I.
Few young men in Athens had so many acquaintances as Lycon, yet he did not possess a single friend. He was courteous to all, but intimate with no one, had a care-free disposition, liked to try his luck at astragals[O] or dice, always knew where the best Chian wine and the prettiest girls could be found, and was never unwilling to lend an acquaintance a few drachmae. So Lycon was universally esteemed, nay people even overlooked certain eccentricities which were contradictory to Attic custom. For instance, he never visited the gymnasium, and when some one spoke to him about it, he carelessly replied:
[O] A game like knuckle-bones.
“What should I do there? Oratory and subtleties of speech I don’t understand—and why train my body? I’m strong enough as I am, and have better uses for my time.”
As to Lycon’s appearance—he had handsome, though rather harsh black hair, manly, somewhat stern features, large heavy eyebrows, a short but thick beard, a broad-shouldered, strongly-built frame, and unusually large hands, from which he received the nickname Lycon ho makrocheir, Lycon with the big hand.
He was entered on the citizens’ list as Lycon, son of Megacles. But nobody had known this Megacles, and no one could tell where the house of Lycon’s parents stood, or had stood. All that was known about him was that, two years before, he had suddenly appeared in Athens—as he said, after a long residence in Bithynia where his father had died. Now and then it was whispered that he was “a spurious citizen,” and at one of the examinations to which these lists were occasionally subjected, he was questioned by the demarchs or district inspectors. To them Lycon stated that his father had been a ship’s captain and for many years had been absent from Athens; he had himself gone to sea with him, and the rough work on board had given him large, hard hands. One of the demarchs, a rich ship-owner, thought he could entrap Lycon by questioning him about the names of the various parts of a vessel. But the latter was at no loss for an answer. This resulted greatly to his advantage; the ship-owner declared himself satisfied, and Lycon’s name remained on the list.
Still, there were many strange things about him. For instance, he knew so little of the poets that, as the jester Stephanus said, he might easily have been persuaded that one of Pindar’s odes was written by Homer. But, if any one laughed at such stupendous ignorance, Lycon said:
“You are laughing at my pedagogue, not at me. It is his fault. He was so weak that he submitted to everything, and we played and quarrelled during the time we ought to have learned something useful.”
It was one of Lycon’s peculiarities that, though he never refused an invitation to a drinking-bout, he had no inclination to attend any of the great festivals to which strangers flocked from all parts of Hellas, the islands, and the new colonies, to see the processions, the performances at the theatre, or the torchlight races. On such days Lycon either remained at home in his little house in the Ceriadae suburb, or went away for a short journey, remaining absent until the strangers might be supposed to have left Athens. This singular conduct was not noticed by many, for on holidays most persons have enough to do to attend to their own affairs. But the few who did remark it marvelled.
Only one individual knew the cause of Lycon’s eccentricities. This was the artist Aristeides from Thebes, a quiet, thoughtful young man, who never said more than he meant. He enjoyed a high reputation for his powerful picture of the battle between the Persians and Macedonians, a painting containing hundreds of human figures; but his master-piece was the plundering of a captured city, in which a dying mother holds her delicate babe away from her breast, that it may not drink blood instead of milk.
This Aristeides once went on a pleasure excursion with Lycon—both on horseback, attended by a single slave—to the beautifully located Deceleia at the foot of Mt. Parnes. Wearied by the noon-tide heat, they sought shelter on the way in the wretched log-hut owned by a poor countryman, who received them kindly, gave them a bowl of fresh goat’s-milk, and offered them his rude bed; but it was so dirty that, after exchanging glances, they begged permission to lie on the hay stored in the shed opposite. The man led the way there. Lycon stretched himself comfortably upon the fragrant hay, yawned, and fell asleep. Aristeides also slept, but was roused soon after by a movement of Lycon and, turning over, suddenly felt broad awake.
Lycon’s robe had opened at the throat, baring his shoulder. On the sunburned skin appeared a large white scar, consisting of three marks which together formed a kappa.[P]
[P] Kappa, the letter K. This is an abbreviation of the word Klemma, theft. Slaves were usually branded on the forehead (or on the ears or hands.) The mark seems to have been stamped on the shoulder only by special favor, when the offence was trivial.
“A slave!” cried Aristeides, “and branded!”
At first he was almost stupefied; then he moved away from Lycon’s side and sat down on a log a short distance off.
“Now I understand everything,” he thought, “his fear of undressing in the gymnasium—his unknown origin—his large hands—his ignorance of the poets—and his absence during the great festivals.... So he is a fugitive slave, and has been punished for theft. Before his flight he probably robbed his master and of no inconsiderable sum. He was entered in the citizens’ list by bribery, and now the thievish, branded slave lives in Athens as a free citizen, and enjoys himself on his defrauded master’s money.”
Aristeides rose to go to the city magistrates, but ere he left the shed he started and listened.
Lycon was laughing in his sleep.
There was something so joyous and light-hearted in his laughter that Aristeides involuntarily paused.
“Look!” murmured Lycon, stretching out his arm as though pointing, “now fat Dryas is jumping!—The leather bottle is bursting—he’ll fall—plump! there he lies on his stomach in the water.”
And Lycon laughed again.
“No!” said Aristeides, “a man who laughs in his sleep like a child is not wicked.... Who knows whether freedom has not made him a different and a better man? Certainly nothing dishonorable is known about him, and he is universally respected.... Perhaps his master has made up his loss long ago. Perhaps he has himself repaid the stolen money; he has slaves who work for him. Besides, how does the matter concern me?”
The artist went nearer to the sleeper and looked at him.
A pleasant smile was hovering around Lycon’s mouth. “Take this!” he muttered, and his big hand made a gesture as if he were giving alms.
Aristeides felt a sudden inspiration.
“Had the gods desired to punish him,” he thought, “they would have made him betray himself to a foe, not to a friend.”
Glad to have found such a consolation to his mind, he carefully drew Lycon’s robe together and fastened it at the neck. His hand shook a little as he did so. If Lycon should suddenly open his eyes, what might he not do in his despair at seeing his secret discovered!
But Lycon slept on. Without rousing him, Aristeides went around into the shade behind the house, where the slaves were waiting with the horses. Beckoning to Lycon’s servant, he said:
“When your master wakes, tell him that a dream I had in my sleep compels me to return home at once. Beg him from me to go on as though I were still in his company.”
With these words he swung himself on the horse and rode away so fast that his slave could scarcely follow him.
From that hour Aristeides held aloof from Lycon, without attracting any special attention from the latter. But whenever, later, conversation turned upon Lycon’s eccentricities Aristeides found special gratification in going as near the truth as possible. He always said:
“There is a sign that explains them.”
Did he make the remark from a vague spite against Lycon or a child’s delight in playing with fire? He did not know himself, but he never said more.