I return the gladius to its sheath. “I do not know what geological conditions preserved it, but this is worth a fortune, Nicolas.”
“Then it is ample repayment for my life, which I consider also worth a fortune, at least to me.”
I shake my head. “I cannot take such a thing. It must be in a museum.”
“Bah. They would see piles of gold and secretly sell it to a nobleman who would put it upon his wall. The nobility had their chance to buy it, and they did not see its value. Nor did I. Therefore, it should remain with the person who did.”
“I truly cannot keep it,” I say. “But if I may borrow it, that will be gift enough.”
“Then you may borrow it. I shall expect it back in fifty years. Until then, it is yours.”
I shake my head, but I don’t argue. This truly is a piece fit for a museum. Yet if I am careful, there is no reason why I cannot enjoy the temporary use of it.
I gingerly withdraw the sword. The sheath is indeed the fanciest part, as it was with such swords, each infantry soldier attempting to put his own stamp on a standard-issue weapon. This one seems to have been wood on the inside, but that has all but rotted away, leaving only the metal exterior.
I carefully set the scabbard on the deck. Then I examine the sword. It is barely longer than my arm. The stout blade is as wide as three of my fingers. Both edges are sharp, and the end is pointed for stabbing. The blade itself is steel, with little sign of damage, which makes me wonder whether it was encased in more than the sheath. Perhaps it was new, never seeing warfare, secreted away in something that kept it from corroding.
I am well aware of the history of the Romans in Britain. They were invaders, and the Celtic people suffered greatly under them, just as others suffer under my queen’s ever-expanding empire. I have no reverence for those invading Romans, but as a student of swords, I can admire the breathtaking history of what I hold in my hands, and I can craft myself a new story for it, where the gladius was stolen by a Celtic warrior maid who used it to fight off the invaders and save her village.
“You are thinking,” Nicolas says.
I smile. “I am making up stories.”
“May I ask to hear them?”
I tell him the history of the blades, and the meaning of the Roman invasion and my fanciful alternate story of this gladius’s origins.
“I believe you are correct,” he says. “Clearly, it was the sword of a Celtic warrior maid, and Fate has now passed it on to you. Do you know how to use a short sword? I fear I do not.”
“I am still learning swordsmanship,” I say. “I began with fencing but found it quite dull. My instructor has let me try his short swords.”
“Has he?”
I waggle the blade at him. “None of that. My instructor is a gentleman, who is very enamored of his wife, and I have nothing to fear in that regard.”
Nicolas sobers. “I ought not to jest. I am certain it would not be easy for a young lady to find a sword-fighting instructor who is both respectable and respectful.”
“I have been fortunate. To return to the question, I know a bit about short-sword fighting. The problem, of course, comes when fighting against a longer sword, such as yours.”
He walks to where he left his, having removed it once we were safely on the ship. He takes out the blade and returns to me.
“If I initiate...” I feign doing so. “The sheer length of your sword...” I wave the gladius at him. “And no comments on that, sir.”
“I would not comment. My sword”—he lifts it in the air—“is of a middling length, perhaps only slightly longer than average, which suits me, being a man of just above average height.”
“Yet your sword is much longer than mine, and if I initiate attack, and you retaliate...”
We attempt it, showing that his sword will easily reach me, while mine falls short of any target other than his arm.
“I could go for your hand,” I say. “I am better not to initiate offense and instead allow you to do so.”
He does, and I stop his sword with mine and then feign stabbing with my smaller pocketknife.
“Ideally, this would be a dagger,” I say. “Or a buckler, with which I could bash you while your sword is stopped.”
We continue on like that, sparring as I explain, until I manage to get him backed into the mast. That’s when I notice the rigging lines blowing in the night air and the crow’s nest far above.
“How does one reach the crow’s nest?” I ask.