"Arrows," he said at last.
Eodan watched them make ready. Four soldiers were shield to shield, a few yards away. If he made a dash, they would be on him, and even a Cimbrian could not hold off four good men in the open. Three more strung their bows and put arrows point down in the ground before them—slowly, carefully, grinning into Eodan's emotionless face. Flavius and the Gaul dragged a post from a torn-down shed into view.
When everything was ready, Flavius stepped forth. "Do you see what I plan?" he called. "You can stand where you are and be filled with arrows, or you can close that door, which is only leather hinges, and wait for us to break it down."
"I think we will wait," said Eodan.
He shut the door, and darkness clamped upon his eyes. He heard the Roman arrows smite and wondered what impulse of fury made Flavius order them fired. He trod on a dead man's hand and wondered what woman and child and horse would wait till time's end for its caress.
"Back," he said. "Into the pit, Phryne."
She kissed him, a stolen instant among shadows, and was gone.
Feet thudded outside. The door, which he had not barred, flew open. Two black blots staggered through, the timber in their arms.
Tjorr met them as they reeled. His hammer boomed on iron. "Ho-ah!" he cried so it rang. "Yuk-hai-saa-saa! Come in and be slain!"
He stood in the middle of the room with Eodan. Each had a Roman shield and his chosen weapon, maul or longsword. They waited.