Chapter VI: Preface (6)

At sight of this pitiful figure all burst into a shout of laughter; even the slaves mounting guard laughed till the spears shook in their hands.

“Why, why,” said Phanos, “is this the hero who banishes officials and erects pillars of infamy? Who would believe it? Does he look like a murderer?”

A fresh burst of laughter greeted the words.

“But--dangerous or not,” Phanos continued, “he has committed a crime and deserves punishment.”

“What has he done?” asked Xenocles.

“He is a spurious citizen. His father’s name cannot be found in the temple of Apollo Patrous.”

Acestor raised his head and fixed his eyes on Phanos with a venomous glance.

“You are mistaken,” he said. “It can be found there.”

“Where?”

“By the side of _your_ father’s name.”

Phanos recoiled a step as though struck by an invisible shaft; but the next moment the veins in his temples swelled, and his eyes flashed.

“Wretch!” he exclaimed, his lips quivering with indignation. “My father’s name is not to be found in the temple--he was, as every one knows, a freedman. Nevertheless, my right to citizenship is a legal one, bestowed for services rendered to the state. Note this, Gobryas, son of Tisamenos.”

These words fell upon Acestor like a thunder-bolt. At hearing his name, his real name, which he had believed concealed from every one, he perceived that all was discovered.

Throwing himself at Phanos’ feet, he raised his arms submissively.

“Mercy!” he murmured, “mercy!”

“Do you know the dungeons in the cliff?” asked Phanos sternly.

Acestor made a sign of assent.

“Well! Sthenelus can tell you what rumor says of them.”

Merry Sthenelus limped a few steps nearer, cleared his throat, and answered in a sepulchral voice:

“Rumor says that prisoners _walk_ into them, but are _carried_ out, feet foremost.”

Acestor kissed the edge of Phanos’ robe.

“Mercy!” he cried. “Mercy! Forgive my evil speech.”

“Spare him,” said Xenocles.

“Let him run,” added Thuphrastos.

“Well then,” replied Phanos, “you boasted of your travels, Acestor. You must journey farther still. If you don’t want to have your hair clipped and become a slave for having your name spuriously inserted on the citizens’ list, you must leave Athens before to-morrow noon.”

Acestor bowed his head under Phanos’ hand in token of submission.

“Milon!” shouted Phanos.

The officer of the city-watch, who was still mounting guard inside the curtain, came forward.

“Follow this man,” said Phanos, pointing to Acestor, “and don’t lose sight of him. When he has quitted Athens, report to me.”

Milon grasped Acestor’s arm and went away with him.

Xenocles gazed after them.

“By Zeus!” he exclaimed, “believe me or not as you choose, but I’ve always had a presentiment that the eagle might become a crow.”

“And I,” replied Thuphrastos, “have always seen the crow, never the eagle.”

When, soon after, the house was cleared of the city-watch, the friends looked at each other a moment in silence.

“Who has done this?” asked Lamon.

Thuphrastos shrugged his shoulders.

“Is there any way of knowing who has denounced an hetaeria?” he muttered.

“It was probably Megas,” whispered Lysiteles in his faint, cracked voice.

“No,” replied Sthenelus positively, “had it been he, by Zeus, he would have been with them. Megas would have wanted to enjoy the sight of our faces when we were surprised. No, it was not he. I think it was Cephidosemos, who watched Xenocles and myself from behind the column. As an informer he is afraid of drawing hatred on his head, so he keeps away.”

Thuphrastos passed his hand thoughtfully over his beard.

“What offices can Phanos bestow upon us?” he asked.

“I have heard,” answered Lamon, “that a tax-collector is to be sent to some of the rebellious cities. He will have hundreds of soldiers with him. It would not surprise me, Thuphrastos, if you should be appointed to that office.”

“Well!” exclaimed the old captain, “I shall rely on Phanos’ words. He never forgets.”

“We will all trust him!” echoed the group in chorus.

“But,” continued Thuphrastos, turning to Xenocles, “however we may fare, there is _one_ person who will lose....”

“Whom do you mean?”

“By Zeus, your daughter! Was she not betrothed to Acestor, and was not the wedding to have taken place this very day?”

Xenocles made a repellent gesture.

“Do not speak of it!” he cried.

“Well then,” replied Thuphrastos, “I’ll give you a son-in-law and, by the gods, a better one than that chatterer.”

Xenocles raised his head with a questioning glance.

“The man I shall bring you is not far off,” continued Thuphrastos. “Here you see Hipyllos! He loves the maiden. We know of him--what nobody knew about that shrieker--that he is rich. He showed his courage at the battle of Antirrhium--he has archons in his family. What more can you desire?”

“Nothing, by Zeus!” answered Xenocles laughing and grasping the young man’s hand, “what objection should I have to a son-in-law who will make me a family connection of Lacrateides?”

Hipyllos pressed Xenocles’ hand in both his own.

“Father!” he cried warmly, “give me your daughter Clytie! Neither you nor she shall repent it--that I swear by all the gods.”

Soon after Hipyllos stole out into the peristyle and called his slave.

“Myrmex,” he whispered, “hurry down to the house of Sauros, the armorer. Ask for Ninus, the priestess of Sabazius, and let her see that the young lady and her slave return home at once without being seen. Look, here is money.”

When Hipyllos returned, the last discussion among the hetaeria took place. It lasted an hour; finally the members of the society released one another from their oaths and divided the money which had been contributed.

As soon as possible Hipyllos slipped away, without taking leave of any one except Lamon, the owner of the house.

XXIV.

Hipyllos walked swiftly down the hill. He wanted to be the first to carry the glad tidings to Clytie.

About half way he met Myrmex, who was apparently returning after having performed his errand. As the way was stony and the moon often concealed behind clouds the old man had lighted a torch, but Hipyllos wanted neither him nor his torch--he let the moon light him as best it could and hurried past him, exclaiming:

“Follow me, and put out the torch when you enter the street.”

Then, leaping rather than walking down the hill, he turned into the dark, shaded Limnae, and soon saw the familiar ray of light stream out to meet him from the side-building of Xenocles’ house. Hurrying towards it, he picked up a pebble from the ground and flung it against the wall.

The red curtain was drawn aside and in the opening appeared the object of his longing--Clytie! As the lamp stood back in the room the rays divided and left her almost in darkness, but the youthful figure formed a shadowy outline, which was quite enough to make a lover’s heart throb. Though Hipyllos was unable to distinguish her features, the luxuriant hair, the childish roundness of the cheeks, and the graceful slope of the shoulders possessed bewitching suggestions of youthful beauty, and Hipyllos knew that these signs were no delusions.

Spite of the darkness outside, Clytie recognized him and exclaimed:

“Eternal Gods! What has happened? Good or evil fortune? Speak, speak, I implore you.”

Hipyllos listened in delight. Every word uttered by the young girl’s lips echoed with a silvery cadence upon the silence of the night.

He pushed a log against the wall with his foot, and sprang upon it.

“Dear, lovely Clytie,” he whispered, “give me your hand! What I have to say is surely worth a clasp of the fingers.”

He now told her in a few words the events of the evening; but he was apparently not satisfied with a mere clasp of the hand.

Suddenly the street was illumined by a broad ray of light and, though Hipyllos’ shadow, gigantic and strangely distorted, fell on the wall and the loop-hole it was not difficult for the new-comers to see that he was in the act of pressing his lips upon a dazzlingly white arm, which vainly strove to escape the caress.

“Aha!” cried an angry voice, “a pretty sight, by Heracles....”

Clytie, with a half-stifled shriek, vanished from the loop-hole and Hipyllos, turning, leaped down from the log.

Accompanied by a slave bearing a blazing torch Xenocles, after following a cross-path over the hill, had just emerged from the shrubbery. Hipyllos had not thought that the active little man, spite of his age, was almost as agile in his gait as he himself.

Xenocles seemed furiously enraged, and struck fiercely at the youth with his clenched fists.

“Begone!” he shouted. “Begone from my sight. Do you suppose I will give my daughter to a rake who steals to the maiden’s room in the darkness of night. Be off from here, I say; Clytie shall never be your wife.”

At these words Hipyllos turned deadly pale and his head swam. Now that all obstacles were removed, now that he believed himself at the goal of his wishes, this had happened so unexpectedly that it seemed as though the earth had yawned under his feet.

Throwing himself at Xenocles’ feet, he clasped his knees and with tears in his eyes exclaimed in the most imploring accents: “My father, punish me, let me be scourged by your slaves--I will offer my back to them myself, but forgive me! Your daughter is dearer to me than the light of my eyes.”

A singular twitching convulsed Xenocles’ features; he averted his face, but unable to control himself, burst into a loud laugh.

“Young man,” he said, when he was once more capable of speech, “confess that I gave you a terrible fright. But,” he added, raising his voice, “you both deserved it--she not less than you. Now I understand the whole affair--had she not been accompanied by you, she would never have dared to fly from her father’s house at night.”

Hipyllos scarcely knew himself how he took leave of Xenocles. Now that everything had resulted happily he was fairly intoxicated with joy. Attended by Myrmex he wandered about, revelling in his delight, through the moon-lit night. What cared he for the rough rioters he met, or the muffled thieves who watched behind the altars on the cross-roads.

Did not everything seem to smile upon him? He had come into the “Gardens,” the loveliest part of Athens. In the centre of the ground sloping towards the river towered a tall plane-tree at whose foot a fountain rippled; around it stretched thickets of Agnus castus trees, against whose dark background white statues were clearly relieved. Of the nine sanctuaries in this quarter the marble temple of Aphrodite gleamed through dark, towering cypresses; below it the waves of the Ilissus, consecrated to the Muses, sparkled in their deep channel, and from a path along the bank of the stream gay conversation echoed upon the silence of the night. Suddenly a youthful voice, which seemed the embodiment of light-heartedness, began the following song:

“Wherefore, prithee, need I learn
Justice, law, and oratory?
Wherefore must I my thoughts turn
To things valueless to me?
Let me rather gaily seek
With my friends for mirth and joy,
Teach me tender words to speak
And with fair Aphrodite toy.”

Hipyllos softly repeated the last words of the song. He felt as though, like the gods themselves, he was walking on the clouds. Just at that moment repeated groans happened to attract his attention, and turning he saw that his old slave could scarcely keep up with him.

“What is the matter, Myrmex?” he asked good-naturedly. “Don’t you see that I am as happy as a god--and here you are growing worse than Sisyphus himself.”

“Don’t be angry,” whined the old man. “It is growing late. Haven’t we walked far enough to-day?”

“Well then--home!” replied Hipyllos laughing, “but to-morrow....”

“What are you going to do?” asked Myrmex rather anxiously.

“To-morrow I shall go to the Lyceium to listen to the wise teachings of Hippias from Elis. He who can boast of being able to answer any question must surely be a man of varied knowledge.”

“And what do you want him to teach you?”

“First to make _happiness_ a household goddess.”

“And next?”

“To bind her wings.”

“So that she can always stay with you?”

“Even so, wise Myrmex.”

TOO HAPPY.

THIRD YEAR OF THE 98TH OLYMPIAD (386 B.C.)

TOO HAPPY.

One beautiful summer day in the month Metageitnion a large ship sailed past the eastern point of Crete and steered with its two shovel-shaped rudders into the Ægean Sea. A fresh east wind fluttered the purple flag and made the white sail, strengthened by a network of cordage, swell above the waves.

The ship was called a Samian, and its deeply-arched bow showed that it was built to contain a large cargo. Although nearly a quarter of a stadium long--or about as large as the largest war-vessel of those days--she was evidently a peaceful trader; for below the protecting figure-head--a Doris, daughter of Oceanus--with which the curve of the prow was adorned and whose name the ship bore, one would have vainly looked for the weapons peculiar to a ship’s armament, the projecting iron-shod embolus or beak. On the stern was the statue of the goddess Athene, the familiar “Attic sign,” which showed that the vessel was an Athenian ship. To strengthen the joining of the planks the hull, from stem to stem, was surrounded with numerous belts of thick ropes which, like the hull itself, were smeared with a mixture of pitch and wax. Along the vessel’s sides appeared a row of semi-circular air-holes, and through the openings made for the rudders ran the hawsers wound about a capstan. Outside, just below the figure-head, two huge eyes were painted--probably to indicate that the ship understood how to find her way over the sea.

At the curve of the prow, the highest part of the Samian, where the bearded steersman managed the double helm, stood a little group of travellers talking gaily with each other. They were Lydian and Phoenician merchants, availing themselves of the opportunity to go to Athens, as the merchantman, after having visited the most important ports in Asia Minor, would return home fully laden to the Piræeus for repairs.

The sailors who had gathered in the bow sang their monotonous songs or fell asleep, stretched in the shade behind the sail, in the very act of chewing onions, while some young slaves, busied in making preparations for an approaching meal, moved to and fro among them.

At the foot of the mast was a red and white striped tent, low enough not to interfere with the movements of the sail. This tent was closed by a curtain, though not so completely that those within could not keep an eye upon a little white-robed boy four or five years old, who was riding up and down on a speckled hobby-horse. The space for play was very small and he sometimes ran among a pile of chests and boxes, where he tripped, stumbled, and almost fell. Whenever this happened, a woman’s voice inside the pavilion said:

“Callias must stay where mother told him--or Mormo will come.”

The tent contained two persons, the ship’s owner and master, a young Attic merchant, who was reclining on a couch, and his wife, who sat on the edge of the seat in front of him.

Glaucus--the merchant’s name--was a man of five and twenty, with a handsome, somewhat pallid face. He was clad in a reddish-brown robe with a broad white border and, as the summer day was scorching hot, he wore no girdle around his waist. In his hand he held a manuscript, but had let it fall by his side as though his thoughts were not fixed on the contents.

“No!” he suddenly exclaimed, as he pushed back his dark locks and flung the scroll on a table, “I cannot forget that strange man!”

“Who was he?” asked his wife.

“How do I know, Charicleia? He rowed out to the ship in the bay of Celenderis to sell us some sheep he had in his boat. You had gone on shore with the slaves to make some purchases. Scarcely had he come on board, ere he asked in the most simple-minded way about everything he saw. He wanted to know whether Indian ivory or Sardian purple was the dearer, and whether a house could be built for the money one of the gold embroidered carpets from Babylon had cost.”

“How did the man look?” asked Charicleia.

“He resembled Heracles, as he is represented on the stage by the actors. He was tall, large-limbed, walked with his back bent, was clumsy and awkward in his movements, and had tangled hair hanging low on his forehead.”

“What else did he notice on board?”

“He could not weary of examining everything. He had never supposed that there were ships so large. Finally he became so troublesome that I ordered my sailors to put him back in his boat; but the giant defended himself and--quicker than speech--two of my steersmen lay stretched on the deck, one with his face bleeding from a blow. Frantic with rage, I gripped his breast, shouting: ‘Quit my ship, Barbarian or, by Zeus, you will fare ill.’ But lo! something very like a miracle happened before our eyes. At the word: ‘Barbarian,’ he drew himself up, flung back his hair, and suddenly stood before us like a totally different being. His stupid look had vanished, his eyes flashed, and his huge figure and dark face made a terrible impression of untamed strength and fierceness. ‘We shall meet again, Athenian!’ he said and, pushing my people aside like bundles of straw, he swung himself down into the boat and rowed swiftly to the shore.”

“Glaucus,” said the young wife, turning pale, “I am afraid of this man.”

“Simpleton!” replied Glaucus smiling, “you ought rather to rejoice” and, lowering his voice, he added: “I long for some touch of adversity. We are too fortunate, we fare like the happy gods. We have nothing to desire.... Have I not a superabundance of property and wealth, a spacious, handsome house, large store-houses in Athens and the Piræeus, numerous ships at sea, and a beautiful villa at Salamis? And as to the future, have I not my little Callias to inherit all I possess?”

Now that he had spoken of his wealth and his son, he thought of his wife. In ancient times women were little valued.

Half rising on his couch he let his eyes rest on Charicleia’s figure. Her thin, light dress, with a pattern of small green leaves, displayed the delicate neck and white shoulders, and the mere way in which she carried her head revealed the young _oikodespoina_ (mistress of the house) who was born of a noble race and accustomed to command numerous slaves.

Glaucus clasped her soft, ringed hand.

“And have I not,” he added, “a good and beautiful wife?”

Charicleia raised her dark eyes to his and replied by a pressure of the hand that meant: “And haven’t I the best and handsomest of husbands?”

“Don’t look at me so, my bee,”[M] said Glaucus smiling. “My whole soul yearns to you. But you know what the sailors say: ‘Ships must be kept free from Aphrodite’s lures, first because they are sacred, and secondly because it isn’t right to trifle, when there is only a plank between us and death.’”

[M] A common term of endearment for
women. Of course the allusion
was not to the bee as armed with
a sting, but to the producer of
honey, the sweetest thing known
at that period.

Charicleia was not listening to him.

“So you think,” she said reflectively, “that we are too happy. Do you fear the envy of the gods?”

“I do,” Glaucus whispered, as though afraid of being heard by invisible ears.

“Console yourself, my friend. The happy gods have no wishes. But I have one so important to me that the doubt of its fulfilment is a thorn in my heart.”

“And what is this desire?” asked Glaucus in surprise.

“That, when our lives draw near their end, we may die together. Think, Glaucus, if one of us should suddenly be left alone. Beneficent Gods! how often I have prayed ye to avert this misfortune.”

“Beware, Charicleia!” said Glaucus gravely. “Do not pray for foolish things. Life and death are in the power of the gods--what do we know about them? Perhaps you would bitterly repent your wish, if the heavenly powers should grant it.”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Charicleia. “Let death come _when_ and _as_ it will, if it only snatches us away together.”

With these words she drew the curtain of the tent aside. Before them lay the glittering sea, furrowed with its greenish billows, which seemed to roll sleepily away in the sunshine. In the distance two of the Cyclades raised their rocky heights towards the sky, and far away to the north towered some bluish-black clouds, so sharply outlined against the clear azure of the heavens that they resembled jagged mountain peaks.

“If my wish has found favor with Ye, Heavenly Powers,” cried Charicleia, raising her arms with southern fervor towards the sky, “oh! give me, in my husband’s presence, a sign that my prayer will be granted.”

Stepping entirely out of the pavilion she gazed around her. Glaucus had risen from the couch and, standing in the shadow, followed the direction of her glance. Even little Callias had a presentiment that something was expected. Pausing in his play, he ran to his mother and took hold of her dress.

Just at that moment a dazzling flash of lightning darted from the dark sky far away, followed in a few moments by the roll of distant thunder. Three white birds, one small and two large ones, flew with rapid strokes of their long wings over the ship, following each other at precisely the same distance, as though bound together by some invisible chain. They mounted higher and higher as if they wanted to soar into the sky and soon became mere indistinct specks.

“Look!” exclaimed Charicleia, her face radiant with joy, “they come from the right and move towards the left. My prayer will be fulfilled.” And kneeling, she stretched her arms towards the sky, saying: “_Dechomai ton oiōnon!_ I accept the omen.”

Again from the distance, as if in confirmation, echoed a low peal of thunder.

“But,” remarked Glaucus, “there were _three_ birds, one smaller than the others...?”

“My friend,” said Charicleia, clasping his hands, “perhaps it is the will of the gods that we must die while Callias is still a child. In that case I accept the omen for him also. Let him follow us!”

Whatever impression this scene had made upon Glaucus, it had not escaped his notice that meantime a strange tumult had arisen on deck. Eager, anxious conversation echoed from the stern where the steersman stood, several young slaves were running to and fro, nay even the lazy sailors in the bow were beginning to move. Some of them strolled slowly past the tent.

“What has happened?” asked Glaucus. “A small vessel has been sighted in the offing....” began one.

“Which seems to be following us,” added another.

Glaucus went to the steersman.

“Ever since we passed Rhodus,” said the latter, “that little ship yonder has been following us, always steering in the same direction. Twice I have intentionally tacked, and each time I saw that the vessel turned with us. So I fear she is a Cilician pirate.”

“Come here, Egyptian!” said Glaucus, beckoning to the oldest of the sailors, a bald, grey-bearded man of very singular aspect.

He had been dubbed “Egyptian” because for many years he had sailed to Busiris, Bubastis, and other cities on the Nile. No one had ever seen him wear anything except a garment of braided mats, through which his lean arms and legs looked like a little child’s first rude drawings of the human figure. His skin seemed tanned by the Libyan sun and never appeared clean, and his mouth was a tightly closed straight line as if he had no lips. It might be supposed that few words escaped them.

“What do _you_ think, Egyptian?” said Glaucus, raising his voice--the man was somewhat deaf.

“The rustling of a fig-leaf,”[N] replied the Egyptian curtly, shrugging his shoulders.

[N] A false alarm.

“What kind of craft do you think she is?” asked Glaucus.

“A Myoparian,” was the reply.

Myoparian (nimble as a mouse) was the name given to small swift-sailing ships belonging to the Cyclades. In earlier times they had often been used to plunder trading-vessels, but at this date were employed only for peaceful purposes and had the best reputation.

The Egyptian’s statement was therefore eagerly welcomed.

“The man is right,” said one of the Phoenician merchants, stroking his braided beard. “How often small ships are seen following large ones! It is partly because their captains think the steersmen of large vessels have more experience and partly because they hope for a refuge in case of need.”

“But,” objected one of the travelers, “pirates can just as well pursue us in a Myoparian they have captured as in any other vessel.”

“May I be permitted to speak, Master,” said a native-born Athenian slave, turning to Glaucus. He was a young man with a refined, intelligent face, whose natural beauty was not even destroyed by hair closely cut after the slave-fashion.

Glaucus nodded assent.

“I think the steersman is right,” said the youth. “If that vessel is as fleet as is said, yet holds back, there is surely some evil intended, which will not appear until the time seems favorable.”

So the talk went on and the most contradictory opinions were expressed. The dispute was not yet over at the approach of sunset.

The western sky was radiant with golden light and far above the ship a few thin clouds, which formerly had scarcely been noticed, were clearly relieved against the deep azure as they assumed a bright crimson hue, which made them resemble light feathers. Even the sea shared the sunset splendor and mirrored the fiery glow, against which the long billows looked like dark, moving streaks.

The Samian made little headway. The sail flapped feebly to and fro; there was not wind enough to fill it, and ere the sun had sunk beneath the sea the last faint breeze had died away.

The rowers were now obliged to take their seats; the celeustis began the monotonous chant that marked the time, yet nimbly as the oars moved, the great ship advanced slowly.

It was far different with the small vessel, whose distance seemed gradually to decrease, and there could soon be no doubt that it was gaining upon the Attic ship. Ere long those on the latter could see the white foam washing under the Myoparian’s bow--a sign of the speed with which she was moving--and soon after they perceived that she was strongly manned and had all her oars out. From that time the vessel approached so swiftly that it seemed to grow every moment.

Suddenly one of the Lydian merchants exclaimed in a loud voice:

“It’s all over with us! They are pirates, the craft is Thyamis’ ship from Coracesium. Once before I have been robbed by him and barely escaped with my life.”

At these words indescribable terror and confusion arose on board. Some covered their faces to await death, others uttered loud lamentations and wrung their hands irresolutely; a few tried to hide in the ship’s hold, others wanted to have the boats lowered to escape by flight, and some young slaves, in their fear of losing a life which scarcely seemed of any special value, ran to and fro as though out of their senses.

Amid this universal irresolution, the Myoparian came close behind.

Glaucus comforted his wife with a few soothing words and told her to stay inside of the tent with little Callias. He himself went to the stern, collected the passengers and sailors around him, and said:

“Friends, if we do not repulse that wretch’s attack, many of us must lose our lives. But we are numerous enough, if we only resolve to do so, to save ourselves and the ship. Besides the steersman and myself, there are on board five foreign merchants and six sailors; so in all, we have thirteen free men, while of slaves there are the fourteen oarsmen, four slaves of my own, and ten who accompanied the foreign merchants. As the Myoparian has no boats, we can only be attacked on _one_ side and there only for a distance not exceeding the length of yonder little vessel. Twenty brave men would be enough to repel such an assault, and we,--including freemen and slaves--number more than forty! You can obtain weapons from the steersman; for though I have never met pirates until now, I have always been ready to receive them. If we repulse the attack, I will free my slaves and give each sailor a large reward. Show courage and firmness--and the victory will be ours. Besides, we shall fight from a higher position as if we were in a fortress.”

“Let them come,” said the steersman coolly, “we’ll receive them in such a way that hereafter they’ll avoid attacking an Attic ship.”

The crew, in answer to these words, maintained an ominous silence and, when the steersman distributed the weapons, he noticed that many of the men were reluctant to take them.

One of the rowers, a Cretan with a sly, crafty face, had alarmed the men on their way to him.

“Don’t be simpletons!” he had said. “Throw the swords into the sea in time. Those whom the pirates catch with arms in their hands will be killed at once.”

Meantime, twilight had begun to close in. The glowing colors in the sky had faded, the black storm-cloud had risen higher, and the sea stretched sullen and leaden-hued below.

The Myoparian glided past the ship at some distance. It was a proud sight to behold the light craft, with a fringe of snow-white foam before her prow, cut through the billows, while the glittering oars rose and fell in regular time. The pirate swept round the Athenian ship in a wide curve and, as though to display her superiority, encircled it several times in ever narrowing rounds, so that the big, clumsy Samian lay as though besieged by this one little craft.

Suddenly a score of fir-wood torches were lighted on board the Myoparian and, by the glare of their red, flaring flames, reflected like quivering streaks of fire over the sea, the vessel was seen swarming with dark, threatening figures, among whom, ever and anon, was noticed the glint of shining arms. There was something strangely gloomy about this glimmer which made the Egyptian say:

“Do you see those weapons? They cut the eye as they wound the flesh.”

On an empty space near the pirate’s stern stood her captain, a gigantic man, clad with barbaric splendor. Around his dark hair was bound a broad fillet of yellow byssus, embroidered with gold; a superb violet-blue upper-robe hung loosely over his shoulders and opened over a dazzlingly white chiton, fastened with a gold belt. On his feet he had short _endromides_ or half boots of the same magnificent hue as his upper robe, and in his hand he held a trident of polished steel that sparkled and flashed in the torch-light.

“Woe betide us! Woe betide us!” repeated the Lydian merchant, who had first recognized the vessel. “It is Thyamis, the most terrible of all the Cilician corsairs.”

Glaucus, too, recognized the man in spite of his changed exterior. Now he understood why the giant had desired to see everything on board when the Samian lay at anchor in the bay at Celenderis.

The Myoparian with a few powerful strokes of the oars approached still nearer, so that it lay side by side with the Attic ship.

At a sign from his captain, one of the pirates sprang upon the gunwale and shouted to the crew of the merchantman:

“Luckless men! Why do you seek death? Why resist a superior force? Yield the ship, then you can get into your boats and row wherever you choose.”

But Glaucus stepped into the stern of his ship and answered:

“Wretches! Know that we lack neither men nor weapons. If you attack, we will defend ourselves and fight till the victory is ours.”

The corsairs’ reply was only a jeering laugh.

Then there was a great bustle on board the Myoparian. The mast was raised, hoisting a yard consisting of two pieces, from which hung a large dark object bearing a certain resemblance to a dolphin, for it was distaff-shaped, thickest in the middle and lessening at both ends. This object was evidently very heavy; the mast creaked and strained and the yard bent perceptibly under its weight.

The pirate-ship again approached the merchantman and lay alongside. A man with an evil, almost animal face, wearing a red Phrygian cap on his head, climbed up the yard far enough to be able to look down on the Samian’s deck.

“Too late to yield now!” he shouted. “Now you must all die.”

At these words some of the young slaves burst into loud lamentations; but above every other sound echoed from the tent a frightened child’s sobbing and wailing, which would not be silenced, no matter how tenderly it was hushed.

“What a horrible bawler!” cried the man with the Phrygian cap. “Just wait! When the dolphin comes, he’ll stop his mouth.”

Then, swinging himself over among the rigging that supported the mast, he called to the men below: “Heave!”

The pirates, with a quick swing, brought the yard over the great ship. The man in the red cap pulled with all his might at a rope he held in his hand, and the missile suspended from the yard--the so-called “dolphin,” a leaden mass of immense weight, plunged down upon the tent just as Charicleia came out of it, holding the crying child by the hand. There was a terrible, deafening crash, the ship trembled from masthead to keel as though every seam was separating; almost at the same moment there was heard--this time under the deck--a similar crash, accompanied by a violent jarring and a strange, gurgling, rippling noise like the bubbling of a spring.

The tent was dragged down and partly covered a yawning hole in the deck, from which rose splinters yards long. Charicleia had felt little Callias’ hand torn from hers by some terrible, resistless power, and at the same moment, while half buried under the folds of the tent, a warm, sticky stream had spurted over her foot. Though she had not seen it, she well knew what it was.

Pale as a corpse, she staggered back a step and seemed on the verge of fainting. Then, as if in a dream, she heard the red-capped corsair burst into a laugh and call to his comrades:

“You see, it hit! The bawler is silenced. He has ridden down to Hades on the dolphin.”

At the words and laugh a mist of blood seemed to dim Charicleia’s eyes; she seized a sword and with the scream of a wild beast rushed upon the wretch, who was clinging with one hand to the rigging of the pirate-vessel and with the other to the Samian. He had no time to parry the attack, no time to open his lips, ere the glittering weapon was buried to the hilt in his breast. He moved his head and neck several times as if stifling, a stream of blood welled from his mouth, the red cap fell off, his hands loosed their grip, and he fell headlong into the dark gulf between the ships.

A fierce cry of rage rose from the pirates; they placed ladders against the trader’s bow and some of the boldest sprang on her deck--others followed.

Deeply as Glaucus was moved, he made every effort to inspire his men with courage, but most of them threw down their arms and begged the corsairs to spare their lives.

Thyamis now gave orders to stop the slaughter and commanded the sailors and foreign merchants to leave the ship without taking anything except the clothes they wore. The slaves were compelled to go in couples on board the pirate craft.

The Samian’s boat was lowered into the water, and the seamen vied with each other in leaping in, believing that they would only be safe when far away from Thyamis and his band. Overcrowded though this boat was, there was no danger; the sea was calm, there were men enough to row, and the distance to the nearest of the Cyclades was not great.

Glaucus and his wife were now led down to the Myoparian, while Thyamis went on board of the Samian. He showed his men where the ivory, purple, and gold-embroidered carpets from Babylon were to be found, and the costliest part of the cargo was soon transferred to the pirate craft. The merchantman filled faster and faster, and already lay considerably lower.

Thyamis ordered his vessel to be rowed away from the sinking ship.

The darkness had gradually increased and the Samian looked like a black, shapeless mass. The part of the hull still remaining above the water grew smaller and smaller. Suddenly the stern sank and, with a strangely unexpected movement, the prow rose high in the air for a moment, then the great ship sank with terrible speed. A roaring noise like a whirlpool echoed over the sea, and a spot of whirling snow-white foam for a short time marked the spot where the vessel had gone down.

Glaucus, who had watched the scene, pressed his wife’s hand.

“The envious wretches!” he exclaimed with suppressed fury. “It was my best and handsomest ship.”

Charicleia raised her eyes to heaven in mute accusation.

Soon after both were brought before Thyamis, who sat in all his splendor upon a sort of throne at the stern. As they approached he rose with a courtesy that boded ill.

“Do not imagine, Glaucus,” he said “that it is my intention to detain you and your wife captive to extort a ransom. We _Barbarians_, though inferior to you, are also men of honor. Athenian, depart in peace to your native city.”

The pirates now brought a ladder and fastened it outside of the ship, so that the end touched the water; then they formed two ranks, holding flaring torches to light the descent to the sea.

“I salute you, Glaucus!” added Thyamis, pointing to the ladder: “The way is open. You and your wife are free!”

Glaucus stood as though petrified by this grewsome jest. But the pirates pressed upon him with their torches and compelled him and his wife to approach the ladder. Charicleia was deadly pale, and trembled so that she could scarcely stand. Glaucus clasped her hand, whispering:

“Take courage! Your dearest wish will be fulfilled. Did you not say: ‘Let death come _when_ and _as_ it will, if it only snatches us away together.’ And did you not yourself accept the omen?”

The young wife’s eyes filled with tears.

“Forgive me!” she stammered. “I did not know what I was asking.”

With a look in which love conquered the fear of death she raised her eyes to her husband’s face and threw her arms around his neck. Glaucus clasped her waist and went slowly down the steps of the ladder.

When he had reached the last one he paused and glanced up at the ship. But at the sight of the pirates’ curious, malicious faces, which did not express even the faintest touch of compassion, he understood that all hope was over and, too proud to beg for his life, he pressed Charicleia closer to his breast and took the fatal step from the last round of the ladder.

The sea closed over their heads, forming a small, swiftly revolving whirlpool, and through this narrowing circle the too happy mortals, united in death as in life, entered the great unknown country whence no one returns.

LYCON WITH THE BIG HAND.

SECOND YEAR OF THE 103D OLYMPIAD (367 B.C.)

LYCON WITH THE BIG HAND.

I.

Few young men in Athens had so many acquaintances as Lycon, yet he did not possess a single friend. He was courteous to all, but intimate with no one, had a care-free disposition, liked to try his luck at astragals[O] or dice, always knew where the best Chian wine and the prettiest girls could be found, and was never unwilling to lend an acquaintance a few drachmae. So Lycon was universally esteemed, nay people even overlooked certain eccentricities which were contradictory to Attic custom. For instance, he never visited the gymnasium, and when some one spoke to him about it, he carelessly replied:

[O] A game like knuckle-bones.

“What should I do there? Oratory and subtleties of speech I don’t understand--and why train my body? I’m strong enough as I am, and have better uses for my time.”

As to Lycon’s appearance--he had handsome, though rather harsh black hair, manly, somewhat stern features, large heavy eyebrows, a short but thick beard, a broad-shouldered, strongly-built frame, and unusually large hands, from which he received the nickname Lycon _ho makrocheir_, Lycon with the big hand.

He was entered on the citizens’ list as Lycon, son of Megacles. But nobody had known this Megacles, and no one could tell where the house of Lycon’s parents stood, or had stood. All that was known about him was that, two years before, he had suddenly appeared in Athens--as he said, after a long residence in Bithynia where his father had died. Now and then it was whispered that he was “a spurious citizen,” and at one of the examinations to which these lists were occasionally subjected, he was questioned by the demarchs or district inspectors. To them Lycon stated that his father had been a ship’s captain and for many years had been absent from Athens; he had himself gone to sea with him, and the rough work on board had given him large, hard hands. One of the demarchs, a rich ship-owner, thought he could entrap Lycon by questioning him about the names of the various parts of a vessel. But the latter was at no loss for an answer. This resulted greatly to his advantage; the ship-owner declared himself satisfied, and Lycon’s name remained on the list.

Still, there were many strange things about him. For instance, he knew so little of the poets that, as the jester Stephanus said, he might easily have been persuaded that one of Pindar’s odes was written by Homer. But, if any one laughed at such stupendous ignorance, Lycon said:

“You are laughing at my pedagogue, not at me. It is his fault. He was so weak that he submitted to everything, and we played and quarrelled during the time we ought to have learned something useful.”

It was one of Lycon’s peculiarities that, though he never refused an invitation to a drinking-bout, he had no inclination to attend any of the great festivals to which strangers flocked from all parts of Hellas, the islands, and the new colonies, to see the processions, the performances at the theatre, or the torchlight races. On such days Lycon either remained at home in his little house in the Ceriadae suburb, or went away for a short journey, remaining absent until the strangers might be supposed to have left Athens. This singular conduct was not noticed by many, for on holidays most persons have enough to do to attend to their own affairs. But the few who did remark it marvelled.

Only one individual knew the cause of Lycon’s eccentricities. This was the artist Aristeides from Thebes, a quiet, thoughtful young man, who never said more than he meant. He enjoyed a high reputation for his powerful picture of the battle between the Persians and Macedonians, a painting containing hundreds of human figures; but his master-piece was the plundering of a captured city, in which a dying mother holds her delicate babe away from her breast, that it may not drink blood instead of milk.

This Aristeides once went on a pleasure excursion with Lycon--both on horseback, attended by a single slave--to the beautifully located Deceleia at the foot of Mt. Parnes. Wearied by the noon-tide heat, they sought shelter on the way in the wretched log-hut owned by a poor countryman, who received them kindly, gave them a bowl of fresh goat’s-milk, and offered them his rude bed; but it was so dirty that, after exchanging glances, they begged permission to lie on the hay stored in the shed opposite. The man led the way there. Lycon stretched himself comfortably upon the fragrant hay, yawned, and fell asleep. Aristeides also slept, but was roused soon after by a movement of Lycon and, turning over, suddenly felt broad awake.

Lycon’s robe had opened at the throat, baring his shoulder. On the sunburned skin appeared a large white scar, consisting of three marks which together formed a kappa.[P]

[P] Kappa, the letter K. This is an
abbreviation of the word Klemma,
theft. Slaves were usually
branded on the forehead (or on
the ears or hands.) The mark
seems to have been stamped on the
shoulder only by special favor,
when the offence was trivial.

“A slave!” cried Aristeides, “and branded!”

At first he was almost stupefied; then he moved away from Lycon’s side and sat down on a log a short distance off.

“Now I understand everything,” he thought, “his fear of undressing in the gymnasium--his unknown origin--his large hands--his ignorance of the poets--and his absence during the great festivals.... So he is a fugitive slave, and has been punished for theft. Before his flight he probably robbed his master and of no inconsiderable sum. He was entered in the citizens’ list by bribery, and now the thievish, branded slave lives in Athens as a free citizen, and enjoys himself on his defrauded master’s money.”

Aristeides rose to go to the city magistrates, but ere he left the shed he started and listened.

Lycon was laughing in his sleep.

There was something so joyous and light-hearted in his laughter that Aristeides involuntarily paused.

“Look!” murmured Lycon, stretching out his arm as though pointing, “now fat Dryas is jumping!--The leather bottle is bursting--he’ll fall--plump! there he lies on his stomach in the water.”

And Lycon laughed again.

“No!” said Aristeides, “a man who laughs in his sleep like a child is not wicked.... Who knows whether freedom has not made him a different and a better man? Certainly nothing dishonorable is known about him, and he is universally respected.... Perhaps his master has made up his loss long ago. Perhaps he has himself repaid the stolen money; he has slaves who work for him. Besides, how does the matter concern me?”

The artist went nearer to the sleeper and looked at him.

A pleasant smile was hovering around Lycon’s mouth. “Take this!” he muttered, and his big hand made a gesture as if he were giving alms.

Aristeides felt a sudden inspiration.

“Had the gods desired to punish him,” he thought, “they would have made him betray himself to a foe, not to a friend.”

Glad to have found such a consolation to his mind, he carefully drew Lycon’s robe together and fastened it at the neck. His hand shook a little as he did so. If Lycon should suddenly open his eyes, what might he not do in his despair at seeing his secret discovered!

But Lycon slept on. Without rousing him, Aristeides went around into the shade behind the house, where the slaves were waiting with the horses. Beckoning to Lycon’s servant, he said:

“When your master wakes, tell him that a dream I had in my sleep compels me to return home at once. Beg him from me to go on as though I were still in his company.”

With these words he swung himself on the horse and rode away so fast that his slave could scarcely follow him.

From that hour Aristeides held aloof from Lycon, without attracting any special attention from the latter. But whenever, later, conversation turned upon Lycon’s eccentricities Aristeides found special gratification in going as near the truth as possible. He always said:

“There is a sign that explains them.”

Did he make the remark from a vague spite against Lycon or a child’s delight in playing with fire? He did not know himself, but he never said more.

II.

Lycon, who suspected no evil, continued his usual mode of life. One noon he went to the house of a freedman named Opasion, who usually had gay doings in his home, as he lived by entertaining young men. The little peristyle, scarcely ten feet long, was filled with a noisy, laughing party. Half a score of youths in mantles of every hue had formed a circle around two fighting quails.

“I’ll bet fifteen drachmae against you, Opasion,” shouted one voice.

“So will I,” added a second.

“Hegesias’ quail is braver. See, your bird is giving way, Opasion--it yields again. Ha! ha! ha! Now it’s outside of the circle.”

“Conquered, conquered!” shouted the whole party in chorus, joined by the freedman.

“Your bird lost, Opasion. Down with the money.”

The freedman, a short, stout fellow, with a foxy face, lifted a rumpled bird in the air and shrieked into its ear, as though trying to drown the shouts of victory. At the same time the other bird was borne away in triumph, and then carefully taken under its owner’s arm as if it were the most costly treasure.

Lycon walked carelessly on to the so-called banqueting hall found in every large house, but which usually offered only a very limited space. He cast a hurried glance around the room but saw no strange faces. Seven or eight young men whom he met every day were just breakfasting, reclining singly or in pairs upon leather-covered couches, before which stood small tables bearing numerous spots of grease and the marks of wet goblets.

At the back of the room a couple of half naked boys, slaves, were busily washing cups and dishes, and not far from them on a low chair without a back sat two young girls from fifteen to twenty years old. They were whispering eagerly together, and by the way they fixed their eyes on the young men reclining upon the couches, it was easy to guess the subject of the talk. Both were pretty, but their bold glances and careless laughter showed that they were women of free lives, accustomed to associate with men.

The older and larger of the two held in her hand a Phrygian double flute. Her back hair was covered by a blue kerchief and the locks on her brow were adorned with a clasp of polished steel. Her whole costume consisted of a saffron-yellow robe, originally fine and costly, now somewhat frayed, open at the left side to the hip and fastened up above the knee. The younger and prettier, who was evidently a juggler, as she rested her feet on a box containing short swords, balls, and small bows and arrows, wore on her head a red hood to confine her dark curls, and moreover was wrapped in a faded green mantle, which she drew closely around her. Whenever, during the conversation, she moved her hands this loose upper dress parted, showing that she had a totally different under-garment and a pair of short, parti-colored breeches, which surrounded her loins like a wide belt.

The young men paid no attention to the girls. Their talk turned upon the best way of getting hold of a father’s money during his life. Opinions seemed to vary greatly. The more experienced agreed in holding aloof from the matter themselves and having their fathers deceived by a cunning slave, while those less skilled preferred to beg the money from their mothers, on the threat of going to sea or enlisting in the light-armed troops.

“The old theme again!” said Lycon smiling, after having greeted and shaken hands with all present except Aristeides, who was busily cleansing his hands after the meal in the dough prepared for the purpose.

“Lycon speaks the truth,” cried a pale-faced young man with flabby features, afterwards known as the architect Deinocrates. “We must talk about something else. This subject doesn’t suit _him_.”

Lycon, who had neither father nor mother, understood the concealed sting, but kept silence in order not to enter deeper into the matter.

The talk ceased for a moment; the god Hermes--as the saying went in those days--passed through the room. Then a quick step echoed over the flags of the peristyle, and a tall young fellow with a light beard suddenly stood among them. He seemed to have just arrived from a journey, for dust lay thick amid the folds of his brown mantle, and he wore a broad-brimmed felt hat.

“Phorion!” cried seven or eight voices in a breath, “we greet you, welcome!”

The new-comer flung his cloak and hat to one of the boys who came hurrying up, pressed Aristeides’ hand, and lay down in the vacant place by his side.

“Where are you from, Phorion?” asked pallid Deinocrates.

“From Thessaly.”

Lycon, who was reclining alone upon a couch at the nearest table, forgot his barley cake and raised his head.

“From what city in Thessaly?”

“Methone in the province of Magnesia, on the Pagasaean Gulf.”

Aristeides’ eyes happened to rest on Lycon, who had turned deadly pale and was pressing his hand upon his breast.