Page 89 of Sword Dance

“We are philosophers,” one of the students announced grandly—or with an attempt at grandeur. It fell a little flat because his mantle was tangled around his knees, his hands tied behind his back, and he was dripping seawater on the jetty. “Ordinarily we do battle with ideas, not with blades. But we are no strangers to warfare.”

The captain of the guard gave him a pained look.

One of the other students spoke up, his tone patronizing. “The old man you saw running toward us when we landed? He used to be a great philosopher, but he has gone soft. Seduced by barbarian immorality. He needs to make way for the younger generation.”

“Ask Helenos,” said another student. “He’s the one who gathered us all to the cause when he was last in Boukos. He promised us places in his new school, here in his villa, away from the corruption of the cities. Here we will work toward restoring—”

“Yes, yes,” the captain cut him off, “the greatness of Pheme. One of your mates told us all about it on the ship. We thought that meant lying on couches and talking about things, not attacking people with knives.”

So Helenos had set all this up before leaving Boukos: two successive waves of reinforcements, the first students from Pheme, the second new recruits from Boukos. He couldn’t have known precisely what use he was going to put them to, but he had briefed them well enough that they knew to attack Eurydemos on sight.

“The thing is,” Varazda said in a tired, colourless voice, “the villa doesn’t belong to Helenos.”

The captain of the guard raised his eyebrows. “That’s awkward. Puts rather a different face on things.”

Varazda glanced around at Damiskos, and then his gaze flicked up, sharply, past Damiskos. He pointed discreetly, using one of the hand signals Damiskos had taught him. One enemy combatant that way.

Damiskos turned and looked up. One of the students stood on the cliff’s edge at the back of the garden, looking down on the scene.

Chapter 23

“They know we’ve taken out their reinforcements, so our position may actually be strengthened,” Damiskos explained as he, Nione, Aradne, and Varazda hurried across the beach. “But we do need to get up there quickly, before they begin making other plans.”

Specifically, before they did anything to hurt the male slaves, but Damiskos was not going to say that out loud. Part of the secret to effective command was knowing when projecting calm was more important than impressing the troops with a sense of life-and-death urgency.

He didn’t feel particularly calm himself. They had lost valuable time waiting for the men of the honour guard to receive word from their employer. When it came, it had been, “Give Pharastes everything he needs and invite him aboard the ship,” but Varazda had politely declined the invitation, saying he still had more work to do on shore. Damiskos kept glancing across at him now, worrying about him but trying not to show it.

Varazda looked sick and white, but he was setting the pace as they walked back to the stairs, staring straight ahead of him and saying little to the others. Holding on by the skin of his teeth, if Damiskos had to guess. Damiskos wanted desperately to hold him, even just his hand as they walked, but doubted it would be welcome. When you were in that state, sometimes you just needed to keep going or risk collapsing in a heap.

“But we’re not taking the soldiers with us,” said Aradne, rather out of breath from their brisk trot across the beach.

It was hard to tell with her, but Damiskos thought this was a question. “They’re an honour guard for a Boukossian diplomat, and he wants them to stay with the ship. Which is fair since he now has several prisoners on his hands. They couldn’t spare any of the sailors either. It’s all right. We think whoever came to the end of the garden only saw the aftermath of our engagement, not the actual fighting. With luck it shouldn’t be difficult to convince them that there were more of us fighting than just me and Varazda.”

“And that the rest are surrounding the villa now.” Aradne nodded.

“Please don’t let her try to sneak in to rescue the other slaves,” Nione addressed Damiskos.

She was labouring along in the sand in impractical sandals, holding up her skirt with both hands, looking almost as unwell as Varazda. She had looked scared enough by what she had witnessed of the fight on the jetty—and what had been reported by the hyperventilating Eurydemos when he stumbled back into the fortifications—that Damiskos had considered leaving her behind, but her authority as owner of the villa really was necessary for the coming confrontation. Besides, she seemed to have guessed what was in his mind, because she had said, “Don’t you dare think of leaving me behind.”

“It is not for me to say,” said Damiskos now, “but I would strongly discourage it. That was a feasible plan only when we had the element of surprise—we’ve lost that now. I think,” he added to Aradne, “that you would be more useful now at your mistress’s side.”

“Yes,” Nione put in, probably wishing she had led with that line. “I need you with me.”

“Of course,” said Aradne, obviously not pleased. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

“This is where we part ways,” said Varazda, turning to address the others. He was to take the vineyard path up to signal the women in the woods.

“Very good,” said Damiskos crisply.

He didn’t like to see Varazda going off on his own in his current state, injured and exhausted and fragile. He reminded himself that Varazda was not, as far as they knew, going into mortal danger. Once he made it up through the vineyard, he would signal the women and then make his way around to the stable to help bring the horses out. With any luck, he would not encounter any hostiles. He should be fine.

Damiskos had already made up his mind that there would be no embracing, lest it make Varazda break down. Instead he held out a hand as he would to a fellow soldier. Varazda grasped it hard for a moment, the grip of his slender fingers almost fierce. Then he took off at a run across the sand, left hand clasping his injured arm.

* * *

Damiskos, Aradne, and Nione reached the top of the stairs and took a moment to collect themselves. Damiskos was beginning to come down from the exhilaration of the fight and to feel sore and tired. Aradne was out of breath and clutching her side after the long climb, and Nione had to stop to remove a stone from her sandal. All in all, it was not an impressive entry into the garden.

The whole contingent of students, fishermen, and porters were there to meet them. At least, they were not standing awaiting them, but they were all gathered near the central fountain in the garden, arguing.