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Callias: A Tale of the Fall of Athens

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Title: Callias: A Tale of the Fall of Athens

Author: Alfred John Church


        
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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CALLIAS: A TALE OF THE FALL OF ATHENS ***
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: Obvious errors in spelling and punctuation have been
silently corrected. Footnotes have been renumbered and moved from the
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  CALLIAS




  [Illustration: SOCRATES AND ALCIBIADES.]




  CALLIAS

  A Tale of the Fall of Athens


  “_Athenae Lysandro superfuerunt: occiso Socrate tum demum civitas
  eversa est._”


  BY

  REV. ALFRED J. CHURCH, M. A.

  _Professor of Latin in University College, London_


  [Illustration]


  MEADVILLE PENNA
  FLOOD AND VINCENT
  The Chautauqua-Century Press
  1891




  Copyright, 1891,
  By FLOOD & VINCENT.

  _The Chautauqua-Century Press, Meadville, Pa., U. S. A._
  Electrotyped, Printed and Bound by Flood & Vincent.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                               PAGE
       I. A NEW PLAY                       1
      II. NEWS FROM THE FLEET             14
     III. HIPPOCLES THE ALIEN             21
      IV. A COUNCIL                       30
       V. RUNNING THE BLOCKADE            41
      VI. ARGINUSÆ                        51
     VII. AFTER THE FIGHT                 58
    VIII. THE NEWS AT ATHENS              65
      IX. SOCRATES                        79
       X. THE MURDER OF THE GENERALS      87
      XI. RESCUED                        104
     XII. THE VOYAGE OF THE SKYLARK      113
    XIII. ALCIBIADES                     121
     XIV. BISANTHE                       132
      XV. ÆGOS POTAMI                    141
     XVI. TO PHARNABAZUS                 151
    XVII. ATHENS IN THE DUST             159
   XVIII. “NOBLESSE OBLIGE”              172
     XIX. THE END OF ALCIBIADES          184
      XX. DIONYSIUS                      195
     XXI. CYRUS THE YOUNGER              207
    XXII. THE RETREAT                    212
   XXIII. THE DIARY                      223
    XXIV. A THANKSGIVING                 238
     XXV. BUSINESS AND PLEASURE          252
    XXVI. INVALIDED                      263
   XXVII. BACK TO ATHENS                 274
  XXVIII. THE STORY OF THE TRIAL         287
    XXIX. THE LAST CONVERSATION          304
     XXX. THE CONDITION OF EXILE         321
          AUTHOR’S POSTSCRIPT            328
          INDEX                          331




CALLIAS

A Tale of the Fall of Athens.




CHAPTER I.

A NEW PLAY.


It is the second year of the ninety-third Olympiad[1] and the Theatre at
Athens is full, for the great dramatic season is at its height, and
to-day there is to be performed a new play by Aristophanes, the special
favorite of the Athenian public. It is a brilliant scene, but a keen
observer, who happened to see the same gathering some five and twenty
years ago, must now notice a certain falling off in its splendor. For
these five and twenty years have been years of war, and latterly, years
of disaster. Eleven years ago, the City wild with the pride of power and
wealth, embarked on the mad scheme of conquering Sicily, and lost the
finest fleet and army that it ever possessed. Since then it has been a
struggle for life with it, and year by year it has been growing weaker
and weaker. This has told sadly on the glories of its great festivals.
The furnishing of the stage, indeed, is as perfect as ever, and the
building itself has been pushed on several stages towards completion.[2]
However scarce money may be in the public treasury, the theatre must not
be starved. But elsewhere there are manifest signs of falling off. The
strangers’ gallery is almost empty. All the Greek world from Massilia in
Gaul to Cyrene among the sands of Africa used to throng it in happier
days. Now more than half that world is hostile, and the rest has little
to hope or fear from the dispossessed mistress of the seas. Dionysius of
Syracuse, has sent an embassy, and the democracy, which once would have
treated with scant courtesy the representatives of a tyrant, is fain to
flatter so powerful a prince. There are some Persian Envoys too, for the
Persians are still following their old game of playing off one great
state against another. A few Greeks from Sinope and from one of the
Italian cities, persons of no importance, who would hardly have found a
place in the gallery during the palmy times of Athens, make up the
company of visitors. Look at the body of the theatre, where the citizens
sit, and the spectacle is deplorable indeed. The flower of Athens’ sons
has perished, and their successors are puny and degenerate. Examine too
the crowd that throngs the benches, and you will see that the slaves,
distinguished by their unsleeved tunics, fill up no small portion of
space. And boys form an unusually large proportion of the audience.
Altogether the theatre is a dispiriting sight to a patriotic Athenian.

To-day, however, all is gaiety, for, as has been said, there is a new
play to be brought out, and an Athenian must be in desperate straits
indeed, if he cannot forget his sorrows at a new play.

When the curtain rises, or rather, is withdrawn, as the Greek
arrangement was, into an opening in the floor of the stage, a murmur of
recognition runs through the audience. The scene is the market place of
Thebes, and a familiar figure occupies the foreground.

The portly figure, the ruddy face, the vine-leaf crown, and the buskins
show him to be Bacchus, the patron-god, it will be remembered, of the
Drama. But why this lion’s skin and club? The god gives a lordly kick at
the door of the house which was one of the familiar stage-properties,
and Hercules appears. He roars with laughter to see his own emblems in
such strange company. Bacchus explains. “The tragic poets grow worse and
worse. There is not one who can write a decent line. I am going down to
the regions of the dead to fetch Euripides,[3] and thought that I had
better dress myself up in your fashion, for you, I know, made this same
journey very successfully. Perhaps you will tell me something about the
way, and what inns you can recommend, where they are free from fleas,
you know.”

“Are you really going?”

“Yes, yes. Don’t try to dissuade me; but tell me the way, which must not
be either too hot or too cold.”

“Well there is the Hanging way, by the sign of the Rope and Noose.”

“Too stifling.”

“There is a very short cut by the Mortar and Pestle.”

“The Hemlock road,[4] you mean?”

“Exactly so.”

“Too cold and wintry for me.”

“Well; I’ll tell you of a quick road and all downhill.”

“Excellent! for I am not a good walker.”

“You know the tower in the Cemetery? Well; climb up to the top when the
Torch race is going to begin; and when the people cry out ‘start,’ start
yourself.”

“How do you mean ‘start’? Start from where?”

“Why, start down from the top.”

“What, and dash my brains out? No, not for me, thank you.”

So it is settled that Bacchus and his slave, for he has a slave with him
to carry his baggage, shall take the usual route by the Styx.

To the Styx, accordingly, they make their way. Charon the ferryman is
plying for hire, “Any one for Rest-from-toil-and-labor Land? For
No-Mansland? For the Isle of Dogs?[5]”

Bacchus steps in, and by Charon’s order, takes an oar which he handles
very helplessly. The slave has to go round: Charon does not carry
slaves, he says. As they slowly make their way across, the frogs from
the marsh raise the song of their kind, ending with the burden which is
supposed to represent their note, _Brekekekex, coax, coax_.

It is pitch dark on the further side. When the slave turns up, he
advises his master to go on at once. “’Tis the very spot,” he says,
“where Hercules told us those terrible wild beasts were.” Bacchus is
very valiant.

  “A curse upon him! ’twas an idle tale,
  He feigned to frighten me, for well he knew,
  How brave I am, the envious braggart soul!
  Grant, fortune, I may meet some perilous chance
  Meet for so bold a journey.”

“O Master, I hear a noise.”

“Where, where?”

“It is behind us.”

“Get behind then.”

“No--it is in front.”

“Why don’t you go in front?”

“O Master, I see such a Monster.”

“What is it like?”

“Why! it keeps on changing--now it’s a bull, now it’s a stag, and now
it’s a woman; and its face is all fire. What shall we do? O Hercules,
Hercules help.”

“Hold your tongue. Don’t call me Hercules.”

“Bacchus, then.”

“No, no; Bacchus is worse than Hercules.”

The travellers pass these dangers, and reach the palace of Pluto.
Bacchus knocks at the door. “Who’s there?” cries Æacus the porter. “The
valiant Hercules,” says Bacchus. The name calls forth a torrent of
reproaches, and threats. Hercules was only too well remembered there.

  “O villain, villain, doubly, trebly dyed!
  ’Twas thou didst take our dog, our guardian dog,
  Sweet Cerberus, my charge. But, villain, now
  We have thee on the hip. For thee the rocks
  Of Styx, and Acheron’s dripping well of blood,
  And Hell’s swift hounds encompass.”

“Did you hear that dreadful voice?” says Bacchus to the slave. “Didn’t
it frighten you?”

“Frighten me? No, I didn’t give it a thought.”

“Well, you are a bold fellow. I say; suppose you become me, and I become
you. Take the club and the lion skin, and I’ll carry the baggage.”

“As you please.”

They change parts accordingly. No sooner is this done, than a waiting
maid of Queen Proserpine appears. “My dear Hercules,” she says, “come
with me. As soon as my mistress heard of your being here she had a grand
baking, made four or five gallons of soup, and roasted an ox whole.”

“Excellent,” cries the false Hercules.

“She won’t take a refusal. And, hark you! there’s _such_ wine!”

“I shall be delighted. Boy, bring along the baggage with you.”

“Hold,” cries the “boy.” “Don’t you see it was a joke of mine, dressing
you up as Hercules? Come, hand over the club and the skin.”

“You are not going to take the things away when you gave me them
yourself.”

“Yes, but I am: a pretty Hercules you would be. Come, hand them over.”

“Well; if I must, I must. But I shouldn’t wonder if you were sorry for
it sooner or later.”

It turns out to be sooner rather than later. As soon as the exchange is
made, two landladies appear on the scene. Hercules had committed other
misdemeanors besides stealing the dog.

_First Landlady._ “This is the villain. He came to my house, and ate
sixteen loaves.”

_The Slave_ (aside). “Some one is getting into trouble.”

_First Landlady._ “Yes, and twenty fried cutlets at three-half-pence
apiece.”

_The Slave_ (aside). “Some one will suffer for this.”

_First Landlady._ “Yes, and any quantity of garlic.”

_Bacchus._ “Woman this is all rubbish. I don’t know what you are talking
about.”

_First Landlady._ “Ah! you villain, because you have buskins on, you
thought I should not know you--and then there was the salt-fish.”

_Second Landlady._ “Yes, and the fresh cheeses which he ate, baskets and
all; and when I asked him for the money he drew his sword, and we ran
up, you remember, into the attic.”

_The Slave._ “That is just the man. That’s how he goes on everywhere.”

The angry women run off to fetch their lawyers; and Bacchus begins
again.

“My dear boy, I am very fond of you.”

“I know what you are after. Say no more; I’m not going to be Hercules;
‘A pretty Hercules I should make,’ you say.”

“I don’t wonder that you’re angry. But do take the things again. The
gods destroy me and mine, root and branch, if I rob you of them again.”

“Very well; I’ll take them, but mind, you have sworn.”

So the exchange is made again.

Then Æacus with his infernal policemen appears on the scene.

“That’s the fellow who stole the dog,” he cries to his men, “seize him,”
while the false slave murmurs aside, “Some one is getting into trouble.”

“I steal your dog!” says the false Hercules. “I have never been here,
much less stolen the worth of a cent. But come. I’ll make you a fair
offer. Here’s my slave. Take him, and put him to the torture, and if you
get anything out of him against me, then cut my head off.”

“Very fair,” says Æacus; “and of course, if I do him any damage, I shall
pay for it.”

“Never mind about the damage; torture away.”

“Hold,” shouts Bacchus, as the policemen lay hold of him, “I warn you
not to torture me, I’m a god.”

_Æacus._ “What do you say?”

_Bacchus._ “I am Bacchus, son of Zeus, and that fellow there is my
slave.”

_Æacus_ (to the false Bacchus) “What do you say to that?”

_The false Bacchus._ “Say? Lay on the lash; if he’s a god, of course he
can’t feel.”

_Bacchus._ “And you’re a god too, you say. So you won’t mind taking blow
for blow with me.”

_The false Bacchus._ “Quite right.” (To Æacus) “Lay on, and the first
that cries out, you may be sure he’s not the real god.”

So the trial takes place. Both bear it bravely, till at last Æacus cries
in perplexity. “I can’t make it out. I don’t know which is which. Well,
you shall both come to my master and Queen Proserpine. They’re gods, and
they ought to know their own kind.”

_Bacchus._ “An excellent idea; I only wish that you had thought of it
before you gave me that beating.”

Things are now supposed to be set right. Bacchus goes to dine with Pluto
and Proserpine; the slave is entertained by Æacus in the servants’ hall.
While they are talking a tremendous uproar is heard outside; and Æacus
explains to his guest that it is a rule in their country that the best
poet or writer or artist should have a seat at the King’s table and a
place at the King’s right hand. This honor Æschylus had held as the
first of the tragic poets, but when Euripides came, all the crowd of
pick-pockets and burglars and murderers, who were pretty numerous in
these parts, had been so delighted with his twists and turns, that they
were for giving him the first place; and on the strength of their
support he had claimed the tragic throne.

“But had not Æschylus any friends?”

“O yes, among the respectable people; but respectable people are scarce
down here, as they are up above.”

“What about Sophocles?”

“Oh! as soon as he came, he went up to Æschylus and kissed him on the
cheek, and took him by the hand. He yielded the throne, he said, to
Æschylus; but if Euripides came off best, he should contest it with
him.”

“Well, what is going to be done?”

“There will be a trial.”

“Who is to be judge?”

“Ah! there’s the difficulty. Wise men, you see, are not so plenty. Even
with the Athenians Æschylus didn’t get on very well. However they have
made your master judge. He is supposed to know all about it.”

I have tried to give some idea of the first, the farcical half of the
play. It is possible to appreciate the fun, though much of its flavor
has evaporated, and there are many strokes of humor which, for one
reason or another, it has not been possible to reproduce. The second
half is a series of subtle literary criticisms on the language, style,
dramatic construction, and ruling sentiment of the two poets. No one can
appreciate it who is not familiar with their works; no version is
possible that would give any that idea of it. One specimen I shall
attempt. Æschylus finds fault with the prosaic matter-of-fact character
of his rival’s opening scenes. “I’ll spoil them all with a flask,” he
says. “Go on and repeat whichever you please.” Euripides begins with the
opening lines of the Danaides (a play now lost).

  “Aegyptus--so the common story runs--
  Crossed with his fifty sons the ocean plains,
  And reaching Argos--”

              “Lost a little flask.”

puts in Æschylus.

He begins again with the opening lines of another

  “Cadmus, Agenor’s offspring, setting sail
  From Sidon’s city--”

          “Lost a little flask.”

Then he tries with the first lines of a third

  “Great Bacchus, who with wand and fawn-skin decked,
  In pine-groves of Parnassus, plies the dance,
  And leads the revel--”

                    “Lost a little flask.”

The reader may have had enough. It will suffice to give the result of
the contest. All the tests have been applied. Euripides, as a last
resource, reminds the judge that he has sworn to take him back with
him.

Bacchus replies:

“My tongue hath sworn; yet Æschylus I choose.”

A cruel cut, for it is an adaptation of one of the poet’s own lines
(from the Hippolytus) when the hero, taunted with the oath that he had
taken and is about to violate, replies:

“My tongue hath sworn it, but my mind’s unsworn.”

When the curtain rose from the floor and hid the last scene, it was
manifest that the “Frogs” of Aristophanes, son of Philippus, of the
tribe Pandionis, and the township Cydathenæa, was a success. Of course
there were malcontents among the audience. Euripides had a good many
partisans in young Athens. They admired his ingenuity, his rhetoric, and
the artistic quality of his verse, in which beauty for beauty’s sake,
quite apart from any moral purpose, seemed to be aimed at. They were
captivated by the boldness and novelty of his treatment of things moral
and religious. Æschylus they considered to be old-fashioned and bigoted.
Hence among the seats allotted to the young men there had been some
murmurs of dissent while the performance was going on, and now there was
a good deal of adverse criticism. And there were some among the older
men who were scarcely satisfied. The fact was that Comedy was undergoing
a change, the change which before twenty more years had passed was to
turn the Old Comedy into the Middle and the New, or to put the matter
briefly, to change the Comedy of Politics into the Comedy of Manners.

“This is poor stuff,” said an old aristocrat of this school, “poor stuff
indeed, after what I remember in my younger days. Why can’t the man
leave Euripides alone, especially now he is dead, and won’t bother us
with any more of his plays? There are plenty of scoundrel politicians
who might to much more purpose come in for a few strokes of the lash.
But he daren’t touch the fellows. Ah! it was not always so. I remember
the play he brought out eighteen years ago. The ‘Knights’ he called it.
That was something like a Comedy! Cleon was at the very height of his
power, for he had just made that lucky stroke at Pylos[6]. But
Aristophanes did not spare him one bit for that. He could not get any
one to take the part; he could not even get a mask made to imitate the
great man’s face. So he took the part himself, and smeared his face with
the lees of wine. Cleon was there in the Magistrates’ seats. I think we
all looked at him as much as we looked at the stage. Whenever there was
a hard hit--and, by Bacchus, how hard the hits were!--all the theatre
turned to see how he bore it. He laughed at first. Then we saw him turn
red and pale--I was close by him and I heard him grind his teeth. Good
heavens! what a rage he was in! Well, that is the sort of a play I like
to see, not this splitting words, and picking verses to pieces, just as
some schoolmaster might do.”

But, in spite of these criticisms, the greater part of the audience were
highly delighted with what they had seen and heard. The comic business,
with its broad and laughable effects, pleased them, and they were
flattered by being treated as judges of literary questions. And the
curious thing was that they were not unfit to be judges of such matters.
There never was such a well-educated and keen-witted audience in the
world. They knew it, and they dearly liked to be treated accordingly.
The judges only echoed the popular voice when at the end of the festival
they bestowed the first prize upon Aristophanes.

One criticism, strange to say, no one ever thought of making--and yet,
to us, it seems the first, the most obvious of all criticisms, and that
is that the play was horribly profane. This cowardly, drunken, sensual
Bacchus--and he is ten times worse in the original than I have ventured
to make him here--this despicable wretch was one of the gods whom every
one in the audience was supposed to worship. The festival which was the
occasion of the theatrical exhibition was held in his honor, his altar
was the centre round which the whole action of every piece revolved. And
yet he was caricatured in this audacious manner, and it did not occur to
anyone to object! Verily the religion of the Greeks sat very lightly on
their consciences, and we cannot wonder if it had but small effect on
their lives.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] According to our reckoning B. C. 406.

[2] It was not actually finished till twenty-three years later.

[3] Euripides had died a few months before.

[4] The Athenians used to inflict the penalty of death by a draught of
hemlock.

[5] For the “Crows” in the original. “Going to the crows” was the first
equivalent for our “Going to the dogs.” The “Isle of Dogs” is a
wellknown spot near London.

[6] When he captured the Spartan garrison of the Island of Sphacteria,
B. C. 425.




CHAPTER II.

NEWS FROM THE FLEET.


I anticipated the course of my story when I spoke of the first prize
being adjudged to the comedy exhibited by Aristophanes. There were
various competing plays--how many we do not know, but the titles and
authors of two that won the second and third prizes have been
preserved--and all those had of course to be performed before a decision
could be made. Two or three days at least must have passed before the
exhibition was at an end.

The next competitor had certainly reason to complain of his ill-luck.
Just before the curtain fell for the opening scene of his comedy an
incident occurred which made the people little disposed to listen to
anything more that day. The spectators had just settled themselves in
their places, when a young officer hastily made his way up to the bench
where the magistrates were seated, and handed a roll to the president.
The occurrence was very unusual. It was reckoned almost an impiety to
disturb the festival of Bacchus with anything of business; only matters
of the very gravest importance could be allowed to do it. The entrance
of the young man, happening as it did, just in the pause of expectation
before the new play began, had been generally observed. Every one could
see from his dress that he was a naval officer, and many knew him as
one of the most promising young men in Athens. “News from the fleet,”
was the whisper that ran through the theatre, and there were few among
the thousands there assembled to whom news from the fleet did not mean
the life or death of father, brother, or son. The president glanced at
the document put into his hands, and whispering a few words to the
messenger, pointed to a seat by his side. All eyes were fastened upon
him. (The magistrates, it may be explained, occupied one of the front or
lowest rows of seats, and were therefore more or less in view of the
whole theater, which was arranged in the form of a semicircle, with tier
upon tier of benches rising upon the slope of the hill on the side of
which the building was constructed.) When a moment afterwards, the
curtain was withdrawn, scarcely a glance was directed to the stage. The
action and the dialogue of the new piece were absolutely lost upon what
should have been an audience, but was a crowd of anxious citizens,
suddenly recalled from the shows of the stage to the realities of life.

The president now carefully read the document and passed it on to his
colleagues. Some whispered consultations passed between them. When at
the end of the first act a change of scenery caused a longer pause than
usual the president quietly left the theatre, taking the bearer of the
despatch with him. Some of the other magistrates followed him, the rest
remaining behind because it would have been unseemly to leave the
official seats wholly untenanted while the festival was still going on.
This proceeding increased the agitation of the people, because it
emphasized the importance of the news that had arrived. Some slipped
away, unable to sit quietly in their places and endure the suspense, and
vaguely hoping to hear something more outside. Among those that remained
the buzz of conversation grew louder and louder. Only a few very
determined play-goers even pretended to listen to what was going on upon
the stage. Meanwhile the unfortunate author, to whom, after all, the
fate of his play was not less urgent a matter than the fate of the city,
sat upon his prompter’s stool--the author not uncomonly did the duty of
prompter--and heartily cursed the bad luck which had distracted in so
disastrous a way the attention of his audience.

When at last, to the great relief of everyone concerned, the performance
was brought to a conclusion, the young officer told his story,
supplementing the meagre contents of the despatch which he had brought,
to a full conclave of magistrates, assembled in one of the senate-rooms
of the Prytaneum or Town-hall of Athens. I may introduce him to my
readers as Callias, the hero of my story.

Many of the details that follow had already been given by Callias, but
as he had to repeat them for the benefit of the magistrates who had
stopped behind in the theatre, I may as well put them all together.

“We know,” said the president, “that Conon was beaten in a battle in the
harbor of Mitylene. So much we heard from Hippocles, a very patriotic
person by the way, though he is an alien. He has a very swift yacht that
can outstrip any war-ship in Greece, and often gives us very valuable
intelligence. Do you know him?”

“Yes,” said Callias, flushing with pleasure, for indeed he knew and
respected Hippocles greatly, “I know him very well.”

[Illustration: THE THEATER OF DIONYSUS AT THE PRESENT DAY.]

“Well, to go on,” resumed the president. “So much we know, but no more.
Tell us exactly how Conon fared in the battle.”

“Sir,” answered the young man, “he lost thirty ships.”

“And the crews,” asked the president.

“They escaped; happily they were able to get to land.”

“Thank Athene for that;” and a murmur of relief ran round the meeting.
“And the other forty--he had seventy, I think, in all?” Callias nodded
assent.

“What happened to the forty?”

“They were hauled up under the walls when the day went against us.”

“Now tell us exactly what has been going on since.”

“The Spartans blockaded the harbor, having some of their ships within,
and some without. Our general saw that it was only a matter of time when
he should have to surrender. The Spartans had four times as many ships,
the ships not, perhaps, quite as good as his, but the crews, I am
afraid, somewhat better.”

“Shade of Themistocles,” murmured one of the magistrates, “that it
should come to this--the Spartan crews ‘somewhat better’ than ours. But
I am afraid that it is only too true.”

“He could not break through; and could not stand a long siege. Mitylene
was fairly well provisioned for its ordinary garrison, but here were
seventy crews added all of a sudden to the number. He sent some
officers--I had the honor of being one of them--and we found that by
sparing everything to the very utmost, we might hold out for five
weeks. The only chance was to send news to Athens. You might help us, we
thought.”

“We might; we _must_, I say. But how it is to be done is another matter.
Tell us how you got here?”

“The general took the two fastest ships in his squadron, manned them
with the very best rowers that he could find, practised the crews for
four days in the inner harbor, and then set about running the blockade
with them. The Spartans, you see, had grown a little careless. We hadn’t
made any attempt to get out, and Conon got a Lesbian freedman to desert
to the Spartans with a story that we were meaning to surrender. This put
them off their guard still more. They got into a way of leaving their
ships at noon, to take their meal and their siesta afterwards on shore.
We made a dart at an unguarded place between two of their blockading
ships and we got through. I don’t think that we lost a single man. By
the time that the crews of the blockading galleys regained their vessels
we were well out of bow-shot. Our instructions were to separate, when we
got outside the harbor. We did not do this at once because we had
planned a little trick which might, we hoped, help to put the enemy off
the scent. The ship that I was in was really the swifter of the two.
This was, of course, the reason why I was put into it. But as long as we
kept together we made believe that we were the slower. When they came
out after us--they had manned half-a-dozen ships or so as quickly as
they could--we separated. My ship, which you will understand, was really
the faster of the two, was put about the north as if making for
Hellespont; the other kept on its course, straight for Athens. The
Spartans told off their best ships to follow the latter which they
thought that they had the better chance of catching. And of course, as
it was headed this way, it seemed the more important of the two.”

“I suppose that they overtook it,” said the president, “or it would have
been here before this.”

“Well, we soon outstripped the two galleys that were told to look after
us. When we were well out of sight, we headed westward again, took a
circuit round the north side of Lemnos, and got here without seeing
another enemy.”

“How long is it since you left Mitylene?”

“About five days.”

“But how long did Conon think he could hold out?”

“About forty days; perhaps more, if the men were put on short rations.”

“You have done well, my son,” said the president kindly, “and Athens
will not forget it. We will consult together, though there is small need
of consulting, I take it. The relief _must_ be sent. Is it not so
gentlemen?”

His colleagues nodded assent.

“But there are things to be talked over. We must decide how much we can
send, and that cannot be done upon the spot. But there is a matter that
can be settled at once. Conon must be told that he is going to be
relieved. Now, who will tell him? Will you?”

“Certainly, if you see fit to give me the order.”

“And how?”

“I would consult with Hippocles.”

“Excellent!” cried the president. “He is just the man to help us. You
will go and see him, and then report to me. Come to me to-night; it will
not matter how late it is; I shall be waiting for you.”

Callias saluted, and withdrew.




CHAPTER III.

HIPPOCLES THE ALIEN.


Hippocles has been described as an alien. An “alien,” then at Athens, as
in the other Greek cities, was a resident foreigner. He might be an
enfranchised slave, he might be a barbarian (as all persons not Greek
were described), or he might be a Greek of the purest descent, but if he
had not the rights of Athenian citizenship, he was an “alien.” He could
not hold any landed or house property: he was obliged to appear in any
law suit in which he might be concerned in the person of an Athenian
citizen who was described as his “patron,” and he was heavily taxed. A
special impost that went under the name of an “alien-tax” was only a
slight matter, some twelve drachmas[7] a year, but all the imposts were
made specially heavy for them. And though they had no share in directing
the policy of the State, they were required to serve in its fleets and
armies. This treatment however, did not keep aliens from settling in
Athens. On the contrary they were to be found there in great numbers,
and as almost all the trade of the place was in their hands, some of
them were among its richest inhabitants.

At the time of which I am writing Hippocles had the reputation, which we
may say was by no means undeserved, of being the richest resident in
Athens. And more than that, he was one of the most patriotic. He loved
the city as if it had been his native place, and did the duty and more
than the duty of a son to her. The special contributions which as a
wealthy man he was called upon to make to the public service[8] were
made with a princely liberality. He even voluntarily undertook services
which were not required of him by law. Every year he had come forward to
furnish the crew and munitions of a ship-of-war, a charge to which
citizens only were properly liable. And of the fleet of which such
gloomy tidings had just reached Athens, he had equipped no less than
three.

Hippocles had a curious history. He was born in the Greek colony of
Poseidonia.[9] He was just entering on manhood when his native city fell
into the hands of its Lucanian neighbors. The barbarians did not abuse
their victory. They did not treat the conquered city, as the Greeks of
Croton some ninety years before had treated Sybaris, reducing it to an
absolute ruin. On the contrary they contented themselves with imposing a
tribute, and leaving a governor, with a garrison to support him, to see
that their new subjects did not forget their duty. But the presence of
the foreigner was a grievous burden to the proud Greeks. For ages
afterwards their descendants were accustomed to assemble once a year and
to bewail their fate, as the Sons of Jacob at the Vale of Weeping, the
Gentile domination over their city. The disaster broke the heart of
Hippocles’ father Cimon who was one of Pacidoninus’ most distinguished
citizens and had actually held the office of Tagus or chief magistrate
in the year of its fall. He survived the event scarcely a year,
recommending his son with his last breath to leave the place for some
city where he could live in a way more worthy of a Greek. His son spent
the next two years in quietly realizing his property, nor did he meet
with any interference from the Lucanian masters of the place. His house
he had to sacrifice; to sell it might have attracted too much notice;
but everything else that he had was converted into money. When this was
safely invested at Athens--Athens having been for various reasons the
city of his choice--he secretly departed. But he did not depart alone.
He took with him a companion, who, he declared, more than made up to him
for all that as a Poseidonian citizen he had lost. Pontia, the daughter
of the Lucanian governor, was a girl of singular beauty. The Lucanian,
in common with the other Italian tribes, gave to their women a liberty
which was unknown in Greek households. Under the circumstances of life
in which he had been brought up, Hippocles though a frequent visitor at
the governor’s house, would never, except by the merest accident, have
seen the governor’s daughter. As it was he had many opportunities of
making her acquaintance. Instead of being shut up, after the Greek
fashion in the women’s apartments, she shared the common life of the
family. At first the novelty of the situation almost shocked the young
man; before long it pleased him; it ended by conquering his heart. The
young Greek, who was leaving his native land because it did not suit his
pride of race to live under the rule of a barbarian, did not submit
without an effort. Again and again he reproached himself with the
monstrous inconsistency of which he was guilty. “Madman that I am,” he
said to himself, “I cannot endure to live with barbarians for neighbors
and yet I think of taking a barbarian to wife.” Again and again he
resolved to break free from the influence that was enthralling him. But
love was too strong for him. Nor indeed, were there wanting arguments on
the other side. “Actually,” he said to himself, “I am a Greek no more; a
Greek without a city is only not a barbarian in name.” This argument, of
little weight, perhaps, in itself, gained force from the loveliness and
mental charms of the young Pontia. She had long felt a distaste for the
rough, uncultured life into which she had been born. The culture and
refinement of her father’s young Greek guest charmed her. The sadness of
his mien touched the chord of pity in her heart, and admiration and pity
together soon grew into love.

Hippocles had just completed the settlement of his affairs, and was
ruefully contemplating the curious dilemma in which he found
himself--everything ready for his departure from Poseidonia, but
Poseidonia holding him from such departure by ties which he could break
only by breaking his heart--when circumstances suggested a way of
escape.

The governor was a widower, and had more than the usual incapacity of
busy men in middle life for discerning the symptoms of love. It was
accordingly, with a cheerful unconsciousness of his guest’s feelings
that he said to him one morning:--“I have good news about my dear
Pontia. The girl is growing up, and should be settled in life, and I
have had a most eligible proposal for her. I have told you, I think,
that I am getting tired of this life, and want to get back to my farm
among the hills. So I have asked to be relieved, and I hear from the
Senate that they have chosen a successor, Hostius of Vulsi, a cousin, I
should say, of my own, and a most respectable man. Hostius has come to
announce the fact in person, and at the same time to ask for my daughter
in marriage. A most eligible proposal, I say. Perhaps he is a little
old, about five years younger than myself. But that’s of no consequence.
I mentioned the matter to her. She did not say much, but, of course, a
girl must seem to hold back. I suggested that the marriage should take
place next week--for I should dearly like to be at home in time for the
barley harvest. That roused her. Of course she said that she had no
clothes. I don’t know about that--she always seems to me to look very
nice--but I should not like to annoy her, for she is a dear, good girl,
and I gave her another month. It’s an excellent arrangement--don’t you
think so?”

Hippocles muttered a few words of assent; but long before the month was
out, he and his Pontia were on their way to Athens.

The marriage and the settlement in Athens had taken place twenty-one
years before the time of which I am writing. Two children had been born,
a son and a daughter. The son had fallen, not many months before, at
the battle of Notium[10] and the death of the mother, who had been in
feeble health, had soon followed. The daughter, to whom her parents had
given the name of Hermione, had just completed her sixteenth year.

Hermione united in herself some of the happiest characteristics of the
two races from which she sprang. Her father was a Greek of the Greeks.
Poseidonia had been founded by Dorian settlers from Sybaris, who could
not contrive to live on good terms with the Achaean Greeks that had
become the predominant element in that city; and Hippocles, who claimed
descent from the Messenian kings, yielded to none in nobility of birth.
A purer type of the genuine Hellenes it would have been impossible to
find. Pontia brought from the Lucanian hills, among which she had been
reared, some of the best qualities, moral and physical, of the Italian
race. The simplicity, frugality, and temperance which then and long
after distinguished rural Italy, were to be seen in her united with a
singular feminine charm not so often found among that somewhat rude
population; until the close air of the Piraeus, ill-suited to a daughter
of the hills, sapped her constitution, she had had a frame magnificently
healthy and strong. To the daughter the climate which had shortened her
mother’s days, happily did no harm. It was in fact her native air, and
she throve in it. She was still undeveloped, for she had only just
completed her sixteenth year; but she gave promise of remarkable beauty,
and indeed, the promise was already more than half fulfilled. When she
had performed the duty, sometimes imposed on the daughters of resident
aliens,--it might be called, rather, privilege conceded to them--and
walked in the great procession of the patron-goddess, holding a sunshade
over some high-born Athenian maiden,[11] all the spectators agreed that
the prize of beauty belonged to the stranger. Her stature reached the
very utmost height that the canons of beauty conceded to women; so far
she was more of an Athene than an Aphrodite. But her face and her whole
bearing were exquisitely feminine. The sapphire-colored eyes, shaded by
long drooping lashes, the forehead, broad and low with the clustering
ringlets of light chestnut on either side, perfectly rounded cheeks,
firm, delicate mouth, showing a glimpse, but only a glimpse of pearly
teeth, and a faultlessly clear complexion, just tinted with the brown
caught from Ægæan suns and winds--for she was dearly fond of a cruise in
her father’s yacht--made up together a remarkable combination of charms.

Callias had seen her but once before, and that was on a melancholy
occasion. He had been commissioned by the general in command to break to
her father the death of her brother, killed as has been said, in the
unlucky conflict at Notium. He had behaved there with conspicuous
gallantry, having led the boarding party which captured the only
Lacedaemonian galley that the Athenians had to set off against their own
fifteen losses, and had fallen in the moment of victory. It was not the
first time that he had shown distinguished valor, and it was for this
reason, as well as on account of the high reputation of his father,
that Alcibiades had sent Callias with a special message of condolence.
The blow, which could not be softened by any delicacy in the telling,
and for which the praises of the general were but a slight consolation,
broke Hippocles down completely. It was then that Hermione showed the
strength of her character. Tenderly attached herself to her brother she
had come forward to support her broken-hearted father. With a patient
endurance that was beyond all praise, she had battled with her own grief
in the effort to help a sorrow even more agonizing than her own, till
for very shame Hippocles had raised himself to bear his loss with
resignation. The effort saved his life; for even the physicians had at
one time been greatly alarmed. Callias, accustomed to think of women as
encumbrances rather than helps in time of need was profoundly impressed
by the girl’s demeanor. If he had been inclined, for a moment, to think
that her singular self-possession indicated a want of womanly feeling,
he would have been soon undeceived. Paying a visit of inquiry to the
house next day, he found that Hermione’s endurance had not lasted beyond
the occasion for which it was wanted. Her father received him, and told
him that his daughter had broken down under the strain. “I was cowardly
enough,” he said, “yesterday to rest upon her strength when I should
have summoned up my own. The gods grant that I may not have taxed it
overmuch, and that I may not lose both my children. I have learned that
I ought not to have grudged my son to the city which has been a second
mother to me; if only I have not learnt it at too terrible a price.”
Callias had to leave Athens on the next day to rejoin the fleet, but he
had the satisfaction of hearing before his departure that Hermione was
on a fair way to recovery. Since then he had not been in Athens.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This would amount to about $2.25--a drachma being equal to about 20c
or 9-1/2d. in English money.

[8] These “liturgies,” as they were called, were charges imposed upon
all residents in Athens whose property was assessed at more than a
certain amount (three talents, which, as a talent contained 6,000
drachmæ, may be roughly estimated at $3,500, equivalent, it is probable,
to much more in actual value). These were originally equivalents for
special privileges and powers which the wealthy enjoyed under the
earlier constitution, but they were continued in force after the
democratic changes which put all citizens on an equality. The Aliens
were not liable to all.

[9] Better known by its Latin name of Paestum.

[10] Fought in 407. Notium was the harbor of Colophon a city of Asia
Minor, about nine miles north of Ephesus, and about fifteen miles from
the sea.

[11] Noble Athenian damsels were the “basket-bearers” (_Canephoroi_),
daughters of aliens “Sunshade-bearers” (_Skiaphoroi_) in the
Paratheraea, or Great Procession of Athens.




CHAPTER IV.

A COUNCIL.


The house of Hippocles was on a smaller scale than might have seemed
suitable to his vast wealth. The fact was that both he and his daughter
had simple tastes. They had a special dislike to the enormous
establishments of slaves which it was the fashion for rich Athenians,
whether of native or of foreign birth, to maintain. In each division of
the house--for, it was divided after the usual Greek fashion, into two
“apartments,” to use that word in its proper sense, belonging
respectively to the men and the women[12]--there were but three or four
inmates besides the master and mistress. Hippocles had his house steward
and his personal attendant, both older than himself, long since
emancipated, who had accompanied him from his Italian home, and a lad of
seventeen, who was still a slave, but who, if he conducted himself well,
would certainly earn his freedom by the time that he had reached the age
of thirty. Hermione’s establishment, on the other hand, consisted of a
lady who had just exchanged the post of governess, now no longer
necessary, for that of companion or duenna, a housekeeper, and two
domestics who may be described by the modern terms of lady’s-maid and
house-maid. Stephanion, the companion, was of pure Athenian descent. She
belonged to one of the many families which had been reduced to poverty
by the war, and she had been glad to take employment in the house of the
wealthy alien. She had more education than was commonly given to
Athenian ladies, but this is not to say much, and Hermione would have
fared but ill for teaching, according at least to our standard if her
father had not always found time even in his busiest days, to supplement
her education. The housekeeper was a Laconian woman. She, too, had found
her way into the family through circumstances connected with the war.
She had been nurse in a wealthy Athenian household. Before the war it
had been the fashion, my readers should know, for the upper classes at
Athens to get their nurses from Sparta. A true Spartan, a daughter that
is, of the military aristocracy that ruled Laconia and its dependencies,
it was, of course, impossible to obtain, but girls from the farmer class
that cultivated the lands of their soldier masters often sought
situations in other countries. This was the case with Milanion, who as
the youngest of the five daughters of a Laconian farmer, had been
delighted to find a place with an Athenian lady, Melissa, wife of
Demochares, at a salary which almost equalled her father’s income. This
was just before the commencement of the long war. She had been nurse to
Melissa’s five children when the disastrous expedition to Sicily brought
irretrievable ruin upon her employer’s family. Demochares was one of the
army that surrendered with Nicias, was thrown with his comrades into
that most dreadful of prisons, the stone-quarries of Syracuse, and died
of a fever before the end of the year. His property had consisted, for
the most part, of farms in the island of Chios, and when Chios revolted
from Athens, the widow and her children were reduced to something very
like poverty. Nothing was left to them but a small farm at Marathon, and
as it so happened, the rent of the house which Hippocles unable, as has
been said, to own real property in Attica, had been accustomed to hire.
The establishment had to be broken up, the slaves being sold and the
free persons looking for employment elsewhere. Milanion was about to
return, much against her will, to Laconia, where her long residence at
Athens would have rendered her an object of suspicion and dislike, when
an opening suddenly presented itself in the family of Hippocles.
Pontia’s long illness had come to a fatal end, and the widower was
looking for an experienced woman to take charge of the young Hermione.
Milanion seemed to him exactly the person that he wanted, and she, on
the other hand, was delighted to come to him. As her charge grew older,
her duties as nurse gradually changed into the duties of a housekeeper.
She had come to her new situation accompanied by a middle-aged woman, a
Marian by birth, Manto by name, whom Hippocles had bought, at her
suggestion, at the sale of Demochares’ slaves. Manto had steadily
refused the emancipation which her master had several times offered to
her.

“No, sir,” she said, “I thank you very much, but I am better as I am. I
desire nothing more than to live in your house, and, when my time comes,
to die in it.”

“What if I should die first,” suggested the merchant.

“The gods know, my master, the gods know,” cried the poor woman in an
agony. “But it is impossible; the gods would not do anything so cruel,
so unjust. But, if you wish, you may put what you please into your will.
As long as you live you are my master, and I am your slave.” So matters
stood when my story opens. Perhaps it may be added that Manto’s
condition did not prevent her tongue from being truthful; but
affectionate, faithful, and honest, she allowed herself and was
allowed--no unusual circumstance, yet she was under a system of
slavery--a liberty of speech which in one free born would certainly have
been impossible. Finally, to complete my account of the household,
Hermione had for her maid a girl about a year older than herself. She
too had come into the family along with Milanion and Manto. Demochares
had bought her at the sale of the prisoners taken by the Athenians when
a little Sicilian town was captured. She was then a singularly pretty
child about seven years old, and Demochares had meant her to be a
playfellow or plaything, as the case might be, of a daughter of his own
of about the same age. She was of mixed race; her mother was a Sicanian,
that is, one of the so-called aboriginal inhabitants of Sicily, her
father a Carthaginian trader. She was now grown up into a handsome
maiden, who with her raven-black hair, dark piercing eyes, and deep
brunette complexion, made a remarkable contrast to the fair beauty of
her mistress.

When Callias reached the house the hour was late, later than etiquette
allowed for a visit, except from an intimate friend, or on a matter of
urgent business. His business, however, was urgent, and he did not
hesitate to knock, that is to strike the door sharply with a brass ring
which was attached to it by a staple. The day-porter had gone home for
the night, and the door was opened by the young slave mentioned above.
He explained that his master was just about to sit down to his evening
meal. “Take him my name,” said Callias, “and say that I come from the
magistrates on an important matter of business.” The lad invited him to
enter, and to take a seat in a small chamber which looked upon the
central court of the andronitis, a grass plot, bordered on all sides by
myrtle and orange. In a few minutes he returned, and invited the visitor
to follow him. Callias crossed the court and passed through the door
which led into the women’s apartment. Hippocles, it should be said, was
accustomed to see visitors on business in the front or men’s portion of
the dwelling, but spent his leisure time in the rooms assigned to his
daughter. The two had just taken their places at the table, Hippocles
reclining on a couch, Hermione sitting on a chair by his right hand, so
that his face was turned towards her.[13] The steward had placed the
first dish on the table, and was standing in front, with Hippocles’
personal attendant behind him. The latter at a sign from his master,
prepared a place for the new-comer.

Hippocles saluted his guest in a most friendly fashion, and Hermione
gave him her hand with a charming smile, though the moment afterwards
tears gathered in her eyes, when she remembered the last occasion on
which they had met.

[Illustration: Plan of a large Grecian House, probably more pretentious
than the House of Hippocles.

  1. Main Door.
  2. Entrance Passage.
  3. Central Court of the Men’s part of the house (_Andronitis_).
  4. 4. 4. Various Rooms of the _Andronitis_.
  5. Passage connecting the _Andronitis_ with the _Gynæconitis_
          (Women’s Apartments).
  6. Court of the _Gynæconitis_.
  7. 7. 7. Various rooms of the _Gynæconitis_.
  8. The Prostas--a hall opening from 6.
  9. 9. Apartments probably used as a family bedroom and sitting room.
  10. 10. Rooms for looms and woolen manufacture.]

“If the business will wait for half-an-hour,” said the host, “postpone
it for so long. I have had a long day’s work, and shall be scarcely
myself till I have eaten. And you--doubtless you have dined before this;
but you will take a cup with us.”

As a matter of fact Callias had not dined, though in the excitement of
the day’s business he had almost forgotten food. A hasty meal snatched
on board the trireme which had brought him to Athens had been his only
refreshment since the morning.

“Nay, sir, but I have not dined; unless you call some five or six dried
anchovies and a hunk of barley bread, washed down with some very sharp
Hymettus, a dinner; and that was rather before noon than after it.”

The meal was simple. It consisted of some fresh anchovies, a piece of
roast pork, a hare brought from Eubœa, for Attica swept as it had
been again and again by hostile armies, had almost ceased to supply this
favorite food, and a pudding of wheat flour, seasoned with spices. This
last had been made by Hermione herself. The rest of the dinner had been
cooked by a man who came in daily for the purpose. When the viands had
been cleared away, Hippocles proposed the usual toast, “To our Good
Fortune,” the toast not being drank, but honored by pouring some drops
from the goblet. A second libation followed, this time to “Athene the
Keeper of the City.” The host then pledged his guest in a cup of Chian
wine. His daughter followed the rule of the best Grecian families, and
drank no wine.

“We can dispense, I think, with these,” he said, when the steward was
about to put some apples, nuts and olives on the table.

“Just so,” replied his guest, “and this excellent cup of Chian will be
all the wine that I shall want.”

“Now then for business,” said Hippocles. “Let us hope that the city will
pardon us for postponing it so long. But we must eat. Shall my daughter
leave us? For my part, I find her a very Athene for counsel.”

“As you will, sir,” replied Callias, “I have nothing to say but what all
may know, and indeed will know before a day is past.”

The young man then proceeded to tell the story with which my readers are
already acquainted. The question was briefly this: How was Conon to be
told that relief was coming?

“I see,” said Hippocles, “that he must be told. He is a brave fellow,
and a good general, too, though perhaps a little rash. But he must make
terms for himself and his men, unless he has a project of relief. He
would not be doing his duty to the state if he did not. But if he
capitulates before the relief comes--how many ships has he?”

“Forty,” said Callias.

“And we can have a hundred, or possibly, a hundred and ten here, by
straining every nerve. The Spartans have a hundred and forty, I think.”

“A few may have been disabled in the battle; but it would not be safe to
reckon on less, for very likely others have been dropping in since
then.”

“Then Conon’s party will turn the scale, and they will be better manned,
I take it, than any that we shall be able to send out from here. They
must not be lost to us. If they are, we shall do better not to send out
the fleet at all, but to stand on our defence.”

“Is the _Skylark_ in harbor now?” asked Callias.

My readers must know that the _Skylark_ was Hippocles’ fast sailing
yacht.

“Yes,” was the reply, “she is in harbor and very much at the service of
the state.”

“Trust me with her,” said Callias, “and I will run the blockade.”

“I don’t think it is possible,” answered Hippocles. “I gathered from
what you said that the Spartans are inside the harbor. Now you may give
the slip to a blockading squadron when it is watching a harbor from the
outside. They always keep close to the mouth you see; and a really good
craft, smartly handled, that can sail in the eye of the wind, and does
not draw much water, has always a good chance. I’ll warrant the
_Skylark_ to do it, if it is to be done. But with the blockade _inside_
the harbor, the case is different, and I must own that I don’t see my
way.”

“May I speak, father?” said Hermione.

“Since when have you begun to ask leave to use your tongue, my darling?”
replied her father with a smile. “You should hear her lecturing me when
we are alone,” he went on, turning to his guest. “But our counsellor is
not used to speaking in an assembly.”

“Would it be of any use,” said the girl, “to disguise the _Skylark_, by
painting her another color and altering the cut of her rigging?”

“A good thought, my darling,” replied her father, “and one that I shall
certainly make use of. Now let me think; just for the present, things do
not seem to piece themselves together.”

He rose from the couch on which he had been reclining, and paced up and
down the room in profound thought. Fully half an hour had passed when he
suddenly stopped short in his walk, and turned to his daughter.

“My darling,” he said, “I see that you are getting sleepy.”

“Sleepy, father?” cried the girl, who indeed was as wide awake as
possible, “sleepy? what can you mean? how could I possibly feel sleepy,
when we are talking about such things?”

“Nevertheless your father says it,” replied Hippocles, “and fathers are
never mistaken.” And he laid his hand upon her shoulder.

Without another word Hermione rose from her chair, kissed her father,
held out her hand again to Callias, and left the room.

Hippocles waited for a few minutes, and then sat down on the couch by
Callias’ side.

“You will have guessed,” he said, “that I wanted the girl away. I wish
that I had never let her stay; now she will suspect something; but it
cannot be helped. Now, listen. What the girl said about disguising the
_Skylark_ set me thinking. That will be useful another time; indeed I
shall do it now. But it won’t do all that we want. Disguised or not
disguised, I don’t see how she is to get past the Spartan ships in
Mitylene harbor. Now we must try a bolder play. I shall disguise myself,
and go.”

“You, sir,” cried Callias in astonishment. “But think of the danger.”

“Well,” replied Hippocles, “we cannot expect to get anything really
valuable without danger. And I am something of a fatalist. What will be
will be. Now listen: I shall disguise myself as a trader of Cos. I am a
Dorian by birth, you know, and I can use the broad vowels and the lisps
to perfection I flatter myself. I say Cos,[14] because I happen to be
particularly well acquainted with its dialect. I shall go to
Callicratidas[15] and tell him my story--what the story shall be I have
not yet made up my mind, but it is not hard to impose upon a Spartan.
However leave all that to me. Go and tell the magistrates that I
undertake to tell Conon that he will be relieved. And, mind--not a word
to my daughter. I shall tell her that I am called away on important
business. Very likely she will guess something of the truth; but it
would only trouble her to tell her more.”

“And the magistrates, sir?” asked Callias, “how much are they to know?”

“Nothing more, I think, than what I said, that Hippocles the Alien
undertakes to communicate with Conon. I don’t doubt the good faith and
discretion of our friends; but the fewer there are in the secret of such
a plan, the better. Keep a thing in your own mind, I say. If you whisper
a secret even unto the earth, when the reed grows up it will repeat
it.[16] You will say simply that it is a matter which it is well for
the state to conceal. If I succeed, I justify myself; if not--well, I
take it, no man’s anger here will concern me much. And now farewell!
Don’t vex yourself about me. All will turn out well; and if not--how can
a man die better than in saving Athens. All my affairs are arranged, if
I should not return. My patron Melesippus will, of course, be my
executor, and I have ventured to join your name with his in the trust?
Have I your permission?”

Callias pressed his hand in silence.

“That is well, and now my mind is easy. And now,” he went on in a
cheerful tone, “farewell again; but before you go, we must have a
libation to Hermione who for the next ten days must be my special
patron. If I come back safe, I will regild this temple from roof to
basement.”

The libation was duly poured, and the vow repeated as the drops fell
upon the ground.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] The Andronitis and Gynaekonitis, as they were called.

[13] A Greek at table, after it became the fashion to recline instead of
sit (as had been the practice in the heroic ages) lay on his left side,
supporting his head by his left arm, the other arm being left free to
help himself from the dishes when they were placed before him. Women and
children always sat at table.

[14] Cos was one of the cities belonging to the Dorian Pentapolis.

[15] Callicratidas was the admiral In command of the Spartan fleet.

[16] Hippocles is alluding to a well known story. Midas deciding in
favor of Pan as a better musician than Apollo was punished by being
given the long ears of an ass. He hid them under his Thurgian cap from
all men except the barber who cut his hair. This man, oppressed with the
secret, dug a hole in the earth, whispered into it, “King Midas has
asses’ ears,” and filling it up again, so found relief from his burden.
But a reed grew from the spot, and as it was moved by the wind whispered
the secret to the world.




CHAPTER V.

RUNNING THE BLOCKADE.


Hippocles, who was a ship builder as well as a merchant, put all
available hands to work on the alterations which he proposed to make in
the _Skylark_. To disguise her effectually was a more difficult thing
than Hermione had imagined when she had suggested this idea. To disguise
her beyond all risk of discovery was probably impossible, a landsman
might be deceived by different colored paint, and a nautical observer,
if he did not give more than a casual glance, by an altered rigging. But
the lines of the ship would remain. These Hippocles endeavored to
conceal by a false and much broader bow which was ingeniously fitted on
to the true hull, and which made her look anything but the fast sailer
that she really was. Heavy bulwarks were substituted for the light ones
that had been a familiar feature of the _Skylark_. Altogether she was
metamorphosed in a fairly satisfactory way from a smart yacht into a
clumsy merchantman. As the venturous owner intended to time his arrival
for the night, and to do his errand before day-break, he hoped that the
disguise would save her as long as it should be wanted.

So much energy did the workmen, stimulated by their master’s presence
and by his liberal promises of renumeration, throw into their work, that
by the evening of the seventh day the _Skylark_ was ready for sea in
her new dress, disguised beyond recognition, except by very skilful eyes
indeed. The dockyard had been strictly closed against all visitors while
the work was in progress, and the men had been lodged within its walls,
so that no hint of what was going on might leak out. Hippocles had paid
a daily visit to his home, and did not conceal from his daughter that he
was busy in carrying out her suggestions. So frank, indeed, was he, and
so cheerful in manner, that the girl was fairly thrown off her guard.
Not a suspicion crossed her mind, that her father was meditating a
desperate enterprise in which the chances were certainly rather against
his life than otherwise, nor did she realize the extraordinary haste
with which the work was being pressed on, though she was generally aware
that a good deal of expedition was being used. Hence she was taken by
surprise, when on the eighth day instead of her father’s usual visit,
timed so that he might share her noon-day meal, a written message was
delivered to her, to the effect that her father was suddenly called away
from Athens on business of importance, and that he could not be certain
of the day of his return. The surprise almost overwhelmed her, chiefly
because she felt that this unusual hurry on the part of her father was
significant of the perilous nature of the enterprise. It was only her
unusual fortitude, backed by the feeling that she herself must not
deviate from doing her duty, that enabled her to bear up at all.

Meanwhile Hippocles was on his way to the scene of action. The _Skylark_
crossed the Ægean without meeting with any misadventure. She was
overhauled, indeed, when about half her journey was accomplished by an
Athenian cruiser, and her owner had the satisfaction of finding that so
far his disguise was successful. The Athenian captain was an
acquaintance of his own (indeed there were few prominent people in the
city to whom he was not known) and had actually been on board the
_Skylark_ more than once; but he did not recognize either Hippocles or
his vessel. In fact he was about to carry her off as a prize when
Hippocles, still without discovering himself, produced the pass with
which he had been provided under the seal of the Athenian authorities.
His arrival at Mitylene was happily timed in more ways than one. By a
stroke of that good fortune which is proverbially said to help the bold
it so happened that there was a violent north-east wind blowing. This
was a wind from which the harbor of Mitylene afforded little or no
shelter. In fact, when it was blowing, most sailors preferred to be out
on the open sea. Hippocles accordingly found everything in commotion.
The blockading ships, which moored as they were across the mouth of the
harbor, felt the full force of the wind, were anxious about their
moorings, and had little attention to give to any strange ship. The
_Skylark_ was in fact hardly noticed in the darkness and confusion, and
actually got beyond the line of the blockading galleys, and as far as
the admiral’s ship, without being challenged. For a few moments he
thought of boldly pushing on to the inner part of the harbor, where, as
has been said, the remainder of the Athenian fleet was lying hauled up
under the walls; but when he was hailed by a voice from a Spartan ship,
one of two that lay almost directly in his way, he abandoned the idea.
“Anaxilaus, merchant of Cos, to see the admiral, on business of
importance,” was his reply to the challenge. At the last moment he
dropped his anchor. A few minutes afterward, he came on board the
admiral’s galley and reported himself to that officer.

It would be unjust to Callicratidas--for this was the admiral’s name--to
describe him as a model Spartan. He was rather a model Greek. The
Spartans had great virtues which however, it is curious to observe,
seldom survived transplantation from their native soil.[17] They were
frugal, temperate, and just; but they were narrow in their habits of
thought and their conceptions of duty. A good soldier whose efficiency
was not diminished by any vice was their ideal man. They could not enter
into any large and liberal views of life. And their views of
statesmanship whether as regarded their own city or the whole race in
general were as narrow as were their notions of private virtue. They
sometimes showed a great amount of diplomatic skill, a strange contrast
with the bluntness which was their traditional characteristic, but of
wide and general views they seem to have been incapable. Yet
Callicratidas seems to have been an exception. We know comparatively
little about him. He emerges from absolute obscurity at the beginning of
the year with which my story opens, and it is only for a few months that
he plays a conspicuous part in history, but from now up to the hour
when we see him for the last time, all his words and acts are marked
with a rare nobility.

It was not difficult for Hippocles to invent a story which should
account for his presence at Mitylene. The domestic politics of almost
every Greek state were mixed up with the great struggle that was going
on between Athens and Sparta. Everywhere the democratic party looked to
Athens as its champion, the aristocratic to Sparta. This was especially
true of the states which were called the allies but were really the
subjects or tributaries of Athens. A turn of the political wheels that
brought the aristocrats to the top was commonly followed by a revolt
from the sovereign state; when, as was usually the case, they remained
underneath, they busied themselves in plotting for a change, and their
first step was to open communications with the Spartan general or
admiral in command.

In Cos the popular or pro-Athenian party was in the ascendant, and their
opponents were weak. The fact was that the Spartans were not in good
repute there. Six years before their admiral Astyochus had plundered the
island laying hands impartially on the property of friends and of foes.
Still there was a party which remained faithful to Sparta, and Hippocles
preferred to speak as their representative. His wide-spread connections
as a merchant--and Cos had a large trade with its famous vintages and
equally famous woven stuffs--gave him a knowledge of details and persons
that would have deceived a far more acute and suspicious person than
Callicratidas.

The merchant began the conversation by offering the admiral a present of
wine, and one of those almost transparent robes of silk that were a
specialty of the island.

“I will not be so churlish as to refuse what you have the good will to
offer me,” said Callicratidas, “but you must understand that I do not
accept these things for myself. I accept no personal gifts; it is a
dangerous practice, and has given rise to much scandal. I shall send
them to Sparta, and the magistrates will dispose of them as they think
fit. What is this?” he went on, taking up the robe and holding it
between his eyes and the lamp. “What do you use it for? for straining
the wine?”

Hippocles explained that it was a material for garments.

“Garments!” exclaimed the Spartan, “why, we might as well wear a
spider’s web. It is not clothing at all. It neither warms nor covers. Is
it possible that there are people so foolish as to spend their money on
it? It is costly, I suppose?”

“As you ask me,” replied Hippocles, “I may say that it costs about two
minas a yard.”

“Two minas a yard!” cried Callicratidas, whose Spartan frugality was
scandalized at such a price. “Why,” he added after a short calculation,
“it is very nearly a seaman’s pay for a year,[18] are there many who buy
such costly stuff?”

“A dress of this material is the top of the fashion for ladies in Athens
and Corinth.”

“What?” said the Spartan, “do women wear such things? It is incredible.
I have always thought that things had changed for the worse at home, but
we have not got as far as that. And now for your business.”

Hippocles explained that there was a dissatisfied party in Cos which was
very anxious to get rid of Athenian rule. “We are not strong enough,” he
went on, “to do it of ourselves, but send on a force and we will open
the gates to you. Cos is a strong place now, since the Athenians
fortified it, and, I should think, quite worth having.”

“And if we put you in power,” said the admiral, “you would begin, I
suppose, by putting all your opponents to death.”

Callicratidas was quite a different person from what Hippocles, with his
former experience of Spartans in command, had expected to find. His
disinterestedness, simplicity and directness were embarrassing, and made
him not a little ashamed of the part that he was playing. He would have
dearly liked to speak out of his own heart to a man who was
transparently honest and well-meaning, but in his position it was
impossible.

“We have, as you may suppose, sir,” he said in answer to this last
suggestion, “a great many injuries to avenge, but we should not wish to
do anything that does not meet with your approval.”

“The whole thing does not meet with my approval,” said the Spartan, “I
hate these perpetual plots; I hate to see every city divided against
itself, and see the big persons in Greece hounding them on to bloody
deeds, and making our own gain out of them. I wish to all the gods that
I could do something to bring this wretched war to an end. Why should
not Athens and Sparta be friends as they were in the old days? Surely
that would be better than our going on flying at each others’ throats as
we have been doing for now nearly twenty years past, while the Persian
stands by, and laughs to see us play his game. Where should we be--you
seem an honest man, by your face, though I cannot say that I
particularly like the errand on which you have come--where should we be,
I ask, if we had shown this accursed folly twenty-odd years ago, when
Xerxes brought up all Asia against us? As it was we stood shoulder to
shoulder, and Greece was saved. And now we have to go cap in hand, and
beg of the very Persians who are only biding their time to make slaves
of us. I tell you, sir, I feel hot with shame at the thought of what I
have had myself to put up with in this way. When I came here I found the
pay-chest empty; I don’t want to complain of anybody, so I won’t say how
this came about; but that was the fact, it was empty; the men had had no
wages for some time, and they would very soon have had no food. I asked
my officers for advice. ‘You must go to Cyrus,’ they said, ‘Cyrus is
paymaster.’[19] It was a bitter draught to swallow, but I managed to get
it down. I went to his palace at Sardis. ‘Tell your master,’ I said to
the slave who came to the door, a gorgeous creature whose dress I am
sure I could not afford to buy, ‘tell your master that Callicratidas,
admiral of the Spartan fleet, is here, and wishes to speak with him.’
The fellow left me standing outside, and went to deliver his message.
After I had waited till my patience was almost exhausted, the man came
back, and said ‘Cyrus is not at leisure to see you. He is drinking.’
Well, I put up with that. ‘Very good,’ I said, ‘I will wait till he has
done drinking.’ I thought that I would go earlier the next day, though
even then it was scarcely an hour after noon. So I went at a time when I
thought that he could not possibly have taken to his cups, and asked
again to see him. This time they had not the grace even to make an
excuse. ‘Cyrus is not at leisure to see you,’ was the answer, and
nothing more. That was more than I could stand, and I went away. I vowed
that day, and believe me it was not only because I had myself been
insulted, that if I lived to go home, I would do my very best to bring
Sparta and Athens together again. And now, sir, as to your business. I
will send home a report of what you say. If the authorities direct me to
take any action in the matter, I shall do my best to take it with
effect, but I tell you frankly that this idea does not commend itself to
me, and let me give you a bit of advice: do your best to make peace in
your city, as I shall do my best to make peace in Greece. Depend upon
it, that if we don’t, we shall have some one coming down upon us from
outside. It may be the Persian, though he does not seem to me to have
improved as a soldier; it may be the Macedonian, who is a sturdy fellow,
and helps us already to fight our battles. Whoever it is he will find us
helpless with an endless quarrel and will make short work with us. And
now good night.”

Hippocles left the Spartan admiral full of admiration for his manly and
patriotic temper, and not at all pleased that he had been obliged to
play a false part with a man so transparently honest.

About an hour after midnight the harbor was alarmed by the cry that the
ship from Cos had parted from her moorings. Hippocles had taken
advantage of a temporary increase in the force of the wind to cut his
cables, and to drift toward the Athenian part of the harbor. Nobody was
able to answer the cry for help, even if it had not been purposely
raised too late. The _Skylark_ had run the blockade, and Conon knew that
he was to be relieved.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] The instances in which a Spartan general sent to fill some office
abroad seemed to lose all self-restraint and all sense of shame are
deplorably numerous. Pausanias, the Spartan who commanded at Platæa, and
was afterwards banished for treacherous dealings with the Persians, was
the first conspicuous example of this national failing, as it may be
called; but it was an example often followed. The Spartan governors in
allied or conquered cities were almost proverbial for profligacy,
tyranny and corruption.

[18] A seaman was paid four obols a day, the rate having been increased
by the liberality of Cyrus from three to four. Five obols went to the
drachma, and a hundred drachmas to the mina.

[19] This was the prince commonly called the younger Cyrus, the second
of the two sons of Darius Nothus, King of Persia, by his Queen
Parysatis. He had come down about a year and a half before the time of
which I am writing to take the government of a large portion of Asia
Minor, viz: Lydia, Phrygia, and Cappadocia. He was strongly pro-Spartan
in his views, and as has been explained in a previous note, had
increased the rate furnished by the Persian treasury to the Spartan
fleet. But Lysander, in his anger at being suspended in the command,
had, with the selfishness, characteristic of Spartan officers, paid back
to Cyrus all the money that had been furnished for the pay of the
sailors.




CHAPTER VI.

ARGINUSÆ.


At Athens, meanwhile, the relieving fleet was being fitted out with a
feverish energy such as had never been witnessed within the memory of
man. Nine years before, indeed, preparations on a larger scale, if cost
and magnificence are to be taken into account, had been made for the
disastrous expedition against Syracuse; but there was all the difference
in the world between the temper of the city at the one time and at the
other. Athens was at the height of her strength and her wealth when she
sent out her armament, splendid, so to speak, with silver and gold,
against Syracuse. It was a mighty effort, but she did it, one may almost
say, out of the superfluity of her strength. Now she was sadly reduced
in population and in revenue; she was struggling not for conquest but
for life; she was making her last effort, and spending on it her last
talent, her last man. To find a juster parallel it would have been
necessary to go back a life-time, to the day when the Athenians gave up
their homes and the temples of their gods to the Persian invaders,
falling back on their last defences, the “wooden walls” of their ships.
Many men had heard from father or grandfather, it was just possible that
one or two tottering veterans may have seen with their own eyes, how on
that day a band of youths, the very flower of the Athenian aristocracy,
headed by Cimon, the son of Miltiades, had marched with a gay alacrity
through the weeping multitude, to hang up their bridles in the temple of
Athene. For the time the goddess needed not horsemen but seamen, and
they gave her the service that she asked for. Now the same sight was
seen again. Again the knights, the well-born and wealthy citizens of
Athens, dedicated their bridles to the patron goddess, and went to serve
as mariners on board the fleet. Every ship that could float was hastily
repaired and equipped. Old hulks that had been lying in dock since the
palmy days when the veteran Phormion[20] led the fleet of Athens to
certain victory, were launched again and manned. In this way the almost
unprecedented number[21] of one hundred and ten triremes were got ready.
To man these a general levy of the population was made. Every one within
the age of service not actually disabled by sickness, was taken to form
the crews, and not a few who had passed the limit volunteered. Even then
the quota had to be made up by slaves, who were promised their freedom
in return for their services. It was a stupendous effort, and one which
Athens made with her own strength. These were not mercenaries, but her
own sons whom she was sending out to make their last struggle for life.
Night and day the preparations were carried on, and before a month was
out from the day on which the tidings of the disaster at Mitylene
reached the city, the fleet was ready to sail. Its destination was
Samos, an island that had remained faithful to Athens even after the
disastrous end of the war in Sicily. Here it was joined by a contingent
of forty ships, made up of the same squadron scattered about the Ægean,
the two triremes of Diomedon[22] being among them. Diomedon was related
to Callias, and the young man asked and obtained leave from the captain
with whom he had sailed from Athens to transfer himself to his ship.

A battle was imminent. The Spartan admiral had left fifty ships to
maintain the blockade of Mitylene, and sailed to meet the relieving
force. His numbers were inferior, but pride, and perhaps policy, forbade
him to decline the combat. He had made a haughty boast to Conon, and he
had to make it good. “The sea is Sparta’s bride,” he had said. “I will
stop your insults to her.” His fleet was now off Cape Malta, the
south-eastern promontory of Lesbos. The Athenians had taken up their
position at some little islands between it and the mainland, the
Arginusæ, or White Cliffs, as the name may be translated, a name
destined to become notable as the scene of the great city’s last
victory.

Callicratidas had watched the arrival of the Athenians, and had
concluded that, according to the usual custom of Greek sailors, they
would take their evening meal on shore. Before long the fires lighted
over all the group of islets showed that he was right. His own men had
supped, and they were ordered to embark in all haste and make an attack
which would probably be a surprise. What success his bold and energetic
action would have had we can only guess. The stars in their courses
fought against him. A violent thunderstorm with heavy rain came on, and
prevented him from putting to sea.

The next day was fine and calm and the two fleets were early afloat.
Their arrangement and plan of action showed a curious contrast, a
contrast such as was almost enough to make one of the great Athenian
seamen of the past turn in his grave. The Athenian ships were massed
together; the Spartans and their allies were formed in a single line.
Callias, who had never before been present at a great sea-fight, but who
had taken pains to acquire as much professional knowledge as he could,
expressed his surprise to Diomedon. “How is this, sir?” he said, “how
can our ships maneuver when they are packed together in this fashion?”

Diomedon, an old sailor who had been afloat for nearly forty years,
smiled somewhat bitterly as he answered.

“Maneuver, my dear boy! That is exactly what we want to avoid. We can’t
do it ourselves, and we don’t mean to let our enemies do it, if it can
be helped. The generation that could manœuver is gone. Five and
twenty years of fighting have used it up. But, happily, we can still
fight, at least such a fleet as we have got to-day, the real Athenian
grit, can fight. If the weather holds fine, and I think it will for the
day, though I don’t quite like the looks of the sky, we shall do well,
because we shall be able to keep together.”

The arrangement of the Athenian line may be very briefly described. It
had two strong wings, each consisting of sixty ships, formed in four
squadrons of fifteen. These wings consisted wholly of Athenian galleys;
the contingents of the allies were posted in the centre, and were in
single line, either because they were better sailors, or because, as
being directly in front of the group of islets, they were protected by
their position.

The policy of the Athenian commander was successful. Arginusæ was not a
battle of skillful maneuvers, but of hard fighting. Such battles are
often determined by the fate of the general, and so it was that day.
Callicratidas, had that pride of valor which had often done such great
things for Sparta and for Greece, but which some times resulted in
immediate disaster. His sailing master, a man of Megara, had advised him
to decline a battle. A rapid survey of the position, of the numbers of
the enemy and of the tactics which they were evidently intending to
pursue, had convinced this skillful, experienced seaman, that the
chances were against him. Callicratidas would not listen to him. “If I
perish,” he said, “Sparta will not be one whit the worse off.” It was
the answer of a man who was as modest as he was brave; but it was not to
the point. Sparta would be a great deal worse off if she lost not only
him--and he was worth considering--but, as actually happened, nearly the
half of her fleet.

The signal to advance was passed along the line, and the admiral himself
took up his place in the foremost ship. The whole fleet could see him as
he stood a conspicuous figure in the lead. His stately and chivalrous
presence, the feeling that a man whom it was a privilege to follow
anywhere, gave, for a time, an effective encouragement. But the loss was
proportionately great when that presence was removed. Early in the day
his ship endeavored to ram that which carried the Athenian admiral
Diomedon, itself in the van of the opposing force. Diomedon himself was
at the rudder and managed his galley with remarkable skill. He avoided
or rather half avoided the blow of the enemy’s boat, and this in such a
way that the Spartan admiral lost his balance, and fell into the water.
Callias, who was standing on the rear of the Athenian galley, at the
head of a detachment of men ready either to board or to repel boarders,
endeavored to save him; but the weight of his armor was fatal. He sank
almost instantaneously. His death, it is easy to believe, cost Athens
even more than it cost Sparta. It would have been infinitely better for
her to fall into his hands than to have to sue for terms, as she did not
many months afterwards, to the less generous Lysander.

The battle lasted for several hours. About noon the weather became
threatening. The wind changed to the south-west and the sea began to
rise. By general consent the struggle was suspended. Both sides had
fought with conspicuous valor, but there could be no doubt that the
victory remained with the Athenians. Their losses were serious, nearly a
fifth of their force, or to give the numbers exactly, twenty-nine ships
out of one hundred and fifty. But they had inflicted much more damage
than they had suffered. Out of the small squadron of Spartan ships, ten
in number, nine had been destroyed; and more than sixty belonging to the
various allied contingents were either sunk or taken. The fifty that
remained--and there were barely fifty of them--made the best of their
way either to the friendly island of Chios, or to Phocæa on the
mainland. Without doubt the Athenians had won a great victory. Whether
the opportunity could have been used to restore permanently the fortunes
of the city, is doubtful; but it is certain that it was lamentably
wasted.

FOOTNOTES:

[20] Phormion won some brilliant victories in the Corinthian gulf in the
early years of the war. He died prematurely, it would seem about 429 B.
C.

[21] The number of triremes contributed by Athens to the Greek fleet of
Salamis was one hundred and eighty, but this comprised, of course,
literally every ship that they possessed. In the expedition against
Syracuse, the triremes numbered one hundred and thirty-four.

[22] Diomedon was the officer in command of Samos, and had already
attempted with the twelve ships that composed his squadron, to relieve
Conon. His force was so inferior to that of the Spartans that he could
only have hoped to succeed by eluding their observations. Accordingly he
had avoided the harbors and endeavored to make his way up a narrow
channel, known by the common name of “Euripus” (a channel with a swift
current) by which Mitylene could be approached. Callicratidas, however,
had discovered the maneuver and captured ten out of the twelve ships.




CHAPTER VII.

AFTER THE FIGHT.


A council of war was held by the Athenian admirals on one of the
Arginusæ islets as soon as they could meet after the fighting had come
to an end. Callias, by Diomedon’s desire, waited outside the tent in
which the deliberations were being held, and could not help hearing, so
high were the voices of the speakers raised, that there was an angry
argument about the course to be pursued. The intolerably clumsy system
of having ten generals of equal authority was on its trial, if indeed
any trial was needed, and was once more found wanting.[23] Even if the
right decision should be reached, time was being wasted, time that, as
we shall see, was of a value absolutely incalculable.

When at last the council broke up--its deliberations had lasted for more
than an hour--and Diomedon rejoined the young officer, he wore a gloomy
and anxious look.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that mischief will come of this. I feel it so
strongly that, though I ought not, perhaps, to tell outside the council
what has been going on within, I must call you to witness. I did my
very best to persuade my colleagues. ‘Our first business,’ I said, ‘is
to save our friends. There were twenty-six ships, I said, disabled. A
few were sunk on the spot; others, I am afraid, have gone down since;
but more than half, I hope, are still afloat. Even where the ship is
gone already, there are sure to be some of the crew who have been able
to keep themselves afloat either by swimming or by holding on to
floating stuff. For the sake of the gods, gentlemen,’--I give you my
very words--‘don’t lose another moment. We have lost too many already.
Send every seaworthy ship that you have got to the rescue of the
shipwrecked. It is better to let ten enemies escape, than lose a single
friend.’ They would not listen to me. They were bent, they said, on
following up their victory, an excellent thing, I allow; but only when
the first duty of making all that you have got quite safe has been
performed. One of them--I will mention no names--positively insulted me.
‘Diomedon,’ he said, ‘has doubtless had enough fighting for the day.’
Why, in the name of Athene, do they put such lowbred villains into
office. The fellow has a long tongue, and so the people elect him. I
‘tired of fighting’ indeed? I might have some excuse if I were, for I
was hard at it, when he was a thievish boy, picking up unconsidered
trifles in the market-place. Well; the end of it was that we came to a
sort of compromise. Forty-odd ships are to go and save what can be saved
from the wrecks--the gods only know how many will be left by this
time--while the rest are to make the best of their way to Mitylene, and
cut off the blockading squadron.”

“And you, sir?” asked Callias, “with which squadron are you to be?”

“I am to go to Mitylene, of course, after what that fellow said, I could
not ask to have the other duty; but I feel that it is what I ought to be
doing.”

“Who is to have it, sir,” said Callias.

“No one, if you will believe it,” answered the admiral, with an angry
stamp of the foot. “I mean no one of ourselves, of the Ten. They are all
so anxious to follow up the victory, as they put it, and make a great
show of taking Spartan ships, that they will not take the trouble.
Theramenes and Thrasybulus are to do it. I know that they have been in
command in former years and may be supposed to be competent.
Thrasybulus, too, is trustworthy; but Theramenes--to put it plainly--is
a scoundrel. You know that I don’t care about politics; I am a plain
sailor and leave such things to others; but I say this, politics or no
politics, a man who turns against his friends is a scoundrel.[24] I
don’t know what trick he is not capable of playing. Anyhow, whether
these two do the business ill or well, one of the Ten ought to go. It
would be better; and I am sure trouble will come of our not going. Mind
this is all in confidence. You are never to breathe a word of it, till I
give you leave.”

“And am I to go with you, sir?” said Callias.

“No,” was the answer; “I forgot to tell you; the worry of all this put
it out of my mind. You are to take the despatch to Athens.”

“But the shipwrecked men”--exclaimed Callias.

“We must obey orders.”

An hour afterward Callias was on his way to Athens; the storm had now
increased to something like a gale. As the waves came from the south it
was impossible to take a straight course for the point in view, lying as
it did almost due west. Few ships in those days could keep a straight
line with the wind on the quarter.[25] Indeed it was soon impossible to
keep up any sail at all, nor was it safe, even if the strength of the
rowers already wearied by the labors of the day, had permitted it to
keep the ship broadside to the waves. Nothing remained but to put her
about and drive before the wind, a sail being now hoisted again and the
rowers exerting themselves to the utmost to avoid being “pooped” by the
heavy waves. Toward morning the wind moderated, but by that time the
_Swallow_, for that was the name of the despatch-boat which had been
told off for the service, had been driven as much as fifty miles out of
her course. This would not have been of much consequence, but that the
timber of the _Swallow_ had been so strained by her battle with the sea
that she began to leak inconveniently, if not dangerously. Her crew,
too, were now in urgent need of rest. Under ordinary circumstances,
Chios, which could be seen, as the day broke, about ten miles on the
right bow, would have afforded a convenient shelter; but Chios was in
the hands of the enemy. The little island of Vara, lying some ten miles
to the north-west, was the only alternative. Here Callias, much against
his will, for he feared that his news would be anticipated, was
compelled to stop, the captains of the despatch-boat refusing to
proceed, until vessel and men were better able to face the weather.

As it turned out, the delay did no harm. In fact it was the means of his
reaching Athens with more speed and safety than he might otherwise have
done. A day indeed was lost in doing such repairs as the imperfect
resources of the little island permitted, but on the morrow, Callias set
out again, and was groaning over the day that had been lost, and the
very little good that the clumsy boat-builders had been able to do for
him, when he found himself being rapidly overhauled by a vessel which
had not long before hove in sight. Before noon he recognized the cut of
the disguised _Skylark_, and at once ran up a signal which Hippocles
whom he supposed to be on board would, he knew, recognize. The signal
was immediately answered, and before another half-hour had passed the
_Skylark_ was along-side. After a brief colloquy it was arranged that
the _Swallow_ should make the best of her way to Samos, where there was
an arsenal in which she could be properly repaired and that Callias with
his dispatches should take his passage to Athens in the yacht.

Hippocles was acquainted with the general fact that the Athenian fleet
had won a great victory; but he knew no details, and was eager to hear
from the lips of one who had taken a part in the action. And he had much
that was interesting to say to his young friend. The three weeks which
he had spent in Mitylene with the blockaded squadron had not made him
hopeful about the first issue of the war. He had found that Conon was
not hopeful, and Conon was as able and intelligent an officer as Athens
had in her service.

“This has been a stupendous effort on the part of the city,” he said,
“and it has saved us for a time, but it can’t be kept, and it can’t be
repeated. Athens is like a gambler reduced to his last stake. He wins
it; very good. But then he has to throw again; and as often as he
throws, it is the same--if he loses, he loses all. And, sooner or later,
lose he must. In the long run the chances are against us. We have lost
our _morale_. I saw a good deal of Conon’s men when I was shut up, and I
thought very badly of them; and he thinks badly, too, I know. It is only
a question of time. Do you know,” he went on, sinking his voice to a
whisper--“and mark you, this is a thing that I should not venture to say
to anyone in the world but you--I am half inclined to wish that we had
been beaten in the last battle--that is, if Callicratidas had lived. A
noble fellow indeed! Do you know that he let the Athenians whom he took
at Methymna go on their _parole_? Any one else would have sold them for
slaves.”

“Well,” said Callias, who was a little staggered by his friend’s view of
affairs, “as your hero is drowned--mind that I quite agree in what you
say of him--perhaps it is better that things have turned out as they
have. And I can’t believe that our chances are as bad as you make out.
Anyhow we are better off than when I saw you last.”

“I hope so; I hope so;” said Hippocles in a despondent tone, “But they
might have done better. For instance, we have let the blockading
squadron at Mitylene escape.”

“How was that?” asked Callias. “Did you see nothing of our fleet. It was
to sail northward at once.”

“No--I never saw or heard of it. Now listen to what happened. On the day
after the battle--though of course I knew nothing of what
happened--_two_ despatch-boats came into the harbor--so at least
everyone thought--and the second had wreaths on mast and stern, as if it
had brought good news. And Eteonicus--he was in command of the
blockading squadron--was good enough to send us a herald with the
intelligence that Callicratidas had won a great sea fight, and that the
whole of the Athenian fleet had been destroyed. Of course we did not
quite believe that, but if only a quarter of it was true, it was not
pleasant hearing. My old sailing master, who has as sharp eyes as any
man I know, said to me. ‘My belief, sir, is that it is all nonsense
about this great victory, and that the second boat was only the first
_dressed up_. I observed them both particularly, and they were amazingly
alike. In both the bow sides oars were just a little behind the stroke,
and one of the oars, I noticed, was a new one, and not painted like the
rest. And why should the man take the trouble to tell us about the
victory as he calls it. If it is true, he has us safe, and can cut us up
at his leisure. No, sir, I don’t believe a word of it.’ Well, I was not
certain that the old man was right, but I strongly suspected that he
was. Anyhow I was so convinced of it that I spent the whole night in
getting ready; and, sure enough, the next morning the blockading
squadron had slipped off, with nobody to hinder them.”

“That was a very smart trick for a Spartan,” said Callias.

FOOTNOTES:

[23] I may refer my readers to a signal instance in earlier Greek
history where the same system almost led to disaster. It was only by the
unusual personal influence of Miltiades, a personal influence almost
unparalleled in Athenian history, that thus the ten generals were
induced to fight at Marathon. There can be little doubt that, if the
conflict had been delayed the pro-Persian party might have seriously
hampered, if it did not altogether defeat, the efforts of the patriots.

[24] Theramenes had taken a prominent part four years before this date
in the establishment of the oligarchy of the Four Hundred; finding that
his own position was not such as he conceived to be suited to his
merits, and having reason also to believe that the oligarchy would soon
be overthrown--the fleet had declared against them--he changed sides and
was the means of bringing up the condemnation of two of his own intimate
friends, Antiphon and Archeptolemus.

[25] Catullus mentions it as a special excellence of his yacht that it
could

  “Carry its load o’er stormy seas
  Whether from right or left the breeze
  Call o’er the main, as safe and fleet
  Over course, as when, on either sheet
  With equal strength blew fair behind,
  With level keel the following wind.”




CHAPTER VIII.

THE NEWS AT ATHENS.


The _Skylark_ excelled herself in the display of her sailing qualities.
Thanks to this, Callias, in spite of the untoward delays which had
occurred on his journey, was the first to bring intelligence of the
victory to Athens. The news ran like wild fire through the city,
gathering, as may be supposed, a vast number of imaginary details, as it
passed from mouth to mouth, and the assembly which was called by
proclamation for the next day, to hear the reading of the despatches,
was, considering the empty condition of the city, most unusually
crowded. No one who could crawl to the market-place was absent, and all
the entrances and approaches were thronged by women, children, and
slaves. The first stress of fear had been relieved, for it was known
that a victory had been won; but there was still much room for anxiety.
The victory had not been gained without cost--no victories ever
were--and it was only too probable that in this case the cost had been
heavy. The despatch was brief and formal. It told the numbers engaged,
and the order of formation, with the number of hostile vessels captured
or sunk. It mentioned the fact that there had been losses on the side of
the conquerors, and promised details when there should have been time to
ascertain the facts.

After the assembly had been dismissed, Callias was overwhelmed with
enquiries. To these he thought it well to return very vague answers. The
fact was that there was much that he knew and much that he did not know.
He knew the name of more than one of the ships that had been sunk or
disabled. Two or three had been run down before his eyes. About others
he had information almost equally certain. He could have told some of
his questioners what would have confirmed their worst fears. On the
other hand he could not give anything like a complete list of the
losses. Some enquirers he could reassure. He had seen or even talked to
their friends after the battle. All the admirals, he knew, were safe.
And steps, he was sure, had been taken to rescue the shipwrecked crews.
On the subject of Diomedon’s fears he preserved absolute silence. If any
disaster had happened, it was only too sure to be heard of before long.

On the evening of the day of assembly a great banquet was held in the
Prytaneum, or Town-hall of Athens. Such a banquet was always an
interesting sight, and on this occasion Callias, as he witnessed it for
the first time, also saw it to the very greatest advantage. All the
public guests[26] of the city that were not absent on active service or
were not positively hindered from coming by age or infirmity were
present. The ranks of these veterans were indeed sadly thinned. The war
had been curiously deadly to officers high in command. The fatal
expedition to Sicily had swept off many of the most distinguished.
Others had fallen in the “little wars” in which Athens like all states
that have wide dominions had been perpetually involved. One famous
survivor of a generation that had long since passed away was there,
Myronides, the victor of Œnophyta. The old man had been born in the
Marathon year, and was therefore now eighty-four. His life, it will be
seen, embraced with remarkable exactitude the period of the greatness of
Athens. The victory that had made him famous had been won fifty-one
years before, and had been, so to speak, the “high water mark” of
Athenian dominion.[27] He had lived to see almost its lowest ebb, though
happily for himself as he died before the year was out, he was spared
from seeing the absolute ruin of his country. Callias was distantly
related to him and was on terms of as close a friendship as the
difference of age permitted with his son Eteonicus, one of the ablest
and most patriotic statesmen of the time. After the libation which was
the usual signal for the wine drinking, had been poured, the old man
rose from his place, as his habit was, and walked down the hall,
touching our hero on his shoulder as he passed.

“Come,” he said, as Callias looked up, “if you can spare half an hour
from the wine cup to bear an old man company.”

The young man immediately left his place and accompanied the veteran to
one of the small chambers leading from the hall.

“And now tell me all about it,” he said, when they were seated.

Callias gave him as full an account as he could of all that he had seen
during the campaign. Myronides plied him with questions that showed an
intelligence of unabated vigor. The armament and sailing qualities of
the ships, the _morale_ and _physique_ of the crews, every detail, in
fact, that concerned the efficiency of the force that Athens had in the
field, were subjects of liveliest interest to the old man. When he had
heard all that his young kinsman had to say, he heaved a deep sigh. “Ah!
my dear boy,” he said, “things have come to a pretty pass with Athens.
As an old soldier I know what some of the things that you tell me mean
better than you do yourself. We are near the beginning of the end, and I
can only hope that I shall be gone when the end itself comes. I don’t
mean that this is not a great victory that Diomedon and the rest of them
have won; but it is a victory that will never be won again. In the very
nature of things it can not. Do you think that the old men and boys that
I won the day with at Œnophyta[28] would have sufficed for a regular
force, a force that the city could rely on? Of course not. I could not
even have afforded to risk the chance if they had not had something
strong behind them. But now what is there? Old men and boys, and nothing
behind them. The slaves, you say? Very good; they fought very well, I
hear. And of course they will get their freedom. Do you think that they
will fight as well again after they have got it? Why should they? A man
may as well die as be a slave, and so they might very well risk their
lives to get free. But, once free, why should they risk them again?”

“What!” cried Callias, “not to keep the Spartans out of Athens?”

“You talk as an Athenian,” said the old man, “and they are not
Athenians. You and I, I allow, would sooner die than see Spartans within
the walls: but what would it matter to them? They could eat and drink,
buy and sell just as comfortably whoever might be their masters. Yes, my
son; it is all over with a city that has to fall back on its slaves.
There is only one chance, and that is to make peace _now_, before we
lose all that we have gained. But what chance is there of that? Is there
any one who would even dare to propose such a thing?”

“You would, sir,” said the young man.

“Yes, I might; but to what profit? I don’t suppose they would do me any
harm. ‘Poor old man!’ they would say, ‘he dotes.’ But as for listening
to me--I know better than that. Is there one of the responsible
statesmen who would venture to give such advice? Would my son Eteonicus
venture? Not he; and yet he is a sensible and honest young man, and
knows that I am right. But it would be as much as his life, or, what he
values more, his whole career is worth, to hint at such thing. Oh! what
opportunities I have seen lost in this way. Unfortunately a victory
makes the Athenians quite impracticable.[29] They don’t seem capable of
realizing that the wheel is certain to take a turn. But you have had
enough of an old man’s croakings. The gods grant that these things may
turn out better than my fears! And now give me your arm to the gate,
where my people will be waiting for me.”

Callias conducted the old man to the door, and saw him put safely into
the litter which was waiting for him. He then stood meditating how he
should dispose of himself for the rest of the evening. He was unwilling
to return to the banquet. Questions would be put to him, he knew, by
many of the guests to which it would be difficult either to give or to
refuse an answer. He would gladly, indeed, have hidden himself
altogether till the fuller despatches should have arrived, which would
relieve him of the necessity of playing any longer the difficult part
which had been imposed upon him. His thoughts naturally turned to
Hippocles and Hermione, and he had already taken some steps in the
direction of the Peiraeus, when the thought occurred to him that he was
scarcely on terms of such intimacy with the family as would warrant a
visit at so late an hour. As he stood irresolute, the door of a
neighboring house opened, and a party of four young men issued from it
into the street.

“Ah!” cried one of them, “’tis the sober Callias. Seize him, Glaucus and
Eudaemon, and make him come with us.”

The two men addressed ran up to our hero, and laid hold each of an arm.

“You are a prisoner of my spear,” said the first speaker, whose name, I
may say, was Ctesiphon, “and may as well submit to your fate with as
much grace as possible. You shall not suffer anything unendurable, and
shall be released at the proper time. Meanwhile you must join our
expedition.”

“I submit,” said Callias, willing, perhaps, to have the question that
had been puzzling him settled for him. “But tell me, if I have to follow
you, whither you are bound.”

“We are going to the house of Euctemon, where there will be something, I
know, worth seeing and hearing.”

“But I am a stranger,” said Callias.

“A stranger!” cried Ctesiphon, “you are no such thing. The man who
brings good news to Athens is the friend of everybody. Besides Euctemon
is my first cousin, and he is always pleased to see my friends. You
should have been at his dinner, but that there was no room on his
couches for more guests. But now when the tables are removed[30] we
shall easily find places. But come along or we shall lose something.”

There was no want of heartiness in Euctemon’s greeting to his new
guests. To Callias he was especially polite, making room for him on his
own couch. When the new arrivals were settled in their places, the host
clapped his hands. A white-haired freedman, who acted as major-domo,
appeared.

“We are ready for Stephanos,” said Euctemon.

A few minutes afterwards a figure appeared, so curiously like the
traditional representations of Homer that every one was startled.
Stephanos was a rhapsodist, or professional writer, and he had made it
one of the aims of his life to imitate as closely as he could the most
distinguished member that his profession could boast. In early life he
had been a school master, and an accident, if we may so describe a blow
from the staff of a haughty young aristocrat, whom he had ventured to
chastise, had deprived him of sight. His professional education had
included the knowledge of the authors whom the Greeks looked upon as
classics, Homer holding the first place among them, and he was glad to
turn this knowledge to account, when he was no longer able to teach. In
this occupation too his blindness could be utilized. It had its usual
effect of strengthening the memory, and it helped him to look the part,
which, as has been said, he aspired to play.

The blind minstrel was guided to the seat which had been reserved for
him in the middle of the company by an attendant, who also carried his
harp.

“What shall we have, gentlemen?” asked the host. “You will hardly find
anything worth learning that Stephanos does not know.”

The guests had various tastes, so various that it seemed very difficult
to make a choice. One wanted the story of the Cyclops, another the tale
as told by Demodocus to Alcinous and the Phæacian princes, of the loves
of Ares and Aphrodite. A third, of a more sober turn of mind, called for
one of the didactic poems of Solon, and a fourth would have one of the
martial elegies with which the old Athenian bard Tyrtaeus stirred, as
was said, the spirits of the Spartan warriors.

“Let Callias, the bringer of good news, name it,” said Euctemon, after
some dozen suggestions had been made.

The proposal was received with a murmur of approval.

The young man thought for a moment. Then a happy idea struck him. About
a year before there had occurred an incident which had roused the
deepest feeling in Athens. The aged Sophocles, accused by his son
Iophon before a court of his clansmen, of imbecility and incapacity for
managing his affairs, had recited as a sufficient vindication of his
powers, a noble chorus from a play which he was then composing, the last
and ripest fruit of his genius--the “Œdipus in Colonus.” The verses
had had a singular success, as indeed they deserved to have, in catching
the popular fancy. They were exquisitely beautiful, and they were full
of patriotic pride. Every one had them on his lips; and before they had
time to grow hackneyed, the interest in them had been revived by the
death of the veteran poet himself.

“Let us have the ‘Praises of Athens’ by Sophocles the son of Sophilus of
Colonus.”

The choice met with a shout of applause. The minstrel played a brief
prelude on his harp in the Dorian or martial mood,[31] and then began:

  “Swell the song of praise again;
  Other boons demand my strain,
  Other blessings we inherit,
  Granted by the mighty spirit;
  On the sea and on the shore,
  Ours the bridle and the oar.
  Son of Chronos old whose sway
  Stormy winds and waves obey,
  Thine be heaven’s well-earned meed,
  Tamer of the champing steed;
  First he wore on Attic plain
  Bit of steel and curbing rein.
  Oft too, o’er the water blue,
  Athens strains thy laboring crew;
  Practiced hands the barks are plying,
  Oars are bending, spray is flying,
  Sunny waves beneath them glancing.
  Sportive myriads round them dancing,
  With their hundred feet in motion,
  Twinkling ’mid the foam of ocean.”

He concluded amidst thunders of applause, the reference to the fleet
being especially rewarded with a purse from the host and a shower of
gold pieces from the guests.

Other recitations followed, not all, it must be confessed, in so
elevated a strain; each was produced with a few bars of music
appropriate to its character.

The next entertainment was of a less intellectual kind. Now dancers were
introduced into the room by the trainer who had taught them, and whose
slaves in fact they were. The man was a red-faced, bloated looking
creature, who, however, had been very active in his time, and could
still display a wonderful amount of agility when he was engaged in
teaching his pupils. The dancers were brother and sister, twins, and
curiously alike, though the boy was nearly a half-head taller, and
generally on a larger scale than the girl. The performance commenced
with a duet of the harps and the flute. The harp, a small instrument
not larger than a violin was played by the boy, the flute by a female
player, who had come into the room along with the dancers. After a while
the harp became silent, the flute continuing to give out a very marked
measure. To this the girl began to dance, whirling hoops into the air as
she moved, and catching them as they fell. Many were in the air at once,
and the girl neither made a single step out of time nor let a single
hoop fall to the ground.

A more difficult and exciting performance followed. The flute-player
changed the character of her music. The Lydian measure which had been
admirably suited to the graceful steps of the dance gave place to the
swift Phrygian scale, wild and fantastic music such as might move the
devotees of Cybele or Dionysus to the mysterious duties of their
worship. At the same time an attendant of the trainer brought in a large
hoop, studded round its inner circle with pointed blades. The girl
commenced to dance again with steps that grew quicker and quicker with
the music, till, as it reached a climax of sound, she leapt through the
hoop. The flute-player paused for a moment, as the dancer turned to
recover her breath, her bosom rising and falling rapidly, and her eyes
flashing with excitement. Then the music and the dance began again, with
the same _crescendo_ of sound and motion, till the same culminating
point was reached, and the same perilous leap repeated.

The spectators watched the scene with breathless interest; but it was an
exhibition that was scarcely suited to Greek taste. A Greek could be
even horribly cruel on occasions, but a cruel spectacle--and spectacles
that depend for their attraction on the danger to the performer are
critically cruel--offended their artistic taste. The company began to
feel a little uneasy, and Euctemon finally interrupted the festival when
after the second leap had been sucessfully accomplished he signed to the
flute-player to cease her music.

“Child,” he said to the dancer, “Aphrodite and the graces would never
forgive me, if you were to come to any harm in my house. It is enough;
you have shown us that no one could be more skilful or more graceful
than you.”

The boy and girl now performed together in what was called the Pyrrhic
or war dance. Each carried a light shield and spear, made of silvered
tin. They represented two warriors engaged in single combat. Each took
in turn the part of the assailant and the assailed, the one darting
forward the spear which had been carefully made incapable of doing any
harm, the other either receiving the blow upon his shield or avoiding it
with agile movements of the body.[32] The flute-player accompanied the
dance with a very lovely and spirited tune, while the company looked on
with the greatest admiration, so agile, so dexterous, and so invariably
graceful were the motions of the two dancers.

When the boy and girl had retired, and while the guests were again
devoting themselves to the wine, Callias was accosted by a neighbor with
whose handsome features, characterized as they were by a gravity not
often seen in young Athenians, he was familiar, though he did not happen
ever to have made his acquaintance.

“I am about to retire,” said the stranger, “and if I may presume so
far, I would recommend you to do the same. Our host is hospitable and
generous, and has other virtues which I need not enumerate; but his
entertainments are apt to become after a certain hour in the night such
as no modest young man--and such from your face I judge you to be--would
willingly be present at. So far we have had an excellent and blameless
entertainment; but why not depart. What say you?”

“That I am ready to go with you,” answered Callias. “My friend Ctesiphon
brought me hither, and I know nothing of our host except the report of
his riches and liberality.” “What! are you going?” cried the host, as
the two young men rose from their places. “Nay, but you are losing the
best part of the entertainment. It is but a short time to the first
watch when Lyricles will come with his troop of dancers. He says that
they are quite incomparable.”

“Nay, sir,” said the young man who had spoken to Callias, “you must
excuse us.”

“Ah!” cried one of the guests, a young dandy, whose flushed face and
flower-garland set awry on his forehead seemed to show that he had been
indulging too freely in his host’s strong Chian wine, “’Tis old
Silverside. He pretends to be a young man; but I believe that he is
really older than my father. At least I know that the old gentleman is
far more lively. Come, Philip and Hermogenes,” he went on addressing two
of his neighbors, “don’t let us permit our pleasant party to be broken
up in this way.”

The three revellers started up from their places, and were ready to stop
the departing guests by force. But the host, who was still sober, and
was too much of a gentleman to allow annoyances of the kind to be
inflicted upon anyone in his house, interfered.

“Nay, gentlemen,” he cried, “I will put force on no man for if our
friends think that they can be better or more pleasantly employed
elsewhere, I can only wish them good night, and thank them for so much
of their company as they have been pleased to bestow upon us.”

The two, accordingly, made their escape without any further
interference.

“Will you walk with me as far as my house,” said Callias’ companion to
him. “It lies in the Agræ.[33] The night is fine and I shall be glad of
your company.”

Callias cheerfully consented, and was glad that he had done so, so witty
and varied was his companion’s conversation.

When they had reached their destination his new friend invited him to
enter. This he declined to do for the hour was late, and he wished to be
at home.

“Well then,” said the other, “we can at least meet again. This, you see,
is my house, and my name is Xenophon, the son of Gryllus.”

FOOTNOTES:

[26] Persons who had rendered distinguished services to their country in
peace or war received, among other rewards, the privilege, lasting for
life, of dining in the Town hall. The city had no greater honor to
bestow.

[27] It had brought about for a time the subjection of all the
Boeotian towns (Thebes only excepted) and of Phocis to Athens.

[28] Myronides marched out with the citizens above and under the
military age--all the available force that was left at Athens at the
time--and won two victories, the first at Megara, the second and most
famous of the two at Oenophyta in Boeotia.

[29] The old man was thinking of the Spartan offer to make peace after
the capture of the five hundred and ninety-two prisoners at Pylos (B. C.
425). Terms much more favorable might have been secured than were
obtained four years afterwards by the Peace of Nicias. Again, after the
defeat and death of the Spartan admiral Mindarus in B. C. 410 peace
might have been made, and the ruin of Athens probably postponed for many
years; but the people refused to enter into negotiations.

[30] When the meal was ended the tables were not cleared, but removed.

[31] There were three original moods in Greek music, the Dorian,
Phrygian, and Lydian. The last of these was in a major scale, and was
reckoned to be plaintive and effeminate. So Milton writes in
_L’Allegro_.

  “And ever against eating cares
  Lap one in soft Lydian airs
  Married to immortal verse;
  Such as the melting soul may pierce
  In notes with many a winding bout
  Of linked sweetness long drawn out.”

The Dorian was in a minor scale, and was considered to be manly and
vigorous. Martial music was of this kind. So, to quote Milton again, we
have:

                        “Anon they move
  In perfect phalanx to the Dorian mood
  Of flutes and soft melodies; such as raised
  To heights of noblest temper heroes old
  Coming to battle.”

The third, or Phrygian, was also minor, and was considered to be
suitable for sacrifices and other religious functions as being of an
ecstatic kind. There were combinations and modifications of these moods.
Readers who may desire to know more of the subject, should consult
Professor Mahaffy’s _Rambles and Studies in Greece_, pp. 424-444 (3rd
edition). A more elaborate account may be found in Mr. Chappell’s
History of Music.

[32] So Hector in the single combat with Ajax.

[33] A quarter of Athens south of the city on the Ilissus.




CHAPTER IX.

SOCRATES.


Callias lost no time in cultivating the acquaintance of his new friend.
The very next day he called upon him at as early an hour as etiquette
permitted, and was lucky enough to find him at home. He had lately
returned, indeed, from drilling with the troop of Knights to which he
belonged, and was just finishing his breakfast, which had been delayed
till his military duties had been performed.

“Will you drink a cup to our new friendship--if you will allow me to
call it so?” said Xenophon, to the young man as he entered the room.

“Excuse me,” replied Callias, “if I decline.”

“You are right,” said Xenophon, “this is one of the offers which
formality commands us to make--whether rightly or wrongly, I cannot
say--but which I always myself refuse, and am glad to see refused by
others. But what will you? A game of koltabos, or a walk to the springs
of the Ilissus?”

“Either,” replied Callias, “would be agreeable, but first now I have set
my heart on something else. You are a disciple of Socrates, I am told.
Can you manage that I may have the privilege of hearing him? I have
never had the chance of doing so before.”

Xenophon’s face brightened with pleasure when he heard the request.
“Excellent, my dear sir, you could not have suggested anything that
would have pleased me better. We shall certainly be good friends. I
always judge a man by what he thinks of Socrates. You are ready, I know,
to admire and love him, and I offer you my friendship in advance. Now
let us go and find him. It will not be difficult, for I know his ways
pretty well. There is a sacrifice in the Temple of Theseus, and he will
probably be there. There is no more diligent attendant at such
functions, and yet the fools and knaves say that he is an atheist. We
shall catch him just as he is leaving.”

The subject of conversation between the two young men as they walked
along was naturally the character of this philosopher whom they were
about to see. Callias had much to ask, and Xenophon had still more to
tell.

“As you are going to see this man for the first time,” said the latter,
“you will be interested in hearing how I first came to make his
acquaintance. It was about nine years ago, very soon, I remember, after
the first expedition sailed for Syracuse. I had been hearing a course of
lectures by Prodicus of Ceos, who was then all the fashion in Athens,
and was hurrying home to be in time for the midday meal. Socrates met us
in a narrow alley, and put his staff across it to bar the way. What a
strange figure he was, I thought. I had never seen him before, you must
know; for we had been living for some years on my father’s estate in
Euboea. Certainly he looked more like a Silenus than an Apollo.
‘Well,’ my son, he said, looking at me with a smile that made him look
quite beautiful, ‘can you tell me where a good tunic is to be
bought?’ I thought it was an odd question, though certainly he might
want a tunic for himself, for his own was exceedingly shabby. However I
answered it to the best of my ability. ‘And a good sword--where may that
be purchased?’ That I told him also as well as I could. Some half-dozen
more things he asked me about, and I did my best to reply. At last he
said, ‘Tell me then, my son, since you know so well where so many good
things are to be procured, tell me where the true gentleman[34] is to be
found?’ That puzzled me exceedingly, and I could only lift my eyebrows
and shrug my shoulders. How could I answer such a question? Then he
said, ‘follow me my son, and be taught.’ I never went near Prodicus
again, you may be sure. My father was somewhat vexed, for he had paid a
quarter of a talent as fee for the course of lectures. However it did
not cost him anything, for Socrates will never take a fee. From that day
to this I have never missed an opportunity when I was not campaigning of
hearing him. But see there he is!”

[Illustration: THE TEMPLE OF THESEUS.]

Socrates was standing in the open space in front of the Temple of
Poseidon, with the customary group of listeners round him. As the two
young men came up the discussion which had been going on came to an end,
and the philosopher turned to greet the new comers. “Hail! Xenophon,” he
cried, “and you, too, sir, for the friends of Xenophon are always
welcome.” “You, sir,” he went on addressing Callias, “are recently back
from the war; now tell me this.” And he asked questions which showed
that military details were perfectly well known to him, better known to
him in fact than they were to Callias himself. These questions were
becoming a little perplexing, for Socrates had an inveterate habit of
driving into a corner, it may be said, every one with whom he conversed.
Luckily for Callias, another friend came up at the moment, and the great
examiner’s attention was diverted.

“Ho! Aristarchus,” he cried to the new comer, “how fare you?”

“But poorly, Socrates,” was the reply. “Things are going very ill with
me.”

“And indeed,” said the philosopher, “I thought that you had a somewhat
gloomy look. But tell me--what is your trouble? Xenophon here is your
kinsman, I know, and you will not mind speaking before him, and he will
answer for the discretion of his friend. Or would you prefer that we
should go apart and talk, for to that too, I doubt not, these two
gentlemen will consent?”

“Nay,” said the man who had been addressed as Aristarchus, “I am not
ashamed or unwilling to speak before Xenophon and his friend Callias, in
whom I have the pleasure of recognizing a kinsman of my own. For that
from which I am suffering, though it troubles me, has nothing shameful
in it.”

“Speak on then,” said Socrates, “and, perhaps, among us we shall be able
to find some remedy for your trouble. For surely it is of some use to
share a burden if it be too heavy for one.”

“Listen then, Socrates,” said Aristarchus, “I have been compelled for
kindred’s sake to take into my home not a few ladies, sisters, and
nieces, and cousins, whose husbands or fathers, or other lawful
protectors, have either perished in the war, or have been banished.
There are fourteen of them in all. Now, as you know, nothing comes in
from my country estate, for who will farm that which at any time the
enemy may ravage? And from my houses in the city there comes but very
little, for how few are they who are able to pay rent? And no business
is being done in the city, nor can I borrow any money. Verily there is
more chance of finding money in the street, than of borrowing. O,
Socrates, ’tis a grievous thing to see my own flesh and blood perish of
hunger, and yet, when things are as they are, I cannot find food for so
many.”

“’Tis grievous indeed,” said Socrates. “But tell me--how comes it to
pass that Keramon feeds many persons in his name, and yet can not only
provide what is needful for himself and his inmates, but has so much
over that he grows rich while you are afraid of perishing of hunger?”

“Nay, Socrates, why ask such a question? The many persons whom he so
keeps are slaves, while the inmates of my house are free.”

“Which then, think you, are the worthier, your free persons, or
Keramon’s slaves?”

“Doubtless my free persons.”

“But, surely, it is a shame, that he having the less worthy should
prosper, and you with the more worthy, be in poverty.”

“Doubtless ’tis because his folk are artisans while mine have been
liberally educated.”

“By artisans you mean such as know how to make useful things.”

“Certainly.”

“Barley meal is a useful thing, for instance?”

“Very much so.”

“And bread?”

“Very much so.”

“And men’s and women’s cloaks, and short frocks, and mantles, and
vests?”

“Very much so.”

“But your folk don’t know how to make any of these things. Is it so?”

“Nay, but they know how to make them all.”

“Do you not know then, how Nausicydes not only supports himself and his
household by making barley meal, and has become so rich that he is often
called upon to make special contributions to the State[35] and how
Coroelus, the baker, lives in fine style on the profits of
bread-making, and Demias on mantle-making, and Menon on cloak-making,
and nearly every one in Megara on the making of vests?”

“That is very true, Socrates. But all these buy barbarians for slaves,
and make them work; but my people are free by birth and kinsfolk of my
own.”

“And because they are free and kinsfolk of yours must they do nothing
but eat and sleep? Do you suppose that other free people are happier
when they live in this indolent fashion, or when they employ themselves
in useful occupations? What about your kinsfolk, my friend? At present I
take it, you do not love them, and they do not love you, for you think
them a great trouble and loss to you, and they see that you feel them to
be a burden. It is only too likely that all natural affection will turn
under these circumstances to positive dislike. But if you will put them
in the way of making their own livelihood, every thing will go right;
you will have a kindly feeling for them because they will be helping
you, and they will have as much regard for you, because they will see
that you are pleased with them. They know, you say, how to do the things
that are a woman’s becoming work; don’t hesitate therefore to set them
in the way of doing it. I am sure that they will be glad enough to
follow.”

“By all the gods, Socrates, you are right. I dare say I could borrow a
little money to set the thing going; but to tell you the truth, I did
not like to run into debt, when all the money would simply be eaten. It
is a different thing, now that there will be a chance of paying it back,
and I have no doubt that there will be some way of managing it.”

Just at this point a little boy came up with a message for Socrates. “My
mistress bids me say,” he cried in a somewhat undertone, “that the
dinner is waiting, and that you must come at once.” “There are commands
which all must obey,” said the philosopher with a smile, “and this is
one of them. And indeed it would be ungrateful to the excellent
Xanthippe, if after hearing she has taken so much pains to prepare one’s
dinner, one was to refuse the very easy return of eating it. Farewell,
my friends.”

And the philosopher went his way.

To Callias the conversation which he had just heard was peculiarly
interesting, because the theory in his family was that which was
probably accepted in almost every upper class house in Athens, that it
was a disgrace for a free-born woman to work for her living, and that
all handicrafts, even in those who constantly exercised them, were
degrading and lowering to the character. Xenophon already knew what his
master thought upon these points, but to his younger friend this “gospel
of work,” as it may be called, was a positive revelation. He did not
value it even when, a few days later, he heard from Aristarchus that the
experiment had succeeded to admiration. “I only had to buy a few pounds
of wool,” he said; “the women are as happy as queens, and I have not got
to think all day and night, but never find out, how to make both ends
meet.”

FOOTNOTES:

[34] The “Kalokagathos” (literally handsome and good), combining the two
Greek ideals, beauty of mind and beauty of body.

[35] See note page 22.




CHAPTER X.

THE MURDER OF THE GENERALS.


All this time a gloom had been settling down over the Athenian people.
The official despatch, which, as giving details of the loss in the late
engagement, was so anxiously expected, did not arrive; but quite enough
information to cause a very general anxiety came to hand in various
ways. Private letters from men serving with the fleet began to be
brought by merchantships; and not a few persons were found who had
talked or who professed to have talked with sailors and marines who had
taken part in the action. These written and oral accounts were indeed
far from being consistent with each other. Some were obviously
impossible; more were presumably exaggerated. But they were all agreed
in one point. Not only had there been a serious loss of ships and men
during the battle, but this loss had been grievously aggravated by the
casualties that had taken place after the battle. It was pretty clear,
unless the whole of these stories were fictitious, that the second loss
had been more fatal than the first.

At last the long expected despatch arrived. It ran somewhat in this
fashion:

“The victory which, by the favor of the gods and the good fortune of the
Athenian people, we lately won over the Spartans and their allies at
the Islands of Arginusæ has turned out to be no less important and
beneficial to the state than we had hoped it would be. The squadron of
the enemy that was blockading the harbor of Mitylene has disappeared:
nor indeed are any of his ships anywhere to be seen. Our fleet, on the
contrary, is stronger than it has been for some years past; and we are
daily receiving overtures of friendship from cities that have hitherto
been indifferent or hostile. But this success has not been achieved
without loss. The late battle was long and obstinately contested, and,
as has been mentioned in a former despatch, not a few of our ships were
either disabled or sunk. We did not neglect the duty of succoring the
crews of the vessels that had met with this ill-fortune, committing to
officers whom we knew to be competent, the task of giving such help and
assigning to them a sufficient number of ships. At the same time we did
not omit to make provision for a pursuit of the enemy. But unluckily
when the battle was but just finished, a storm arose so severe that we
could not either rescue our friends or pursue our enemy. These then
escaped, and those, or the greater part of them perished, having behaved
as brave men toward their country. Lists of those that have so died, so
far as their names are at present known, are sent herewith.”

In this official communication, it will be seen, no blame was laid on
any person. The weather, and the weather alone, was given as the cause
of the disaster that had occurred. But in their private communications
with friends at home the generals were not so reticent. They had
commissioned, they said, Theramenes and Thrasybulus to save the
shipwrecked men. If all that was possible had not been done to execute
this commission it was they and they only who were to be blamed. Such
words, even if they are intended only for the private reading of the
people to whom they are written, seldom fail sooner or later to get out.
In this case so many people were profoundly and personally interested in
the matter that they got out very soon. And, of course, among the first
persons whom they reached were the two incriminated officers, Theramenes
and Thrasybulus. It was a charge, hinted at if not exactly made, which
no man would allow to be made against him without at least an attempt to
refute it. Theramenes, who had come back on leave not many days after
the battle, at once bestirred himself in his own defense. He was an able
speaker, all the more able because he was utterly unscrupulous; and he
had a large following of personal friends and partisans. On the present
occasion he was reinforced by the many citizens who had lost relatives
or friends in the late engagement. These were furious and not without
some cause. What had been at first represented as a great victory had at
length turned out to be as fatal as a great defeat. They loudly demanded
a victim. Somebody, they said, must be punished for so scandalous, so
deadly a neglect. Theramenes had the advantage of being on the spot, and
of being able to guide these feelings in a way that suited his own
personal interests. “I was commissioned,” he said, “to do the work; I do
not deny it. But the charge was given me when it was almost too late to
execute it, and I hadn’t the proper means at hand. I could not get hold
of the ships that were told off for this task, or of the crews who
should have manned them. If one of the ten had come himself to help me,
things might have been different. As it was, the men either could not be
found, or refused to come. A subordinate must not be blamed for failing
in what ought to have been undertaken by a chief in command.”

These representations, in which, as has been seen, there was a certain
measure of truth, had a great effect. An assembly was held to consider
the contents of the second despatch, and at this it was resolved, with
scarcely an opposing voice, that the generals should be recalled. They
were publicly thanked for the victory which they had won, but they were
suspended, at least for the present, in their command, and successors
were sent out to replace them. Conon, as having been shut up at the time
in Mitylene, and being therefore manifestly clear of all blame in the
matter, was continued in office, and another of the ten had died. Eight,
therefore, were left to be affected by the decree. Of these eight two
determined not to run the risk of returning; the other six sailed at
once for home. Of these six Diomedon, about whom something has been said
already, was one.

As soon as was practicable after their arrival at Athens, an assembly
was held and they were called upon for their defence. The chief speaker
against them was Theramenes. His colleague, Thrasybulus, stood by
apparently approving by his presence the charge that was brought but not
opening his mouth. One man among the accused men might have easily
secured his own safety at the expense of his colleagues. If Diomedon had
stood up and recapitulated the advice which he had given in the council
held after the battle; if he had affirmed what none of his fellows
would have been able to deny, “I urged you to make the rescue of the
imperilled crews your first business, to use for it all the means at
your disposal, and to undertake it yourselves,” he must have been
triumphantly acquitted, but he was of too generous a temper thus to save
himself. He chose to stand or fall with his fellows. All, accordingly,
put forward the same defence, and it was in substance this: “We did what
seemed best in our judgment. We detailed for the duty of saving the
crews what we considered to be an adequate force, and put over it men
whom we knew to be competent. If Theramenes accuses us, we do not accuse
him. We believe that he was hindered from doing the duty intrusted to
him by the storm, and that if he had had double the number of ships,
even the whole fleet, at his disposal, he would have been no less
powerless to give the shipwrecked men any effectual help.”

There was a sincerity of tone about their defense which was just the
thing to win favor of such an audience as the Athenian assembly. There
were murmurs indeed. The friends and kinsfolk of the drowned men could
not endure to think that no one would be punished for what they believed
to be a shameful neglect. But the general applause drowned the
dissenting voices, and the friends of the accused began to hope that
they were safe. If there had been only a few more minutes of daylight,
such might have been the result. A show of hands was taken by the
presiding magistrate, and it was believed to be in favor of the accused,
but it was too dark to count; no regular decision could be made; and the
matter had to be adjourned to another meeting of the assembly.

But now came another change in the impulsive, passionate temper of the
people. The next day or the next day but one was the first of the great
family festival of Athens, the Apaturia, a celebration something like
the Christmas Day or the New Year’s Day of the modern world. It was one
of the most cherished, as it was one of the most ancient of the national
festivals. All the great Ionic race, with scarcely an exception, kept
it, and had kept it from times running back far beyond history. The
family annals were now, so to speak, made up, and consecrated by a
solemn association with the past. If a marriage had been celebrated in
the family during the year it was now formally registered; if a son of
the house had reached his majority his name was now entered upon the
roll. These formalities were duly marked by customary sacrificing and
sacrifices were accompanied, as always in the ancient world, by
festivities. But family festivities are apt, as most of us know only too
well, to be marred by melancholy associations. It is delightful to greet
those that remain, but what of those who are gone? And so it had been
year after year, since the day when Athens embarked on the fatal war
which for nearly thirty years drained her resources. So it was, in a
special way, in the year of which I am writing. The men whom Athens had
lost were not hired servants but sons. Every one, the slaves only
excepted, left an empty place in some family gathering. And now for the
first time the city realized the greatness of her loss. The numbers had
been known before; but numbers, however startling, do not impress the
mind like visible facts, and now the visible facts were before the eyes
of all. The streets were filled with men and women in mourning garb,
for the families which had suffered individually assumed it. It seemed
as if almost every passer by had lost a kinsman. There could scarcely
have been any such proportion of mourners, but any uniform garb renders
the impression of being much more numerously worn than is really the
case.

And there can be but little doubt that the demonstration was purposely
exaggerated. For now came in the sinister influence of political strife,
which since the oligarchical revolution of five years before had grown
more than ever bitter and intense. The accused leaders belonged to the
party of moderate aristocrats; a party loyal to the democratic
constitution of Athens, but disposed to interpret its provisions in a
conservative sense. The oligarchy hated them, and Theramenes had been an
oligarchical conspirator before, and was about to be again. And the
extremists on the other side hated them. Between the two a plot was
concocted. Men who had no kinsfolk among the lost soldiers and sailors
were bribed or otherwise persuaded to behave as if they had,[36] to come
into the streets with black clothes and shaven heads, and to swell the
numbers of the mourners, thus increasing the popular excitement.

Strangely enough it was the senate, the upper chamber of the Athenian
constitution that first gave this excitement an expression. At the first
meeting after the festival, Callixenus, a creature of Theramenes--the
man himself was probably too notorious to take an active part--proposed
a resolution which ran as follows:

“For as much as both the parties in this case, to wit, the prosecutor,
on the one hand, and the accused, on the other were heard in the late
assembly, it seems good to us that the Athenian people now vote on the
matter by their tribes, there being provided for each tribe two urns,
and that the public crier make proclamation as follows in the hearing of
each tribe: ‘Let every one who finds the generals guilty of not rescuing
the heroes of the late sea fight deposit his vote in Urn No. 1. Let him
who is of the contrary opinion deposit his vote in Urn No. 2.’
Furthermore it seems good to us, that, if the aforesaid generals be
found guilty, death should be the penalty; that they should be handed
over to the Eleven,[37] and their property confiscated to the state,
excepting a tenth part, which falls to the goddess [Athene].”

The Senate passed this resolution, though there was a strong minority
that protested against it. The assembly was held next day, and
Callixenus came forward again and proposed his resolution as having
received the senate’s sanction.

It was received with a roar of approval from the majority. But there
were some honest men who were not inclined to sanction a proceeding so
grossly illegal, for such indeed it was. One of them, Euryptolemus by
name, rose in his place, and spoke:

“There is an enactment which for many years has been observed by the
people of Athens for the due protection of persons accused of crime. By
this enactment it is provided that every person so accused shall be
tried separately, and shall have proper time allowed him for the
preparation of his defence. Seeing then that the resolution just
proposed to the assembly contravenes this enactment by providing that
the accused persons should be tried altogether and without such
allowance of due time, I hereby give notice that I shall indict
Callixenus its proposer for unconstitutional action.”

A tremendous uproar followed the utterance of these words. “Who shall
hinder us from avenging the dead?” cried one man. “Shall this pedant
with his indictment stand between the Athenian people and their desire
to do justice?” shouted another. But the excitement rose to its height
when a man clad as a mariner forced his way through the crowded meeting,
and struggled by the help of his companions into the _Bema_, the
platform or hustings of the place of assembly.

It was a strange figure to stand in that place from which some of the
famous orators and statesmen of the world had addressed their
countrymen. He was evidently of the lowest rank. His dress was ragged
and soiled. His voice, when he spoke, was rough and uncultured. Yet not
Pericles himself who so often speaking from that place

  “Had swayed at will that fierce democracy,”

ever spoke with more effect.

“Men of Athens,” he cried, “I was on the _Cheiron_. I was run down by a
Corinthian ship just before the battle came to an end. The _Cheiron_
sank immediately; I went down with her, but managed to get free, and
came up again to the surface of the water. I saw a meal-tub floating by
me, and caught hold of it. Some ten or twelve men were near me. They
kept themselves up for a time by swimming, but sank one by one. I spoke
to several of them, and bade them keep up their spirits, because the
admirals would be sure to rescue us. No help came. At last only one was
left. He was my brother-in-law. I made him lay hold of the other side of
the meal-tub; but it was not big enough to keep us both up. He let go of
it again. He said to me ‘Agathon’--that is my name--‘you have a wife and
children; I am alone. Bid them remember me; and tell the men of Athens
that we have done our best in fighting for our country, and that the
admirals have left us to perish.’”

Was the man telling the truth, or was he one of those historic liars
that have made themselves famous or infamous for all time by the
magnitude of the fictions that they have invented just at the critical
time when men were most ready to accept them.[38]

Whether it was true or false, the story roused the people to absolute
fury. Thousands stood up in their places and shook their fists at the
accused, and at the orators who had spoken in their favor, while they
screamed at the top of their voices, “Death to the generals! death to
the murderers!”

A momentary silence fell upon the excited crowd when a well-known orator
of the intense democratic party threw himself into the hustings.

“I propose that the names of Euryptolemus and of all those who have
given notice of the indicting Callixenus be added to the names of the
accused generals, and be voted upon in the same way for life and death.”


The speaker added no arguments; and the roars of approval that went up
from the assembly showed sufficiently that no arguments were needed. The
advocates of constitutional practice were cowed. It was only too plain
that to persist would surely be to meet themselves the fate of the
accused. Euryptolemus was a brave man, and as we shall soon see, did not
intend to desert his friends; but for the present he gave way. “I
withdraw my notice,” he cried, reflecting doubtless that he could renew
it when the people should become more ready to listen to reason and
justice. But there was still another constitutional bulwark to be thrown
down. The presiding magistrates refused to put the motion to the
assembly. Their chief (or chairman as we should call him) rose in his
place. He was pale and agitated, and his voice could not be heard beyond
the benches nearest to him when he said, “The motion of Callixenus is
against the laws, and we cannot put it to the assembly.”

“They refuse! they refuse!” was the cry that went from mouth to mouth.
Again the rage of the multitude rose to boiling point, and again the
popular orator saw his opportunity.

“I propose,” he said, appearing again in the hustings, “that the names
of the presiding magistrates be added to those of the accused in the
voting for life and death.”

A shout of approval more vehement than ever greeted this announcement.
Once more the policy of concession, or shall we say of cowardice
prevailed. The magistrates conversed a few moments in hurried whispers,
and then advanced to the railings in front of their seats. It was
immediately seen that they had yielded, and loud applause followed.
“Hail to the popular magistrates! Hail to the friends of the people!”
was the universal cry. But one was still sitting in his place. His
colleagues turned back to bring him. They talked, they gesticulated,
they laid hold of him by the arms; they were trying to force him out of
his seat. He heeded them not; to all persuasion he returned the same
answer: “I am set to administer the laws, and will do nothing that is
contrary to them.” The most of the house could, of course, hear nothing
of what was being said; but they could see plainly what had happened.
“Socrates refuses! Socrates refuses!” was now the cry, followed by
shouts of “Death to Socrates!” “Death to the blasphemer! death to the
atheist!”

The philosopher sat unmoved, and his colleagues made no further attempt
to persuade him. They took what was, perhaps, the only possible course
under the circumstances--for they had not all the martyr-like temper of
Socrates--and put the question without him. It was carried by a large
majority.

The presiding magistrate, having announced the result of the vote, went
on: “Seeing that it has seemed good to the Athenian people to try the
generals accused of negligence in saving the lives of citizens, the said
generals are hereby put upon their trial. If they, or any citizen on
their behalf, wish to address the assembly, let them or him speak.”

It might have been thought that the furious crowd which had been ready
to overpower with violence the advocates of constitutional practice
would have howled down any who dared to advocate so unpopular a cause.
But it was not so. The majority, having swept away, as they thought,
the trammels of technicality, in their eagerness for justice, had no
wish to disregard justice by refusing a hearing to persons on their
defense. Whatever the faults of the Athenian democracy, it was at least
ready to hear both sides. When therefore Euryptolemus rose to address
the assembly on behalf of the generals, an instantaneous silence
followed; nor was he interrupted during the delivery of his speech
except, it may be, by occasional murmurs of approval. He spoke as
follows:

“Men of Athens, I have three things to do now that I address you. First,
I have to blame in some degree my dear friend and kinsman Pericles, and
my friend Diomedon; second, I have to plead somewhat on their behalf;
third, I have to give you such advice as will in my judgment best
advantage Athens. I blame them because they, through their generous
temper, have taken upon themselves the fault which, if it exists, lies
upon others. For indeed what happened after the battle was this:
Diomedon advised that the whole fleet should proceed to the relief of
the disabled ships and their crews. Herasinides counselled that the
whole fleet should be sent in pursuit of the enemy. Meranylus declared
that both duties might be discharged together, part being sent against
the enemy, and part to help the shipwrecked men. And this last course
was actually taken. Forty-seven ships were told off for this duty.
Three, that is, from each of the eight divisions, ten belong to private
captains, ten that were from Samos, and three that belonged to the
commander-in-chief. And three ships were committed to the charge of
Thrasybulus and Theramenes, the very men who now bring these charges
against the accused. Yet these men I do not even now, on behalf of the
generals, myself accuse. I allow that the violence of the storm
prevented them from executing this order which had been given them.

“So far then, men of Athens, do I blame the accused, and I do plead for
them. And now let me venture to give you some advice. Give these men
time, if it be but one day only, to make their defence. You know that
there is yet a form of law by which it is enacted: ‘If any person hath
aggrieved the people of Athens, he shall be imprisoned and brought to a
trial before the people; and in case he be convicted, he shall be put to
death and thrown into the pit, his goods and chattels to be confiscated
to the state, reserving a tenth part for the goddess.’ By this law try
the accused. Give to each a separate day and try them in due order. So
will you judge them according to the law, and not seem, as verily you
will seem if you adopt the resolution of Callixenus, to be allies of the
Lacedæmonians, by putting to death the very men who have taken twenty of
their ships.

“Why indeed are you in such vehement haste? Are you afraid to lose your
hold of life and death? That right no one doubts or threatens. Should
you not rather be afraid lest you put an innocent man to death? One man
do I say, nay many innocent men? And lest, afterwards repenting of your
deed, you shall reflect how ill and unjustly you have acted? Forbid it,
ye gods, that the Athenians should do any such thing. Take care,
therefore, I implore you, that you, being successful, do not act as they
often act, who are on the brink of despair and ruin. Only those who are
without hope insult the gods; yet somehow you will insult them, if
instead of submitting to them on points that are subject to their will
alone, you condemn those men who failed because it was the pleasure of
the gods that they should fail. You would do more justly if you honor
these men with crowns of victory rather than visit them with this
punishment of death.”

A visible effect was produced by this speech. That the republic should
put to death its successful generals almost in the moment of victory
seemed to many to be the very height of folly, even of impiety. The gods
had favored these men. To lay hands upon them would be an insult to
heaven. But supposing they had erred, would it be well for the state to
deprive itself of the services of its most skillful servants? This
seemed the common sense view. The question was: would it prevail against
the sticklers for law, those who were hardened by the sense of personal
loss, and the unscrupulous partisans who were ready to seize any pretext
for destroying political opponents? The voters filed past the balloting
urns, and dropped their votes as they passed. No one could guess what
the result would be, for no one could watch more than one of the ten
pairs of urns--a pair to each tribe--which were placed to receive the
suffrages. The process took no little time, and then when it was
finished, there was the counting, also a long and tedious process. It
was almost dark when the tables were finished.

In the midst of a profound silence the presiding magistrate stood up. It
was now dark, and his figure was thrown into striking relief by the
lamps with the help of which the votes had been counted. He read the
numbers from a small slip of paper.[39] “There have voted,” he said,
“for condemnation 3254, for acquittal 3102.”

The sensation produced by the announcement was intense. Not a few who
had voted ‘guilty’ already half repented of what they had done. Indeed
the reaction which ended in the banishment and ultimately the death by
starvation of the author of the proposal may be said to have begun at
that moment. The general excitement rose to a still higher pitch when
the officers of the Eleven, the magistrates to whose custody condemned
criminals were handed, were seen making their way, lighted by slaves
holding torches, to the place where the accused were sitting. There was
not one of the six whose features were not familiar to many in the
assembly. More than one had tendered distinguished service to Athens;
and one, Pericles, son of the great statesman by Aspasia, bore a name
which no Athenian could pronounce without some emotion of pride and
gratitude. It so happened that it was he on whom the officers laid
hands. Something like a groan went up from the crowd; but it was too
late to undo what they had done, and it was too early for the repentance
that had already begun to work to have any practical effect. The six
were led off to immediate execution.

Callias anxious to say a few words of farewell to his friend and kinsman
Diomedon had hurried round, as soon as he heard the announcement of the
numbers, to the door by which he knew the condemned would be taken from
the place of assembly. The president of the Eleven who was conducting
the matter in person, as became an occasion so important, allowed a
brief interview.

The young man was so overcome with grief that he could only throw
himself into the arms of his friend and cling to him in speechless
agony. Diomedon, on the contrary, was perfectly calm and collected. “My
son,” he said, “this has ended as badly as I thought that it would--you
will remember what I said to you after the battle. For myself, this that
I am about to suffer is scarcely a thing to be lamented. It is hard
indeed to have such a return for my services to Athens; and I would
gladly have served her again. It has not so seemed good to the
Athenians. Let it be so. I am delivered from trouble to come. I would
not have fled from them willingly, but if my countrymen compel me, why
should I complain? That at least Socrates has taught me not to do. And
this day has at least brought this good, that no one can doubt hereafter
that he believes what he says. For you, my son, I have but one word. Do
not despair of your country. A grateful child pays his dues of nurture
even to an impassive mother. And now farewell!”

An hour afterwards he and his colleagues were lying mangled corpses at
the bottom of the pit.[40]

FOOTNOTES:

[36] Xenophon, who was probably in Athens at the time, positively
asserts that this was done, and I cannot think that the arguments of Mr.
Grote countervail his authority.

[37] The “Eleven” were commissioners of police who had, besides the
charge of the guardians of public order, the care of the prisoners, and
the custody of criminals.

[38] One of the most notorious instances in modern times was that of the
Tartar who after the battle of the Alma invented the news that
Sebastopol was taken. The report was almost universally believed in
England for some days, and the contradiction of it caused the bitterest
disappointment.

[39] Paper made from the rind of the _papyrus_, a reed which grew in the
Nile and which the Egyptians knew by the name of _Byblos_ (hence our
‘bible’). Parchment in its present form did not become common till much
later than this time (even B. C. 150), though skin seems to have been
used for writing. For ordinary purposes paper was used.

[40] Mr. Grote says that the condemned generals drank hemlock but it is
evident from the report of Euryptolemus which is substantially taken
from Xenophon’s report that the mode of execution for persons condemned
under such charges as that brought against the generals was by being
thrown into the Pit. This place was called the _Barathron_ and was
within the city walls and was a deep pit with hooks fastened into the
walls. The officer in charge of it was called “The Man of the Pit.”




CHAPTER XI.

RESCUED.


The execution of the generals was a blow of such severity that Callias
was absolutely prostrated by it. As a patriotic Athenian he felt
overwhelmed both with shame and with despair. That his country should be
capable of such ingratitude and folly, should allow private revenge or
party spite to deprive her of the generals who could lead her troops to
victory made it impossible to hope. The end must be near, for the gods
must have smitten her with the madness which they send upon those whom
they are determined to destroy. And then he had loved Diomedon almost as
a son loves a father. Left an orphan at an early age he had found in
this kinsman an affectionate and loyal guardian; and he had made his
first acquaintance with war under his auspices. He had in him a friend
whom he felt it would be quite impossible to replace.

For some days Callias remained in strict seclusion at home, refusing all
visitors, and, in fact, seeing no one, except the aged house-steward,
who had been now the faithful servant and friend of three generations of
his family. Even when Hippocles himself, on the fifth day after the
disastrous meeting of the assembly, sent in an urgent request that he
might be allowed to see him, the steward was directed to meet him with
the same refusal. The old man contrary to his custom of prompt and
unhesitating obedience, lingered in the room after he had received this
answer, and was obviously anxious to speak. “Well! Lycides,” said the
young man, his attention attracted even in the midst of his
preoccupation by this unusual circumstance, “What is it? What do you
want?”

“It would be well, sir,” replied the man, “if you would see the worthy
Hippocles. He declares that the affair of which he is come is one of the
very highest importance.”

Callias simply shook his head.

The steward began again, “Oh! sir--”

Callias interrupted him. “You are an old man, and a friend whom my
father and my grandfather trusted, and I would not say a harsh word to
you. But if you will not leave the room, I must.”

The old man’s eyes filled with tears. He had never heard his young
master speak in such a tone before. Still he would not go, without
making another effort.

He rapidly advanced to where his master was sitting, his face buried in
his hands, and throwing himself on the ground, caught the young man by
the knees.

“Listen, sir,” he cried, “I implore you, by the gods, and by the memory
of your father and your grandfather, who both died in my arms.”

“Speak on,” cried Callias. “It seems I am not my own master any longer.”

“Oh! sir,” the old man continued, “your liberty, your life is in
danger.”

These words, uttered as they were in a tone of conviction that could
not be mistaken, startled the young man out of the indifference which
his profound depression had hardened.

“What do you mean?” he cried.

“I have known it since yesterday at noon,” the steward replied, “and
have been anxiously thinking over with myself how I could best make it
known to you. And now Hippocles has come to say the same thing. For the
sake of all the gods, trust and listen to what he has to tell you.”

“Bring him in, if you will have it so,” said Callias.

Hippocles came into the room with outstretched hands and caught the
young man in a close embrace. The warmth and tenderness of this greeting
had the happiest result. Callias was moved from the stupor of grief
which had overwhelmed him. Bowing his head on his friend’s shoulder, he
burst into a passion of tears,--for tears were a relief which the most
heroic souls of the ancient world did not refuse to themselves. His
friend allowed his feelings to express themselves without restraint, and
then as the violence of the young man’s emotion began to subside, he put
in a few words, instinct with heartfelt sympathy, about the friend whom
they had lost. Thus, with his usual tact, he waited for Callias himself
to open the subject in which he now felt sure his interest had been
aroused. It was soon after that the young man asked: “What is this that
old Lycides has been saying about my liberty and life being in danger?
He has known it, he says, since yesterday, and you know it too. What can
he mean?”

“He is quite right,” replied Hippocles. “He knows something and I know
something. Now listen. Your parting with Diomedon was observed. The men
who murdered him--and by all the gods! there never was a fouler murder
done in Athens--cannot but look for vengeance to come upon them. To
avoid it or to postpone it they will stick at nothing. No near friend or
relative of their victims is safe. I know--for I have friends in places
you would not think--mark you, I _know_ that your name is among those
who will be accused in the next assembly.”

“Accused,” cried Callias, “accused of what? Of being bound by kindred
and affection to one of the noblest of men. By heavens! let them accuse
me. I should glory to stand and defend myself on such a charge. If I
could only tell that villain Theramenes what I think of him I should be
afraid of nothing.”

“That is exactly what I thought you would say,” replied Hippocles, “nor
can I blame you. But have patience. Theramenes will get his deserts if
there are gods in heaven and furies in hell. But have patience. Leave
his punishment to them. But meanwhile don’t give him the chance of
burdening his soul with another crime.”

“What would you have me do then?” asked Callias.

“Fly from Athens,” replied his older friend.

“What! fly, and leave these traitors and murderers to enjoy their
triumph! Not so; not if I were to die to-morrow.”

“My dear young friend, you will help your country, which, in spite of
all her faults, you wish, I presume, to serve, and avenge your friends
all the more surely if you will yield to the necessities of the time.”

“Don’t press me any further: it would be a dishonor to me to leave
Athens now.”

The argument was continued for some time longer; but Hippocles could not
flatter himself with the idea that he had made any impression. At last
he seemed to abandon the attempt.

“Well,” he said, “a willful man must have his way. I can only hope that
you will never live to repent it. But you will not refuse to come and
see us--my daughter adds her invitation to mine--you will not be so
ungallant as to refuse.”

“No, I should not think of refusing,” said Callias. “You have called me
back to life. I thought that my heart would have burnt with grief and
rage. You can’t imagine what your sympathy is to me.”

“Well,” said Hippocles, “show your gratitude by dining with us
to-night.”

Callias promised that he would, and accordingly at the time appointed
presented himself at the merchant’s house.

After dinner the discussion was resumed. Hippocles and Hermione urged
all the arguments that they knew to persuade the young man to think of
his own safety, but they urged in vain.

“No!” said the young man, as he rose to take his leave, “no, I thank you
for your care for me, but your advice I may not follow. I refuse to
believe that the Athenian people can keep the the base and ungrateful
temper which they showed the other day. It was the madness of an hour,
and they must have repented of it long ago. If they have not, then an
honest man who happens to be born into this citizenship had best die.
Athens is no place for him. Anyhow, I shall try, at the very next
assembly, unless I can get some other and abler man than I am to do it
for me, to indict Callixenus for unconstitutional practices. Did I pass
by this occasion of vengeance, the blood of Diomedon and his brave
colleagues might well cry out of the ground against me.”

Several days passed without any disturbing incident. Callias had
warnings indeed. Mysterious letters were brought to him, bidding him
beware of dangers that were imminent; more than one stranger who found
him in the streets let fall, it seemed by the merest accident, words
that could not but be meant to give a warning; friends spoke openly to
the same effect; but the young man remained unmoved. At the table of
Hippocles, where he was a frequent guest, the subject was dropped. It
seemed to be conceded by common consent that Callias was to have his own
way.

He was returning to his home in the upper city from the Piraeus on a
dark and stormy night, picking his way under the shelter of one of the
Long Walls[41] when he felt himself suddenly seized from behind. So
suddenly and so skilfully made was the attack that in an instant the
young man, though sufficiently active and vigorous, was reduced to
absolute helplessness. His arms were fastened to his side; his legs
pinioned; his eyes blindfolded, and a gag thrust into his mouth. All
this was done without any unnecessary violence, but with a firmness that
made resistance impossible. The young man then felt himself lifted on to
some conveyance which had been waiting, it seemed, in the neighborhood,
and driven rapidly in a northerly direction. So much the prisoner could
guess from feeling the wind which he knew had been coming from the east,
blowing upon his right cheek. After being driven rapidly for a few
minutes the gag was removed with an apology for the necessity that had
compelled its use. The journey was continued with unabated and even
increased rapidity, the lash, as Callias’ ear told him, being freely
used to urge the animals to their full speed. Before long the sound of
the waves breaking upon the shore could be distinctly heard above the
clatter of the horses’ hoofs and the grinding of the chariot wheels upon
the road. Then came a stoppage. The prisoner was lifted from his seat
and put on board what he guessed to be a small boat. He felt that this
was pushed out from the land, that it began by making fair progress, and
that not long after starting, when it had passed, as he conjectured
beyond the shelter of some bay or promontory, it began to meet bad
weather. The waves were breaking, it was easy to tell, over the boat, in
which the water was rising in spite of the efforts of the men who were
busy bailing to keep it under. It was time for our hero to speak; so
busy were the sailors in struggling with their difficulties, that they
might easily have forgotten their prisoner, and let him go to the bottom
like a stone.

“Friends,” he cried, “you had best let me help you and myself.”

“By Poseidon! I had forgotten him,” he heard one of the men cry. “If he
drowns there will be no profit to us in floating.” A consultation
carried on in low, rapid whispers followed. It ended in the prisoner’s
bonds being severed, and the bandage being removed from his eyes.

When the situation became visible to the young Athenian it was certainly
far from encouraging. The boat was low in the water, and was getting
lower. It was evident that it could not live more than a few minutes
more. The night was dark, and the sea so high that even the most expert
swimmer could not expect to survive very long. The only hope seemed to
lie in the chance of being blown ashore. But obviously the first thing
to be done was to prepare for a swim. Callias, accordingly, threw off
his upper garment and untied his sandals. This done he waited for the
end.

It was not long in coming. The boat was too low in the water to rise to
the waves, and one of unusual size now broke over and swamped it,
immersing the crew, who numbered nine persons including Callias. Happily
they were good swimmers, and if speedy help were to come, might hope to
escape. And, luckily, help was nearer than any of them had hoped. A
light became visible in the darkness; and the swimmers shouted in
concert to let the new comers know of their whereabouts. An answering
shout came from the galley, for as may be supposed, it was a galley that
carried the light. “Be of good cheer,” shouted a voice which Callias
thought that he recognized. The swimmers shouted in answer, and felt new
hope and new life infused into them. But the rescue was no easy task.
Each man in turn had to fasten under his armpits a rope with a noose at
the end which was thrown to him, and was then drawn up the side of the
galley. This took time. Some of the men found it hard to do their part
of the work, and so delayed the rescue of the others. By the time that
Callias was reached, and he was the last of the nine, he was almost
beyond the reach of help. By one supreme effort, however, he managed to
slip the rope about him. As he was dragged on to the deck the last
conscious impression that he had--and so strange was it that he thought
it must be a dream--was the face of Hermione bent over him with an
expression of intense anxiety.

FOOTNOTES:

[41] The “Long Walls” ran from Athens down to its chief harbor the
Piraeus.




CHAPTER XII.

THE VOYAGE OF THE SKYLARK.


It was not long before Callias recovered his consciousness; but he was
so worn out by excitement and fatigue, coming as they did after the
exhausting emotions through which he had passed since the death of the
generals, that he found it impossible to rouse himself to any exertion.
The yacht, which as my readers will have guessed was that excellent
sea-boat the _Skylark_, had never been in any danger, though she had had
to be very skillfully handled while she was engaged in picking up the
swimmers. This task accomplished, her head was put northward, and before
very long she had gained the shelter of Euboea. Callias guessed as
much when he found that she ceased to roll, and gladly resigned himself
to the slumber against which he had hitherto done his best to struggle.
He slept late into the morning; indeed it wanted only an hour of noon
when at last he opened his eyes. The first object that they fell upon
was the figure of Hippocles, who was sitting by the side of his berth.

“Then it was not a dream,” said the young man. “I thought I saw your
daughter on board last night, but could not believe my eyes.”

“Yes, she is on board,” said Hippocles, with a slight smile playing
about the corners of his mouth.

“But tell me what it all means. I was seized in the streets of Athens,
pinioned, blindfolded, and gagged. I was carried off I know not where,
thrown into a boat, as nearly as possible drowned, and now, when I come
to myself, I see you. Surely I have a right to ask what it means.”

“My dear Callias,” replied Hippocles, “I have always tried to be your
friend, as it was my privilege to be your father’s before you. You will
allow so much?”

“Certainly,” said the young man. “I shall never forget how much I owe
you.”

“Well, then, trust me for an hour. I will not ask you to do anything
more. If you are not fully satisfied then, I will make you any redress
that you may demand. I know that you have a right to ask for it. I
know,” he added with an air of proud humility that sat very well upon
him, “that Hippocles the Alien is asking a great favor when he makes
such a request of Callias the Eupatrid,[42] but believe me I do not ask
it without a reason.”

The young Athenian could do nothing else than consent to a request so
reasonable. Some irritation he felt, for there was no doubt in his mind
that Hippocles had had something to do with the violence to which he had
been subjected. The intention, however, had been manifestly friendly,
and there might be something to tell which would change annoyance into
gratitude.

A sailor now brought him some refreshment, and when this had been
disposed of, another furnished him with some clothing. His own, it will
be remembered, he had thrown away, when preparing to swim for his life.
His toilet completed, he came up on deck and found Hippocles and his
daughter seated near the stern. Both rose to greet him. He could not
fail to observe that Hermione was pale and agitated. The frank
friendliness of her old manner, which, blended as it had been with a
perfect maidenly modesty, had been inexpressibly charming, had
disappeared. She was now timid and hesitating. She could not lift her
eyes when she acknowledged his greeting. He could even see that she
trembled.

The young man stood astonished and perplexed. What was this strange
reserve of which he had never before seen a trace? Was there anything in
himself that had caused it? Had he--so he asked himself, being a modest
young fellow and ready to lay the blame on his own shoulders--had he
given any offence?

“Tell him the story, father,” she said, after an anxious pause during
which her agitation manifestly increased, “tell him the story. I feel
that I cannot speak.”

“My little girl has a confession to make. In a word, it is her doing
that you are here to-day.”

“Her doing that I am here to-day,” echoed Callias, his astonishment
giving a certain harshness to his voice.

The girl burst into tears. Callias stepped forward, and would have
caught her hand. She drew back.

“Tell him, father, tell him all,” she whispered again in an agitated
voice.

“Well then,” said her father, “if I must confess your misdeeds, I will
speak. You know,” he went on addressing himself to the young Athenian,
“you know how we vainly sought to persuade you to leave Athens. I had a
better and stronger reason for speaking as I did than I could tell you.
From private information, the source of which I could not divulge, if
you had asked it, as you probably would have done, I had found out that
you were in the most serious danger. Not only were you to be
arrested--so much you know--but having been arrested, you were to be put
out of the way. You talked of answering for yourself before the
assembly, even of accusing your enemies and the men who murdered your
friends. You never would have had the chance. There are diseases
strangely sudden and fatal to which prisoners are liable, and there was
only too much reason to fear that you would be attacked by one of them.
There are other poisons, you know, besides the hemlock, which the state
administers to the condemned, and an adverse verdict is not always
wanted before they are given. Well; we were at our wits’ end. You were
obstinate--pardon me for using the word--and I would not tell you the
whole truth. Even if I had, it was doubtful, in the temper of mind you
were in, whether you would have believed me. Then Hermione here came to
the rescue. ‘We must save him,’ she cried, ‘against his will.’ ‘How can
we do that?’ I asked; and I assure you that I had not the least idea of
what she meant. ‘You must contrive to carry him off to some safe place.’
I was astonished. ‘What!’ I said, ‘a free citizen of Athens.’ ‘What will
that help him, with the men who are plotting to take his life?’ she
answered. Then she told me her plan. I need not describe it to you. It
was carried out exactly. Now can you forgive her?”

“Oh! lady”--the young man began.

“Stop a moment,” cried Hippocles. “I have something more to say, before
you pronounce your judgment. You must take into account that if she has
erred, she has already suffered.”

“Oh! father,” interrupted the girl, “it is enough; say nothing more. I
am ready to bear the blame.”

And she sank back into her seat and covered her face with her mantle.

Hippocles went on: “I say she has suffered. We did not reckon on that
unlucky wind. It was bad enough to have carried you off against your
will; but when it seemed that we might drown you as well, that looked
serious. I was not much afraid, myself. I felt pretty sure that we
should be able to pick you up. But still there was a chance of something
going wrong. And she, of course, felt responsible for it all. It was
true that it was the only way of saving you--that, I swear by Zeus and
Athene, and all the gods above and below, is the simple, literal
fact--but still, I must own, it was a trying moment, and if anything
_had_ happened--Then you were the last to be picked up, and just at the
last moment, something went wrong. The clumsy fellow at the helm--I
ought to have been there myself, but I wanted to help in getting you on
board--the clumsy fellow at the helm, I say, gave us a wrong turn. We
should have had a world of trouble in bringing the _Skylark_ about
again. Hermione saw it, sprang to the tiller, and put things right--I
have always taught her how to steer. So you really owe her something for
that. I don’t exactly say that she saved your life, but you might have
been in the water a little longer than you liked. Well, it was trying to
the poor girl. I can imagine how she felt; but she bore up till we got
you on board. Then she fainted; for the very first time in her life, I
give you my word, for she is not given to that sort of thing. Now, say,
can you forgive her and us? We really did it for the best, and thanks to
Poseidon, it has ended pretty well, so far, after all.”

“This is no case for forgiveness,” cried the young Athenian earnestly;
“it is a case of gratitude which I shall never exhaust as long as I
live. I am a headstrong young fool, a silly child, in fact, and you were
quite right in dealing with me as grown people must deal with a child,
help it and do it good against its will. Forgive me, lady,” he went on,
and kneeling before her chair, he took one of her hands in his own, and
carried it to his lips.

So far all was well. A bold achievement had ended happily, but the
situation was a little strained, to use a common phrase, and Callias,
like the well bred gentleman that he was, felt that it would be a relief
to the girl if it was brought to an end. Happily, too, at that moment
the ludicrous side of the affair struck him, and it was without any
affectation that he sprang to his feet and burst into a hearty laugh.

“And now that you have captured me,” he said, “what is your pleasure?
What are you going to do with me?”

“You shall go where you please,” said Hippocles. “Even if you want to
return to Athens I will not hinder you. But my plan is this, subject of
course, to your consent. Come with me as far as Thasus. I have business
there, to look after my vineyard, or rather the vintage. My people, I
find, are sadly apt to blunder about it. This will take me no little
time, and while I am engaged there, the _Skylark_ shall take you on to
Alcibiades’ castle in Thrace. I was going to say that I would commend
you to him. But that will not be necessary. He is, you know, a distant
kinsman, and is hospitality itself. In my judgment he has had hard
usage. It would have been better for Athens, if she had trusted him
more. But all that is past. Meanwhile I think that his castle is the
safest place for you just now. You and he are very much in the same
case, I fancy. Athens has not treated either of you fairly and yet you
wish well to her.”

“Your plan seems a good one,” replied Callias, “let me think it over for
a few hours. Anyhow you shall have my company as far as Thasus, if you
will accept it.”

Meanwhile the _Skylark_ was making headway gaily through the
well-sheltered waters that lie between Euboea and the mainland of
Greece. When the shelter ceased the wind had fallen, shifting at the
same time to the south-west. Nearly two hundred miles had yet to be
traversed before Thasus could be sighted, and this was accomplished
without accident or delay. The time of year was later than a Greek
seaman commonly chose for a voyage of any duration, for it was the
latter end of October, and the ninth of November was the extreme limit
of the sailing season.[43] Hippocles, however, was more venturesome in
this way than most of his contemporaries, and his confidence was
rewarded by a most pleasant and prosperous voyage. So blue were the
cloudless skies, so deep the answering color of the seas, that it was
only when the travellers saw the sunset tints on the forest-clad ridge
of Thasus--“the ass’s back-bone laden with wood,” as it was
called--that they remembered that summer had long since given place to
autumn.

Two days were spent in a visit to the vineyard which Hippocles had come
to inspect, and then Callias, who had soon concluded to follow his
friend’s advice, resumed his voyage. The course of the _Skylark_ was now
south-easterly. The voyage had all the interest of novelty for him, for
he had never before visited these waters. When the _Skylark_ started at
early dawn there was a mist which contracted the horizon. As this
cleared away under the increasing power of the sun the striking peak of
Samothrace became visible in the distance. All day its bold outlines
became more and more clearly defined. On the following morning--for the
good ship pursued her course all night--it had been left behind, but
another height, not less striking in appearance, and even more
interesting in its associations, the snow-capped Ida, at whose feet lay
the world-famed Trojan plains, took its place. As evening fell the
_Skylark_ was brought to land at the western end of the Hellespont, the
rapid current of which could be better encountered by the rowers when
they had been refreshed by a night’s rest. Progress was now somewhat
slow; and it was on the afternoon of the fourth day after the start from
Thasus that the cliffs of Bisanthe and the northern shore of the
Propontis came in sight. This was our hero’s destination, for it was
here that Alcibiades, after quitting Athens in the previous year, had
fixed his abode.

FOOTNOTES:

[42] The Eupatridae were the old aristocracy of Athens. Under the early
constitution they were the ruling castæ, and they always retained the
monopoly of certain religious offices.

[43] “The seas are closed,” says Vegetius in his treatise _De Re
Militari_, “from the ninth of November to the tenth of March.”




CHAPTER XIII.

ALCIBIADES.


The sun was just setting when the _Skylark_ cast anchor about two
hundred yards from the shore and opposite the castle with which the
loftiest point of the cliffs was crowned. The signal flag which the
captain ran up to his mast-head was answered by another from the castle,
and in a few minutes a boat was seen to start from a little quay which
had been built out into the sea at the foot of the cliff. Callias had
written a letter to Alcibiades in which he briefly described himself and
his errand, and Hippocles, though modestly depreciating the value of any
thing that he could say, had also written, at the young man’s request, a
letter of introduction. These documents were handed over to the officer
in charge of the boat, and conveyed by him to the castle. After a very
short delay the boat returned again, this time in the charge of an
officer of obviously higher rank. This higher personage mounted the side
of the _Skylark_, and after giving a courteous greeting to Callias,
delivered to him an invitation from Alcibiades to make his castle his
home for as long a period as he might find it convenient to stay there,
explaining at the same time that his master would have come in person to
welcome his guest, if he had not been detained by business of importance
with a neighboring chief. The young Athenian’s baggage--for he had been
liberally fitted out by the thoughtful and generous care of
Hippocles--was transferred to the boat, and in a few minutes more he had
set his foot on the landing-place.

He had been speculating as he neared the shore, about the way in which
the castle was to be approached. An observer looking from the sea might
have thought that there was no way of getting to it except by scaling
the almost perpendicular base of the cliff. Once landed on the quay,
however, the traveller discovered that a passage had been cut through
the cliff. This passage, which could be closed at its lower end by a
massive door, was something like a winding staircase. It was somewhat
stifling and dark, though light and air were occasionally admitted by
holes bored to the outer surface of the rock. Its upper end opened in to
a courtyard round which the castle was built. The approach from the sea
was, it will have been seen, sufficiently secure. On that side indeed
the castle of Bisanthe was absolutely impregnable. From the land, it
was, to say the least, safely defensible. It was approached by one
narrow ridge, so formed that a few resolute men could hold it against a
numerous body of assailants. The walls were lofty and massive, and so
constructed that a galling fire of missiles could be kept up on either
flank of an attacking force.

Callias was escorted to his chamber by a young Thracian slave, who
informed him in broken speech that a bath room in which he would find
hot and cold water was at his service, and further that his master hoped
to have the pleasure of his company at supper in an hour’s time. The
chamber, it may be said, was furnished with a clepsydra, or
water-clock, marked with divisions.[44]

Callias awaited his introduction to his host with no little curiosity.
Alcibiades was, as has been said, a kinsman of his own, and he had heard
of him--what Athenian, indeed, had not,--but he had never happened to
see him. Callias’ father had been an aristocrat of the old-fashioned
type, and had so strongly disapproved of his cousin’s reckless and
extravagant behavior that he had broken off all intercourse with him,
and had been particularly careful that his son should never come in
contact with him. Callias was about fourteen when Alcibiades left Athens
in command (along with two colleagues) of the Sicilian expedition. The
absence thus begun lasted about eight years. For the first half of this
time he was an exile; for the second half in command of the fleets and
armies of Athens, but still postponing his return to his native city.
Then came his brief visit, lasting it would seem, only a few days,[45]
and at that time Callias, as it happened, had been absent in foreign
service. He was now in what was or should have been, the prime of life,
having just completed his forty-fourth year, but the dissipation of his
youth and early manhood and the anxieties of his later years had left
their mark upon him, and he looked older than his age. Yet there were
traces of the brilliant beauty that in earlier days had helped to make
him the spoiled darling of Athens. The wrinkles had begun to gather
about his eyes, but they were still singularly lustrous, and could
either flash with anger, or melt with tenderness. His temples were
hollow and his cheeks had somewhat fallen in; but his complexion was
almost as brilliant as ever, while the abundant auburn curls that fell
clustering about his neck had scarcely a streak of gray in them.

His greeting to his guest was more than courteous. It was affectionate,
exactly such as was fitting from an older to a younger relative. Indeed
then, as ever afterward during their acquaintance, Callias was greatly
struck by the perfection of his manners. It seemed impossible that the
stories told of his haughty insolence by which in former years he had
made himself one of the best-hated men in Athens could possibly be true.

Supper was announced shortly after Callias had been ushered into the
chamber. Alcibiades took his guest by the hand, led him into the
dining-room, and assigned him a place next to himself. Some other guests
were present. Two of these were officers in the military force which
Alcibiades maintained in his stronghold; the third was an aged man, who
had been his tutor many years, and for whom he retained an affection
that was honorable to both master and pupil. The fourth was the Thracian
chief with whom Alcibiades had been engaged when the _Skylark_ arrived.

The meal was simple. The chief feature was one of the huge turbot for
which the Euxine was famous.

“That would have cost a fortune in the fish market at Athens,” said the
host pointing to the dish, “even if it could have been procured at all.
Here a fisherman thinks himself well paid for such a monster by three,
or at the most, four _drachmae_.”[46]

A piece of venison and a platter of quails were the other dishes. The
second course consisted of a maize pudding and some sweet-meats.

During the repast the conversation turned speedily on local matters, and
was carried on (but not till after a courteous apology had been offered
to the young Athenian) in the bastard Greek largely mixed with Thracian
words, in which the chief was accustomed to express himself. The meal
ended, a handsome silver cup was handed by the major-domo, a venerable
looking man, who made the comfort of his master and his most honored
guests his special care. Alcibiades took it and poured out a few drops
upon the table, uttering as he did so, the words: “To Athene the
Champion.” This was equivalent to the loyal toasts of an English
banquet. He then took a very moderate draught, the wine being unmixed,
in obedience to the rule which demanded that all wine used in religious
ceremonies--and this libation was such a ceremony--should be pure.[47]
He then tipped the cup to each guest in turn. All were equally moderate,
for it was not the custom, even for a Greek drunkard, it may be said, to
drink his wine unmixed. But when the cup came to the Thracian chief he
drank a deep draught as if the liquor had been liberally diluted.
Callias who had never been at table with a Thracian before, watched the
man with amazement. He saw that while the other guests were supplied
with the usual mixtures of wine and water the chief remained steadfast
in his devotion to the undiluted liquid, and that he emptied his cup at
a draught, and that the cup itself was of an unusual capacity. Nor did
the drinker seem affected by these extraordinary potations, except that
his voice became louder, and his manner more boastful. At last, however,
and that without a moment’s notice, he rolled over senseless on his
back. So sudden was the change that it suggested the idea of a fit.

“Is he ill?” he whispered in some alarm, to his neighbor.

“Ill? not a whit. It is the way in which he always finishes his
evenings. His slaves will carry him to bed, and he will awake to-morrow
morning without the suspicion of a headache. Bacchus, I verily believe,
has a special favor for these fellows, and, truly, they do worship him
with a most admirable earnestness.”

The Thracian’s collapse was the signal for breaking up the party.
Callias and the old tutor, Timanthes by name, declined to drink any
more, and the two officers, who were on duty for the night, departed to
make their round. Strong as was the place Alcibiades omitted no
precautions for its safe custody. Timanthes, who was old and feeble
retired to rest.

“Come with me to my own room,” said Alcibiades to his guest, “we shall
be here alone.”

The chamber to which he led the way was little like what one would have
expected to find in a free-booter’s stronghold, for really the castle of
Bisanthe was more of that than anything else. Art and letters were amply
represented in it. On one wall hung a panel painting[48] by Polygnotus,
a masterly composition, of that serenity, that ethical meaning, as the
great critic Aristotle expresses it, which was characteristic of the
artist. This represented the gods in council at Olympus. It was faced on
the opposite wall by an exceedingly graceful painting from the hand of
Xeuxis, Aphrodite and the Graces, and a spirited picture by the same
artist, of the duel between Ajax and Hector. There were other works by
men of less note. Sculpture was represented by only a single specimen, a
bust of Socrates.

“Paintings are easily carried about,” Alcibiades afterwards explained to
his guest, “but sculpture is inconveniently heavy. You will understand
that a man in my situation has always to be ready for a move; and I
always like to have two or three really good things that I can always
take with me. One bust, indeed, I have indulged myself with, that of my
old teacher. Ah! if I had heard him to more purpose, I should not be
here! You know him, of course?”

Callias said that he did.

“An excellent likeness! is it not? Who would think that such features
concealed a soul so divinely beautiful? Did you have any talk with him
when you were in Athens?”

“Yes,” replied Callias, “and I admired above all things his practical
wisdom. But what was that to what I afterwards saw of him?”

And he went on to relate how the philosopher stood firm, though in
imminent peril of his life, and had steadfastly refused to put the
unconstitutional proposal of Callixenus to the assembly.

Alcibiades heard the story with uncontrollable delight. He started up
from his seat, and walked up and down the room with flashing eyes. “Tell
me everything about it,” he said, and he insisted upon the repetition of
every detail. “That is magnificent,” he cried, when his curiosity had
been satisfied. “That is exactly what one would have expected from
Socrates. I suppose that it is the very first time that he ever acted as
presiding magistrate--he had never been so, I know, when I left Athens,
nor have I heard of his having been since--and that first time he did
what nobody else dared to do. You say that the others

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