John Roberts - The Princess and the Pirates

So we climbed the steps to the splendid altar that stood before the temple. With Cleopatra holding the wine jar, I borrowed Hermes’s sword and, grasping it by the sheath, held it out toward Ariston, who placed his horny palm on its hilt. Then I administered the oath, which is a sacred thing and not to be written down. At the required moment, Cleopatra poured the wine onto the altar and we watched as it ran down the blood channel to the drain that would carry it to the earth below.

“That’s that, then,” I said, tossing the weapon back to Hermes. “Welcome to the service of Rome. Stay in the navy for twenty years, and you’ll be rewarded with citizenship.”

Ariston laughed loudly. “So that I can spend a few years of doddering old age privileged to vote some thief into office?”

“You could take up residence in some thriving little municipality, get elected to office, and line your own purse. Plenty of clever veterans have done that.”

“The wonders of living in a republic,” Cleopatra said bemusedly. We began to stroll across the plaza toward the governor’s mansion when I stopped in my tracks at an all too familiar sound: a triple slither of blades leaving sheaths. Hermes, Apollodorus, and Ariston had drawn in the same instant. I had heard nothing to alarm me, but that didn’t slow me down. My hands dived into my tunic and emerged with my dagger in my right fist and the spiked, bronze bar of my caestus across the knuckles of my left. I scandalized my family by brawling with such low-bred weapons, but they had saved my life in too many dark streets for me to entrust it to any others.

“How many?” I asked.

“We’ll know soon,” Hermes said.

“Hold this,” Apollodorus said, handing his torch to Cleopatra. She took it, eyes gone wide as he took his position just behind her to the right, where he could keep her in view and she would not interfere with his sword arm. He would ignore the rest of us, but nobody would touch Cleopatra while he was alive. Hermes stood back-to-back with me, and Ariston stood half crouched a few feet away, his eyes darting in all directions. Alpheus stood rigid, his torch held aloft, eyes bugged out in astonished terror.

All this was the work of an instant, and in the next instant they attacked.

With a hideous screech, they closed on us in a half circle. I had no time to make a count, but I knew they outnumbered us grievously. Well, I’d been in that situation before. The answer was to carve down their numbers as quickly as possible. I was surrounded by glittering metal and then the first of them was on me in a wash of wine-and-garlic breath. He cut high, going for my throat, and I ducked low, stepping in to drive my caestus into the bundle of nerves in his armpit. He squawked at the unexpected pain, and I drove my dagger in somewhere in the vicinity of his midriff.

The man dropped away from me just in time for me to see one dart past Cleopatra. Apollodorus thrust his sword out almost lazily, and the man stopped with a look of wonder as a great fountain of blood erupted from his throat. The really great swordsmen always seem to move slowly. Then I had no more time to appreciate his technique as another was on me. Meantime I could hear a series of grunts behind me and hoped that. Hermes was coping well, as my back would feel terribly bare otherwise.

My new admirer wore a short coat of Gallic mail and had a curved sword in one hand and a small fist shield in the other. He had come ready for war, and here I was, half naked and slow with all the wine I had put away. The sword flicked toward my eyes, and I batted it aside with the caestus, but it was a ruse. His real blow came from the little shield. Its iron edge came down on my right forearm just behind the wrist, and I heard my dagger hit the pavement an instant before the shield came in a second time, driving into my ribs and sending the wind from my lungs in a great blast.

Lights flashed before my eyes as I fell. My back hit the pavement and I saw, upside-down, Hermes fully occupied with a man who swung an iron-tipped staff in both hands. No help to be had from that direction. I tried to draw my legs in for a desperate kick, but I knew it was too late: the curved sword was already drawn back for the deathblow. All I could think was: It is good to die immediately after sacrificing. Neptune will intervene for me with the Judges. My father would have commended such a pious last thought, though he would have cursed me for a fool for dying in such a fashion.

Then a broad shape came between me and my would-be murderer. Ariston, crouched low, thrust a massive shoulder into the fellow’s midsection, bending him almost double. With a heave of powerful thighs, the ex-pirate sent him almost straight up, turning over end-for-end. Incredibly, Ariston spun and brought his broad-bladed knife down in a shearing blow, and the man landed on his back in a clashing of mail, half-beheaded.

Then there was silence until I heard a low whistle. “Will you teach me that move?” Hermes, naturally.

“I am glad,” I wheezed, “that you are so solicitous of your half-slain master.”

The boy helped me to my feet. “I’ve seen you half killed a dozen times. You don’t get to see a move like that every day.”

“Many thanks, Ariston,” I said. “I can see already that I did the right thing recruiting you.”

“What is going on here!” shouted someone. Then I saw Silvanus coming across the plaza with five or six slaves holding torches and staves. With him was Gabinius, accompanied by a grizzled man who had the look of a retired centurion. Both old soldiers held heavy, legionary swords in scarred fists.

“Just a small ambush,” I said, “nothing to concern yourself about.” My studied nonchalance was spoiled by the searing pain in my side. If I’d been fully sober it never would have happened.

“Princess!” Silvanus cried, “Are you well?”

“Perfectly unharmed,” she said, her voice breathless and excited. “I don’t believe this attack was meant for me.” Beside her, Apollodorus cleaned his blade on the tunic of the man he’d killed. I felt a hand clap my shoulder and turned to see the elated face of Alpheus.

“That was splendid! I shall compose a poem on this fight!” I wiped a hand down a half-numb face. “Poets sing of battle,” I said, “not sordid little brawls like this.”

“What do you think went on before the walls of Troy? Just a brawl.” He smiled and shrugged happily, verses already running through his head no doubt.

Gabinius examined the carnage. “Looks like the Senate steps back to the old days.” Five bodies lay there. I spotted the one Apollodorus had eliminated so elegantly, the one I had killed, and the one Ariston had eliminated. The staff man lay gurgling, bloody froth bubbling from a gaping chest wound. An unarmored man with a short sword had his hands full taking on a good man with a staff. Hermes had learned well.

“Who got this one?” I asked, pointing to an eviscerated man who lay nearby.

“He’s mine,” Ariston said. “And I sent another running with an arm cut half through. He should be dead by morning.”

“Then you get a high score for tonight’s work,” I commended him. “How many were there altogether?”

“I counted eight,” Alpheus said, “There were two who hung back and ran when they saw their companions bested.”

“Did you see anyone just standing back and watching not taking any part?”

“No, but I wasn’t looking back there in among the alleyways. I confess I was overcome with fear. I should have paid more attention.”

“You did all right. I-”

“Metellus,” Silvanus bit out, “how dare you risk the life of the princess like this? If the Senate heard-”

“Not here in front of foreigners!” Gabinius snapped. “Let’s go inside and talk.” This was eminently sensible advice.