Part 17 (1/2)
”What is it, _kyrie_?”
”Go to Agis. He keeps the gaming-house in the Ceramicus. You know where.
Tell him to come hither instantly. He shall not lack reward. Make your feet fly. Here is something to speed them.”
He flung at the boy a coin. Bias opened eyes and mouth in wonder. It was not silver, but a golden daric.
”Don't blink at it, sheep, but run. Bring Agis,” ordered the master,-and Bias's legs never went faster than on that afternoon.
Agis came. Democrates knew his man and had no difficulty in finding his price. They remained talking together till it was dark, yet in so guarded a tone that Bias, though he listened closely, was unable to make out anything. When Agis went away, he carried two letters. One of these he guarded as if holding the crown jewels of the Great King; the second he despatched by a discreet myrmidon to the rooms of the Cyprian in Alopece.
Its contents were pertinent and ran thus:-
”Democrates to the stranger calling himself a prince of Cyprus, greeting:-Know that Themistocles is aware of your presence in Athens, and grows suspicious of your ident.i.ty. Leave Athens to-morrow or all is lost.
The confusion accompanying the festival will then make escape easy. The man to whom I entrust this letter will devise with Hiram the means for your flight by s.h.i.+p from the havens. May our paths never cross again!-_Chaire._”
After Agis was gone the old trembling came again to Democrates. He had Bias light all the lamps. The room seemed full of lurking goblins,-harpies, gorgons, the Hydra, the Minotaur, every other foul and noxious shape was waiting to spring forth. And, most maddening of all, the chorus of aeschylus, that Song of the Furies Democrates had heard recited at the Isthmus, rang in the miserable man's ears:-
”With scourge and with ban We prostrate the man, Who with smooth-woven wile, And a fair-faced smile Hath planted a snare for his friend.
Though fleet, we shall find him; Though strong, we shall bind him, Who planted a snare for his friend.”
Democrates approached the bust of Hermes standing in one corner. The brazen face seemed to wear a smile of malignant gladness at the fulfilment of his will.
”Hermes,” prayed the orator, ”Hermes Dolios, G.o.d of craft and lies, thieves' G.o.d, helper of evil,-be with me now. To Zeus, to Athena the pure, I dare not pray. Prosper me in the deed to which I set my hand,”-he hesitated, he dared not bribe the shrewd G.o.d with too mean a gift, ”and I vow to set in thy temple at Tanagra three tall tripods of pure gold. So be with me on the morrow, and I will not forget thy favour.”
The brazen face still smiled on; the room was very still. Yet Democrates took comfort. Hermes was a great G.o.d and would help him. When the song of the Furies grew too loud, Democrates silenced it by summoning back Hermione's face and asking one triumphant question:-
”She is Glaucon's wife. But if not his, whose then but mine?”
CHAPTER XI
THE PANATHENaeA
Flowers on every head, flowers festooned about each pillar, and flowers under foot when one crossed the Agora. Beneath the sheltering porticos lurked bright-faced girls who pelted each pa.s.ser with violets, narcissus, and hyacinths. For this was the morn of the final crowning day of the Panathenaea, greatest, gladdest of Athenian festivals.
Athletic contests had preceded it and stately Pyrrhic dances of men in full armour. There had been feasting and merry-making despite the darkening shadow of the Persian. Athens seemed awakened only to rejoice.
To-day was the procession to the Acropolis, the bearing of the sacred robe to Athena, the public sacrifice for all the people. Not even the peril of Xerxes could hinder a gladsome holiday.
The sun had just risen above Hymettus, the Agora shops were closed, but the plaza itself and the lesches-the numerous little club houses about it-overran with gossipers. On the stone bench before one of these buzzed the select coterie that of wont a.s.sembled in Clearchus's booth; only Polus the juror now and then nodded and snored. He had sat up all night hearing the priestesses chant their ceaseless litanies on the Acropolis.
”Guilty-I vote guilty,” the others heard him muttering, as his head sank lower.
”Wake up, friend,” ordered Clearchus; ”you're not condemning any poor scoundrel now.”
”_Ai!_ ah!” Polus rubbed his eyes, ”I only thought I was dropping the black bean-”