“Twist!” commanded Cimon. Two mariners gripped the victim’s arms. Naon pressed the cord tighter, tighter. A beastlike groan came through the lips of the Phœnician. His beady eyes started from his head, but he did not speak.
“Again,” thundered the navarch, and as the cord stretched a howl of mortal agony escaped the prisoner.
“Pity! Mercy! My head bursts. I will tell!”
“Tell quick, or we’ll squeeze your brains out. Relax a little, Naon.”
“In the boat mast.” Hiram spit the words out one by one. “In the cabin. There is a peg. Pull it out. The mast is hollowed. You will find the papers. Woe! woe! cursed the day I was born. Cursed my mother for bearing me.”
The miserable creature fell to the deck, pressing his hands to his temples and moaning in agony. No one heeded him now. Cimon himself ran below to the mast, and wrenched the peg from its socket. Papyrus sheets were there, rolled compactly, covered with writing and sealed. The navarch [pg 391]turned over the packet curiously, then to the amazement of the sailors seemed to stagger against the mast. He was as pale as Hiram. He thrust the packet into the hands of his prōreus, who stood near.
“What make you of this seal? As you fear Athena, tell the truth.”
“You need not adjure me so, captain. The device is simple: Theseus slaying the Minotaur.”
“And who, in Zeus’s name, do you know in Athens who uses a seal like that?”
Silence for a moment, then the prōreus himself was pale.