incredible. But worse than the pain – I've seen it – is the realization.
When you see your guts in a pile, you know you are dead.
He screamed and screamed.
Have I not said that I loved him? If not, I'm a fool. He was more my father than Pater – with his humour and his slow anger, his sense of justice and his poetry. He was a great man. Even when I was a slave and he ordered me beaten – even when he threatened me with a sword – I loved him. I hated to leave him, and I knew that if I had not been exiled from his side, he wouldn't be screaming away the last heartbeats of his mortality amidst the ravens.
I got down in the bloody mud and put his head in my lap.
He screamed.
What could I do? I tried to stroke his face, but his eyes said everything. The unfairness and the pain. Remember that he never wanted war with the Great King. And yet he had fallen with his face to the foe and his spear in a Persian's guts, while worse men ran.
Have I mentioned the glories of war, thugater? Fill it to the top, and don't bother with water. All the way. All the way. When I give an order I expect it to be obeyed.
That's better.
Where was I?
Oh, I'm not even to the bad part yet. I told you how he screamed. You have heard women in childbirth – that's pain. Add to that despair – which most women, thank the gods, don't need to fear in childbirth – and that was his scream.
He'd been out, so his voice was fresh and strong.
After ten screams, I couldn't think.
After twenty screams, I stopped trying to talk to him.
Who knows how many times he screamed.
Finally, I put my knife under his chin. I hugged him close, and I kissed him between screams, and then I pushed it up under his jaw and into his brain. Heraclitus had told me once that this was the kindest stroke. I've done it often enough, and I know that it ends the screams the fastest. Cut a man's throat and he has to bleed out. I don't know how long I sat there. Long enough to fill my lap with his blood.
'You – killed him,' Archi said. His voice was surprisingly calm. I had no idea how long he had been standing there.
Heraclitus had his hand on my shoulder. 'You are a brave man,' he said to me.
'You killed him,' Archi said again. Now there was a lilt to his words.
'Archilogos.' Heraclitus stepped between us. 'We must take his body and go.'
Kylix came, still crying. He began to strip the armour from his dead master's body. Another of the house slaves was there – Dion, the water boy. No doubt he had come as Hipponax's skeuophoros. Together they rolled the corpse off my lap and stripped him. Idomeneus helped without being asked.
'You killed him,' Archi said, after the body was rolled roughly in a himation and laid across spears.
Heraclitus struck him – a sharp blow with his hand open. 'Don't be a fool, boy.' He turned to me. 'Your eyes are younger and sharper than mine. Can you lead the way?'
'YOU KILLED HIM!' Archi roared, and came at me. His sword was in his hand, and he cut at my head.
I drew and parried in one motion, and our swords rang together with the unmistakable sound of steel on steel.
It was dark, and the footing was bad. The only thing that kept him alive was that I wasn't fighting back. He made wild, savage sweeps at me and I parried them, and my new sword took the whole weight of his wide cuts and the blade held, notching his blade again and again.
He hacked at me and I parried, and Heraclitus finally tripped him with a spear and then rapped him on the head with the spear-butt.
But it was too late for us. Even as Archi slumped to the ground, half-stunned, the hoof-beats that I had half- heard while I blocked his savagery came closer, and suddenly we were surrounded by torches and Persian voices. They surrounded us efficiently, despite the bodies on the ground. Most of them had spears, and there were more than ten.
I knew Cyrus immediately, even mounted in the dark. He was giving orders.
'Hail, Lord Cyrus,' I shouted.
He pushed his horse forward past his companions and raised a torch. 'Doru? Why are you here – oh! Of course. You were looking for your master.' Cyrus slid from the horse's back. 'This is Hipponax – a fine man.'
'That's one of yours,' I said, pointing my sword at the dead Mede.
Cyrus held the torch back over his head so that he could see the ground.
'Darius,' he said. 'He didn't muster after the battle.'
More hoof-beats.
'Sheathe that sword or you are a dead man,' Cyrus said at my side.
I looked at him. I felt – perhaps I felt a hint of what Hipponax felt, awakening to pain and the knowledge that there was nothing to come but death. They would enslave me. No one on earth would pay a ransom for me, and I would not be a slave again.
So I smiled, or my face made an imitation of a smile. 'I think I'm a dead man anyway,' I said.
'Why?' Artaphernes asked from the dark. I knew his voice, too. 'Put up that sword.'
Heraclitus took my arm and stripped the sword from my hand as if I was a child. I had forgotten that he was at my side.
'Damn you,' I spat.
Artaphernes was on a white horse. He rode between the two close-wrapped corpses, Hipponax and Eualcidas. The wind was picking up, and the torches were snapping like angry dogs.
Oh, he owed me a life. But only a born nobleman expects the world to work like that – like an epic poem. A slave expects the instant revocation of every favour, every promise.
But Artaphernes was a different sort of man. He gestured to me. 'You,' he said. 'You are a rebel?'
Cyrus spoke up, and he was never a better friend to me than in that hour. 'Master, they came to retrieve the body of Hipponax, your guest-friend in Ephesus.'
It was obvious in the torchlight that I was wearing a scale shirt. 'You were in arms today, boy?' the satrap asked.
'Yes, lord,' I said.
He nodded. 'I have already declared an amnesty for all those taken in arms,' he said. 'No man will be sold into slavery or executed if he returns to his allegiance. I will punish only those who came from over the sea to attack my lands. The Athenians and their allies.'
I shrugged. 'I served with the Athenians,' I said. 'And you won't find another one to punish. They broke your Carians and then marched off to their ships.'
'Are you a complete fool?' Cyrus hissed in my ear.
'But you were born in the west. I remember you telling me so.' The satrap shrugged. 'Go home, boy. Tell them in the west that the Great King is merciful.'
He was going to let me go. I took the ring – his ring – off my hand and held it up to him. 'You repay my favour,' I said.
He shook his head. 'Gentlemen never repay,' he said. 'They exchange. Keep the ring. Go with your gods. Who is that other man?'
I knew he didn't mean the slaves. 'Heraclitus the philosopher,' I said.
Artaphernes dismounted. 'I have long wanted to meet you,' he said.
Heraclitus shrugged. 'You have the advantage of me, lord.'
'You were in arms today?' the satrap asked. He ignored the insult.
'Aye, lord,' Heraclitus said.
'Do you accept my amnesty?' Artaphernes asked.
Heraclitus bowed his head. 'I do not, lord.'
'Your name carries much weight,' the satrap said. 'Will you not speak to your fellow citizens?'
Heraclitus shook his head. 'No,' he said. 'No words of mine could sway the wind that blows now, lord. War,
