Gabrielle's Wrath

by Phineas Redux

Gabrielle branches out on her own against a bunch of fraudsters, while Xena watches.

'Gabrielle's Wrath'

By

Phineas Redux

—O—

Description:— Gabrielle branches out on her own against a bunch of fraudsters, while Xena watches.

Note:— The technical terms and general nature of the swindlers is taken from Robert Greene's 'A Notable Discovery of Coosnage', 1591.

Disclaimer:— MCA/Universal/RenPics own all copyrights to everything related to 'Xena: Warrior Princess' and I have no rights to them.

—O—

"—leaning against the bar over there, with the greasy brown shoulder-length hair and the torn pants. He's the Setter."

"Oh."

"The character in the leather Germanic leggings, sittin' at that table beside the other guy; a farmer, I think—he's the Verser."

"Yo-ho."

"An' the Barnacle—"

"The what?"

"Barnacle,—don't interrupt please—he's gen'rally stationed outside in the street somewhere, eyeing up some poor unwary traveller along with the Setter: that's the Mark, or Conny."

"Conny? Y'mean, a rabbit? Why'd they call 'em that?"

"Xena, give it up with the snarky questions; I know y'know as much—far more, probably,—about this general sort'a thing than I do. Just give me room t'manoeuvre, won't you?"

"Oh, alri—"

"So what happens is the Setter fastens on the Mark in the street, spinning him some sort'a story about knowing him back in the country somewhere." Gabrielle grinned nastily, she having all the details of this style of fraud at her fingertips. "If the Mark declines knowledge of the Setter, which of course he must, the Setter asks a few questions and so gets all the information about the Mark's name, place of living, persons he knows in the town or village, then apologises at having mistaken him for someone else and departs."

"So where's the fraud come in? Nuthin' there o'interest."

"Can it, gal; OK, where was I? Oh yes, so the Setter goes off round a corner an' meets the Verser." Gabrielle here nudged the Warrior Princess in the ribs, eliciting a growl of discontent. "The Setter tells the Verser all the personal details of the Mark. Then the Verser goes off to waylay the unsuspectin' Mark."

"Now we're gettin' somewhere—"

"He, the Verser, halloo's the Mark like a long-lost friend; starts spouting all the information he's been given by the Setter, an' makes the Mark think he must actually know the Verser, but have forgotten him." Gabrielle's brows lowered over her sea-green orbs as she came to the body of the fraud. "The Verser inveigles the Mark into a wineshop, to talk over old times back in the village; then proposes a game of knucklebones."

"Ha."

"Yeah, y'know how easy it is t'cheat at that mug's game." Gabrielle, full of worldliness, nodded sagely. "He, the Verser, plays a few hands, winnin' a few obols from the Mark; then he comes clean an' shows the poor imbecile how he's been winnin', an' gives him his obols back. At this moment the Barnacle appears through the main entrance o'the Inn,—this place here, as it falls out,—an' calls for wine and claps the Verser on the back as an old friend—then apologises for havin' mistaken him for someone else."

"This's gettin' deep. How're they gonna—"

"At this point the Verser shouts out 'Hail fellow, Well Met', or somethin'. He poo-poo's—"

"He what?"

"Poo-poo's; the Barnacle—"

"Hrrph, I'm losin' my place in all this." The Princess raised a hand to scratch her head in mock perplexity.

"I knew before I started it'd be a trial explainin' it t'you, lady." The Amazon Queen looked across the table at her nearest and dearest subject. "So, the Verser hails the Barnacle t'join him and the Mark at their table and have a flagon o'wine, just for friendship's sake. The Barnacle, of course, say's he's buyin', an' goes off t'the bar to collect said drink. The Verser, meanwhile, grabs the Mark's wrist an' declares he can swindle this innocent Barnacle out of all his money, playin' knucklebones with him. If the Mark wants half the winnin's he can join in to take the Barnacle's mind off bein' set-up."

"Uh-oh, we're gettin' in'ta the realms o'moral rectitude—or lack o'same,—here, baby; what if this idiot Mark—"

"So when the Barnacle returns, laden with a flagon o'wine," Gabrielle bravely continued, ignoring the heckling from the audience. "He's swiftly inveigled into joinin' in a game o'knucklebones; the end result bein' he loses a handful o'obols himself, an' is thereby less than happy about it."

"These guys seem t'be experts at defraudin' themselves, at every opportunity; when d'they start actually makin' a profit? Or are they really public benefactors in disguise?"

"The Barnacle here," Gabrielle carried on ruthlessly, heaving a short sigh ceiling-wards. "declares he's dammed if he lets this run o'bad luck get him down. He hauls out a money-pouch containin' maybe ten drachmas, and sets it on the table sayin' he'll see his money back, or lose everythin'."

"Ah-ha, action at last. I can see where this's—"

"Button it, babe; an' don't talk so loudly, they'll hear you." Gabrielle cast a glance across the crowded Inn-room, but satisfied, carried on. "While the Barnacle pretends t'be tryin' t'catch the eye of a passin' servant to re-fill their flagon, the Verser makes hand gestures to the Mark askin' if he'll put up the money t'oppose the Barnacle's bets. Of course, ridden with greed, an' knowin' full-well how easily the Verser can cheat at knucklebones, the Mark drags out his hard-won money-pouch an' divvies up his life's-savin's. So they've got the Mark, or Conny, hooked. They let him win, and the Barnacle lose, a few games; then they get serious, and the Verser finally turns to cross-bite the Mark, or play against him in real earnest—in a handful more games the Mark suddenly finds he's been taken for everythin' he owns, an' left penniless."

"Silly sap, serves him ri—"

"No, it doesn't. He, of course, flies into a rage, finally seein' how the men have taken him for a ride." Gabrielle nodded wisely, the whole sorry affair reflected clearly in her imagination. "He rails against the men as a bunch o'cheats and bandits; but they just answer with bravoes and jests, not havin' actually done anythin' visibly against the law; provably, at least. So, not bein' able to get redress for his losses, an' the Setter havin' re-appeared at this point, the Mark sees he can't fight three big hulkin' thugs, an' has to leave, without an obol t'his name."

"Nasty. So, what're ya goin' t'do about this particular bunch o'low-lifes here, babe?"

"Bring retribution in'ta their sorry existences, o'course." The Amazon Queen, while she spoke in a cold undertone, rose to her full height—an evil sneer curving her lips as she eyed the three victims of her ire. "Like the Fates, Nemesis, an' Armageddon combined—only with more blood."

"Oo-er."

"Sit back, relax, an' watch the show—y'might learn somethin', lady."

"Har."

Gabrielle was dressed in her usual outdoor clothes—small top, of less than generous proportions, if overall coverage was taken as the prime requirement; and a short skirt of red velvety leather which barely managed to perform it's duty, leaving the warrior's legs ample—well, complete, if the truth be told,—freedom to engage in any form of acrobatic that might be necessary. Her low boots of thick deerskin had long dangerous sais tied to their sides; while the wide silver wrist-bracelets she habitually wore glinted in the sunlight coming through the wide unshuttered Inn windows. She pursed her lips in grim determination, and set off across the wide crowded room towards the long bar where several customers were leaning comfortably, imbibing their first drinks of the day. Xena remained slouched at the table—seemingly taking no sort of interest in unfolding events.

The Amazon's destination, and prey, was the man she had named as the Setter. This example of Grecian low-life had entered the Inn unobtrusively, after the Barnacle had taken his place beside the Verser and Mark—an obvious farmer of a clearly innocent and unworldy nature. They had, by this time, reached that point where they were just beginning to definitively take the unsuspecting countryman for everything he owned, in the way of money.

The blonde avenging Valkyrie reached the section of the bar where the Setter leaned in solitary splendour, watching the ongoing fleecing of his victim out of the corner of his eye with a twisted sneer.

"Hi there, nice day ain't it? Pity the floor's so hard; hope it don't hurt your head too much."

"What? What the Hades—"

Without engaging in any further light badinage the Amazon went to work—she grabbed the man's arm; twisted him round to face her, showing remarkable strength, and then punched him with a tight fist right in his gut. Before he could react further than a soft gasp, allied with a sudden need to lean forwards, she had swiftly bent, to rise again with a long-bladed sai in her left hand. Turning the thin sharp blades backwards she again attacked the man's soft belly, using the rounded haft. It sank even further into his unresisting flesh than her fist had done. This time he registered a harrowing groan of pain and hiss of escaping breath, before collapsing to the aforesaid floorboards, where he lay in agony amongst the dross dust and spittle of the ages, taking no further part in the ongoing drama.

Having settled the hash of one part of the ruffianly threesome she now headed across the suddenly silent room towards the table where the till now unsuspecting remainder of the criminal gang were at play. The silence had, however, drawn the attention of at least one of the always nervous thugs. Glancing around the crowded tables to glimpse the source of the changed atmosphere the Verser finally turned his gaze on the approaching woman warrior.

Now Gabrielle wasn't dressed in the usual gear of an Amazon; but anyone of the lowest intellect could instantly perceive that here—in person, and twice as angry—was a fine specimen of said female tribe. The Verser, no doubt having by long experience a wide list of those he would rather not meet socially, clearly set an angry Amazon pretty near the top of said list. Without waiting to apprise his partner of their ever-nearing doom—the still-seated Barnacle's back was towards the blonde Demon—he flung his chair aside and grabbed at the short gladius he wore in a sheath at his waist.

Wearing a sword, and actually having a clear idea of how to use such a weapon professionally, are two widely differing standpoints. The Verser, it became obvious in the first few breaths of the ensuing fight, was of the 'haven't the faintest' school of sword-fighting. Gabrielle, seeing her opponent arm himself, had her second sai gripped tightly in her right hand in an instant. She came on, unworried, towards the thug—who was bending slightly at the waist, and trying to feint backwards and forwards a step at a time—a maneouvre of hopeless amateurishness, compared to the battle-hardened Amazon, who merely sneered coldly—a frightening sight in itself—and came steadily on towards her hapless victim.

When she was close enough for the Verser to see the angry glints of ice-cold green sparks gleaming in her eyes he leapt into the attack—or what he fondly supposed to be such. He darted forward, slicing his gladius sideways at waist height. What the end result was meant to achieve perhaps he himself hardly knew. What happened was that Gabrielle clipped the on-coming swordblade in her paired sais; twisted to her right, throwing the attacker's arms sideways; then kicked him with malice aforethought and cold resolve right between the legs, at that particular spot which almost all men find creates the greatest, er, discomfort. The Verser's scream of agony, as he dropped his sword and clutched at his most treasured possessions, now sadly damaged, finally brought the Barnacle to an awareness that comfort and sweetness and light were no longer a part of his own day.

Taking his eyes off the Mark for the first time, and twisting round to see what the Hades his erstwhile partner the Verser was up to, the Barnacle's jaw dropped as he took in both the sight of his wounded mate and the source of said distress. To have an angry Amazon, wielding multiple sharp-bladed weapons, more or less by your elbow—especially when yourself engaged on nefarious occasions—was enough to take the wind out of anyone's sails. So it was with the Barnacle; for an appreciable time he simply sat, looking first at the writhing form of his friend—if indeed their professional relationship extended that far—and the waiting Nemesis who had caused his injuries. Then finally understanding dawned.

The Barnacle was armed with nothing more than a long-bladed knife; but nothing loth he staggered, in a somewhat ungainly manner, to his feet and drew this defensive weapon. Even then he seemed somewhat taken aback by present circumstances, merely standing silently regarding Gabrielle, as if she were a form of life which had never before swum across his ken—which, indeed, was the case. At last, having taken note of the whimpering remains of the Verser at his very feet, and the squirming form of the Setter on the other side of the room, he made a first tentative motion with his dagger; jabbing it forward towards the Amazon, as if fondly hoping this action would send her screaming in fear from the Inn. He was mistaken.

"Say, ya great lumbering lummox, are ya gon'na use that carrot-scraper for real; or just whistle 'Athena Triumphant'?"

The Barnacle, grasping at straws, could see that what the Amazon didn't have was physical height; her head only coming to his shoulders, he being rather tall. Hoping beyond hope this was an advantage that would ultimately prove effective, at Gabrielle's words he bared teeth which by all social standards shouldn't have been allowed to ever see the light of day; growled the first obscenity which came to hand, something which the blonde Amazon had heard so often before it no longer had the slightest power to offend; and staggered forward to his doom, fondly thinking he was about to squelch this dammed obnoxious example of her insufferable tribe. His last conscious thought, before peaceful darkness overtook him, was probably something along the lines of—'Oh, sh-t."

Fearing nothing, especially a towering column of combined fat, maleness inexorably gone to seed, and body-odour of a not nice kind, Gabrielle merely ducked insouciantly under the idiot's attack; kicked him on both exposed shins with a dance-like flicker of both her booted feet; and, when the ensuing pain had rendered the Barnacle immobile, turned her sais haft-forward and jumped in close before jabbing both into his remarkably widespread belly and chest. One single grunt and he involuntarily stepped back a pace, thus giving the Amazon space for the coup-de-grace. Dropping her sais, she clasped both fists tightly together, twisted sideways for impetus, then swung her outstretched arms back round at the man's chin. Her combined fists struck his left cheek with the force of a runaway wagon-load of tree-trunks hitting a wall. There was an audible crack as his jaw gave up the ghost, and he fell over backwards; shattering the table as he landed on it and ending in a pile of splintered wood on the dirty floor—the Mark still seated on his chair, mouth agape.

Xena had remained on her own seat all this while, apparently intent on cleaning her fingernails with a nasty-looking dagger she had produced from somewhere—only looking up with an affected expression of disinterest as her Amazon partner, breathing a little deeply, sauntered over again.

"Oh, y're back? Have fun?"

"Some. What're we gon'na do this afternoon? I was thinkin' o'goin' t'the theatre. There's a good play by Euripides on."

"I like Euripides. Yeah, let's go there; it'll give us some fresh air. Say, those bozo's goin' anywhere, themselves?"

"Nah, here come the City Guard; I told 'em earlier they'd find somethin' t'their advantage if they visited about now." Gabrielle leaned down to offer the Princess a hand as the black-haired warrior rose. "Shall we buy somethin' for lunch on our way?"

"Yeah sure, how about steak an' bread, with lot's o'hot onions an' oil—I like them."

"Great Athena, ain't you got any respect for your waistline at all?" Gabrielle registered her appalled take on this culinary suggestion. "I was kind'a thinkin' grapes, oranges, dates, an' a nice flask of white wine."

"That'll hit the spot just as well."

"Come on, Warrior Princess, let's go." Gabrielle shaded her eyes as they strode down the wide street, outside the Inn, hand in hand with her lover. "Gods, didn't know it was so bright an' warm t'day. D'you suppose I'll need a sunshade?"

"Bought ya one earlier, when ya weren't lookin'." Xena sniggered, gently tossing Gabrielle's imprisoned hand in the air as they walked along. "It's waitin' back at our own Inn. By the way; classy bit o'action, back there. Wondered if I might need'ta join in, just t'smooth things over, y'understand. But no, y'did fine, gal."

"Thanks, Xena."

The End.

—O—