Chapter 9

As Mencius wheeled about to parry the blow, the robber who had been facing him shifted his attention to the newcomer. Apparently satisfied that his fellow-bandit would deal successfully with the wearied Roman, he seemed disposed to take his time—and enjoy the slaughter of this youthful intruder.

‘What have you there, youngster—only a dagger? What do you expect to do with it?’

Immediately Voldi showed him what he expected to do with the dagger. The savage thrust, with his full weight behind it, was so swift, so recklessly ruthless, that the older man had no chance to assume a defensive position. The young Arabian had come at him with a rush that upset his calculations. The big fellow, who had planned to enjoy the murder, was left no time to indulge in this luxury. It was only an eight-inch dagger-blade against a three-foot broadsword, but it was a bold and busy little dagger that laid open the sword-arm, pierced the hand that moved instinctively to clutch the wound, and drew a deep semi-circular furrow from forehead to chin; all this in one bewildering moment. Voldi stepped back quickly to avoid the last determined effort at defence, but the tip of the descending broadsword slashed his upper arm. He could feel the warm blood soaking his sleeve. He decided that the robber must pay hard for that cut; but as he moved in to finish him off the big fellow crumpled.

Meantime, Mencius had driven his antagonist off the highway and had him backed up against the low stone fence, where he dropped his sword and shouted for mercy, a favour that the Roman was pleased to bestow, for he was thoroughly spent and wounded. Voldi looked at the bleeding hand and was happy to see that the cut was superficial.

‘If you hadn’t turned up exactly when you did, Voldi—they would have killed me.’ Mencius, still breathing heavily, leaned against his friend for support.

‘Have they got your money?’ asked Voldi.

‘Yes—and my horse.’

‘Here, you!’ shouted Voldi to the weary robber who had slumped down on the wall. ‘If you have the Roman’s wallet, hand it over. If not—go through your friends’ pockets and find it. And be quick!’

Heaving himself to his feet, the bandit obeyed. Mencius’ money was found in the blood-soaked tunic of the first robber Voldi had encountered. The recumbent man did not protest when they relieved him of the wallet. He lay very still. Mencius picked up his limp hand.

‘The rascal’s dead, Voldi!’ he muttered.

Voldi was stooping over to peer into the grey face. Mencius interposed an arm and pushed him away.