The day that disloyal Thebes surrendered came the tidings of the crowning of the Hellenes’ victories. At Mycale by Samos the Greek fleets had disembarked their crews and defeated the Persians almost at the doors of the Great King in Sardis. Artabazus had escaped through Thrace to Asia in caitiff flight. The war—at least the perilous part thereof—was at end. There might be more battles with the Barbarian, but no second Salamis or Platæa.
The Spartans had found the body of Mardonius pierced with five lances—all in front. Pausanias had honoured the brave dead,—the Persian had been carried from the battle-ground on a shield, and covered by the red cloak of a Laconian general. But the body mysteriously disappeared. Its fate was never known. Perhaps the curious would have gladly heard what Glaucon on his sick-bed told Themistocles, and what Sicinnus did afterward. Certain it is that the shrewd Asiatic later displayed a costly ring which the satrap Zariaspes, Mardonius’s cousin, sent him “for a great service to the house of Gobryas.”
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On the same day that Thebes capitulated the household of Hermippus left Trœzene to return to Athens. When they had told Hermione all that had befallen,—the great good, [pg 446]the little ill,—she had not fainted, though Cleopis had been sure thereof. The colour had risen to her cheeks, the love-light to her eyes. She went to the cradle where Phœnix cooed and tossed his baby feet.
“Little one, little one,” she said, while he beamed up at her, “you have not to avenge your father now. You have a better, greater task, to be as fair in body and still more in mind as he.”
Then came the rush of tears, the sobbing, the laughter, and Lysistra and Cleopis, who feared the shock of too much joy, were glad.
The Nausicaä bore them to Peiræus. The harbour towns were in black ruins, for Mardonius had wasted everything before retiring to Bœotia for his last battle. In Athens, as they entered it, the houses were roofless, the streets scattered with rubbish. But Hermione did not think of these things. The Agora at last,—the porticos were only shattered, fire-scarred pillars,—and everywhere were tents and booths and bustle,—the brisk Athenians wasting no time in lamentation, but busy rebuilding and making good the loss. Above Hermione’s head rose a few blackened columns,—all that was left of the holy house of Athena,—but the crystalline air and the red Rock of the Acropolis no Persian had been able to take away.
And even as Hermione crossed the Agora she heard a shouting, a word running from lip to lip as a wave leaps over the sea.
In the centre of the buzzing mart she stopped. All the blood sprang to her face, then left it. She passed her fingers over her hair, and waited with twitching, upturned face. Through the hucksters’ booths, amid the clamouring buyers and sellers, went a runner, striking left and right with his staff, for the people were packing close, and he had much ado to [pg 447]clear the way. Horsemen next, prancing chargers, the prizes from the Barbarian, and after them a litter. Noble youths bore it, sons of the Eupatrid houses of Athens. At sight of the litter the buzz of the Agora became a roar.
“The beautiful! The fortunate! The deliverer! Io! Io, pæan!”