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Thus the men, but Themistocles, on the poop, standing at the captain’s and governor’s side, never took his gaze from the great Barbarian that leaped defiantly to meet them. “Can we risk the trick?” his swift question to Ameinias. The captain nodded. “With this crew—yes.”
Two stadia, one stadium, half a stadium, a ship’s length, the triremes were charging prow to prow, rushing on a common death, when Ameinias clapped a whistle to his lips and blew shrilly. As one man every rower on the port-side leaped to his feet and dragged his oar inward through its row-hole. The deed was barely done ere the Sidonian was on them.
“A prince of the Aryans knows how to die, but not how to yield,” he cast back, and before the Athenians guessed his intent he sprang upon the bulwark. There in the sight of his king he stood and bowed his head and with his left arm made the sign of adoration. “Seize him!” shouted Ameinias, divining his intent, but too late. The Persian leaped into the water. In his heavy mail he sank like lead.
However, the good fortune of the city, which may have wished to test the Spartan courage to the utmost, or to prove its own power to save the city when all hope seemed lost, brought Ameinias the Phokian, one of the generals of Antigonus, with a body of mercenary troops to help the Spartans in this their darkest hour.
Aristeides never conspicuously distinguished himself, as the credit of the victory at Marathon belongs to Miltiades, and that of Salamis to Themistokles, while Herodotus tells us that Pausanias obtained the most glorious success of all at Platæa, and even the second place is disputed with Aristeides by Sophanes, Ameinias, Kallimachus, and Kynægyrus, all of whom won great glory in those battles.
“Do you know this ship?” asked Themistocles, at Glaucon’s side on the poop. “A Tyrian, the newest in their fleet, but her captain is the admiral Ariamenes, Xerxes’s brother.” “She is attacking us, Excellency,” called Ameinias, in his chief’s ear. The din which covered the sea was beyond telling. Themistocles measured the water with his eye.
In the battle at morn half of the Hellenes would go to battle asking more “how escape?” than “how conquer?” and that was no question to ask before a victory. The cabin was empty now save for the admiral. On the deck above the hearty shouts of Ameinias the trierarch, and chanting of the seamen told that on the Nausicaä at least there would be no slackness in the fight.
The blades shot faster, faster, as the trireme raced down the sandy shore of the Attic “Diacria.” Once in the strait they saw a brown-sailed fisherboat, and the helm swerved enough to bring her within hail. The fishermen stared at the flying trireme and her straining, wide-eyed men. “Has there been a battle?” cried Ameinias. “Not yet. We are from Styra on Eubœa; we expect the news daily.
Now could be seen Ariamenes, the high admiral himself, a giant warrior in his purple and gilded armour, going up and down the poop, cursing, praying, threatening,—all in vain. The Nausicaä’s people rose and cheered madly. “Enough! They have enough! Glory to Athens!” But here Ameinias gripped Themistocles’s arm. The chief turned, and all the Hellenes with him. The cheer died on their lips.
From the shores of Attica and of Salamis, where the myriads rejoiced or wept as the scattered battle changed, the cries were rising, falling, like the throb of a tragic chorus,—a chorus of Titans, with the actors gods. “Another charge!” shouted Ameinias, through the din, “meet them briskly, lads!”
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