“For three reasons, philotate,” Lycon grinned over his shoulder, “first, the women at the Grove of Aphrodite here are handsome; second, I am weary of Sparta and its black broth and iron money; third, and here is the rose for my garland, I had need to confer with your noble self.”
“Would not Hiram be your dutiful messenger again?” queried the other, vainly watching for escape.
“Hiram is worth twenty talents as a helper;”—Lycon gave a hound-like chuckle,—“still he is not Apollo, and there are too many strings on this lyre for him to play them all. Besides, he failed at Salamis.”
“He did! Zeus blast his importunity and yours likewise. Where are you taking me? I warn you in advance, you are ‘shearing an ass,’—attempting the impossible,—if you deceive yourself as to my power. I can do nothing more to prevent the war from being pressed against Mardonius. It is only your Laconian ephors that are hindering.”
“We shall see, philotate, we shall see,” grunted the Spartan, exasperatingly cool. “Here is Poseidon’s Temple. Let us sit in the shaded portico.”
Democrates resigned himself to be led to a stone seat against the wall. The gray old “dog-watcher” by the gate glanced up to see that no dogs were straying into the holy house, noted only two gentlemen come for a chat, and resumed his siesta. Lycon took a long time in opening his business.
“The world has used you well of late, dear fellow.”
“Passing well, by Athena’s favour.”
“You should say by Hermes’s favour, but I would trust you Athenians to grow fat on successful villany and then bless the righteous gods.”
“I hope you haven’t left Sparta just to revile me!” cried Democrates, leaping up, to be thrust back by Lycon’s giant paw.