Filled with a fresh burst of energy, Achilleus gripped his spear under his arm halfway down the shaft so that it was perfectly in balance, the point toward John. He arced it up from his knees toward John’s heart. John blocked it, but the momentum of Achilleus’s swing brought the point back and around so that the blunt end of his spear was now toward John. Achilleus swung the spear quickly back in the same arc as his initial thrust, sweeping in toward John from his blind right side. The side that was unprotected by his shield. The pommel punched into John’s shoulder, and he cursed. It wasn’t enough to make him drop his spear, but he was rattled.

Achilleus now set up a regular attacking rhythm. A slice up with the point, a punch down with the pommel on the return swing. Steady and solid like a machine. Not giving John time to gather himself and respond properly. At first he was thrown, blocking, ducking and weaving, always on the back foot. It gradually dawned on him, however, that Achilleus’s attack was the same each time. His swing the same length. Holding the spear halfway along the shaft meant that his reach wasn’t too great. John only had to step back each time and the spear swished harmlessly past in front of him. Achilleus could keep it up for as long as he wanted. He’d get exhausted long before John. John let him come on, swinging away. Then he would step lightly back to keep out of reach. He had always known that he had the longer arms.

He didn’t smile now. He didn’t want Achilleus to know that he had the measure of him, that Achilleus’s strikes were useless.

“What’s he doing?” said Mick. “He can’t get near to John. He’s just walking out of the way.”

“That blow to the head must have shaken his brain loose, man,” said Lewis. “I can’t watch. It’s embarrassing.”

Still Achilleus plodded on. Slicing up and clubbing down. Like a nerd with a playground bully, goaded to fight, and swinging his arms in useless silly punches. John was growing more relaxed with each swing. More sure of himself.

Sure of victory.

Even Maxie could see that Achilleus’s plan wasn’t working. John was playing with him, letting Achilleus wear himself out, hardly even bothering to counterattack, just offering the odd contemptuous poke with his longer spear. Maxie closed her eyes. She couldn’t watch any more. She knew it now. Achilleus was going to get killed.

Still Achilleus swung away—up down up down. He stumbled, blood pouring down his face, his ruined ear flapping.