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 [pg 380]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.