I wore a chiton, because the Medes aren’t big on nudity, and I wore my crown, and I ran across the no-man’s-land with a torch.
The sentries were waiting. They were all Persians of the satrap’s guard, led by Cyrus, and they had, apparently, watched the games all day. They cheered me.
I bowed to Cyrus.
‘Are you the man who shot the arrow?’ I asked.
Cyrus gave a dignified smile. ‘Don’t you think that would be the feat of a younger, more foolish man?’ he said.
And then I saw that Artaphernes was there. And my heart almost stopped.
Artaphernes came forward, and I bowed, as I had been taught as a slave. I was never one of those Greeks who refused obeisance. Foolishness. I bowed to him, and he smiled at me.
‘Young Doru,’ he said. ‘It is no surprise to any of us that you are the best of the Greeks. Why have you come here?’
‘I come bearing the prize for archery, voted by acclamation of all the Greeks to the Persian archer who dared to wade to our shore and shoot — a magnificent shot. I am to say that had he remained, only honour would have come to him.’ I handed the chaplet of olives and the arrow to the satrap of Lydia.
Artaphernes had tears in his eyes. ‘Why are we at war?’ he asked. ‘Why are you Greeks not one with us, who love honour? Together, we could conquer the world.’
I shook my head. ‘I have no answer, lord. Only a prize, and the good wishes of our army for the man who shot that arrow.’
He presented the prizes to Cyrus — as I had expected. And while the Persians cheered their man, Artaphernes stood next to me.
‘Have you seen our fleet?’ he asked.
‘We will defeat it,’ I said, with the daimon still strong on me.
‘Oh, Doru,’ he said. He took my hand and turned me to face him, despite the crowd of men around us and his guards. ‘You saved my life and my honour once. Please allow me to save yours. You have no hope at all of winning this battle.’
‘I honour you above all the men of the Parsae I have known,’ I said. ‘But we will defeat you tomorrow.’
He smiled. It was a wintry smile, the sort of smile a man gives a woman who has refused his hand in marriage.
He clasped my hand like an equal — a great honour for me, even among Greeks — and kissed my cheek.
‘If you survive the battle,’ he said into my ear, ‘I would be proud to have you at my side.’
I started as if he had spat poison in my ear. ‘If I capture you, I will treat you like a prince,’ I responded. And he laughed.
He was the best of the Persians, and he was Briseis’s husband. The world is never simple.
7
The next day, it rained, and the next as well, which was as well for all the Greeks, as many of us had small wounds, aches and pains that would not have served us well in the heat of battle.
The Samians began to behave badly. Many of their oarsmen refused to patrol, despite the Persian fleet being just twenty stades across the bay. Their odd behaviour enraged the Lesbians and the Chians. There were fist fights, accusations of cowardice.
We on the shore of Miletus were protected from all that, but not from the Persian army laying siege to Miletus. As if the unspoken truce of the games was over, the Persians attacked our sentries the very next dawn, shooting men on the wicker wall we’d woven to protect our ships, like the Achaeans at Troy. When it happened again the next day, I decided to do something about it.
On the third night, Idomeneus, Phrynichus, Philocrates and all our marines slept, if you care to call it that, out in the rain, on the rocks north of our camp. It was a miserable night, long and tedious, but we were rewarded when, after a lashing thunderstorm that hid the first paling of the sky, we heard the telltale clash of metal on stone that heralded the Persians moving up to their usual harassment position.
This morning’s attackers were a dozen Lydian peasants with slings, and a hand of actual Persians, all officers come for the fun, talking quietly as they moved across the rocks, their magnificent bows already strung.
They walked to the same point on the rocks they had used the day before. Our northernmost sentry was fully visible, his dark cloak nicely outlined in the growing light, and all five Persian officers drew together and let fly.
I’m sure all their arrows hit the target, but I didn’t see, as I was moving. And the ‘sentry’ was made of baskets, anyway.
I don’t remember much of the first part of that fight, because there was so little struggle. The Lydians were just shepherds, and they surrendered.
Not the Persians. The Persians were a tougher proposition, five of them and four of us on a smooth piece of rock. It might have been part of the games. They came at us as soon as they saw us.
My first opponent was an older man with a heavy beard dyed bright red with henna. He had an axe at his belt and a short sword covered in beautiful goldwork that shone in the rising sun.
I remember wanting that sword.
I had a shield, my light Boeotian, and a spear — one of the short ones we used then, a man’s spear, not one of these long things you use today.
Truth to tell, a man with an axe and a short sword has no chance against a man with a shield. But no one had told the old man, and he came for me fast and determined — like a man who knew his tools. I put my spear-point into his chest, and it glanced off — he had a coat of scales under his cloak — but I knocked him down with the force of my blow. He put a gaping cut in the face of my shield with his axe.
Two of the other Persians leaped at me, ignoring Idomeneus and Phrynichus. Both attacked me with a ferocity that belied the Persian reputation as careful fighters. They attacked like Thracians, all war cries and whirling cloaks. I took two wounds in as many heartbeats — nothing serious, but enough to drive me back.
But Phrynichus and Idomeneus were true men, and they were not going to let me die. Idomeneus speared the bigger Persian through the side. The man screamed, but he must already have been dead. The smaller man continued to rain blows on me while he baffled Phrynichus with his cloak. He was a canny fighter, and he used his cloak as a shield and a weapon, and Phrynichus stumbled back when he got a cloak weight in the head. But I had my feet under me, and I thrust hard with my spear, hitting the Persian in the head. His helmet gave under my spear-point — shoddy work, and no mistake — and he died like a sacrifice, his sinews loosing as if I’d cut them.
Philocrates was fighting the older man and another opponent, and they were both retreating across the rock face. Philocrates was everywhere — his spear was high and low, and he kept moving, facing one and then another, heedless of the bad footing. The two Persians wanted no more of the fight, I could tell, but backed steadily away, abandoning their comrades.
The fifth Persian shot Phrynichus with his bow. The shot was hurried, and the arrow struck the Athenian in the helmet. Unlike the Persian helmet, Phrynichus’s good Corinthian held the point, but he fell, unconscious from the blow. The archer now put a second arrow to his bow and turned to Philocrates.
I threw my spear. The range was short, and in those days any spear you carried could be thrown.
I hit the archer and knocked him flat with the strength of the blow, but even as I threw, Philocrates missed his footing and fell on the rocks, and the younger Persian leaped to finish him.
I sprang forward, but Idomeneus was faster, throwing his spear. He missed his target, but the tumbling shaft caught the older man in the face. Blood spurted and the man fell to his knees.
The archer rolled over and cut at me with a heavy knife. He caught my shin and his blow was so hard he dented my greave and almost broke my leg. The pain was intense, and I fell, and then we were grappling on the ground. But I was covered in armour, and he had only the scale shirt that had saved him from my spear. We both had daggers after the first moments, and there was no thought of defence — we both stabbed wildly the way desperate men do.