The Leopard Sword

by Anthony Riches

  ‘And that, I think, is enough.’ The moustached bodyguard stepped forward with his confidence rediscovered and his expression painfully close to being one of mockery, jerking his head to indicate several men approaching them across the forum. ‘The lady needs to be on her way, and this reunion, touching though it’s been, is over.’ Julius nodded with a faraway look on his face, and Marcus tensed himself to strike if the bodyguard made any move to take advantage of the centurion’s distraction, but the lady’s escort did nothing more than shake his head disparagingly and mutter an insult under his breath. ‘Cunt-struck prick.’

  Dubnus bristled with anger and made to step up to him, but stopped with a frown as Marcus put out a hand to restrain him. Sheathing his sword, Marcus then moved forward and put his face within a few inches of the bodyguard’s, speaking in quiet but fierce tones.

  ‘I’d be a little more careful who you insult, if I were you. And when you’re done with trying to get yourself killed, you can take a message to your employer. Tell him that there’s a customer looking for enough wine to keep twenty thirsty centurions happy for a month, and quickly. We’re camped on the empty ground by the west gate, and he needs to ask for First Spear Frontinius. The good stuff, mind you, and we’re paying in gold.’

  Unabashed, the bodyguard raised an eyebrow at his mate, a slight smirk on his face.

  ‘In gold, is it? We’ll pass your message on, soldier. Fresh gold’s always welcome here.’

  He turned away, putting a proprietorial hand on the lady’s arm and leading her towards one of the market’s exits. Julius watched them walk away across the forum, his expression still wistful as he addressed his colleagues, ignoring the newly arrived bruisers who closed ranks behind Annia’s bodyguards to deny the Tungrians a chance to follow her.

  ‘And that, brothers, was my first love. The blows that life deals you just when you least expect them, eh?’ He sighed, his voice hardening as he regained control of himself. ‘Feel free to mention this meeting to anyone you like, but be prepared to sleep with one eye open if you do.’

  To his surprise Dubnus, usually the first with a quip at his expense, shook his head dourly.

  ‘It wouldn’t be funny, brother. Forget you ever laid eyes on her, and we’ll do the same.’ He winked at Marcus, tapping his pouch with a significant stare at the back of Julius’s head. ‘And if you ever want someone to cheer you up, I’m your man. All you have to do is whistle.’

  The view to the west from the top of the Tungrorum city wall was less than impressive, Qadir decided, its monotony made all the worse by the frequency with which the 9th Century’s Hamians were being allocated the duty of standing watch over the open fields beyond them, while the two Tungrian cohorts were on construction duties. Half of the century, and among them all of the twenty-odd Hamians who had elected to stay with the cohort, were dispersed along three hundred paces of the wall’s eastern length, while the rest were hard at work with the other centuries below them. The sounds of hammering and sawing were an incessant accompaniment to their vigil, as the soldiers below laboured, sweated and bled to erect the wooden barrack blocks required to house their numbers. Empty fields that receded into the featureless grey had been intriguing to the Hamian members of the century at first, but their interest in the open ground’s potential for archery had quickly palled with the continued presence of the bitterly cold fog that wreathed the landscape beyond the city’s walls.

  ‘There!’ The man at his side started and pointed into the mist, his voice lowered to avoid spooking the cautious animal. Following his arm Qadir saw the outline of a magnificent stag advancing slowly out of the murk, bending its heavily antlered head to pick carefully at the sparse grass. The soldier shrugged the bow case from his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at his chosen man. Qadir looked long and hard at the animal, calculating the amount of meat that his men’s skilled hands would strip from its carcass, before regretfully shaking his head and putting a restraining hand on the man’s arm.

  ‘Our goddess will not look with favour upon the man who looses an arrow at such an easy target. That animal was made to be hunted with skill and stealth through the great forest, not to be shot down for straying into this unnatural wilderness of empty land. Spread the word: the man that shoots a single arrow at the beast will suffer my displeasure, and likely that of Our Lady the Deasura too. Go.’

  The soldier nodded and turned away to pass Qadir’s command to his fellow Hamians. The big chosen man was a placid individual for the most part, but every man in the 9th Century was only too well aware that they crossed him at their peril, such was his temper when eventually roused. Qadir watched with satisfaction as the soldier walked down the wall’s broad fighting platform, taking pleasure from the fact that he had spared an innocent creature of the forest from an ignoble death.

  ‘That’s a fine-looking beast. Plenty of meat on those bones, I’d guess?’

  The chosen man turned, rolling his eyes in mock disgust.

  ‘Still you have the ability to ghost your way to my shoulder, Centurion. I stand abashed at your skills.’

  He opened his arms in a slight bow of respect, and Marcus nodded in return, his face creased by a wry smile.

  ‘So we’re not hunting today?’

  Qadir shook his head, watching the stag as it turned and slid back into the mist.

  ‘It would not be fitting. Such a prize needs to be taken in a true hunt, not like the target on a practice ground. As long as he is under my men’s bows, he will have the protection of the Deasura herself.’

  Marcus shrugged easily, still smiling.

  ‘In which case he’s lucky to have encountered the only leader of men with your eastern philosophy for a hundred miles or more.’

  They stared out into the empty fog in silence for a moment before Marcus found the words for which he had been groping.

  ‘You’ve been a different man of late, Qadir. Morban thinks you’ve realised what a mistake you made in deciding to stay with us.’

  The Hamian stared out into the mist.

  ‘An easy assumption to make, I suppose. The easterner comes to his senses when he realises that most of the infantryman’s life is nothing more than rain, marching, boredom and more rain.’

  Marcus laughed.

  ‘And that the other small part is nothing but blood, terror and death?’

  The Hamian smiled slowly.

  ‘In your company, Centurion, it does seem that way.’ He turned to look at his friend. ‘But in all truth, none of that bothers me. I am troubled by a different fact.’

  He fell silent again and turned back to the mist, his face bleak in the morning’s cold light. And just when Marcus thought that the subject was closed, the Hamian sighed and turned to face his friend again.

  ‘My continuing black mood, Centurion, is the result of your near death at the hands of imperial killers before we left Britannia. And I’m not the only man that feels this way. If not for three unwashed barbarians and a centurion still recovering from a serious wound, both you and your woman would have suffered the fate they had planned for you. We are all ashamed to have allowed those Roman animals to have taken you from the cohort without any attempt at rescue.’

  Marcus smiled gently at his words.

  ‘You couldn’t have saved me even if you’d been aware of what had happened, which you weren’t. Nobody but Arminius, Martos and Lugos could have run fast enough to arrive in time, not with all the weight we all carry in weapons and armour. And since it worked out well enough in the end, let’s have an end to this introspection, shall we? There’ll be plenty of other chances for you to pull my grapes out of the press.’

  The Hamian looked into his face, his weary expression brightening.

  ‘Very well. I will put the failure behind me, and consider only how best to provide you and yours with the protection I have sworn to deliver.’

  ‘Sworn?’ Marcus’s expression turned quizzical. ‘You mean an oath to the gods?’

  ‘Just one goddess,
Our Lady the Deasura. And I’m not the only one. You’re unjustly accused, every other member of your family has been murdered, and only you, your woman and her unborn child stand between the empire and the final destruction of your name. None of your friends will allow that to happen, not without challenge.’

  The Roman shook his head, his eyebrows raised in amazement.

  ‘I’m speechless, Qadir. I . . .’

  ‘There is no need for you to comment. We need neither your approval nor your assistance in this matter. Simply accept that you have friends who will fight to see you survive this injustice, and go about the duties that accompany this new identity you have chosen knowing that we watch over you.’

  They looked down over the wall onto the ground below, and at the wooden frames that were being erected to form the basis for the barracks. At length Marcus spoke again.

  ‘Thank you. And to avoid embarrassment for all concerned we’ll speak of it no more, although I remain quite astonished.’ He took a deep breath, and waved an arm at the scene below. ‘It’s going more slowly than the first spear hoped.’

  Qadir nodded.

  ‘We are none of us carpenters. Everyone below us is skilled with a sword and shield, but few have any skill or desire to wield a saw. Perhaps if the legion were helping the job would go more smoothly?’

  Marcus laughed softly.

  ‘Perhaps it would. But I fear that the word “if” is most likely to stay the case. Speaking of which . . .’

  Two hundred paces to the north of their place on the wall the city’s west gate had been opened, and a column of soldiers was marching out in full armour. The two men watched as the legionaries poured out of the city at the march, both of them counting the soldiers until the last rank cleared the gate. Qadir raised an eyebrow, watching as the marching column was swallowed up by the drifting fog.

  ‘Two centuries. It seems that the legion’s tribune has changed his mind about the need to patrol outside the city.’

  Frontinius and Scaurus watched the building work from the doorway of the tribune’s tent, the first spear standing in silence while his superior officer listed the progress made in getting the two cohorts properly supplied.

  ‘So we have enough food to see us through another week, although I’m concerned as to the impact of our presence on the city’s grain stocks. What with our two cohorts and Belletor’s men that’s another two thousand mouths to feed. Hungry mouths too, ones not used to going without their full ration.’

  Frontinius scratched his head, looking critically at the dirt that came off his scalp under his fingernails.

  ‘Gods, but I could do with a proper bath. I used to think the bathhouse at the Hill was a bit draughty and poky, but I’d give my left ball for a good long sweat right now. What about that great big grain store outside the gates? Surely there’s enough corn in there to feed everyone and to spare?’

  Scaurus raised a sardonic eyebrow.

  ‘That grain, First Spear Frontinius, belongs to the empire. Why else do you think it was built outside the walls, but to keep temptation from overcoming the citizens of Tungrorum? You’ll have noticed that our colleague Belletor has soldiers posted around it to dissuade the populace from any idea of getting at its contents? It seems that Tribune Belletor and Procurator Albanus are aligned on that much, at least. No, we’ll have to keep a close eye on the city’s food stocks. I won’t have civilians going hungry to feed the men who are supposed to be protecting them. Doubtless those men that delivered our wine already have a strong grip on the supply of scarce items at inflated prices, so it’ll be the poor that suffer if we turn a blind eye. It appears that Albanus’s deputy, Petrus, is the merchant in question, so I doubt the city authorities will be taking much of an interest in the event of our causing a shortage.’

  He looked down at the tablet in his hand.

  ‘As to shelter, how long do you think it’s going to take to complete the construction?’

  Frontinius scratched his head again.

  ‘The best part of a week, based on their current progress. We don’t have enough of either the right tools or the skills to go any faster.’

  Scaurus shook his head, his face hardening.

  ‘Not fast enough, First Spear. You’ll have to find a way to get it done quicker. I want these men out in the countryside hunting down bandits, not developing their building skills inside these walls.’ Frontinius grimaced, but nodded his understanding as his tribune scowled down at his tablet. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, Tribune. Bathing and drinking.’

  ‘Ah . . . I see.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly when Julius pointed it out to me earlier. The men haven’t seen the inside of a bathhouse or a beer shop since we marched away from the coast. Bathing shouldn’t be too hard to arrange, although we’ll have to agree a rota with the legion boys to avoid the inevitable friction; it’s the drinking that worries me more. There are several likely looking establishments in the city, and that’s before we get to the unlicensed beer shops that any soldier worth his salt will find for himself soon enough.’

  Scaurus nodded, his face creasing into a knowing smile.

  ‘Quite so. And if we try to stop the men from using them we’ll just end up with them sneaking about the camp after dark, and risk someone getting speared by a sentry who doesn’t know him and doesn’t like the look of him. No, we’ll have to organise some sort of rota for that as well. Since Julius came up with the point he can follow it through, especially as he knows the city better than anyone else. Have him organise a schedule that allows the men enough time to enjoy themselves, but not so much that they’ll end up roaring drunk and starting fights. While he’s at it he can have a chat with the owners of the taverns to warn them that they’ll be getting some extra custom, and perhaps he could discuss the timings of our boys’ visits with First Spear Sergius too. It wouldn’t do our image with the locals much good for Tungrians and legionaries to end up in the same hostelries at the same time, eh?’

  Frontinius looked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘It looks like we’ll be able to tell Sergius in person.’

  Scaurus swivelled, frowning at the sight of 1st Minervia’s senior centurion approaching from the legion’s barracks, a crowd of thirty or so men following him in tunic order, most of them carrying leather bags. Sergius saluted Scaurus smartly, nodding his greeting to Frontinius.

  ‘Greetings, gentlemen. It’s a fine morning for a patrol, or at least that’s what Tribune Belletor said as he was mounting his horse all nicely wrapped up in his cloak. I’m not sure what our first and second centuries will think about it, but either way they’re out for the day.’ He turned to look across at the labouring Tungrians. ‘Your boys are well stuck in, I see, but I’m ready to bet good money that you’re going slower than you’d like. Knowing Procurator Albanus I’m pretty sure that the city authorities will have provided you with a smaller number of tools than you need, and low-quality stuff at that. And, with no disrespect intended, your men don’t look like it’s coming naturally to them either.’ He turned back to them, finding both men staring at him with quizzical expressions. ‘And no, I’ve not come to gloat, but to do something a good deal more constructive than my tribune would find acceptable, given the poor start to your relationship.’ He waved a hand at the legionaries behind him. ‘All of these men are skilled builders, and they have their tools with them. I’ve no shortage of either, but what I don’t have are enough trained soldiers to get a grip of the cohort’s large number of new recruits. You know how that works best, eh, colleague?’

  Frontinius nodded knowingly, seeing where the other man’s line of reasoning was taking them.

  ‘One experienced soldier for every four or five recruits. Any more than that and he can’t keep a close enough eye on them to spot what they’re doing wrong and correct them while they’re doing it. Thirty such veterans of a few nasty fights could train two centuries at a time.’

  ‘Exactly. And in return, thirty sk
illed builders would be two for each of your barrack blocks. Not enough to throw them up in a day, but it would make a big difference to the speed and quality of the build to have men who knew what they were doing pointing out the mistakes as they were being made.’

  Both men turned to Scaurus with questioning looks. Raising his hands, he shook his head and laughed out loud.

  ‘No, gentlemen, the less I know the better! The pair of you can work out whatever shady deal it is you think will best meet the needs of your respective cohorts while I go and root out our cavalrymen. Since they’re lucky enough to have found empty stables for their beasts, they can make themselves useful rather than sitting round getting fat. Mind you . . .’ He turned back to face them with a conspiratorial look. ‘Mind you, given that we wear red and your men wear white, it might be a good idea for your men to swap tunics while they’re doing each other’s jobs. Just a thought.’

  Marcus and Qadir were still looking out at the foggy landscape when a horseman rode up to the wall’s rear and called for them. Eager to be out of the city, the sturdy animal pranced about on the spot as its rider waited for the officers to appear over the parapet.

  ‘Decurion Silus’s compliments to you, Centurion. He was wondering if you and your chosen man would care to join the mounted squadron for a look-around? It’s been approved by the tribune.’

  Marcus looked along the wall’s fighting platform, spying the bulky figure of his standard bearer a hundred paces distant. Morban was talking animatedly with a group of soldiers and as Marcus watched with narrowed eyes he slapped palms with one of them.

  ‘Another wager made, no doubt. The man’s incorrigible. Remind me to have a discussion with him about his grandson when we get back. Morban!’