The Leopard sword e-4

by Anthony Riches

  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 soldier 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?’

  ‘You’ve never seen anything half the size! It was huge! The whole of our fortress at the Hill would fit inside it, and the walls were lined with granaries each twice the size of a barrack block. And half of them full of grain sacks. Enough grain to feed a legion for a year, or so that oily civilian bastard was saying.’

  The other men in the tent had learned over the years to treat everything that the soldier they knew as Scarface said with a degree of caution, but the story he was telling them had every man’s attention. They stared at him in the dim lamp light, although not every face was entirely friendly. The tent party’s other veteran soldier, Sanga, a man with whom Scarface had sparred for unofficial leadership of the group over the course of several years, was sneering at him from the other end of the enclosed space.

  ‘So while we was working ourselves into the ground putting up barracks, you was skiving off “with the tribune”. There wasn’t a certain centurion wearing two swords involved, by any chance, was there?’

  One of the two Hamian members of the eight-man tent party giggled into his hand. After the decision by a number of Syrians to stay with the cohort, Marcus and Qadir had decided to fully integrate them with the existing members of the century rather than have any hint of ‘them and us’ between the veterans and their new comrades. Scarface snorted his derision, poking the Hamian in the chest with a scarred and calloused finger, although not hard enough to give genuine offence.

  ‘Less of your tittering, pretty boy, else I’ll have to give you a slap. I was detailed to escort the officers along with three other blokes standing guard on the wall. And yes, as it happens, both Latrine and Two Knives were there.’

  He stared hard at the older man, but if his comrade was intimidated there was no sign of it, and his reply dripped with scorn.

  ‘Of course Two Knives was there. What was it that Latrine called you when we took the Fortress of the Spears? Oh yes, I remember; he said you was “following him round like a love-struck goat herd”. I reckon Centurion Corvus must wonder whether it was the doctor he married or you!’

  Scarface raised an eyebrow at him, injecting a note of disappointment into his reply.

  ‘That miserable bastard Julius was just annoyed ’cause we got to go up the hill and see the dead Selgovae that the one-eyed barbarian hacked the cocks off, and he didn’t. That’s why he had a go at me. And you’ve forgotten our agreement, have you, then? Us veterans, the front rank, the cream of the century? Didn’t we agree to keep an eye on that young gentleman and make sure he don’t come to no harm? Or are you too good to honour your promise, eh, Sanga?’

  Calle
d on his oath, the other soldier prevaricated.

  ‘I ain’t forgot it, I just ain’t so sure that young gentleman needs much looking after. If it came to swords and boards he’d have you and me face down in the dirt double quick, and not even be breathing hard when it was done. And he got his woman with child, what’ll give him a reason to wind his neck in. This watching of his back might have run its time, I reckon.’

  He put out his chin defiantly, waiting to see how Scarface would jump. His tent mate shook his head, reaching for his sharpening stone and picking the dagger from his belt order.

  ‘Not the way I see it. You fought alongside me at the battle of the rebel camp, so you saw how bad he took it when poor old Rufius got his head stuck on a spear. You’ve seen his face when the rage takes him.’ He bent over the dagger, running the stone along its blade with a slow, satisfying rasp. ‘Once something’s got him that angry he don’t stop to work out the odds, or wonder if he might be best backing off; he just jumps in with them swords flying. I ain’t so sure that him being married to the doctor or her having a kid’s going to change that. So are you still in, or when the shit starts flying am I going to look around and find you ain’t there?’

  The other man nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on Scarface, and their audience breathed out a collective breath with the confrontation’s apparent relaxation.

  ‘I’ll be there, but to back you up, mate, not to look out for an officer with a death wish.’

  ‘Good enough for me. So, this grain store, see, it’s huge. The size of-’

  ‘Yes, bigger than the Hill, you said. Big long walls lined with granaries.’

  ‘And yet…’ Scarface paused, ostentatiously waiting for any further interruption. ‘And yet once we get inside, the tribune, the centurions and me, well, the tribune, he whispers something to the centurion. And Two Knives, he walks off down the length of the store nice and slow. Like he’s after having a nice quiet look at the place without wanting it to be obvious, while the tribune starts asking the civilian questions about the place. But our young gentleman only does twenty paces before the old bloke that runs the place is after him like a dog on a rabbit, going on about needing felt overshoes over his hobnails to go in the granaries, and how they ain’t got any to spare, begging the officer’s pardon. So our boy just turns round and comes back as sweet as you like, and him and Latrine and the tribune, they look at each other like they’ve got the result they were looking for. Though what it was beats me.’