The hoplite drops his spear—a heavy rock smashes against his shoul­der.

Mov­ing as one, the hoplites turn around. Spears and shields coa­lesce into an impreg­nable wall fac­ing the rock-thrower.

They’re just in time: a swelling crowd of natives flows towards them from a side street.

DEATH TO THE EMPIRE! DEATH TO AKKAD!
DEATH TO THE DEFILERS OF OUR TEMPLE!

The natives rush the hastily-formed pha­lanx, wield­ing clubs and makeshift staffs.

Most of them are skew­ered by the well-armored hoplites. They fall in twitch­ing, bleed­ing, scream­ing heaps on the sand.

Then arrows whis­tle through the air. One hoplite falls, then another. The natives stream into the gaps, like a wave devour­ing a sand cas­tle, bat­ting their clubs at the hoplites’ exposed legs and backs.

The princess and Kripa had dis­ap­peared into the fast-flowing crowd. Gil spins around—the natives are pour­ing in from all sides.

Jaruna is nowhere in sight. The arrows have stopped whistling down.

Kiddu grabs Gil’s arm—natives are run­ning past them, clubs raised, scream­ing death threats.

One of the natives sees Gil and skids to a stop. He raises his club.

Gil raises his hands in the air, try­ing to make his sur­ren­der as obvi­ous as pos­si­ble. The native rushes him.

The last thing he hears is Kiddu’s scream as the club cracks against his head.

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