondly because a higher
power has counselled me to do so. But I shall make the message
short--for it concerns a misfortune. Know that my father, urged
by that man, has hastened my marriage, and the wedding will take
place in five days. Woe is me, funeral flambeaux would be more
welcome than those bridal torches. Yet how is escape possible?
Can a daughter contend against her father? Can a wife oppose her
husband? My mother kisses me and weeps with me, but says she
dares not do that. You, oh Hipyllos, are the only person with
whom I can seek refuge. What you will do, I know not. But I turn
to you as an ill-treated slave flies to the altar. Your vow that
day, in my mother’s hearing, was no promise written in water. I
read sincerity and truth in your face, and since that hour I have
considered you the master of my life. You will not yield. In the
midst of my grief I have but _one_ joy--that you cannot see me.
My cheeks are crimson with shame, and my eyes are full of tears.
This letter, the first and last, I still write as a maiden.”

While reading these lines the most varied feelings assailed Hipyllos; he felt both grieved and charmed. He again glanced over the letter, and the superscription awakened a feeling of delight. The young girl, educated under her mother’s eye, was honesty itself--it had not once occurred to her to write anonymously. She did not utter a single unkind word about Acestor, the source of her trouble; she merely alluded to him as “that man.” And how touching was her confidence! She did not know what he would do, yet she appealed to him as the only person with whom she could find refuge. And the last warning that there was only a short time for action she expressed in the words “I write this _still_ as a maiden.”

There was something so womanly in the letter that Hipyllos felt his heart swell with pride and happiness. It seemed as though some part of the lovely girl’s personality clung to the wax tablets and the delicate lines traced upon them, and again he vowed to win her, cost what it might.

Hipyllos glanced from the letter to the slave.

She was a blooming girl, sixteen or seventeen years old, rather tall than short, with a brown skin and curling black hair. Her dress was a white linen robe, confined under the youthful bosom by a girdle striped with blue and yellow.

Doris smilingly returned the look. She understood the whole matter.

“Why is the wedding so hurried?” asked Hipyllos. “Why does it take place in five days?”

“How should I know?” replied Doris. “Some of the slaves think Acestor needs the dowry.”

Hipyllos took from a low chest a reed, “the black kind,” and a roll of the papyrus known among dealers by the name of _taneotica_.

While Doris, knowing that on her return she would be obliged to describe every couch, rug, and tripod, was gazing around the room, Hipyllos sat down at a small table and wrote as his youth and love dictated:

“I greet you, beautiful Clytie, my light, my soul, and my life!

“Your letter has been a source of both terror and delight. But
the terror is conquered and the delight remains. Rely upon me,
I shall leave nothing untried. But should I not save you in the
five days, my advice is this: Feign illness, so that the marriage
must be delayed. I shall thus gain more time. And now farewell,
dearest treasure of my soul! Be of good courage and calm
yourself.”

A drachma was slipped with the letter into Doris’ hand and, blushing for joy, she left Hipyllos with the best wishes for him and Clytie.

The young man was scarcely alone ere he became absorbed in thought. “Five days!” he murmured, “five days!” He could have killed Acestor, but he perceived that violence was no way to win the fair girl. To go to Xenocles and tell him everything would certainly be the simplest method, but would the latter break his pledged word, especially so short a time before the wedding? It surely was not probable. After long irresolution Hipyllos thought of Thuphrastos. The old soldier was clever in everything he undertook, experienced in all the relations of life, and renowned for his wise counsel. Besides, Clytie’s father had the greatest respect for him. Perhaps he might help.

XIV.