II.
Lycon, who suspected no evil, continued his usual mode of life. One noon he went to the house of a freedman named Opasion, who usually had gay doings in his home, as he lived by entertaining young men. The little peristyle, scarcely ten feet long, was filled with a noisy, laughing party. Half a score of youths in mantles of every hue had formed a circle around two fighting quails.
“I’ll bet fifteen drachmae against you, Opasion,” shouted one voice.
“So will I,” added a second.
“Hegesias’ quail is braver. See, your bird is giving way, Opasion—it yields again. Ha! ha! ha! Now it’s outside of the circle.”
“Conquered, conquered!” shouted the whole party in chorus, joined by the freedman.
“Your bird lost, Opasion. Down with the money.”
The freedman, a short, stout fellow, with a foxy face, lifted a rumpled bird in the air and shrieked into its ear, as though trying to drown the shouts of victory. At the same time the other bird was borne away in triumph, and then carefully taken under its owner’s arm as if it were the most costly treasure.
Lycon walked carelessly on to the so-called banqueting hall found in every large house, but which usually offered only a very limited space. He cast a hurried glance around the room but saw no strange faces. Seven or eight young men whom he met every day were just breakfasting, reclining singly or in pairs upon leather-covered couches, before which stood small tables bearing numerous spots of grease and the marks of wet goblets.
At the back of the room a couple of half naked boys, slaves, were busily washing cups and dishes, and not far from them on a low chair without a back sat two young girls from fifteen to twenty years old. They were whispering eagerly together, and by the way they fixed their eyes on the young men reclining upon the couches, it was easy to guess the subject of the talk. Both were pretty, but their bold glances and careless laughter showed that they were women of free lives, accustomed to associate with men.
The older and larger of the two held in her hand a Phrygian double flute. Her back hair was covered by a blue kerchief and the locks on her brow were adorned with a clasp of polished steel. Her whole costume consisted of a saffron-yellow robe, originally fine and costly, now somewhat frayed, open at the left side to the hip and fastened up above the knee. The younger and prettier, who was evidently a juggler, as she rested her feet on a box containing short swords, balls, and small bows and arrows, wore on her head a red hood to confine her dark curls, and moreover was wrapped in a faded green mantle, which she drew closely around her. Whenever, during the conversation, she moved her hands this loose upper dress parted, showing that she had a totally different under-garment and a pair of short, parti-colored breeches, which surrounded her loins like a wide belt.
The young men paid no attention to the girls. Their talk turned upon the best way of getting hold of a father’s money during his life. Opinions seemed to vary greatly. The more experienced agreed in holding aloof from the matter themselves and having their fathers deceived by a cunning slave, while those less skilled preferred to beg the money from their mothers, on the threat of going to sea or enlisting in the light-armed troops.
“The old theme again!” said Lycon smiling, after having greeted and shaken hands with all present except Aristeides, who was busily cleansing his hands after the meal in the dough prepared for the purpose.
“Lycon speaks the truth,” cried a pale-faced young man with flabby features, afterwards known as the architect Deinocrates. “We must talk about something else. This subject doesn’t suit him.”
Lycon, who had neither father nor mother, understood the concealed sting, but kept silence in order not to enter deeper into the matter.
The talk ceased for a moment; the god Hermes—as the saying went in those days—passed through the room. Then a quick step echoed over the flags of the peristyle, and a tall young fellow with a light beard suddenly stood among them. He seemed to have just arrived from a journey, for dust lay thick amid the folds of his brown mantle, and he wore a broad-brimmed felt hat.
“Phorion!” cried seven or eight voices in a breath, “we greet you, welcome!”
The new-comer flung his cloak and hat to one of the boys who came hurrying up, pressed Aristeides’ hand, and lay down in the vacant place by his side.
“Where are you from, Phorion?” asked pallid Deinocrates.
“From Thessaly.”
Lycon, who was reclining alone upon a couch at the nearest table, forgot his barley cake and raised his head.
“From what city in Thessaly?”
“Methone in the province of Magnesia, on the Pagasaean Gulf.”
Aristeides’ eyes happened to rest on Lycon, who had turned deadly pale and was pressing his hand upon his breast.
“From which of the citizens did you receive hospitality? continued Deinocrates.
“From Simonides, dealer in grain.”
Lycon started so that he almost upset the little table in front of the couch.
“How strange!” exclaimed Deinocrates eagerly. “Simonides was my father’s host, too, and I have often heard him praise his cheerful temper and great fondness for the comic writers. He owns, if I remember rightly, many of old Magnes, the Icarian’s, comedies in the manuscripts, as the author himself revised them, and—especially in “the Harpers” knows the merriest scenes by heart.... You perceive I am acquainted with the man without having seen him.”
“Alas! he is no longer the same person!” said Phorion gravely. “Grief and sickness have prematurely aged him.... All his misery was brought upon him by a dishonest slave.”
Again Aristeides looked at Lycon, but this time not accidentally.
The perspiration stood in big drops on his brow, his cheeks were flushed, and he passed his great hand over his face as he was in the habit of doing when deeply moved.
“Made miserable by a dishonest slave!” exclaimed Deinocrates, “you must tell us about it.”
“The story is soon told,” replied Phorion. “But come here, boy. Push the tables aside, brush the bones and fruit-skins away, and bring wine, wine! I am dying of thirst.”
When everything was arranged, the slave brought a silver vessel and poured some wine into it from an ancient silver cup, the show-piece in Opasion’s house.
Phorion took the vessel. The flute-player rose, put her instrument to her lips, and began a subdued, solemn melody.
“Let this beaker,” said the young man, “be offered to the gods of my native city, with thanks for their gracious protection on my journey!”
Then he poured out some of the contents of the cup.
The notes of the flute sounded louder, but not so loud as to drown the noise of the wine falling on the smooth stones of the floor. Then the subdued melody followed. Phorion drank a few sips from the beaker and passed it to Aristeides, who also took a little, and so it went the round of the party, always accompanied by the music of the flute.
Lycon gazed with a strangely vacant glance at the preparations for the drinking-bout, and it was evidently a relief to him when Deinocrates asked the new-comer to continue his story.
“About five years ago,” resumed Phorion, “Simonides bought a young slave called Zenon.”
Hearing this name so suddenly, Lycon turned ghastly pale and, half falling back on his couch, made a groping movement with his hands, as though he had suddenly been plunged into the blackest darkness.
Aristeides pitied him, and, to force him to control himself, said:
“Are you ill, Lycon?”
Lycon passed his huge hand over his face; the muscles around his mouth quivered, and it was a moment ere he could mutter a few words which sounded as if he had taken too large a mouthful.
“So,” continued Phorion, “Simonides bought a young slave named Zenon. He hadn’t given much for him, because Zenon had robbed his former master, a physician in the neighboring city of Ormenium; he had been branded and fled to Poseidon’s altar in Methone. Nobody would buy him, but when he fell weeping at Simonides’ feet and promised to conquer his evil propensities, the latter was touched and bought him for less than a mina.[Q] For more than a year his conduct obtained his master’s approval and won his favor and confidence. One day Simonides was visited by a man from Hypata, with whom he had business relations. Zenon waited on the table and saw the stranger pay Simonides nearly a talent, partly in ready money and partly in drafts on well-known moneylenders in Athens, and noticed that this property was placed in a box where many bags of darics[R] were already kept. The next morning the chest where the box had been placed was found broken open. The box had gone, and with it Zenon. Simonides sent mounted messengers to this city, but Zenon had already had the drafts cashed, the more easily because his master’s seal ring was in the chest.
“Simonides had the great robbery and an exact description of the thief’s personal appearance proclaimed in the market by the public heralds; but all his efforts were useless. Grief and worry over this great loss broke down his health. He was attacked by paralysis, his right side was benumbed, his mouth drawn awry, and for a time he was almost speechless. The once gay, jovial man is now a mere shadow of his former self. Though he is too proud to complain, I think the slaves take advantage of his condition and do what they choose. There is not the least sign of the order that formerly existed in the house. In the vestibule lay fragments of broken wine-jars, fruit-skins, faded garlands, and the handles of burnt torches. Yet not even to his best friend, Polycles the wine-dealer, has he mentioned their negligence. The only complaint that ever escaped the lips of the sick man, so deserted by his servants, was the wish: ‘If I only had a son! I could depend upon him.’”
[Q] Mina = equal to about $20.
[R] Persian gold coin, named for Darius, value a little over $5.
“By Heracles!” cried one of the reckless young fellows, “he’ll find that wish hard to get—weak as he is.”
“And why not?” replied Phorion gravely. “Of what consequence here is the mere tie of blood? Nothing is needed except a son’s affection. Yes,” he added warmly, “among those who have known Simonides in his days of happiness, why should there not be one person that would take pleasure in coming to the sick man’s help and making amends for the wrong others have done him?”
Opasion thrust his foxy face from behind one of the pillars, and noticing that the conversation had almost ceased, made a sign to the young girls.
The flute-player began a lively tune; the juggler threw off her shabby upper-robe and took from the box she used as a foot-stool nine short swords whose handles ended in a sharp point. These swords she stuck firmly into the cracks between the flag-stones, placing them in two rows, all with their keen two-edged blades in the air. Then she stepped between them and, after straightening her short breeches a little, walked on her hands, to the music of the flute, between the weapons, then rising turned somersaults over them so swiftly that the eye could scarcely follow the movements of her slender, pliant body.
This was the dangerous sword-dance, always greatly admired.
The young men clapped their hands and shouted their plaudits.
“What ought not a man to be able to accomplish,” exclaimed Deinocrates, “when a woman can learn to leap so boldly between swords?”
Aristeides had not watched this scene; his eyes were fixed on Lycon. The latter had risen. He was a little paler than usual and stood gazing into vacancy with a strange look, as if he saw something far, far away. Something extraordinary seemed to be occupying his thoughts, and he repeatedly passed his huge hand over his face.
Then, apparently by chance, he approached Phorion. “I’m going to Thessaly in a few days,” he said in a tone which he endeavored to make as careless as possible, “and shall probably visit Methone. If you wish, Phorion I will carry your regards to Simonides.”
“Do so, and if you can, be his guest for a short time. Perhaps there is reason to report the servants’ conduct to the magistrates. His daughter Myrtale, according to his own account, is a child of seventeen who cannot rule slaves. But one thing you must know in advance—the door-keeper turns all strangers away; it is not easy to get into the house.”
“I shall get in,” said Lycon.