“By the old Roman road?”

He frowns. “I do not know exactly. Only that the farmer thought it a pretty relic that a nobleman might wish to display, but it was so old, none wanted it, and I bought it. The man was in dire need of the money.”

“This is a Roman gladius,” I say.

“Were they rare?”

“At the time? No. Every soldier had one. Nowadays? They are rare indeed. The sword may seem in poor shape, but the ones I have seen in the museum are little more than rusted remains. This one, as you say, needs only sharpening.”

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.