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Updated: June 8, 2025
The thranites of the upper oar bank were alone on the benches, and stroking the great trireme along to a singsong chant about Amphitrite and the Tritons. On the poop above two sailors were grumbling lest the penteconter’s people get all the booty of the Bozra. Glaucon heard their grunts and complainings whilst he looked on Themistocles’s awful face.
My boyhood’s friend!” and so for many times they kissed. The Nausicaä had followed the chase at easy distance, ready with aid in case the Bozra resisted. Themistocles was in his cabin with Simonides, when Cimon and Glaucon came to him. The admiral heard his young navarch’s report, then took the unopened packet and requested Cimon and the poet to withdraw.
Once again all the things past floated out of the dream-world and before him,—the wreck, the lotus-eating at Sardis, Thermopylæ, Salamis, the agony on the Bozra. Now came the end, the end promised in the moment of vision whilst he pulled the boat at Salamis. What was it? He tried not to ask. Enough it was to be the end.
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