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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.
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