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Updated: June 8, 2025
“How much is staked that Glaucon can beat Ctesias of Epidaurus?” “We don’t match our lion against mice!” roared the noisiest Athenian. “Or Amyntas of Thebes?” “Not Amyntas! Give us Lycon of Sparta.”
Instantly there appeared two soldiers, between them two men, one of slight, one of gigantic, stature, but both in Grecian dress. Artabazus sprang to his feet. “Who are these men—Thebans?” “From greater cities than Thebes. You see two new servants of the king, therefore friends of us all. Behold Lycon of Sparta and Democrates, friend of Themistocles.”
Another time, when Lycon of Scarphia happened to act with great applause in the theater, and in a verse which he introduced into the comic part which he was acting, begged for a present of ten talents, he laughed and gave him the money.
Whereupon, as if satisfied in his object and averse to further dalliance, he gave Cimon and his companions the stiffest of nods and deliberately turned on his heel. Speech was too precious coin for him to be wasted on mere adieus. Only over his shoulder he cast at Glaucon a curt mandate. “I hate Lycon. Grind his bones.” Themistocles, however, lingered a moment to greet Simonides.
The artist thought that fever had driven the wounded warrior from his couch, as it formerly did his fellow-pupil Lycon, whom, in the delirium of typhus, he could keep in bed only by force. So he led the Gaul carefully back to the couch he had deserted, and, after moistening the bandage with healing balm from Myrtilus's medicine chest, ordered him to keep quiet.
Deliver me from the fear of the blood guilty. Are ye not divine? Do not the immortals know all things? Ye know, then, how I was tempted, how sore was the compulsion, and how life and love were sweet. Then spare me. Give me back unhaunted slumber. Deliver me from Lycon.
More vows, prayers, exhortations. Glaucon stood and received all the homage in silence. A little flush was on his forehead. His arms and shoulders were very red. Lycon rose slowly. All could hear his rage and curses. The heralds ordered him to contain himself. “Now, fox of Athens,” rang his shout, “I will kill you!”
The artist thought that fever had driven the wounded warrior from his couch, as it formerly did his fellow-pupil Lycon, whom, in the delirium of typhus, he could keep in bed only by force. So he led the Gaul carefully back to the couch he had deserted, and, after moistening the bandage with healing balm from Myrtilus's medicine chest, ordered him to keep quiet.
“Dear Democrates,”—Lycon slapped his paw on the other’s shoulder,—“why always imagine evil? Hermes is a very safe guide. I only hope our victory will be so complete Sparta will submit without fighting. It will be awkward to rule a plundered city.” “I shudder at the thought of being amongst even conquered Athenians; I shall see a tyrannicide in every boy in the Agora.”
Again Lycon led, again rose the tempest of voices. Six hundred feet away the presidents were stretching the line, where victory and the plaudits of Hellas waited Lycon of Lacedæmon. Then men ceased shouting, and prayed under breath. They saw Glaucon’s shoulders bend lower and his neck strain back, while the sunlight sprang all over his red-gold hair.
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