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Updated: May 26, 2025
The lamps were still burning in the stern-cabin. Even before they were alongside, they caught the clamours of fierce debate. “Still arguing?” quoth Sicinnus to the yawning marine officer who advanced to greet them as they reached the top of the ladder. “Still arguing,” grunted the Spartan. “I think your master has dragged forth all his old arguments and invented a thousand new ones.
Themistocles, in great distress that the Greeks should return, and lost the advantage of the narrow seas and strait passage, and slip home very one to his own city, considered with himself, and contrived that stratagem which was carried out by Sicinnus. This Sicinnus was a Persian captive, but a great lover of Themistocles, and the attendant of his children.
A galley was given to Sicinnus, with a select crew of faithful men. They were all put under the most solemn oaths never to divulge to any person, under any circumstances, the nature and object of their commission. With this company, Sicinnus left the fleet secretly in the night, and went to the coast of Attica.
His hand trembled as he did it. “I cannot do this thing. I have been foolish, wicked,—but I must not be driven mad by fear. The Cyprian must quit Athens to-morrow. I can throw Sicinnus off the scent. I shall never be the worse.” He walked with the box toward the cupboard, but stopped halfway.
Sicinnus reappeared, and led Glaucon to one of the great fires roaring on the beach, where the provident Greek sailors were breakfasting on barley porridge and meat broth before dining on spears and arrow-heads. A silent company, no laughter, no jesting. All knew another sun for them might never rise. Glaucon ate not because he hungered, but because duty ordered it.
At last they found a small tavern where a dozen shipmen sprawled on the earthen floor, and a gaping host was just quenching his last lamp. Sicinnus, however, seemed to know him. There was much protesting and headshaking, at last ended by the glint of a daric. The man grumbled, departed, returned after a tedious interval with a pot of ointment, found Hermes knew where.
He picked at it with his finger and broke a small piece from the edge. “A little more, the stamp is ruined. I could not use it. Better if it were ruined. And yet,—and yet,—” He laid the clay upon the table and sat watching it wistfully. “O Father Zeus!” he broke out after silence, “if I were not compelled by fear! Sicinnus is so sharp, Themistocles so unmerciful!
“Take Sicinnus to the Persian high admiral,” was his ominous whisper, “and fail not,—fail not, for I say to you except the god prosper you now, not all Olympus can save our Hellas to-morrow.” Not another word as he turned again to the cabin.
Themistocles went to his own house, where he said he expected Sicinnus; Cimon and Democrates sought a tavern for an evening cup; Glaucon and Hermione hastened to their house in the Colonus suburb near the trickling Cephissus, where in the starlit night the tettix in the black old olives by the stream made its monotonous music, where great fireflies gleamed, where Philomela the nightingale called, and the tall plane trees whispered softly to the pines.
When he came to his lodgings, however, his wits cleared in a twinkling after he had read two letters. The first was short. “Themistocles to Democrates:—This evening I begin to discover something. Sicinnus, who has been searching in Athens, is certain there is a Persian agent in the city. Seize him.—Chaire.” The second was shorter. It came from Corinth.
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