IX.
It was a strange voyage, which none of the occupants of the boat ever forgot. The Street of the Bakers, the largest and finest street in the city, usually so full of life, this evening, for the first time within the memory of man, neither resounded with loud conversations from door to door, nor the merry songs of young men echoing from the wine-shops; silence reigned in harmony with the ruin that everywhere met the eye. The rippling and gurgling of the water, as well as the light strokes of the oars and the murmured words of the boatmen when two craft met, were the only sounds that interrupted the gloomy stillness. The houses were outlined in dark masses against the sky; but whenever an opening between them was reached columns of smoke and blazing flames were seen in the distance, which shed a murky light on the angles of the houses, the faces in the boats, and the smallest ripple upon the surface of the water. Ever and anon a shower of sparks fell hissing into the waves, and sometimes the cool evening breeze swept a veil of smoke over the street, bringing with it a suffocating smell of fire.
At the edge of the flood the people stood in little groups talking together. From them it was learned that some of the houses in the higher part of the city had also fallen. There had been fire on their hearths, the flames had caught the ruins, and it was these buildings which were now burning.
At the house of Polycles the wine-dealer, where Lycon, by Myrtale’s request, took her father, an unusual bustle prevailed. Lanterns were hung on slender poles in front of the house, and at a number of small tables sat part of the citizens, discussing over a goblet of wine all that had happened on this eventful day.
At the sight of Lycon, who, with the closely-veiled Myrtale, was supporting Simonides, an eager murmur arose; some rose to get a better view; others pointed to him as though saying: “That’s he!” and from one table to another the question ran in low tones:
“Is that the Athenian?”
“The one who saved the sailors by unfastening the boats?”
“And who helped the citizens in the flooded streets?”
“Who knows him?—Who can tell whether it’s he?”
The temptation was too strong for Conops; he forgot to ask whether he might speak.
“I can tell you that!” he replied, not without a touch of pride; “he’s my master’s guest, and I’ve been with him all day, first at market and then in the boat—he and no other is Lycon the Athenian.”
A universal shout of applause rang out; several women of light repute, who were passing, flung him kisses, and Polycles, the owner of the house, grasped his hand, saying:
“If you are the Lycon of whom everybody is talking, you are a man of honor to whom the city owes more than a new robe.”
Then, with the most cordial sympathy, Polycles welcomed the sick Simonides and his daughter, and learning from the latter’s lips that they had spent the afternoon in terror lest the house should fall and bury them in the water, he said:
“I won’t take you to my old stone mansion—there might be another shock of earthquake—but I have in my garden a good new wooden barn, where you can rest in safety and be supplied by my old housekeeper with everything necessary. The slaves shall be cared for as well as possible.” And, as he took Simonides’ arm out of Lycon’s to guide him and Myrtale to their temporary abode, he called to one of the boys who were hurrying about waiting on the guests and ordered him to bring Lycon wine, barley bread, cheese, and fruit.
While the latter was hurriedly eating the meal before returning to Dorian’s boat, Polycles came back from the garden and Lycon hastened to say:
“I see that many of the citizens have assembled here. Could not some of the younger ones relieve one another in guarding the burned houses, that no one in the absence of the master and the darkness of the night, may get in and take what still remains. A watch will be kept from the boats upon the houses in the flooded streets.”
Instead of answering, Polycles turned to the people seated at the tables and called in a loud voice:
“Citizens, this stranger puts us to shame. He seems to think more and take wiser care of our city than we who were born and have spent our lives here. Do you know what he proposes?”
Polycles had scarcely repeated Lycon’s advice ere twelve or fourteen young men came forward, ready for the required service. Soon after they were divided into three parties, the first of which, supplied with a sack of Chian wine and accompanied by some slaves, went to the scene of the fire.
“My house is yours,” said Polycles to Lycon, “come here when there is nothing more to be saved. You will need rest and sleep if the night is quiet.”
Before Lycon, followed by Conops, again entered the boat, he lighted with the help of some of the citizens a large pile of wood on the edge of the flood, so that the vessels might be provided with torches whenever they brought anything they had rescued ashore. Then an agreement was made between the captains of the boats about sharing the work. Half a score of the craft were stationed in each street, five on a side. The rest were to help wherever assistance was most needed and, as ladders had been found necessary in many instances, most of the boats were provided with them.
When everything was arranged in this way, the work of rescue progressed more rapidly than Lycon had expected, and when at last no voice called for aid, the twenty boats had saved the owners of more than twenty houses, besides a large number of slaves.
Lycon, attended by Conops, now hurried back to Polycles’ house. The wine-dealer came to meet him with a troubled face and told him that Simonides was dangerously ill. The cold and fright he had endured had been too severe a trial for him.
As Lycon entered the wooden barn where Simonides and his daughter were lodged, his first glance sought the sick man. The latter’s eyes were open, but stared fixedly into vacancy, and his thin hands fumbled to and fro over the coverlids with a convulsive twitching. Lycon wished to approach, but Polycles held him back.
On the opposite side of the couch sat a little man of grave and dignified bearing, dressed in a white robe. Lycon instantly saw that this was the physician; for ever and anon he took the sick man’s hand to judge of his condition by the pulse, and on a little table close beside him lay his pouch of medicines and the instruments used in his profession. At the foot of the bed stood the overseer, Carion, with clasped hands and eyes fixed on his suffering master.
The preparations hastily made for the latter’s comfort showed that the household was a wealthy one. Milesian carpets were hung in a semi-circle around the couch to shut out every draught of air, and beneath its ivory feet Babylonian stuffs had been spread to prevent any chill from the stone floor.
The twitching of the sick man’s hands gradually ceased. The physician rose softly and went to Polycles.
“Simonides is better,” he said. “But if you have anything important to discuss with him, do not delay. His voice will soon become thick and unintelligible.”
“Do you think his death is near?”
“If it is the will of the gods, he may live a day or more; but he will never rise from this bed.”
Soon after, the restless movements of the patient’s hands ceased and they fell feebly on the coverlid. Raising his head with difficulty he looked around him.
“Where is Myrtale?” was his first question.
“She is preparing a decoction the doctor ordered,” replied the wine-dealer.
“And Lycon?”
“Here,” said Polycles, beckoning to Lycon to approach the bed.
“Is it true,” asked Simonides, “that you have saved the citizens in the flooded streets, besides numerous slaves?”
“Not my boat only, all the small craft.”
“It’s the same thing,” said Simonides with a faint smile, “you will now and in the future be regarded as one of the benefactors of the city, a sort of demi-god—and as it is not seemly for a demi-god to be a bondsman, I shall give you your liberty. Polycles, who knows everything that concerns you, has added the necessary codicil to my last will, which he and the physician have signed as witnesses.”
Lycon knelt beside the couch, clasped Simonides’ hand, and covered it with kisses. “I thank you,” he faltered, overwhelmed by emotion. “You have fulfilled my dearest wish. I have obtained my freedom—and this time I did not steal it.”
Soon after the curtain at the door was pushed aside and Myrtale entered, followed by the old housekeeper. She held a glass cup in her hands and seemed to have eyes only for her sick father. The physician poured a few drops from a little flask into the smoking potion, and Simonides drank a few mouthfuls. “How it revives me!” he said, while Myrtale was straightening the embroidered pillows under his head and shoulders. “Are those lamps which shine so? It seems as though I saw the sun in the midst of the night.”
“Do you feel better, old friend?” asked Polycles.
A glimmer of his former mirthful spirit sparkled in Simonides’ small brown eyes.
“That fellow yonder,” he whispered, pointing to the physician, “has given me too many drops. He didn’t make me well, but drunk.”
Then, with an unexpectedly sudden movement, he seized Myrtale’s arm. His mouth and chin projected so that he was almost unrecognizable, and a corpse-like hue overspread his face as swiftly as though an unseen hand had caused it by gliding lightly over it.
“He is dying! he is dying!” cried Myrtale and, sobbing passionately, she flung herself upon her father’s breast.