Chapter 3

Marcellus pushed back his chair and rose, conscious that three score of interested eyes were studying his serious face.

‘I am about to give an order now!’ he said, steadily. ‘Centurion Paulus, you will stand and apologize for conduct unbecoming an officer!’

Paulus hooked an arm over the back of his chair, and grinned.

‘You gave the wrong order, my boy,’ he snarled. Then, as he watched Marcellus deliberately unsheathing his broadsword, Paulus overturned his chair as he sprang to his feet. Drawing his sword, he muttered, ‘You’d better put that down, youngster!’

‘Clear the room!’ commanded Marcellus.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind now as to the young Tribune’s intention. He and Paulus had gone into this business too far to retreat. The tables were quickly pushed back against the wall. Chairs were dragged out of the way. And the battle was on.

At the beginning of the engagement, it appeared to the audience that Paulus had decided to make it a brief and decisive affair. His command of the fort was insecurely held, for he was of erratic temper and dissolute habits. Obviously he had resolved upon a quick conquest as an object-lesson to his staff. As for the consequences, Paulus had little to lose. Communication with Rome was slow. The tenure of a commander’s office was unstable and brief. Nobody in Rome cared much what happened in the fort at Minoa. True—it was risky to kill the son of a Senator, but the staff would bear witness that the Tribune had drawn first.

Paulus immediately forced the fight with flailing blows, any one of which would have split his young adversary in twain had it landed elsewhere than on Marcellus’s parrying sword. Quite willing to be on the defensive for a while, Marcellus allowed himself to be rushed backwards until they had almost reached the end of the long mess-hall. The faces of the junior officers, ranged around the wall, were tense. Demetrius stood with clenched fists and anxious eyes as he saw his master being crowded back toward a corner.

Step by step, Paulus marched into his retreating antagonist, raining blow after blow upon the defensive sword until, encouraged by his success, he saw his quarry backing into a hopeless position. He laughed—as he decreased the tempo of his strokes, assured now of his victory. But Marcellus believed there was a note of anxiety in the tone of that guttural laugh; believed also that the decreased fury of the blows was not due to the heavier man’s assurance, but because of a much more serious matter. Paulus was getting tired. There was a strained look on his face as he raised his sword-arm. It was probably beginning to ache. Paulus was out of training. Life at Minoa had told on him. We take things easy in Gaza.

As they neared the critical corner, Paulus raised his arm woodenly to strike a mighty blow; and, this time, Marcellus did not wait for it to descend, but slashed his sword laterally so close to Paulus’s throat that he instinctively threw back his head, and the blow went wide. In that instant Marcellus wheeled about quickly. It was Paulus now who was defending the corner.