I gripped the hilt of my knife with manic strength. I tried to loosen my grip. I could not. I exchanged hands, holding the knife with my left as I shook out my right hand. Then, I re-gripped the knife with my weapon hand.

  “He’s afraid!” one of the slavers shouted.

  Let them say what they wished. It didn’t matter. I watched Tonk. He was studying me. I could see the calculation in his eyes.

  Men murmured, “Have them fight! Start it already!”

  “Quiet!” Jethro turned to us. “Are you two ready?”

  Tonk nodded.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You fight for our amusement, slaves. You fight so we may watch you bleed. You are slaves. Do you agree?”

  Tonk nodded again.

  I remained silent.

  “Man of the Sea,” Jethro said, “do you agree you’re a slave?”

  I said nothing.

  “Archers!”

  Several Amorites stepped forward, drawing bows. The arrows aimed at me.

  “Are you a slave?” Jethro asked.

  “I’m a pit slave,” I said, the words bitter in my mouth. “For now.”

  “Begin,” Jethro said.

  Tonk moved like a snake, rushing forward, his arm thrusting. The spear jabbed at my stomach.

  Amorites roared with approval.

  Tonk’s speed startled me. I barely twisted enough so the spear-blade hissed past my torso. I didn’t counter-thrust at him, as I held the knife poorly for that. Instead, I jumped back and slammed against the dirt wall.

  Amorites laughed and jeered.

  Tonk thrust again. I jumped to the side and shifted around. He spun to face me. I hadn’t attacked, but regained my balance and strove to find my equilibrium.

  He thrust, and stumbled, falling to one knee. Still, I didn’t attack, but watched and thought furiously.

  Tonk stood with his eyes narrowed.

  I don’t think he’d accidentally slipped. That had been a fake, a trick to draw me in so he could thrust and finish it.

  His eyes glittered, as he understood I’d seen through his stratagem.

  Death stalked me. Tonk was an expert of the pit, of the small vile place. If I lost, I couldn’t run. I’d have to beat the master of the pit. Even at this point, it grated on me that I’d called myself a slave.

  “No,” I said, under my breath. Saying so had been a trick to gain time. A man might lie to save his life. There was no dishonor in it. Jethro would feel my knife at his throat and learn the cost of calling me a slave.

  Tonk rushed in. I slid along the pit edge. He thrust, slashed, thrust again, and I danced as I’d seen the bold dancers of Knossos who’d jumped onto the horns of a bull. They’d been tossed into the air, twisting and turning, landing on the bull’s back and then to the ground. I didn’t flip in the air, but attempted to match their grace as I kept the bronze spear-blade from killing me.

  Tonk kept coming, thrusting, attacking and swinging with his left arm to catch me off-guard. I dodged sinuously, feeling as if I could do this forever. It was a delusion. I’d tire from the exertion of energy. Eventually, I’d have to close with Tonk. Could I outwrestle his bulk or cut him with the knife—without receiving a spear-blade in the guts in return? Though he was shorter, his broad shoulders denoted great strength and his corded forearms—

  I snarled with frustrated rage as sweat dripped from me.

  I’d become skinny and parched from my days with the Amurru. Still, I’d learned endurance in the desert. I could do this. I had to.

  Tonk snorted like a wild bull, and he thrust once more. I moved as fast as I could. With my left hand, I gripped the corded muscles of his spear arm and attempted to hold his arm against my side as I moved in and stabbed. He twisted. Immense strength ripped his arm free. Not even the Spartan who’d taught me the dagger had been that strong. Still, as Tonk shook me off, my knife gashed his side. He grunted and spat, roared and stabbed at me. The edge of the spear-blade creased my shoulder as I jumped closer in. I stabbed into his belly and sawed, but the edge of my knife was too dull. I jerked out the knife, stabbed and jerked it out, stabbed and stabbed.

  I leapt back. Tonk swung wildly. The edge of the stabbing spear gashed my left cheek so hot blood spurted. I leaped back again, slamming against the dirt wall.

  Tonk might have finished me then, but he stood there panting. Blood poured from his ruined stomach. His green eyes blurred. Did his vision swim?

  “Come,” he said, stumbling at me.

  I should have slid aside.

  Then he was too close, having cornered me in a round pit. I wouldn’t be able to evade the spear-blade if he thrust with strength.

  I swallowed, needing a plan.

  Tonk thrust weakly, his life and strength draining away from the blood pouring from his gut.

  I did a crazy thing. I reached around the spear-blade, grabbed his wrist, and twisted with all the fury I could. The tip of the spear tickled my stomach, which I sucked in desperately. Then, I wrenched his wrist, moving the spear tip from me.

  Tonk staggered back, tripped on his feet and crashed onto his back as he released the short spear.

  I scooped up the fallen stabbing spear.

  “Stop,” Jethro shouted. “The fight is over.”

  For once, I didn’t heed the slave master. I jabbed the spear into Tonk’s throat. I had to kill him before he healed and I had to fight him again. He could win next time.

  Tonk thrashed for only a moment. Then he grew still, no longer breathing. He was dead.

  I stood as I released the spear. Panting heavily, rapturous that I’d won, I faced Jethro staring down at me.

  The other Amorites were packed around the pit, their faces, gleaming with hate and fulfilled murder-lust.

  “He killed Tonk. Tonk is dead.”

  Jethro said nothing.

  “I’m Damon, the Athenian, and I’ve defeated Tonk.”

  “Yes,” Jethro said slowly. “In Tonk’s place, you’ve become my prized pit slave.”

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, I awoke with a reeling head and dry mouth. I realized my hands were free as I lay in a tent with my wounds stitched and smeared with ointment.

  Right, last night after an old woman had sewn my cuts and smeared the piss-smelling ointment on them, I’d drunk endless cups of wine with the Amorites. They’d laughed until I was reeling and slumped as one dead.

  I was stiff and sore this morning. The fight with Tonk had been devastating.

  I left the tent shortly. The camp stirred. Despite the partying last night, the Amorites were ready to leave.

  The tied slaves hoisted their logs to their shoulders. The whip masters made last-minute adjustments. Some of the slaves looked at me with envy.

  Jethro approached. Seven of his toughest spearmen came with him. He carried something wrapped in his hands.

  “Step here, Pit Slave,” Jethro said.

  For a moment, I contemplated hurling myself upon him. He’d promised me freedom if I beat Tonk. Apparently, I was still a slave, although one elevated in status. I told myself there was a time for pride and a time to dissemble. I’d raised my status. Perhaps I could do so again—provided I remained alive.

  I stepped up to Jethro and his seven.

  Around us, whips cracked. Ropes creaked. The slaves with their logs began to march upon the trade trail. That included the other party of slavers with their captives.

  Jethro eyed the laden donkeys and carts, all stolen goods heading north to the Rephaim. From what I’d heard, the Rephaim needed many men and slaves to erect defenses against the invading kings of the East. I didn’t know much more than that. I’d been enduring as a slave, enduring the shame of my servitude too much to care or learn about much else.

  Jethro regarded me, nodding. “You slew Tonk in fair combat. He was a mighty pit slave. He won me much coin and upheld the honor of my clan. Now, you’ll take his place. I was going to set you free, but you slew him against my wishes and this is the consequences of your action.”

  I could have told him my reflexes had taken over, but I didn’t want to make excuses. I was a warrior. I’d fought and conquered a warrior. If I were a pit slave, it would only be for a short time.

  “I’m a man of my word,” Jethro said.

  That was a lie. He’d tricked others, using his word as a stratagem, a maneuver. He’d lied to me. What would it profit me to say so to him, though?

  Without another word, he handed me the bundled object.

  I took it, glancing at the seven spearmen. They weren’t tense, ready to strike, but they watched me.

  I unfolded the cloth. My heart hammered. I saw the dagger given me by the Minotaur, the one forged from fallen star-metal.

  I nodded. That was all the thanks I could muster for Jethro, even though it would go better for me if I mouthed false gratitude. I should tell Jethro he was a man of his word for giving me this.

  There was a glint in his crafty eyes. Perhaps he understood my anger at remaining a slave.

  “You’ll keep the dagger as per our bargain. These seven will watch you. If you attempt to escape, they’ll subdue you. I’ll have you castrated and blinded afterward. You’ll do the most heinous tasks and die in time in vile servitude. If, however, you remain faithful and do as I instruct, you’ll win coin as you defeat others in the pit. Do you agree?”

  “Yes.” What else could I say? Fighting as a pit slave was demeaning, but it was better than marching tied to a log, merchandise on the hoof.

  For the next week, I marched with the caravan and fought in the pit again, easily subduing the poor wretch they threw in with me for the amusement of the slavers.

  I witnessed trades and trading until a third group half our size joined the greater procession. They were also Amorites with poor wretches chained to logs.

  Chains instead of ropes were interesting. The last group of slavers must be richer than the first two. I heard Jethro and others boast of a new, most excellent pit slave.

  I didn’t realize the talk was a trick to lure the last group of slavers into a betting match. Coins began to exchange hands and then arguments as to who would hold onto the money until the end of the match.

  For two days, the new slavers spoke about their champion while Jethro’s people talked about the one who’d slain Tonk.

  Finally, as the caravan neared the Cities of the Plain, and as the terrain changed from hill country to such lush vegetation as I’d seldom seen—

  This was a fertile land with fields tilled by hardworking men and women. The one city I saw had stout stone walls. The soldiers bore spears, some wearing corselets of bronze links. These were rich men. In the distance rose a stench, however, and a fume, a haze. They called them the slime pits, which held bubbling tar or bitumen, a strange substance used to glue bricks to construct towering edifices.

  The names of the Five Cities of the Plain were Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah, Zeboiim and Zoar.

  I saw Zoar.

  These were rich cities, to which I could attest if the others were like Zoar. Rumor held they’d rebelled against the kings of the East.

  For twelve years, the five cities had paid tribute. In the thirteenth year, the kings of Sodom and Gomorrah led the others in rebellion. The tribute ceased and they knew a year of freedom. Now, in the fourteenth year, the kings of the East under the command of the great Chedorlaomer marched to bring the rich cities back under his control.

  I readied myself for facing the champion of the new slavers. Jethro sent female slaves and they rubbed my limbs with oil and massaged them. Even better, I’d bedded one of the women two nights in a row.

  I believe Jethro wanted me to feel more like a man, more like a warrior, and indeed, I did.

  That caused me to chafe that I was a pit slave. The word slave in particular galled me. I was a free man.

  Bide your time. You’re the ears of the Sea King. You have much to tell him already. It’s just a matter of escaping and getting back to Knossos. You changed your fate once already. Certainly, you can do it again.

  Slaves dug a great pit, deeper and wider than before. Men lit torches and put together stands of wooden benches one over the other, slanted back. Soon enough, the slavers and their guests arrived, as many as three hundred altogether. They were drinking, laughing and shouting. They filed onto the stands, the most important lower down.

  Several of Jethro’s armed Amorites surrounded me at all times. I wore a long red cloak even though I had but a loincloth and was barefoot beneath. I held the dagger of the Minotaur. The fallen star-metal was stronger than knives and spearheads forged by Hittites or the great Egyptians. This—I hefted the blade—was a princely weapon.

  My opponent was much different from Tonk. I saw him surrounded by Amorite slavers. They stood on the other side of the pit as me. He was tall and shaven like an Egyptian. Indeed, he was an Egyptian. He bore a sickle sword, the end shaped like the sickle farmers use to shear wheat. Instead of being sharp on the inner side, the sickle sword was sharp on the outer. It also had a longer handle than that of a farmer’s sickle. Clearly, it was a slashing weapon as opposed to stabbing like a spear.

  I’d have the advantage, I thought to myself. Then he produced a second sickle sword. He had two weapons, I but one.

  “A cheat,” Jethro said from the stands. “Pit slaves fight with only one weapon.”

  “You did not stipulate,” the other slaver master said.

  “In that case,” Jethro said, “I’ll give my slave a shield.”

  “Your pit slave came as he came,” the other said mildly. “That was the stipulation. Or have you forgotten?”

  I could see the blood rush to Jethro’s face. Clearly, he believed himself cheated or tricked. He glared at the other before turning to me.

  Did he wish to tell me something?

  Jethro did not. He also waved away a cup of wine one of his men tried to give him. He crossed his arms, scowling at the pit.

  The other slaver master gave a signal.

  The Egyptian, the tall lithe man, strode from his handlers and jumped into the pit, landing lightly.

  As I’d said earlier, this pit was deeper and wider from the one where I’d faced Tonk.

  “Go,” said one of the spearmen.

  I shrugged off my red cloak and strode to the pit. The sun had set. The myriad of torches provided the light. In the torchlight, my oiled muscles gleamed. I was bulkier and brawnier than my opponent, but for once, I faced a taller man.

  I jumped into the pit.

  The Egyptian clashed his swords together so the bronze glinted and scraped. He grinned, showing strong white teeth. He appeared a skilled man, a confident one. Perhaps he was an arrogant man.

  I hefted the dagger, the blade meant to kill the acolyte of the strange god. Tonk had been fearsome. Would the Egyptian prove better?

  An Amorite chieftain gave the word.

  The Egyptian crouched with the two blades held forth like great slashing claws of some bird of the Nile. He moved sinuously toward me. One step. Two. I had my dagger low before me, trying to gauge what he would do. How would he attack? How would Tonk have fought him?

  “No,” I told myself. I wasn’t a pit slave. I wasn’t some brute that would spit to the side and have lost his teeth, replaced with many scars. I wasn’t a monster of this terrible custom the Amorites practiced. I was a warrior of Crete. No! Of Athens. I would meet him as a man of Athens.

  Thus, I waited and watched.

  The Egyptian spoke in his liquid language. I didn’t understand his words. He spoke again. Then, he screamed a great cry, sliding toward me, slashing a sickle sword.

  I blocked with my dagger.

  Amazingly, the shock of our strike was more powerful than I’d anticipated. His sickle sword snapped, part of it falling onto the sand. The Egyptian stared at the sword in horror. I struck, thrusting my arm. The dagger caught the Egyptian in the face, the tip of star-metal sinking into an eye and then farther, into his brain. He went rigid, already dead. I roared and pushed him to the dirt, ripping my dagger free, having slain him in an instant.

  He’d let the destruction of one of his prized sickle swords shock and surprise him. Now, I stood triumphant.

  I raised my bloody blade and looked at the sheiks, at the slavers around me. I smiled as a warrior of Athens who’d defeated the one sent against me. In my stare, I challenged any to come into the pit and face the dagger of the Minotaur, face me.

  A great roar of approval arose from the slavers of Jethro. They’d won coin and honor because of me. The others glowered. I think only Jethro understood I stared at them as a free man, not a pit slave.

  Even as I exuded in my easy conquest, I wondered how long I could continue to vanquish men one by one, where one slip, one miscalculation, could end in my death. Could someone bribe Jethro enough so he’d poison my drink to slow the speed of my attack?”

  I shook my head. That wasn’t a victorious warrior’s thought. I knelt by the Egyptian and wiped my bloody blade on his loincloth. He lay defeated, dead.

  Afterward, I climbed out of the pit. It was time to flee these man-stealers and find the acolyte of the strange god. Yes. A sense of urgency filled me. I wanted to complete the deed and bring the man’s severed head to the Minotaur. I wanted to do this before the kings of the East smashed against the Rephaim of the North.

  Chapter Nine

  After a day’s rest and some trading with the men of Zoar, our slaver caravan headed north. We soon left the area of the Cities of the Plain. The plain or valley was also known as the Vale of Siddim, perhaps the most luxurious in all the land of Canaan. Thankfully, we also left the stench of the unseen tar pits.

  We soon continued north along the great Caravan Road that trailed east of the Salt Sea. We climbed and could soon see much farther into the distance.

  It appeared we were behind schedule, for there was a debate among Jethro and the other slaver captains. Should they discard the logs so the slaves could march faster? Toiling up the trail had proven particularly hard for the poor captives, straining to carry the log on their shoulders. In the end, likely for reasons of security, the merchandise continued to carry the heavy load. That way, undoubtedly, there would be no mass escape or time spent trying to recapture them.