Sunset of the Gods - By Steve White Page 0,71

alone after all. A hoplite, still fully armed and equipped, was coming toward him at a trot, his face hidden by one of the crested Corinthian helmets.

Who is that? he wondered, looking at the inhuman facelessness of the Corinthian helmet. And what’s he in such a hurry for?

“Rejoice!” he called out, one fifth-century b.c. Greek to another.

Instead of replying, the hoplite brought his spear up overhand and stabbed with it. For some infinitesimal fraction of a second, Jason clearly saw the spearpoint coming toward his unprotected face.

Jason’s paralysis broke. He scooped up his shield and, with no time to get his arm through the porpax arm-grip, he awkwardly grabbed the shield by the hand-grip and the left edge and shoved it up and out as he surged to his feet.

The iron point, driven by all the strength of his onrushing assailant, punched through the shield’s thin bronze covering and the hardwood beneath, protruding from the inner surface inches from Jason’s arm. Jason twisted the shield sharply to the side, and the spear-shaft broke. Before the attacker could reverse it and use the butt-spike, Jason shoved the shield forward against him, pushing with his entire weight, bowling the man over. Taking advantage of the momentary respite, he scrambled backwards and retrieved the sword he had laid on the ground. At the same time, he frantically tried, using his left arm alone, to grip his shield properly. Clumsy and burdensome as the sixteen-pound hoplon was, it was all he had.

But the man had gotten to his feet with remarkable speed for one wearing hoplite armor, and was carrying his shield very easily—he must, Jason thought, be very strong, to be able to use the hoplon for personal defense. He swung the remainder of his spear-shaft almost like a mace and struck the rim of Jason’s shield just as Jason was still trying to correct his grip, sending it flying. The spear-shaft also went flying, and the attacker whipped out his sword and rushed in. Jason knew himself for a dead man, for he stood no chance in a sword fight, shieldless and helmetless.

Only . . . at least I can see, without that damned helmet!

It was the only card he had to play. He lunged forward, evading the sword-slash and moving into the attacker’s right-hand blind zone.

Even with these short blades, it was too close for swordplay. But taking advantage of his instant of invisibility, Jason got his right arm under the attacker’s from behind and, holding both their sword-arms locked into temporary uselessness, used his free left hand to grab the man’s helmet by its crest and wrench it off.

At appreciably the same instant, the attacker brought his clumsy shield sharply back, smashing its rim into Jason’s left rib cage. The breastplate prevented it from breaking any ribs, but the impact caused Jason to lose his grip and the man flung him away. He landed supine, and a sandaled foot came painfully down on his right wrist, pinning his sword-arm to the ground.

Jason had time to look up into his assailant’s face. It was one of the unpleasantly similar faces of Franco’s gene-enhanced underlings. Jason recognized him as Landry’s killer. The man raised his sword. . . .

There was an odd and unpleasant sound, which seemed compounded of those usually characterized as whack and crunch. The Transhumanist’s face went abruptly expressionless, and blood began to seep from a small round hole in the exact center of his forehead. His raised sword fell to the ground, and he followed it there with a clang of armor as his legs crumpled.

Jason looked behind him. Mondrago held the sling that had sent its little lead pellet into the Transhumanist’s brain.

“You really do know how to use that thing,” Jason remarked, inadequately.

“You helped by getting his helmet off,” Mondrago grinned, helping Jason to his feet. He glanced at the body. “So I suppose his job was to provide us with an ‘in-period death.’”

For a moment they stood and looked to the northeast over the plain of Marathon, where the battle was roaring along toward the Persian ships. Jason knew what was happening up there. Datis, the Persian commander, had managed to get enough of a new line formed to hold the Greek light troops. But when the re-formed phalanx—moving slowly this time, for there were limits to the endurance even of hoplites—arrived, a final, desperate battle would rage. The Persians would hold the narrow beach long enough for all but seven of their ships to