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.