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At least they are interesting lies; as, for example, how you advised the Cyprian to escape from Athens, how you gave Agis a letter to hide in the boots of Glaucon’s messenger, of your interviews with Lampaxo and Archias, of the charming art you possess of imitating handwritings and seals.” “Base-born swine! who will believe him?” “Base born, Democrates, but hardly swinish.
I wish I were dead. Then I could forget it!” “Constables—fetters!” howled Lampaxo, as a direful interlude, to be silenced by an angry gesture from her helpmeet. “Nevertheless, try to tell what you can,” spoke Phormio, mildly, and Glaucon, with what power he had, complied. Broken, faltering, scarce coherent often, his story came at last. He sat silent while Phormio clutched his own head.
Only when he showed himself did the three in the cabin scramble up the ladder, covered with blood, the red lines of the fetters marked into wrist and ankle. Lampaxo had thrown her dress over her head and was screaming still, despite assurances. The third Hellene’s face was hid under a tangle of hair. But Cimon knew the fishmonger.
“Fetch down the woman,” ordered Hasdrubal; in the mongrel Greek current amongst Mediterranean sea-folk. Two of his seamen ascended the ladder and returned with Lampaxo, who smirked and simpered at sight of Democrates and bobbed him a courtesy. “The traitor is seized, your Excellency. I hope your Excellency will see that he drinks hemlock.
In the morning some of the neighbours indeed wondered at Phormio’s closed door and the silence of the jangling voice of Lampaxo; but the fishmonger was after all an exile, and might have returned suddenly to Attica, now the Persians had retreated again to Bœotia, and before these surmises could change to misdoubting, the Bozra was bearing forth into the Ægean.
And you—you are Phormio, husband and brother-in-law of those who have sworn against me,—you are the slave of Democrates my destroyer,—and you, woman,—Zeus soften you!—already clamour for my worthless life, as all Athens does to-morrow!” Lampaxo suddenly subsided. Resistance from her spouse was so unexpected she lost at once arguments and breath.
He can tell a very clear story. Likewise, Lampaxo and Archias must testify at the trial, also your slave Bias can tell many interesting things.” “Only if I consent to produce him.” “When did a master ever refuse to let his slave testify, if demanded, unless he wished to blast his own cause with the jury? No, makaire, you will not enjoy the day when Themistocles arrays the testimony against you.”
“Polus, son of Phodrus of the Commune of Diomea, and Lampaxo his sister take oath by Zeus, Dike, and Athena, thus: We swear we saw and recognized Glaucon, son of Conon, twice visiting by night in the past month of Scirophorion a certain Babylonish carpet-seller, name unknown, who had lodgings above Demas’s shield factory in Alopece.” “Details lack,” spoke Themistocles, keenly.
“Silence, undutiful scoundrel,” ordered Lampaxo, from her corner; “what has so noble a patriot as Democrates to conceal? Ugh! Be off with you! Phormio, don’t dare to fill up the tipsy fox’s beaker again. I want to pull on my nightcap and go to bed.” Bias did not take the hint.
“Poorly, poorly, kyrie.” Lampaxo looked down and fumbled her dirty chiton. Such condescension on the part of a magnate barely less than Themistocles or Aristeides was overpowering. “Poorly? I grieve to learn it. I was informed that he was comfortably settled here until it was safe to return to Attica, and had even opened a prosperous stall in the market-place.”
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