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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.
The trireme, pulling only one of her banks, was dropping behind, her navarch leaving the tiring chase to the penteconter, but the latter hung on doggedly. “Curse those war-ships with their long oars and heavy crews,” growled Hib, reappearing above the hatch with the prisoners. “The penteconter’s only nine furlongs off.”
At the same time a prisoner was passed aboard the Nausicaä, not gently bound,—Hiram, a precious witness, before the dogs had their final meal on him. But the rest of the Bozra’s people found a quicker release. The penteconter’s people decided their fate with a yell. “Sell such harpies for slaves? The money would stink through our pouches!”
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