His two men were lounging to one side, sniggering at the tongue-lashing Silanos was taking from his master. The steward turned abruptly to Marcellos and signalled to him to hand over Erlan’s blade. ‘See this, master.’ He presented the hilt to the general who took it. ‘A cripple he may be, but any man carrying a weapon like this must be a great warrior.’

‘Is that so?’ growled Arbasdos, inspecting the thing briefly. ‘And I suppose it was the Greek who told you this was his.’ He gave a dismissive snort. ‘A great warrior. Bah! You’ve been played, Silanos.’ And with that, he threw the sword down at the steward’s feet. But before it could hit the pavings Erlan had darted forward and caught it. He straightened up slowly. It was an awkward moment. For all of them. He was now armed, and with a weapon far more deadly than any other within reach.

Silanos’s face was frozen in horror. The two swordsmen bristled but they were yards away. Marcellos had the presence of mind to give a tug on Erlan’s chain, but Erlan was ready, and resisted, catching the big oaf off balance so that he stumbled forward. But before anyone else could react he flipped Wrathling on its end and offered the hilt back to the general. ‘It’s a fine sword,’ he said softly. ‘But I am better.’

The general grunted and took the proffered hilt. ‘He speaks Greek.’

‘Y-yes,’ stammered Silanos, still flustered. ‘Some, master. But I will get him—’

‘Let’s prove him then, shall we?’ the general cried. ‘If you’re so damn sure he can fight. Georgios?’

One of his men looked up at his name. He chuckled, drained his cup, stretched his neck and then went to pick up the training swords lying nearby.

‘No.’ Arbasdos shook his head. There was a glint of malice in his sad eyes. ‘Those.’ He pointed at two other swords resting against a pillar, still in their scabbards. The man Georgios hesitated, then shrugged and went to unsheathe the blades.

‘Master, have a care,’ Silanos pleaded. ‘The expense—’

‘—is mine to bear. Don’t worry, you old woman! I’ll tell them when to stop. Unchain him.’

A few moments later the metal links around Erlan’s ankles and wrists fell to the ground with a rattle. Erlan stepped forward and swung his arms, feeling buoyant now without his chains. If this Byzantine turd wanted a show of skill, the deadlier the better as far as he was concerned. He was confused, hungry, thirsty, weary. Desperate. . . and about as far from battle-ready as a man could be. Yet something in him wanted this fight. The bewilderment of all that he had seen that day suddenly cleared like fog before a hot wind.

This, he knew. . .