TOO HAPPY.

One beautiful summer day in the month Metageitnion a large ship sailed past the eastern point of Crete and steered with its two shovel-shaped rudders into the ?gean Sea. A fresh east wind fluttered the purple flag and made the white sail, strengthened by a network of cordage, swell above the waves.

The ship was called a Samian, and its deeply-arched bow showed that it was built to contain a large cargo. Although nearly a quarter of a stadium long—or about as large as the largest war-vessel of those days—she was evidently a peaceful trader; for below204 the protecting figure-head—a Doris, daughter of Oceanus—with which the curve of the prow was adorned and whose name the ship bore, one would have vainly looked for the weapons peculiar to a ship’s armament, the projecting iron-shod embolus or beak. On the stern was the statue of the goddess Athene, the familiar “Attic sign,” which showed that the vessel was an Athenian ship. To strengthen the joining of the planks the hull, from stem to stem, was surrounded with numerous belts of thick ropes which, like the hull itself, were smeared with a mixture of pitch and wax. Along the vessel’s sides appeared a row of semi-circular air-holes, and through the openings made for the rudders ran the hawsers wound about a capstan. Outside, just below the figure-head, two huge eyes were painted—probably to indicate that the ship understood how to find her way over the sea.

At the curve of the prow, the highest part of the Samian, where the bearded steersman managed the double helm, stood a little group of travellers talking gaily with each other. They were Lydian and Phoenician merchants, availing themselves of the opportunity to go to Athens, as the merchantman, after having visited the most important ports in Asia Minor, would return home fully laden to the Pir?eus for repairs.

The sailors who had gathered in the bow sang their monotonous songs or fell asleep, stretched in the shade behind the sail, in the very act of chewing onions, while some young slaves, busied in making205 preparations for an approaching meal, moved to and fro among them.

At the foot of the mast was a red and white striped tent, low enough not to interfere with the movements of the sail. This tent was closed by a curtain, though not so completely that those within could not keep an eye upon a little white-robed boy four or five years old, who was riding up and down on a speckled hobby-horse. The space for play was very small and he sometimes ran among a pile of chests and boxes, where he tripped, stumbled, and almost fell. Whenever this happened, a woman’s voice inside the pavilion said:

“Callias must stay where mother told him—or Mormo will come.”

The tent contained two persons, the ship’s owner and master, a young Attic merchant, who was reclining on a couch, and his wife, who sat on the edge of the seat in front of him.

Glaucus—the merchant’s name—was a man of five and twenty, with a handsome, somewhat pallid face. He was clad in a reddish-brown robe with a broad white border and, as the summer day was scorching hot, he wore no girdle around his waist. In his hand he held a manuscript, but had let it fall by his side as though his thoughts were not fixed on the contents.

“No!” he suddenly exclaimed, as he pushed back his dark locks and flung the scroll on a table, “I cannot forget that strange man!”

“Who was he?” asked his wife.

“How do I know, Charicleia? He rowed out to206 the ship in the bay of Celenderis to sell us some sheep he had in his boat. You had gone on shore with the slaves to make some purchases. Scarcely had he come on board, ere he asked in the most simple-minded way about everything he saw. He wanted to know whether Indian ivory or Sardian purple was the dearer, and whether a house could be built for the money one of the gold embroidered carpets from Babylon had cost.”

“How did the man look?” asked Charicleia.

“He resembled Heracles, as he is represented on the stage by the actors. He was tall, large-limbed, walked with his back bent, was clumsy and awkward in his movements, and had tangled hair hanging low on his forehead.”

“What else did he notice on board?”

“He could not weary of examining everything. He had never supposed that there were ships so large. Finally he became so troublesome that I ordered my sailors to put him back in his boat; but the giant defended himself and—quicker than speech—two of my steersmen lay stretched on the deck, one with his face bleeding from a blow. Frantic with rage, I gripped his breast, shouting: ‘Quit my ship, Barbarian or, by Zeus, you will fare ill.’ But lo! something very like a miracle happened before our eyes. At the word: ‘Barbarian,’ he drew himself up, flung back his hair, and suddenly stood before us like a totally different being. His stupid look had vanished, his eyes flashed, and his huge figure and dark face207 made a terrible impression of untamed strength and fierceness. ‘We shall meet again, Athenian!’ he said and, pushing my people aside like bundles of straw, he swung himself down into the boat and rowed swiftly to the shore.”

“Glaucus,” said the young wife, turning pale, “I am afraid of this man.”

“Simpleton!” replied Glaucus smiling, “you ought rather to rejoice” and, lowering his voice, he added: “I long for some touch of adversity. We are too fortunate, we fare like the happy gods. We have nothing to desire.... Have I not a superabundance of property and wealth, a spacious, handsome house, large store-houses in Athens and the Pir?eus, numerous ships at sea, and a beautiful villa at Salamis? And as to the future, have I not my little Callias to inherit all I possess?”

Now that he had spoken of his wealth and his son, he thought of his wife. In ancient times women were little valued.

Half rising on his couch he let his eyes rest on Charicleia’s figure. Her thin, light dress, with a pattern of small green leaves, displayed the delicate neck and white shoulders, and the mere way in which she carried her head revealed the young oikodespoina (mistress of the house) who was born of a noble race and accustomed to command numerous slaves.

Glaucus clasped her soft, ringed hand.

“And have I not,” he added, “a good and beautiful wife?”

208 Charicleia raised her dark eyes to his and replied by a pressure of the hand that meant: “And haven’t I the best and handsomest of husbands?”

“Don’t look at me so, my bee,”M said Glaucus smiling. “My whole soul yearns to you. But you know what the sailors say: ‘Ships must be kept free from Aphrodite’s lures, first because they are sacred, and secondly because it isn’t right to trifle, when there is only a plank between us and death.’”

M A common term of endearment for women. Of course the allusion was not to the bee as armed with a sting, but to the producer of honey, the sweetest thing known at that period.

Charicleia was not listening to him.

“So you think,” she said reflectively, “that we are too happy. Do you fear the envy of the gods?”

“I do,” Glaucus whispered, as though afraid of being heard by invisible ears.

“Console yourself, my friend. The happy gods have no wishes. But I have one so important to me that the doubt of its fulfilment is a thorn in my heart.”

“And what is this desire?” asked Glaucus in surprise.

“That, when our lives draw near their end, we may die together. Think, Glaucus, if one of us should suddenly be left alone. Beneficent Gods! how often I have prayed ye to avert this misfortune.”

“Beware, Charicleia!” said Glaucus gravely. “Do not pray for foolish things. Life and death are in the power of the gods—what do we know about them? Perhaps you would bitterly repent your wish, if the heavenly powers should grant it.”

209 “Oh, no, no!” cried Charicleia. “Let death come when and as it will, if it only snatches us away together.”

With these words she drew the curtain of the tent aside. Before them lay the glittering sea, furrowed with its greenish billows, which seemed to roll sleepily away in the sunshine. In the distance two of the Cyclades raised their rocky heights towards the sky, and far away to the north towered some bluish-black clouds, so sharply outlined against the clear azure of the heavens that they resembled jagged mountain peaks.

“If my wish has found favor with Ye, Heavenly Powers,” cried Charicleia, raising her arms with southern fervor towards the sky, “oh! give me, in my husband’s presence, a sign that my prayer will be granted.”

Stepping entirely out of the pavilion she gazed around her. Glaucus had risen from the couch and, standing in the shadow, followed the direction of her glance. Even little Callias had a presentiment that something was expected. Pausing in his play, he ran to his mother and took hold of her dress.

Just at that moment a dazzling flash of lightning darted from the dark sky far away, followed in a few moments by the roll of distant thunder. Three white birds, one small and two large ones, flew with rapid strokes of their long wings over the ship, following each other at precisely the same distance, as though bound together by some invisible chain. They mounted higher and higher as if they wanted to soar into the sky and soon became mere indistinct specks.

210 “Look!” exclaimed Charicleia, her face radiant with joy, “they come from the right and move towards the left. My prayer will be fulfilled.” And kneeling, she stretched her arms towards the sky, saying: “Dechomai ton oiōnon! I accept the omen.”

Again from the distance, as if in confirmation, echoed a low peal of thunder.

“But,” remarked Glaucus, “there were three birds, one smaller than the others...?”

“My friend,” said Charicleia, clasping his hands, “perhaps it is the will of the gods that we must die while Callias is still a child. In that case I accept the omen for him also. Let him follow us!”

Whatever impression this scene had made upon Glaucus, it had not escaped his notice that meantime a strange tumult had arisen on deck. Eager, anxious conversation echoed from the stern where the steersman stood, several young slaves were running to and fro, nay even the lazy sailors in the bow were beginning to move. Some of them strolled slowly past the tent.

“What has happened?” asked Glaucus. “A small vessel has been sighted in the offing....” began one.

“Which seems to be following us,” added another.

Glaucus went to the steersman.

“Ever since we passed Rhodus,” said the latter, “that little ship yonder has been following us, always steering in the same direction. Twice I have intentionally211 tacked, and each time I saw that the vessel turned with us. So I fear she is a Cilician pirate.”

“Come here, Egyptian!” said Glaucus, beckoning to the oldest of the sailors, a bald, grey-bearded man of very singular aspect.

He had been dubbed “Egyptian” because for many years he had sailed to Busiris, Bubastis, and other cities on the Nile. No one had ever seen him wear anything except a garment of braided mats, through which his lean arms and legs looked like a little child’s first rude drawings of the human figure. His skin seemed tanned by the Libyan sun and never appeared clean, and his mouth was a tightly closed straight line as if he had no lips. It might be supposed that few words escaped them.

“What do you think, Egyptian?” said Glaucus, raising his voice—the man was somewhat deaf.

“The rustling of a fig-leaf,”N replied the Egyptian curtly, shrugging his shoulders.

N A false alarm.

“What kind of craft do you think she is?” asked Glaucus.

“A Myoparian,” was the reply.

Myoparian (nimble as a mouse) was the name given to small swift-sailing ships belonging to the Cyclades. In earlier times they had often been used to plunder trading-vessels, but at this date were employed only for peaceful purposes and had the best reputation.

212 The Egyptian’s statement was therefore eagerly welcomed.

“The man is right,” said one of the Phoenician merchants, stroking his braided beard. “How often small ships are seen following large ones! It is partly because their captains think the steersmen of large vessels have more experience and partly because they hope for a refuge in case of need.”

“But,” objected one of the travelers, “pirates can just as well pursue us in a Myoparian they have captured as in any other vessel.”

“May I be permitted to speak, Master,” said a native-born Athenian slave, turning to Glaucus. He was a young man with a refined, intelligent face, whose natural beauty was not even destroyed by hair closely cut after the slave-fashion.

Glaucus nodded assent.

“I think the steersman is right,” said the youth. “If that vessel is as fleet as is said, yet holds back, there is surely some evil intended, which will not appear until the time seems favorable.”

So the talk went on and the most contradictory opinions were expressed. The dispute was not yet over at the approach of sunset.

The western sky was radiant with golden light and far above the ship a few thin clouds, which formerly had scarcely been noticed, were clearly relieved against the deep azure as they assumed a bright crimson hue, which made them resemble light feathers. Even the sea shared the sunset splendor and mirrored the fiery213 glow, against which the long billows looked like dark, moving streaks.

The Samian made little headway. The sail flapped feebly to and fro; there was not wind enough to fill it, and ere the sun had sunk beneath the sea the last faint breeze had died away.

The rowers were now obliged to take their seats; the celeustis began the monotonous chant that marked the time, yet nimbly as the oars moved, the great ship advanced slowly.

It was far different with the small vessel, whose distance seemed gradually to decrease, and there could soon be no doubt that it was gaining upon the Attic ship. Ere long those on the latter could see the white foam washing under the Myoparian’s bow—a sign of the speed with which she was moving—and soon after they perceived that she was strongly manned and had all her oars out. From that time the vessel approached so swiftly that it seemed to grow every moment.

Suddenly one of the Lydian merchants exclaimed in a loud voice:

“It’s all over with us! They are pirates, the craft is Thyamis’ ship from Coracesium. Once before I have been robbed by him and barely escaped with my life.”

At these words indescribable terror and confusion arose on board. Some covered their faces to await death, others uttered loud lamentations and wrung their hands irresolutely; a few tried to hide in the ship’s hold, others wanted to have the boats lowered to214 escape by flight, and some young slaves, in their fear of losing a life which scarcely seemed of any special value, ran to and fro as though out of their senses.

Amid this universal irresolution, the Myoparian came close behind.

Glaucus comforted his wife with a few soothing words and told her to stay inside of the tent with little Callias. He himself went to the stern, collected the passengers and sailors around him, and said:

“Friends, if we do not repulse that wretch’s attack, many of us must lose our lives. But we are numerous enough, if we only resolve to do so, to save ourselves and the ship. Besides the steersman and myself, there are on board five foreign merchants and six sailors; so in all, we have thirteen free men, while of slaves there are the fourteen oarsmen, four slaves of my own, and ten who accompanied the foreign merchants. As the Myoparian has no boats, we can only be attacked on one side and there only for a distance not exceeding the length of yonder little vessel. Twenty brave men would be enough to repel such an assault, and we,—including freemen and slaves—number more than forty! You can obtain weapons from the steersman; for though I have never met pirates until now, I have always been ready to receive them. If we repulse the attack, I will free my slaves and give each sailor a large reward. Show courage and firmness—and the victory will be ours. Besides, we shall fight from a higher position as if we were in a fortress.”

“Let them come,” said the steersman coolly, “we’ll215 receive them in such a way that hereafter they’ll avoid attacking an Attic ship.”

The crew, in answer to these words, maintained an ominous silence and, when the steersman distributed the weapons, he noticed that many of the men were reluctant to take them.

One of the rowers, a Cretan with a sly, crafty face, had alarmed the men on their way to him.

“Don’t be simpletons!” he had said. “Throw the swords into the sea in time. Those whom the pirates catch with arms in their hands will be killed at once.”

Meantime, twilight had begun to close in. The glowing colors in the sky had faded, the black storm-cloud had risen higher, and the sea stretched sullen and leaden-hued below.

The Myoparian glided past the ship at some distance. It was a proud sight to behold the light craft, with a fringe of snow-white foam before her prow, cut through the billows, while the glittering oars rose and fell in regular time. The pirate swept round the Athenian ship in a wide curve and, as though to display her superiority, encircled it several times in ever narrowing rounds, so that the big, clumsy Samian lay as though besieged by this one little craft.

Suddenly a score of fir-wood torches were lighted on board the Myoparian and, by the glare of their red, flaring flames, reflected like quivering streaks of fire over the sea, the vessel was seen swarming with dark, threatening figures, among whom, ever and anon, was noticed the glint of shining arms. There was something216 strangely gloomy about this glimmer which made the Egyptian say:

“Do you see those weapons? They cut the eye as they wound the flesh.”

On an empty space near the pirate’s stern stood her captain, a gigantic man, clad with barbaric splendor. Around his dark hair was bound a broad fillet of yellow byssus, embroidered with gold; a superb violet-blue upper-robe hung loosely over his shoulders and opened over a dazzlingly white chiton, fastened with a gold belt. On his feet he had short endromides or half boots of the same magnificent hue as his upper robe, and in his hand he held a trident of polished steel that sparkled and flashed in the torch-light.

“Woe betide us! Woe betide us!” repeated the Lydian merchant, who had first recognized the vessel. “It is Thyamis, the most terrible of all the Cilician corsairs.”

Glaucus, too, recognized the man in spite of his changed exterior. Now he understood why the giant had desired to see everything on board when the Samian lay at anchor in the bay at Celenderis.

The Myoparian with a few powerful strokes of the oars approached still nearer, so that it lay side by side with the Attic ship.

At a sign from his captain, one of the pirates sprang upon the gunwale and shouted to the crew of the merchantman:

“Luckless men! Why do you seek death? Why217 resist a superior force? Yield the ship, then you can get into your boats and row wherever you choose.”

But Glaucus stepped into the stern of his ship and answered:

“Wretches! Know that we lack neither men nor weapons. If you attack, we will defend ourselves and fight till the victory is ours.”

The corsairs’ reply was only a jeering laugh.

Then there was a great bustle on board the Myoparian. The mast was raised, hoisting a yard consisting of two pieces, from which hung a large dark object bearing a certain resemblance to a dolphin, for it was distaff-shaped, thickest in the middle and lessening at both ends. This object was evidently very heavy; the mast creaked and strained and the yard bent perceptibly under its weight.

The pirate-ship again approached the merchantman and lay alongside. A man with an evil, almost animal face, wearing a red Phrygian cap on his head, climbed up the yard far enough to be able to look down on the Samian’s deck.

“Too late to yield now!” he shouted. “Now you must all die.”

At these words some of the young slaves burst into loud lamentations; but above every other sound echoed from the tent a frightened child’s sobbing and wailing, which would not be silenced, no matter how tenderly it was hushed.

“What a horrible bawler!” cried the man with the218 Phrygian cap. “Just wait! When the dolphin comes, he’ll stop his mouth.”

Then, swinging himself over among the rigging that supported the mast, he called to the men below: “Heave!”

The pirates, with a quick swing, brought the yard over the great ship. The man in the red cap pulled with all his might at a rope he held in his hand, and the missile suspended from the yard—the so-called “dolphin,” a leaden mass of immense weight, plunged down upon the tent just as Charicleia came out of it, holding the crying child by the hand. There was a terrible, deafening crash, the ship trembled from masthead to keel as though every seam was separating; almost at the same moment there was heard—this time under the deck—a similar crash, accompanied by a violent jarring and a strange, gurgling, rippling noise like the bubbling of a spring.

The tent was dragged down and partly covered a yawning hole in the deck, from which rose splinters yards long. Charicleia had felt little Callias’ hand torn from hers by some terrible, resistless power, and at the same moment, while half buried under the folds of the tent, a warm, sticky stream had spurted over her foot. Though she had not seen it, she well knew what it was.

Pale as a corpse, she staggered back a step and seemed on the verge of fainting. Then, as if in a dream, she heard the red-capped corsair burst into a laugh and call to his comrades:

219 “You see, it hit! The bawler is silenced. He has ridden down to Hades on the dolphin.”

At the words and laugh a mist of blood seemed to dim Charicleia’s eyes; she seized a sword and with the scream of a wild beast rushed upon the wretch, who was clinging with one hand to the rigging of the pirate-vessel and with the other to the Samian. He had no time to parry the attack, no time to open his lips, ere the glittering weapon was buried to the hilt in his breast. He moved his head and neck several times as if stifling, a stream of blood welled from his mouth, the red cap fell off, his hands loosed their grip, and he fell headlong into the dark gulf between the ships.

A fierce cry of rage rose from the pirates; they placed ladders against the trader’s bow and some of the boldest sprang on her deck—others followed.

Deeply as Glaucus was moved, he made every effort to inspire his men with courage, but most of them threw down their arms and begged the corsairs to spare their lives.

Thyamis now gave orders to stop the slaughter and commanded the sailors and foreign merchants to leave the ship without taking anything except the clothes they wore. The slaves were compelled to go in couples on board the pirate craft.

The Samian’s boat was lowered into the water, and the seamen vied with each other in leaping in, believing that they would only be safe when far away from Thyamis and his band. Overcrowded though this boat was, there was no danger; the sea was calm,220 there were men enough to row, and the distance to the nearest of the Cyclades was not great.

Glaucus and his wife were now led down to the Myoparian, while Thyamis went on board of the Samian. He showed his men where the ivory, purple, and gold-embroidered carpets from Babylon were to be found, and the costliest part of the cargo was soon transferred to the pirate craft. The merchantman filled faster and faster, and already lay considerably lower.

Thyamis ordered his vessel to be rowed away from the sinking ship.

The darkness had gradually increased and the Samian looked like a black, shapeless mass. The part of the hull still remaining above the water grew smaller and smaller. Suddenly the stern sank and, with a strangely unexpected movement, the prow rose high in the air for a moment, then the great ship sank with terrible speed. A roaring noise like a whirlpool echoed over the sea, and a spot of whirling snow-white foam for a short time marked the spot where the vessel had gone down.

Glaucus, who had watched the scene, pressed his wife’s hand.

“The envious wretches!” he exclaimed with suppressed fury. “It was my best and handsomest ship.”

Charicleia raised her eyes to heaven in mute accusation.

Soon after both were brought before Thyamis, who sat in all his splendor upon a sort of throne at the221 stern. As they approached he rose with a courtesy that boded ill.

“Do not imagine, Glaucus,” he said “that it is my intention to detain you and your wife captive to extort a ransom. We Barbarians, though inferior to you, are also men of honor. Athenian, depart in peace to your native city.”

The pirates now brought a ladder and fastened it outside of the ship, so that the end touched the water; then they formed two ranks, holding flaring torches to light the descent to the sea.

“I salute you, Glaucus!” added Thyamis, pointing to the ladder: “The way is open. You and your wife are free!”

Glaucus stood as though petrified by this grewsome jest. But the pirates pressed upon him with their torches and compelled him and his wife to approach the ladder. Charicleia was deadly pale, and trembled so that she could scarcely stand. Glaucus clasped her hand, whispering:

“Take courage! Your dearest wish will be fulfilled. Did you not say: ‘Let death come when and as it will, if it only snatches us away together.’ And did you not yourself accept the omen?”

The young wife’s eyes filled with tears.

“Forgive me!” she stammered. “I did not know what I was asking.”

With a look in which love conquered the fear of death she raised her eyes to her husband’s face and222 threw her arms around his neck. Glaucus clasped her waist and went slowly down the steps of the ladder.

When he had reached the last one he paused and glanced up at the ship. But at the sight of the pirates’ curious, malicious faces, which did not express even the faintest touch of compassion, he understood that all hope was over and, too proud to beg for his life, he pressed Charicleia closer to his breast and took the fatal step from the last round of the ladder.

The sea closed over their heads, forming a small, swiftly revolving whirlpool, and through this narrowing circle the too happy mortals, united in death as in life, entered the great unknown country whence no one returns.