by Glyn Iliffe
Facing him were fully twenty men, standing in a line with the sun glinting on their raised spear points. They were too well armed to be bandits, so could only be deserters from the war in Thebes, where a siege was raging only a short march away. They had lost their discipline and looked haggard and weary. Their armour was scarred and covered in dust; some men bore the wounds of recent battles, and all looked as if they had not slept for days. Already one of them lay face-down in the dirt.
Standing head and shoulders above them all was their champion. A colossus with a booming voice, he strode about shouting crude challenges to the nobleman. ‘Your father’s ghost rots nameless in Hades and your mother whores to feed her starving belly. Your children suckle at the breasts of slaves while your wife ruts with swineherds. And as for you!’ He snapped his fingers in derision. ‘I’ll be stripping that armour from your dead body before breakfast.’
The giant’s insults received no response from his stocky opponent, who remained indifferent to the tirade. Eperitus, however, had heard enough. Driven by his hatred of deserters – and of all men who had surrendered their honour – he leapt to his feet on top of the ridge and thrust one of his spears into the dirt by his sandals. Kissing the shaft of the other, he drew back his arm and launched it with all the momentum his body could command. A moment later it thumped into the spine of the foul-mouthed braggart, sending his vast bulk crashing forward into the dead fire. His thick fingers clawed furrows through the ashes as, with a final curse on his lips, his open mouth gushed blood over the blackened stumps of wood.
Eperitus did not stop to exult over a lucky throw. Plucking his remaining spear from the ground he ran at the twisting backs of the deserters, yelling at the top of his voice. Leaderless and taken by surprise, they dissolved into confusion before him. A spear was hurriedly thrown from one flank, but the aim was poor and the missile skimmed the ground before his feet. Then three men in the centre of the group hurled their own weapons in another hasty attack. One split the air over Eperitus’s head; the second clattered off the thick hide of his shield; the point of the third glanced off his left greave, crushing the leather against his shinbone.
The pain coursed up his leg and almost caused him to fall, but the momentum of his attack carried him on towards his assailants. Seeing the nearest fumbling to bring up his shield from his shoulder, he quickly sank the bronze head of his spear into his groin. The man fell backwards with a scream, doubling into himself and wrenching the spear from Eperitus’s grip.
At once his two comrades drew their swords and rushed to attack, yelling with fear and anger as their weapons crashed against Eperitus’s shield. He fell back before the onslaught, somehow keeping a grip on the heavy ox-hide as he held it out against their repeated blows. Meanwhile, with his free hand he tried desperately to pull his sword from its scabbard, knowing that his death was surely but a heartbeat away.
At that moment, the rank of men he had rushed to help cast their own spears into the disarrayed ranks of their opponents, laying several out in the dead grass. Then they raised their swords and charged across the gap that separated the two sides. Eperitus’s attackers threw fearful glances over their shoulders, uncertain whether to rush to the help of their friends or to finish the newcomer first.
Their indecision was an opportunity Eperitus did not waste. Tugging his sword free, he swung the obsessively sharpened blade in a wide arc around the side of his shield, shearing the leg off one of his enemies from above the knee. Blood spurted in great gouts over the dust and, with a look of disbelief in his red-rimmed eyes, the man toppled over into the mess of his own gore, there to thrash out the last moments of his life.
Eperitus leapt back from a thrust of the other man’s sword. The attack was not forced, though, and for a moment they eyed each other from behind their shields. The surviving warrior was much older than Eperitus, a greybeard with the marks of previous battles on his face and body. It was also obvious that he had come to the limit of his endurance: his bloodshot eyes were fearful and desperate, pleading for mercy. But Eperitus knew that if he lowered his guard for one moment, this same enemy would happily strike him down and send his ghost to the ignominious death the young soldier feared above all.
Breathing heavily, he gripped the leather-bound handle of his sword more firmly, turning his knuckles white. The ringing of bronze against bronze came from nearby, punctuated by shouting and the screams of the wounded. His opponent looked nervously over his shoulder, and in that instant Eperitus sprang forward, knocked the man’s shield aside, and hacked his sword down through his ear and into the skull. He tugged the blade free and with a second, heavier swing, cut off his head.
By this time a new leader had gathered what remained of the deserters into a knot on one side of the hollow, where they struggled to hold off the attacks of their more disciplined opponents. Almost immediately another of their number fell writhing in the dust, struck down by a strong and stern-faced man, worn by age, battle and the elements. His grey hair and beard were long like a priest’s, his armour old-fashioned but full. He used his shield to force a gap in the enemy line where his victim had fallen, but by then the battle was collapsing into a brawl, with men struggling against each other and seeking security in the closeness of their comrades. There was little room now to use the point of a spear or the edge of a sword. Each side was pushing its weight behind their shields, trying by brute force alone to break the wall of their foes. Men swapped curses instead of blows, so closely locked were they, and neither side gave ground.
Suddenly from the top of the ridge came the shouts of newcomers. A group of nine soldiers stood there with the plumes on their helmets fanning in the wind and the dawn sun flashing a savage red from their armour. Eperitus grew hopeful at the sight, thinking them reinforcements, but as the remaining deserters pulled back from the melee and ran up the slope to join them he realized that the battle was far from over. Pulling a spear from its lifeless victim he ran across to where the stocky noble was shouting orders at his men to re-form in the base of the hollow.
The grey-haired warrior slapped Eperitus on the back. ‘Well done, lad,’ he welcomed him, without taking his eyes off the enemy line forming on the brow of the ridge. ‘It’s a while since I’ve seen that much courage in battle. Or that much luck.’
Grinning, Eperitus looked over to where their opponents were advancing down the slope towards them, pulling back their spears and choosing their targets. At that moment, the short nobleman stepped forward and held the palm of his hand out towards the enemy spearmen.
‘Lower your weapons!’ he ordered, his great voice stopping them in their tracks. ‘Too many men have died today already, and for what purpose? For the few copper pieces we carry? Don’t be fools – return to your homes and preserve your lives and your honour.’
In reply, one of the newcomers stepped forward and spat into the dust. His face was scarred and mocking and he spoke with a thick accent.
‘Thebes was our home, and now it’s nothing more than a smoking ruin. But if you want to preserve your own miserable lives, give us the coppers you do have and we’ll let you go on your way. We’ll have your weapons and cloaks, too, and whatever else you might be carrying.’
‘There are easier pickings than us in these hills, friend,’ the nobleman responded, his voice calm and assuring. ‘Why waste more of your men’s blood when you can find yourselves some rich, defenceless pilgrims?’
There was a murmur of agreement from the line of spearmen, which stopped as the scar-faced man raised his hand for silence.
‘We’ve had our fill of pilgrims,’ he said. ‘Besides, our dead comrades are calling out for vengeance – you didn’t think we would just leave their deaths unpunished, did you?’
The nobleman sighed and then with surprising speed launched himself up the slope, hurling his heavy spear at the line of warriors and sending one toppling backwards under the weight of its impact. Eperitus felt the excitement rush through his veins as he charged with the o
thers towards their foe, screaming and casting their spears before them. A few found their targets, causing the new arrivals to fall back as their confidence wavered. The scar-faced man hurried to rejoin his comrades, who threw their own spears a moment later. Their aim was hasty and sporadic, but a lucky cast found the eye of a young soldier running beside Eperitus, splitting his head like a watermelon and spraying the contents over his arm.
The next moment Eperitus’s sword was raised and he was driving into the enemy line with his shield. One man fell backwards before him, catching his heel on a stone. There was no time to plunge his sword into his prostrate body, however, as a much larger and stronger man leapt forward and thrust a blade straight through his shield. The point stopped a finger’s breadth from Eperitus’s stomach, before jamming tight in the layered ox-hide.
Eperitus snatched the shield to one side, tugging the sword from his opponent’s hand and opening his guard. Without hesitation, he sank the point of his blade into the man’s throat, killing him instantly.
As he fell another man lunged at his ribs with a spear, but before the point could spill his lifeblood onto the rocky ground, the grey-haired warrior appeared from nowhere and kicked the shaft to one side. With a sharp and instinctive movement that belied his age, he hacked off its owner’s arm below the elbow and pushed his gored blade into the man’s gut.
Covered in sweat and blood, they turned to face the next assault, but their remaining foes were fleeing over the ridge, leaving their dead behind them.
Chapter Two
CASTOR
Eperitus looked around at the carnage of his first battle. The surrounding rocks were splashed with blood and littered with corpses; the cries of the enemy wounded were silenced one by one as the victors slit their throats. He knew he should feel triumphant that he had killed five men. Instead, his limbs were heavy, his mouth was parched and his shin throbbed painfully where the spear had hit his greave. All he wanted was to cast off his armour and wash the blood and dirt from his body in the nearby stream, but that would have to wait. The stocky leader of the men he had helped was sheathing his sword and walking towards him, accompanied by the old warrior who had saved Eperitus’s life.
‘My name is Castor, son of Hylax,’ he announced, holding out his hand in a formal token of friendship. A glimmer of mischief burned in his quick, green eyes, like sunlight caught in a stream. ‘This is Halitherses, captain of my guard. We’re pilgrims from Crete, here to consult the oracle.’
Eperitus grasped his hand. ‘My name is Eperitus, from the city of Alybas in the north. My grandfather was captain of the palace guard, before his death five years ago.’
Castor released his fierce grip on the young warrior’s hand and removed his helmet, his nail-bitten fingers thick and dirty against the burnished bronze. A mess of auburn hair, which he flicked aside with a toss of his head, fell down almost to his eyes. Though not a handsome man, he had an amicable smile that broke through his deep tan.
‘And your father?’
Eperitus felt anger flush his cheeks. ‘I have no father.’
Castor looked at him piercingly but pressed no further. ‘Well, we’re indebted to you, Eperitus,’ he continued. ‘Things would have gone badly if you hadn’t come along.’
‘You could have handled them without my help,’ Eperitus replied, dismissing the compliment with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Just a band of deserters, by the look of them.’
‘You’re doing yourself a disservice,’ Halitherses assured him. ‘And perhaps you overestimate our abilities. We’re just pilgrims, after all.’
‘Perhaps,’ Eperitus replied. ‘But not many pilgrims go about armed to the teeth, or can fight like a trained unit.’
‘These are dangerous times,’ Castor answered, blinking in the early morning sun. ‘Are you here to speak to the Pythoness, too? It’s no business of mine, of course, but you’re a long way from home if not.’
Eperitus again felt his cheeks flush with the sting of the unspoken shame that had driven him from Alybas.
‘Our crops failed this year and we haven’t enough in store to see us through the winter,’ Castor continued, realizing the young warrior was in no mood to talk. ‘We want to fit out a fleet with oil and pottery to trade abroad for food, but won’t lift a finger until we’ve consulted the gods on the matter first. If the seas are calm and pirate-free, then we can sail in confidence. If not,’ he shrugged his massive shoulders, ‘then our people will starve.’
There was a mournful cry behind them and they turned to see a man kneeling beside the torso of the young soldier who had died during the charge up the slope. His hands hovered over the corpse, wanting to touch it but repelled by the scraps of hanging flesh where his friend’s head had once been. Finally, he collapsed across the bloody chest and began to sob.
Eperitus wtched as his new comrades, joined by Castor and Halitherses, quickly began the process of digging a grave with the sword blades of their enemies. Once this was done they laid the body inside and threw the swords at its feet, followed by the dead man’s own weapons and shield. Then they piled rocks over the grave, carefully placing the stones so that no scavenging animal could find an easy passage into the flesh beneath.
Eperitus stood silently as they saluted the young soldier three times, their shouts carrying a long way through the cool mid-morning air. Afterwards he helped bury the sixteen enemy dead, digging a shallow pit for the bodies and casting stones on top. The men did not exult over these corpses, nor did they bury them out of respect. They merely put them in the ground so that their souls would go to Hades and not stay on the earth to haunt the living.
By midday the burials were finished. Castor ordered his men to make a fire and fetch water from the nearby stream for porridge, and invited Eperitus to share their rations. A bag of fresh olives had been found on one of the bodies, and as they spat the stones into the fire and drank draughts of cold water Eperitus eyed his eleven new companions in silence.
On the opposite side of the fire was a handsome warrior with a short beard and an athletic build. He held clear authority within the group – seemingly subordinate only to Castor and Halitherses – but his eyes were cold and hard as they focused on the newcomer. Sensing his hostility, Eperitus turned his gaze to the man’s neighbour, a dark-skinned soldier with a head of thick, black curls, a full beard that reached into the hollows of his cheeks, and a chest and arms that were matted like a woollen tunic. He was regarding Eperitus with an icy curiosity, but as their eyes met he offered a quick smile and rose to his feet.
‘We owe you our gratitude, friend,’ he said with a low bow, but as he raised his head and stared at Eperitus the questioning look had returned. ‘Perhaps you will tell us what brings you to Mount Parnassus?’
Eperitus looked thoughtfully into the dying flames. He was an exile, banished from Alybas for resisting the man who had killed its king. Now his only hope – indeed, his only desire – was to become a warrior like his grandfather before him, and so he had come to seek guidance from the oracle. But the agony of his shame was still too raw, and he was not prepared to share this with a stranger. Besides, something in the questioner’s manner told him to keep the details of his past a secret – at least for the time being.
‘I’m here to seek the will of Zeus,’ he said, raising his head. ‘Beyond that, I don’t know.’
Castor raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a bigger question than you might think. The answer could be difficult to accept.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Zeus doesn’t give his favour lightly, and once he makes his plan clear you have to follow it with a true heart. Do that and honour and glory will be heaped on you, and the bards will sing your name for eternity. But if you fail . . .’ Castor tossed a piece of bread into the flames. ‘Your name will be blasted from the world for ever, forgotten even in Hades.’
Eperitus’s heart kicked with excitement, heedless of Castor’s warning. The thought of his name being put into song, to be revere
d long after his death, was everything a fighting man wanted to hear. This was the only immortality a man could win, and every warrior sought it. An unlooked-for shaft of light had illuminated the shadowy path to Eperitus’s destiny and in his excitement he decided to depart at once.
‘Castor, your words are god-given. You’ll forgive my haste, but I want to be on my way to the oracle. Farewell, and I pray the gods will protect you all and bring you good fortune.’
He picked up the shield his grandfather had given him, with its fourfold hide and the new wounds that decorated it, and slung it across his back. But before he could pluck his spears from the ground, Castor stepped forward to bar his way.
‘Slow down, friend. We’re all going to the same place; I say let’s go together. We could do with your protection.’
Eperitus laughed. ‘And I could do with your rations! But I can’t wait here any longer – Mount Parnassus is still a three- or four-hour march and the afternoon won’t last for ever.’
‘Let him go his own way,’ said the handsome soldier, stepping into the circle of his countrymen. His eyes were dark and full of suspicion as he fixed his stare on the newcomer. ‘We didn’t need your help or ask for it, stranger. If you think that running into a fight which we were winning, killing a couple of Theban deserters while their backs are turned and then claiming all the glory for yourself has put us in your debt, then I’ll be happy to show you your error. We don’t need scavengers.’
Eperitus placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. Quickly glancing around the circle of Cretans he could see that every eye was on him, waiting for his reaction to the insult. If he drew his blade, surely they would aid their countryman and all his hopes of glory would perish in a short, frenzied death. But his soldier’s pride would not permit him to back down from such a slur on his name. He felt suddenly alone.
