The door wasn’t the thickest wood, and it wasn’t barred. With a single step back and one head-lowered shoulder-thrust forward, Vorenus was able to splinter the latch and charge into the room amid the flood of light from the fires in the hallway.
It would have been over quickly, the assassin run through the back, quivering out his final moments on Vorenus’ weapon, except for the scattered manuscripts on the stone floor of the room. As it was, Vorenus took two strides into the librarian’s chambers—left, right—and then felt his third step push out from beneath him just as he was planting it for the final strike. His right knee buckled as his left foot shot forward and his left hand shot down to the ground as he fell into a slide through the papers.
Laenas, a younger man, had catlike reflexes. Startled at first, he recovered quickly after Vorenus slipped and lost the advantage of surprise. Light on his feet, the assassin altered the aim of his arm in mid-swing. Originally intending his strike for the Greek Didymus—who was sprawled out now against the stone wall just below the window—he spun on his feet, bringing the blade around and down in a wide swath.
Vorenus saw the strike, but a moment too late. As it was, he had to drop his own sword in order not to stab himself as he curled down into his slide, ducking and rolling onto his side as he passed by the assassin. He felt the wind of the blade stroke pass inches from his head. He saw, as he rolled, the wide, dazed eyes of the traitor he’d once called his friend a moment before he, too, crumpled into the wall beneath the window, his boots planted hard on the stone and his knees bent to take out the speed of his impact.
The effort of the assassin’s strike had spun him around momentarily, and he had to be careful to avoid slipping on the papers. By the time Laenas had turned back around, Vorenus had already kicked out of his crouch, recoiling his body back across the floor and into the assassin’s legs. The two men fell, grunting, into a flurry of manuscripts, and the sound of the assassin’s dagger clattering away across the stone rang loud in the little room.
Through the rain of papers in the dim light, Vorenus saw his own sword on the ground between them and he kicked his way forward, lunging for it. Laenas, fallen to his stomach, saw it, too, and he flung his foot out in that direction, sending it skittering noisily back toward the open doorway. Vorenus growled—out of frustration, out of pain—and grabbed the Roman’s foot instead. One hand on the toe, one on the heel, he twisted as hard as he could manage, as if he might wrench the appendage off. It didn’t come loose, but he was pleased to hear a pop. Laenas screamed, pulled himself toward Vorenus, and swung his free foot downward with savage ferocity, the heel crunching wetly into the older man’s nose and cheek.
Vorenus cried out in a gasp that brought up the taste of iron, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he twisted even harder, rolling his own body like a barrel so that the next strike, if it came, would hit the back of his head.
It did, but Vorenus was ready. His vision swam for a moment, but he held fast, and his own feet, somehow, found firm grip on a bare spot on the floor. Pulling down on the assassin’s foot even as he pushed up with his own, he flung himself on top of the younger man and slammed his fist down into the side of his head. Laenas responded with a blind, upward jab of his elbow that struck Vorenus in the stomach. Vorenus coughed the air out of his lungs but still managed to raise up his other fist and bring it down into the man’s scar-twisted mouth. Teeth splintered inward.
The assassin’s jaw clenched, biting hard into one of Vorenus’ fingers. Somehow he’d managed to pull a short knife with his other hand, and he swung it up as best he could. Vorenus twisted away and managed to avoid the worst of it, but even so he felt the searing wet of a slash across his ribs. Another strike wouldn’t miss, he was sure. Another strike would take his gut.
With one hand Vorenus grabbed the sweat-slicked back of the assassin’s skull while his other took hold of his jaw. Keeping his weight as far forward on his body as he could, he yanked up on the man’s head. Then, with the full force of his remaining strength, he slammed it down into the floor.
Snapping bones cracked loudly over the grunts of the two struggling men. The assassin’s legs bucked hard, and his body convulsed once, twice, before it fell still. Then only the muscles of his scarred cheek seemed to twitch, shimmering in the moonlight.
Vorenus rolled off of him, gasping as he flopped down to the floor. He pushed himself back a few feet, somehow caught motion out of the corner of his eye.
It was Selene, framed by the backlight in the doorway. She was holding his fallen gladius in her hand, and he could not see her face.
“Sword,” he coughed out, raising his hand toward her. Bits of sticky papyrus clung to his arm, dangling strangely.
Selene took a step backward, hesitated, then came forward in a rush to hand him the blade.
Even close, Vorenus couldn’t see her face, but he was certain she’d been crying. He tried to smile reassuringly, hoping that his mouth wasn’t full of blood. “It’s okay, Selene. It’s okay now.” And then, because he didn’t want her to watch and couldn’t think of what else to tell her, he said: “Go get Pullo.”
Selene’s mouth opened as if she wanted to say something, but it closed again and she backed partway out of the room before turning and hurrying away out of sight.
Vorenus felt pain from seemingly every part of his body threatening to overrun his senses.
Not yet, he told himself. Just a little longer.
He staggered to his knees, forced to close his eyes hard against the screaming of his nerves as he did so. For several heartbeats he teetered there before he steadied himself enough to stand and open his eyes again.
Laenas was still alive, but his limbs were stilled. His head, though, was trembling slightly. Vorenus saw that the man’s eyes, though wide in shock, managed to focus on him. Something like agreement passed between them.
“May the gods welcome you,” Vorenus said. Then, as quickly and efficiently as he could, he placed the point of his gladius above the man’s heart and pressed downward until the tip bit the solid floor.
The glint in the man’s eyes softened, and his trembling stopped. Vorenus pulled the blade free.
Didymus had returned to his senses during the fight, managing to back himself toward the corner away from the melee. He was sitting with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up in front of him, holding his head. His eyes were rooted on the dead assassin, and the look on his face was one of sheer horror.
Vorenus stepped over the body, limped over to stand in front of him. He raised his sword like an outstretched finger pointing at the librarian’s soul. The gore on it was shining as it drew toward the point and dripped down onto the strewn papers. “Now,” he said. “Give me one good reason not to send you with him.”
For several seconds Didymus made no reply. Then his eyes blinked, raised up from the corpse. “I’ve none.”
“I heard,” Vorenus said. He felt his stomach rising in an urge to vomit and knew it wasn’t for the sight of the blood or the pain in his aged body. “How could you?”
Didymus shook his head dully. “Just finish it,” he said. “Be quick.”
“Vorenus?” Pullo said.
Vorenus turned back toward the hallway, saw Pullo filling the doorway, his shoulders touching both sides of the frame. The sword in his hand was slowly lowering as he took in the scene. At his other side he held Selene in one massive arm, the girl huddled against his chest and looking back over her shoulder, through her hair, at Vorenus and her teacher.