Part 11 (1/2)
In the northern quarter of Athens the suburb of Alopece thrust itself under the slopes of Mt. Lycabettus, that pyramid of tawny rock which formed the rear bulwark, as it were, of every landscape of Athens. The dwellings in the suburb were poor, though few even in the richer quarters were at all handsome; the streets barely sixteen feet wide, ill-paved, filthy, dingy. A line of dirty gray stucco house-fronts was broken only by the small doors and the smaller windows in the second story. Occasionally a two-faced bust of Hermes stood before a portal, or a marble lion's head spouted into a corner water trough. All Athenian streets resembled these.
The citizen had his Pnyx, his Jury-Court, his gossiping Agora for his day.
These dingy streets sufficed for the dogs, the slaves, and the women, whom wise Zeus ordered to remain at home.
Phormio the fishmonger had returned from his traffic, and sat in his house-door meditating over a pot of sour wine and watching the last light flickering on the great bulk of the mountain. He had his sorrows,-good man,-for Lampaxo his worthy wife, long of tongue, short of temper, thrifty and very watchful, was reminding him for the seventh time that he had sold a carp half an obol too cheap. His patience indeed that evening was so near to exhaustion that after cursing inwardly the ”match-maker” who had saddled this Amazon upon him, he actually found courage for an outbreak.
He threw up his arms after the manner of a tragic actor:-
”True, true is the word of Hesiod!”
”True is what?” flew back none too gently.
” 'The fool first suffers and is after wise.' Woman, I am resolved.”
”On what?” Lampaxo's voice was soft as broken gla.s.s.
”Years increase. I shan't live long. We are childless. I will provide for you in my will by giving you in marriage to Hyperphon.”(3)
”Hyperphon!” screamed the virago, ”Hyperphon the beggarly hunchback, the laughing-stock of Athens! O Mother Hera!-but I see the villain's aim. You are weary of me. Then divorce me like an honourable man. Send me back to Polus my dear brother. Ah, you sheep, you are silent! You think of the two-minae dowry you must then refund. Woe is me! I'll go to the King Archon. I'll charge you with gross abuse. The jury will condemn you.
There'll be fines, fetters, stocks, prison-”
”Peace,” groaned Phormio, terrified at the Gorgon, ”I only thought-”
”How dared you think? What permitted-”
”Good evening, sweet sister and Phormio!” The salutation came from Polus, who with Clearchus had approached unheralded. Lampaxo smoothed her ruffled feathers. Phormio stifled his sorrows. Dromo, the half-starved slave-boy, brought a pot of thin wine to his betters. The short southern twilight was swiftly pa.s.sing into night. Groups of young men wandered past, bound homeward from the Cynosarges, the Academy, or some other well-loved gymnasium. In an hour the streets would be dark and still, except for a belated guest going to his banquet, a Scythian constable, or perhaps a cloak thief. For your Athenian, when he had no supper invitation, went to bed early and rose early, loving the sunlight far better than the flicker of his uncertain lamps.
”And did the jury vote 'guilty'?” was Phormio's first question of his brother-in-law.
”We were patriotically united. There were barely any white beans for acquittal in the urn. The scoundrelly grain-dealer is stripped of all he possesses and sent away to beg in exile. A n.o.ble service to Athens!”
”Despite the evidence,” murmured Clearchus; but Lampaxo's shrill voice answered her brother:-
”It's my opinion you jurors should look into a case directly opposite this house. Spies, I say, Persian spies.”
”Spies!” cried Polus, leaping up as from a coal; ”why, Phormio, haven't you denounced them? It's compounding with treason even to fail to report-”
”Peace, brother,” chuckled the fishmonger, ”your sister smells for treason as a dog for salt fish. There is a barbarian carpet merchant-a Babylonian, I presume-who has taken the empty chambers above Demas's s.h.i.+eld factory opposite. He seems a quiet, inoffensive man; there are a hundred other foreign merchants in the city. One can't cry 'Traitor!' just because the poor wight was not born to speak Greek.”
”I do not like Babylonish merchants,” propounded Polus, dogmatically; ”to the jury with him, I say!”
”At least he has a visitor,” a.s.serted Clearchus, who had long been silent.
”See, a gentleman wrapped in a long himation is going up to the door and standing up his walking stick.”
”And if I have eyes,” vowed the juror, squinting through his hands in the half light, ”that closely wrapped man is Glaucon the Alcmaeonid.”
”Or Democrates,” remarked Clearchus; ”they look much alike from behind.
It's getting dark.”