“For your part, excellent Tigranes, you must avoid the Hellenic ships at Delos and come back to Mardonius with your fleet ready to second him at once after his victory, which will be speedy; then with your aid he can readily turn the wall at the Isthmus. I send also letters written, as it were, in the hand of Themistocles. See that they fall into the hands of the other Greek admirals. They will breed more hurt amongst the Hellenes than you can accomplish with all your ships. I send, likewise, lists of such Athenians and Spartans as are friendly to his Majesty, also memoranda of such secret plans of the Greeks as have come to my knowledge.
“From Trœzene, given into the hands of Hiram on the second of Metageitnion, in the archonship of Xanthippus. Chaire!”
Themistocles ceased. No man spoke a word. It was as if a god had flung a bolt from heaven. What use to cry against it? Then, in an ominously low voice, Simonides asked a question.
“What are these letters which purport to come from your pen, Themistocles?”
The admiral unrolled another papyrus, and as he looked thereon his fine face contracted with loathing.
“Let another read. I am made to pour contempt and ridicule upon my fellow-captains. I am made to boast ‘when the war ends, I will be tyrant of Athens.’ A thousand follies and wickednesses are put in my mouth. Were this letter true, I were the vilest wretch escaping Orcus. Since forged—” his hands clinched—“by that man, that man whom I have trusted, loved, cherished, called ‘younger brother,’ ‘oldest son’—” He spat in rising fury and was still.
“ ‘Fain would I grip his liver in my teeth,’ ” cried the little poet, even in storm and stress not forgetting his Homer. And the howl from the man-of-war’s men was as the howl of beasts desiring their prey. But the admiral’s burst of anger ended. He stood again an image of calm power. The voice that [pg 396]had charmed the thousands rang forth in its strength and sweetness.
“Men of Athens, this is no hour for windy rage. Else I should rage the most, for who is more wronged than I? One whom we loved is fallen—later let us weep for him. One whom we trusted is false—later punish him. But now the work is neither to weep nor to punish, but to save Hellas. A great battle impends in Bœotia. Except the Zeus of our sires and Athena of the Pure Eyes be with us, we are men without home, without fatherland. Pausanias and Aristeides must be warned. The Nausicaä is the ‘Salaminia,’—the swiftest trireme in the fleet. Ours must be the deed, and ours the glory. Enough of this—the men must hear, and then to the oars.”
Themistocles had changed from despair to a triumph note. There was uplift even to look upon him. He strode before all his lieutenants up and out upon the poop. The long tiers of benches and the gangways filled with rowers peered up at him. They had seen their officers gather in the cabin, and Dame Rumour, subtlest of Zeus’s messengers, had breathed “ill-tidings.” Now the admiral stood forth, and in few words told all the heavy tale. Again a great shout, whilst the bronzed men groaned on the benches.
“Democrates is a traitor!”