III.
A few days after Lycon might have been seen with a large travelling-hat on his head riding along the road between Halus and Iton in the province of Phthiotis in Thessaly. He had sold his house in Athens and all his slaves except one, a slender boy named Paegnion who, carrying a bundle suspended from a stick over his shoulders, accompanied him. He himself had a similar bundle fastened to his horse; in his hand he held a switch cut from the trunk of a vine and, when his cloak blew aside, the handle of a short sword appeared in his belt. Beside Paegnion walked a young slave from Halus, who was to take the hired horse back.
It was a pleasant summer morning when Lycon rode down the stony road over a spur of Mt. Othrys.
Before him on his left hand rose huge limestone cliffs, their sides overgrown with poplar, plane, and ash-trees, and their summits covered with thorny tragacanth bushes. Far below, one smiling valley lay beside another and through them all the river Amphrysus wound in glittering curves. The morning mists still rested on the wide landscape, revealing, ever and anon, a glimpse of distant cities at the foot of the mountains and undulating plains, with yellow grain-fields and luxuriant vineyards, interspersed here and there with clumps of fig-trees and groves of dwarf and stone oaks. Far at the right the white marble temples of a city glimmered against the dark-blue waters of a bay in the Pagasaean gulf. On the other side of the valley rose lofty hills, and beyond them—at the farthest point of view—the two snow-capped peaks of Pelion towered into the air.
Lycon let his gaze wander over the broad, sun-steeped landscape, and inhaled with pleasure the pure mountain air. Freedom had never seemed to him more alluring. The nearer he approached Methone, the more anxiously he asked himself whether he, who for years had lived as a free citizen, must again sink into a wretched, subservient bondman. He fancied he already felt on his neck the pressure of the wooden ring by which sweet-toothed slaves were prevented from raising their hands to their lips; he imagined he had fetters on his limbs and the heavy block dragging after him, and he shuddered at the thought of the smoking iron and its hissing on the skin.
Who told him he would escape this punishment? Had he not stolen a second time?
“By Zeus!” he muttered, “I’m afraid I have made the dog’s throw.”[S]
[S] The worst throw in a game of dice.
But, remembering how he had altered during the past few years, he suddenly exclaimed: “No, I will not return as Zenon, but as Lycon.”
He had incautiously uttered the last words aloud and, starting, looked around him. The strange slave had paid no heed; but it was important for him to know whether Paegnion had heard them.
He beckoned to the boy, bent down from his horse, and took him by the ear.
“Did you hear what I said?” he asked curtly. “Tell the truth.”
“I believe so,” stammered Paegnion, somewhat bewildered by this sudden attack.
“Repeat my words.”
“I will not return as Zenon, but as Lycon.”
Lycon drew his short sword and placed its point against Paegnion’s bare breast. The lad uttered a loud shriek.
“Did you ever cut yourself with a knife?” asked Lycon. “Then think what you will feel if I thrust now. Well then! If you repeat one word of what I said, I will drive this sword into you, if it were at the altar of the gods. So guard your mouth.”
Without listening to Paegnion’s assurances, he gave the horse a light blow with his whip and continued his way down to the valley.
The next day Lycon was riding up the Street of the Bakers in Methone, at whose end was seen the sea with the ships where he had learned the nautical expressions that had proved so useful to him with the district inspector at Athens. Though no anxiety was apparent in his bearing, his heart beat faster than usual. There was no change in the little city; it seemed as though he had never been away, he recognized every house, every wall, every stone. He was obliged to wait a moment at the laurel-tree and statue of Hermes, outside of Simonides’ house, ere he could control his voice sufficiently to say to Paegnion: “Knock!”
Paegnion seized the copper ring on the door and rapped loudly. The door-keeper was not at his post. It was a long time before he came and drew the bolt, and he opened the door no wider than was necessary to thrust out his hand. Lycon recognized in him an old slave named Satyrus, who had a sullen face and lazy bearing.
At sight of the youth in travelling dress, he said harshly: “What do you want? My master is sick and receives no one.” With these words he slammed the door so that the whole house shook. Lycon signed to Paegnion, who knocked again. “My good fellow,” he called, “announce me to your master. Tell him I am Lycon the Athenian, son of Megacles, and that I bring a greeting and message from Phorion, who was his guest a short time ago.” The door-keeper went grumbling away. At last he returned, opened the door, and said in a milder tone:
“Come in, he’ll speak to you.”
Sending away the boy with the hired horse, Lycon entered the dwelling. Anxious as he felt, he noticed that the appearance of the vestibule agreed exactly with Phorion’s description. There was dirt and disorder in every corner.
While crossing the peristyle, Lycon addressed a few words to Paegnion. At the sound of his voice a young girl who was just gliding into the women’s apartment, stopped, turned her head, and fixed upon him a look of wonder and surprise, but ere he had time to notice her she had vanished through the door. He had only caught a glimpse of a blue robe and a pair of questioning dark eyes. Was it Myrtale, whom he had last seen as a child, and with whom he had often played in the garden and at Simonides’ country-seat?
Absorbed in these thoughts, Lycon had walked so rapidly towards the room usually occupied by the master of the house that old Satyrus, the door-keeper, found it hard to keep up with him.
“Queer!” he muttered, “though you are a stranger, one would suppose you knew the house.”
Lycon saw that he had been on the point of betraying himself, but he was quick-witted.
“Of course I know the house, my good fellow,” he replied smiling“—from my friend Phorion’s description.”