“I am at odds with Tychē, Simonides. I cannot come with you.”
“The case is bad, then?”
“Ay, bad. But keep a brave face before the men. There’s no call to pawn our last chance.”
“Has it come to that?” quoth the little poet, in curiosity and concern.
“Leave me!” ordered Themistocles, with a sweep of the hand, and Simonides was wise enough to obey.
Themistocles took a pen from the table, but instead of writing on the outspread sheet of papyrus, thrust the reed between his teeth and bit it fiercely.
“How can I? How can I make these Hellenes fight? Tell that, King Zeus, tell that!”
Then quickly his eager brain ran from expedient to expedient.
“Another oracle, some lucky prediction that we shall conquer? But I have shaken the oracle books till there is only chaff in them. Or a bribe to Adeimantus and his fellows? But gold can buy only souls, not courage. Or another brave speech and convincing argument? Had I the tongue of Nestor and the wisdom of Thales, would those doltish Dorians listen?”
Again the knock, still again Simonides. The dapper poet’s face was a cubit long.