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You promise it? Give me your hand.” “A great task,” spoke Democrates, none too readily. “And one you are worthy to accomplish. Are we not co-workers for Athens and for Hellas?” Themistocles’s hawklike eyes were unescapable. The younger Athenian thought they were reading his soul. He held out his hand.... When Democrates returned to the hall, Cimon had ended his song.
Three hundred and seventy Greek triremes rode off Salamis, half from Athens, but the commander-in-chief was Eurybiades of Sparta, the sluggard state that sent only sixteen ships, yet the only state the bickering Peloponnesians would obey. Hence Themistocles’s sore problems.
In that instant he spoke and looked on me I knew him. He lives. He saved me. Ah! why does he stay away?” Lysistra, whose husband had not deemed it prudent to inform her of Themistocles’s revelations, was infinitely distressed. She sent for the best physicians of the city, and despatched a slave to the temple of Asclepius at Epidaurus—not distant—to sacrifice two cocks for her daughter’s recovery.
The face was upturned; white it was, but it showed the same winsome features that had won the clappings a hundred times in the Pnyx. The sleep seemed heavy, dreamless. Themistocles’s own lips tightened as he stood in contemplation, then he bent to touch the other’s shoulder. “Democrates,”—no answer. “Democrates,”—still silence. “Democrates,”—a stirring, a clanking of metal.
Yes—I have heard the story that is on your tongue: one of Themistocles’s busybodies has brought a rumour that a certain great man of the Persian court is missing from the side of his master, and you have been requested to greet that nobleman heartily if he should come to Athens.” “You know a great deal!” cried the orator, feeling his forehead grow hot.
And will you still deny me equal voice and vote with this noble trierarch from Siphinos with his one, or with his comrade from Melos with his twain?” Themistocles’s voice rang like a trumpet. Adeimantus winced. Eurybiades broke in with soothing tones. “No one intends to deny your right to vote, Themistocles. The excellent Corinthian did but jest.”
Themistocles’s head went down between his hands; at last he lifted it and gazed the deserter in the face. “Now, son of Conon, do you still persist that you are innocent? Do you repeat those oaths you swore at Colonus?” “All. I did not write that letter.” “Who did, then?” “A malignant god, I said. I will say it again.” Themistocles shook his head.
“Hush!” Democrates spilled the cup as he started. “No ‘Medizing’ talk before me. Am I not Themistocles’s friend?” “Themistocles and Leonidas will seem valiant fools after Xerxes comes. Men of foresight—” “Are never traitors.” “Beloved Democrates,” sneered the Spartan, “in one year the most patriotic Hellene will be he who has made the Persian yoke the most endurable. Don’t blink at destiny.”
Then Themistocles’s brows grew closer than before. He muttered softly in his beard. But still he said nothing aloud. He read the cipher sheet through once, twice; it seemed thrice. Other sheets he fingered delicately, as though he feared the touch of venom. All without haste, but at the end, when Themistocles arose from his seat, the outlaw trembled.
Democrates grew calmer. “You are merciful. You do not know how I was tempted. You will save me.” “I will do all I can.” Themistocles’s voice was solemn as an æolian harp, but the prisoner caught at everything eagerly. “Ah, you can do so much. Pausanias fought the battle, but they call you the true saviour of Hellas. They will do anything you say.”
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