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Their groans were answered by the screechings of Lampaxo through the port-hole and the taunts of Phormio. “Sing, sing, pretty Pisinoë, sweetest of the sirens,” tossed the fishmonger, playing his part at Glaucon’s side; “lure that dear penteconter a little nearer. And you, brave, gentle sirs, don’t try ‘to flay a skinned dog’ by thrusting down here.
But a little later the gap betwixt the sea-mouse and the penteconter had so dwindled that even the master’s inborn thrift began to yield to prudence. “Hark you, Hib,” he cried from the helm. “Take Adherbal and Lars the Etruscan. It’s a good ten furlongs to that cursed galley still, but we must have those prisoners ready on deck. Over they go if the chase gets a bit closer.”
Panting, yelling, blaspheming, for a while they seemed holding their own, but the master watched with sinking heart the waning breeze. At the end of an hour their pursuers could be distinguished,—a tall trireme behind, but closer, pulling more rapidly, a penteconter, a slim scouting galley working fifty oars in a single bank. Hasdrubal began to shout desperately: “Wind, Baal, wind!
He had faced intolerable captivity, immediate death. Now around his eyes swam hot mist. He fell upon a sea chest, and for a little cared not for anything around, whilst down his cheeks would flow the tears. A hard chase. The rowers of the penteconter were well winded before they caught the Bozra.
So to you and all other holy gods whose love is for the righteous we will proffer prayer and sacrifice forever. Amen.” He poured out the crimson liquor; far into the sea he flung the golden cup. “Heaven speed you!” shouted from the penteconter. Themistocles nodded. The keleustes smote his gavel upon the sounding-board. The triple oar bank rose as one and plunged into the foam.
The kings had, in fact, deserted the Persian cause on hearing that their cities had submitted to Alexander, and readily placed their respective squadrons at his disposal. Further contingents were received from other quarters from Rhodes ten triremes, from the seaports of Lycia the same number, from Soli and Mallus three, from Macedonia a single penteconter.
Now as the penteconter was casting off, again he came to view, and the shout that greeted him was not of fear this time, but wonder and delight. The Alcmæonid was clean-shaven, his hair clipped close, the black dye even in a manner washed away. He had flung off the rough seaman’s dress, and stood forth in all his godlike beauty.
Then behind the Bozra sounded the rushing of foam around a ram, the bumping of fifty oars plying on the thole-pins. Into their sight shot the penteconter, the brass glistening on her prow, the white blades leaping in rhythm. Marines in armour stood on the forecastle. A few arrows pattered on the plankings of the Bozra. Her abject crew obeyed the demand to surrender.
Still her people were nearly spent with their toiling, and the keen beak and large complement of the man-of-war made resistance madness if she once came alongside. “Have ready sand-bags,” ordered Hasdrubal, “to tie to these wretches’ feet. Set them by the boat mast, so the sail can hide our pretty deed from the penteconter. Have ready an axe.
Curses, blows, even a dagger pried betwixt her lips—all bootless. She seemed as a thing possessed. And all the time the Etruscan howled in mortal agony. The thin dagger, bent too hard, snapped betwixt her teeth. Lars’s clamour could surely be heard on the penteconter. Again the breeze was falling.
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