"This is unusual, Uncle Varrus. A rusty blade, here in the temple of metallic perfection?"
I grunted. "Blame Equus. He'd rather not have to look at that one at all, let alone keep it in good condition."
"He doesn't like it? This? Why not, in God's name?"
"I don't know, lad. He made it. Ask him. He took a dislike to it before it was even finished and he has done nothing like it since then."
"But it's the best of the lot! Look at it. It's versatile — cut and stab! The long blade ... I've seen nothing like it before. Uncle Varrus, this thing works!"
"Tell that to Equus. He thinks it's a disaster."
"But why? It's cumbersome, but it has something that none of the other spears have. This shaft is solid. Heavy. I think it's just too long. If it were shorter, so that it could clear the chest and let a man swing it across his body all the way, it would be formidable. A horseman could change hands at will, with no awkwardness. No, I like this." He turned to Equus. "Equus, I think you had a fine idea here and let yourself lose it."
"Don't talk crazy," growled Equus. "I changed my mind because I saw how stupid the idea was. How can a rider shift his spear from hand to hand? What's he going to do with his shield in the meantime? Hang it from his bottom lip?"
Picus, however, was not to be so easily discouraged. He held the weapon aloft and looked at it, moving it around so that the light played upon the blade. "Equus, if I could have something like this, with the weight and the balance this has, that I could use in either hand, on either side of me, I'd be tempted to throw my shield away."
"Hah!" Equus's voice was filled with disgust. "And then where would you be? You'd get skewered like a rabbit on a spit by the first pikeman you came up against."
"No, I don't think so. I'm serious. I would wear a heavier breastplate, and the added advantage of being able to swing this thing would offset not having a shield. Father? What do you think?" He was feinting with it as he spoke, holding it straight out at arm's length, the strength of his arm muscles making a mockery of the weight of the thing.
Britannicus looked at it, his eye running the full length of Picus's outstretched arms and the seven-foot length of the spear. "I have no idea at all, my son. It might work, I suppose. How much of the shaft would you remove?"
"About half the length."
"You're both mad," Equus was growling to himself. "Cut off half the length — any of the length, for that matter — and you foul up both the balance and the weight. Weapons are designed in proportion, you know. We don't just leave an extra length on there for decoration."
I was listening closely, although I was taking no part in the conversation, and something was beginning to tickle at the back of my mind.
"That's a spear you're talking about," Equus went on. "Boudicca's buttocks! You're swinging it around there as if it were an axe."
"But it almost is an axe, Equus. I think it's because of the shape and weight of the blade."
Equus slapped the top of his bench in his frustration. "That's right, man! It's neither one thing nor the other. It's a bastard thing, bred in a moment of unwisdom. The weight distribution in the blade's all wrong, so you can't use it for a hard swing. All the weight is concentrated at the top, too close to the shaft. Hit anything hard with that thing and it'll crumple like a piece of parchment. Believe me, Picus."
Picus screwed his face up in a wry expression of regret. "Well, if you really feel that strongly about it, and you designed it, I'll have to take your word for it. But it seems a shame, for no matter what you say, I know there's something about it that's right!" He looked at me. "Varrus, you're saying nothing. How do you feel about it?"
I reached out my hand and he passed the spear to me. It was very heavy.
"Equus is right," I said. "It's too cumbersome. You can handle it, but you're almost a giant. No ordinary soldier could use the thing the way you suggest, and I suspect it would tire even you in a short space of time if you were swinging it in a fight. The weight is wrongly distributed for that, and by shortening the shaft you'd only aggravate the imbalance." I tossed it back to him, smiling at his crestfallen look. "But you're right, there is something good about it. I just wish I could define what it is. I'll work on it."
"Good! When you've solved the problem, I'll buy them from you by the hundred."
The conversation moved on then to other topics, but I paid little heed to what was being said from that time on. There was something bothering me, something that had almost formed in my mind in the course of the conversation between Picus and Equus. Of course, the more I tried to pin down what it was, the more it eluded me.
There are few things more frustrating than trying to recall a fleeting, half-formed thought. I even found myself trying to tell myself that it was not important, but I knew it had to be, or it would not have been worrying me. Eventually, however, when the others had gone and left me on my own for a while, the elusive memory I had been seeking suddenly sprang into my mind and I cursed myself for having been so intense about it. They had been talking about weight and balance and Picus had said that the spear was almost like an axe, because of the shape and the weight of the blade. And now I remembered seeing, as a young soldier, a child in some remote African village splitting wood with an ancient bronze sword that had a heavy, leaf-shaped blade. The thing had been really old and battered, and what edge it once had had been lost long in the past. But the boy was using it to split wood, and the lover of arms in me was saddened by this menial use of a weapon that must at some time have been someone's proudest possession. I tried to buy it, but the boy fled, taking his sword with him.
So that was what had been driving me mad, and now I was irritated because I could not see the significance of it. Why should it have flashed up into my memory after more than thirty years of oblivion? What possible connection could my mind have formed between today's conversation about a spear and an axe and that encounter in a dirty north African village street so long ago? Obviously, the shape of the blade was the connection, but why? It made no sense to think of Equus's spear with a leaf-shaped blade — that would be worse than useless — so what was it? I was becoming angry at myself — I recognized the symptoms — so I forced myself to empty my mind as much as I was able to and began to walk back towards the house, nodding to those I met along the way and trying to keep my mind bare of thought. I knew the answer would come to me. I simply hated having to sit around and wait for it.
Four of Picus's escort were squatting by a corner of the wall that surrounded the house. They saw me coming and put away the dice they had been using to pass their time, standing erect as I approached. I nodded to them in response to their salutes and asked them where their legate was. One of them, the oldest of the four, appointed himself spokesman.
"We're waiting for him, sir. He went into the house a few minutes ago with the Proconsul and told us to wait here for him."
"Good, then I shall wait here with you, if you have no objection." Naturally, they had none. I talked with them for about five minutes before Picus appeared. They were like soldiers everywhere, cocky, confident and proud of their elite unit, and slightly awed by the fact that a senior officer, even a retired one, would stop and talk to them as people.
"Here comes the Legate now, sir."
I looked up and saw Picus striding towards us through the gateway. He saw me at the same time and smiled.