A Victor of Salamis
and did not even unlash his hands. His feet and Phormio’s were tied
between two beams in lieu of stocks. The giant Hib took it upon himself to
feed them bean porridge with a wooden spoon, making the dainty sweeter
with tales of the parching heats of Africa and the life of a slave under
Libyan task-masters.
So one day, another, and another, while the _Bozra_ rocked at anchor, and
the prisoners knew that liberty lay two short cable lengths away, yet
might have been in Atlantis for all it profited them. Phormio never
reviled his wife as the author of their calamity, and Lampaxo, with nigh
childish earnestness, would protest that surely Democrates knew not what
the sailors did when they bound her.
“So noble a patriot! An evil god bewitched him into letting these harpies
take us. Woe! woe! What misfortune!”
To which plaint the others only smiled horribly and ground their teeth.
Phormio as well as Glaucon had heard the avowal of Democrates on the night
of the seizure. There was no longer any doubt of the answer to the great
riddle. But disheartening, benumbing beyond all personal anguish was the
dread for Hellas. The sacrifice at Thermopylæ vain. The glory of Salamis
vain. Hellas and Athens enslaved. The will of Xerxes and Mardonius
accomplished not because of their valour, but because of their enemies’
infamy.
“O gods, if indeed there be gods!” Glaucon was greatly doubting that at
last; “if ye have any power, if justice, truth, and honour weigh against
iniquity, put that power forth, or never claim the prayers and sacrifice
of men again.”
Glaucon was past dreading for himself. He prayed that Hermione might be
spared a long life of tears, and that Artemis might slay her quickly by
her silent arrows. To follow his thoughts in all their dark mazes were
profitless. Suffice it that the night which had brooded over his soul from
the hour he fled from Colonus was never so dark as now. He was too
despairing even to curse.
The last hope fled when they heard the rattling of the cables weighing
anchor. Soon the soft slap of the water around the bow and the regular
heaving motion told that the _Bozra_ was under way. The sea-mouse creaked
and groaned through all her timbers and her lading. The foul bilge-water
made the hold stifling as a charnel-house. Lampaxo, Hib being absent,
began to howl and moan.
“O Queen Hera! O Queen Hera, I die for a breath of air—I, the most
patriotic woman in Athens!”
“Silence, goodwife,” muttered Phormio, twisting desperately on the filthy
straw under him. “Have I not enough to fret about without the addition of
your pipings?” And he muttered underbreath the old saw of Hesiod:—
“He who doth a woman trust,
Doth trust a den of thieves.”
“Silence below there, you squealing sow,” ordered Hib, from the hatchway.
“Must I tan your hide again?”
Lampaxo subsided. Phormio tugged vainly at his feet in the stocks. Glaucon
said nothing. A terrible hope had come to him. If he could not speedily
die, at least he would soon go mad, and that would rescue him from his
most terrible enemy—himself.
* * * * * * *
The _Bozra_, it has been said, headed not south but eastward. Hasdrubal’s
commission was to fetch Samos, where the still formidable fleet of the
Barbarian lay, and to put the precious packet from Democrates in the hands
of Tigranes, Xerxes’s commander-in-chief on the coast of Asia Minor. But
although speed had been enjoined, the voyage did not go prosperously. Off
Belbina the wind deserted them altogether, and Hasdrubal had been
compelled to force his craft along by sweeps,—ponderous oars, worked by
three men,—but his progress at best was slow. Off Cythnos the breeze had
again arisen, but it was the Eurus from the southeast, worse than useless;
the _Bozra_ had been obliged to ride at anchor off the island for two
days. Then another calm; and at last, “because,” said Hasdrubal piously,
“he had vowed two black lambs to the Wind God,” the breeze came clear and
cool from the north, which, if not wholly favourable, enabled the
merchantman to plough onward. It was the fifth day, finally, after
quitting Trœzene, that the headlands of Naxos came in sight at dawn, and
the master began to take comfort. The fleet of the Greeks—a fisherboat had
told him—was swinging inactive at Delos well to the north and westward,
and he could fairly consider himself in waters dominated by the king.
“A fortunate voyage,” the master was boasting to Hiram, as he sat at
breakfast in the stern-cabin above a platter of boiled dolphin; “two
talents from the Persians for acting as their messenger; a thousand
drachmæ profit on the corn; a hundred from Master Democrates in return for
our little service, not to mention the profit on the return cargo, and
last but not least the three slaves.”
“Yes, the three slaves. I had almost forgotten about them.”
“You see, my dear Hiram,” quoth the master, betwixt two unwontedly huge
mouthfuls, “you see what folly it was of you to suggest putting out that
handsome fellow’s eyes. I am strongly thinking of selling him not to
Carthage, but to Babylon. I know a trader at Ephesus who makes a specialty
of handsome youths. The satrap Artabozares has commissioned him to find as
many good-looking out-runners as possible. Also for his harem—if this
Glaucon were only a eunuch—”
Hiram, breaking a large disk of bread, was smiling very suggestively
before making reply, when a sailor shouted at the hatch:—
“Ships, master! Ships with oars!”
“In what quarter?” Hasdrubal sprang up, letting the dishes clatter.
“From Myconus. They come up fast. Hib at the masthead counts eleven
triremes.”
“Baal preserve us!” The master at once clambered on deck. “The Greek fleet
may be quitting Delos. We must pray for wind.”
It was a gray, hazy day after a dozen bright ones. The northerly breeze
seemed falling. The water spread out a sombre lead colour. The heights of
Naxos were in sight to starboard, but none too clearly. Much more
interesting to Hasdrubal was the line of dots spreading on the horizon to
northwest. Despite the distance his keen eyes could catch the rise and
fall of the oar banks—war-ships, not traders. Hib was right, and
Hasdrubal’s face grew longer. No triremes save the Greeks could be bearing
thither, and a merchantman, even from nominally neutral Carthage, caught
headed for the king’s coasts in those days of blazing war was nothing if
not fair prize. The master’s decision was prompt.
“They are far off. Put the ship before the wind.”
The sea-mouse was fleet indeed for a trader, but unlike a trireme must
count on her canvas for her speed. With a piping breeze she could mock
pursuit. In a calm she was fearfully handicapped. However, for a moment
Hasdrubal congratulated himself he could slip away unnoticed. The distance
was very great. Then his dark lips cursed.
“Moloch consume me! If I see aright, we are chased.”
Two vessels, in fact, seemed turning away from the rest. They were heading
straight after the _Bozra_. A long race it would be, but with the gale so
light the chances were against the sea-mouse. Hasdrubal had no need to
urge his crew to rig out the oars and tug furiously, if they wished to
escape a Greek prison and a slave market.
The whole crew, forty black-visaged, black-eyed creatures, were soon busy
over the dozen great sweeps in a frantic attempt to force the _Bozra_
beyond danger. 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! Fill the sails,
and seven he-goats await thy altar in Carthage!”
Either the god found the bribe too small or lacked the power to accept it.
The breeze did not stiffen. The sailors strove like demons at the sweeps,
but almost imperceptibly the gap betwixt them and the war-ships was
narrowing.
Hiram, who had been rowing, now left his post to approach the master.
“What of the captives? Crucifixion waits us all if they are found on the
ship and tell their story. Kill them at once and fling the bodies
overboard.”
Hasdrubal shook his head.
“Not yet. Still a good chance. I’ll not cast five hundred bright shekels
to the fish till harder pressed. The breeze may strengthen.” Then he
redoubled his shout. “Wind, Baal, wind!”
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.”
The giant Libyan hastened to comply, while all the crew joined in the
captain’s howl, “Wind, Baal, wind!” and cried reckless vows, while they
scanned the fateful stretch of gray-green water behind the stern, whereon
liberty if not life depended.
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.”
He had been obliged to release the captives from the stocks, but Hib had
taken the precaution to place on the formidable athlete a pair of leg
irons joined by a shackle. Not merely were Glaucon’s arms pinioned by a
stout cord, but the great Libyan was gripping them tightly. Lars and
Adherbal conducted the other prisoners, whose feet, however, were not
bound. For a moment the three captives stood blinking at the unfamiliar
light, unconscious of the situation and their extremity, whilst Hasdrubal
for the fortieth time measured the distance. The wind had strengthened a
little. Let it strengthen a trifle more and the _Bozra_ would hold her
own. 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. We’ll bide a little longer, though,
before we say ‘farewell’ to our passengers. The gods may help yet.”
Hib and his fellows were marching the prisoners to the poop, when the
sight of the war-ship told Phormio all the story. No gag now hindered his
tongue.
“Oh, dragons from Carthage, are you going to murder us?” he began in tones
more indignant than terrified.
“No, save as Heaven enjoins it!” quoth the master, clapping his hands to
urge on the rowing stroke. “Pray, then, your Æolus, Hellene, to stiffen
the breeze.”
“Pray, then, to Pluto, whelps,” bawled the undaunted fishmonger, “to give
you a snug berth in Orcus. Ha! but it’s a merry thought of you and all
your pretty lads stretched on crosses and waiting for the crows.”
But a violent screech came from Lampaxo, who had just comprehended the
fate awaiting.
“_Ai! ai!_ save me, fellow-Hellenes!” she bawled toward the penteconter,
“a citizeness of Athens, the most patriotic woman in the city, slaughtered
by Barbarians—”
“Silence the squealing sow!” roared Hasdrubal. “They’ll hear her on the
war-ship. Aft with her and overboard at once.”
But as they dragged Lampaxo on the poop, her outcry rose to a tempest till
Lars the Etruscan clapped his hand upon her mouth. Her screaming stilled,