He looked down the rectangular room, catching a glimpse of an impressive stone frieze fully six feet high and the same in width. The two-inch-thick slab of marble was sculpted with the familiar image of Mithras slaying the bull in the cave into which he had carried it at the end of his long hunt, the main scene surrounded by lavish carvings of the images associated with each of the religion’s seven grades. Scaurus turned as Arminius and Marcus reached his side, and, as was always the case in temple, clasped the two men’s arms as equals, any hint of their formal relationship put aside in the worship of their god. Scaurus’s brow was decorated with the laurel wreath befitting his status as a Lion, the fourth most senior of the religion’s ranks. Prefect Caninus echoed the gesture of greeting with both men, his smile of welcome reassuring amid the congregation’s obvious hostility.
‘You’re just in time, my brothers. The priest is about to start the ceremony. Here, we’ve saved you both a space.’
Marcus looked about him, realising that most of the worshippers were either men in late middle age or boys barely old enough to shave. He leaned closer to Scaurus, not wanting his remark to be overheard.
‘A different congregation to that I’d expected.’
The tribune nodded, his reply equally subtle in tone.
‘Our colleague Caninus tells me that the city has been somewhat underdeveloped in commercial terms ever since the plague killed a third of its inhabitants. Any bright young lad that wants to get on tends to head west to Beech Forest, or east to the fortresses on the Rhenus. What you see here are the men that have managed to build successful business, and their sons, plus a few senior people from the municipal authorities. First Minervia have their own temple, of course, which is why these men are all looking at us like men who’ve trodden barefoot on cold dog faeces. They’re not happy to be worshipping alongside the men who’re bleeding their city white, even if we are brothers in Our Lord, and despite the fact that we’re here for their protection. Ah, there’s our good friend Procurator Albanus, and the stone-faced character to his right is Petrus, his assistant. I’m still working out which one of them is the real—’
‘Gentlemen, please take your places! The ritual is about to begin!’
The temple’s pater stood in front of the magnificent stone frieze with his arms outstretched to either side, while his acolytes moved out into the room to darken the chamber, as demanded by the ritual. The worshippers settled down onto the stone benches that lined both long sides of the temple, reclining horizontally and propping themselves up on their elbows as the pater watched his assistants take the torches down from their iron wall loops and walk them away up the temple’s steps, the light receding up the stairs in bright haloes until the only remaining source of illumination was a single small lamp which an acolyte, almost invisible in his dark red garments, placed reverently in the priest’s hands. After a moment of utter silence, the only sound that of his congregation breathing in the darkness, the pater raised the pinpoint of flame to illuminate his face, his eyes closed against the flame’s brightness. He blew out the lamp, and the temple chamber was plunged into complete darkness. Marcus’s keen ears picked up a faint rustle from behind the frieze, and then a soft halo of light appeared to surround the marble slab. A point of light rose into view; it came from a small lamp carried by an acolyte, and as he deposited it before the frieze the tiny flame breathed gentle life into the picture it portrayed. The temple’s pater spoke again, still invisible in the darkness.
‘Beloved brothers, and welcome visitors from beyond our city’s walls, we now join in the ritual of our beloved Lord, Mithras the Unconquered, who spilled the eternal blood of the bull at the command of Sol, God of the Sun, to save us all. Let us pray that he looks down on us from his place in the heavens with the Sun God, and give thanks for all the wonders he has given us.’
‘You took a big chance coming here, Centurion. It’s a good thing I suspected you’d appear at our door sometime soon, and persuaded my business partner’s men to go easy on you if you did. Or would you have taken them on with your bare hands and that stick?’
Annia nodded to Julius’s vine stick, laid carefully on the table before him, and the big man smiled ruefully.
‘Probably not, given the size of them.’
He tipped his head to Slap, standing in the room’s corner and carefully positioned to be within listening distance whilst giving the illusion of some privacy, and the big man smirked back at him. Annia shook her head at him with a gentle smile.
‘Exactly. Although you never were a man for thinking through the consequences of your actions, were you? But you’re here, so let’s see if we can’t entertain you. Girls!’ She snapped her fingers with the manner of a woman who was used to having her commands obeyed, and a line of five women emerged from behind a curtain where they had clearly been waiting for the evening’s customers. Eyeing them appreciatively, Julius found himself hardening despite having no intention of sampling the brothel’s wares. Annia smiled knowingly, leaning forward to stroke his erect manhood through the tunic’s fine wool. ‘Well, some things never change. If anything I’d say that’s got a little bigger. Clearly some things do improve with age. Will you partake of a little enjoyment, Centurion, on the house, of course? It must be a long time since you’ve had the opportunity to ride anything quite as soft and eager to please as my girls.’
Julius surveyed the line of women for a moment, noting with a smile how neatly any and every taste was catered for. From a skinny girl scarcely old enough to be considered fit for her role, her apple-sized breasts barely hidden beneath a skimpy shift, to a mature woman in the last flush of her beauty, ripe and sultry with heavy breasts and a face that promised a lifetime’s experience, any age of female company a man might desire was paraded before him. He swallowed, painfully aware of both his own arousal and the woman’s cool, amused eyes upon him.
‘I came to talk, Annia, not to . . .’
‘Not to fuck? You’re a collector’s item, Centurion, an outright rarity. We have the occasional men that pay simply to have the company of a pretty girl, but they tend to be the older men whose cocks have lost their bounce, not fighting bulls like you with their pricks standing at attention. I’ll bet you wouldn’t last thirty seconds in the hands of Helvia there.’ She gestured to the oldest of the women, who winked on cue and slid a finger down into her vagina’s hairy cleft with a winsome smile. Julius’s face must have been a picture, for Annia burst into a peal of uncontrollable laughter. For a moment he was fifteen years old again, with that same laugh thrilling him as she climbed on top of him in one of their hiding places. She reached out and squeezed his penis again, and watched with a smile as he fought to retain control. ‘See. You very nearly released yourself into that nice tunic, and all you’ve had so far is a wink and a gentle squeeze. So . . .?’
She gestured to the line of prostitutes again, and with a feeling that he was going to regret the decision he shook his head firmly.
‘Thank you, but I really did come to talk.’ Taking a purse from his belt he opened its drawstring neck, rattling the heavy coins within. ‘I can afford to pay for the privilege.’
Annia shook her head, pushing the purse away and ignoring the intake of breath from the bodyguard behind her.
‘There’ll be no need for that. I’m not given to fucking the customers these days, not unless they’re queuing out of the door, and even then I charge an eye-watering sum for the pleasure. Ownership does have some benefits, and mine is being able to be choosy as to when and with whom I get on my back. So, what would you like to discuss? Just what is it that you think we have to talk about, given the way we parted, and the fact that we’ve not laid eyes on each other for fifteen years?’
Julius shook his head sadly, and when he spoke his voice was that of a man utterly lost.
‘I don’t know.’
One of the temple’s Raven initiates walked solemnly down the double line of reclining worshippers, bowing deeply to Scaurus in honour of the laur
el wreath that decorated his brow.
‘Forgive me, brother Lion, but there is a man at the temple door who claims he is one of your officers. Apparently there is some trouble in the city.’
Scaurus nodded to his companions and stood up, abandoning his half-eaten ceremonial meal and bowing to the expectant priest who had appeared at the Raven’s shoulder.
‘You must forgive me, Pater, earthly matters demand my attention. I will spend an hour in prayer to repay our Lord Mithras for this early departure.’ He slipped a leather purse into the priest’s hands. ‘A gift, Pater, a small contribution for the maintenance of your most impressive temple. The reversible altar relief is quite masterful. You must have a generous and devoted congregation.’
The priest nodded with a quiet smile, used to visiting worshippers’ amazement when the heavy stone relief depicting Mithras’s triumph over the bull was rotated on the circular turntable on which it rested to reveal its equally skilfully depicted reverse, a carving of Mithras and Sol feasting on the dead bull’s hide.
‘My pleasure, brother Lion, and my regards to your companions. Mithras is a soldier’s god, and I feel certain that he will indulge your need to restore order in the earthly realm above us. Please do grace us with your presence again, and bring that young man with you. Perhaps we can advance him a grade in the ordeal pit?’
Scaurus smiled in return, inclining his head in agreement.
‘Indeed so, Pater, although when he took the hood last winter, while we were confined to camp by the snows, he threw himself into his studies with such gusto that he has already advanced to the rank of Bride, and his demeanour in the ordeal of ice brought great dignity to our Lord.’
The priest raised his eyebrows, apparently genuinely impressed.
‘A man to watch, then? He’ll join you in the fourth rank and become a Lion in no time. And now that’s enough politeness, my son. Away with you. Who knows what mischief your children are up to while their father worships down here?’
Scaurus bowed to the priest again, muttering a brief apology to Caninus before leading the other two men away up the stairs behind the waiting Raven. Arminius paused at the foot of the steep flight of stone steps and flicked a glance around the room, noting with interest the look that the pater seemed to be sharing with Petrus, then he turned to follow his master, pulling a set of heavy brass knuckles from a pouch on his belt.
‘Who do we have out on the town tonight?’
Arminius grinned at the tribune’s question as they walked quickly down the road between shuttered houses, hearing the faint sounds of men fighting echo between the closely packed dwellings.
‘That’s the best bit. The lottery came up with the Third and Eighth Centuries.’
Marcus groaned, shaking his head in resigned disgust.
‘The first two centuries allowed out, and one of them is stuffed full of Dubnus’s bloody legionaries? This is going to get sporty.’
The bitterly cold wind was still whistling through the city’s streets the next morning when all three cohorts paraded outside the walls to watch punishment being meted out to the captured bandits.
‘There’ll be some thick heads out there this morning. Serves the bastards right for getting the first evening in the city.’ Marcus ignored Morban’s morose grumbling, watching with amusement as Dubnus marched his century into position next to the 9th, his face still dark with anger at the previous evening’s events. ‘Perhaps now he’s having second thoughts about having let a half-century of legion morons join up with us.’
His centurion shook his head in exasperation.
‘Would those be the legion morons that saved my wife’s life last autumn, Standard Bearer? Perhaps your bitterness is rooted in the fact that you didn’t think to lay odds on there being a fight in the city last night, despite the two centuries most likely to—’
He stopped speaking when he saw the smug look on Morban’s face, and walked away with a look of disgust on his face. The Tungrian auxiliaries still regarded the men of Dubnus’s ‘detachment Habitus’ with the ingrained jaundice that traditionally came to the surface whenever legionary and auxiliary came into close contact. He strolled down the line of the 9th Century’s front rank, catching his friend’s eye as the angry centurion stalked along the 8th’s line, looking for any excuse to further berate his men. Dubnus raised a gloomy eyebrow and tapped his open palm with the vine stick gripped in his other hand, raking a meaningful stare across his soldiers, none of whom appeared to be meeting his eye. Marcus was forced to smile at the memory of his colleague, a man more used to finishing fights than starting them, laying about him with gusto when the brawling between his century’s former legionaries and the men of the 1st Minervia had recommenced the previous night. The friends met at the junction between the two centuries’ ranks, and Dubnus nodded glumly, speaking loudly enough for his men to hear.
‘Thanks for your help last night. These fucking idiots would have taken on every bloody legionary in the city if we’d not given their chains a good jerk. One or two of them want to be careful they don’t end up taking the places of those poor bastards.’ He tipped his head at the small group of captured bandits awaiting their punishment under the watchful eyes of twice as many guards. Glancing across the lines of soldiers Marcus could see more than one man with a reproachful look on his face, and it was quickly clear that an incensed Dubnus had spotted them too.
‘Don’t be giving me the cow’s eyes, you pricks! One insult, one little fucking jibe at your expense, and you thin-skinned idiots are up on your toes and ready to mix it with ten times your strength. And no, “they were taking the piss out of the cohort” does not get you off the hook, because it was you they were taking the piss out of – you, for deciding to serve with a bunch of uncivilised, shaggy-bearded barbarians in armour! You shat in your own beds and now you can bloody well lie in it, you collection of half-witted . . .’
He turned back to Marcus, shaking his head angrily. From somewhere within the century’s ranks a quiet voice muttered the word ‘Habitus’, and half a dozen other men repeated the battle cry under their collective breath. Dubnus spun round to stare at them in fury, but found his men standing with their backs straight, their battered faces staring defiantly at him from between the cheek pieces of their helmets. Waving a hand at them in disgust he returned his attention to Marcus, barking a command over his shoulder.
‘Shut the fuck up and wait, in silence, while I have a word with my colleague here. His men, you’ll note, haven’t said a bloody word since he dropped them into position. They’re yours, Titus, so keep them quiet unless you want my undivided and very personal attention once we’re off parade. And try not to start any more fights!’
His chosen man shot him a wounded glance from the century’s rear, but wisely kept his mouth shut. For all that he’d been trying to separate the two warring groups of soldiers when the cohort’s centurions had arrived on the scene, it was widely reported that he’d been one of the first men in the 8th Century to bridle when the legion troops had discovered their origins and started showering them with abuse for leaving legion service to fight with the Tungrians.
‘You’ve created a monster, Dubnus. They won’t back down from a fight for anyone, or so it seems, and you’ve only yourself to blame. It was you that took a half-century of men who’d run from their first fight and gave them their pride. You gave them a name to defend, and you told them to fight to the last man to preserve its honour. You can’t be too disappointed when they take what you’ve told them and apply it literally. And the rest of your century got stuck in beside them.’
His friend nodded almost imperceptibly, turning back to stare bleakly across the sea of battered faces facing him and shaking his head at the black eyes and split lips liberally scattered across the ranks.
‘I can’t let them see it, but I’m proud of them for it. Three full legion centuries facing up to forty-odd men and they didn’t back down. Mind you, I’ve got to respect the rest of the century, and the
Badger’s boys from the Third; they piled in alongside the Habitus lads without a second’s hesitation. It was a good thing we got there in time, or there’d have been blood on the cobbles the way it was heating up. Anyway, what are you grinning for?’
Marcus started, suddenly aware of his lopsided smile.
‘I was just thinking back to the way that our quiet and shy Selgovae tribesman dived into the fight last night. He’s another one to watch out for.’
‘He’s a big arrogant bastard, that’s for sure, but I’ve no room for complaint on that front. And he did put that little squabble to sleep in no time flat.’
Half of the cohort’s centurions, led by Tribune Scaurus and accompanied by Arminius and the giant Lugos, who had appeared at their side unbidden, had been forced to wade into the unbalanced fight between auxiliaries and legionaries, which had quickly swelled to fill the narrow street outside one of the city’s seamier drinking establishments. Fighting to drive a wedge between the two sides, to force them apart and stop the fight, they had applied their vine sticks without restraint, literally beating apart the two halves of the brawl with brute force. As the two sides of the argument had seethed at each other across the thin line of authority represented by the centurions, Lugos had taken a legion soldier caught on the wrong side of the line of furious officers, held him by the scruff of his neck and literally hurled him bodily into the mass of his comrades. Shrugging off his cloak he’d turned to tower over the legionaries, his tattooed arms rippling as he’d clenched his massive fists and bellowed out a hoarse-voiced challenge that had silenced the bedlam of the encounter in an instant.
The Leopard Sword Page 10