The Temple of the Muses(74)
But I could not allow this. I had heard everything. I was on the spot and had the documents and the conspirators within my grasp. Most of all, I had the most agonizing need to urinate.
Just keeping quiet under a bed for hours is difficult enough, trying not to shift, scratch or sneeze. It is far worse when you’ve indulged in a bit of Chian beforehand.
“I think that concludes our business,” said Military Boots, his voice still oddly strained. “It’s getting light outside.”
“I shall send the book with the documents enclosed to King Phraates,” said Asiatic Slippers.
“And I am for the temple,” said Greek Sandals. “A good day and a fine new era to you gentlemen.”
“Not so fast!” I said, bursting up from beneath the bed, letting the delicate Egyptian fabrication smash back against the wall as I drew my sword. “I have you all …” The three had backed away, eyes going wide, startled. The first thing I noted was that Military Boots was not Achillas. It was Memnon, and he wore a bandage about his jaw where I had marked him with my caestus. No wonder his voice sounded strained. He had his sword out, too.
Orodes was just who I thought he was, but the other man I did not know, although he seemed decidedly familiar. He was a Greek with a close-trimmed beard and hair that just covered his ears. His hand went into his tunic and came out with an odd axe, its blade deeply curved with a short spike on the opposite side. The handle had been crudely cut to about a foot in length. I grinned at him.
“You look better without the wig and false beard, Ataxas,” I said. “But why the axe? Is it what you kill bulls with? I suppose a slave like you never learned to use a freeman’s weapons.”
“The Roman!” Memnon said, giving me a smile that must have hurt. “I swore I’d avenge the blows you struck me!”
Orodes darted toward the book. It had been rerolled and a small stack of papers stood beside it—undoubtedly the earlier drafts of the treaty. He reached for the book and I flicked out with the point of my gladius, opening his forearm from wrist to elbow. He squawked and jumped back.
“No, no,” I said. “That’s mine. We’re going to see some treason trials and some crucifixions when I present those, first to King Ptolemy and then to the Senate.”
Memnon chuckled. “Roman, you’re assuming that you’re going to get out of here alive. You’re wrong.” He came toward me in that flat-footed, shuffling crouch that denotes the practiced swordsman. I moved toward him as I had been taught, gladiator-style, balanced on the balls of my feet. I picked up a spindly chair to use as a shield. Memnon whipped his cloak around his left forearm for the same purpose.
Memnon aimed a stab at my face, but his sword was a Greek type, longer than mine, with a swelling point. It was just a bit slow and I sidestepped it. sending a thrust in return. When you thrust with a gladius, your arm becomes a target. That is why gladiators wear armor on the weapon arm. So my arm snapped out and back, quick as a snake’s tongue. I meant to put the blade right through Memnon’s throat. but he pulled back and ducked his head and I only nicked his chin. I had my arm back so fast that he didn’t have an opportunity to cut at it. but he thrust low at my belly. I jerked backward, a little clumsily because of my long stay beneath the bed. I rotated the chair down, caught the sword and swept it aside as I stepped in and thrust at his chest. No Thracian in the amphitheater ever executed the move as neatly.
But Memnon was no mean swordsman. He brought his cloak-wrapped forearm up and across and batted my blade past his left shoulder as he slid in and sent his own blade at my belly. I brought the chair down and made an unexpected catch. His point jammed into one of the legs, split it and lodged there. I yanked the chair aside, sweeping his sword wide and stepping in to thrust my point into his belly, just below the breastbone, and lancing upward into the heart. To make a thorough job of it, I twisted the point before I withdrew it, causing a great effusion of blood to follow my blade.
Memnon crashed across the table, taking the lamps with it. This did not plunge the room into darkness, for the sun was up and light came in through the single window. For the first time since Memnon had come for me, I had a chance to see what the other two were doing.
Orodes had disappeared. I hadn’t heard him going down the stairs, but then I had been preoccupied. A fight to the death narrows one’s focus considerably. I stuck my head out the window and saw Orodes headed toward the Palace, hugging his wounded arm to his body. Just below me, Ataxas burst out the front door and began sprinting toward the Rakhotis. He carried something bulky. I pulled back in and looked at the smashed table. The book was gone.