THE HETAERIA.

I.

Hipyllos had not mentioned where he was going. Old Myrmex, who accompanied him with a blazing pine-torch, did not rack his brains to discover, but trudged on with dull indifference, following his young master step by step. His most distinct feeling was that he was beginning to be tired. They had already traversed the greater part of Athens, and at this time—the year Chabrias was archon—Athens was a large city.

Shortly after sunset the master and slave had quitted Hipyllos’ house, just inside the Acharnian Gate, and passed through the length of Colonus, the most northern portion of the city. Then they walked by the “Big Stones” of the Acropolis with their numerous niches for votive offerings, which may still be seen at the present day. From the Prytaneium they had followed the Street of the Tripods, with its temples of the gods and huge brazen tripods, and had gone from the Odeium down through the Theatre of Dionysus, over whose orchestra people were in the habit of making a short cut, as the huge building, with the exception of a few festival days, stood empty almost all the year. Next they had followed the Street of the Temples along the southern edge of the citadel, where no fewer than six marble temples gleamed through the twilight shadows at the foot of the dark cliff.

Hipyllos had made this circuit to consume the time until the lamps were lighted in the houses. The moment had now come, more and more points of light glimmered through the dusk.

From the Street of the Temples master and man turned into a narrow alley, which wound between the houses, trees, and garden-walls. There was and is still a marked difference between the air in this quarter and the atmosphere of the rest of Athens. South of the Acropolis a refreshing sea-breeze usually blows over country and city.

Hipyllos, inhaling the damp air with delight, pursued his walk. He had a joyous face, and his whole person illumined by the red torch-glare made a striking impression. His white upper-garment, adorned with a blue border, formed a picturesque contrast to his sunburnt skin and black locks, and every movement of his well-formed limbs was firm and steadfast, in harmony with the expression of his face.

Old Myrmex did not care for the sea-breeze. He was suffering from lumbago and, at the first puff of the damp air, he took his torch into his left hand and rubbed his side with the right—an act in which he was not impeded by his clothing, which consisted of a dark exomis, the usual garment worn by slaves, and which, to give freedom of motion, left the right arm, shoulder, and side bare.

About the middle of the street the way led close by a side-building, doubtless the women’s apartment of a stately house that apparently belonged to a wealthy citizen. From one of the sparsely scattered thyrides, a kind of air-hole, the light of a lamp streamed into the darkness. Hipyllos paused. This light must have had some peculiar charm for him, he could not turn his eyes from it.

As if in the mood when some secret joy renders men communicative he suddenly patted the old man on the shoulder, saying:

“Myrmex, do you know whence that light shines?” And, without waiting for an answer, he added: “From the room occupied by Clytie, the fairest of all Athenian maidens.”

Myrmex stared at Hipyllos with his mouth wide open in amazement.

“Master, master!” he stammered, “what have you taken into your head?”

Hipyllos did not hear. But Myrmex feared his master was in the act of committing some hasty deed, and he knew that when a citizen was guilty of a crime, but denied his offence, it was ordained that he should have one of his slaves tortured. The law was based on the belief that the slave would testify against his master and, if he did not, the master’s innocence was proved.

As this did not seem to be one of the women who led a dissolute life, but a citizen’s daughter, a closely-guarded maiden, Myrmex in imagination already felt himself stretched on the rack, whipped with brushes and scourges, tortured with thumb-screws, laden with tile-stones on his stomach, and half-choked by vinegar in both nostrils. So he repeated in a still louder tone.

“Master, master, what have you taken into your head?”

Hipyllos picked up a pebble, but just as he was flinging it against the wall, as though in obedience to a preconcerted signal, he saw two shadows on the red curtain inside of the loop-hole.

“Aiboi! a piece of ill-luck!” he muttered, dropping the pebble, “she isn’t alone.”

Then kissing his hand to the bright ray of light, he passed on half reluctantly, farther in the direction of the Cerameicus, the northwestern part of the city.

Myrmex did not think much; but when an idea once entered his brain he did not let it go easily, and now asked for the third time:

“Master, master, what have you taken into your head?”

This time Hipyllos heard him. He cast a glance at his companion and, seeing his troubled face, understood the connection of ideas and burst into a loud laugh.

“Poor Myrmex,” he said, pinching the old man’s cheeks, “are you afraid of the thumb-screws? Pooh! You’ll escape! This is no matter of life and death, and a citizen can be compelled to have a slave tortured only in an affair of life and death.... Have you heard,” he continued, mischievously, “the story of Killikon from Miletus? He betrayed his native place to the citizens of Priene, and when his friends, during the preparations, asked what he had in view, constantly replied: ‘Nothing but good.’ Well then! when you ask what I have taken into my head I can, with still better reason, answer: ‘Nothing but good.’ For the maiden belongs to a highly-respected family, and I intend that she shall become my wife.”

II.

Hipyllos walked on silently for some time, then suddenly exclaimed:

“Myrmex, you don’t know—no words can tell how pretty she is.... It’s a little more than a month since I first saw her. She was returning home from the temple of Demeter, accompanied by her mother and several slaves. The wind raised her veil and revealed a face which, crimsoned with blushes at the notice she was attracting, was the loveliest I had ever seen. The young girl was tall and wore a snow-white robe with a broad violet-blue border; her shining black hair was drawn high above her neck, and over her veil a gold clasp ornamented with a large blue stone glittered on her brow. Her silver-wrought sandal-straps fitted her small feet so trimly, that even men usually blind to the secrets of beauty uttered a murmur of admiration. Whenever the breeze tightened her garments, making her movements more visible, her bearing showed a reserve and modesty impossible to describe in words and, as she passed, I seemed to feel an atmosphere of freshness mingled with the faint fragrance of some costly ointment.... Never has any woman so bewitched me! At night I dreamed of her dazzlingly white neck and soft black hair—heavenly powers, how pretty she is! But you don’t understand me, Myrmex; I might as well confide in the trees and stones by the wayside.... All the young men she met turned—no one was content with merely seeing her pass. Here, where the girls spend their days in the narrow limits of the women’s apartment, it isn’t three times in a man’s life that he meets such a maiden on the highway.

“As she and her mother approached the house where we just saw the light shining, one of the slaves ran into the Phalerian street to knock at the door, and I now knew who the young girl was. The mansion belonged to the architect Xenocles, and the maiden was doubtless his daughter Clytie, whose beauty I had often heard praised. At the corner of the wall the wind blew stronger, so that the women were obliged to struggle against it. Suddenly the young girl’s veil was loosened and flew away on the breeze. Uttering a loud shriek, she stopped and covered her face with her hands. Rushing on in advance of the rest after the veil, which was whirling around in the air, I caught it as it fell and hung on a slender branch. As I approached the young girl, who had let her hands fall and stood blushing crimson, with eyes bent on the ground, she looked so bewitchingly beautiful that, fairly beside myself, I grasped the hand with which she took the veil, exclaiming:

“‘Pretty Clytie, raise your eyes to mine; for here, in your mother’s presence, I swear that you and no one else shall become my wife.’

“The young girl turned pale and snatched her hand from my clasp, but she did what I asked. She raised her large dark eyes and fixed them on mine—it seemed to me not with dislike.

“The mother, however, was very angry and thrust me away, saying:

“‘Who are you, Youth, who dares to speak so boldly to a modest maiden? Clytie—your wife! May all the gods forbid! Know that her father has promised her to another....’

“‘By Zeus!’ I interrupted, ‘that other shall yield, were he the king of Persia himself.’”

Myrmex looked up at his master and laughed in his beard at his audacity.

“The next morning,” Hipyllos continued, “on the walls, the bark of the trees, and the stones along the roadside were the words written by different hands:

“I alone did not write; but, at the hour that everybody was going to market, I rode my black Samphora steed through the narrow lane. It was very rare to hear the sound of hoofs there and, as I had anticipated, the pretty maid appeared at the peep-hole. Her room was where I had expected. She hastily drew back, but I saw by her glance that she had recognized me. The next day I again rode by. She did not vanish so quickly; but I didn’t speak to her, for I did not know whether she was alone. The last time I rode through the street I passed close by the house and laid a laurel-blossom in the loop-hole; when I came back it had been exchanged for a narcissus flower, which lay where it could be easily taken. I then sent Manidoros—whom you know: the boldest and most cunning of my slaves—to Phalerian street. He speedily ingratiated himself with Doris, the youngest of Xenocles’ female slaves, and how happy I was when one afternoon he came home and said:

“‘Everything has happened as you wish. Doris told me that her young mistress has seemed wholly unlike herself ever since she saw you. She weeps, dreams, and murmurs your name. But the man to whom her father has promised her—he is a great orator and writer of tragedies—she hates worse than death. Doris declares you have used some spell, and that the girl is bewitched.’”

Old Myrmex shook his head.

“May all this give you happiness!” he murmured.

III.

The master and slave continued their way towards the Cerameicus.

The district through which they were walking was the most rugged part of Athens, and the eye everywhere met the proud outlines of steep mountains. A few hundred paces on the right towered the Acropolis; a little farther away at the left lay the Museium, and five hundred paces in front the broad Pnyx and steep Areopagus rose into the air. Most of these heights were considerable cliffs and the two nearest, the Acropolis and the Museium, towered hundreds of ells above the stony ground where the road lay.

It was a bright, clear evening in the month Boedromion. The wind was dying away; but every time a faint breeze swept by it bore a peculiar spicy odor from the wild thyme that grew on Mt. Hymettus. The crescent moon was high in the heavens. The Acropolis, with the temple on its summit, appeared like a huge, shadowy mass, against which the greyish flanks of the Museium lay bathed in moonlight, so that one could count the little white houses.

Suddenly from the distance a loud shriek of pain echoed through the evening stillness and repose. A man’s deep voice moaned as if some one were suffering a torturing death-agony. More than twenty times the: Oi moi! Oi moi! (Woe is me! Woe is me!) was repeated. Every syllable, every intonation was borne through the soft air with peculiar distinctness. A little later the sound became fainter till at last it died away in a dull, breathless silence.

Hipyllos started, though he had heard piteous wails in this place before.

The cries came from a part of the height where there were no houses. The interior of the cliff was doubtless inhabited, for about twenty yards above the place where the road wound light shone through twenty or thirty small holes in the mass of rock. These holes, ranged in two rows, may be seen at the present day, and inside of them lay—and still remain—some ancient cliff-chambers, whose origin mocks human speculation, since even that period—nearly twenty-three centuries ago—possessed no knowledge of whose hands had formed them or—if they were tombs—whose bones had mouldered there. At that time these rooms were used for prisons, and many a criminal sentenced to death was here—where no escape was possible—compelled to drain the poisoned cup.

Hearing the wails reminded Hipyllos that “the eleven” were in the habit of going at sundown to the prison to loose the chains of the condemned criminal and inform him that his last hour had come. The hapless man then took a bath, and was afterwards compelled to drink a goblet of hemlock juice and pace up and down the narrow room until his limbs grew cold under him. Then he was obliged to lie down on the couch, cover his face, and await death. It was during this torturing expectation that even the strongest man uttered lamentations.

Whoever knew this fact could understand the cause when, as on this evening, shrieks of anguish echoed from the dark stone chambers.H

Even Myrmex awoke from his indifference and spit three times on his breast to avert misfortune.

“Do as I do,” he said to his master, “keep ill-luck away.”

Hipyllos quickened his pace.

“I fear nothing for myself,” he replied “and I cannot aid the doomed man.”

His features at this moment wore a serious expression which showed that, spite of his youth, he had seen and experienced many things.

IV.

Hipyllos’ father, Chaeretades, one of the guardians of orphan children, was already advanced in life when he lost his wife, Hipyllos’ mother. After the short period of mourning, thirty days, he married a young widow named Cleobule, famed for her beauty, but about whom nothing good was said in other respects. Scarcely six months after, rumor asserted that she was carrying on an intrigue with a young Carystian who lived in the house.

The report reached Hipyllos’ ears through the slaves and, stirred to his inmost soul, he taxed Cleobule with her infamy, but she called all the gods to witness that she was unjustly suspected, and looked so pathetic and beautiful in her despairing grief that Hipyllos did not know what to believe. But, after the Carystian had left the house, the caresses which, as his step-mother, she could venture to bestow upon her husband’s son, grew warmer than was seemly and when, at the great Panathenaic festival, he returned from the procession clad in his holiday robe with a garland on his hair, she ran to meet him, embraced him, and called him her young Hippolytus, her young Theseus. He thrust her away so violently that she fell on the tiled pavement of the peristyle, and from that hour Cleobule pursued him with the bitterest hatred. As he stood alone—Chaeretades was completely in her power—this gradually developed in his nature a premature degree of firmness and resolution. Nevertheless, he was obliged to submit to many things. Cleobule finally alleged that he associated with dissolute revellers, and persuaded her husband to send him to the fleet of twenty ships with which Phormion, since the second year of the war, had guarded the mouth of the Corinthian Gulf.

Hipyllos found the fleet lying off Antirrhium, opposite to the Peloponnesian galleys. It seemed strange to suddenly find himself so near the enemy that he could hear the Spartan war-songs and see their spears and swords glitter in the sunlight. Aboard young and old were confident of victory, for they had recently defeated a Corinthian fleet twice as large as their own.

The battle was not long delayed.

Early in the morning the Peloponnesians rowed into the bay opposite Naupactus, a city belonging to the allies of Athens. Phormion was hurrying after to defend the place, when the enemy suddenly made a circuit by which they intercepted and captured his last nine ships. Hipyllos was on the eighth and, frantic at falling into the hands of the foe, he shouted to a party of Messenians from Naupactus whom he saw on shore:

“Messenians! Will you calmly see ships that were hastening to the aid of your city, captured by the enemy? Help us save this one galley. When we are once free, we will speedily rescue the others.”

The men on land consulted together a moment, then they waded out into the sea and assisted their allies. But scarcely was the ship freed, when it rowed to the next, and when two were rescued they easily succeeded in recapturing the others, so that the Peloponnesians only kept a single one of the Athenian galleys. Meantime Phormion had rowed farther on with the remainder of the fleet, but, perceiving that the Peloponnesians kept no order, he attacked and routed them, capturing six ships. The Athenians raised the sign of victory, jeering at the Peloponnesians for doing the same.

Hipyllos was universally praised; for he had not only summoned the Messenians to the rescue, but had fought bravely and killed a brother of Lycophron, one of the commanders of the hostile fleet.

On his return to Athens Hipyllos found his father on a sick-bed. Shame for Cleobule’s misconduct, which at last could no longer be concealed, affected the old man like a slow poison.

Hipyllos’ valor in the naval battle at Rhium was his last joy. The very day that he had listened to the account of it from one of the officers of the fleet he breathed his last, holding his son’s hand in his own. Hipyllos mourned sincerely for his father. Cleobule was more richly dowered by the dead man’s will than she had any right to expect, but was compelled to instantly quit the hearth on which she had brought disgrace.

At the time we make Hipyllos’ acquaintance he was in independent possession of a fine house, numerous slaves, and a fortune of more than thirty talents.I The firmness he had acquired in the conflict with his wicked step-mother now served him in good stead. Having early learned to govern himself, he was wiser than most of the men of his own age and did not squander his property. When reproached for not keeping open house for his friends and sending a team of four horses to the games, he shook his head and answered:

“Why should I waste my inheritance? Some day Athens will knock at my door, saying: ‘Give me a ship for the fleet or a chorus for the theatre’—then will be the time to be open-handed.”

V.

Hipyllos and Myrmex had now reached the closely-built Cerameicus. But even the great market which, half steeped in moonlight, half veiled in deep shadow, lay outspread before them with its temples, arcades, booths, altars, hermae, and statues—even here there was little movement.

Most of the people had long since returned from the gymnasia, freedmen and slaves had performed the duties of the day, and after sunset children were not permitted to play outside of the doors of the houses.

Yet life was not wholly silent. Laughter and song echoed from the wine-shops, and the heavy grating of the stone-saws was heard from many a sculptor’s; for in those days sculptors had so much to do that their slaves were often obliged to work in the evening and part of the night. Ever and anon the hooting of owls sounded from their countless hidden holes in the cliffs and, as usual in the autumn, there was heard, like voices from another world, the wailing notes of invisible birds of passage calling to each other in the night as they flew at a dizzy height above the city.

Hipyllos turned into a side street, which led from the superb street extending from the Dipylum Gate to a long hill in the Melitan quarter. Here he told Myrmex to extinguish the torch; then after looking around him and listening, till he thought himself sure that no one was following, he directed his steps towards a solitary house at the foot of the height which, seen in the moonlight, presented a peculiar aspect.

It had a hyperoon or upper story which extended only over part of the building and was reached by a staircase on the outside. It was an old-fashioned, but very convenient style of architecture, especially when this upper story was used for guest rooms. In those days, when taverns were almost unknown, nearly every house annually received visits from distant guests who, on the great festivals, came to Athens to attend the processions and torch-races, or the performances in the Theatre of Dionysus. Both stories were so low that a man, by standing on another’s shoulders, could have reached the roof with a staff. Nevertheless, the house had a certain air of distinction from being enthroned on a huge limestone rock, in whose crumbling sides ten or twelve steps were hewn.

As Hipyllos and his companion went towards the dwelling there was a rustling on the outside staircase, and the figure of a boy with closely-cropped hair suddenly appeared outlined against the grey evening sky—doubtless a young slave stationed to keep watch. At the sight of the approaching forms he began to sing at the top of his voice, apparently to attract the attention of the inmates of the house, the beginning of the old Harmodius chorus:

Then he suddenly stopped and, in the stillness, which seemed doubly as profound as before, a dog was heard barking within the dwelling. Hipyllos went up to the door of the house and signed to Myrmex to knock with the copper ring. Scarcely had the heavy blow fallen, when a frantic deafening barking was heard, interrupted by a short howl as though the dog had been silenced by a kick. A heavy step approached inside and a rough voice asked:

“Who knocks so late?”

Hipyllos thrust Myrmex aside and, while he mentioned his master’s name, he himself put his lips to the door and replied in a low tone:

“Zeus Philios and Nike.”

This was evidently a preconcerted watch-word, for the door instantly opened. The door-keeper, a big, strong slave, with dark-brown hair and beard, raised the smoking lamp aloft and, recognizing Hipyllos, said in a mysterious tone: “Xenocles and Acestor have come.” Then he led him across a courtyard only five or six paces wide to a room from which echoed loud voices and laughter.

VI.

Hipyllos raised the curtain hanging over the door and entered a small, low chamber, lighted by a lamp with two wicks placed on a high bronze pedestal. The rest of the furniture consisted of four couches and a table covered with goblets, wreaths, fillets for the hair, and alabaster phials of perfume with necks so narrow that the precious contents could only ooze out drop by drop.

In this room were three men. Two reclined on the same couch, half resting against each other, the third stood before them with folded arms, talking to the pair. One of the couple on the couch was a small, white-haired, white-robed man, with a pair of strangely brilliant eyes, the other was a stately personage with long black locks and rings on his fingers, clad in a showy yellow robe. The one who stood before them was a large, stout bald man, with a weather-beaten face and a grey beard, very plainly dressed in a grey chiton, but there was something in his bearing which attracted attention. He carried his head high, and his whole outer man bore the impress of unwavering self-confidence and unbending pride. He was evidently a man of action, and had more than once held command when the point in question was life and death. His manner clearly showed that he was host and the others were his guests.

When Hipyllos entered he advanced several steps to meet him, patted him on the shoulder, and said in a curt, loud tone: “I like a youth who comes at the right hour—spite of chariot-races, dice, women, and wine. By Zeus, when I was young—I always came late.”

Thuphrastos—this was the speaker’s name—had formerly been a captain of horsemen and was known by the name of Cōdōn, the barker. From asthma or habit, he rarely uttered more than five or six words at a time, and so abruptly that his speech really bore some resemblance to a dog’s barking.

“Ha! ha! ha!” chimed in the little white-haired man. “And I was often outside the house till late into the night. But, though my father was only a poor miller, he watched his household strictly enough. For a long time I told our old slave-woman to put a pair of dusty sandals outside of my door, so that he should think I was at home. One night, however, he found the chamber empty, so that trick was over. Ah, I was a young fellow then—it seems so short a time ago—yet now I am old.”

Hipyllos greeted the speaker with marked respect. He was the architect Xenocles, the lovely Clytie’s father.

“Old!” repeated the man in the yellow robe—the orator and tragedian Acestor—“old, don’t say that!” And, glancing at the others, he added “Spite of his white hair, Xenocles is the most active man among us. Like the swan, the bird of Phoebus Apollo—he has no age.”

“Hm,” muttered Thuphrastos tartly, “don’t listen to him. Orators are cunning flatterers. Old friend,” he continued, laying his hand on Xenocles’ shoulder, “we both know better. Age is a sickness of the whole body. We can—at a hundred paces—distinguish a Koppa-stallion from an animal destined for sacrifice; we can, if necessary, chew our barley bread, but—the girls turn their backs upon us.”

Hipyllos exchanged a cold greeting with the stately Acestor, Clytie’s acknowledged suitor.

The latter scarcely seemed to notice the young man; for Hipyllos was not known by many, while every child recognized the orator Acestor. He well knew what pleased the multitude, and talked with equal ease and fluency about campaigns, legal cases, art, the working of mines, and the cultivation of vineyards. He was indebted for what he had learned solely and entirely to his excellent memory—he was far from rich enough to own a library. Books were extraordinarily expensive. Three small treatises by Philolaos, the Pythagorean philosopher, cost 110 minae.J

Whether from lack of will or lack of conviction, Acestor was in one respect an incapable orator. He could never control an assembly that was unfavorable to him. Signs of disapproval from the majority completely upset him, clouded his brain, and made him contradict himself. Yet he was able to sway an audience as he pleased when sure of having his hearers with him. He seemed created to delude credulous folk; thousands on thousands had applauded him, and many thought that, as orator and debater, he surpassed Antiphon the Rhamnusian, and as a tragedian he deserved to rank by the side of the great Pratinas. The more sagacious, on the other hand, held a totally different opinion; they said that he “puffed himself up till the city was too small for him,” thought his voice shrill and his statements untrustworthy and as to his tragedy they remarked with old Cratinus that he “ought to be flogged until he learned to write more briefly.”

His worst opponents went still farther. They openly called him Carian or Phrygian, nay even gave him the slave-name of Sacas—all to intimate that they did not consider him a native Athenian, but a foreigner who had smuggled himself into the list of citizens. The punishment for this imposition was very severe, and consisted of having the hair clipped and being enslaved. Yet nothing was more common than for foreigners, nay, even fugitive slaves, to bribe the recording clerks and be entered in the register of citizens. A revision of this register had led to the perplexing, almost incredible discovery, that no fewer than 4,760 persons had insinuated themselves among 14,240 native citizens.

Hipyllos had not yet taken his seat when the slave-boy’s resonant voice was again heard outside. The blow of the knocker on the door echoed through the house, and the dog in the outer hall snuffed but, remembering the kick, contented itself with growling. Shortly after a peculiarly firm step echoed across the peristyle.

“Hush!” exclaimed little Xenocles. “What a step. If Heracles himself was approaching, it could not sound different. I’ll wager that is Lamon.”

VII.

The door-curtain was drawn aside admitting a broad-shouldered man of middle height, with muscular limbs, sunburnt skin, short neck, curling locks, and thick beard. He wore a purple fillet around his hair and was clad in a robe of dazzling whiteness. This was Lamon, famed for his remarkable strength, who in the 88th Olympiad would have won the prize for wrestling, had he not unintentionally crushed to death his opponent, a Heracleotian athlete. Lamon was a fuller by trade. In those days, when the white robe was commonly worn, the business was a very general and very profitable occupation, since the fine woollen stuff, every time it was to be cleansed from stains and soils, had to be entrusted to the fuller where, among other processes, it was subjected to a skilful bleaching. Lamon was therefore regarded, certainly with good reason, as a very well-to-do citizen.

There was silent admiration, mingled with a touch of submission, in the greeting of all. At that time strength was a power to which every one bowed. Thuphrastos alone showed no special reverence. This man, who belonged to one of the most distinguished families in Athens, had early given numerous proofs of intelligence and courage. One day, during the expedition against rebellious Megara, he was separated from the heavily armed troops by a dense fog and very hard pressed by the foe. At night he ordered each of his men to collect two beds of leaves, and in the early dawn he retreated. The Megarians pursued, counted the heaps of leaves, and believing the Attic horsemen to be twice as numerous as they really were, did not dare to attack them, but held a council. Meantime Pericles came up with his heavily armed troops and the Megarians were surrounded, which ended the campaign.

But Thuphrastos was conscious of his distinction. He had a peculiar way of using his eyes, lowering them slowly as though measuring the person with whom he was conversing from head to foot. Lamon was thus inspected, after which he greeted him, with a certain reserve, it is true, as one great man salutes another, yet with evident good-will.

Stately Acestor sprang up from his couch, went to meet the fuller, and pressing his hand, said:

“I greet you, Heracles of our day!” Then, turning to the others—he usually seemed to speak to as many persons as possible at once—“With Lamon among us we can laugh at all informers and slaves of the city police force. Lamon be praised, he is our shield, our armor!”

With these words Acestor raised his head and arched his chest as though, having bowed to another, he hastened to take the place that was his due.

Lamon who, like most remarkably strong men, was somewhat grave and taciturn, now opened his mouth for the first time and, without paying the least heed to Acestor’s flattery, said:

“It is late. If Sthenelus and Lysiteles would come, we could begin.”

With these words he reclined on the couch opposite to Xenocles and beckoned to Hipyllos.

VIII.

Lamon’s wish appeared to be uttered in a lucky hour; for it was scarcely spoken when again a stir arose in the house and, directly after, voices echoed in the peristyle outside. It was a peculiar exchange of words, which could scarcely be called a conversation, since only every other sentence was heard. One of the speakers, especially, had a voice so low that it was lost in a faint murmur. The other, on the contrary, talked in very high, clear tones, emphasizing each syllable with a distinctness that could only proceed from long training. It was easy to perceive that his mode of speech was connected with his profession of addressing words to a numerous assembly. Yet, though his voice was so well developed, there was something frivolous, mocking, almost insolent in the tone, which precluded the thought that the man might be an orator.

The dialogue outside began with a whining mutter, which sounded almost as if it came from a disconsolate dog.

“Why!” replied the loud-voiced speaker, “what is there strange in that? Where should two ragamuffins like ourselves meet better than in the Himatiopolis Agora (Rag-market)?”

Again a mutter was heard, that sounded like a feeble remonstrance.

“Simpleton!” replied the loud voice, and each of the sonorous Attic words rang out so distinctly that it was impossible not to listen. “How can you make yourself richer than you are? My cloak, my robe, every thread I have belong to the clothes-dealers, I own that! But the wine I have here” (the listeners knew that the speaker patted himself in the stomach) “belongs to me, it is my own,—my own, do you understand?—even if it isn’t paid for. So am I not right in esteeming wine more than clothes?”

The question was answered by a rude laugh, which could scarcely have proceeded from the low-voiced man, but was doubtless uttered by the door-keeper as he followed the guests across the peristyle.

“Good!” cried Xenocles smiling, “there is our merry brother Sthenelus the actor.”

“And the other,” added Acestor, as if the last comer was not worth mentioning by name.

The curtain was raised and two persons entered, each a queer figure in his own way. The loud-tongued man, Sthenelus the comedian, was a plump fellow about forty years old, with a red face, a still rosier nose, small, piercing eyes, and tousled brown hair. His costume consisted of a shabby grey robe, whose white border was full of spots. At the first step through the door he sank low on one side—he was very lame. He had not been born with this infirmity, but once, on one of the great festivals, while personating Cecrops with floating plumes, gold-broidered cloak, and sword with an ivory hilt by his side, he had carelessly stepped off the boards and fallen. Half stunned by the accident he had heard, as though in a dream, the frantic laughter of the crowd. For where was Cecrops? The hero’s helmet and mask were lying in the dust, and the comedian’s red face suddenly appeared, while beneath the magnificent garments were some shabby rags with a pair of thin legs, whose lack of proportion to the huge cothurni would alone have been sufficient to awake the mirth of the populace. But this fall, amid the laughter of thousands upon thousands of people, had serious consequences; from that day Sthenelus was lame.

No one pitied him. Who knew much about a poor comedian? In whatever character he appeared the spectators saw only a close linen mask, which covered the whole head, and a costume that suited the mask. An Agonistēs might appear in three or four parts, year after year on the great holidays, might grow old on the stage, but win admiration and affection—impossible! It was the lifelike disguise, the mask and robe which the populace applauded. Who was concealed beneath no one knew and no one cared to know.

As Sthenelus’ lameness had rendered him useless as an actor, he was obliged to fight his way through the world as he best could. The scanty alms bestowed by the state upon all cripples was far from being sufficient for his needs. He first sold his stage paraphernalia, his masks, daggers, etc., and then wandered through the small towns in the neighborhood of Athens, making merriment for the inhabitants. He went, as he himself said, from tragedy to comedy. Jesting became his means of livelihood, and to keep up his courage he drank whenever opportunity offered, and in those days opportunities were not rare.

“Why! why!” he said as he entered, “you are as solemn as the Areopagites themselves. By Heracles, it was far livelier where I’ve been! I come from Halipedon; the good folks there were amusing themselves by jumping on leather bottles. Finally a fat sausage-dealer set his flat feet on one so that it burst with a loud report—and over he went slap on his back in the midst of the mire. There wasn’t a dry thread on him. Ha! ha! ha!”

The other new-comer, Lysiteles, a small, wizened, hump-backed man, plucked Sthenelus’ robe to warn him to be less noisy. Then he greeted the assembled group, but in an awkward, humble way, as though he knew no one would notice the salutation, after which he shrank into himself still more, so that nothing was seen of his face except a big pale forehead covered with a network of wrinkles.

This man was one of the utterly ruined idlers, of whom there were so many in Athens. As a youth he had been attractive, gay, haughty, and extravagant, but all that was left of the “magnificent” Lysiteles was a decrepit old man of sixty who, with age, had red, rheumy eyes. The jester Meidias asserted that Hermes had changed his eyes to two fountains, which wept for his lost fortune day and night. On the whole Lysiteles was accustomed to be made the butt of jests. Some dissolute young fellows had once dragged him in to a dinner at the house of Ægidion, a well-known hetaera from Corinth. After the banquet the question was asked.

“Can any one tell why Lysiteles is more crooked and bent than any other Athenian?”

Ægidion who, clad in a robe of semi-transparent stuff from Amorgos, was reclining on a couch, stretched out her smooth arm adorned with a gold bracelet and beckoned to Lysiteles. Fixing her dark eyes on him, she gave him a light tap on his lean stomach and said: “It’s hard for an empty sack to stand upright.”

IX.

Thuphrastos invited the last arrivals to be seated.

Lysiteles took the couch farthest in the rear, while Sthenelus stretched himself at full length on one of the front ones, close beside the master of the house.

Then a tall mixing-vessel was placed on the tiled floor. It was a vase made of burnt clay, adorned with a mask of Silenus, surrounded by fruits and flowers. Into this beautiful vessel the Chian wine was poured, after being mixed—by the general desire—in the proportion of one part wine to three of water. Sthenelus alone demurred. “It’s frog’s wine, not human beings’ wine!” he said.

Thuphrastos gave each of his guests a wreath, and set small tables bearing goblets in front of the couches.

To any one familiar with Attic customs there was something remarkable in these preparations. Not a single slave was present to wait upon the company. This exclusion of the servants was scarcely natural; but it agreed with having a watchword demanded at the door of the house. This was evidently no ordinary drinking-bout.

When the goblets were filled Thuphrastos stood forth among the men with a certain solemnity of manner. Pouring a little of the mixed wine into a shallow drinking-cup, he said: “To the good spirit,” sipped the liquor, and passed the cup to his next neighbor.

While the wine was going the round of the company, he gazed around the circle with an earnest look, then, raising his voice, he said in his singularly abrupt fashion:

“In a short time—on the eleventh day of the month—there will be a popular assembly and election of magistrates. Who can foresee the result? Shall we come forth rejoicing as victors or grieving and exasperated by defeat?”

One of the wicks of the lamp flared up. Thuphrastos’ eyes rested on Lysiteles, who sat cowering at the back of the group. The old captain did not consider his manner sufficiently attentive.

“Man!” he shouted, as if he wanted to rouse him from sleep.

Lysiteles started and approached with unsteady steps, looking still more hump-backed than before.

“The elections are close at hand,” repeated Thuphrastos, raising his voice as though speaking to a deaf man. “Many,” he added, laying his hand on Lysiteles’ shoulder, “see in you a man sorely persecuted by the gods—to whom no one ought to refuse anything. Others have formerly been your friends and table companions. You can win votes—many votes, if you choose.”

“But,” said Acestor, “he is feather-brained; he might betray us.”

Sthenelus half started from his couch. There seemed to be a singular comradeship existing between him and Lysiteles. He himself jeered at him, but he would not allow any one else to do so.

“Feather-brained?” he repeated, and staring fixedly at Acestor he rolled the rug spread over the couch into a bundle and, propping his elbow on it, raised himself a little. “My friends,” he continued, waving his hand with the gesture of an orator, “lend me your ears! I know a man who in former days was handsome, wealthy, and extravagant. He was called “the Magnificent.” Now he is only a shadow, and considers himself a worm. I know another man too. He’s as showy and stately as one of Pyrilampes’ peacocks, as hollow and noisy as a drum; but, because many admire him, he fancies himself a demi-god and behaves as though he had vanquished the king of Persia himself. Now, I ask, which of these two is the more feather-brained?”

“By Zeus, the second!” cried little Xenocles, with more haste than prudence.

All except the grave Lamon burst into a peal of laughter, because it was Xenocles, Acestor’s friend, who had made this answer.

An angry sparkle flashed into Acestor’s eyes; his lips parted. But Thuphrastos anticipated him.

“No quarrelling!” he shouted harshly. “Lysiteles has sworn faith. He will keep his oath.”

“That he will,” said Sthenelus with a glance at Acestor. “Doesn’t he know—as we all do—that a drawn sword is hanging over our heads?”

“Ah!” added Xenocles, “these are evil days. What changes have happened during the last few months! First happiness, rejoicing, the intoxication of battle when the expedition to Sicily was determined. The younger men flocked to the wrestling-schools and baths, the older ones to the work-shops and wine-rooms; the island was described and sketched with the surrounding sea and the cities facing Libya. All quoted Alcibiades’ words: ‘Sicily is only the earnest money—Libya and Karchēdon are the wages of the battle. When we once possess them, we will conquer Italy and surround the Peloponnesus. A great future is before us; Athens is worthy to rule the world!”

“Yes,” said Acestor, “and lo—in the midst of the rejoicings came evil signs and omens. What did men whisper in each other’s ears? Socrates’ good spirit had predicted evil—the soothsayers, and the oracle of Ammon foretold terrible things—a man mutilated himself on the altar of the twelve gods—and ravens had pecked the golden fruits on the bronze palm-tree at Delphi.”

“In truth,” continued Xenocles, “the omens were not false. Soon came that fateful morning when all the hermae in the market-place except those outside of Leagoras’ house, were found broken and shamefully disfigured. Many insolent hands must have united to accomplish so much mischief in a single night. Who will ever forget the frightful tumult in the city when the sacrilege was reported? All the morning the heralds’ voices were heard, first summoning men to the council and afterwards to the popular assembly. Just before noon, a reward of ten thousand drachmae was offered for the first accusation. This opened the door to all the powers of evil. Citizens, metic, and slaves vied with each other in making indictments in the council. What did it avail that Alcibiades was ordered to sail with the fleet? That didn’t end the matter....”

“On the contrary,” muttered Thuphrastos, “day by day there was more and more legal prosecution. Every time the heralds summoned the people to a council terror and confusion arose. Peaceful citizens talking together in the market hastily separated from each other—every one feared a false accusation and sought refuge beside his own hearth-stone.”

“And not without reason,” observed Xenocles. “What has become of those denounced like Diocleides or the rich metic Teucros?—all gone, either fugitives or sentenced to death! Remember the two members of the council, who first sought refuge at the altar of the gods, and afterwards—when bail had been given for them—mounted their horses to leave wives, children and all they possessed—glad to escape with only their lives! The gods be praised that it has been more quiet in the city lately.”

“Don’t be too secure,” said Acestor in a warning tone. “Phanus, Cleon’s clerk and confidential man, has not forgotten the time when his master was treasurer. He bore all the hetaeriae ill-will, but he has been three times worse since Cleon’s death. Now that he has joined Peisandros, Charicles, and the other open or secret rulers, he sees in every convivial meeting of friends a threat against the safety of the state, and has in his pay a whole pack of informers who, like sleuth-hounds, understand how to scent an hetaeria, often without any other clue than a chance word or a vague hint.”

Lysiteles groaned; all the others were silent.

X.

It was some time before the conversation was resumed. There seemed to be no special friendship between these “friends;” each had his own hopes and wishes.

Thuphrastos’ desire was to be elected state envoy to one of the tributary cities which threatened revolt. It was an office that lasted only thirty days, but during this short time afforded an excellent opportunity for money-making. The envoy only needed to inspire the city with the fear of a stern punishment, to induce it to enter into an agreement in which he placed his demands as high as possible and required the payment for each separate item in ready money. This was the universal method of proceeding and Thuphrastos had no hesitation in following it. In and for itself the proud captain of horse set little value on money; but he was a poor manager and continually in debt. This was not without peril at a period when an irresponsible debtor might be sold as a slave, so it was extremely important for him to be elected, and he anticipated with anxiety and suspense what the next popular assembly would bring.

Xenocles did not aspire so high. He wanted to be superintendent of the public aqueducts. These, which were supplied from the neighboring mountains, bore no resemblance to the Roman aqueducts, but consisted of deep canals with reservoirs from which the water was distributed to the city. No one was more familiar with this gigantic work than Xenocles; for in his youth he had been employed by Meton who had superintended the excavations and masonry of the whole of the newest portion.

“Had you not been a member of our hetaeria,” said Sthenelus, “you should never have had my vote.” And when Xenocles asked the reason he replied: “Because, by Zeus, you know the aqueducts far too well—you’ll be a costly superintendent.”

Lamon cherished wholly different wishes. He wanted to be gymnasiarchK—a post for which he was fitted both by his dexterity in physical exercises and his unusual strength. He was one of those who daily visited the Lyceium. It was a pleasure and delight to wander among the crowd in the roofless marble halls around the open squares, and gaze over the yellowish-white sand, where hundreds of the handsomest youths, wrestling nude in the sunlight, displayed their agility and strength.