Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [74]
But I was a killer, not a victim. I grabbed his balls and tried to rip them off and he screamed. He thought that he had me, with that headlock. I got his balls and I dug my thumb in while I ripped, and he screamed like a woman in childbirth.
He lay writhing on the floor and I knelt on his back, got my hand under his head and snapped his neck.
Then I went back to the one whose head I’d hit, and I snapped his neck, too.
I swore I’d tell you the truth, honey. I’m a killer. When the daimon comes on me, I kill. And remember the lesson – that dead men tell no tales.
Then Darkar came.
‘Demeter, boy!’ the steward said. He held me at arm’s length because I tried to hurt him. I’m like that when the spirit of Heracles comes on me. ‘Ares, boy! You’ve killed this one!’
I was losing the daimon of combat, and I shook my head and my nose hurt. ‘He was hurting me,’ I said.
Kylix poured water over my head. ‘You killed them both,’ he said, and there was awe in his voice.
Darkar looked at the shambles. He looked for some time and then he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, boy,’ he said. ‘I have to tell Master. This is more than I can cover.’
I don’t know how long it was after my meeting with Briseis in the dark, but it must have been six months. We’d just had a trip to Lesbos and I was well-liked, for a slave. Hipponax didn’t view me as a troublemaker. But this time, it was dark, I was covered in blood and Master was standing over me in his own courtyard.
‘Men attacked him,’ Darkar said. ‘He sent Kylix for me.’
Hipponax loomed over me and his cool hands, which smelled of beeswax, touched my cheek. ‘Gods – get him a doctor.’ Darkar was silent. ‘What is it, Darkar?’
‘He killed them,’ Darkar said. ‘Both of them. Free men, I think. Their bodies are in the fountain house.’
Hipponax knelt beside me. ‘They attacked you, boy?’
I nodded. I could barely breathe. I had a broken nose and at least two broken ribs, too.
Hipponax rose. ‘Take him to the Temple of Asclepius, then. And dispose of the dead men. Pay the other slaves for their silence. I take it these are not men of property?’
Darkar spat. ‘Scum, lord. Thugs.’
Archi came at a run. He looked at me and he took my hand. ‘Artemis! Doru – what happened?’
I was silent, but Archi figured it out. ‘Diomedes!’ he said.
Hipponax ignored his son and turned to his steward. ‘The fountain is now off-limits to our people. Dispose of the bodies. You may use a cart and a mule.’
‘Thank you, lord,’ I said.
Hipponax ignored me. To his son, he said, ‘Diomedes will soon be a son of this house. Are you accusing him of attacking your slave?’
Archi shrugged – which, as I have mentioned, is not the way to placate a parent. You might take note of that yourself, thugater. My mind whirled. Son of this house? That meant that Diomedes was to marry Briseis.
I vomited on the flagstones.
After that, I was in debt to every slave in the house. It took a conspiracy of the whole neighbourhood to keep me safe. Yes – slaves are never friends. Or perhaps I should say that desperate slaves are never friends. Happy, prosperous slaves in a good house have the time and safety to be friends – selfish, backbiting friends, but friends nonetheless. But they hate the masters in their own way. Someone might have blabbed, if anyone had made it worth their while, but those two men – slave or free – they were scum. No one came looking for them.
I began to live with fear. In fact, I began to think like a slave – really think like a slave. I began to be very careful about what I said. I began to swallow insults. Those two killings taught me another lesson – and I was lucky to get off so cheaply. A week in the temple, and a year of carrying water and emptying chamber pots and fetching yarn and running errands – and minding my words. And a twinge in my chest when the rain is coming, every time