CHAPTER XIV
MARDONIUS THE PERSIAN
Off Andros the northern gale smote them. The ship had driven helplessly.
Off Tenos only the skill of Brasidas kept the Solon clear of the rocky shores.
As they raced past holy Delos the frightened passengers had vowed twelve oxen to Apollo if he saved them.
Near Naxos, Brasidas, after vainly trying to make a friendly haven, bade his sailors undergird the ship with heavy cables, for the timbers seemed starting. Finally he suffered his craft to drive,—hoping at least to find some islet with a sandy shore where he could beach her with safety.
The Solon, however, was near her doom. She was built on the Samian model, broad, flat, high in poop, low in prow,—excellent for cargo, but none too seaworthy. The foresail blew in tatters. The closely brailed mainsail shook the weakened mast. The sailors had dropped their quaint oaths, and began to pray—sure proof of danger. The dozen passengers seemed almost too panic-stricken to aid in flinging the cargo overboard. Several were raving.
“Hearken, Poseidon of Calauria,” howled a Peiræus merchant against the screeching blasts, “save from this peril and I vow thee and thy temple two mixing bowls of purest gold!”
“A great vow,” suggested a calmer comrade. “All your fortune can hardly pay it.”
“Hush,” spoke the other, in undertone, “don’t let the god overhear me; let me get safe to Mother Earth and Poseidon has not one obol. His power is only over the sea.”