G. Rosus egoque in curru, bellicum exspectantes, de nihilo loquebamur. Nihil de eo scivi, nihil de me scivit. Loquens ante officium non decens est, nosque id scimus.
Unum vexillum in altro curru apparuit. Caligus pusillus ex ore eius effugit, breviter ad me adnuit, subsultamus aggredimurque.
“Nemo te concitate! Illud furtum est!”
Femina quiritat; arcum ad eum intendo ac os se claudit.
Ad turbam adverto, dico “Omnia humi cum manibus evidentibus ite si vivendo fruimini!”
Cum loquar, Rosus pecunia adeptit. Ad exterritum ut serpentem subridet, ait “Pecuniam in folliculo pone.”
Extrema pecuniae translata, ille hominem assilit, carpens ad fibulam. “Pulchra fibula” ait, id vellit aufertque, togaque hominis corruit.
“Bene,” clamo, “id factum est! Nolite loqui, diverberemusve!” (Rosus ad hoc subridet.)
Femina procera pulchraque ut erubescendum stat, atque voce vini aquili, “Vobiscum me abstulite — me auferte.”
“Amabo, puella. Istae feminae nihil sed difficultates estis.”
“Rectior quam te esse cogitas.”
Miles decem vertens video. “Feminas,” infremo.
Cum sonito somniorum abolescentum, folliculus humum incutit.
Illaque, iudices, est fabula mea.
Mr. Pink and I am in the chariot, awaiting the signal, speaking of nothing. I know nothing about him, he knows nothing about me. Speaking before a job isn’t professional, and we know it.
One flag appears in the other chariot. A small cloud of smoke escaping from his mouth, nodding to me briefly, we leap out and attack.
”Nobody move yourself! This is a robbery!”
A woman screams; I aim my bow at her and the mouth closes itself.
Turning to the crowd, I say, “Everybody get on the ground with hands visible if you enjoy living!”
While I speak, Pink acquires the money. Smiling like a snake at a terrified man, he says “Put the money in the bag.”
When the last of the money is transferred, he lunges at the man, seizing his clasp. “Nice brooch!” he says, pulling off and taking it, and the man’s toga falls to the floor.
”Very well,” I yell, “the thing is done! Do not let yourselves speak, or I will club you violently!” (Pink smiles at that.)
A woman, tall and beautiful like something to be ashamed of, stands, and with a voice of smokey dark wine, “Take me with you — steal me away.”
”Sorry, girl. Women are nothing but trouble.”
”You’re more right than you think.”
I spin around to see ten soldiers. “Women,” I growl.
With a sound of perishing dreams, the sack hits the floor.
And that, O judges, is my tale.