D. Caecilius Metellus and his people are creations of John Maddox Roberts.
Xena ^tm and the lot are created by Schulian & Tapert.
Caesar and others are historical but some of their interpretations are created by Todd London, John Milius, et alia.
If you steal from one guy, it's theft; if you steal from two or more, it's research.
Now on with the show . . .
I had foolishly gone to Alexandria with Caesar, having left there a few years ago under quite a cloud. Had it not been for a large army accompanying me, I would never have gone. There was also the matter of Queen Cleopatra, another old acquaintance I would rather not have encountered again.
But this tale is not about her, but about another old acquaintance of Caesar’s.
It was a commonplace hot Alexandrian evening. There was no more than the usual unrest in the city, which contains a hot and bothered mass of Greeks, Egyptians, Jews, and every other people in the world. There were rumors of unrest in the Delta, and not just connected with that bothersome sycophant of Cicero’s.
In fact, it was Hermes who was responsible for acquainting me with the greatest of the rumors. It was late at night, and unable to sleep in the heat, I was composing a letter to Julia. I was no longer the sort to visit the Daphne, or any of the other disreputable and pleasant places of the city, but Hermes could take up the task on my behalf.
There was a clatter at the door. I heard Hermes arguing with the guards outside the dilapidated building that served as the praetorium, where I had to dance attendance on Caesar daily, while he dallied with Cleopatra. She’d give me those knowing looks, she knew me too well from Cyprus.
In any case, my attendant had a pass to get past the guards, so it worried me what the confusion was. Then he burst in the door, dragging another man with him. This was a rather sorry sort of a man, with a pathetic, defeated look on his face, and some memory struggled to dig its way to the surface.
Hermes was quite cheery. “Now, Joxer,” he said, “just you tell the propraetor what you told me about where you left Xena.”
Until that time in Gaul, like most everyone else in Rome, I had considered those stories of the Greek woman no more that the sort of tale that one told after they had opened the third amphora at the party. Then there had been that encounter in the Gallic village in Armorica. The woman had fought like Bellona.
When I had told him that, all Caesar had said was, “Now you will believe me.” The story still did not make much sense. After some thought I decided that for some reason, someone had decided to harass Caesar by having an incident from his early days follow him. I still didn’t believe him, even then. This must have been one of those Gallic fighting women who happened to look like the description, who even spoke a little Greek, who had met someone who was a friend of Pompey, or Clodius. Or so I convinced myself.
Coming back from Crete, though, I had encountered one of his men from the attack on the pirates. While we were buying each other drinks and congratulating each other, he mentioned the woman, and how her body had disappeared from the cross. Then I began to wonder.
“Leave him, Hermes,” I said, getting up and walking over to where they were. The man looked rather miserable, actually, and I wondered what all he had to do with Xena. “Where did you find him?” I asked Hermes.
“In a taverna!” he said. It looked like a good story and Hermes was going to exploit it. “He was standing everyone drinks and boasting about how he was such a great thief, and when he said he was going to meet Xena, I offered to buy him a few. When we went out back to the latrine I cold-cocked him and brought him here.”
“Not bad,” I said, then looked down at his prisoner. “I am the propraetor Decius Caecilius Metellus of Rome, on the staff of my wife’s uncle the consul Gaius Julius Caesar. My assistant here says you know the whereabouts of one of Caesar’s enemies.”
“Caesar,” the man groaned. He looked despairing.
For a moment I thought of summoning the quaestionarius, but this man was so pathetic I thought he might die under the questioning. Then I realized he was drunk. Then, so was Hermes. “Put him in the cells, and you, Hermes, will have to have some cabbage in the morning. Cicero recommends cabbage.”
“For what?”
When I was young I could get that serenely drunk, too. I called the guards, they packed Joxer off to the cells, and I finally went to bed.
. . . [To Be Continued]
Xena ^tm and the lot are created by Schulian & Tapert.
Caesar and others are historical but some of their interpretations are created by Todd London, John Milius, et alia.
If you steal from one guy, it's theft; if you steal from two or more, it's research.
Now on with the show . . .
I had foolishly gone to Alexandria with Caesar, having left there a few years ago under quite a cloud. Had it not been for a large army accompanying me, I would never have gone. There was also the matter of Queen Cleopatra, another old acquaintance I would rather not have encountered again.
But this tale is not about her, but about another old acquaintance of Caesar’s.
It was a commonplace hot Alexandrian evening. There was no more than the usual unrest in the city, which contains a hot and bothered mass of Greeks, Egyptians, Jews, and every other people in the world. There were rumors of unrest in the Delta, and not just connected with that bothersome sycophant of Cicero’s.
In fact, it was Hermes who was responsible for acquainting me with the greatest of the rumors. It was late at night, and unable to sleep in the heat, I was composing a letter to Julia. I was no longer the sort to visit the Daphne, or any of the other disreputable and pleasant places of the city, but Hermes could take up the task on my behalf.
There was a clatter at the door. I heard Hermes arguing with the guards outside the dilapidated building that served as the praetorium, where I had to dance attendance on Caesar daily, while he dallied with Cleopatra. She’d give me those knowing looks, she knew me too well from Cyprus.
In any case, my attendant had a pass to get past the guards, so it worried me what the confusion was. Then he burst in the door, dragging another man with him. This was a rather sorry sort of a man, with a pathetic, defeated look on his face, and some memory struggled to dig its way to the surface.
Hermes was quite cheery. “Now, Joxer,” he said, “just you tell the propraetor what you told me about where you left Xena.”
Until that time in Gaul, like most everyone else in Rome, I had considered those stories of the Greek woman no more that the sort of tale that one told after they had opened the third amphora at the party. Then there had been that encounter in the Gallic village in Armorica. The woman had fought like Bellona.
When I had told him that, all Caesar had said was, “Now you will believe me.” The story still did not make much sense. After some thought I decided that for some reason, someone had decided to harass Caesar by having an incident from his early days follow him. I still didn’t believe him, even then. This must have been one of those Gallic fighting women who happened to look like the description, who even spoke a little Greek, who had met someone who was a friend of Pompey, or Clodius. Or so I convinced myself.
Coming back from Crete, though, I had encountered one of his men from the attack on the pirates. While we were buying each other drinks and congratulating each other, he mentioned the woman, and how her body had disappeared from the cross. Then I began to wonder.
“Leave him, Hermes,” I said, getting up and walking over to where they were. The man looked rather miserable, actually, and I wondered what all he had to do with Xena. “Where did you find him?” I asked Hermes.
“In a taverna!” he said. It looked like a good story and Hermes was going to exploit it. “He was standing everyone drinks and boasting about how he was such a great thief, and when he said he was going to meet Xena, I offered to buy him a few. When we went out back to the latrine I cold-cocked him and brought him here.”
“Not bad,” I said, then looked down at his prisoner. “I am the propraetor Decius Caecilius Metellus of Rome, on the staff of my wife’s uncle the consul Gaius Julius Caesar. My assistant here says you know the whereabouts of one of Caesar’s enemies.”
“Caesar,” the man groaned. He looked despairing.
For a moment I thought of summoning the quaestionarius, but this man was so pathetic I thought he might die under the questioning. Then I realized he was drunk. Then, so was Hermes. “Put him in the cells, and you, Hermes, will have to have some cabbage in the morning. Cicero recommends cabbage.”
“For what?”
When I was young I could get that serenely drunk, too. I called the guards, they packed Joxer off to the cells, and I finally went to bed.
. . . [To Be Continued]