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Updated: May 25, 2025
I omit what his Majesty might do in the way of taking vengeance; sufficient that if aught unfortunate befalls me, or Hiram, or this my slave Smerdis, while we are in Athens, a letter comes to your noble chief Themistocles from the banker Pittacus of Argos.” Democrates, who had risen to his feet, had been flushed before. He became pale now. The hand that clutched the purple tapestry was trembling.
“Perhaps,” insinuated Simonides, “Themistocles was wrong yet again. Who knows if a stranger giving such gifts be not sent forth by Xerxes?” “Don’t chatter foolishness,” commanded Democrates, almost peevishly; but Glaucon replaced the bracelet in the casket.
The pentathlon will be merely a pleasant flute-playing before the great war-drama. You will see more of the ‘Cyprian’ at Athens—” Democrates heard no more. Forth from that wine-house he ran into the sheltering night, till safe under the shadow of the black cypresses. His head glowed. His heart throbbed. He had been partner in foulest treason.
But the fair one was cruel that night, and her slaves repelled the minstrels with pails of hot water from an upper window. Democrates thereupon quitted the party.
An inward omen—not from the entrails of birds, nor a sign in the heavens—told Democrates the fellow brought no happy tidings. With incisive questions Themistocles had been bringing out everything. “So it is absolutely certain that Xerxes begins his invasion next spring?” “As certain as that Helios will rise to-morrow.” “Forewarned is forearmed.
So for several nights, coming late, going early. Then to-night he comes a bit before his wont. He and Phormio drank more than common. After Phormio sent me away, they talked a long time and in louder voice.” “You overheard?” Democrates gripped his arm-chair. “Yes, kyrie, blessed be Athena! The stranger spoke pure Attic such as your Excellency might use.
They had lashed him hand and foot, using small chains in lieu of cords. A bit of wood had been thrust into his mouth and tied with twine under the ears. Democrates stood an instant looking down, then very deliberately knelt beside the prisoner and moved the candle closer.
“And who, in Zeus’s name, do you know in Athens who uses a seal like that?” Silence for a moment, then the prōreus himself was pale. “Your Excellency does not mean—” “Democrates!” cried the trembling navarch. “And why not Democrates?” The words came from the released prisoner, who had been so silent, but who had glided down and stood at Cimon’s elbow.
Hermione had not exchanged a word with Democrates since that day she cast scorn on him on that other hill slope at Munychia, but this did not make his intrusion more welcome. With mortification she realized that she had forgotten herself. That she lay on the sunny bank with her feet outstretched and her hair shaken loose on her shoulders. Her feet she instantly covered with her long himation.
Lycon tilted back against the table. His speech was nothing curt or “Laconic”; it was even drawling. “On the contrary, dear Democrates, I was only commending your excellent foresight, something that I see characterizes all you do. You are the friend of Glaucon. Since Aristeides has been banished, only Themistocles exceeds you in influence over the Athenians.
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