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“A fitting hour for jesting!” muttered the Athenian, sinking back into his seat. “The vote, the vote!” urged the Sicyonian chief, from Adeimantus’s elbow, and the voting went on. Of more than twenty voices only three—Themistocles’s and those of the Æginetan and Megarian admirals—were in favour of abiding the onset.
They glided past the scores of black triremes swinging lazily at anchor. Twice they pulled around the proudest of the fleet,—the Nausicaä, the gift of Hermippus to the state, a princely gift even in days when every Athenian put his all at the public service. She would be Themistocles’s flag-ship.
Glaucon learned how futile was Themistocles’s hope of succour to Athens from the Sicilian Greeks, for,—thanks to Mardonius’s indefatigable diplomacy,—it was arranged that the Phœnicians of Carthage should launch a powerful armament against the Sicilians, the same moment Xerxes descended on Sparta and Athens. With calm satisfaction Mardonius watched the completion of his efforts.
“And you accompanied their army to Hellas? You went with the other Greek renegades—the sons of Hippias and the rest?” Glaucon’s brow grew very red, but he met Themistocles’s arrowlike gaze. “I did—and yet—” “Ah, yes—the ‘yet,’ ” observed Themistocles, sarcastically. “I had expected it.
“I am glad.” Themistocles’s face was impenetrable as the sphinx’s. Democrates seized the admiral’s red chlamys with his fettered hands. “You will save me! I will fly to Sicily, Carthage, the Tin Isles, as you wish. Have you forgotten our old-time friendship?” “I loved you,” spoke the admiral, tremulously. “Ah, recall that love to-night!” “I do.” “O piteous Zeus, why then is your face so awful?
Has Aristeides come yet?” The last question was to Simonides, who had been half-companion, half-counsellor, in all these days of storm. “He is not yet come from Ægina.” “Leave me, then.” Themistocles’s frown deepened. The others went out. The state cabin was elegant, considering its place.
In the open seas his numbers can crush us. Either vote to fight here or we Athenians sail for Italy and leave you to stem Xerxes as you can.” There had been sullen silence after that, the admirals misliking the furrow drawn above Themistocles’s eyes. Then Eurybiades had haltingly given orders for battle.
The thranites of the upper oar bank were alone on the benches, and stroking the great trireme along to a singsong chant about Amphitrite and the Tritons. On the poop above two sailors were grumbling lest the penteconter’s people get all the booty of the Bozra. Glaucon heard their grunts and complainings whilst he looked on Themistocles’s awful face.
“Were I only Zeus,” rejoined the orator, who never was far from his best friend’s wife, “I would cast two thunderbolts, one to destroy Xerxes, the second to blast Themistocles’s armada,—so would the Lady Hermione be satisfied.” “I am sorry, then, you are not the Olympian,” said the woman, half smiling at the pleasantry. Cimon interrupted them.
The man is suspicious, does no trading, and Phormio’s wife told Sicinnus an odd tale.” “What tale?” Democrates glanced at a passing chariot, avoiding Themistocles’s gaze. “Why, twice the Barbarian, she swears, has had an evening visitor—and he our dear Glaucon.” “Impossible.” “Of course. The good woman is mistaken. Still, question her. Pry into this Babylonian’s doings.
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