Free Arms and the Women by Reginald Hill

Don't worry, we'll chop more than his hand off before we're finished.'
The guard commander said mildly, 'Glad to see you're so keen for action, soldier. You can take over up the headland. Go on, don't hang about. Could be there's a whole army of Greeks landing there already.'
The word Greeks buzzed quickly through the camp, and soon the way ahead was blocked by a crowd of men, many with their weapons out. Unperturbed, the prisoner advanced at the same steady pace, forcing them to retreat before him, till someone at the rear set up a cry of, 'The Prince! The Prince!' and the men moved to either side, leaving a path clear.
Two men had emerged from the sole substantial shelter in the camp, a small pavilion erected in the lee of a huge boulder which had shielded it from the worst of the storm. One was grey-bearded and bent with the weight of years, the other young, slim, upright, with still, watchful eyes set in a narrow clean-shaven face.
Suddenly the fat man sank to his knees and prostrated himself with his face pressed against the young man's sandals.
'Have mercy, great Prince,' his muffled voice pleaded. 'Like the gods you are clearly descended from, take pity on this poor miserable wretch whose only hope for life and succour lies in your infinite generosity.'
The young man didn't look impressed.
'What's this you've brought us, Achates?' he asked.
Succinctly the guard commander told his story.
'So, a Greek, you say? And probably a spy?'
A cry of protest rose from the recumbent man, cut off sharply as Achates pressed the point of his sword into his neck.
'Could be. Shall I set him on a griddle over a slow fire for half an hour till he's ready to tell us?'
A murmur of approval went up from the listening men, but the Prince said gravely, 'This is not how our religion has taught us to treat the wayworn traveller who comes as a guest in our midst. Let food and dry clothing be brought, and when he is refreshed, I shall talk to him to discover what manner of man he is and his purpose in coming here.'
The fat man began to gabble fulsome thanks, but the Prince silenced him with a sharp movement of his
foot and went on, 'Nevertheless, heat up the griddle in case I am not satisfied.'
The Prince disengaged his foot and Achates prodded the Greek upright with his sword. Two young women came forward, one with some clothing, the other with a bronze platter piled high with steaming food.
'That smells grand. I'm right grateful, lord. Only I need a hand to eat with.'
'Only one?' said Achates, raising his weapon. 'Which would you like to keep?'
'Nay, not so hasty,' said the Greek, starting back. 'Hang about.'
He flexed his broad shoulders, took a deep breath, bowed forward, his body hunched, and with a single convulsive movement, he snapped the length of cloth which bound his wrists.
 
At this moment the doorbell rang and Ellie, dragged back from the dangerous world of her imagination to the equally dangerous world of her life, knocked over the cup.
'Fuck!' she said, jumping up and shaking the coffee from the keyboard.
Amazingly, when she finished, the screen still displayed her story but for safety's sake she saved and switched off.
The doorbell was ringing again.
Even the knowledge that Detective Constable Dennis Seymour was sitting in his car right opposite the house didn't prevent her from checking on the bellringer from behind the curtains like any suburban housewife in a sitcom.
It was her friend, Daphne Aldermann, full of eager curiosity after having been intercepted and checked out by the watching policeman. After a short hiatus to pour herself and her guest a nerve-soothing Scotch - once you got on Dr Dalziel's books, you followed his prescriptions to the bitter end - she had launched into the narrative with mock-heroic gusto, and thence to the calmer pleasures of self-analysis. As a long-time opponent of all forms of violent action, she felt it necessary to explain in detail to Daphne, who had no objection whatsoever to a bit of