Between the columns of the portico stood Phormio the fishmonger, behind a table heaped with his scaly wares. He was a thick, florid man with blue eyes lit by a humourous twinkle. His arms were crusted with brine. To his waist he was naked. As the friends edged nearer he held up a turbot, calling for a bid. A clamour answered him. The throng pressed up the steps, elbowing and scrambling. The competition was keen but good-natured. Phormio’s broad jests and witticisms—he called all his customers by name—aided in forcing up the price. The turbot was knocked down to a rich gentleman’s cook marketing for his master. The pile of fish decreased, the bidding sharpened. The “Market Wardens” seemed needed to check the jostling. But as the last eel was held up, came a cry—
“Look out for the rope!”
Phormio’s customers scattered. Scythian constables were [pg 66]stretching cords dusted with red chalk across all exits from the Agora, save that to the south. Soon the band began contracting its nets and driving a swarm of citizens toward the remaining exit, for a red chalk-mark on a mantle meant a fine. Traffic ceased instantly. Thousands crowded the lane betwixt the temples and porches, seeking the assembly place,—through a narrow, ill-built way, but the great area of the Pnyx opened before them like the slopes of some noble theatre.
No seats; rich and poor sat down upon the rocky ground. Under the open azure, at the focus of the semicircle, with clear view before of the city, and to right of the red cliffs of the Acropolis, rose a low platform hewn in the rock,—the “Bema,” the orator’s pulpit. A few chairs for the magistrates and a small altar were its sole furnishings. The multitude entered the Pnyx through two narrow entrances pierced in the massy engirdling wall and took seats at pleasure; all were equals—the Alcmæonid, the charcoal-seller from Acharnæ. Amid silence the chairman of the Council arose and put on the myrtle crown,—sign that the sitting was opened. A herald besought blessings on the Athenians and the Platæans their allies. A wrinkled seer carefully slaughtered a goose, proclaimed that its entrails gave good omen, and cast the carcass on the altar. The herald assured the people there was no rain, thunder, or other unlucky sign from heaven. The pious accordingly breathed easier, and awaited the order of the day.
The decree of the Council convening the assembly was read; then the herald’s formal proclamation:—
“Who wishes to speak?”
The answer was a groan from nigh every soul present. Three men ascended the Bema. They bore the olive branches and laurel garlands, suppliants at Delphi; but their [pg 67]cloaks were black. “The oracle is unfavourable! The gods deliver us to Xerxes!” The thrill of horror went around the Pnyx.
The three stood an instant in gloomy silence. Then Callias the Rich, solemn and impressive, their spokesman, told their eventful story.
“Athenians, by your orders we have been to Delphi to inquire of the surest oracle in Greece your destinies in the coming war. Hardly had we completed the accustomed sacrifices in the Temple of Apollo, when the Pythoness Aristonice, sitting above the sacred cleft whence comes the inspiring vapour, thus prophesied.” And Callias repeated the hexameters which warned the Athenians that resistance to Xerxes would be worse than futile; that Athens was doomed; concluding with the fearful line, “Get from this temple afar, and brood on the ills that await ye.”
In the pause, as Callias’s voice fell, the agony of the people became nigh indescribable. Sturdy veterans who had met the Persian spears at Marathon blinked fast. Many groaned, some cursed. Here and there a bold spirit dared to open his heart to doubt, and to mutter, “Persian gold, the Pythoness was corrupted,” but quickly hushed even such whispers as rank impiety. Then a voice close to the Bema rang out loudly:—