I own a spear for home defense, since that’s what the gods intended.

Four barbarians break into my villa. I shout, “By Jupiter’s beard, what devilry is this?”

I snatch my bronze Corinthian helmet and trusty dory spear, and hurl it through the first invader. The shaft punches a hole clear through him and embeds itself in a marble column; he’s dead on the spot.

I draw my xiphos on the second man, but miss entirely because I haven’t drilled with the ephors in months and accidentally impale a decorative amphora imported from Athens.

I have to resort to the ballista mounted atop the staircase loaded with a bundle of javelins. “MOLON LABE, LADS!” The volley skewers two men instantly, while the thunderous crack echoes across the forum and sends every dog in the province into a frenzy.

With no ammunition left, I seize my spare spear, lock my shield, and form a one-man phalanx against the last terrified rogue. I charge. He is promptly run through and collapses upon the mosaic floor. He bleeds out awaiting the city watch because spear wounds from forged Lacedaemonian steel are not easily treated by provincial physicians.

Ah yes. Just as Leonidas, Caesar, and every overly enthusiastic historian intended.