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Updated: June 28, 2025
Their groans were answered by the screechings of Lampaxo through the port-hole and the taunts of Phormio. “Sing, sing, pretty Pisinoë, sweetest of the sirens,” tossed the fishmonger, playing his part at Glaucon’s side; “lure that dear penteconter a little nearer. And you, brave, gentle sirs, don’t try ‘to flay a skinned dog’ by thrusting down here.
“Woman,”—Democrates pulled his most consequential frown,—“Medizing is treason. On your duty as a daughter of Athens I charge you tell everything, then rely on my wisdom.” “Certainly, kyrie, certainly,” gasped Lampaxo, and so she began a recital mingled with many moans and protestations, which Democrates dared not bid her hasten.
But Lampaxo, who had watched everything with accumulating anger, now burst loose. She bounded to the door. “Constables! Help! Athens is betrayed!” She bawled that much through the lattice before her husband and Bias dragged her back. Fortunately the street was empty. “That I should see this! My own husband betraying the city!
The last hope fled when they heard the rattling of the cables weighing anchor. Soon the soft slap of the water around the bow and the regular heaving motion told that the Bozra was under way. The sea-mouse creaked and groaned through all her timbers and her lading. The foul bilge-water made the hold stifling as a charnel-house. Lampaxo, Hib being absent, began to howl and moan. “O Queen Hera!
No doubt the Phœnician was taking Lampaxo with him. The Athenian staggered across the room to his bed and flung himself on it, laughing hysterically. How absolutely his enemy was delivered into his hands! How the Moræ in sending that Carthaginian ship, to do Lycon’s business and his, had provided the means of ridding him of the haunting terror! How everything conspired to aid him!
Slowly he was recovering strength and wit. “I have nothing to confess,” he spoke, “nothing. I know nothing of this Persian spy. Can I swear the god’s own oath—by Earth, by Sky, by the Styx—” Themistocles shook his head wearily. “How can we say you are innocent? You never visited the Babylonian?” “Never. Never!” “Polus and Lampaxo swear otherwise. The letter?” “A forgery.” “Impossible.
Phormio the fishmonger had returned from his traffic, and sat in his house-door meditating over a pot of sour wine and watching the last light flickering on the great bulk of the mountain. He had his sorrows,—good man,—for Lampaxo his worthy wife, long of tongue, short of temper, thrifty and very watchful, was reminding him for the seventh time that he had sold a carp half an obol too cheap.
But as they dragged Lampaxo on the poop, her outcry rose to a tempest till Lars the Etruscan clapped his hand upon her mouth. Her screaming stilled, but his own outcry more than replaced it. In a twinkling the virago’s hard teeth closed over his fingers. Two ran from the oars to him. But the woman, conscious that she fought for life or death, held fast.
One rush and we have this madman down!” But their terrible adversary gave the master no time to gather his myrmidons. One stroke of the axe had already released Phormio, who clutched the arms of his wife. “The cabin!” the ready-witted fishmonger commanded, and Lampaxo, scarce knowing what she did, released her ungentle hold on Lars and suffered her husband to drag her down the ladder.
Ask Phormio’s wife, Lampaxo; ask—” Once more he broke off to lay a finger on his lips. “This will be a notable day for Athens!” “Our good friend surely thinks so!” rejoined the potter, dryly; “but since he won’t trust us with his precious secret, I think it much more interesting to watch the people crossing the square. The procession must be gathering outside the Dipylon Gate.
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