Mounted at last, the men rode across the green hills, their armour glinting in the morning sun. Topping a rise, they gazed down on a series of small villages and a distant temple with white columns, beyond which lay the shimmering sea.
Leucion tugged on the reins, riding towards the nearest village. His head was pounding now and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.
Curse you, whore, to a worm-ridden death!
As they neared the village he glanced at the temple. Riding high on the hills, they could see over the white walls of the temple garden. A young woman was walking there, her red-gold hair reflecting the sunlight, her body slim, breasts pressing against the filmy gown she wore.
A scene came to his mind: the woman writhing beneath him, begging him to stop, pleading with him, his knife at her throat, the blade slipping into the skin, the blood gushing from her. . . .
Kicking his horse into a run, he galloped for the rose-covered gateway.
Even as he approached he realized that the others would never stand for him murdering the girl before they had enjoyed her. No, he would have to be patient. His thoughts surprised him, for he had never before considered there to be pleasure in murder. In fighting, yes; in war, obviously. How curious, he thought. Dragging on the reins, he leapt from the horse’s back and strode through the gateway. The girl was kneeling by a rosebush. Her head came up.
She was blind. For some reason this made his arousal more fierce, his sense of power soaring.
He heard the other men dismounting and halted, watching the girl. Her beauty was considerable, more Greek than Persian, but Leucion did not care what nationality she was.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, her voice soft yet deeper than he had expected, her accent betraying her Doric origins. Spartan or Corinthian, he thought, which delighted him. He would not have felt as content with the prospect of raping an Athenian woman.
‘Why do you not speak?’ she asked, no trace of fear yet in
her voice. But that would come, he knew. Slowly he drew his knife and advanced towards her.
‘What are you doing?’ cried Pendar.
Leucion ignored him and moved close to the woman. Even above the scent of the roses, he could smell the perfume of her hair. Reaching out he took hold of her gown at the shoulder and slashed through it, pulling the remnants clear of her body. She stumbled back naked – and now the fear showed.
‘Stop this!’ Pendar shouted, running forward and grabbing Leucion’s arm. Before he could stop himself the warrior swung and plunged his blade into his friend’s chest. ‘Why?’ whispered Pendar, falling against Leucion and sliding to the ground, his blood smearing Leucion’s bronze breastplate. For a moment Leucion hesitated, confused; then he shook his head and swung to the other men. ‘You want to take her?’ he asked them.
‘Why not?’ answered Boras, a thick-set Thracian. ‘She looks tender enough.’ The men advanced on the naked girl, Leucion in the lead with his bloody knife raised. The priestess stood her ground. She lifted her hand and Leucion felt the knife writhe in his grasp. Glancing down, he screamed – he was holding a viper, whose raised head was drawn back with fangs poised for the strike. He threw it from him, hearing it clatter to the stones.
‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ asked Boras.
‘Did you not see it? The snake?’
‘Are you mad? You want her first – or not? I’ll not wait for long.’
A low growl came from behind them.
A beast stood in their midst. It had the head of a lion, the body of a bear, huge shoulders and taloned paws. Swords flashed into the air as the warriors attacked the creature, which offered no resistance as the blades clove into its massive frame. It fell, covered in blood – and became their comrade, Metrodorus.
‘She’s a witch!’ shouted Boras, moving back from her.
‘Yes, a witch,’ the blind woman told them, her voice almost a hiss. ‘And now you will all die!’
‘No!’ came another voice, and Leucion saw an old woman struggling along the pathway. Easing past the swordsmen and kneeling beside the dead Metrodorus, she placed her hands on his wounds and began to chant. Clouds seemed to race across the sky, then freeze in place. The wind at first howled but then died, and the silence was eerie. Leucion glanced up to see an eagle hanging motionless in the sky, wings spread. The chanting continued and the men watched as Metrodorus’ wounds closed. A shuddering breath shook his frame, then a groan.