‘They’re armed!’ someone shouted, and Theron plucked up the torch and threw it over their attackers and there was no light at all, or almost none – just a flicker of light from the floor, but the attackers were backlit and Theron and Philokles fought from the darkness, nearly invisible.
Satyrus was on the floor. He could see their feet by the single flickering torch. He reached out and flicked his wrist and the blow was light, but the weight of the blade alone sliced the man’s sandal and his foot, and he yelped and went down. Then another man took his place.
‘Kill theb!’ said a voice behind the fight. ‘Gods! Do a hab to do this myself?’
‘Give us some help then, Stratokles!’ came a deeper voice. ‘I don’t see you in the front rank!’
Theron stumbled and went down on one knee. He grunted, his legs straddling Satyrus. Satyrus swung his blade as hard as he could at Theron’s opponent, who took a thrust right through the arch of his foot. He gave a cry, swore and the rim of his shield came down on Satyrus’s face, breaking his nose and sending him back a foot in a mist of his own blood and the metallic agony of a face wound.
Cut back cut back. Satyrus knew from wrestling and pankration that the moments after taking a wound were the most dangerous and his sword slashed empty air in front of him as he writhed blind in pain on the ground and his blood fountained down his chest. Then it caught something – a shield – and his arm rang and he skinned his knuckles, the pain almost lost in the pain from his nose.
Theron powered to his feet under his shield and Satyrus’s opponent went flying back. Then Theron grunted and went down when a spear shaft hit his unprotected head, and Philokles was holding the corridor alone.
Satyrus wiped at his face and there was another bloom of pain as he tried to stand, using the wall behind him to get himself up, but his nose hurt and his legs didn’t want to work.
He got up anyway.
Philokles was everywhere in a burst of god-sent prowess, and his sword was at their throats and at their knees and he forced them all back off the bodies.
‘Get that archer in here!’ called the voice that gave most of the orders – a voice that sounded as if it had the worst head cold of all time.
‘Like fighting fucking Ares!’ the gruff voice said.
‘Charge him! Finish him!’ the man in charge said.
‘Charge him yourself, you ball-less fucking Athenian!’ a gruff voice called out. ‘You, warrior. We offer you life. Take it and go free.’
‘Come here and die,’ Philokles said. ‘I’m killing your wounded.’ From the sounds, he was doing just that. ‘Who’s the little fuck in the fancy helmet? Anyone you liked?’
‘Fuck you! Leave him-’
‘Too late. Dead now. This big mule-’
‘Fuck YOU!’ the Athenian voice screamed. There was a rush of feet, and then an impact like stone on stone. There were two men on Philokles.
This was the longest exchange so far. Philokles and the two enemies hammered at each other for five blows – ten blows, and Satyrus stabbed repeatedly at the other men’s feet, but they were fast and had foot-guards on their sandals. Finally, gruff-voice swore and ducked back – but the smaller man forced Philokles back in a flurry of blows. The Spartan was tiring.
Then the smaller man put his shield over one of the bodies, hoisted the man, took a blow from Philokles on his own blade and backed up a step. Philokles hammered his shield. Satyrus lunged at his lower leg and was defeated by a heavy bronze greave. The man backed away again. ‘Archer!’ he roared.
‘Anyone else?’ Philokles said. ‘I’ll come and get you, then.’
‘Archer!’ the Athenian screamed again.
‘Fuck this!’ the gruff voice said, and there was the sound of feet moving away.
‘Stand your ground!’ the commander ordered. ‘You – shoot him!’
‘Drop,’ said Melitta’s voice.
Satyrus didn’t have far to drop, so he obeyed.
He heard the buzz of an arrow like a drone flying fast, and it hit armour like a hammer on a gourd.
There was a thin scream, and from his new vantage point back on the floor, Satyrus could see a pair of feet in expensive sandals, stumbling. Then, by the light of the courtyard torches, he caught sight of the man – a livid scar across his face. He was lifting another big man over his shoulder, weaving and then gone into the garden.
‘Nice shot, Melitta,’ Philokles said. The words were sane enough, but the voice the dead timbre of a madman – but a sober madman. Fighting had burned the wine out of Philokles. ‘In the dark, too.’
Satyrus had a hand on Theron. ‘Theron’s alive,’ he said. Then, ‘That was the same man we saw on the plains south of the Tanais. Scar-face.’
‘Stand your ground,’ Philokles said. ‘We’re not done yet.’ He sank to one knee. ‘Scar-face tagged me in the shin. Good swordsman.’ He coughed and stood back up.
Melitta took her brother’s hand and helped him to his feet. She had her bow in her hand.
‘There’s fighting by the gate,’ Philokles explained. ‘More fighting.’
They could hear it, and the screams of the wounded. Satyrus took a deep breath and made himself rewrap the Thracian cloak around his arm. Then he stepped forward until he was abreast of Philokles.
‘Here I am,’ he said. Although all his Ms sounded like Bs. Like scar-face.
‘Good boy,’ Philokles said. ‘If they come again, just keep them from wrapping my shield for as long as you can.’
Satyrus resisted the temptation to wipe his nose. Blood was still pouring down his chest.
Melitta came up close behind them. ‘I have eight arrows,’ she said. ‘That’s all I had in my room.’
‘I’m sorry I brought you here,’ Philokles said. The fighting at the gate was petering out. ‘Shall I – shall I kill you?’
Satyrus felt his knees tremble again and cursed himself. ‘No!’ he said. ‘I’ll die fighting.’
There. For once, he’d said what he wanted to say.
Melitta took a deep breath. ‘I think-’ she began.
‘Hold! Put down your weapons!’ came a deep voice.
Satyrus grasped his little sword tighter.
‘I have forty swords and as many archers,’ the voice said. ‘Whoever you are, I order you to put down your weapons.’
‘Zeus Soter, my lord, the fuckers have killed everyone in the place,’ said a thin, rasping voice, and suddenly there were lines of torches coming in under the colonnade. Twenty feet away, a big black man in head-to-foot bronze armour filled the colonnade, as big as Philokles. He was like a man made of bronze. He looked around quickly and caught site of the three armed people in the dead end. ‘You!’ he shouted. A line of armed men filled the colonnade in front of him with drilled rapidity.
‘Who are you?’ Philokles’ voice boomed.
‘I am Nestor of Heraklea, the commander of the guard. Put down your weapons or die.’
‘I am Philokles of Sparta, and these are the children of Kineas and Srayanka of Tanais,’ he said.
‘Let me see! Let me through there,’ the captain said. He stepped out of the line and peered at them. ‘Ares, Spartan! You must be quite the spearman. So they didn’t get past you, eh?’ He stepped forward. ‘Ground your weapons, all of you. My orders are to take you to the tyrant if you live.’
Philokles swept out an arm and pushed both of the twins behind him.
Melitta sobbed. ‘Kill me,’ she said. ‘I’m too scared to do it myself. I won’t be a slave!’
Nestor heard her. ‘No, lady! Stop!’ He held up his hand, and the line of his soldiers paused. ‘We did not do this. A rumour came to us that you were to be attacked tonight. We came in time. I have two dead men in the yard. You may live, lady – I give my word, I bring you no harm but my master’s orders.’
Satyrus stood, naked, covered in blood, and afraid. He looked at Philokles, and Philokles shook his head.
‘I cannot make this choice,’ he said. ‘I can kill men, and discuss philosophy, but I cannot choose. It may be as he says. It may be that you will leave this place to be a slave.’
Satyrus reached back and grabbed his sister’s blood-slick shoulder. ‘There’s no logic in it, Lita. The tyrant doesn’t need us dead.’