Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

We grappled. I felt a sudden burning sensation run down my right side, more as if I had been lashed by a whip than cut by a blade. But a cut it must have been — as the world spun dizzily around us I glimpsed a patch of sand spattered with blood.

We tumbled onto the ground. I tasted gritty sand between my teeth. I felt the heat and smelled the sweat of Cleon’s body. He had been working hard, loading the gold into the relay boat. He was already tired. That was a good thing for me; I had just enough strength to fend him off until a figure came running from the boulders at the end of the beach.

Belbo had followed after all.

One instant Cleon was atop me, crushing the strength from my arms, bringing his blade closer and closer to my throat; the next moment it seemed that a god had snatched him by the back of his tunic and sent him soaring skyward. In fact it was Belbo who plucked him off me, lifted him into the air, and then slammed him to the ground. Only the lenient sand prevented him from being broken in two. He managed to hold onto his knife, but a sideways kick from Belbo sent it flying through the air. Belbo dropped to his knees onto Cleon’s chest, knocking the breath out of him, and raised his fist like a hammer.

“No, Belbo, don’t! You’ll kill him!” I cried.

Belbo turned his head and gave me a quizzical frown. Cleon flailed like a fish beneath the weight on his chest.

Meanwhile, Cleon’s three friends clambered out of the relay boat. So long as it was Cleon against me, they had stayed where they were, but now that Cleon was down and outnumbered, they came to his rescue, drawing their knives as they ran.

I got to my feet and ran after Cleon’s knife. I picked it up, feeling queasy at the sight of my own blood on the jagged blade. Belbo was back on his feet, his own dagger drawn. Cleon remained flat on his back, gasping for breath. So, I thought: three against two, all parties armed. I had a giant on my side but my right arm was wounded. Did that make the odds even?

Apparently not, for the fishermen suddenly stopped in their tracks, bumped against one another in confusion, then ran back to their boat, calling for Cleon to follow. I basked for a moment in the illusion that I had frightened them off (with a little help from Belbo, of course), but realized that before they turned and ran they had been looking at something above and beyond me. I turned around. Sure enough, Marcus and some of his men had appeared atop the low hills and were running toward the beach with swords drawn.

Back in the relay boat, two of the fishermen scrambled for their oars while the third leaned toward the beach, crying for Cleon to join them. Cleon had managed to get to his hands and knees but couldn’t seem to stand upright. I looked at Marcus and his men, then at the fishermen in the boat, then at Spurius, who stood not far from Cleon with his arms crossed, scowling as if he were watching a dismally unfunny comedy.

“For the love of Hercules, Spurius, why don’t you at least help him to his feet!” I cried, and ran to do it myself. Cleon staggered up and I pushed him in the direction of the boat. “Run!” I said. “Run, unless you want to be a dead man!”

He did as I told him and went splashing into the surf. Then he suddenly stopped. The relay boat was pulling away, but he turned and stared at Spurius, who gave him a sardonic, aloof stare in return.

“Run!” I screamed. “Run, you fool!” The men in the boat called to him as well, even as they began to row rapidly away. But as long as Spurius met his gaze, Cleon remained frozen, struggling to stand upright in the waves, his face a mask of misery.

I ran to Spurius, put my hands on his shoulders, and spun him around. “Get your hands off me!” he snarled. But the spell was broken. Cleon seemed to wake. His face hardened. He turned and plunged into the waves, swimming after the relay boat.

I dropped onto the sand, clutching my bleeding arm. A moment later Marcus and his men arrived on the beach brandishing their swords.

Marcus satisfied himself that Spurius was unharmed, then turned his wrath on me. “You let One of them escape! I saw you help the main to his feet! I heard you telling him to run!”

“Shut up, Marcus. You don’t understand.”

“I understand they’re getting away. Too far out now for us to swim after them. Damn! Just as well. We’ll let them reach the bigger ship and then the Crimson Ram can take care of the lot of them.”

Before I could puzzle out what he meant, Belbo let out a cry and pointed toward the water. Cleon had finally reached the relay boat. His friends were pulling him aboard. But something was wrong; the heavy-laden boat began to tip. The experienced fishermen should have been able to right it, but they must have panicked. All at once the relay boat was upside-down.

Marcus snarled. Spurius yelped. Together they cried, “The gold!”