The Leopard Sword

by Anthony Riches

  Scaurus nodded wearily.

  ‘It will also be a good chance for my first spear to get his men out onto the ground and make it clear that we rule here, not some ragtag band of robbers and deserters. I’ll have him march west in enough force to put any such idea out of Obduro’s mind.’ He stood, indicating to the two men that the meeting was at an end. As they made for the door he frowned for a moment, then came to a swift decision. ‘One more thing, Prefect?’ Caninus turned back with a questioning expression, Marcus waiting at his shoulder. ‘I think you’ve proved your bona fides more than adequately over the last day, and under some personal pressure, to boot. With your permission I’ll relieve you of the company of my centurion. I’m sure he’s finding the task of watching you just as onerous as it must be to find yourself under constant scrutiny. And besides, I have something else in mind for him, something better suited to his talents.’

  Caninus opened his hands in agreement.

  ‘Having Centurion Corvus helping me was never onerous, Tribune, far from it. His idea to use your wounded men to gather intelligence as to the grain store’s activities was masterful. I will, however, happily relinquish his services if you have a better use for them. And I stand ready to provide any assistance that might be useful in this new task.’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow, his mouth twisting in a gentle smile. ‘My tracker Arabus, perhaps?’

  Scaurus shook his head wryly.

  ‘You’re too sharp for me, Prefect Caninus, far too sharp. I’ll leave it up to Centurion Corvus to decide what help he might need. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me? The night’s activities have left me in need of a damned good sweat.’

  Julius walked alongside Petrus as the soldiers escorted him back to the Blue Boar, one hand resting lightly on the handle of his dagger. As they turned the corner into the street in which the brothel stood the previously silent gang leader stopped walking and turned to his escort with a wry smile.

  ‘If you’re thinking of gutting me then this is your last chance, Centurion. Wouldn’t you just love to open me up and leave me to die here, slowly and in public? I wonder what’s stopping you?’

  The big Tungrian shook his head dismissively.

  ‘I gave the tribune my word not to deal with you myself. I keep to my word.’

  Petrus grinned evilly.

  ‘You keep to your word? Despite my provocation? House arrest in the Boar won’t be so bad, you know. I’ve a ready supply of wine and whores to pass the time, and enough gold to keep my men happy until you fools have marched away and left me to continue my business as if you were never here. There’s one whore in particular I plan to ride on a regular basis while I’m cooped up waiting for that moment, and every time I fuck her from behind with a good handful of her hair in my fist. I’ll shout your name just to remind her what she’s missing!’ He squinted up at the seething centurion and nodded his head in apparent admiration. ‘You really do keep your word, don’t y—’

  A lightning-fast punch sent Petrus staggering back onto the cobbles, blinking and snorting blood from his nose, and Julius pulled the dagger from his belt and stepped over the fallen gang leader, squatting over him where he lay.

  ‘Tribune Scaurus promised me two punches, the second to be delivered along with this message. If you set foot outside the whorehouse the guards have orders to spear you, and I’ll make sure that the men set to watch you are the nastiest we have. But they’ll have orders from me to do no more than cripple you and then call for me. And when I arrive you and I will spend your last moments in the company of my little friend here.’ He showed Petrus the dagger’s blade, twisting it to catch the early morning sun and send a pattern of sunlight sparkling from its rough-sharpened blade, then he lifted the terrified man’s tunic and put the dagger’s point under his testicles, prodding at the soft skin with a snarl of barely controlled anger. ‘I’ll have your fucking manhood off and make you watch while the dogs eat your sausage.’ Petrus nodded slowly, staring up into the Tungrian’s enraged eyes and knowing that his only option was to remain silent. ‘And one more thing, the tribune told me to tell you that Albanus will be under a similar house arrest to yours, and that should anything unfortunate happen to him I’ll be free to come for you with licence to inflict whatever punishment I think fit. And trust me, Petrus, I can be surprisingly inventive when it comes to men like you.’

  8

  Marcus took his leave of the prefect and walked back to the hospital, where Felicia had not long since started her working day. Her Tungrian escorts saluted as he walked into the surgery and he returned the gesture, temporarily dismissing them with a waved hand. They went off around the corner to give the couple some privacy, one man nudging the other once they were safely out of sight, first miming the doctor’s swollen belly and then winking at his mate, bending his legs and pretending to take a handful of a woman’s hair from behind. Marcus ignored their poorly muffled snorts of mirth and held his wife against his body for a long moment before releasing her, smiling down into her sleepy eyes. The doctor in his wife took charge, untying the bandage wrapped about his face and examining the bruising around his jaw line with a critical eye.

  ‘Not too bad, Centurion. I’d say that’s healing at just about the rate I would have expected. You’ll be keeping the bandage, I presume?’ He nodded, and she fetched a fresh length of linen with which to renew the injury’s protection. ‘You look tired. In fact you look worn out. Are you going back to our quarters to get some sleep?’ Marcus held up his tablet, and Felicia read the neat lines of script carved into its soft wax surface with a look of resignation. ‘Are you taking anyone with you?’ He shook his head, pointing to a line in the tablet’s message, and her eyes narrowed with concern. ‘You’re a diligent man, Marcus. Nobody could accuse you of lacking commitment. But doing this alone must be more of a risk than having Dubnus or Qadir alongside you. You’ll have to sleep sometime or other, and if you get the reaction it seems you’re hoping to provoke . . .’

  Her concerns ran dry in the face of his gentle smile, and he simply tapped the hilt of his new spatha with a meaningful expression.

  ‘One man against the world, is that it? Well, just you be sure to keep your wits about you. A pretty new sword isn’t much use if you’ve got a spear in your back that you never saw coming. And speaking of swords, make sure you bring that one back. I’m depending on the proceeds from its sale to keep me and your child fed and warm when you finally meet someone who’s better than you are with a blade.’ He smiled again, then raised his eyebrows in an expression of injured amazement, forcing a laugh from his wife. ‘Yes, I know. A better man with a sword than you? Impossible.’

  He kissed her and turned away, and the doctor watched with a pensive smile as the soldiers retook their positions to either side of the surgery door.

  ‘Let’s hope that your customary self-confidence is justified, Marcus Valerius Aquila. I’m not yet ready to wear a widow’s red again.’

  Leaving the hospital, Marcus paused to watch as a long column of soldiers marched out through the city’s west gate. Spotting his friend Caelius at the head of his 4th Century he waved a hand, and the young centurion dropped out of the line of march with a smile.

  ‘Greetings, Marcus! It’s good to see you looking better. As you can see, we’re away to the west to make sure the bandits don’t snatch up the grain convoy that’s coming up the road from Beech Forest.’ He looked up at the clear blue sky with a wry smile. ‘And it’s such a nice day that Uncle Sextus has decided to take all of the Second Cohort and half of the First along for the walk! Think of us sweating away down the road under the lash of his temper while you’re idling around the city eyeing up the girls!’

  He slapped his friend on the back and hurried away up the line of men to retake his place at the head of his century. Marcus watched with pride as the remainder of the long column ground away through the gate, leaving behind them only the echo of their passing and the first snatches of a marching song. Turning away from the arched entranc
e to the city he walked swiftly through Tungrorum’s narrow streets, returning the salutes of the soldiers and legionaries he passed and ignoring the curious glances of civilians out shopping for their day’s provisions. He visited one of the shops and made the purchase of a pair of matched hourglasses before continuing on his way to the previously empty ground where the Tungrians had established their barracks. The 1st Cohort’s mounted century had erected their stables at the far end of the main run of the infantry’s closely packed barracks, and it was a scene of bustling activity as the horsemen finished their daily routine of feeding and brushing their mounts and made ready for their first patrol. Decurion Silus saw his friend approaching and walked out to meet him, extending a hand with a broad smile.

  ‘We heard you’d taken a bash in the face, but I didn’t realise it was bad enough that you’d be forced to cover up your disfigurement.’ Marcus smiled ruefully in return, pointing to his jaw and miming the breaking of a stick, then he leaned forward to sniff at his friend’s clothing, recoiling in mock disgust. Silus put both hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows in admonishment. ‘Yes, very funny. I smell of horses. Whereas you –’ he leaned forward in turn and sniffed – ‘you smell of a lady’s perfume. And I know which of those two rides I would prefer!’ He looked his friend up and down in appraisal. ‘So, whilst I’m delighted to see you, I’m sure that this isn’t a social visit, not with you in full armour and dangling sharp iron from both hips. What can we do for you, Centurion Corvus?’

  Marcus handed over his tablet, waiting patiently as Silus read the words he’d written, the decurion’s lips moving as he ran a finger along the lines of text.

  ‘You want to borrow a horse, do you? Are you sure that you’re ready for anything more vigorous than catching grain thieves?’ Silus’s tone was light, but his gaze was calculating, and he raised a finger to point at Marcus’s face. ‘If you’ve cracked the bone then another smack on your chin would probably shatter it, and even your lovely wife would be hard pushed to put a broken jaw back together. I’ve seen enough busted faces in the last ten years – men who fell off their horses and ploughed up the ground with their mouths – and it isn’t a pretty sight, I can tell you. One poor bastard I remember had his jaw ripped clean off, and all we could do for him was put him out of his misery quickly and cleanly.’ He shook his head grimly at the thought, and put a hand to the silver penis amulet hanging from his wrist to ward off any evil that lurked in the memory. ‘Every man I ever saw bust his jaw properly ended up with a lumpy face, and most of them could only mumble like drunks. So you’re sure you want to risk spending the rest of your life with your face whatever shape the bones set into, and your orders no clearer than a pisshead’s mutterings?’

  Marcus took back the tablet, quickly writing a fresh line of text before handing it back to his friend. Silus read the response and shrugged helplessly.

  ‘And you think the fact you expect to be followed makes it any more sensible? You’d better watch your back, Centurion, that’s all I can say. You’re sure you don’t want a few of my lads to come along and watch it for you? I’m sure the tribune wouldn’t argue with the idea.’ Marcus shook his head. ‘I thought not. Very well, if you’re determined to do this on your own . . .’ He turned away and shouted a command to the men busy at work behind him, one of whom put his brush down and led forward the horse he was grooming. The animal stopped in front of Marcus, lowering its long face to nudge at his shoulder, and Silus laughed wryly, affectionately rubbing the horse’s flank. ‘See, Bonehead recognises a kindred spirit. He knows that wherever he goes with you there’ll soon enough be an opportunity to run wild and kick things, don’t you, you feather-brained bastard?’

  Marcus waited while the horse was saddled, then led it away with a wave of thanks, walking the restive animal down the row of barracks until he reached the building that housed his own century. Qadir stepped out of the chosen man’s quarters to greet him, and he quickly grasped what it was that his centurion had in mind when Marcus handed him one of the two hourglasses and the tablet, nodding at the carefully worded instruction. He shouted a command over his shoulder, eyeing Marcus with a grave stare.

  ‘Cyclops! Your presence is required!’ The watch officer emerged from his barrack and shot Marcus a respectful salute before turning to listen to his chosen man’s orders. ‘I want the five most disreputable and unsoldierly looking men in the century here in tunic order as fast as you can.’ The Hamian turned back to Marcus. ‘We’ll need some time to get them out to the gates. Allow one hourglass to pass before you leave the city; that should be sufficient time for us to rustle up enough slovenly characters. I see that you’ve borrowed your usual horse from Silus, and I don’t doubt that he wanted to send some men along with you, so I won’t be surprised if you refuse any offer of help.’

  Marcus nodded and patted his friend on the shoulder, then pointedly turned his hourglass over. Qadir shook his head resignedly before following his example, and the Roman turned away, satisfied that he had taken the only possible precaution against what he was expecting would happen once he launched himself on his intended path of action. Leading Bonehead by his bridle, he made his way to the armourer’s shop, where he was warmly greeted by the smith himself.

  ‘I have everything you wanted, Centurion, made exactly to your specifications. Come this way, and I’ll have one of my men watch your horse.’ In the forge behind the smith’s shop Marcus found his purchases neatly laid out for examination, and the smith took each piece in turn and offered it up for examination. ‘Your spear, with the head made just as you described. Although what use it will ever be is a mystery to me.’ Marcus examined the spear carefully, then nodded his satisfaction and put it aside, watching as a stout leather cover was slid over the weapon’s iron head to deflect the curious gazes it was likely to draw. The smith’s next offering was the helmet he’d ordered, and the young centurion looked at it closely from all angles before signalling his acceptance, writing in his tablet and lifting it up for the smith to read. ‘Hold it for you? Of course, Centurion. And here, just as you requested it, the shield. I had it painted with the design you ordered, and I have to say that my artist has quite excelled himself.’ He pulled off the shield’s thick leather cover, turning it for Marcus to examine. ‘See, it is constructed just as you wanted, although how useful it will be in a fight is doubtful, given how much it . . .’ His words trailed off as Marcus spun the slightly dished shield to display the artwork that decorated its face. He stared at it for a long moment, then nodded happily at the image that would face an opponent were he to use it in combat. The smith sighed with relief, pulling the leather cover back over his creation. ‘And lastly, the gift you requested of me.’ He handed over a heavy leather bag, indicating the strap by which it could be hung from a saddle horn. ‘I trust that you find all of this to your satisfaction, and will be able to . . .’

  Marcus nodded, dropped a bag of coins into his palm and took his purchases out to the waiting horse, hanging the heavy leather bag from Bonehead’s saddle before slinging the shield across his back with the strap attached to its leather cover. Mounting the eager beast he rode to his last stop, the food shop where he routinely purchased his soup. The cook came out to meet him carrying a heavy water skin, whose contents were still warm, and he paused for a moment to swallow several mouthfuls of the broth before heading for the east gate, a quick glance confirming that the hourglass was close to empty. As he approached the gate he was pleased to see one of his men lounging idly against the wall of a building, dressed in a dirty tunic which was hanging below his knees in a decidedly unmilitary fashion. With a wooden-handled knife in his belt he looked like nothing more than the kind of man who could be found right across the empire: a sharp character who preferred living off his wits rather than the sweat of his labour. Sneering up at the passing officer he swept the street behind Marcus with a bored gaze, ignoring the centurion’s passage out through the gate and onto the road to the east.

  Marcus spu
rred his horse into a trot, turning the hourglass as the last grains ran out of its upper section and starting a fresh period of measurement. He rode for a mile or so, then took advantage of a low ridge to leave the road unobserved by anyone watching from the city’s walls, tethering the horse to a tree far enough inside the forest that ran alongside the road as to be invisible to the casual glance. Walking slowly back down the line of trees, he paced forward until he found a spot from which the city was clearly visible but from which there was no risk of his body being silhouetted against the skyline. Taking out the hourglass, he waited patiently for the remaining sand to run out, keeping his eyes fixed on the walls of Tungrorum and only occasionally glancing down to view the sand’s slow but inexorable progress. As the last grains ran through the glass’s tiny aperture he locked his stare on the city, and after another long moment his patience was rewarded. A trail of black smoke etched an arc against the sky, the burning arrow drawing a thin charcoal line across the sky to the south of Tungrorum, and Marcus smiled grimly to himself, turning back to the horse’s hiding place.

  Tribune Scaurus was back at his desk by late morning, refreshed by his bath and the short sleep he had allowed himself, and was patiently plodding through a stack of official documentation taken from the procurator’s office when Caninus hurried into his office. The bandit hunter saluted briskly and stood at attention in front of his superior’s desk, and Scaurus laid down the scroll he was reading to glance up at his colleague with an approving expression.

  ‘The more I read, the more I realise what a favour you’ve done the empire by bringing this squalid fraud to its inevitable conclusion. And what can I do for you now, Prefect?’