The New Achilles Page 5

  The patter of hoof beats became a roar; the earth seemed to tremble.

  The horsemen seemed to flood into the courtyard. There were only nine, but they came in at a fast trot, and one pulled his horse up so sharply that the big creature reared; it was certainly a military horse. Two of the men had armour on, confirming his diagnosis. One horse had a corpse tied over its back.

  ‘You take the first party,’ Chiron said with a gentle inclination of his head. ‘I will await the second.’

  ‘Master,’ Alexanor said.

  It was a privilege to be entrusted with guests. Alexanor went forward even as the big man on the biggest horse slipped to the ground. He had bright red hair, was a foot taller than Alexanor, and had muscles on top of his muscles.

  ‘I need a priest,’ Red-hair snapped.

  Alexanor walked past him. On the next horse was the corpse, face down over the horse’s back. But something told Alexanor that the man was not dead.

  He raised the wounded man’s head gently. He put his cheek by his mouth, as if waiting for a kiss.

  ‘Is he alive?’ Red-hair asked, anxiously.

  ‘No thanks to you,’ Alexanor said.

  One was not supposed to say such things, but it was insane; the man on the back of the horse, who had long, dark hair like a Spartan, was badly wounded. He’d lost so much blood that his skin had the pale look of a corpse, and Alexanor held himself still inside, so as not to flinch. But his own dead were years behind him; those wounds were scarred over, no longer tender.

  The worst wound in the man over the horse that Alexanor could see was a long gash in his arm, but as he locked an arm around the wounded youth to move him, he saw a puncture in the abdominal cavity.

  ‘You should not have moved him at all,’ Alexanor went on.

  ‘Fucking Spartans would have killed him if I left him,’ Red-hair said. ‘Kleostratos! Take the horses!’

  A Thracian slipped from his mount and began gathering reins. Slaves moved to help him.

  ‘You may have killed him just as effectively.’ Alexanor turned. ‘Bion!’ he called. ‘Get this man down where I can examine him. And be gentle. You know the drill.’ Alexanor turned to the stable boy, the pais who ran errands. ‘Get a stretcher from the baths. Run,’ he snapped. ‘Bring more slaves.’

  Red-hair watched the big slave untie the wounded man. Now that Alexanor had a moment and there was less dust, he could see that all of them had wounds: slashes to the forearm; cuts to the shoulder; or contusions and abrasions that he knew came to men who wore armour – lacerations under the armpits and at the neck, for example, where a mounted man’s cuirass bit into the soft flesh. He saw them on every man.

  ‘Spartans are right behind us, priest,’ Red-hair called. ‘You are a priest, right?’

  Bion lifted the wounded man, grunting at the effort. The victim was tall, and very strong, and Alexanor had to catch his legs and feet to prevent Bion from dropping him. Laid on his back, the man was as tall as a Titan, with as much muscle as Red-hair and a strong face, the kind of face Alexanor associated with athletes and boxers: handsome, blunt.

  ‘You are?’

  Alexanor directed his comment to Red-hair, but he was already kneeling in the dust by the wounded man. Patient. Guest. He didn’t look at Red-hair. His eyes were on the guest’s wounds, which were, as he expected, all the result of combat.

  ‘I am Dinaeos. I am a citizen of Megalopolis. The men of Sparta attacked us in the night and stormed our city. Their king, Cleomenes, has sworn to wipe us out.’

  He seemed to be making an effort to speak slowly; to sound rational. The priest could tell he was on the edge of panic; exhausted, probably. No sleep, wounds, a friend dying …

  ‘We fought until the end,’ the man said with pride. ‘We held the gate so that the citizens could escape. He wouldn’t have left even then.’

  Alexanor could see the man’s exhaustion, and the dried blood all the way up his arm. He actually felt the man’s tiredness, as if for a moment he was in the wounded body, not his own.

  ‘You all need rest and treatment,’ he said.

  ‘Not without my friend,’ Dinaeos said.

  ‘Dinaeos,’ he said, looking up, ‘the best favour you can do this man is to go immediately to the baths. Every one of you.’

  Alexanor spoke with authority. He was a priest of the god, a doctor, and an aristocrat; the tone of command came easily to him.

  Dinaeos shook his head. ‘When he goes in, I go in. I told you, the Spartans are right behind us.’

  ‘You speak well,’ Alexanor said. ‘Your friend is in the hands of the god, as you should be, too. Go and bathe!’

  The Achaeans with Dinaeos began to sag; three of them turned, avoiding slaves coming out of the temple precinct, and went in. Dinaeos stood his ground.

  Two slaves ran up, big men with a wooden stretcher on their shoulders.

  ‘Easy there,’ Alexanor said.

  He put a hand directly on the wounded man’s side and held the wound as the man was lifted and carefully rolled onto the stretcher, his fingers holding the sides of the puncture steady. It was bleeding, but there was no abdominal fluid that he could smell; the only hope the man had was that his intestines had not been pierced.

  ‘Straight to the Epidauros. Go!’ Alexanor said. He was thinking of the wound.

  The slaves grunted. Even for two, the wounded Titan was a heavy load.

  They started for the gate.

  The second party came into the wide yard at a canter, scattering horses and slaves; one of the Achaeans was ridden down, and Bion was struck with a javelin stave.

  The newcomers were all professional cavalrymen; Alexanor thought that they looked like mercenaries, with soft boots and wide-brimmed hats, and dust coating every surface of their bodies. One man glanced at him, and Alexanor knew him for a killer; his eyes had that look. Contempt for life.

  ‘Halt!’ called a Spartan voice. ‘No one move!’

  Alexanor shoved one of the slaves carrying the wounded man.

  ‘Ignore him. Go.’

  They went.

  Dinaeos drew the sword he wore under his arm, covering the slaves. They had only a few steps to go to reach the closed gate of the sanctuary. They were strong and quick, and Alexanor noted their courage. Slaves who were brave deserved reward.

  The gate opened for them; someone was sharp.

  One of the mercenaries rose on his horse to throw a javelin. His arm went back and he threw.

  Dinaeos stepped past Alexanor. Raising his short cloak as a shield and covering the young priest, he cut the javelin out of the air with his sword. The head bit into the sand and the shaft came up and struck Alexanor a stinging blow to the shin, but he shook it off.

  The Thracian man who had taken the horses emerged from the stable, took the javelin out of the ground as if he’d planned such a thing all along, and stepped up beside Dinaeos. The other men who’d ridden in first were shuffling. One, the youngest, with a bloody bandage on his head, whimpered and ran into the grove, but the others closed up around Dinaeos.

  The Spartan pointed at the running man.

  ‘Get him,’ he said.

  One of the mercenaries followed the running man at a trot into the sacred grove.

  The Spartan dismounted. He didn’t seem tired. He was as tall as the wounded Titan, thin-faced and black-bearded, his scarlet cloak like a banner in the sun. He looked straight at Dinaeos.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked. ‘Don’t tell me he’s still alive.’

  ‘Come and find out,’ said Dinaeos.

  The Spartan shrugged. ‘Very brave. I assume he was on that stretcher. And now in the Asklepion.’ He turned to Alexanor, but Chiron emerged from the dust cloud – a tall old man in white, with a staff. ‘Just save me the time. Is he dead or alive?’

  The old priest pointed. ‘Halt,’ he said.

  ‘Answer me,’ spat the Spartan, to the red-headed Achaean. He ignored the older priest as a person of no consequence.

&nb
sp; ‘Stop your impiety or take the consequence,’ the priest said.

  His tone carried conviction; one of the Thessalian mercenaries shuffled his horse back, and another made an avert sign.

  ‘Open the gates, and no one gets hurt,’ the Spartan said. ‘Well, almost no one,’ he added with nasty smile, and one of the mercenaries laughed.

  Alexanor was beginning to be afraid. But the part of his mind trained to think kept going. Thessalians, he thought. These are Thessalians; trained killers. Their clothing and their horses identified them, and the habit of diagnosis was strong, even in moments like this.

  ‘No,’ Chiron said. It was the kind of ‘no’ you said to a child, or a slave with a foolish, time-wasting idea. ‘The precinct is sacred, even to Spartans.’

  ‘Keep your superstitious crap for the peasants,’ the Spartan said. ‘Open the gates or I’ll open them, and there will be blood.’

  ‘There is always blood,’ the old priest said. ‘Bodies are full of it.’

  ‘Stupid old fool,’ the Spartan said. ‘I am here on the business of the king of Sparta. Let me past.’

  The stupid old fool stood his ground. He raised his hand and slammed his staff into the ground so that it seemed rooted in the earth.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Out of my fucking way,’ the Spartan growled, and he reached for his sword.

  Chiron moved forward. He didn’t seem to move fast; it was almost as if he floated, his white himation hiding his limbs, the superb fabric like a cloud. His left hand pinned the Spartan’s sword arm against his chest as he reached to draw; his right hand shot out, and the palm of his hand struck the Spartan on the nasal of his magnificent helmet. Still he went forward. The Spartan’s head snapped back, and suddenly he was thrown full-length in the dust. The old man kept hold of his sword hand and turned him into the throw, then knelt by the fallen Spartan, holding his arm behind his back.

  It happened so fast that it was only in retrospect that Alexanor realised he’d heard the man’s elbow break.

  ‘Ride away or I kill him,’ the old priest said to the Thessalians. ‘Ride away now. I assume he’s your employer. Or stay and be shot down by my archers.’

  He looked at them. The Spartan made an attempt to escape, and then gave a scream.

  The old priest was unrelenting. ‘I care little. Your man has committed an impiety and hubris, and my god will rejoice if I practise a little anatomy on him. Did you know that this soft spot here, just forward of the ear, is the perfect place to kill a man if you want to avoid spoiling his face?’ The old man’s voice was calm and level.

  The Thessalians looked at each other.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ half-screamed the Spartan. He was brave enough; he tried to keep the pain out of his voice, but his elbow was in agony. ‘Kill them! Gods damn you, priest.’

  ‘Me?’ the priest asked. ‘Me? I have not offered impiety at the precinct of the god. You have.’

  ‘Hypocrite! Pious fake!’

  The Spartan was face down in the dust, but he was trying to fight. Even with the priest’s hand at his neck, he was moving; even with an arm behind his back in a submission hold, he writhed against the pain in his elbow.

  ‘Do not be foolish and make me kill you,’ said the old man. ‘Ride, you mercenaries. And do not return.’

  Alexanor had watched the whole drama from the safety of the red-haired cavalryman’s cloak. Now he turned and knelt by his teacher and passed him his knife, which the older priest immediately pressed to the Spartan’s throat.

  The officer’s writhing stopped. He felt the knife and he sagged.

  The Thessalians turned their horses. One looked at the sacred grove, where the lone Thessalian had chased the fugitive. He looked a moment for his partner, and then shrugged, looked at the gatehouse walls, and turned his horse.

  ‘Oh, you are the fucking king of doctors.’ Dinaeos managed a laugh. ‘Please let me kill him.’

  ‘No,’ Chiron said in the same peremptory tone he’d used to the Spartan. ‘By the great god Apollo, you men come to us dirty with your foolish violence, Greek against Greek. I feel polluted just being with you.’

  He rose.

  The Spartan was on his feet in an instant – a remarkable feet of gymnastics for a man with a broken elbow. He stepped back and reached, left-handed, for his sword.

  Chiron followed him, his himation floating behind him, and pinned his arm again.

  The Spartan gave a choked scream.

  ‘Let go of your violence,’ Chiron said. ‘Come inside and let me set your arm.’

  ‘Fuck you. Fuck you, you charlatan. Come inside so you can poison me? I’d rather sleep in a den of vipers. I will come back here with an army and loot this place to the ground. I will find your family and kill every one of them, or sell them to brothels. I will burn your home to the ground, and I will …’ The fear and the hate boiled out of him; his face was ugly with pain and anger.

  ‘You refuse treatment?’ Chiron’s voice was loud. ‘Then be gone.’

  He let go of the Spartan’s arm, and the weight of the man’s hand dragged at his elbow and he screamed with pain and fell to his knees.

  Chiron turned his back. He pointed at Dinaeos.

  ‘Sheathe that sword,’ he said.

  Dinaeos obeyed.

  The remaining Thessalian emerged from the sacred grove, his horse’s head up, ears back.

  ‘You speak Greek?’ the old priest snapped.

  Dinaeos had his sword out again, and Alexanor was watching the Spartan struggle for composure. He could see that Chiron’s casual humiliation of the man had been an error; he could see that the Spartan would never forgive what had just happened.

  He was trying to rise again.

  Alexanor thought he must be very strong and very brave. With a sprained shoulder and a broken elbow, most men would lie and whimper.

  The Spartan got one foot under himself and tried to rise. He was trying to get at the sword under his left armpit with his left hand, and in the effort he dropped the weapon.

  The Thessalian nodded. ‘Of course I speak Greek.’

  ‘Then take your officer and ride,’ Chiron said.

  The Thessalian was older than the others, in a fine cloak with a purple stripe.

  ‘Or?’ He didn’t threaten. He sounded relaxed.

  Alexanor stepped past the Spartan officer and snapped up the sword before the man could do it himself. He noted the beautiful work on the man’s helmet: the tall crest, and the strap under the chin, which held the two cheek plates together under the man’s beard. He was trained to see all these things, and others: the redness in the man’s eyes, from dust and pain; the missing tooth; the signs of dehydration.

  ‘Or we fuck you up,’ said Sostratos, from the gate.

  He had four priests with him and a dozen slaves, all carrying staves or spears. They filled the stable yard, and the Thessalian nodded.

  ‘No!’ bellowed the Spartan.

  The Thessalian came to a decision. He backed his horse, turned it, and then plucked the Spartan off the ground with an arm around his waist, like a centaur taking a Lapith woman, and rode away.

  Chiron sagged to one knee. ‘You took your time, Sostratos,’ he said. ‘I am too old for this.’

  ‘I stopped for a cup of wine,’ the former mercenary said with his usual sarcasm. ‘All right – everyone take a wounded man. Here we go. Put those weapons up! You! What are you, an Achaean? Sheathe. Alexanor, what the hell is that in your hand?’

  Alexanor realised he was still holding the Spartan’s sword.

  He turned to Dinaeos. ‘Who was that man?’ he asked.

  Dinaeos looked as if he might collapse in the stable yard, but he managed a feral smile.

  ‘That’s Nabis,’ he said. ‘The Spartan king’s enforcer. A bad man and a worse enemy.’

  Alexanor got an arm under the redhead’s shoulder and supported him. The young Achaean seemed to be made of stone – particularly heavy stone. But Alexanor was not weak; he u
sed his back and held the big man up.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I ordered you to the baths, and I meant it.’

  As soon as the Achaeans were in the healing houses with attendants to look at their wounds, Alexanor ran to the Epidauros to look at his principal ‘guest’. He found Chiron standing over the young giant’s bed.

  ‘A fine specimen,’ Chiron said, as Alexanor ran up. ‘No need to run, young man. If the ride here didn’t kill him, he’ll live until the infection takes him.’

  ‘What is your diagnosis, Hierophant?’ Alexanor asked.

  ‘Mine?’

  The old doctor smiled, just a little. Alexanor could see that, despite his bold face, he was shaken: his lips were pale, his eyes a little too wide, pupils dilated. Alexanor knew he would be showing these signs himself. He had been afraid, and he had been forced to act while full of the daemon of the god of war, that influx of power that seemed to flow along with fear.

  He had a moment to reflect that once he would have channelled all that fear into violent action. He smiled.

  The old man met Alexanor’s smile with his own, and it was steady. He put out a hand and rested it on Alexanor’s shoulder.

  ‘I told you this guest was yours, Alexanor, and I meant it. I saw this in the smoke of dawn. This one is for you. If he lives, he will make your reputation; if he dies, it is the will of the god. So, what is your diagnosis?’

  Alexanor wanted nothing more than to go to his narrow bed; by now, his room slaves would have made it. Crisp white linen and a thick, white wool blanket …

  Fear makes you tired. Alexanor knew this, both from scrolls and from experience. He looked at the young man on the bed.

  Young he might be; between twenty-five and thirty, fully bearded. His skin was smooth, and he was heavily muscled. But the muscles were those of a man who worked on a farm and not those of someone who only knew sweat in the gymnasium. But his size, and the health of his hair, proclaimed him a rich man, as did the gold ring on his left hand.

  His left arm had two wounds – superficial, but deserving of Alexanor’s immediate attention. Both were long slashes: sword cuts to a mounted man’s bridle hand. The long gash under the man’s right arm had been inflicted while the arm was up. The puncture wound in his right side, though …