The next moment Eperitus’s sword was raised and he was driving into the enemy line with his shield. One man fell backwards before him, catching his heel on a stone. There was no time to plunge his sword into his prostrate body, however, as a much larger and stronger man leapt forward and thrust a blade straight through his shield. The point stopped a finger’s breadth from Eperitus’s stomach, before jamming tight in the layered ox-hide.
Eperitus snatched the shield to one side, tugging the sword from his opponent’s hand and opening his guard. Without hesitation, he sank the point of his blade into the man’s throat, killing him instantly.
As he fell another man lunged at his ribs with a spear, but before the point could spill his lifeblood onto the rocky ground, the grey-haired warrior appeared from nowhere and kicked the shaft to one side. With a sharp and instinctive movement that belied his age, he hacked off its owner’s arm below the elbow and pushed his gored blade into the man’s gut.
Covered in sweat and blood, they turned to face the next assault, but their remaining foes were fleeing over the ridge, leaving their dead behind them.
Chapter Two
CASTOR
Eperitus looked around at the carnage of his first battle. The surrounding rocks were splashed with blood and littered with corpses; the cries of the enemy wounded were silenced one by one as the victors slit their throats. He knew he should feel triumphant that he had killed five men. Instead, his limbs were heavy, his mouth was parched and his shin throbbed painfully where the spear had hit his greave. All he wanted was to cast off his armour and wash the blood and dirt from his body in the nearby stream, but that would have to wait. The stocky leader of the men he had helped was sheathing his sword and walking towards him, accompanied by the old warrior who had saved Eperitus’s life.
‘My name is Castor, son of Hylax,’ he announced, holding out his hand in a formal token of friendship. A glimmer of mischief burned in his quick, green eyes, like sunlight caught in a stream. ‘This is Halitherses, captain of my guard. We’re pilgrims from Crete, here to consult the oracle.’
Eperitus grasped his hand. ‘My name is Eperitus, from the city of Alybas in the north. My grandfather was captain of the palace guard, before his death five years ago.’
Castor released his fierce grip on the young warrior’s hand and removed his helmet, his nail-bitten fingers thick and dirty against the burnished bronze. A mess of auburn hair, which he flicked aside with a toss of his head, fell down almost to his eyes. Though not a handsome man, he had an amicable smile that broke through his deep tan.
‘And your father?’
Eperitus felt anger flush his cheeks. ‘I have no father.’
Castor looked at him piercingly but pressed no further. ‘Well, we’re indebted to you, Eperitus,’ he continued. ‘Things would have gone badly if you hadn’t come along.’
‘You could have handled them without my help,’ Eperitus replied, dismissing the compliment with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Just a band of deserters, by the look of them.’
‘You’re doing yourself a disservice,’ Halitherses assured him. ‘And perhaps you overestimate our abilities. We’re just pilgrims, after all.’
‘Perhaps,’ Eperitus replied. ‘But not many pilgrims go about armed to the teeth, or can fight like a trained unit.’
‘These are dangerous times,’ Castor answered, blinking in the early morning sun. ‘Are you here to speak to the Pythoness, too? It’s no business of mine, of course, but you’re a long way from home if not.’
Eperitus again felt his cheeks flush with the sting of the unspoken shame that had driven him from Alybas.
‘Our crops failed this year and we haven’t enough in store to see us through the winter,’ Castor continued, realizing the young warrior was in no mood to talk. ‘We want to fit out a fleet with oil and pottery to trade abroad for food, but won’t lift a finger until we’ve consulted the gods on the matter first. If the seas are calm and pirate-free, then we can sail in confidence. If not,’ he shrugged his massive shoulders, ‘then our people will starve.’
There was a mournful cry behind them and they turned to see a man kneeling beside the torso of the young soldier who had died during the charge up the slope. His hands hovered over the corpse, wanting to touch it but repelled by the scraps of hanging flesh where his friend’s head had once been. Finally, he collapsed across the bloody chest and began to sob.
Eperitus wtched as his new comrades, joined by Castor and Halitherses, quickly began the process of digging a grave with the sword blades of their enemies. Once this was done they laid the body inside and threw the swords at its feet, followed by the dead man’s own weapons and shield. Then they piled rocks over the grave, carefully placing the stones so that no scavenging animal could find an easy passage into the flesh beneath.
Eperitus stood silently as they saluted the young soldier three times, their shouts carrying a long way through the cool mid-morning air. Afterwards he helped bury the sixteen enemy dead, digging a shallow pit for the bodies and casting stones on top. The men did not exult over these corpses, nor did they bury them out of respect. They merely put them in the ground so that their souls would go to Hades and not stay on the earth to haunt the living.
By midday the burials were finished. Castor ordered his men to make a fire and fetch water from the nearby stream for porridge, and invited Eperitus to share their rations. A bag of fresh olives had been found on one of the bodies, and as they spat the stones into the fire and drank draughts of cold water Eperitus eyed his eleven new companions in silence.
On the opposite side of the fire was a handsome warrior with a short beard and an athletic build. He held clear authority within the group – seemingly subordinate only to Castor and Halitherses – but his eyes were cold and hard as they focused on the newcomer. Sensing his hostility, Eperitus turned his gaze to the man’s neighbour, a dark-skinned soldier with a head of thick, black curls, a full beard that reached into the hollows of his cheeks, and a chest and arms that were matted like a woollen tunic. He was regarding Eperitus with an icy curiosity, but as their eyes met he offered a quick smile and rose to his feet.
‘We owe you our gratitude, friend,’ he said with a low bow, but as he raised his head and stared at Eperitus the questioning look had returned. ‘Perhaps you will tell us what brings you to Mount Parnassus?’
Eperitus looked thoughtfully into the dying flames. He was an exile, banished from Alybas for resisting the man who had killed its king. Now his only hope – indeed, his only desire – was to become a warrior like his grandfather before him, and so he had come to seek guidance from the oracle. But the agony of his shame was still too raw, and he was not prepared to share this with a stranger. Besides, something in the questioner’s manner told him to keep the details of his past a secret – at least for the time being.
‘I’m here to seek the will of Zeus,’ he said, raising his head. ‘Beyond that, I don’t know.’
Castor raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a bigger question than you might think. The answer could be difficult to accept.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Zeus doesn’t give his favour lightly, and once he makes his plan clear you have to follow it with a true heart. Do that and honour and glory will be heaped on you, and the bards will sing your name for eternity. But if you fail . . .’ Castor tossed a piece of bread into the flames. ‘Your name will be blasted from the world for ever, forgotten even in Hades.’