CHAPTER VII
WHAT GIFTS THE GUESTS BROUGHT
It was through a guest that Theria first came to visualize those distant colonies of the west which gave so many gifts to Delphi and played so important a part in Delphi’s life.
He was a simple-seeming guest, this young man from far-away Elea in Italy. But child though Theria was, she could not but note his face. It shone with an almost startling quietness, a robust and heavenly calm. The soul of the man had been dipped deep and deep again in abstract thought. Earthly things were washed away. The “Parmenidean Countenance of Peace” was soon to be recognized throughout Hellas, for even the disciples of Parmenides acquired this same look.
“Yes,” he said, smiling, as though it were an ordinary happening. “We were nearly shipwrecked off Corcyra. Four days of storm. I thought my earthly term was come. But I knew that I would at once rise from the sea and begin my long progress toward the Eternal Source.”
“Would you have been glad,” asked the amazed Nikander, “to go on pilgrimage to Hades?”
“No—no,” laughed Parmenides. “Too much to do here. Elea needs me. The city is now in my hands to govern quite as I will. I govern by philosophy. And, Nikander, we are happy in Elea! We are a little city and on a far-away coast, yet even Athens has not our justice and calm. Constantly I keep before the minds of our citizens the importance of right, the unimportance of this world’s goods. They know they are in the hands of The One.”
“I could not worship The One,” said Nikander seriously. “Think what a lonely god—an Only One, sitting sole and wordless in Olympos with no other god to speak to, to deal with, or to love. Or even to quarrel with,” he added whimsically.
“But the gods themselves worship my god. They know the One who is above them and controls.”
“Moira?” asked Nikander in a low voice. “Inexorable Fate?”
“No, Nikander, not Fate, but Love—creating all things—healing all things. Love—the First—the Source.”
Parmenides’s eyes shone with eerie light. He was fairly launched now. He began to recite his philosophy. It was—as was all literary expression in those days—a poem. Nikander listened entranced, laying it away in his retentive Greek memory which would give him back whole cantos of it almost entire.
Theria, crouched in the door corner wrapped in a dark cloak, was content to listen to the rhythm. Of the poem she understood not a word. Then she grew weary of her stolen pleasure, but she dared not move from her hiding place.
Presently Baltè began to call her through the house.
“Little mistress, little mistress, your mother asks for you. Little mistress, she is ill and needs you.”
For, strange to say, in Melantho’s frequent headaches it was Theria’s little magnetic hands which helped most of all.
“Apollo has blessed the child with his healing touch,” old Baltè was wont to say.
But now Baltè called in vain, and at last, fearing that her charge might be in forbidden quarters, she left off her call.
But the interminable poem went on. It mingled at last in Theria’s ears into a soft humming. Torches were brought, and the evening meal. Priest and philosopher lingered in ardent converse—that friction of mind upon mind which the Greek men of that day so loved and which with its sparkle and contagion of wit made the Greek look with contempt upon the mere written page.
Nikander, strolling dreamily to bed at midnight, stumbled upon the heap wrapped in its dark cloak, and lifted his daughter in his arms.
“Strange,” he murmured, “this continual disobedience. What can draw her hither—I wonder?”
The childish face sleeping upon his arm reminded him of his mother—a resemblance he had not noted before, and very tenderly he carried her to her bed where Baltè was waiting.
It was from a guest also that Theria heard the first whisper of The War—that steadily approaching war which was yet so far off that only the wise felt its dread.
Theria was older at this time and understood more of what she heard.
Her father one day entered suddenly bringing with him a stranger whose personality started her interest. Unremitting energy! That was the keynote of the man. He talked continually. Theria heard him even before he entered—the clear voice of the orator. His strange Attic dialect, his swift words made him a little difficult for her to understand. Fair he was, tall, blue-eyed, strong, something un-Greek about him. Nikander did not even see Theria this time. He was too absorbed in Themistokles.
Their talk was first about the new play at Athens. Themistokles had just heard the first great drama. His heart was afire with the excitement of it.
“It is new, utterly new and powerful,” he exclaimed. “Prometheus, it is called. Our Æschylus has outdone himself. The very gods come down upon the stage. And actors! We have never had such actors, Nikander. But it is the greatness of the play which creates them—the greatness of the play!”
“The lines!” pleaded Nikander. “Tell me the lines.”
And with ready memory Themistokles began. He gestured swiftly with his hands. “Flashing hands,” Theria named them. He puzzled her. Surely he was not Athenian—not quite moderate and serene—and his cloak with its border of purple and gold was a little too conspicuous of beauty.
In the midst of a scene he broke off.
“But here we talk of the play,” he said. “When I want to talk of dear Athens. Nikander, the Athenians are blind, every one of them, blind!”
“Gracious,” laughed Nikander, “no one else thinks so.”
“They will not believe that the Persian will come again. ‘Oh,’ they boast, ‘We conquered them at Marathon, that deed is done.’ But the deed is not done. Nikander, you know the Persian will return. Ye of Delphi, are you so unaware?”
He seized Nikander’s hand and Nikander sobered instantly.
“Indeed we are not unaware,” he answered.
“Oh, Nikander, the trophies of Miltiades will not let me rest. Such trophies must be won again. May the gods let me win them!”
Nikander did not reply but Theria saw him search the man’s face, as if anxiously measuring him for some great need.
“Have you news, Themistokles—fresh news?”
“No, only straws, but plenty of them. I keep a clever slave down at the Piræus who has no other business than to listen to stories of the ship-merchants and traders. Sailors know the way of the winds—the winds of the future. They push in at every shore. The Great King they tell us is now warring against Egypt, but our turn is next. Oh, it is surely the next. Nikander, the armies which Darius brought against us seven years agone were but a handful to those which his son Xerxes will bring.”
“I believe that,” said Nikander. “Ay, and the Delphian Council believe it, too.”
“Good!” exclaimed the Athenian.
“It is not good. Do you know, Themistokles, what this belief breeds in the Council? Fear; only fear! ‘Hellas cannot withstand the Persian.’ That is what they are whispering here in Delphi. ‘Hellas is doomed.’”
Themistokles’s face took on a horror which startled the listening girl.
“Nikander,” he cried, “you will not allow Delphi to shirk. The Oracle must stand by Athens!”
“I will stand by Athens and by all Hellas,” said Nikander solemnly. “I believe Apollo will defend his own.”
Themistokles now began to talk of the silver mines of Laurium and how he had been trying to persuade the Athenians to forego their yearly gift of silver in order to build ships for fighting against the little island of Ægina.
“Will so many ships be needed?” queried Nikander with sharp insight.
Themistokles leaned toward him, laughing softly, triumphantly. “For the war with Ægina!” he said, low-toned. “Believe me, for that war the ships will not be used. But when the Persian comes, he will find certain ships in our harbour that will give him pause. Remember that, Nikander, so that you may give credit to Themistokles who saw before the event.”
All too soon Themistokles took his departure. Afterward Theria heard the slaves gossiping about the man. “He brought with him a purple tent,” they said, “and furniture and many slaves, even for his short visit.” Themistokles lived like a prince in Delphi.