‘Satyrus!’ his sister shouted. ‘Wake up! We’re under attack!’
His limbs loosed and he almost fell and then he moved clumsily, stumbling like a drunkard. ‘I’m here!’ he called.
‘There they are!’ a man’s voice shouted, and there were torches in the colonnade, light flickering off the thrashing man on the floor. Satyrus got past him, abandoning Kallista, and he was beside his sister.
‘Run,’ he said.
‘Where?’ she asked him. Their portion of the colonnade led to a blank wall at the corner of the property. In light, there was a mural of more pillars painted there to give the suggestion of space.
‘Ares,’ he cursed. ‘Athena aid us!’
The men with torches came to their comrade and there was commotion and cursing. ‘Hamstrung!’ one voice said. ‘I’ll kill the bastard! Kleon will never walk again!’
‘Just kill everwud you fide,’ another voice said. He ripped open the curtain to the room where Satyrus had slept.
Satyrus was frozen with indecision – the right thing to do was to attack them, make a futile effort to save Kallista. He would die. But it was the virtuous thing.
He didn’t want to die. He was an ungracious animal.
There was a crash in the dark and half the light went out. Satyrus crouched and pushed his sister behind him.
In the fitful torchlight, Satyrus watched Theron and Philokles, side by side, with shields on their shoulders, rip into the armoured men in the doorway. The men turned quickly – too late for the torch-bearer, who went down like a sacrifice and didn’t even moan. His torch lit the scene from the ground, sputtering and burning fitfully.
The attackers fought back silently. They had swords and they knew how to use them. Philokles gave a cry and stepped back, and one of the adversaries bellowed, stepped forward and died on Philokles’ sword, tricked in the dark into believing he’d hit his opponent.
Satyrus got his limbs in motion and came up behind them. Again he went low, cutting at the tendons of Theron’s opponent. The man screamed like a horse and went back, straight into the boy, and Theron’s back cut with his kopis took off the top of the man’s head and he collapsed on Satyrus, pumping gore, so that Satyrus was trapped against the wall.
‘Shit,’ the last man fighting said, and died.
‘There must be more of them,’ Philokles panted. ‘Boy? Are you all right?’
Philokles was looking into his sleeping chamber. Satyrus was trying not to puke at the warm spongy stuff all over his face. ‘I’m right here,’ he managed in a squeak.
Theron caught up the torch and thrust it in his face. ‘I thought that man went down too fast,’ he said. ‘Well cut, little hoplite. Now get up. Where’s your sister?’
‘Watching your backs,’ she said. ‘There’s more of them, in the other wing, and more yet in the slave quarters. I can hear them.’
The screams from the slave quarters were harrowing – several people, cries from nightmare. The other wing had the sound of rushing feet.
Theron and Philokles had time to turn around before they were hit by the rush.
‘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.’
