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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
In "Pictures of Hellas: Five Tales of Ancient Greece," Peder Mariager artfully weaves together a tapestry of narratives that capture the essence of ancient Greek life, culture, and mythology. Through vivid imagery and lyrical prose, Mariager transports readers to a time of gods, heroes, and philosophical inquiry, drawing upon historical context to enrich each tale. His storytelling marries the tradition of ancient Greek literature with contemporary literary techniques, creating a compelling collection that invites readers to reflect on the timeless themes of identity, morality, and human nature. Peder Mariager is a scholar of classical literature and ancient cultures, with extensive research that traverses the landscapes of Greece and the Mediterranean. His fascination with the rich tapestry of Greek mythology and history has profoundly influenced his writing. Drawing on years of academic inquiry and personal exploration, Mariager's authoritative voice and deep understanding of Greek narratives offer a fresh perspective on well-trodden tales, ensuring that even familiar stories feel novel and engaging. "Pictures of Hellas" is highly recommended for readers intrigued by ancient history, mythology enthusiasts, and anyone looking to explore the timeless stories that have shaped Western thought. Mariager'Äôs evocative storytelling not only entertains but also enlightens, making this collection a valuable addition to the libraries of both casual readers and scholars alike.
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Pictures of Hellas: Five Tales of Ancient Greece
Table of Contents
PREFACE.
Nearly all the more recent romances and dramas, whose scene is laid in classic times, depict the period of the great rupture between Paganism and Christianity. This is true of “Hypatia,” “Fabiola,” “The Last Days of Pompeii,” “The Epicureans,” “The Emperor and The Galilean,” “The Last Athenian,” and many other works. The cause of this coincidence is not difficult to understand; for a period containing such strong contrasts invites æsthetic treatment.
The present tales derive their material from a different, but no less interesting epoch. They give pictures of the flowering of Hellas, the distant centuries whose marvellous culture rested solely on the purely human elements of character as developed beneath a mild and radiant sky.
Yet it required a certain degree of persistence to procure this material. When we examine the Greek writers to find descriptions of the men of those times or the special characteristics of the social life of the period, Greek literature, so rich in accounts of historical events, becomes strangely laconic, nay almost silent.
How entirely different is the situation of a person who desires to sketch a picture of the Frenchmen of the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries. The whole collection of memoirs is at his disposal. In these writings the author discourses familiarly with the reader, gives him lifelike portraits of the ladies and gentlemen of the court, and tells him the most minute anecdotes of the society of that day.
Greek literature has nothing of this kind. The description of common events and the history of daily existence are forms of writing of later origin, nothing was farther from the minds of ancient authors than the idea that private life could contain anything worth noting. Herodotus and Thucydides narrated little or nothing of what the novelists of the present day seek, nay, even among the orators only scattered details are found, and strangely enough there are more in the speeches of Lysias than of Demosthenes.
Among the poets Aristophanes produces a whole gallery of contemporary characters, but indistinctly and in vague outlines; they were what would now be called “originals from the street” who, during the performance of his comedies, sat among the spectators, and whom he only needed to mention to evoke the laughter of the crowd. Something more may be gathered from Lucian and Apuleius, together with the better “Milesian” tales, especially from Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius while, on the contrary, the great Alexandrian lumber-room, owed to Athenaeus, contains more gewgaws of learning and curiosa than really marked characteristics.
In the obscure recesses of Greek literature, where we are abandoned by all translators, and where—as everybody knows who has devoted himself to the interpretation of the classics—only short excursions can be made, we are sometimes surprised at finding, by pure accident, useful matter. Dion Chrysostomus (VII) gives extremely interesting descriptions of life in the Greek villages and commercial towns. But what is discovered is always so scattered that only a few notes can be obtained from numerous volumes.
When I decided to turn what I had read to account, I was fully aware that a presentation of ancient life in the form of a romance or novel was one of the most difficult æsthetic tasks which could be undertaken. If, nevertheless, I devoted myself to it, I naturally regarded the work only as an experiment.
In choosing the narrow frame-work of short stories I set before myself this purpose—to sketch the ordinary figures of ancient life on a historical background. I have—resting step by step on the classic writers—endeavored to present some pictures of ancient times; but I have no more desired to exalt former ages at the expense of our own than the contrary. As to the mode of treatment—I have steadily intended to keep the representations objective, and to avoid using foreign words or giving the dialogues a form so ancient that they would not be easy to read.A The stiff classic ceremonies, foot-washings, etc., I have almost entirely omitted, and the archaeological and historical details have everywhere been subordinated to the contents of the story, so that they merely serve to give an antique coloring to the descriptions. Lastly, I have believed that the Greek characters ought to be completely banished from the book, and even from the notes and preface.
ASo far as the idiomatic differences of the two languages would permit, the translator has endeavored to retain the simplicity of style deemed by the author best suited to his purpose.
After these general remarks I must be permitted to dwell briefly upon the different tales, partly to point out the authority for such or such a stroke and partly to give some few more detailed explanations.
Little is known of the Pelasgian epoch; but it is a historical fact that a woman was abducted at the fountain of Callirrhoë. On this incident the first story “Zeus Hypsistos” is founded, and the climax of Periphas’ death is based upon an ancient idea: a voice of fate. The belief in Phēmai or Cledones is older than in that of most oracles, and dates back to the days of Homer. When Ulysses is wandering about, pondering over the thought of killing the suitors, he prays to Zeus for a sign and omen, a voice of fate, which then sounds in a thunder-clap and, inside of the house, he hears a slave-girl wishing evil to the suitors. The old demi-god Cychreus of Salamis is mentioned by Pausanias (I. 36). It was a universal idea in ancient times that demi-gods liked to transform themselves into serpents. In the battle of Salamis a serpent appeared in the Athenian fleet; the oracle declared that it was the ancient demi-god Cychreus. In Eleusis Demeter had a serpent called the Cychrean, for Cychreus, who had either slain it or himself assumed its form. For the remarkable ceremonial of purification after a murder (page 58), see Apollonius’ Argonautica (IV. 702). The words: “Zeus was, Zeus is, and Zeus will be” are borrowed from the ancient hymn sung by the Dodonian priestesses, called Peleiades (doves.)
In “The Sycophant” the notes cited on pages 72–73 would be valueless, if they did not contain the punishments which, according to Attic law, were appointed for the transgressions named.
Hetaeriae was the name given to secret societies or fraternities, where six, seven, or more members united to work against or break down the increasing power of the popular government, which was exerting a more and more unendurable pressure. There were many kinds of “hetaeriae,” but the most absolute secrecy was common to all. The members were conspirators, pledged to assist one another by a solemn oath, sworn by what was dearest to them in life. The harmless hetaeriae comprised those who were pursuing no political object, but merely consisted of office-seekers whose purpose was to aid one another in the election to office or before the courts of justice. The hetaeria here described is of the latter sort; for the delineation of a political society of this kind would require a far more extensive apparatus than could be contained within the brief limits of a tale. Several of the characters in “The Hetaeria” have actually existed. The comedian Sthenelus is mentioned by Aristophanes (vesp. 1313) as well as the orator and tragedian Acestor (vesp. 1220; aves 31) both are sketched from the more minute details of the Scoliastae. Phanus is also mentioned by Aristophanes (equit. 1233) as Cleon’s clerk. Among the women of the tale there is also an historical personage, the foreign witch Ninus, who professed to be a priestess of the Phrygian god Sabazius. She travelled through Hellas at the time of the Peloponnesian War and reaped a rich harvest by her divination and manufacture of love potions; but her end was tragical—she was summoned before the courts as a poisoner and condemned to death (A. Schaefer, Demosth. I. 199). The main outlines of the relations between Hipyllos and Cleobule are taken from the commencement of Cnemon’s story in Heliodorus (I. 2) and the description of Sthenelus’ fall from the boards is almost literally repeated from Lucian (The Dream, 26). The account of the naval battle at Rhion is an extract from Thucydides (II. 86–92).
“Too Happy” is founded upon an ancient idea: the prayer for a sign and the acceptance of an omen. Piracy, which plays a prominent part in the narrative, was practised at an early period in the Ægean Sea and afterwards attained such dangerous extent that large and magnificent fleets of pirate cruisers finally threatened Rome herself with intercepting the importations of grain from Pontus. It might perhaps be considered too romantic for a disguised corsair to examine the ship lying in port before plundering her in the open sea. Quite different things, however, are reported. The Phoenician pirates had secret agents who discovered where a ship with a rich cargo lay and promised the helmsman “ten-fold freight money,” if he would anchor in some secluded place, behind a promontory, etc., where the vessel could be overpowered. (Philostratus, vita Apoll. Tyan. III. 24). The conclusion of the story (the ladder hung outside of the ship so that it touches the water) is taken from Plutarch (Pompeius, 24).
In “Lycon with the Big Hand” the artist Aristeides and what is said of his paintings are historical. The same is true of the traits of character cited about the tyrant Alexander of Pherae. Under the description of the earthquake is given an account of what is called in seismology a tidal wave. A side-piece to this may be found in Thucydides (III. 89) where—after a remark about the frequency of earthquakes during the sixth year of the Peloponnesian War—it is stated: “Among these earthquakes the one at Orobiæ in Eubœa displayed a remarkable phenomenon. The sea receded from the shore; then suddenly returned with a tremendous wave and flooded part of the coast, so that what was formerly land became a portion of the sea. Many people perished.”
In these five stories the scene is laid in Athens, on the Ægean Sea, and in Thessaly—but, wherever it is, I have always endeavored to give the characters life and movement, and make them children of the times and of the Hellenic soil. I have also sought to delve deeper into the life of ancient times than usually happens in novels. Many peculiarities, like the purification after a murder in the first tale, the Baetylus oracle in “The Hetaeria,” and the use of the great weapon of naval warfare, the dolphin, in “Too Happy” have scarcely been previously described in any form in our literature. The belief in marvellous stones animated by spirits was widely diffused in ancient times, as such stones, under the name of abadir, were known in Phoenicia. The description of the Baetylus oracle is founded upon Pliny (17, 9, 51), Photius (p. 1047) and Pausanias (X. 24). It is evident enough that the stone-spirit’s answer was given by the ventriloquist’s art. Though the ancients had several names for ventriloquists, such as engastrimythae, sternomanteis, etc., the art was certainly little known in daily life, it seems to have been kept secret and used for the answers of oracles, etc. The soothsayer and ventriloquist Eurycles, mentioned by Aristophanes, endeavored to make the people believe that a spirit spoke from his mouth because he uttered words without moving his lips. For the dolphin, the weapon used in naval warfare, see Scholia graeca in Aristoph. (equit 762) and Thucydides (VII. 41).
In the ancient dialogue I have always endeavored to give the replies an individual coloring, and it will be found that Acestor speaks a different language from Sthenelus, Philopator from Polycles, etc. Phrases like: “Begone to the vultures,” “show the hollows under the soles of the feet,” “casting fire into the bosom,” etc., may easily be recognized as borrowed from the classic writers. To enter into the subject more minutely would be carrying the matter too far. Single characteristic expressions, such as palpale legein, etc. cannot be reproduced.
In introducing the reader to so distant and alien a world, it has been a matter of great importance to me to win his confidence; with this purpose I have sought by quotations to show the authority for what I have written. Here and there, to remove any doubt of the existence of an object in ancient times, I have added the Greek names. For the rest I have everywhere striven to follow the old maxim artis est celare artem.
Copenhagen, November 1, 1881.
P. Mariager.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Gold-fillet
(Dr. Schliemann. Hissarlik, Troy.)
1
Dragon figure on a gold plate
(Dr. Schliemann, Mycenæ.)
65
The market of Athens
at a later period, about 200 B.C. (In the upper part, in the background, is the Acropolis with the Parthenon, the colossal statue of Athene, and the Propylæa. To the left of the centre is a part of King Attalus’ hall, afterwards the Stoa Poecile, the circular Tholus, and behind, the Bouleuterium. In the foreground is a statue of Eirene, Peace, with the child Plutus in her arms; in the centre of the steps the square orator’s stage with hermae at the corners.)
69
Antique vase design
,
92
Athens seen from the road to Eleusis.
(In the centre of the picture the Acropolis, with the lower town in front, in the background Mt. Hymettus.)
95
Antique vase design
,
199
The Ægean Sea.
(A large ploion, merchant ship, followed by a pirate craft. Two of the Cyclades in the background.)
203
Renaissance design
,
222
Coast scene in Thessaly
, (near Pass of Thermopylæ,)
225
Ancient jugglers.
(The figure at the right is performing a “sword dance.”)
318
ZEUS HYPSISTOS.A TALE OF THE PELASGIAN PERIOD.
ZEUS HYPSISTOS.
I.
The region was one of the most noteworthy in Attica. Manifold in variety were the objects crowded together within a narrow space. By the side of riven masses of rock appeared the smooth slopes of a mountain plateau, and—the centre of the landscape—a huge crag with a flat top and steep sides towered aloft like a gigantic stone altar, reared by the earth itself to receive the homage and reverence of mankind. Two rivers, a wide and a narrow stream, flowed down its sides. Height and valley, ravine and mountain peak, closely adjoined each other, all easy of access and affording a surprising wealth of beautiful views.
The spot had a lofty destination. Here temples and pillared halls, hermae and statues were to appear like the marble embodiment of a dream of beauty in the youth of the human race; from hence the light of intellect was to diffuse its rays over the whole inhabited world.
But in the distant ages of which we are now speaking Athens had no existence even in name. Yet a suburb of the city afterwards so renowned was already in course of construction. On the Pnyx, the Areopagus, and part of the Museium stood a number of dwellings, and even at the present day traces may be found on these heights of eight or nine hundred houses, which must have lodged three or four thousand persons.
This city, founded by inhabitants of the island of Salamis, was called Kranaai, and its residents were known by the name of Cranai, dwellers on the heights.
Nothing could be more simple than these houses. As may still be seen, they consisted merely of a room hollowed in the cliff, closed in front and above with clay and stones,—the latter seem to have rested upon logs to prevent a sudden fall during the earthquakes so frequent in this region. Here and there small holes, into which the ends of the pieces of timber were thrust, may still be discerned in the cliffs. Many of the dwellings were arranged in rows, rising like stairs one above another, all with an open space in front to serve as a place of meeting for the inhabitants. These terraces were connected by small steps hewn in the rock; here and there appeared altars, large storehouses, and tombs, the latter consisting of one or more subterranean rock chambers. Great numbers of such sepulchres are still found scattered over large tracts of the ancient cliff-city.
Other remains of masonry may be seen in the holes in the earth made to collect rain-water. More than twenty of these ancient wells can be counted in this region, for though the Attic country was richly dowered in many respects, it lacked water, and it was not without cause that Solon’s law afterwards prohibited any one from borrowing of a neighbor more than a certain quantity. The inhabitants of Kranaai had located their wells so skilfully that even now—after the lapse of more than thirty centuries—many of them collect and keep the rain.
Below the cliff-city itself the direction of the streets may still be discerned, especially in the deep gully leading down to the Ilissus. Here there are distinct traces of wheels, between which the stone was roughened to give the draught-animals a better foothold, and along the sides of the road ran smooth-hewn gutters to carry off the rain-water pouring down from both bluffs.
II.
Many generations had already succeeded each other in the cliff-city, when a new race settled on the little plateau between the Hill of the Nymphs and the Gulf of Barathron. Like their predecessors, the new-comers originated in Salamis, but they called themselves Cychreans, from a family descended from Cychreus, one of the demi-gods of the island.
While on the Pnyx alone was found the altar of Zeus Hypsistos, the supreme Zeus, around which gathered the native inhabitants and the Cranai to worship a common god, the new-comers erected a sanctuary to the sea-nymph Melite, Hercules’ love, who was related to the Æacidae, natives of Salamis.
The two neighboring colonies thus each worshipped its own divinity and lived in peace and friendship, nay at last some of the Cychreans took wives among the daughters of the Cranai.
On the other hand the new-comers were by no means on good terms with the natives; for, as the latter lived scattered over the country and did not seem to be very numerous, the Cychreans had forced those they met to work for them. They had already employed them to smooth the cliff, to enable them to build there, and many of the Pelasgians had been seriously injured by the toilsome labor. Nay, Tydeus, a tall, handsome youth, brother of one of their chiefs, had suffered a terrible death, having been stoned because he had defended himself and refused to work for the foreigners.
The Cychreans endeavored to conceal their crime, fearing that when the matter reached the Pelasgians’ ears they would make war upon them. There was very grave cause for alarm; for the Cychreans had often seen from their cliff Pelasgian scouts hiding behind the clumps of broom on the plains, evidently watching for an opportunity to approach their enslaved countrymen. Young, swift-footed youths, whom it was lost time to pursue, had invariably been chosen for this service, so the Cychreans lay in ambush, captured some of the lads and questioned them narrowly then, as they pretended to know nothing, forced them to work like the others.
The morning after the capture of these spies the Cychreans noticed that, far out on the plain, a pile of wood had been lighted, on which ferns and green plants were undoubtedly thrown; for it sent forth a dense, blackish-brown smoke, which rose to a considerable height and could be seen far and near. Later in the day another bale-fire was discovered farther off, and before noon ten columns of smoke were counted from the cliff, five on each side, the last of which were almost lost to sight in the distance. There was something strangely menacing in these murky clouds which, calling to and answering each other, rose like a mute accusation towards the sky.
The whole Cychrean nation, young and old, bond and free, gathered outside of their houses and stared at the unknown sign. They suspected that it was a signal for the Pelasgians to assemble, but when they spoke of it to the new bondmen the latter said they had never seen such a smoke, but that the Cychreans might rely upon it that the Pelasgians would not march against them until the arrival of a more propitious day. When the new settlers asked when that would be, they answered:
“When the moon is large in the sky.”
The Cychreans were obliged to be content with this, but each man in secret carefully examined his weapons; no one believed himself safe.
III.
Lyrcus, son of Xanthios, was one of the principal Cychrean chiefs. He was feared for his strength and, in those days, fear was synonymous with respect. Lyrcus had devoted himself to the trade of war; he understood how to forge and handle weapons and taught the youths their use. In personal appearance he was a tall man with curling black locks, a reddish-brown beard, and a keen, but by no means ugly face. He usually went clad in a tight-fitting garment made of wolf-skins, that left his muscular legs and arms bare, and wore around his waist a leather girdle in which was thrust a bronze knife a finger long. Many tales about him were in circulation among the Pelasgians; for being a warlike man he had often quarrelled with them and on predatory excursions with some of his comrades had plundered their lands, carrying off goats, barley, figs, honey, and whatever else pleased him.
Lyrcus was no longer very young. He had seen the green leaves unfold and the swallows return some forty times. Nevertheless, he had always scoffed at love and considered it foolish trifling. When he was not forging, his mind was absorbed in the chase and in practising the use of arms.
Yet, though Lyrcus was so fierce a warrior, Aphrodite had touched his heart and shown that she, as well as Artemis, deserved the name of Hekaërge, the far-shooting. Once, during a short visit to the neighboring settlement, Lyrcus had seen Byssa, the fairest maiden in the cliff-city, drawing water from the well in front of her house, and had instantly been seized with an ardent passion for her. Grasping her firmly by the arm, he gazed intently at her and, when the blushing maiden asked why he held her so roughly, he replied: “Never to let you go!” Such was the fierce Lyrcus’ wooing.
Byssa’s father, Ariston, the priest of Zeus Hypsistos, was an aged, gentle-natured man who dared not refuse the turbulent warrior; yet he only gave his consent on condition that Byssa should keep the faith of her ancestors and not offer sacrifices to Melite in the Cychreans’ sanctuary. Nevertheless, both he and his wife had tears in their eyes when Lyrcus bore their only child away and, in taking leave of Byssa, Ariston laid his hands upon her head, saying:
“Be a good wife to this stranger. But do not abandon Zeus Hypsistos, that Zeus Hypsistos may not abandon you.”
Since that day a whole winter had passed, and Lyrcus seemed to love Byssa more and more tenderly. There was only one subject on which the husband and wife held different opinions. When Lyrcus saw the other women flocking to Melite’s sanctuary he often wished that Byssa should accompany them. But Byssa was inflexible. “Remember your promise to my father,” she said. “Whatever may befall me, I shall never forget his counsel: ‘Do not abandon Zeus Hypsistos, that Zeus Hypsistos may not abandon you.’” And so the matter rested. But when a Phoenician ship came to the coast—for in those days the Phoenicians were the only people who dared to sail across the sea—Lyrcus bought the finest stuffs, ornaments, and veils. It seemed as though he could not adorn Byssa enough, she was to be more richly attired than any of the Cychrean women.
Byssa had already had one suitor before her marriage, one of the Pelasgian chiefs, a man thirty-eight years old, named Periphas. He was the owner of a large herd of goats, often offered sacrifices to Zeus, smoothed many a quarrel, and had the reputation of being a good and upright man. Yet there was little reason that he should be renowned for piety and sanctity, for he could scarcely control his passions and had so violent a temper that he had once killed a soothsayer because the latter, in the presence of the people, had predicted that he would die a shameful death.
While offering a sacrifice in the cliff-city Periphas had seen pretty Byssa and instantly asked her of her father, promising rich bridal gifts. But the priest Ariston had answered that the maiden was still too young.
After that time Periphas was often met in the vicinity of the Cranai’s cliff and, when sacrifices were offered on the ancient altar, always appeared at the head of the Pelasgians. But from the hour Lyrcus had carried Byssa home none of the Cranai had seen him, though it was said that on one of Lyrcus’ pillaging excursions he had shouted:
“Beware, when the day of retribution comes, I shall not content myself with carrying off goats.”
Such was the state of affairs at the beginning of our tale. It almost seemed as if the capture of the spies was to give occasion for war; one of the youths had succeeded in escaping and the Cychreans feared that during his stay among them he might have obtained news of Tydeus’ death. This Tydeus, who had been so shamefully stoned, was Periphas’ brother, and the chief thus had double cause for vengeance—his brother’s murder and his slighted love.
But spite of the danger, under these circumstances, of leaving the Cychreans’ cliff Lyrcus had too restless a nature to remain quietly at home. The very day that the columns of smoke had struck such terror into the people he had set out early in the morning, accompanied by six or eight men, to hunt on the plains or among the woods that clothed Mt. Parnes.
IV.
The day had been one of scorching heat. The sun had still one-sixth of its course to run, and the air quivered over the heated cliffs.
The Cychreans had sought refuge outside of their small, close dwellings to get a breath of the north wind. On each terrace, men, women, and children were moving about, the former often clad merely with the skin of some animal thrown around the hips, the boys perfectly nude, and the women in looped, sleeveless garments or sometimes with only a short petticoat over the loins. Most of these robes were white, and the others were made of red, yellow, or blue stuffs; at that time people valued only bright pure colors. Everywhere merry conversation was heard, and these hundreds of half-nude figures formed an indescribably animated picture against the dark background of rock. Fear of the Pelasgians seemed to have vanished even before the fires were extinguished, at any rate it did not prevent the Cychreans from enjoying the present moment.
On one of the lowest terraces, directly opposite to the Areopagus, stood Lyrcus’ house and beside it the shed where he forged his weapons. At the door he had chained a large yellow dog of the Molossian breed, a sort of bull-dog, and in the shelter of the dwelling an old female slave was busy at a fire, over which she had hung a soot-encrusted clay vessel.
A few paces off, towards the edge of the cliff, a canopy of rushes was stretched between long poles. Beneath its shadow stood Byssa busied in weaving loose bits of woollen stuff into a single piece. The “chain” was placed perpendicularly, so that the weaving was done standing;—the horizontal loom, which had been used in Egypt for centuries, was not yet known in Hellas.
As Byssa stood near the verge of the cliff, with the blue sky behind her, there was an excellent opportunity to observe her. She had fastened her dark hair in a knot through which a bronze pin was thrust, and wore around her neck a row of blue glass beads. The rest of her dress consisted merely of a red petticoat, reaching from her hips to her knees. But her low brow, her calm black eyes, brilliant complexion, and full bust displayed the voluptuous beauty peculiar to the South, and which, even in early youth, suggests the future mother. In short, she was a true descendant of the grand Hellenic women, who from the dim mists of distant ages appear in the bewitching lore of tradition, fair enough to lure the gods themselves and strong enough to bear their ardent embrace and become the mothers of demi-gods and heroes.
It was a pleasure to see how nimbly she used her hands, and how swiftly the weaving progressed. Each movement of the young wife’s vigorous, rounded, slightly-sun-burned body, though lacking in grace, possessed a peculiar witchery on which no man’s eye would have rested with impunity.
But all men seemed banished from her presence. Every one knew that Lyrcus’ jealousy was easily inflamed, and however great the charm Byssa exercised, fear of the fierce warrior was more potent still.
Byssa’s thoughts did not seem to be absorbed in her work. Each moment she glanced up from her weaving.
The Attic plain lay outspread before her in the sunlight. Here were no waving grain-fields, no luxuriant vineyards; the layer of soil that covered the rocks was so thin that the scanty crop of grass could only feed a few goats. Here and there appeared a few gnarled olive-trees, whose green-grey foliage glistened with a silvery lustre, and wherever there was a patch of moisture the earth was covered with a speckled carpet of crocus, hyacinth, and narcissus blossoms.
Finding the plain always empty and desolate, the young wife at last let her hands fall and, sighing deeply, turned towards the slave.
“How long he stays!” she exclaimed, breaking the silence.
“Lyrcus is strong and well armed,” replied the slave as she heaped more wood on the fire. “The Pelasgians fear him worse than death. He will return unhurt.”
Byssa worked on silently; but she was not at ease and looked up from her weaving still more frequently than before.
“Why,” cried the slave suddenly, “there they are. Look at Bremon.”B The bull-dog had risen on its hind legs and was leaning forward so that the chain was stretched tight; snuffing the wind and growling impatiently it wagged its tail with all its might.
BGrowler.
V.
Byssa stepped farther from under the rush canopy and shaded her eyes with her hands. On the right the view was closed by Mt. Lycabettus, whose twin peaks looked almost like one; on the left the gaze rested on dark Parnes, whose strangely-formed side-spur, Harma, the chariot, was distinctly visible from the Cychreans’ cliff.
For a long time Byssa saw nothing, then she accidentally noticed, much nearer than she had expected, a white spot among some trees.
“There he is! There he is!” she cried joyously, clapping her hands. “Tratta, rejoice! I see a light spot out there—his white horse.”
In a mountainous country like Attica even the plains are uneven, and a rise of the ground concealed her view of the approaching steed.
At last the light spot appeared again—this time considerably nearer. Then several moments passed, during which it seemed to grow larger.
Byssa strained her sight to the utmost, her bosom heaving with anxious suspense. Suddenly she turned very pale and throwing herself upon Tratta’s breast, faltered in a low voice:
“Something terrible has happened. The horse is alone—riderless.”
Almost at the same instant she released herself from the slave’s embrace and went to the very verge of the cliff. From thence, at a long distance behind the horse, she descried a group of people slowly advancing. Several men who looked like black specks seemed to be carrying another, and several more followed.
At this sight Byssa uttered a loud shriek and clenched both hands in her hair. But Tratta held her back.
“Be calm, child,” she said with all the authority of age. “First learn what has happened. You can find plenty of time to mourn.”
But Byssa did not heed her. The horse had come very near and was galloping swiftly to its stable at the foot of the cliff.
Ere Tratta could prevent it, Byssa hurried to the nearest flight of stairs and darted madly down the rough-hewn steps, where the slightest stumble would cause mutilation or death. The slave, not without an anxious shake of the head, slowly followed.
The horse had scarcely allowed itself to be caught when Byssa, with tears in her eyes and a peculiar solemnity of manner, turned to the old servant and pointed to the animal’s heaving flank.
There was not the slightest wound to be seen; but a streak of blood a finger broad had flowed down the steed’s white side and matted its hair together.
“I knew it, Tratta, I knew it!” cried Byssa despairingly.
Then, in a lower tone, she added: “It is his blood.”
But Tratta answered almost angrily:
“His or some other person’s; what do you know about it? Help me to get the horse into the shed.”
Byssa, without knowing what she was doing, obeyed and then looked out over the plain, where she beheld a sight that made her tremble from head to foot.
Lyrcus was approaching uninjured at the head of his men.
Byssa uttered a shriek of joy that echoed from cliff to cliff as, with outstretched arms and fluttering hair, she flew to meet her husband.
Lyrcus knit his brows.
“What is it? What do you want here?” he asked, surprised to find her at the base of the cliff.
But Byssa heeded neither words nor look. Throwing her arms around his neck she clung to him and covered his wolf-skin robe with tears and kisses.
“Lyrcus, you are alive,” she repeated frantically, while all the fear and suspense she had endured found vent in soothing sobs.
“Byssa, speak! What is it?” asked Lyrcus, amazed at the excitement in which he found his wife.
Byssa took him by the hand, led him to the stable, and put her finger on the red streak upon the horse’s side.
“Simpleton!” said Lyrcus laughing. “That is no human blood.” And he pointed to a huge dead wild-boar, which two men could scarcely carry on a lance flung over their shoulders. “After the hunt,” he continued, “we wanted to put the great heavy beast on the horse; but it was frightened, bolted, and ran home.”
Meantime the men had come up. In spite of their fear of Lyrcus they could not refrain from looking at pretty Byssa, who was now doubly beautiful in her agitation and delight. Nay, some were not content with gazing at her face, but cast side-glances at her bare feet and ankles, which were sufficiently well-formed to attract attention, though it was customary for women to go about with looped garments.
Lyrcus noticed these stolen glances, and frowning gripped his lance more firmly.
“Why do you wear that red rag?” he said harshly, pointing to Byssa’s short petticoat. “Haven’t I given you long robes?”
