CHAPTER VIII
DRYAS TAKES A ROBBER
There was no use mincing matters; Lycophron, the eldest son of Nikander, was not satisfactory. Handsome in person, he had nevertheless always been slow to learn and swift in evil doing, the bane of his Delphic schoolmasters. At fourteen years his features had coarsened, his eyes grown less intelligent. Now at eighteen that phase was past and he was clever in a fashion which Nikander vainly tried to think creditable. Nikander wanted to keep close to his boy in study and sports. Lycophron was his first-born. Some day Lycophron would be priest in Nikander’s stead, would take his chair in the Amphictyonic Council. Yet try as he might, Nikander could never look forward to this succession without shame.
Lycophron now began to demand money for horses and a chariot for the Olympian games. Nikander could ill afford so expensive a winning. He had hoped that his eldest son would win the crown for leaping or running, some act which would be reflected back in manly beauty and strength. Yet Nikander managed to give Lycophron money for his horses. He loved his eldest with a sensitive, intimate love.
But now came Dryas. Dryas from the first week of school had shown himself a promising son of the ancient house, and Nikander’s joy in him was beautiful to see. Always when Dryas returned from school Nikander would contrive to be in the aula to greet him, to hear the latest Doric melody the boy had learned, to correct the faults, or recite with him the passage of Homer which had been the lesson of the day.
Sometimes Nikander would linger along the road, meet Dryas, and, dismissing the pedagogue, would himself conduct the boy home.
Dryas was not always strong. Nikander summoned for him the best physicians from Athens and on his ill days would sit beside him patiently trying to ease the child. At such times Theria helped, knowing by that curious instinct of hers what to do. And when the pain was eased, Dryas would draw her face down and kiss her. Nikander was almost jealous of the love that Dryas gave to his twin sister. As he grew taller, however, Dryas grew also well and strong.
One winter evening Dryas and his slave boy were returning from the gymnasium, old Medon his pedagogue being lame and at home. All afternoon Dryas had been exercising. Then in the gymnasium he had stood under the pouring fountain, a chilly bath, and the slave boy had rubbed him to a glow. He was full of life and of a sense of waxing strength. Dreams of Olympian contests were in his heart as they were in the heart of every boy of Greece.
“Come,” said he to the slave. “Let’s go out the eastern road. You have the bow. Maybe we’ll bring down a hare.”
“It will grow dark soon,” ventured the slave. “And your father will be coming to meet you.”
“It won’t be dark,” answered Dryas. “Come, I say.”
So together they walked eastward on the hill road. They passed the row of outer temples and the hillside tombs. Sure enough, against all hope, a hare leaped across the road. Dryas shot it, and the slave fetched and slung it over his shoulder. Then they started back to town.
Twilight had fallen when they repassed the graves. The boys shrank close to each other. Both slave and free were afraid of the spirits which hovered there.
As they came to the roadside temples they saw a man dart quickly around a corner.
“What was that?” asked Dryas sharply.
“I don’t know,” answered the slave. Dryas, with wide eyes of fear, backed behind a rock.
“If he’s stealing from the gods we ought to stop him,” spoke the slave. “See; we have our bow.”
At this word Dryas, ashamed of his fear, came out from hiding.
“Stay by me,” he pleaded, and the slave advanced first.
These small temples, being outside the Precinct wall, were poorly guarded. The boys crept nearer and rounded the corner just in time to see the man with some silver cups in his arms running down the hill.
The boys gave chase. The man circled around so as to come up the hill again. The upper heights were always a fastness for robbers. The boys still followed, and above the road overtook the man.
Dryas with a cry half like a sob leaped upon him while the slave at the same time tripped his heels. The fellow went down like a log, screaming in panic. The boys quickly possessed themselves of the cups. The slave with his own leather belt tied the man’s hands, and together the boys pulled the man down the road—he not resisting at all. They pushed him along toward town.
At the edge of the village Nikander met them. In all his life Nikander never forgot that shock—first the fear, then the joy—as he realized that Dryas, spite of bleeding face and dishevelled hair, was safe and that he had done a brave deed.
“Father, it is a robber,” Dryas was saying excitedly. “I caught him by the outer temples. See, he had the silver temple cups.”
“My son,” said Nikander. “My son!”
At sound of Nikander’s voice the man fell down again, howling like an animal in fear. And strangely, Dryas, too, broke into hysterical weeping.
“Don’t let them kill him, Father. Don’t let them kill the man!”
“But he has committed sacrilege.”
“Oh, no—no, if they kill him I’ll die, too. Oh, I’m afraid! Oh, he would haunt me.”
“Nonsense, Dryas.”
Here the man tried to get upon his feet but tumbled down again.
“Pitiful Hermes!” cried Nikander. “The wretch is starving.”
Dryas, still sobbing, caught nervously at the man’s bonds and pulled them off.
“Here, Son,” said Nikander. “Give him a drachma.”
The poor creature snatched the money and seeing the look of relenting in Nikander’s face, sprang up the hill with sudden life. He was quickly lost among the crags.
The incident soon got abroad in Delphi. The boys at school made a hero of Dryas. They had always liked him.
Nikander, however, could not help recurring to Dryas’s curious, passionate weeping. He told himself that it was natural. The young boy should be pitiful. But the weeping had not seemed to be pity. Something selfish, almost craven was in it. And a look in the slave boy’s face made Nikander think that the slave had done as much or more of the deed than Dryas himself.
Nikander pushed these thoughts from him and when Dryas’s praise came in from every side, Nikander gladly forgot them.
For from this time the Delphians began to take notice of Nikander’s younger son. His beauty was growing every day. He had a voice high, clear, unearthly sometimes, and he played the lyre with firm touch while he sang. He was only fourteen years old.
One day, as the priests broke up their council after the giving of the Oracle, the old Akeratus, president of the priests, detained Nikander. He told him that his boy Dryas had been chosen the “Laurel-Bearer” for the next Strepterion feast. It was the greatest honour the Delphians could give to a young Delphian boy. Then Nikander went home feeling that his cup of joy was full.