Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [141]
Indeed, the pounding on the door had ceased. “You did not come alone then?” I asked.
“Certainly not. Ramses—”
“Emerson!”
“And a regiment of police officers.” He transferred his gaze to Sethos. “Your evil career is ended, you swine. But I shan’t admit the police until I have dealt with you. I promised myself that satisfaction, and I think I deserve it.”
Sethos straightened to his full height. He was not as tall as Emerson, or as brawny, but they made a magnificent pair as they faced one another in mutual animosity.
“Good, Professor,” he said in a low, drawling voice. “I promise myself some satisfaction too, for I have yearned to come to grips with you. Give me the other sword, and we’ll fight for her like men.”
“Emerson,” I cried in some anxiety, for I knew my husband’s temperament only too well. “Emerson, you don’t know how to fence!”
“No, I don’t,” Emerson admitted. “But you know, Peabody, there can’t be much to it—whacking at one another in turn, and—”
“Emerson, I insist . . . No. No, my dearest Emerson—I beg you, I implore you. . . .”
A pleased smile spread over Emerson’s face. “Well, Peabody, since you put it that way. . . .” And to my horror he flung the sword away. It skipped across the smooth marble floor in a series of musical ringing sounds. Even before it struck the floor, Sethos moved—not toward that sword, but toward the first, which Emerson had dropped at the door. Snatching it up, he swung on Emerson.
“Now, Professor, we are more evenly matched,” he snarled. “I know something of boxing, but I prefer not to meet you in that arena. Pick up the sword—I give you that much.”
Emerson shrugged. “It wouldn’t be much use to me,” he remarked. “However . . .” And with the catlike quickness he could sometimes summon, he snatched the wine decanter and brought it crashing down on the edge of the table. Bastet, who had been eating the chicken, soared up with a yowl of protest; the decanter shattered; and the table collapsed, spilling food and broken glass. The air glittered with crystal shards, like drops of clear hail.
Emerson ripped the silken covering from the couch and wrapped it round his left arm. “Now then,” he said. “Come on, you bas—excuse me, Peabody—you villain.”
They circled one another in taut silence. Sethos lunged. With a quick twist of his body, Emerson stepped inside the other man’s guard and jabbed at his face with the broken bottle. Sethos jumped back. His next move was a slash, from left to right; Emerson beat it back with a blow across Sethos’ forearm. The blade whistled past his side. Sethos retreated again, giving Emerson a chance to snatch up the silver tray. It served as a makeshift shield; with its aid he took the offensive, striking the sword back each time it approached, and jabbing with the decanter.
In my opinion there is never any excuse for violence. It is the last resort of people and nations who are too stupid to think of a sensible way of settling their differences. The sight of two pugilists beating one another to a pulp sickens me; the idea of little boys being taught to “fight like men” revolts and repels me. Was I therefore filled with disgust at the bloody battle that raged between these two men of intellect and ability?
No.
The sight of Emerson’s muscles rippling under his bronzed skin—of the ferocious smile that bared his strong white teeth—of the grace and vigor of his movements—roused an answering joyful ferocity in my bosom. My breath came in gasps, my cheeks burned. For a few moments I was not a civilized, sensible woman; I was a primitive female crouched in her cave as two savage male beasts fought to possess her.
It was a most curious and interesting sensation.
A wicked feint and even quicker riposte struck the make-shift shield aside. Sethos’ blade bit deep into Emerson’s arm. He gave a grunt of annoyance rather than pain and lunged forward. Only Sethos’ sideways turn of the head saved his eyes; the glass