Guardian of the Horizon - Elizabeth Peters [173]
“Lay down your arms,” he said. “All of you. Tarek is merciful.”
Really, men do vex me at times. I had lectured the commandant (even though he hadn’t understood) and ordered the rest of them to surrender, and no one had paid the least attention. Ramses’s quiet voice produced a positive clatter of weaponry, and the commander of the guard bowed. I must admit Ramses looked the true son of his father, with the same air of authority and a form almost as imposing. The partially healed wounds made a visible impression; they assumed he had got them in battle, and men do admire a good fighter.
Unfortunately, Merasen did not react as the others did. His eyes narrowed. “You will not take me alive!” he shouted, and backed away, waving his sword so wildly that everyone got out of his way.
“That suits me,” Ramses said.
“Ramses, don’t be a fool!” I exclaimed. “Let him go. He won’t get far.”
“We may as well settle this now,” Ramses said in the same remote voice. “Will someone be good enough to lend me a sword?”
It was the commander himself who drew his weapon and presented it, hilt first. Ramses swung the weapon a few times, trying to get the feel of it. He was a skilled fencer, but this was an entirely different kind of blade, shorter and heavier than a foil. I realized that no one was going to stop him. Selim and Daoud both believed Ramses could do anything, and Moroney was watching with the same openmouthed fascination as all the others. They had fallen back, leaving an open space for the combatants, and I would not have been surprised to discover that some of them were already placing bets.
I did not know what rules, if any, governed duels in this country. Whatever they were, Merasen was not the man to follow them. He rushed at Ramses while the latter’s blade was lowered, and only the agile twist of his body saved Ramses from a severe wound. He got his sword up in time to block the next blow, and lunged. Merasen beat the blade aside. Eyes intent and jaw set, Ramses seemed unable for several seconds to do more than parry Merasen’s moves. I supposed it was taking him a while to get used to the weapon and the style of fighting, which seemed to be a combination of foil and saber, thrust and slash. He took a cut across the back of the hand and another on the hip before he got the hang of it and began to drive Merasen back with a series of quick movements that brought blood spurting from the boy’s arms and chest. Selim was cheering and the spectators were shouting advice to both fighters indiscriminately when Ramses swung his arm back and brought it down in a hard blow that knocked the blade out of Merasen’s hand. Merasen tripped over his own feet and fell flat on his back, with Ramses’s sword at his throat.
The spectators let out a roar. They were united now, as the Roman audience had been when they turned thumbs down, ordering the victorious gladiator to administer the coup de grace. Merasen was still conscious. He heard what they were saying, and he raised a trembling hand in appeal, too breathless or too afraid to speak.
Ramses stood looking down at him for several long seconds. Then his mouth twisted, and he tossed his sword aside. Turning to me, he said, “I couldn’t do it, Mother. Were you afraid I would?”
“My dear boy,” I began, and then let out a rather loud shriek. “Look out!”
Ramses whirled round. He was weaponless and off balance, and Merasen was on his knees, balancing his sword like a dagger, ready to throw. I didn’t have time to move; the explosion was so loud and so close, it half deafened me. The bullet struck Merasen in the chest. He dropped the sword and toppled over, and I turned, very, very slowly, to confront Daoud.
“Did I do wrong, Sitt?” he asked anxiously. “I did not wait for your order.”
Fourteen
Cheers from the plaza below drew us all to the window. The Great Road was filled with marching men,