Atta had played this game often in the little island wars.Very swiftly he ran back and away from the path up the slope which he knew to be the first ridge of Kallidromos.The army, whatever it might be, was on the Delphian road.Were the Hellenes about to turn the flank of the Great King?
A moment later he laughed at his folly.For the men began to appear, and they were crossing to meet him, coming from the west.
Lying close in the brushwood he could see them clearly.It was well he had left the road, for they stuck to it, following every winding-crouching, too, like hunters after deer.The first man he saw was a Hellene, but the ranks behind were no Hellenes.
There was no glint of bronze or gleam of fair skin.They were dark, long-haired fellows, with spears like his own, and round Eastern caps, and egg-shaped bucklers.Then Atta rejoiced.It was the Great King who was turning the flank of the Hellenes.
They guarded the gate, the fools, while the enemy slipped through the roof.
He did not rejoice long.The van of the army was narrow and kept to the path, but the men behind were straggling all over the hillside.Another minute and he would be discovered.The thought was cheerless.It was true that he was an islander and friendly to the Persian, but up on the heights who would listen to his tale? He would be taken for a spy, and one of those thirsty spears would drink his blood.It must be farewell to Delphi for the moment, he thought, or farewell to Lemnos for ever.
Crouching low, he ran back and away from the path to the crest of the sea-ridge of Kallidromos.
The men came no nearer him.They were keeping roughly to the line of the path, and drifted through the oak wood before him, an army without end.He had scarcely thought there were so many fighting men in the world.He resolved to lie there on the crest, in the hope that ere the first light they would be gone.
Then he would push on to Delphi, leaving them to settle their quarrels behind him.These were the hard times for a pious pilgrim.
But another noise caught his ear from the right.The army had flanking squadrons, and men were coming along the ridge.Very bitter anger rose in Atta's heart.He had cursed the Hellenes, and now he cursed the Barbarians no less.Nay, he cursed all war, that spoiled the errands of peaceful folk.And then, seeking safety, he dropped over the crest on to the steep shoreward face of the mountain.
In an instant his breath had gone from him.He slid down a long slope of screes, and then with a gasp found himself falling sheer into space.Another second and he was caught in a tangle of bush, and then dropped once more upon screes, where he clutched desperately for handhold.Breathless and bleeding he came to anchor on a shelf of greensward and found himself blinking up at the crest which seemed to tower a thousand feet above.There were men on the crest now.He heard them speak and felt that they were looking down.
The shock kept him still till the men had passed.Then the terror of the place gripped him, and he tried feverishly to retrace his steps.A dweller all his days among gentle downs, he grew dizzy with the sense of being hung in space.But the only fruit of his efforts was to set him slipping again.This time he pulled up at the root of gnarled oak, which overhung the sheerest cliff on Kallidromos.The danger brought his wits back.He sullenly reviewed his case, and found it desperate.
He could not go back, and, even if he did, he would meet the Persians.If he went on he would break his neck, or at the best fall into the Hellenes' hands.Oddly enough he feared his old enemies less than his friends.He did not think that the Hellenes would butcher him.Again, he might sit perched in his eyrie till they settled their quarrel, or he fell off.He rejected this last way.Fall off he should for certain, unless he kept moving.Already he was retching with the vertigo of the heights.It was growing lighter.Suddenly he was looking not into a black world, but to a pearl-grey floor far beneath him.
It was the sea, the thing he knew and loved.The sight screwed up his courage.He remembered that he was Lemnian and a seafarer.He would be conquered neither by rock, nor by Hellene, nor by the Great King.Least of all by the last, who was a barbarian.Slowly, with clenched teeth and narrowed eyes, he began to clamber down a ridge which flanked the great cliffs of Kallidromos.His plan was to reach the shore and take the road to the east before the Persians completed their circuit.Some instinct told him that a great army would not take the track he had mounted by.There must be some longer and easier way debouching farther down the coast.He might yet have the good luck to slip between them and the sea.
The two hours which followed tried his courage hard.Thrice he fell, and only a juniper-root stood between him and death.His hands grew ragged, and his nails were worn to the quick.He had long ago lost his weapons; his cloak was in shreds, all save the breast-fold which held the gift to Apollo.The heavens brightened, but he dared not look around.He knew he was traversing awesome places, where a goat could scarcely tread.
Many times he gave up hope of life.His head was swimming, and he was so deadly sick that often he had to lie gasping on some shoulder of rock less steep than the rest.But his anger kept him to his purpose.He was filled with fury at the Hellenes.It was they and their folly that had brought him these mischances.
Some day....
He found himself sitting blinking on the shore of the sea.Afurlong off the water was lapping on the reefs.A man, larger than human in the morning mist, was standing above him.
"Greeting, stranger," said the voice."By Hermes, you choose the difficult roads to travel."Atta felt for broken bones, and, reassured, struggled to his feet.
