familiar.
‘You are a fool to come here, Kineas of Athens,’ she said.
Kineas agreed. The man at her shoulder was Darius. Kineas felt foolish — he’d seen all the signs that the Persian was changing sides, but he’d ignored them. ‘I come with an agreement about the spring campaign,’ he said, still thinking to buy her complacence. Perhaps it was just another round in their game. The fear round.
‘You are a fool, Kineas,’ she said, and this time she sounded sad. ‘The spring campaign is already over. I have need of your soldiers. And if I can’t have them, no one will.’ She looked to be on the verge of tears, but she steadied herself. She motioned at Darius. ‘Kill him.’
Carlus gave his third grunt. Kineas whirled to see the giant Kelt with a dagger rammed through his cloak into the armour on his back. He was wearing a heavy cuirass made of layers of linen quilted together, half a finger thick, and the dagger skidded off the armour and ripped across his neck. The Kelt grunted a fourth time and ripped his heavy sword from its scabbard. He killed two men in as many blows and scattered the guardsmen, forcing their captain back as if he was a giant in a riot of children.
Kineas was unarmed and unarmoured, but he knew where the alcove was. He leaped back from the first rush, grabbed a bronze platter and stopped a killing blow from the man concealed there and another from one of the courtiers nearest the throne. Darius was down from the dais and moving towards him.
‘Philokles!’ the Persian shouted, and ripped a sword from another courtier and threw it at Kineas.
Kineas rammed the edge of the platter into a man’s nose. Then he took the man’s arm, whirled him and broke it, so that he screamed like a wounded horse. Kineas swept his feet and pushed him flailing into the line of guards, kicked with his bare feet, set his back against the wall and grabbed for the sword as it bounced off the wall. Philokles? he thought, and his right hand closed on the grip of the sword, a back-curved hanger like a small machaira, with a heavy guard that completely covered his hand. His left hand had the platter by one of its gryphon- head handles, and he hurled it like a discus at the crowd by the throne. The men facing him fell back a step.
Carlus was bellowing like a bull. There were three men in the blood at his feet and two more clutching wounds and none of the guard would come near him.
Darius dispatched one of the courtiers with a thrust to the chest — no wasted effort. The two survivors by the throne turned to look at him and Sartobases yelled ‘traitor!’ at him in outraged Persian.
‘Philokles!’ he shouted again.
Women were screaming and the smell of death and offal carried across the warm, moist air. He glimpsed Banugul moving away from the throne, one hand pointing at Darius.
Darius cut down another man and joined Kineas at the wall. ‘I work for Philokles!’ he said as if a battle cry, and the words penetrated Kineas’s brain. He laughed and attacked the men in front of him. They scattered and he cut one down in his retreat, but then the front of the hall began to fill with the queen’s guard.
‘Follow me!’ Darius called. He slipped behind a drapery.
Kineas would not so lightly abandon his bodyguard. ‘Carlus!’ he yelled. ‘On me!’
The Kelt swung his sword wide, so that the blade was a blur — back and forth — and then sprang away, the two great swings covering his retreat. He knocked a slave girl flat, smashed his fist into a man’s face, scattering teeth, and ran across the slick floor.
A guardsman threw a javelin. His aim was true and it struck Carlus in the back, but it lacked power and the cuirass held it. Still, the giant stumbled a step. The guards gained heart and charged.
Kineas ripped the hanging off the wall — a Persian procession of conquered peoples carrying gifts — and ducked through the concealed door. ‘Follow me!’ he shouted. He could feel Carlus pushing through the door behind him. They were in a dark corridor. Behind them, Therapon’s voice was calling for archers.
They turned sharply right and the corridor climbed a flight of stairs, lit by pitch brands. ‘Hold them here,’ Kineas said to the big Kelt, who was panting with exertion, fear and pain. ‘Never let their archers get a shot at you. Use the curve of the wall. Understand? I’ll be back for you!’
Carlus placed his back against the wall. He pushed himself to a full standing position. ‘Aye, lord,’ he said. He grinned. ‘Aye!’ His effort to push himself erect left a smear of wet blood on the plaster. The whole stairwell stank of burning pitch and the sweat of fear.
Kineas turned and followed Darius again. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘Postern gate,’ Darius said. ‘Been trying to tell you for three days — she means to attack the camp. Tonight.’
‘She’s insane! We’d kill her!’
Darius sagged against the landing and Kineas could see he was wounded, the flowing blood black in the fitful light. ‘You’d have killed her men — except that you came here. And she owns some of your new recruits. Or thinks she does.’ The man was pale with fatigue.
‘Let’s get to this gate!’ Kineas said.
They went through a door, into a rich apartment and then down a long curve of steps set into the outer wall. The stairwell was pitch-black and cold as the outer wells of Hades, with a thin cold wind coming in through the arrow slits. Outside, Kineas could hear Greek voices — probably his bodyguard demanding news. The sounds of fighting could be heard right through the walls. Carlus was killing men, roaring his challenge.
They went down, and down again, and through a door.
There were a dozen men waiting for them.
‘Fuck!’ said Darius in Persian, and his sword flashed as he cut at a man. ‘Run, Kineas!’
It was too late to run. Kineas pushed up beside the Persian and killed a man with an overarm thrust. The blade went right over his shield and into his eye — Kineas was using the bend in his own blade to baffle his opponent in the torch-lit dark. The man went down like a sacrifice and Kineas sank to one knee and swept his blade under the shield of Darius’s opponent. Even with his shorter, lighter blade, the cut severed the man’s ligaments just below the knee. He fell backwards, fouling his mates and buying Kineas a few seconds.
Kineas was already stripping the corpse of the man at his feet. He ripped the shield off the man’s arm, tearing at the straps, hacking with his blade at the dead man’s shield arm — the shield’s porpax caught on the dead man’s wrist and hand, a ring, a bracelet — Kineas pulled, shouting curses — the shield came free. Darius backed a step as an armoured man charged him. Kineas, uncovered, whirled, cutting with his sword, still trying to get the shield over his own arm. He cut low, cut high and met his opponent’s shield both times. Desperate, he tried a school dodge — he backed a step, placed a foot on his opponent’s shield and pushed.
The man fell back. Not a gymnasium-trained man, or he’d have known the trick. Kineas pushed back through the door. Darius was above him on the stairs. The shield dropped on to his forearm, ripping flesh, and the grip came into his left hand.
‘When your Kelt goes down, we’re finished,’ Darius said. Carlus was three rooms behind them, his bellows audible even through the stone. Kineas heard the tense humour in the Persian’s voice. ‘I rather enjoy having you on my side, though.’
Kineas had to laugh at that. ‘Stay on my shield side and get anyone who tries to pass me,’ he said. ‘None of them are your match. We’ll get through this.’ He turned his head and gave the younger man a broad smile.
Darius straightened up. He met Kineas’s torch-lit glance. ‘I was tempted…’ he began.
Kineas grunted and pushed forward through the door, ignoring whatever confession the younger man was considering. ‘Guard me!’ he called.
The men on the other side didn’t expect him to attack. He pushed — shield in the face, cut low, push — and they fell back. His second back cut, luckier or more accurate than the others, cut a dactylos above a guardsman’s shield, the point slashing through his eyes and the bridge of his nose so that he fell dead between breaths, never seeing the blow that stole his life.
‘Athena!’ Kineas roared with the whole weight of his chest.
Confused shouts beyond the wall.
‘Athena!’ He bellowed again, and cut, pushed, pushed again. Darius was covering his side along the wall, thrusting with reckless energy to force his shielded opponent back.
Kineas flicked his shield out, caught another man’s shield with his own rim and pulled. Then his sword licked out, thrusting into the man’s chest. He thrust too hard and his borrowed sword fouled, caught on a rib. He kicked, pulled, pushed with his shield as the dying man screamed.
The sword broke at the hilt, leaving Kineas with a hand’s-breadth of iron.
Too late to hesitate.
