The Leopard Sword

by Anthony Riches

  Caninus shook his head, pointing to the spot on the map that was Tungrorum.

  ‘No, Tribune, I’m a local boy, born and brought up here in the city. I travelled away from Tungrorum for several years in the imperial service, but when the chance came to return to my birthplace I jumped at it. Although, with hindsight, perhaps my decision would have been different had I known what I was stepping into.’

  Scaurus nodded in sympathy.

  ‘Never go back, eh?’

  The prefect shook his head slowly.

  ‘No, Tribune, it wasn’t the coming back that was the mistake. My error was in having any expectation of the place being as I’d left it.’

  The squadron parted to either side of the road, their hoof beats muffled by the soft ground as they cantered quickly to the west, their shields and spears held ready to fight. For long, anxious moments they rode steadily forward into the murk, unsure of what they might confront at any second, and with every moment the tension mounted. Marcus was starting to believe that they had missed the bandits in the mist, when a sharp-eyed rider on the right-hand side of the road pointed at the fields and shouted a warning to his decurion. Almost invisible in the fog, the indistinct shape of a grain cart was just discernible, with the figures of several men gathered around its rear apparently attempting to free a wheel from the track’s thick mud. Marcus wheeled the big grey to face the bandits, swinging the spear’s head down from its upright carrying position. The horse needed no further encouragement once it saw the weapon’s wicked iron head drop into its field of vision, and it sprang forward across the field’s heavy clay soil toward the robbers at the gallop, clods of earth flying up in its wake.

  Faced with a wall of cavalrymen charging down on them out of the mist the bandits wavered for a moment and then turned to run, their attempts to flee reduced to little better than a stagger by the field’s thick mud. Marcus picked a runner as the men scattered in all directions and rode him down, the cold iron blade stabbing brutally into the small of the man’s back and punching him to the ground with a grunt. Tearing the blade free Marcus turned the horse in search of another target. He heard a horse’s scream of distress and the sound of a rider hitting the ground hard, followed an instant later by a bellow of victory underlaid by a gurgling, agonised groan. Riding towards the noise he barely had time to react as a shaven-headed swordsman charged at him from out of the murk, a bloody blade held high and ready to strike at the horse’s long nose. Stabbing out with the spear, Marcus rammed the weapon’s iron head into the attacker’s face, sending him reeling into the mud with both hands clutching at his shattered, bleeding features.

  Having kept his seat by clinging to the enraged animal’s neck, Marcus trotted the grey forward past another three grain carts, steering the horse around the bodies of dead and dying bandits. At the head of the short line of carts he found a tight knot of ten or so bandits in the middle of a circle of horsemen whose spears were lowered and ready to stab into them. Silus caught sight of him and rode over to speak face to face, keeping his voice low.

  ‘Not bad with only one man down. I’ve given orders for him to be placed in one of the wagons, and perhaps if he lives long enough your woman can work her healing magic on him. As to this sorry collection of cut-throats, what do you think? Should we kill them here, or take them back to Tungrorum?’

  Marcus grimaced.

  ‘First things first, I’d say. We need to find out what they did with the carters, and where they were going with that grain. There may be more of them waiting for this lot to return, in which case . . .’

  ‘We could clean out that nest of snakes as well. Good idea.’ Silus turned to his men, bellowing an order to his deputy.

  ‘Double Pay! Disarm them and get them kneeling in a line beside that cart, hands tied behind their backs and their knees hobbled.’ He dismounted, and Marcus followed suit. ‘You do realise that getting information out of them is going to get unpleasant?’

  The Roman nodded, preoccupied with sliding the tip of his dagger into a sack of grain and putting the grains that spilled from the small hole under his nose, recoiling slightly from their odour.

  ‘Qadir!’

  The chosen man led his mount across the field, kicking at the cart’s wooden wheel to dislodge some of the mud clinging to his boots.

  ‘Centurion?’

  Marcus offered the grain to him, then watched as the Hamian put his nose to the kernels and breathed in slowly. Grimacing, he took one and popped it in his mouth, chewing it briefly before spitting the fragments out with a look of disgust.

  ‘Tainted. Mould, I’d say. And with mouldy corn it’s a coin toss as to whether you can eat it safely or not, never mind the foul taste. Get it wrong and you’ll be sick for days, weak as a baby and rolling around in your own faeces. I’m surprised that any farmer would bother shipping this to Tungrorum. There’s no way that an experienced buyer is going to give them anything for it.’

  Marcus nodded his head to the tethered captives.

  ‘And we may never know why they were bringing it to the city, unless one of these men can take us to any survivors of the robbery.’ His chosen man raised an eyebrow. ‘I know, it’s not very likely, but . . .’

  He led the Hamian across to where Silus was waiting for him, sword drawn and face appropriately grim as he stared up and down the line of terrified-looking bandits.

  ‘Not so bloody brave now, are you? Well, I can make it worse for you, much worse. You’ve got a choice to make, you scum. You can either die here, nice and quick, or you can choose to tell us what we want to know.’

  One of the bandits looked up at him, his face twisted in defiance.

  ‘What, and then you’ll let us go, will you?’

  Silus smiled broadly at him, walking across to his side.

  ‘Excellent. There’s always one man that wants to go first.’ He nodded at the cavalryman standing in front of the line of kneeling men, and the soldier stepped forward, grabbed the defiant bandit’s hair and used it to pull his head down, baring his neck for the sword. Silus put his spatha on the exposed flesh, sawing the rough sharpened blade backwards and forwards, the sword’s weight exerting enough pressure on the skin to start a thin line of blood trickling down the helpless man’s throat.

  ‘Of course I’m not going to let you go, but at least you’ll get to survive today, and who knows, if you sing loudly enough perhaps the procurator will spare you for assisting us?’

  ‘Spare us? More likely he’ll—’

  Silus whipped up the blade, taking a quick breath with the upstroke before hacking down into the exposed neck with enough power to partially sever the man’s head from his shoulders, then lifted the sword again to finish the job. The headless corpse toppled forward, blood still pumping from the stump of the dead man’s neck. It sprayed the soldier with a hot jet that made him drop the man’s head and fumble to wipe his eyes clean. Bending, Silus picked up the head by the hair, scowling at the man whose job it had been to hold it. He raised the bloody, mud-spattered trophy, giving the other bandits a good long look at their comrade. The faces reflected fear, hate, but mostly the numb realisation that they would face the same fate soon enough. Marcus watched from the side of the line, his thoughts racing as he considered the murder of the helpless prisoner.

  ‘So, one man wanted to die here, in this muddy field, with no one to spare him a coin for the ferryman. Does anyone else feel the same need to leave this life here and now? Or would any of you like to talk, and spare the rest of us having to go through this ritual until you’re all dead? No?’

  He nodded to the soldier, who gripped the next man’s hair and turned his face away while the decurion braced himself with a two-handed grip on the weapon’s hilt and inhaled quickly. The sword rose and fell in one clean blow this time, and Silus nodded to himself.

  ‘It seems I’m getting the hang of this. Anyone want to talk? No? Very well.’

  He stepped up to the next man down the line, raising the blade as the soldi
er once again took a grip of the victim’s hair. Tensing himself for the downstroke the decurion took another quick breath of air, but held off from delivering the fatal blow as the helpless man beneath his sword let out a creaking moan of desperation and audibly soiled himself. Silus grinned at the terrified bandit, wrinkling his nose at the sudden stench of terror.

  ‘Nobody wants to die on an empty stomach. Perhaps I’m not being fair.’ He looked sideways at the man on the far side of the first bandit to die, watching as the colour drained from his face. ‘After all, I started in the middle of the line; perhaps I should have chosen the man on the other side to go third.’ He beckoned to the soldier holding down the bandit’s head to raise it, allowing him to see the victim’s face. ‘What do you think? Fairer to go the other way for a bit?’ The captive goggled up at him wordlessly, almost unable to comprehend his desperate circumstances, and Silus stroked his chin as if deep in thought. ‘It does seem a bit lopsided.’

  The decurion turned away from the bandit, beckoning his assistant to follow him, and the soldier released his grip on the prisoner’s hair. Reprieved, the helpless man fell forward into the mud and started to cry like a baby, watching as the decurion moved up the line. He gestured to the soldier, who grabbed his new victim’s copper-hued hair and dragged him forward, ready for the killing stroke. Silus lifted the sword, and stood over the man, waiting patiently for some reaction. After a moment his victim turned his head as much as he could, given the harsh grip on his hair, and snarled at his executioner.

  ‘Get it done!’

  The decurion looked down at him with a gentle smile.

  ‘Now there’s a man with a pair of balls I can respect. You’re not going to shit yourself any time soon, are you? I can’t kill this man; he deserves a better exit than a quick hack in a muddy field. No, let’s go back to the other one.’

  His original victim, still lying in the field’s cold mud, gave out a shrill squeal of horror.

  ‘No! No, not me! I’ll tell you anything you want to know! Anything!’

  The redhead spat his anger into the soil.

  ‘Shut your mouth! There’re good men will die if you betray them, and we’re dead whatever happens, here or in some—’

  Silus whirled around, hacking off his head in one swift movement before turning back to the weeping bandit with a tight smile.

  ‘No one likes to be interrupted when they’re speaking. You were saying . . .?’

  When the legion column arrived on the scene, Tribune Belletor found Marcus and a handful of soldiers stacking the dead bandits by the roadside, the badly wounded Tungrian having been wrapped in his cloak and laid in the rearmost cart for transport back to the city.

  ‘What’s happened here, Centurion. Some sort of battle?’

  Marcus briefed him on the short action, watching as the tribune looked about him at the carnage wrought upon the bandits with an expression of mixed horror and distaste. The senior officer’s glance chanced upon the three headless victims of Silus’s interrogation, and his face creased into an unhappy frown.

  ‘Those men appear to have been beheaded?’

  Marcus nodded, his face impassive.

  ‘Field interrogation, Tribune. The remainder of the squadron is running the rest of the band to ground based on the information gained.’

  ‘That’s not acceptable, Centurion.’ He shook his head angrily, and Marcus waited for him to continue, wondering if the legion officer was a more humane man than his reputation indicated. ‘Look at their arms!’ Marcus realised that Belletor had spotted the slave brands on the dead men’s arms. ‘No, each of these men is someone’s property. My father farms a large estate in Italy, so I know the value of good slaves.’

  ‘Good slaves, Tribune?’

  Belletor, missing the acerbic note in the young centurion’s voice, smiled tightly at him.

  ‘Fit men, good for decades of hard work if managed the right way. It’s not the army’s job to bring judgement on these animals; that’s a job for their masters. A good overseer will make such a man pay for his crimes in manifold ways, and deliver his value to the farm. That’s got to be better than just hacking off his head and leaving him to rot in the mud, eh?’

  Marcus nodded quickly, recognising an argument he could not hope to win.

  ‘Indeed, Tribune. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get these carts on the road to Tungrorum.’

  Belletor’s response was suddenly hard-edged, brooking no argument.

  ‘No need, Centurion. First Minervia will escort this cargo back to the city’s grain store. And you can get that soldier out of the rearmost cart. I’ll not have the emperor’s grain spoiled by a dying man’s blood.’

  Marcus spun back, fighting to keep a hold of his temper at the harsh words.

  ‘Tribune, I’ve taken a sample from each cart. My family used to deal in grain, which led me to examine the contents of the bags. I found that the grain is already useless, spoiled by mould. Also, I believe that my man may live long enough to reach our doctor if I keep him on his back, and the only way to do that is to—’

  Belletor shook his head.

  ‘Unacceptable, Centurion. Your man will have to take his chances on horseback. I will have this grain away to the store before any other brigands decide to have their way with it.’

  He turned away to his own men, bellowing orders for the march to their centurions. Marcus clenched his fist and tensed himself to put a hand on Belletor’s shoulder, but found himself restrained by a firm grip on his sleeve. He turned to find Qadir standing behind him, the Hamian shaking his head in admonishment. He leaned close, speaking quietly in the Roman’s ear.

  ‘Since your friend Rufius died you have lacked a man to restrain you from those dark impulses that will be the ruin of everything you have left in this world. In the absence of a man with whose opinion you will readily agree, allow me to present the next best thing.’ He bowed slightly. ‘Your friend, who would rather see you grow to your full potential in the shadows than burn fiercely for a short time, but in doing so attract the attention of powerful men. And not only to himself.’

  The Roman nodded slowly, his anger subsiding to a dull ache in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Thank you. The tribune wants our man off the grain cart. Do you think he’ll . . .’

  ‘Our man is already dead. The wound was too severe. I have placed the coin between his lips, and asked our comrades to place him upon his horse with whatever dignity we can give him.’

  A wan, wry smile touched Marcus’s lips momentarily.

  ‘As well that you restrained me, then. I would have chinned that aristocratic fool to no purpose.’

  Qadir smiled back at him darkly.

  ‘“Chinned?” I’ll wager you didn’t learn that at some philosophy tutor’s knee.’

  His friend shook his head.

  ‘No, I was gifted the term by the freed gladiator my father employed to train me to fight with bare knuckles, in readiness for that time when there’s no other choice. Every fallen son of privilege should have had one. Now, let’s gather our dead and get back to Tungrorum.’ He opened his clenched fist, revealing a handful of the tainted grain. ‘I think Tribune Scaurus is going to be interested in this.’

  3

  Forewarned by a rider sent on ahead by Marcus, Scaurus was waiting at the west gate with Julius when the small party of riders led by his centurion shepherded their captives into the city.

  ‘More prisoners for your cells, eh, Procurator? We’ll have to have a meeting as to what to do with them all.’

  Albanus snorted derisively.

  ‘You can crucify the lot of them here and now as far as I’m concerned.’

  Marcus climbed down from his horse, allowing a soldier to lead the big animal away. He snapped out a smart salute to the two men, giving Scaurus a significant look as he reached into his pouch for a tablet.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but I carry instructions from Tribune Belletor. The tribune is following us in with four cart loads
of grain that these bandits intercepted eight miles to the east of the city, presumably from one of the local farms although most of the men who were bringing it here were murdered by the bandits. Most of it seems to have been spoiled by mould. He instructed me to escort these prisoners to the city’s slave quarters and place them under guard there, to await being claimed by their owners.’

  Scaurus raised an eyebrow at Albanus.

  ‘Does that sound right to you, Procurator? These men are bandits. They were caught in the act, I presume, Centurion?’ Marcus nodded. ‘And therefore their lives are forfeit. I find my colleague’s idea that the protection of private property should come before the administering of justice more than a little surprising.’

  Albanus shrugged, as if the matter was of little interest to him.

  ‘Their lives are indeed in the empire’s hands, Tribune. Whether the empire then chooses simply to take their lives or return them to their rightful owners for a lengthier punishment is a topic for further discussion. For the time being you must do with them whatever you feel best. My priority now is to ensure the safe receipt and storage of the recovered grain.’ He turned to Marcus. ‘Tell me, Centurion, were there any survivors from the carters from whom the theft was made?’

  ‘One sir. He managed to escape the initial attack, and then ran for his life.’

  The procurator pursed his lips.

  ‘Just one? A lucky man, I’d say.’

  Scaurus raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘So you’ll be keen to speak to him, I expect? You’ll want to know who to pay the fee to for the corn that’s been recovered.’

  Albanus shook his head.

  ‘Not if it’s mouldy. I’ll have it quarantined to prevent any fool from trying to sell it or feed it to an animal, but there’ll be no payment made for inedible grain.’

  Scaurus nodded his understanding at the other man.

  ‘Commendable, Procurator; no payment for food that can’t be consumed. Although that does tend to make me wonder why anyone would be bothering to bring four carts of the stuff here when there was no way they were going to get paid for it. Come on, then, let’s have a look at this rather impressive grain warehouse of yours. I must admit that I’m curious to see such a magnificent building. You won’t mind if I bring these two officers along for a look, will you?’