Men are fools. Combat is not for honour. I hadn't learned that lesson yet, but I almost knew it, and I was annoyed with him, that he'd wasted my time and energy.
I was the first to finish, and I watched the others fight. Cleisthenes had his broken hand inside his aspis, and he was hammering his opponent, an older Athenian who was angered and afraid of Cleisthenes' bullying, hammering attacks that were well beyond the spirit of the contest. Cleisthenes was swinging as hard as he could, chopping his opponent's shield with his heavy sword, a curved kopis or falcata, depending where you're from, a weapon like an axe with a sword blade attached.
Another Athenian effortlessly dispatched his man after a long shuffle in a circle. I saw him do it. He faked a cut to the man's head and tagged his thigh under the rim of his shield – perfect coordination, perfect control. He was one of their noblemen. He was fast and elegant and had better armour than anyone else, including bronze on his thighs and upper arms.
It was good that I saw him, because he was my next opponent. The light was starting to go, and we fought between two bonfires. He smiled at me – he had an Attic helmet with spring-loaded cheek-pieces, and as soon as I saw it, I knew my father had made it. I held up my hand to him.
'My father made that, sir,' I said, pointing at the helmet.
He took it off. 'You're a son of Technes, the smith of Plataea who fell in Euboea?' he asked.
'I am, sir.' I bowed.
He returned my bow, although he was a child of the gods, the son of the greatest family in Athens. 'I am Aristides,' he said, 'of the Antiochae.'
I nodded. 'I am Arimnestos of the Corvaxae,' I said, 'of green Plataea where Leitos has his shrine.'
He grinned. He liked that I could play the game. Then he put his helmet back on and I pulled mine down, and we faced off.
The Chians cheered us, because we were both foreigners. Aristides was probably the best-known man in the fleet, while I had just won the athletics, and that made it a good-natured match with lots of cheering. I could hear Melaina's clear soprano and her brother's bass.
And then they all went away, and I was alone on the sand with a deadly opponent. He moved the way a woman dances, and I admired him even as I tracked his motion.
As far as I was concerned, he was beautiful, but he put too much energy into it. That is, he looked wonderful – and he was good, very good, a true killer. But he also played to the crowd.
He had not, on the other hand, run several stades and wrestled.
Early on, he came at me with his kill shot. All swordsmen have one – a simple combination they have mastered, that can get the fight over in a hurry. Listen – if you live past a man's kill shot, it's a whole different fight. But most men go down, in sport or play or on a blood-spattered deck. Calchas taught me that, and every sword- fighter in Ephesus said the same.
I didn't buy the feint to my head and my shield caught his blow to my thigh, then I cut back at his arm and my blade ticked against his arm guard.
He nodded at me as we drew apart – acknowledgement that I'd hit him. Then we circled for a long, long time, until the crowd was silent. I wasn't going after him. He was better than me. And he wasn't in a hurry. And, frankly, I knew he was the best man I'd ever faced – better than Cyrus or Pharnakes, even.
Twice, we went in. The first time, he came forward gracefully – and fooled me, his swaying approach a trick as he darted to the right and his blade shot out in a cut to my right hip, of all unlikely targets.
I parried the blow on my blade and hammered my aspis into his. I cleared my weapon and tried to reach under his shield, but he didn't allow it, and we were kneeling in the sand, shield to shield, pushing. The crowd roared but the judges separated us.
The second time, I saw him stumble. It was dark now; the fires gave unsteady light and the helmets didn't help. But before my attack was even fully developed, he had his feet under him. He cut low and then high, and our blades rang together, and we both punched with our shields, leaning our shoulders into the push, and our blades licked out and we both rolled left and broke apart. The ocean cold of his blade had passed across my sword arm and my blade had ticked against his thigh armour.
I raised my blade for a halt. 'He touched me,' I said. I can be an honourable man.
But his blade had been flat on, and Athena was by me, and when the judges looked, there was no blood.
Stephanos gave me a drink of wine while the judges looked at my opponent. Archi pointed at him.
'Back of his knees, brother,' he said. He'd never called me brother before, and it was the warmest praise of the day.
'Cleisthenes hurt his last man,' Stephanos said. 'He'll face the winner here but his grandfather is mad as fury. The man he cut is bad.'
Cleisthenes came and started to catcall. He was a rude fuck, and while other men cheered, he jeered. My blood started to rise.
I decided to go for the Athenian's knee. Archi was dead right – when you're in the fight you don't always see. He was a tall man and the back of his knee was the best unarmoured target on him.
He went for his kill shot again. I think he felt that he hadn't got it off perfectly the first time. But as soon as he started, I knew the combination. I knelt, ignoring the head feint, and snapped my wrist in a long cut against the back of his left knee while his sword cracked on to my shield and bounced up on to my helmet – I'd knelt too low. The blow was hard – not as well pulled as his first, and I fell sideways with a bump on my scalp where my helmet turned the blow but not all of it.
He gave me a hand up and apologized.
I pointed my heavy blade at the black line of blood running down the back of his greaves.
'By Athena!' he said. 'Well cut, Plataean.'
Men cheered, but Cleisthenes jeered again, calling us pansies. And then he insisted on fighting, right there.
'I want this,' he said. 'Unless you're afraid.' And closer up, 'I'm going to hurt you.'
His grandfather tried to stop it. But the other judges said there was enough light, and I was an arse, and simply insisted I'd fight.
'You're a fucking slave,' he said, and he grinned. 'I own you already. Slaves always fear men like me – real men. Do you feel the fear, boy?'
The thing I hated was that of course I did feel the fear. I did fear men like him – big, brutal men who wanted to inflict pain. And my fear made me hate him, and the daimon came.
Suddenly I was as cool as if I had bathed in the sea. When we came together, I already knew how I would fight, and what I would do. The daimon was in me, and I give no quarter then. And truly, I have done shameful things, but this was hardly one of them. He was an evil bastard, and he earned his way to Tartarus all the way.
But I regret – some of it.
As soon as his grandfather gave the word, he came at me, his sword high, and smashed it into my shield.
He cut at the top, his tactic simple. He would cut the bronze band that held the rim in five or ten strokes, and then start chopping the shield until he broke my arm or cut my shield arm. It was a brutal technique, and he was a brutal man.
I ducked and dodged. I wanted him contemptuous and hurried.
He was easy.
He laughed and spat and chased me, landing a blow or two on the shield face. He finally stopped.
'Fucking coward, stand and fight!' he yelled.
I laughed. 'Come and catch me, arse cunt.'
Some men heard me. Others didn't. He heard me, and he should have paused to consider that if I had the breath to insult him, I wasn't afraid. But he was a fool.
But his grandfather had heard him and threw down his staff. 'Stop!' he roared.
He picked up his staff and prodded his grandson in the stomach. 'Boys talk like that,' he said. 'Men respect their opponents. One more jibe and I will throw you from the lists.'
Cleisthenes didn't even pretend to obey. He did not fear the gods, and they knew him for what he was.
