Timon leapt over him, and caught the second man’s sword stroke on the iron shackle at his wrist. The blow jarred him to the shoulder, and numbed his arm, but he ran in under the next stroke and threw a twist of the chain about the man’s throat. He drew tight and held it.
The older man dropped his sword and clutched desperately at Timon’s hands, at the links of iron that were strangling him.
Timon found that he was growling like a dog as he jerked and twisted the chain tighter. Suddenly the slave- master’s hands dropped away, his tongue fell out between slack and swollen lips and there was the sharp acrid odour of faeces as his sphincter muscle relaxed. Timon let him down onto the floor, and picked up his sword from the mud.
He turned to the younger slave-master who had crawled to his knees, still stunned. He had lost his helmet, and he was cradling his broken arm against his chest.
Timon stood over him and with the short sword chopped his skull open. The slave-master fell face downwards into the mud.
Timon stood back and looked about the drive quickly. From the first blow to the last only ten seconds had passed, and there had been no outcry.
Timon looked down at the sword in his hand, the blade was dulled with mud and blood, but he felt the despondency of abject slavery fall away. He felt the spark burst into flame, felt himself become a man again.
He looked at the other slaves sitting on the bench. Not one of them had moved. Their eyes were dull, incurious. They were not men. Timon felt a chill as he looked at them. He needed men. He must have men.
There was one of them. His name was Zama. A young man of Timon’s age. A wild slave, taken beyond the river. He had not worn his chains for a year yet. Timon stared at him, and saw his eyes come into focus, saw his chin lift and the muscles in his jaw clench.
‘Hammer!’ Timon commanded. ‘Bring a hammer!’ Zama stirred. It was an effort of will for him to break the pattern of slavery.
‘Hurry,’ said Timon. ‘There is little time.’
Zama picked up one of the short-handled iron-headed mining adzes, and stood up from the bench.
Timon felt his heart soar within him. He had found a man. He held out his wrists, with the bloody sword in his hand.
‘Strike off these chains,’ he said.
Lannon Hycanus was pleased, but trying not to make it obvious. He stood by the window, and looked down towards the harbour where five galleys lay against the stone jetty. Lannon twisted a curl of his beard about one finger, and smiled secretly.
In the room behind him Rib-Addi was reading in his prim and precise voice, combing his fingers through his scraggly grey beard.
‘Into Opet this day from the southern plains of grass, fifty-eight large tusks of ivory, in all sixty-nine talents.’
Lannon turned quickly, a scowl masking his pleasure.
‘You attended the weighing?’ he demanded.
‘As always, my lord,’ Rib-Addi assured him, and his clerks looked up from their writings, saw the Gry-Lion’s expression soften and they grinned and bobbed their heads ingratiatingly.
‘Ah!’ Lannon grunted, and turned back to the window, while Rib-Addi resumed his reading. The voice was monotonous, and Lannon found his attention wandering although his subconscious was alert for a false note in the book-keeper’s voice. Rib-Addi had the habit of raising his voice slightly whenever he reached a portion of the accounting which might cause the Gry-Lion’s displeasure - a lower return, an estimate unfulfilled - and immediately Lannon pounced on him. This convinced Rib-Addi that the Gry-Lion was a financial genius, and that he could hide nothing from him.
Lannon’s mind drifted away, picking idly at stray thoughts, turning over mental stones to see what scurried out from under. He thought of Huy, and felt a cold breeze ruffle the surface of his contentment. There was a flaw in their friendship. Huy had changed towards Lannon, and he searched for the reason. He discarded the thought that it might be the aftermath of their long estrangement. It was something else. Huy was withdrawn, secretive. Seldom would he spend his nights in the palace, sharing the dice and wine and laughter with Lannon. Often when Lannon sent for him in the night, instead of Huy arriving with his lute slung on his shoulder and a new ballad to sing, the slave would return with a message that Huy was sick or sleeping or writing.
Lannon frowned now. and at that moment he heard the telltale rise in Rib-Addi’s voice and he swung around and glared at them.
‘What?’ he bellowed, and their faces were yellow-white with fright. The clerks ducked their heads over their scrolls.
‘My lord, there was a heavy fall of rock in the southern end of the mine,’ Rib-Addi stuttered. It ceased to amaze him that from a mass of figures Lannon would instantly pounce on a ten per cent decrease of output from one of the dozens of tiny mines of the middle kingdom.
‘Who is the overseer?’ Lannon demanded, and ordered the man replaced.
‘It is carelessness, and I will not have it so,’ Lannon told him. ‘The yield is affected, valuable slaves wasted. I would rather spend more on shoring timber, it is cheaper so in the end.’
Rib-Addi dictated the order to one of the clerks, and Lannon turned back to the window and his thoughts of Huy. He remembered how it had been before, how Huy’s presence had provided the zest that made each triumph more valuable, and each disappointment or disaster easier to surmount. All the good things happened when Huy was there.
In a rare moment of self-honesty Lannon realized that Huy Ben-Amon was the only human being that he could look upon as a friend.
His position had isolated him from all others. He could not approach them for the warmth and comfort that even a king needs. His wives, his children feared him. They were uneasy in his presence, and left it with obvious relief.
