The Leopard sword e-4

by Anthony Riches

  Marcus and Scaurus stood on the corner of the street in which Caninus’s headquarters was located, while the gate guards observed them unhappily, still smarting from their detention overnight. As they’d walked through Tungrorum from the hospital the tribune had recounted to Marcus the story related to him by Caninus, and he was just finishing the prefect’s version of the truth.

  ‘So the story is that they packed the girl’s body in sawdust to stop it from smelling too badly, then made a run for it through the arch that lets the River Worm flow into the city. Caninus went east, skirting round the fort at Mosa Ford and scrambling through the shallows rather than risk being taken by the gate guards, and he carried on as far as Claudius Colony on the Rhenus. Once he was there he kept his head down, worked hard and established a reputation as a clever lad with a habit of delivering on his promises. He ended up finding a place with the civilian authorities as an administrator. After which one thing leads to another, and ten years later here he is, prefect in charge of the province’s counter-banditry effort while his long-lost brother has surfaced as the biggest, nastiest gang leader of them all. I asked him how he’d not been recognised as the man who’d fled the city ten years before, and I have to admit that his answer was a decent enough end to the story, whether it’s true or not.’ Marcus raised an eyebrow, and the tribune waved an arm at the surrounding city. ‘It’s obvious enough, if you look about you. There should be two or three times the number of citizens in Tungrorum, given the size of the place.’ The young centurion nodded slowly, his lips pursing as he too recognised the potential truth in Caninus’s story. ‘Exactly. The plague. The same bloody pestilence that’s been ravaging the empire for the last fifteen years broke out in the city about five years ago, he tells me, here and in all the forts along the Rhenus at much the same time. And if it was vicious enough to kill the last emperor in the safety of his palace, why would it spare any of its victims here? Caninus reckons at least a third of the city died during the outbreak, and a lot more took their possessions and fled, for all the good it would have done them. So, when he was sent here to serve as prefect there was simply no one left alive that recognised him. And on top of that the girl’s family are all dead, and without them there’s no further call for justice. That, and the fact that he purged the official files of all trace of the murder, or so he says.’

  Marcus wrote in his tablet, holding it up for the tribune to read.

  ‘Proof? The local census records were all destroyed in a fire during the plague, when some fool set light to a building full of dead and dying victims of the infection and managed to burn out a whole block of the city, including the records storage building. Caninus tells me that the stable in which the girl died went the same way, which means we won’t get any validation of his story that way.’

  He nodded at Marcus’s raised eyebrow.

  ‘I know. Convenient, isn’t it. A story that “proves” his innocence, but without very much in the way of hard evidence. So, do I believe it?’ He paused for a moment. ‘In all truth, yes, I actually want his story to hold up, and may Our Lord judge me if I’m mistaken. He tells it with the right mixture of desperation and fatalism, like a man who knows that he’s dangling over the drop into Hades but doesn’t deserve to take the fall. Mind you, I’m not entirely trusting of this new version of the man, so I’ve sent away to the governor’s office for a copy of the relevant census entry. At least that way we can see the truth of this “twins” story. As to whether I really trust him, that, as I told you in the hospital, is where you come in. I’m going to set you down in the heart of his command, without giving him the option, and you can observe him for a few days and tell me what you think. If this whole story is just a lie then the point must come when he lets up his guard, even if only for a moment. And if he really is Obduro, then having him under such a close watch will prevent him from taking any further action against us. Whether or not he’s innocent, and simply the victim of his brother’s lust for power and revenge, I can’t think of a better way of finding out — other than the rather extreme expedient of torturing a potentially innocent man half to death — than setting a bright young lad like you on him.’ Marcus nodded, looking at the prefecture building while Scaurus continued speaking. ‘But for Mithras’s sake, be careful. If he’s not the innocent party in all this, then he’ll probably be looking for an opportunity to strike at both of us. Watch your back, Centurion, and I want a daily report from you every evening. I’ve told Caninus that if you fail to appear at evening roll call I’ll take that building apart brick by brick and summarily execute him and every man that gets in my way!’ Marcus drew himself up and saluted, and Scaurus raised a hand in return. ‘Very well, you’re dismissed. May Our Unconquered Lord watch over you.’

  The guards on the prefecture’s main entrance snapped to attention as Marcus approached, pulling the heavy wooden door open. Their weapons had been returned to them once Scaurus had decided to make an open show of trust in their master, at least for the time being, and Marcus noted that neither of the guards chose to meet his eye. Inside the building he found the prefect’s whip-thin deputy, waiting for him. Tornach nodded to him impassively, opening the door to Caninus’s office and stepping back. The prefect was seated at his desk with both hands flat on the wood, clearly just sitting and waiting for Marcus to arrive. He stood, advancing round the table and stopping in front of the Roman, snapping to attention as the door closed.

  ‘Centurion, I am at your disposal. Tribune Scaurus has informed me that my continued freedom to perform my role is dependent on your presence in my headquarters, and so I think the simplest way to approach the situation is to be honest as to the limitations to be imposed on my actions. I place myself in your hands.’

  Marcus smiled gently, tapping his still swollen jaw and pointing at the chair from which Caninus had risen.

  ‘I understand. Talking is… difficult for you at the moment?’

  Marcus nodded, pointing to the chair again, and this time Caninus relaxed, returning to his seat. The young centurion passed him the wooden tablet on which he had written several lines of closely spaced text, watching as the prefect held it up to the light in his broad-fingered hand.

  ‘“I am to watch you, but will do so as your friend. I am still grateful for your rescue of my wife.”’ Caninus bowed his head. ‘No gratitude is required, Centurion, but your open mind is appreciated more than you might guess. Anyway…’ He turned back to the tablet. ‘“I will observe, nothing more. Continue with your duties as if I were not here.”’ The prefect smiled wryly. ‘That’s an easier task for you to instruct than for me to perform, but I’ll do my best to ignore your presence. And then you ask what I have planned?’ He stood, pointing to the map behind him. ‘I have two main objectives at this time… but perhaps you should take a seat before I explain any further? I still have to assume that my prefecture has been compromised by Obduro’s spies.’

  Marcus sat, gesturing to the prefect to continue.

  ‘My first, and most obvious target, is clearly Obduro himself. I have my scouts out in Arduenna, hunting for their hiding place, for our first concern must be to find that encampment’s location. You were there, Centurion Corvus, even if you were blindfolded and injured. Can you give me any better idea of where to look?’

  Marcus wrote on his tablet for a moment, then handed it across the desk. The prefect looked at it, nodded his understanding and passed it back.

  ‘I understand. You were knocked half-conscious, your jaw was broken, and doubtless they did everything possible to disorientate you. I can see how you say that you might have been walking for one hour or three. Nevertheless, there may be some small clue you can provide? Look at the map. If you had to take a guess as to where it might be, where would you place the location?’

  Marcus stood, walked over to the map-covered wall and, after a moment of deliberation, pointed at a spot to the south-east of the submerged bridge. He shrugged helplessly, turning back to Caninus, who inclined his head w
ith a grave smile.

  ‘I understand. Nevertheless your guess is better informed than any that we might make. I’ll have my scouts thoroughly explore that part of Arduenna.’

  Marcus nodded, opening his hands in a gesture for Caninus to continue.

  ‘I mentioned a second task. In truth it’s something I’ve not shared with a soul outside this office.’ He leaned across the desk, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. ‘If any hint of my suspicions with regard to the matter I’m about to outline to you were to become generally known before the time is right then I have no doubt that the evidence would be lost within hours, and the man I suspect of gross fraud against the imperial treasury would have me in his power.’ He sat back in his chair with a speculative eye on the man facing him. ‘But I suspect you know what I’m talking about. Perhaps you and I can form an alliance in this matter. You might just make the perfect investigator.’

  After concluding his session with Caninus, Marcus explained that he had a personal task to attend to and left the prefecture, walking briskly down the street to the food shop where Scaurus had purchased his soup the previous evening. A brief negotiation carried out in sign language, and the exchange of enough money to pay for a week’s supply of food, quickly persuaded the proprietress that her new best customer was to be provided with two pots of soup a day, and the flavours were to be varied as much as possible.

  His next stop was the smith from whom he’d purchased his new spatha. Unlike the food shop’s owner, the sword maker had his letters and was able to read Marcus’s handwritten instructions, albeit in a slow, laboured manner.

  ‘So you want a new helmet, Centurion? Did you lose the old one when you got that lump on your face, eh?’ Marcus nodded patiently. ‘You want an exact copy of the one you lost, but made in the same way as that cavalry helmet I showed you? Ah, you want the iron layered, do you? You’re a clever man, Centurion; you won’t get any better protection than one of my helmets. Now, what else…?’ He squinted at the tablet, frowning at the next item. ‘A shield?’ He frowned at the Roman. ‘I didn’t think you officers carried shields?’ Marcus raised an eyebrow and tapped the tablet. ‘Yes, sir. And you want it..’ The smith’s frown deepened as he read on. ‘What use will that be, Centurion? It’ll be the wrong shape for a start.’

  Marcus took the tablet out of his hand and held it up, pointing at the lines inscribed on the wax with a meaningful look before tapping his purse. The smith shrugged, nodding his agreement.

  ‘You’re the customer, Centurion. If you want a shield that’ll make you look like a throwback to antiquity and be a complete bastard to use, who am I to argue? So, a spear, a helmet and a shield all made to your very particular specifications… shall we call it ten in gold?’ Marcus scratched a fresh line onto his tablet and passed it over the counter for the smith to read. ‘“Yes, but only if…”’ The smith shook his head ruefully. ‘For a man I had down as my best customer in years you’re driving a very hard bargain, Centurion.’ Marcus shrugged, took the tablet from his hand and turned for the door, prompting the smith to hurry around the counter to block his exit with a speed that belied his size. ‘I didn’t say it was an impossible bargain though. Here, have a seat. Are you allowed to drink wine with that bandage round your face?’

  With the deal agreed and toasted with a cup of the smith’s rather watery wine, Marcus walked back to the hospital with a thoughtful look on his face, collecting a fresh pot of soup on the way. He kissed his wife, then walked down the corridor until he found the room he was looking for, occupied by a single man in a centurion’s uniform. The patient got painfully to his feet when he saw Marcus in the door’s frame, and put out a hand in greeting.

  ‘Centurion Corvus! It’s been a long time since we had the chance to talk. I saw you lying in the room next door when they brought me in, but I’ve not been able to walk until today, and even now it’s a bit ugly.’ He turned up the sole of his left foot for Marcus to examine, and the younger man winced at the huge black blisters. ‘They don’t hurt all that much, and I’m allowed to walk on them if they’re bandaged up, but I won’t be fit for duty for at least a week.’

  Marcus looked back at him with a smile of genuine affection, and went through his now practised mime of tapping his swollen jaw and handing over his tablet for the other man to read. While Tertius deciphered the lines of closely packed script, his lips moving as he read, Marcus’s mind went back to their first meeting in the officer’s mess at the port of Arab Town at the eastern end of the Wall, and Tertius’s swift discovery of his true identity and fugitive status. The 2nd cohort centurion had had ample opportunity to profit from the knowledge, but had chosen instead to work against his prefect’s plans for Marcus’s exposure and execution. Rumours had circulated among the men of the Tungrian cohorts for months after Prefect Furius’s mysterious death, despite the official opinion at the time being that it had been the result of natural causes. Furius, it was speculated, had been the subject of a revenge plot, murdered by a 2nd cohort centurion whose soldier brother had been crucified on his orders. No proof had been forthcoming, however, and Tertius, as the centurion in question, had stoically ignored all invitations to comment.

  He looked up from the tablet with a thoughtful expression.

  ‘You want me to do some work for you, something connected with the hunt for this Obduro bastard. It needs doing quickly, and it might be dangerous.’ He grinned confidently at Marcus. ‘I’m your man, and you can forget that…’ He waved his friend’s hand away from his purse. ‘That bastard Furius crucified my brother, and you gave me my revenge. May Cocidius praise you long and loudly for it. Whatever it is that you need doing can be considered a part payment of my blood debt to you. And if there’s fighting involved, so much the better.’ He reached for his sword and patted the battered metal scabbard. ‘Although from what you’ve written here, I may have more need of my other sword.’

  ‘Your business is all done, Centurion Corvus?’

  Marcus nodded, writing on his tablet and then passing it across the desk with a rueful look.

  ‘That much? For a helmet? Gods, but that smith knows how to charge a man! For that much coin he should be making you a helmet from gold.’ He shook his head, passing the tablet back across the table. ‘So, let’s discuss the lesser of my two targets. I’m pretty sure you’ve guessed who I have in mind, but for the avoidance of any doubts I’ll spell out my suspicions. Procurator Albanus was appointed to his post by Governor Julianus a good time after I arrived, and so I have been able to watch and listen as he has subtly changed the mechanisms by which the grain supply to the legions on the Rhenus is managed. His remit, or so he tells anyone that will listen, is to maximise the supply of grain to the army, although I’ve seen no more than a small increase in the number of carts going east to the Rhenus fortresses. What I have noticed, however, is an increase in the number coming in from the various estates across the province. And if more grain comes in, but the same quantity as ever goes out to feed the soldiers, something doesn’t quite add up. Either some good grain simply isn’t being shipped, which is unlikely as that would stick out in the records like a bridegroom’s prick, or he’s accepting grain into the store that shouldn’t be getting into the supply system and using it to pad out the decent stuff.’

  Marcus wrote on his tablet, turning it over to reveal two words.

  ‘“Mouldy grain”. Exactly, Centurion! I knew you were a sharp one. I think the procurator is encouraging farmers to send him grain that by rights isn’t fit to eat, and paying them a small percentage of the price they’d get for the good stuff. Let’s face it; ten per cent of market price is a long way better than nothing at all for something that’s only fit for burning. He’ll dress it up under some pretext or other, food for animals, or some such, but I’ll bet good money that he’s mixing it in with the good stuff. If he slips only a couple of bags of the mouldy stuff in with every hundred, he’s still putting ninety per cent of the value of that many good sacks into his ow
n purse. Doesn’t sound like much, does it? But you’d be amazed just how many sacks that is per year.’ He pulled a scroll from his desk and passed it to Marcus. ‘Do you see the numbers involved? We send six hundred thousand bags of grain to the legions each and every year, eighty cart loads every day on average. If he’s clever enough to limit his skim to just two per cent, two spoiled bags in every hundred, which is low enough to be an irritant rather than a problem, then at four denarii for a bag of corn he’s still grossing over a hundred thousand a year. That’s nearly ten thousand in gold, Centurion. Subtract what he’s paying for the bad grain, and the bribes to keep everyone involved happy, and I’ll wager it’s still the neck end of six or seven thousand in gold a year, and with no taxes to pay. And the procurator has been here for over two years. A couple of years at that rate of profit and a man could buy just about anything he wanted when he returns to Rome, starting with a seat in the Senate. And of course it’s the perfect “victimless” crime. Nobody loses out, not unless you count the emperor, because the grain’s effectively free, levied on the farmers of this province and the Gallic provinces to the south as the price of keeping them safe from the German barbarians waiting just across the Rhenus. The procurator has two nasty problems though. Me, and now you.’

  The torches were long since lit, and the familiar crowd already well lubricated, when a pair of men in the rough tunics of soldiers hobbled through the low doorway of a beer shop in the city’s south-western quarter, one hobbling gingerly on obviously painful feet, the other walking with the aid of a crutch. They met the questioning stares of the clientele with blank glances around the lamplit room, foot-long military daggers prominently displayed alongside the purses that bulged from their leather belts. Their clothing was simple and functional, the heavy wool crudely darned in several places where it had worn through, and their hands and faces were marked by the scars and calluses of decades of service, but the weapons’ iron handles shone out in the drinking establishment’s gloom like highly polished silver, a calculated and highly visible show of deterrence. Gesturing to the owner for a couple of beers, and holding up a coin to vouchsafe payment, the younger of the two helped his mate into his seat and propped the veteran’s crutch against the wall. A rather obviously made-up serving girl, her tunic cut low to display breasts little better than pre-pubescent, deposited their beers on the scarred and stained table and collected the coin, looking bemused at the failure of either man to attempt even the most perfunctory of sexual assaults upon her despite the amply provided opportunity. She shook her head, putting both hands on her hips in disgust.