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.”