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Updated: May 10, 2025
“And who, in Zeus’s name, do you know in Athens who uses a seal like that?” Silence for a moment, then the prōreus himself was pale. “Your Excellency does not mean—” “Democrates!” cried the trembling navarch. “And why not Democrates?” The words came from the released prisoner, who had been so silent, but who had glided down and stood at Cimon’s elbow.
The navarch turned over the packet curiously, then to the amazement of the sailors seemed to stagger against the mast. He was as pale as Hiram. He thrust the packet into the hands of his prōreus, who stood near. “What make you of this seal? As you fear Athena, tell the truth.” “You need not adjure me so, captain. The device is simple: Theseus slaying the Minotaur.”
Her navarch sends word that all is even as Themistocles and Aristeides tell. The Egyptians hold the passage to Eleusis. Infantry are disembarked on Psyttaleia. The Phœnicians and Ionians enclose us on the eastern strait. We are hemmed in.” Once more the orderly turned the water-clock. It was past midnight. The clouds had blown apart before the rising wind. The debate must end.
“Ah, good and gracious Master Glaucon, and your honest friends, your gods of Hellas are very great and have delivered us, your poor slaves, into your hands. Your friends approach. We will resist no longer. Come on deck; and when the ship is taken, entreat the navarch to be merciful and generous.” “Bah!” spat Phormio, “you write your promises in water, or better in oil, black-scaled viper.
Many a morning had he haggled with him merrily for a fine mackerel or tunny, and the navarch recoiled in horror at his fellow-citizen’s plight. “Infernal gods! You a prisoner here? Where is this cursed vessel from?” “From Trœzene,” gasped the refugee; “if you love Athens and Hellas—” He turned just in time to fling an arm about Hiram, who—carelessly guarded—was gliding down the hatchway.
He spoke in a changed voice now; again the navarch was startled. “Is Themistocles on the Nausicaä?” asked the stranger, whilst Cimon gazed on him spellbound, asking if he himself were growing mad. “Yes—but your voice, your face, your manner—my head is dizzy.” The stranger touched him gently on the hand. “Have I so changed, you quite forget me, Cimon?” The son of Miltiades was a strong man.
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