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All was ready,—the army of hundreds of thousands, the twelve hundred war-ships, the bridges across the Hellespont, the canal at Mt. Athos. Glaucon’s admiration for the son of Gobryas grew apace. Xerxes was the outward head of the attack on Hellas. Mardonius was the soul. He was the idol of the army—its best archer and rider.
The Athenian stood a moment looking right and left, the axe dancing as a toy in his grasp, and a smile on his face inviting, “Prove me.” A javelin singing from the hand of Adherbal flew at him. An imperceptible bending of the body, a red streak on Glaucon’s naked side, and it dug into the deck. Yet whilst it quivered, was out again and hurled through the Carthaginian’s breast and shoulders.
“Do you know this ship?” asked Themistocles, at Glaucon’s side on the poop. “A Tyrian, the newest in their fleet, but her captain is the admiral Ariamenes, Xerxes’s brother.” “She is attacking us, Excellency,” called Ameinias, in his chief’s ear. The din which covered the sea was beyond telling. Themistocles measured the water with his eye.
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.
The curtains parted again. A dark man in a pure white robe, his face and head smooth-shaven, approached the bed. He held out a broad gold cup, the rim whereof glinted with agate and sardonyx. He had no Greek, but Roxana took the cup from him and held it to Glaucon’s lips. “Drink,” she commanded, and he was fain to obey. The Athenian felt the heavily spiced liquor laying hold of him.
“Fly, your Excellency! I’m from Xerxes’s camp. I was at the Persian council. The mountain path is betrayed. Hydarnes and the guard are almost over it. They will fall upon your rear. Fly, or you and all your men are trapped!” “Well,” observed the Spartan, slowly, motioning for the deserter to cease, but Glaucon’s fears made that impossible. “I say I was in Xerxes’s own tent.
“The weal of Hellas rests thereon. Listen!” pleaded the nervous Athenian. “Wait!” was the unruffled answer, and still the iron spoon went on plying. The Spartan lifted a huge morsel from the pot, chewed it deliberately, then put the vessel by. Next he inspected the newcomer from head to toe, then at last gave his permission. “Well?” Glaucon’s words were like a bursting torrent.
Rumour had it that ten thousand Greek infantry were indeed there, and ready for battle. But the outlaw’s expectations were utterly shattered. To the disgust of the Persian lords, who dearly loved brisk fighting, it was soon told how the cowardly Hellenes had fled by ship, leaving the rich plains of Thessaly bare to the invader. Thus was blasted Glaucon’s last hope. Hellas was doomed.
“Keep back, graybeard,” snapped the Spartan; “thank the god if you can hold your money and not lose it, when Glaucon’s neck is wrung to-morrow.” Whereupon he lifted his own voice with, “Thirty drachmæ to place on Lycon, Master Crier! So you have it—”
“Conon,” completed the fugitive, folding his arms calmly, but the admiral was not so calm. “Miserable youth! What harpy, what evil god has brought you hither? What prevents that I give you over to the crew to crucify at the foremast?” “Nothing hinders! nothing”—Glaucon’s voice mounted to shrillness—“save that Athens and Hellas need all their sons this night.”
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