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Scolus of Thasos leaps the shortest and drops from the pentathlon. Again cheers and clamour. The inexperienced Thasian marched disconsolately to his tent, pursued by ungenerous jeers. He who throws poorest drops from the games. Democrates, next him, was gazing at Glaucon, as if the athlete were made of gold; but the object of their fears and hopes gave back neither word nor sign.
To each was brought a bronze quoit, the discus. The pipers resumed their medley. The second contest was begun. First, Amyntas of Thebes. He took his stand, measured the distance with his eye, then with a run flew up the rising, and at its summit his body bent double, while the heavy quoit flew away. For a moment every Theban in the stadium was transported. But the rapture ended quickly. His vast strength could now tell to the uttermost. He was proud to display it. Thrice his discus sped out as far as ever man had seen a quoit fly in Hellas.
The friends of the huge Laconian were almost beside themselves with joy; while the herald called desperately that: Ctesias of Epidaurus throws poorest and drops from the games. Glaucon was almost beyond earshot; to the frantic entreaty he answered by no sign. As he and the Spartan stood once more together, the giant leered on him civilly: The herald is calling for the javelin-casting.
But in the deep hush that spread again over the thousands Glaucon turned toward the only faces that he saw out of the innumerable host: Themistocles, Democrates, Simonides, Cimon. They beheld him raise his arm and lift his glorious head yet higher. Glaucon in turn saw Cimon sink into his seat. And silence deeper than ever held the stadium; for now, with Lycon victor twice, the literal turning of a finger in the next event might win or lose the parsley crown. The Spartan came first. The heralds had set a small scarlet shield at the lower end of the course.
Lycon poised his light javelin thrice, and thrice the slim dart sped through the leathern thong on his fingers. But not for glory. Perchance this combat was too delicate an art for his ungainly hands. Twice the missile lodged in the rim of the shield; once it sprang beyond upon the sand. Amyntas was hardly worse. His second cast had been into the centre of the target.
His third had splintered his second javelin as it hung quivering. Amyntas of Thebes is poorest and drops from the games. By this time all save the few Mantineans who vainly clung to their champion, and the Laconians themselves, had begun to pin their hopes on the beautiful son of Conon.
See that he does not do Glaucon a mischief, or transgress the rules. In the little respite following the trainers entered and rubbed down the three remaining contestants with oil until their bodies shone again like tinted ivory. Then the heralds conducted the trio to the southern end farthest from the tents.
The two junior presidents left their pulpit and took post at either end of a line marked on the sand. Each held the end of a taut rope. The contestants drew lots from an urn for the place nearest the lower turning goal,—no trifling advantage. As the three crouched before the rope with hands dug into the sand, waiting the fateful signal, Glaucon was conscious that a strange blond man of noble mien and Oriental dress was sitting close by the starting line and watching him intently. It was one of those moments of strain, when even trifles can turn the overwrought attention.
Glaucon knew that the stranger was looking from him to Lycon, from Lycon back to himself, measuring each with shrewd eye. Then the gaze settled on the Athenian. The Oriental called to him: Glaucon saw Lycon turn on the shouter with a scowl that was answered by a composed smile.
To the highly strung imagination of the Athenian the wish became an omen of good. For some unknown cause the incident of the Oriental lad he rescued and the mysterious gift of the bracelet flashed back to him. Why should a stranger of the East cast him fair wishes? Would the riddle ever be revealed? The three shot away as one. Over the sand they flew, moving by quick leaps, their shining arms flashing to and fro in fair rhythm.
Twice around the stadium led the race, so no one strained at first. For a while the three clung together, until near the lower goal the Mantinean heedlessly risked a dash. His foot slipped on the sands. He recovered; but like arrows his rivals passed him. At the goal the inevitable happened. Lycon, with the shorter turn, swung quickest. The stadium seemed dissolving in a tumult.
Men rose; threw garments in the air; stretched out their arms; besought the gods; screamed to the runners. Again Lycon led, again rose the tempest of voices. Then men ceased shouting, and prayed under breath. Quick as the bound the great arm of the Spartan flew out with its knotted fist. The senior president called angrily to the herald; but none heard his words in the rending din. The twain shot up the track elbow to elbow, and into the rope. It fell amid a blinding cloud of dust.
All the heralds and presidents ran together into it. Then was a long, agonizing moment, while the stadium roared, shook, and raged, before the dust settled and the master-herald stood forth beckoning for silence. Lycon of Sparta is second. Glaucon and Lycon, each winning twice, shall wrestle for the final victory. And now the stadium grew exceeding still. The last wagers were recorded on the tablets by nervous styluses. The readiest tongues ceased to chatter. Thousands of wistful eyes turned from the elegant form of the Athenian to the burly form of the Spartan. The tense stillness was now and then broken by the bawling of a swarthy hawker thrusting himself amid the spectators with cups and a jar of sour wine.
There was a long rest. The trainers came forward again and dusted the two remaining champions with sand that they might grip fairly. The boy has wakened. But now the heralds marched the champions again to the judges. The president proclaimed the rules of the wrestling,—two casts out of three gave victory.
In lower tone he addressed the scowling Spartan: Had that blow in the foot-race struck home, I would have refused you victory, though you finished all alone. The heralds stood, crossing their myrtle wands between. The president rose on his pulpit, and called through the absolute hush: His uplifted wand fell.
A clear shrill trumpet pealed. The heralds bounded back in a twinkling. A short grapple; again a sand cloud; and both were rising from the ground. They had fallen together. Heated by conflict, they were locked again ere the heralds could proclaim a tie. Twice the Spartan put forth all his powers. Those nearest watched the veins of the athletes swell and heard their hard muscles crack. The stadium was in succession hushed and tumultuous. Then, at the third trial, even as Lycon seemed to have won his end, the Athenian smote out with one foot.
The sands were slippery. The huge Laconian lunged forward, and as he lunged, his opponent by a masterly effort tore himself loose. The Spartan fell heavily,—vanquished by a trick, though fairly used. The stadium thundered its applause. More vows, prayers, exhortations. Glaucon stood and received all the homage in silence. A little flush was on his forehead. His arms and shoulders were very red.
All could hear his rage and curses. The heralds ordered him to contain himself. Pytheas, beholding his fury, tore out a handful of hair in his mingled hope and dread. No man knew better than the trainer that no trick would conquer Lycon this second time; and Glaucon the Fair might be nearer the fields of Asphodel than the pleasant hills by Athens. More than one man had died in the last ordeal of the pentathlon. The silence was perfect. Even the breeze had hushed while Glaucon and Lycon faced again. Then Lycon, whose raging spirit had the least control, charged.
When it cleared, the two were locked together as by iron. For an instant they swayed, whilst the Spartan tried again his brute power. The hushed stadium could hear the pants of the athletes as they locked closer, closer. The two seemed deadlocked. But breath was too precious for curses. The Spartan flung his ponderous weight downward. A slip in the gliding sand would have ruined the Athenian instantly; but Poseidon or Apollo was with him.
His feet dug deep, and found footing.
Lycon drew back baffled, though the clutches of their hands were tightening like vices of steel. Then again face to face, swaying to and fro, panting, muttering, while the veins in the bare backs swelled still more. Athena Polias, pity him! The stadium resumed its roaring. A thousand conflicting prayers, hopes, counsels, went forth to the combatants.
The gods of Olympus and Hades; all demigods, heroes, satyrs, were invoked for them. They were besought to conquer in the name of parents, friends, and native land. Athenians and Laconians, sitting side by side, took up the combat, grappling fiercely. And all this time the two strove face to face. How long had it lasted? Least of all that pair who wrestled perchance for life and for death.
Twice again the Spartan strove with his weight to crush his opponent down. He had looked to see Glaucon sink exhausted; but his foe still looked on him with steadfast, unweakening eyes. Lycon had turned to his final resource. Again—the rush of blood was almost blinding. Again—flesh and blood could not stand such battering long. If Lycon could endure this, there was only one end to the pentathlon. For the glory of Athens, my father, my wife! The cry of Glaucon—half prayer, half battle-shout—pealed above the bellowing stadium.
They saw the fingers of the Spartan unclasp. They saw his bloody face upturned and torn with helpless agony. They saw his great form totter, topple, fall. The last dust cloud, and into it the multitude seemed rushing together They caught Glaucon just as he fell himself. Themistocles was the first to kiss him.
Democrates seemed lost in the whirlpool, and came with greetings later. Perhaps he had stopped to watch that Oriental who had given Glaucon good wishes in the foot-race. Very late a runner crowned with pink oleanders panted up to the Athenian watch by Mount Icarus at the custom-house on the Megarian frontier. The man fell breathless; but in a moment a clear beacon blazed upon the height.
From a peak in Salamis another answered. In Eleusis, Hermippus the Noble was running to his daughter. In Athens, archons, generals, and elders were accompanying Conon to the Acropolis to give thanks to Athena.
Conon had forgotten how he had disowned his son. Another beacon glittered from the Acropolis. Another flashed from the lordly crest of Pentelicus, telling the news to all Attica. Athens spent the night in almost drunken joy. One name was everywhere: Glaucon the Fortunate whom the High Gods love! A cluster of white stuccoed houses with a craggy hill behind, and before them a blue bay girt in by the rocky isle of Salamis—that is Eleusis-by-the-Sea.
Eastward and westward spreads the teeming Thrasian plain, richest in Attica. Behind the plain the encircling mountain wall fades away into a purple haze. It is an old friend, Acro-Corinthus. The plain within the hills is sprinkled with thriving farmsteads, green vineyards, darker olive groves.
The stony hill-slopes are painted red by countless poppies. One hears the tinkling of the bells of roving goats. The house of Hermippus the Eumolpid, first citizen of Eleusis, stood to the east of the temple. On three sides gnarled trunks and sombre leaves of the sacred olives almost hid the white low walls of the rambling buildings. On the fourth side, facing the sea, the dusty road wound east toward Megara.
Here, by the gate, were gathered a rustic company: Above the barred gate swung a festoon of ivy, whilst from within the court came the squeaking of pipes, the tuning of citharas, and shouted orders—signs of a mighty bustling. Then even while the company grew, a half-stripped courier flew up the road and into the gate. Ladies, in the truth, for the twain had little in common with the ogling village maids, and whispers were soon busy with them.
Some beautiful men wed regular hags. The two ladies were clearly mother and daughter, of the same noble height, and dressed alike in white. Both faces were framed in a flutter of Amorgos gauze: And now as they stood with arms entwined the younger brushed aside her veil. The gossips were right. The robe and the crown hid all but the face and tress of the lustrous brown hair,—but that face!
But nothing disturbed the high-born repose of face and figure. Hermione was indeed the worthy daughter of a noble house, and happy the man who was faring homeward to Eleusis! Louder bustle in the court, and the voice of Hermippus arraying his musicians. Now a sharp-faced man, who hid his bald pate under a crown of lilies, joined the ladies,—Conon, father of the victor. He had ended his life-feud with Hermippus the night the message flashed from Corinth. An imposing procession that must have crammed the courtyard wound out into the Corinth road.
Here was the demarch 2 of Eleusis, a pompous worthy, who could hardly hold his head erect, thanks to an exceeding heavy myrtle wreath. After him, two by two, the snowy-robed, long-bearded priests of Demeter; behind these the noisy corps of musicians, and then a host of young men and women,—bright of eye, graceful of movement,—twirling long chains of ivy, laurel, and myrtle in time to the music. Palm branches were everywhere. The procession moved down the road; but even as it left the court a crash of cymbals through the olive groves answered its uproar.
Deep now and sonorous sounded manly voices as in some triumphal chant. Hermione, as she stood by the gate, drew closer to her mother. Inflexible Attic custom seemed to hold her fast. No noblewoman might thrust herself boldly under the public eye—save at a sacred festival—no, not when the centre of the gladness was her husband. Around the turn in the olive groves swung a car in which Cimon stood proudly erect, and at his side another.
Marching before the chariot were Themistocles, Democrates, Simonides; behind followed every Athenian who had visited the Isthmia. The necks of the four horses were wreathed with flowers; flowers hid the reins and bridles, the chariot, and even its wheels. The victor stood aloft, his scarlet cloak flung back, displaying his godlike form.
As the two processions met, a cheer went up that shook the red rock of Eleusis. The champion answered with his frankest smile; only his eyes seemed questioning, seeking some one who was not there. The horses were loosed in a twinkling. Fifty arms dragged the car onward. The pipers swelled their cheeks, each trying to outblow his fellow. Then after them sped the maidens.
They ringed the chariot round with a maze of flowers chains. As the car moved, they accompanied it with a dance of unspeakable ease, modesty, grace. A local poet—not Simonides, not Pindar, but some humbler bard—had invoked his muse for the grand occasion. Youths and maidens burst forth into singing. He has met the swift, has proved swifter! The strong, has proved stronger again!
Meet, run to meet him, The nimblest are not too fleet. Greet him, with raptures greet him, With songs and with twinkling feet. He approaches,—throw flowers before him. Throw poppy and lily and rose; Blow faster, gay pipers, faster, Till your mad music throbs and flows, For his glory and ours flies through Hellas, Wherever the Sun-King goes. He is with us, he shines in his beauty; Oh, joy of his face the first sight; He has shed on us all his bright honour, Let High Zeus shed on him his light, And thou, Pallas, our gray-eyed protectress, Keep his name and his fame ever bright!
Matching action to the song, they threw over the victor crowns and chains beyond number, till the parsley wreath was hidden from sight. Near the gate of Hermippus the jubilant company halted. The demarch bawled long for silence, won it at last, and approached the chariot.
He, good man, had been a long day meditating on his speech of formal congratulation and enjoyed his opportunity. But there was something unexpected. The blossoms that had covered the athlete shook over her like a cloud as his face met hers. Then even the honest demarch cut short his eloquence to swell the salvo.
The gods reward well. Here is the fairest crown! For all Eleusis loved Hermione, and would have forgiven far greater things from her than this. Hermippus feasted the whole company,—the crowd at long tables in the court, the chosen guests in a more private chamber. His banquet was elegant without gluttony. The Syracusan cook had prepared a lordly turbot.
The wine was choice old Chian but well diluted. The aromatic honey was the choicest from Mt. Since the smaller company was well selected, convention was waived, and ladies were present. Hermione sat on a wide chair beside Lysistra, her comely mother; her younger brothers on stools at either hand.
Directly across the narrow table Glaucon and Democrates reclined on the same couch. The eyes of husband and wife seldom left each other; their tongues flew fast; they never saw how Democrates hardly took his gaze from the face of Hermione. Simonides, who reclined beside Themistocles,—having struck a firm friendship with that statesman on very brief acquaintance,—was overrunning with humour and anecdote.
The great man beside him was hardly his second in the fence of wit and wisdom. After the fish had given way to the wine, Simonides regaled the company with a gravely related story of how the Dioscuri had personally appeared to him during his last stay in Thessaly and saved him from certain death in a falling building.
Cimon, with due excuses, arose, called for a harp, and began tuning it; but not all the company were destined to hear him. A slave-boy touched Themistocles on the shoulder, and the latter started to go. An agent of mine is back from Asia, surely with news of weight, if he must seek me at once in Eleusis. But Themistocles lingered outside; an instant more brought a summons to Democrates, who found Themistocles in an antechamber, deep in talk with Sicinnus,—nominally the tutor of his sons, actually a trusted spy.
An inward omen—not from the entrails of birds, nor a sign in the heavens—told Democrates the fellow brought no happy tidings. Now where have you been since I sent you off in the winter to visit Asia? Your commission is well executed. Are all the rumours we hear from the East well founded? Is Xerxes assembling an innumerable host? Not one tribe in Asia but is required to send its fighting men.
Two bridges of boats are being built across the Hellespont. The king will have twelve hundred war triremes, besides countless transports. The cavalry are being numbered by hundreds of thousands, the infantry by millions. Such an army was never assembled since Zeus conquered the Giants. But is Xerxes the man to command this host? He is no master of war like Darius his father. Name him, and you name the arch-foe of Hellas. He, not Xerxes, will be the true leader of the host. A Magian in Ecbatana told me a strange story.
He may have gone to Egypt, to India, or to Arabia;—he may likewise have gone to Greece. Thebes is Medizing, Crete is Medizing, so is Argos. I can almost name the princes and great nobles over Hellas who are clutching at Persian money. He may even test the fates and set foot in Attica. I am cumbered with as many cares as Zeus, but this commission I give to you.
You are my most trusted lieutenant; I can risk no other. Keep watch, hire spies, scatter bribe-money. Rest not day nor night to find if Mardonius the Persian enters Athens. Once in our clutches—and you have done Hellas as fair a turn as Miltiades at Marathon. Give me your hand. Are we not co-workers for Athens and for Hellas?
I have spoken,—my word is my oath. Lycon shrugged his huge shoulders. You are quite satisfied, I am sure, Master Bronze-Dealer? If Glaucon wrestles with me, I shall kill him. Do not be troubled. With a clearness that appealed to every home-loving Hellene he pictured the fate of wanderers as only one step better than that of slaves. He had looked to see Glaucon sink exhausted; but his foe still looked on him with steadfast, unweakening eyes.
The younger Athenian thought they were reading his soul. He held out his hand When Democrates returned to the hall, Cimon had ended his song. The guests were applauding furiously. Wine was still going round, but Glaucon and Hermione were not joining. Across the table they were conversing in low sentences that Democrates could not catch. But he knew well enough the meaning as each face flashed back the beauty of the other. Hermippus has promised me the fairest maiden in Athens.
How many hopes of the orator that day had been shattered! Yet he had even professed to rejoice with the son of Conon He sat in sombre silence, until the piping voice of Simonides awakened him. I feel wretchedly stupid to-day. He spent the rest of the feast drinking deeply, and with much forced laughter. The dinner ended toward evening. The whole company escorted the victor toward Athens.
At Daphni, the pass over the hills, the archons and strategi—highest officials of the state—met them with cavalry and torches and half of the city trailing at their heels. Twenty cubits of the city wall were pulled down to make a gate for the triumphal entry. There was another great feast at the government house.
Simonides recited a triumphal ode. All Athens, in short, made merry for days. Only one man found it hard to join the mirth whole-heartedly. Shall one mount the Acropolis or enter the market place? Worship in the temple of the Virgin Athena, or descend to the Agora and the roar of its getters and spenders? For Athens has two faces—toward the ideal, toward the commonplace.
Who can regard both at once? Let the Acropolis, its sculptures, its landscape, wait. It has waited for men three thousand years. And so to the Agora. From the round Tholus at the south to the long portico at the north all was babel and traffic. Donkeys raised their wheezing protest against too heavy loads of farm produce.
Megarian swine squealed and tugged at their leg-cords. Phocian the quack was hawking his toothache salve from the steps of the Temple of Apollo. Deira, the comely flower girl, held out crowns of rose, violet, and narcissus to the dozen young dandies who pressed about her. Around the Hermes-busts idle crowds were reading the legal notices plastered on the base of each statue. A file of mules and wagons was ploughing through the multitude with marble for some new building.
Every instant the noise grew. At the northern end, where the porticos and the long Dromos street ran off toward the Dipylon gate, stood the shop of Clearchus the potter. Behind, two apprentices whirled the wheel, another glazed on the black varnish and painted the jars with little red loves and dancing girls.
Clearchus sat on the counter with three friends,—come not to trade but to barter the latest gossip from the barber-shops: But we are resolved. Only young Democrates will ever be like him. Almost as eloquent as Themistocles. What zeal for democracy! What courage against Persia! He has married the daughter of Hermippus, who is too highly born to be faithful to the democracy.
He carries a Laconian cane,—sure sign of Spartanizing tendencies. He may conspire any day to become tyrant. 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. The pile of fish decreased, the bidding sharpened.
But as the last eel was held up, came a cry—. Scythian constables were 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. 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. A few chairs for the magistrates and a small altar were its sole furnishings. Amid silence the chairman of the Council arose and put on the myrtle crown,—sign that the sitting was opened. 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 answer was a groan from nigh every soul present. Three men ascended the Bema. He accompanies the Persian army as it advances into Greece. The heroic defense of the Pass of Thermopylae by such a small number of Greeks, however, re-ignites Glaucon's patriotism.
He realizes he cannot fight against his fellow countrymen, no matter how much he has come to respect Mardonius and his fellows. He defects to the other side in time to fight with Leonidas at Thermopylae - and survives by chance. He is rescued from death by his friend Mardonius, who is sad to find he could betray Persia, but out of his debt of honor, nurses him back to health and helps him to escape from the Persian camp. Glaucon returns to Athens, but still unable to prove his innocence in the case which led to his disgrace, he takes a disguise and fights as a common sailor at Salamis.
Only after this battle, is it possible to straighten out the confusion and return home a hero to his Penelope-like wife, Hermione, who has remained faithful through his disgrace and presumed death. This plot, which strikes me as Victorian in its use of mistaken identity, disguises, coincidences and dramatic escapes from certain death, is nevertheless an effective device for showing events from both the Athenian and Persian perspective.
The novel avoids turning the Persians into comic monsters ala "," and even the Spartans are not entirely caricatured. All in all, it kept my interest enough to read to the end. Davis rejected the use of modern speech patterns and phrases in the manner of Stephen Pressfield in "Gates of Fire," and opted instead for language that is more classical. While this has a number of advantages, Davis was not always successful in making dialogue sound natural. The result is that much of the dialogue sounds stiff and contrived, while descriptions occasionally bordered on trite.
Altogether, "A Victor of Salamis," failed to strike a chord with me, but the research was good and overall the picture transmitted of the age and society was accurate. I would recommend this book over many other novels set in the same period that take far greater liberties with the facts or convey a picture of ancient Greece distorted almost beyond recognition. Amazon Giveaway allows you to run promotional giveaways in order to create buzz, reward your audience, and attract new followers and customers. Learn more about Amazon Giveaway. Set up a giveaway. Customers who bought this item also bought.
A Global Family Portrait. Pages with related products. See and discover other items: He barely rose to the other's shoulder, but he had the chest and sinews of an ox. Graces there were none. His face was a scarred ravine, half covered by scanty stubble. The forehead was low. The eyes, gray and wise, twinkled from tufted eyebrows. The long gray hair was tied about his forehead in a braid and held by a golden circlet. The "chlamys" around hiships was purple but dirty.
To his companion's glib Attic he returned only Doric monosyllables. Paperback , pages. Published December 22nd by General Books first published December 1st To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. A Victor of Salamis follows a fictional character through historical events making it Historical Fiction. In this way William Stearns Davis takes a similar approach in writing as someone like G. I am quite a fan of Historical Fiction so naturally I enjoyed this book and am hoping to read some of William Stearns Davis ' other books.
I cannot verify how much of A Victor of Salamis is historically accurate, however I am quite sure it is not all. This book is entertaining, the characters are A Victor of Salamis follows a fictional character through historical events making it Historical Fiction. This book is entertaining, the characters are done well with an ancient sort of flare and has a decent storyline. It probably would be mildly difficult to read for the average non-reader but I had no trouble and I'm I do recommend this book, it was a very good read!
This was probably an amazing book when it was published more than one hundred years ago. Borrowing plot styles from Scott, the author retells the classic struggle of Xerxes invasion of Greece leading up to Thermopylae, Salamis, and Platea. Seen through the eyes of a fictional Athenian, it weaves the fictional love and honor restored with the historical characters. It was then seen through a Victorian prism, not the romantic views of Scott and Dumas.
So a pale imitation, but given those constrain This was probably an amazing book when it was published more than one hundred years ago. So a pale imitation, but given those constraints I can see why it was likely to have been popular then - but again I can see why it is justifiably obscure now. Aug 03, John Warren rated it really liked it. James rated it liked it Dec 17, Nov 20, Devon rated it liked it. Flowery, dated, at times simplistic, but a frequently charming book in love with ancient Hellas.