3 Out of the Cooking Pot

3. OUT OF THE COOKING POT AND INTO THE BARBECUE 'Uh-oh…' said Fishlegs. This was most definitely NOT a Peaceable fishing boat. It was, in fact, a sizeable Roman ship, seventy metres long from stern to prow. The sails were pure white, and high above, when Hiccup craned his neck, he could see the Roman flag of the Imperial Eagle flapping cheerily in the wind. The boat was crammed with what looked like an entire legion of Roman soldiers, who were now looking at Fishlegs with astonishment and fury. There was a gigantic iron cage set near the mast of the boat. An enormous number and variety of dragon species were being held prisoner behind the bars of this cage. Deadly Nadders, Flying 'Gators, Big Spotted Gormlesses, Yellow Vampires, Common-or-Gardens – you name it, they were all there, trapped together in a furious tangle of talons and wings and fangs, ready to be sent back to the restaurants and

shoemakers in Rome. 'Oh, for Thor's sake,' whispered Hiccup. 'Roman Dragonrustlers. I do not believe this…' 'Ah…' said Fishlegs with a nervous smile, backing towards the edge of the boat, 'I seem to have made some sort of mistake. This is the wrong boat, you see…' He tried to laugh in an airy fashion. 'So sorry to disturb… carry on with what you were doing why don't you…' The nearest soldier, who was a six feet five centurion with legs like tree trunks, drew his sword with a nasty flourish. 'And where do you think you're going?' he asked Fishlegs in Latin*. Latin was the language spoken by the Ancient Romans. Most Vikings did not understand this language, but Hiccup had been secretly taught a little Latin by his grandfather, Old Wrinkly. 'Might come in useful,' Old Wrinkly had said, (As indeed it did, on occasions too numerous to mention.) He put out a big hand to grab Fishlegs and Fishlegs ducked under his arm in the nick of time. GET HIM! yelled the big centurion and six or seven more soldiers made a leap towards Fishlegs. Now, if Hiccup had been a traditional Hooligan Hero, he would have drawn his sword, Endeavour, and launched himself over the side to the aid of his

friend, shouting the Hooligan War Cry at the top of his voice. But then if Hiccup had been a traditional Hooligan Hero, he would have been dead as a kipper several books ago. A noble kipper, perhaps, a gloriously brave kipper; but, nonetheless, a very, very dead kipper.

Instead, Hiccup sneaked over the edge of the boat as quietly as he could. As soft as a ghost, he hid behind a couple of jars of olive oil beside a bit of the deck that was covered by a large tent. In the meantime, Fishlegs was being chased by the Roman soldiers. The chase didn't last long. Fishlegs ducked and dodged as best he could but finally ran into the stomach of a gigantic centurion who picked him clear off the ground. 'Look who we have here…' bellowed the centurion, as Fishlegs kicked his legs like a stranded beetle. 'A scary little Viking trying to attack us all on his own…' 'Har har har!' The other three hundred and forty- nine soldiers thought this was very funny. 'This is all a big mistake,' wailed Fishlegs, scratching himself violently as his eczema started coming out with the anxiety of the moment. 'Please let me go…' 'Let's take you to the Boss, little barbarian,' said the centurion. He carried Fishlegs over to the tent where Hiccup was hiding. Hiccup peered out from behind his jar. Gently, he drew back the curtain so he could see what was happening.

Bright red in the face and trembling and itching, Fishlegs was brought before two richly dressed men reclining under the tent just a metre away from where Hiccup was crouching. One of these men was very, very fat. So fat, that parts of his stomach were dripping over the edge of his couch and were being held up by a small slave. The other man was thin and wearing a fancy helmet with a gigantic plume and a face guard that covered his eyes. The Fat Roman was eating nanodragons in honey from a plate on a low table in front of him. Nanodragons were a tiny species of dragon as

numerous as insects. They were about the size of locusts. The poor creatures were still alive and were wriggling but unable to escape from the honey that gummed up their wings. Hiccup could hear their pathetic cries for help as the fat fingers picked them up and gobbled them down. The Fat Roman was difficult to understand because he was talking with his mouth full. 'By Jupiter, Prefect,' drawled the Fat Roman through a big helping of nanodragon. 'I do believe we have been attacked by a teeny-weeny little barbarian…' 'So we have, Consul,' replied the Thin Prefect. 'I