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Updated: June 28, 2025
“Hark you, Master Glaucon,” began Phormio, not unkindly. “You are with friends, and never heed my wife. She’s not so steely hearted as she seems.” “Seize the traitor,” interjected Lampaxo, with a gasp. “Tell your story. I’m a plain and simple man, who won’t believe a gentleman with your fair looks, fame, and fortune has pawned them all in a night. Bias has sense.
Phormio was considering whether it was best to join combat with his redoubtable spouse, or save his courage for a more important battle, when a slight noise from the street made all listen. “Pest light on those bands of young roisterers!” fumed Lampaxo. “They go around all night, beating on doors and vexing honest folk. Why don’t the constables trot them all to jail?”
“This isn’t a drunken band, good wife,” remarked Phormio, rising; “some one is sitting on the stones by the Hermes, near the door, groaning as if in pain.” “A drunkard? Let him lie then,” commanded Lampaxo; “let the coat-thieves come and filch his chiton.” “He’s hardly drunken,” observed her husband, peering through the lattice in the door, “but sick rather.
“Retire,” commanded Democrates, with a flourish; “leave me to concert with this excellent Hiram the means of thwarting I know not what gross villany.” The door had hardly closed behind Lampaxo, when Democrates fell as a heap into the cushions. He was ashen and palsied. “Courage, master,”—Hiram was drawing a suggestive finger across his throat,—“the woman’s tale is true metal.
He never screamed as he crashed upon the planks. This was enough. The seamen were at the end of their valour. If they must die, they must die. What use resisting destiny? Slowly, slowly the moments crept for the three in the cabin. Even Lampaxo grew still. They heard Hiram pleading frantically, vainly, for another attempt, and raving strange things about Democrates, Lycon, and the Persian.
“None, indeed,” crackled Lampaxo; “didn’t I see that cursed Babylonian with his servants gliding out just as Bias entered? Zeus knows whither! I hope ere dawn Democrates has them by the heels.”
“Medized!” The orator started as became an actor. “Gods and goddesses! what trust is in men if Phormio the Athenian has Medized?” “Hear my story, mu! mu!” groaned Lampaxo. “It’s a terrible thing to accuse one’s own husband, but duty to Hellas is duty. Your Excellency is a merciful man, if he could only warn Phormio in private.”
“Silence below there, you squealing sow,” ordered Hib, from the hatchway. “Must I tan your hide again?” Lampaxo subsided. Phormio tugged vainly at his feet in the stocks. Glaucon said nothing. A terrible hope had come to him. If he could not speedily die, at least he would soon go mad, and that would rescue him from his most terrible enemy—himself.
The gags had been removed from the prisoners, suffering them to eat, whereupon Lampaxo had raised a truly prodigious outcry which must needs be silenced by a vigorous anointing with Hasdrubal’s whip of bullock’s hide. Her husband and Glaucon disdained to join a clamour which could never escape the dreary cavern of the hold, and which only drew the hoots of their unmagnanimous guardians.
The fishmonger stood scratching his thin hairs. Another howl from Lampaxo decided him. “Are you a traitor, too? Away with the wretch to prison!” “I’m resolved,” cried Phormio, striking his thigh. “Only an honest man could get such hatred from my wife. If they’ve not tracked you yet, they’re not likely to find you before morning. My cousin Brasidas is master of the Solon, and owes a good turn—”
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