Satyrus understood — no man wants to play at wooden swords with a stranger, who may not pull his blows or behave with decency. He nodded. After he bathed, and took oil from Achilles’ aryballos and anointed himself, he picked up a stick and began his own exercises — the six cuts and the two thrusts, the legwork from pankration, the arm blocks and the sword blocks — up and down in front of the well, until Achilles slapped his thigh.
‘So you’re a hoplomachos, eh? That’s what I get for asking, I guess.’ He shook his head. ‘Promise you won’t humiliate an old mercenary, eh?’
Satyrus caught an odd look on Tegara’s face. Her impish grin was late to her face when she caught his eye, leaving her looking oddly false.
‘I had good teachers,’ he said, as much to her as to Achilles.
‘You are an aristocrat,’ she said, without much kindness. Her implied comment was I thought you were a man.
She stalked off, head high.
‘And she’s taken agin’ ye as fast as she was for ye,’ Memnon said, coming down from the exedra. He shrugged. ‘Don’ be angry wi’ she. She’s the real owner here. She’s not had an easy life, like enow.’
Achilles nodded at Satyrus. ‘Our guest wants to play at the sword.’
Memnon looked surprised. ‘Well, well,’ he said.
The three of them walked out of the courtyard with half a dozen wooden swords under their arms, and two small Macedonian-style shields. Once they got to a handsome dell of turf below the olive orchard, Memnon dropped the gear he was carrying and sat down.
Satyrus chose a wooden sword he liked — shorter and a bit heavier than most of the rest, and wrapped his chlamys carefully around his arm.
Achilles nodded. ‘Let’s swear,’ he said. ‘No man will bear ill will into this ring of grass, nor take ill will out when he leaves, despite competition, error or injury. I swear this by Ares and by Athena, God and Goddess of War.’
The words were old-fashioned — Ionic Greek, like the Iliad. The oath itself made Satyrus happy, as if he was living in elder days. He repeated it, trying to match Achilles’ diction and pronunciation.
Achilles didn’t salute. Instead, he simply crouched. ‘Ready,’ he said.
Up close, he was big — too big for many of Satyrus’s tactics of domination. Satyrus was used to being bigger than most men in a fight, and Achilles topped him by a hand. Ajax, absent in the house, was bigger by a head.
‘Ready,’ Satyrus said.
He had expected a trick — an immediate leap, a lunge, some palaestra trick — but Achilles seemed to relax. He began to circle the dell, his footwork careful but not the trained dance steps of the gymnasium-trained man.
Satyrus didn’t react at first, deliberately facing Achilles’ initial orientation, allowing the other man to circle him …
Achilles launched a blow from his left — a high cut.
Satyrus stepped back out of range, and Achilles was already back on his guard. He took another circle step, and Satyrus changed his front in a single turning step, a fluid reorientation from front to back that placed Achilles in easy sword-reach, and Satyrus feinted at his cloak-arm, rolled his wrist, and cut low, but as he had expected, Achilles was a well-trained man, and he ignored the cut at his protected side and parried the real cut at the opening line.
They both smiled. It had been a short exchange with no real contact but Achilles now knew how precisely Satyrus could pull his blows, and Satyrus could feel how good Achilles’ balance was in close, and they both sidestepped diagonally left, opening the range.
There was more circling. The sun came through the trees only at one point, and Satyrus considered trying to orient his opponent into it, but it seemed pointless.
Achilles made some internal decision and chose to attack. He pivoted quickly and started a sword-foot forward attack, and Satyrus stepped into it, a tough call against a bigger man, isolated the attacker’s elbow with his cloak arm and kicked Achilles lightly just above the knee while keeping his sword ready to the real cut that came, as he expected, under his cloak — he pivoted on his own left foot, put his knee into the oncoming cut, and tapped Achilles on the head with his sword.
Achilles stepped back.
Satyrus fell into his guard, and saluted. ‘Hit to the knee,’ he said.
‘Ah, well,’ Achilles said. ‘Myself, I’m dead.’ He grinned. ‘To tell the truth, I expect you’d ha’ broken my knee with that kick, eh?’
Satyrus shrugged.
Achilles nodded. ‘I heard you fought the pankration, but it’s another thing to see it.’
Satyrus nodded. ‘Kicking in combat is dangerous — your leg is out where you can’t defend it. When men are in armour, with swords and spears — not much use, really, unless you are right inside.’
Achilles nodded.
They set again, and both men called ‘ready’.
Satyrus felt that it was only fair that he launch the next attack, and he launched a simple one, a rising snap cut that appeared to target the lower shield leg, rolled over into a high cut, and became a thrust to the (hopefully) open chest. It was one of his favourite moves, a routine he had practised for ten years.
Achilles baffled his feint and his whole intention by taking a long step back, out of range, as Satyrus tried to engage, and then the big man moved quickly forward and right, forcing Satyrus to turn and parry with his arm. Achilles played for his sword, trying for a grapple, and Satyrus responded with a strong, stiff arm, backed and cut; the other man caught his cut neatly on his arm and stabbed low, Satyrus blocked the low stab lower and tried to rotate his hips to isolate the sword for a disarm, and got a light smack in the side of his mouth, as Achilles’ fist just tapped him.
Satyrus stepped back, and nodded. ‘Good blow.’
Achilles looked happy. ‘Thanks,’ he said, amicably. ‘Ready?’
Satyrus nodded, and this time, Achilles was on him before he could draw breath, a flurry of blows, high, middle, and low.
Satyrus backed, and backed again, and then, his wits gathered, he struck out — cloak arm and then right foot kick. The moment he broke the other man’s rhythm, he lunged, a powerful step forward with his sword foot, a lightning transition from back foot to forefoot, from long-range cuts to being almost face to face, and his sword point was four inches above the other man’s groin.
Achilles jumped back, and he wasn’t grinning. ‘Hit,’ he said.
‘Got your measure,’ Memnon said.
Achilles came at him with another flurry of blows, this time faster — and stronger.
Satyrus was ready this time, met him body to body, and parried the second cut sword to sword — not a typical block, but a high counter-cut that slapped hard at the opposing sword and then cut down at the opponent’s wrist. But Achilles’ cut was a feint — the result was both men stepping back and rubbing their wrists.
‘Too hard,’ Satyrus said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Me, too. Takes two to fuck up that badly.’ Achilles had to sit down. Both of them had hit with roughly the speed of both arms hurling together.
Satyrus was clearly the less injured of the two, and he stood, rolling his wrist back and forth.
Memnon got to his feet. ‘Got enough in you to try a bout wi’ me, sir?’ he asked.
Satyrus nodded, and Memnon picked up a longer sword.
Achilles grunted, got to his feet and walked to the other side of the dell, cradling his wrist.
‘Broken?’ Satyrus asked. ‘I’m sorry-’
‘Bah,’ Achilles said. ‘My pride’s hurt worse than my wrist.’
Memnon said ready, and Satyrus answered, and they were off. They circled each other a long time — far longer than Satyrus and Achilles had circled. After some time, Memnon began making very cautious feints — always the same feint, leading with his left foot and cutting over his head at Satyrus’s sword side. By the time he’d done it for the tenth time, Satyrus had grown impatient — parrying on that side forced him to move his feet and arms in a way that annoyed his rips, at least, and it was a dull move — a move done entirely to measure him and to make him move.