A city of two hundred thousand awaiting a common sentence of death,—such seemed the doom of Athens.

Every morning the golden majesty of the sun rose above the wall of Hymettus, but few could lift their hands to Lord Helios and give praise for another day of light. “Each sunrise brings Xerxes nearer.” The bravest forgot not that.

Yet Athens was never more truly the “Violet-Crowned City” than on these last days before the fearful advent. The sun at morn on Hymettus, the sun at night on Daphni, the nightingales and cicadas in the olives by Cephissus, the hum of bees on the sweet thyme of the mountain, the purple of the hills, the blue and the fire of the bay, the merry tinkle of the goat bells upon the rocks, the laugh of little children in the streets—all these made Athens fair, but could not take the cloud from the hearts of the people.

Trade was at standstill in the Agora. The most careless frequented the temples. Old foes composed their cases before the arbitrator. The courts were closed, but there was meeting after meeting in the Pnyx, with incessant speeches on one theme—how Athens must resist to the bitter end.

And why should not the end be bitter? Argos and Crete had Medized. Corcyra promised and did nothing. Thebes was weakening. Thessaly had sent earth and water. Corinth, Ægina, and a few lesser states were moderately loyal, but great Sparta only procrastinated and despatched no help [pg 254]to her Athenian ally. So every day the Persian thunder-cloud was darkening.

But one man never faltered, nor suffered others about him to falter,—Themistocles. The people heard him gladly—he would never talk of defeat. He had a thousand reasons why the invader should be baffled, from a convenient hexameter in old Bacis’s oracle book, up to the fact that the Greeks used the longest spears. If he found it weary work looking the crowding peril in the face and smiling still, he never confessed it. His friends would marvel at his serenity. Only when they saw him sit silent, saw his brows knit, his hand comb at his beard, they knew his inexhaustible brain was weaving the web which should ensnare the lord of the Aryans.

Thus day after day—while men thought dark things in their hearts.

Hermippus had come down to his city house from Eleusis, and with him his wife and daughter. The Eleusinian was very busy. He was a member of the Areopagus, the old council of ex-archons, an experienced body that found much to do. Hermippus had strained his own resources to provide shields for the hoplites. He was constantly with Themistocles, which implied being much with Democrates. The more he saw of the young orator, the better the Eleusinian liked him. True, not every story ran to Democrates’s credit, but Hermippus knew the world, and could forgive a young man if he had occasionally spent a jolly night. Democrates seemed to have forsworn Ionian harp-girls now. His patriotism was self-evident. The Eleusinian saw in him a most desirable protector in the perils of war for Hermione and her child. Hermione’s dislike for her husband’s destroyer was natural,—nay, in bounds, laudable,—but one must not [pg 255]give way too much to women’s phantasies. The lady was making a Cyclops of Democrates by sheer imagination; an interview would dispel her prejudices. Therefore Hermippus planned, and his plan was not hard to execute.

On the day the fleet sailed to Artemisium, Hermione went with her mother to the havens, as all the city went, to wish godspeed to the “wooden wall” of Hellas.

One hundred and twenty-seven triremes were to go forth, and three and fifty to follow, bearing the best and bravest of Athens with them. Themistocles was in absolute command, and perhaps in his heart of hearts Democrates was not mournful if it lay out of his power to do a second ill-turn to his country.

It was again summer, and again such a day as when Glaucon with glad friends had rowed toward Salamis. The Saronian bay flashed fairest azure. The scattered isles and the headlands of Argolis rose in clear beauty. The city had emptied itself. Mothers hung on the necks of sons as the latter strode toward PeirÆus; friends clasped hands for the last time as he who remained promised him who went that the wife and little ones should never be forgotten. Only Hermione, as she stood on the hill of Munychia above the triple havens, shed no tear. The ship bearing her all was gone long since. Themistocles would never lead it back. Hermippus was at the quay in PeirÆus, taking leave of the admiral. Old Cleopis held the babe as Hermione stood by her mother. The younger woman had suffered her gaze to wander to far Ægina, where a featherlike cloud hung above the topmost summit of the isle, when her mother’s voice called her back.

“They go.”

A line of streamers blew from the foremast of the NausicaÄ as the piper on the flag-ship gave the time to the oars. The triple line of blades, pumiced white, splashed with a [pg 256]steady rhythm. The long black hull glided away. The trailing line of consorts swiftly followed. From the hill and the quays a shout uprose from the thousands, to be answered by the fleet,—a cheer or a prayer to sea-ruling Poseidon those who gave it hardly knew. The people stood silent till the last dark hull crept around the southern headland; then, still in silence, the multitudes dissolved. The young and the strong had gone from them. For Athens this was the beginning of the war.

Hermione and Lysistra awaited Hermippus before setting homeward, but the Eleusinian was delayed. The fleet had vanished. The havens were empty. In Cleopis’s arms little Phoenix wept. His mother was anxious to be gone, when she was surprised to see a figure climbing the almost deserted slope. A moment more and she was face to face with Democrates, who advanced outstretching his hand and smiling.

The orator wore the dress of his new office of strategus. The purple-edged cloak, the light helmet wreathed with myrtle, the short sword at his side, all became him well. If there were deeper lines about his face than on the day Hermione last saw him, even an enemy would confess a leader of the Athenians had cause to be thoughtful. He was cordially greeted by Lysistra and seemed not at all abashed that Hermione gave only a sullen nod. From the ladies he turned with laughter to Cleopis and her burden.

“A new Athenian!” spoke he, lightly, “and I fear Xerxes will have been chased away before he has a chance to prove his valour. But fear not, there will be more brave days in store.”

Hermione shook her head, ill-pleased.

“Blessed be Hera, my babe is too young to know aught of [pg 257]wars. And if we survive this one, will not just Zeus spare us from further bloodshed?”

Democrates, without answering, approached the nurse, and Phoenix—for reasons best known to himself—ceased lamenting and smiled up in the orator’s face.

“His mother’s features and eyes,” cried Democrates. “I swear it—ay, by all Athena’s owls—that young Hermes when he lay in Maia’s cave on Mt. Cylene was not finer or lustier than he. His mother’s face and eyes, I say.”

“His father’s,” corrected Hermione. “Is not his name Phoenix? In him will not Glaucon the Beautiful live again? Will he not grow to man’s estate to avenge his murdered father?” The lady spoke without passion, but with a cold bitterness that made Democrates cease from smiling. He turned away from the babe.

“Forgive me, dear lady,” he answered her, “I am wiser at ruling the Athenians than at ruling children, but I see nothing of Glaucon about the babe, though much of his beautiful mother.”

“You had once a better memory, Democrates,” said Hermione, reproachfully.

“I do not understand your Ladyship.”

“I mean that Glaucon has been dead one brief year. Can you forget his face in so short a while?”

But here Lysistra interposed with all good intent.

“You are fond and foolish, Hermione, and like all young mothers are enraged if all the world does not see his father’s image in their first-born.”

“Democrates knows what I would say,” said the younger woman, soberly.

“Since your Ladyship is pleased to speak in riddles and I am no seer nor oracle-monger, I must confess I cannot follow. But we will contend no more concerning little [pg 258]Phoenix. Enough that he will grow up fair as the Delian Apollo and an unspeakable joy to his mother.”

“Her only joy,” was Hermione’s icy answer. “Wrap up the child, Cleopis. My father is coming. It is a long walk home to the city.”

With a rustle of white Hermione went down the slope in advance of her mother. Hermippus and Lysistra were not pleased. Plainly their daughter kept all her prejudice against Democrates. Her cold contempt was more disappointing even than open fury.

Once at home Hermione held little Phoenix long to her heart and wept over him. For the sake of her dead husband’s child, if for naught else, how could she suffer them to give her to Democrates? That the orator had destroyed Glaucon in black malice had become a corner-stone in her belief. She could at first give for it only a woman’s reason—blind intuition. She could not discuss her conviction with her mother or with any save a strange confidant—Phormio.

She had met the fishmonger in the Agora once when she went with the slaves to buy a mackerel. The auctioneer had astonished everybody by knocking down to her a noble fish an obol under price, then under pretext of showing her a rare Boeotian eel got her aside into his booth and whispered a few words that made the red and white come and go from her cheeks, after which the lady’s hand went quickly to her purse, and she spoke quick words about “the evening” and “the garden gate.”

Phormio refused the drachma brusquely, but kept the tryst. Cleopis had the key to the garden, and would contrive anything for her mistress—especially as all Athens knew Phormio was harmless save with his tongue. That evening for the first time Hermione heard the true story of Glaucon’s escape by the Solon, but when the fishmonger paused she hung down her head closer.

[pg 259]

“You saved him, then? I bless you. But was the sea more merciful than the executioner?”

The fishmonger let his voice fall lower.

“Democrates is unhappy. Something weighs on his mind. He is afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Bias his slave came to see me again last night. Many of his master’s doings have been strange to him. Many are riddles still, but one thing at last is plain. Hiram has been to see Democrates once more, despite the previous threats. Bias listened. He could not understand everything, but he heard Lycon’s name passed many times, then one thing he caught clearly. ‘The Babylonish carpet-seller was the Prince Mardonius.’ ‘The Babylonian fled on the Solon.’ ‘The Prince is safe in Sardis.’ If Mardonius could escape the storm and wreck, why not Glaucon, a king among swimmers?”

Hermione clapped her hands to her head.

“Don’t torture me. I’ve long since trodden out hope. Why has he sent me no word in all these months of pain?”

“It is not the easiest thing to get a letter across the Ægean in these days of roaring war.”

“I dare not believe it. What else did Bias hear?”

“Very little. Hiram was urging something. Democrates always said, ‘Impossible.’ Hiram went away with a very sour grin. However, Democrates caught Bias lurking.”

“And flogged him?”

“No, Bias ran into the street and cried out he would flee to the Temple of Theseus, the slave’s sanctuary, and demand that the archon sell him to a kinder master. Then suddenly Democrates forgave him and gave him five drachmÆ to say no more about it.”

“And so Bias at once told you?” Hermione could not for[pg 260]bear a smile, but her gesture was of desperation. “O Father Zeus—only the testimony of a slave to lean on, I a weak woman and Democrates one of the chief men in Athens! O for strength to wring out all the bitter truth!”

“Peace, kyria,” said Phormio, not ungently, “Aletheia, Mistress Truth, is a patient dame, but she says her word at last. And you see that hope is not quite dead.”

“I dare not cherish it. If I were but a man!” repeated Hermione. But she thanked Phormio many times, would not let him refuse her money, and bade him come often again and bring her all the Agora gossip about the war. “For we are friends,” she concluded; “you and I are the only persons who hold Glaucon innocent in all the world. And is that not tie enough?”

So Phormio came frequently, glad perhaps to escape the discipline of his spouse. Now he brought a rumour of Xerxes’s progress, now a bit of Bias’s tattling about his master. The talebearing counted for little, but went to make Hermione’s conviction like adamant. Every night she would speak over Phoenix as she held him whilst he slept.

“Grow fast, makaire, grow strong, for there is work for you to do! Your father cries, ‘Avenge me well,’ even from Hades.”

* * * * * * *

After the departure of the fleet Athens seemed silent as the grave. On the streets one met only slaves and graybeards. In the Agora the hucksters’ booths were silent, but little groups of white-headed men sat in the shaded porticos and watched eagerly for the appearing of the archon before the government house to read the last despatch of the progress of Xerxes. The Pnyx was deserted. The gymnasia were closed. The more superstitious scanned the heavens for a lucky or unlucky flight of hawks. The priest[pg 261]esses sang litanies all day and all night on the Acropolis where the great altar to Athena smoked with victims continually. At last, after the days of uncertainty and wavering rumour, came surer tidings of battles.

“Leonidas is fighting at ThermopylÆ. The fleets are fighting at Artemisium, off Euboea. The first onsets of the Barbarians have failed, but nothing is decided.”

This was the substance, and tantalizingly meagre. And the strong army of Sparta and her allies still tarried at the Isthmus instead of hasting to aid the pitiful handful at ThermopylÆ. Therefore the old men wagged their heads, the altars were loaded with victims, and the women wept over their children.

So ended the first day after news came of the fighting. The second was like it—only more tense. Hermione never knew that snail called time to creep more slowly. Never had she chafed more against the iron custom which commanded Athenian gentlewomen to keep, tortoise-like, at home in days of distress and tumult. On the evening of the second day came once more the dusty courier. Leonidas was holding the gate of Hellas. The Barbarians had perished by thousands. At Artemisium, Themistocles and the allied Greek admirals were making head against the Persian armadas. But still nothing was decided. Still the Spartan host lingered at the Isthmus, and Leonidas must fight his battle alone. The sun sank that night with tens of thousands wishing his car might stand fast. At gray dawn Athens was awake and watching. Men forgot to eat, forgot to drink. One food would have contented—news!

* * * * * * *

It was about noon—“the end of market time,” had there been any market then at Athens—when Hermione knew by instinct that news had come from the battle and that it [pg 262]was evil. She and her mother had sat since dawn by the upper window, craning forth their heads up the street toward the Agora, where they knew all couriers must hasten. Along the street in all the houses other women were peering forth also. When little Phoenix cried in his cradle, his mother for the first time in his life almost angrily bade him be silent. Cleopis, the only one of the fluttering servants who went placidly about the wonted tasks, vainly coaxed her young mistress with figs and a little wine. Hermippus was at the council. The street, save for the leaning heads of the women, was deserted. Then suddenly came a change.

First a man ran toward the Agora, panting,—his himation blew from his shoulders, he never stopped to recover it. Next shouts, scattered in the beginning, then louder, and coming not as a roar but as a wailing, rising, falling like the billows of the howling sea,—as if the thousands in the market-place groaned in sore agony. Shrill and hideous they rose, and a hand of ice fell on the hearts of the listening women. Then more runners, until the street seemed alive by magic, slaves and old men all crowding to the Agora. And still the shout and ever more dreadful. The women leaned from the windows and cried vainly to the trampling crowd below.

“Tell us! In the name of Athena, tell us!” No answer for long, till at last a runner came not toward the Agora but from it. They had hardly need to hear what he was calling.

“Leonidas is slain. ThermopylÆ is turned! Xerxes is advancing!”

Hermione staggered back from the lattice. In the cradle Phoenix awoke; seeing his mother bending over him, he crowed cheerily and flung his chubby fists in her face. She caught him up and again could not fight the tears away.

[pg 263]

“Glaucon! Glaucon!” she prayed,—for her husband was all but a deity in her sight,—“hear us wherever you are, even if in the blessed land of Rhadamanthus. Take us thither, your child and me, for there is no peace or shelter left on earth!”

Then, seeing her panic-stricken women flying hither and thither like witless birds, her patrician blood asserted itself. She dashed the drops from her eyes and joined her mother in quieting the maids. Whatever there was to hope or fear, their fate would not be lightened by wild moaning. Soon the direful wailing from the Agora ceased. A blue flag waved over the Council House, a sign that the “Five Hundred” had been called in hurried session. Simultaneously a dense column of smoke leaped up from the market-place. The archons had ordered the hucksters’ booths to be burned, as a signal to all Attica that the worst had befallen.

After inexpressibly long waiting Phormio came, then Hermippus, to tell all they knew. Leonidas had perished gloriously. His name was with the immortals, but the mountain wall of Hellas had been unlocked. No Spartan army was in Boeotia. The bravest of Athens were in the fleet. The easy Attic passes of Phyle and Decelea could never be defended. Nothing could save Athens from Xerxes. The calamity had been foreseen, but to foresee is not to realize. That night in Athens no man slept.