The Leopard sword e-4

by Anthony Riches

  He walked along the rear of the century’s line with his brass-knobbed pole resting on his broad, mailed shoulder until he came to its end, then retraced his steps along the unit’s front, speaking as he went.

  ‘It is Tribune Scaurus’s opinion that the time has come for us to deal with the bandits who hide in the Arduenna forest. And that is his decision, not the centurion’s, not mine and most certainly not yours. Very shortly now you will be inspected and briefed in more detail by Centurion Corvus, and then we will march to join the other cohorts outside the city walls. Given our orders to be ready for battle, soldier, you would be better questioning yourself as to whether your sword is sharp and your arm strong, since you may have need of both before the day is ended.’

  ‘Cheeky Hamian b-’

  Scarface bit off the last word of his muttered imprecation as Qadir’s pole swung out from his shoulder with surprising speed, and he winced as the brass knob struck his helmet’s iron plate with a heavy clang. The pole was more usually employed to push a century’s rearmost men into action should they prove reluctant to advance, but Qadir was as handy with its secondary use, as a forceful instrument of his authority, as any other chosen man in the cohort. He paced down the row of men with his face set in a neutral expression, although the abashed Scarface, despite the fact that he was concentrating on the barrack in front of him with as much force as he could muster, knew only too well that the Hamian’s eyes would be burning with barely suppressed anger.

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, since you’re a senior man. The next time you challenge me to ignore a casual insult made within the range of my excellent hearing, you and I will be enjoying a swift but ugly discussion behind the barracks.’ Scarface redoubled his close attention to the wall in front of him and kept his mouth firmly shut. For all his own prowess in the dirty art of barrack-block squabbles, usually settled in the first few seconds with instinctive brutality, Qadir was known to be both fast with his fists and boots and, when sufficiently roused, utterly without scruple in using them to make his point to the rare recalcitrant that chose to ignore his deceptively gentle admonishment. That the veteran soldier would give the big Hamian a decent fight was without doubt, but that he would end up on the losing end of the matter was also fairly obvious. The chosen man gazed levelly at him for a moment before continuing. ‘Good. Order is restored. Since the soldier here feels the need for a better understanding of the plan for today’s activity, I will elucidate, which, for those among you whose education has primarily been centred on stabbing barbarians, means that I will explain.’

  The Hamian stared out across the ranks of blank-faced soldiers, his face set hard.

  ‘In terms that you men will understand, we are marching to attack the bandits who hide in the big forest. They are currently living in a camp close to the far bank of the river, and we will be seeking to trap them there, and prevent them from escaping to their fortress deeper in the forest. If they escape into the forest it will be a bad thing, and much unhappiness will result. And unhappiness, as we all know, flows in only one direction. So I suggest that you all do what you’re told, when you’re told to do it! And one last thought, gentlemen. We’re going to be fighting a hardened enemy, on his own ground and after several months of doing little but guard duty. And if I add up all the money that your weapons and equipment have cost, and then throw in the small brass coin each of you is worth into the bargain, it’s clear that Tribune Scaurus will want to lose as few of you as possible. So keep your guards up and be ready to fight! And here, to spare us any further debate, is the centurion. Air your iron, soldiers, and let’s see what sort of job you’ve done in readying yourselves. Present your swords!’

  The twin Tungrian cohorts marched out of the city’s south-west gate in a compact column, fourteen hundred hard-faced and battle-tested men whose equipment bore the scars of their previous battles like badges of honour. Whilst their shield’s brass edging and bosses shone in the chilly morning’s sunshine like gold, most of them were roughly scored by swords and axe blows, the laurel wreathes and crescent moons that decorated their linen-covered wooden surfaces sometimes almost completely erased by battle damage and the effects of the harsh frontier weather. Their iron helmets, whilst rust free, were frequently dented and scored by sharp iron, their brow guards deeply notched by enemy blades. In every century there were several men whose faces, while they were protected on either side by their cheek guards, were riven by crude scars that had left thick white lines through eyebrows and lips, or deep gouges in noses and cheek bones. The soldiers marched past the 1st Minervia’s Cohort with parade-ground precision, their hobnailed boots rapping on the road’s cobbles in perfect unison, and more than one flicked a contemptuous sideways glance at the raw legionaries waiting for them, their breath puffing out in silver plumes.

  Behind the 1st Tungrian Cohort came the barbarian warriors of Martos’s Votadini, their long hair and thick, brightly coloured woollen clothing at odds with the soldiers’ uniform appearance. Some of the warriors were swathed in fur for warmth and all were carrying whichever weapon they favoured, swords, spears and axes as they saw fit. Where the 1st Cohort’s men had confined their expressions of disregard to the odd casual glance, these ragged, scarred fighters simply stared at the legionaries in open disgust. A few of the band were carrying war hammers, including the hulking Selgovae warrior Lugos, who loomed over even the tallest of them, his weapon’s heavy beak counterweighted by a massive half-moon blade with wicked points at either end with which to snag a fleeing enemy, its vicious edge rough-sharpened to inflict a grievous wound in combat.

  Behind the Votadini, and in a position deliberately intended to demonstrate his utter trust in men who had been his enemies only months before, walked Tribune Scaurus, his only escort his German bodyguard, Arminius. Behind them came the 2nd Tungrian Cohort, every bit as crisply turned out and battle-scarred as their brothers in the 1st, and at their rear came the thirty horsemen of the detachment’s mounted unit. Each of the animals was led out by its rider, each man marching alongside his mount and keeping a tight hold on its bridle as a precaution against any skittishness from the beasts who clearly sensed that a chance for exercise was to hand. Once the 2nd Cohort’s last century had cleared the legion’s line, First Spear Frontinius stepped out in front of his men and bellowed an order down the line, pointing to his left.

  ‘Halt! Right turn! Forward march!’ The order was echoed instantly by each century’s centurion, and the men of both cohorts pivoted on the spot, marching the ten paces that put their formation alongside that of the legion cohort’s. ‘Halt! About turn! Stand at… ease!’

  Frontinius looked down the road to the spot where Tribune Scaurus had stopped to wait in the wake of the marching centuries, then saluted smartly before marching to his place at the point where his two cohorts joined. Scaurus, Tribune Belletor at his side, looked up and down the line of silent soldiers before speaking.

  ‘Men of the First Minervia and the Tungrian Cohorts! This is the day when we move onto an offensive footing against the bandit leader Obduro! Today we march to a position close to their forest encampment, and the day after that we will attack. You must stay alert to anything unusual, for these are not ordinary opponents in any sense of the word. They may only be a few hundred strong, but they have local knowledge, and many of them have military skills. I expect that they will fight like animals to avoid capture and execution, and you may find that you must attack with equal ferocity to best them even though we ought to have superiority in numbers. That is all. First Spears?’

  Frontinius walked forward again, exchanging nods with Sergius, who stepped out in front of the legionaries.

  ‘Forward… march!’ Their combined bellow of command set the three cohorts into movement, and as the long line of men reached the road they shouted another command. ‘Halt! Right… turn!’ Within seconds the three cohorts were lined up along the road, while Scaurus, who had stepped back off the road’s surface to avoid being caug
ht in their mass movement, turned a sardonic grin on his colleague.

  ‘Ready to march for a while, eh Tribune?’

  Belletor raised an eyebrow.

  ‘March? March, Rutilius Scaurus? Why would we be marching?’

  His colleague smiled knowingly.

  ‘Some senior officers, Tribune, like to match their fitness against that of their men, to see if they can keep pace with the old sweats through a long marching day. And besides, it’s such a lovely day for a stroll.’

  Belletor’s snort of disbelief dripped with his incredulity at the suggestion.

  ‘A lovely day for a stroll? I shall be riding my horse, and I’d suggest you do the same unless you want to be taken for one of those men that seek the favour of their soldiers by attempting to emulate them.’

  Scaurus laughed and turned away.

  ‘And you, Tribune, might want to consider walking for a while, unless you want to be taken for one of those men whose feet aren’t hard enough to sustain the pace. I can assure you that there are worse things than being taken for an officer who respects his men well enough to share their hardships.’ He raised his voice to parade-ground volume. ‘Shall we be on our way, gentlemen? This Obduro isn’t going to wait around forever!’

  Frontinius raised his vine stick above his head, stepping to one side of the long column to be seen by as many men as possible.

  ‘First Cohort! At the standard march… march!’

  As the leading centuries strode out down the road Prefect Caninus turned to Scaurus, gesturing at his men who were waiting alongside their horses, and speaking in a quiet tone intended to keep their discussion private.

  ‘I wish you good hunting, Tribune. As agreed, I will take my men away down the road to the west again, to ensure that there’s no chance of a traitor in their ranks alerting the bandits to your approach.’

  The tribune nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Prefect, I’ll certainly be happier knowing that we don’t have to worry about whoever it is Obduro might have planted on you. My own mounted detachment will go forward alongside you as far as the junction where the road to Augusta Treverorum branches off to the south, and will then report back to me that the road is clear of any sign of Obduro’s band. It will be good exercise for their horses, and a nice change for their riders from having nothing to do except brush their animals and shovel away their droppings.’

  Caninus nodded his understanding, then turned away, shouting orders to his men. Scaurus raised his arm and signalled to Decurion Silus. The decurion saluted and signalled to his men, who promptly mounted and trotted their horses up the column, with Caninus and his detachment following them. Scaurus looked back at Belletor, gesturing to the road stretching away to the west.

  ‘Your last chance, Tribune. Will you accompany me for a while? Perhaps we might share a discussion about Rome. I’m sure you miss it as much as I do.’

  The other man shook his head dismissively.

  ‘I’ll be riding, thank you. By all means come for a chat when you get tired of slumming it with your soldiers.’

  Scaurus turned away with a wry shake of his head.

  ‘The company of my men is likely to entertain me for longer than you might imagine possible.’

  Silus reined in his horse alongside the 9th Century’s marching men, grinning down at Marcus and raising an eyebrow in question.

  ‘The usual offer is open, Centurion. You could always scout forward with us this morning. I’m sure your chosen man is more than capable of looking after these soldiers.’

  The young centurion shook his head.

  ‘Not today, I’m afraid, Silus. Much as I’d like nothing better than to ride along with you, my duty is here with my soldiers. And besides, to deprive whoever’s riding that monster Bonehead of his mount today would be to condemn him to a day rubbing his feet raw and listening to our full repertoire of songs about cavalrymen and your close relationships with the local wildlife.’

  One of the younger soldiers marching beside him was unable to contain himself, and raised his voice above the rattle of hobnails.

  ‘And sheep, Centurion!’

  The century’s watch officer, a one-eyed veteran universally called Cyclops whenever he wasn’t listening, promptly stepped out of the rank ahead of the miscreant and marched next to him with his face inches from his victim’s, bellowing admonishment and imprecation at the top of his voice, much to the young soldier’s dismay and Silus’s pleasure.

  ‘ Don’t you dare to interrupt the young gentleman when he’s talking to another officer, you nasty little man! I’ll have you shovelling shit on latrine duty for the next month!’ Marcus raised an eyebrow at the decurion, rolling his eyes at the vehemence of the tirade. The watch officer caught a glimpse of the expression from the corner of his eye, but misinterpreted the cause and redoubled his verbal assault on the visibly wilting soldier. ‘And now you’ve upset the officer, you worthless excuse for a soldier. He thinks you’re a prick, the decurion thinks you’re a prick, and I’m fucking certain you’re a prick, which makes you what? Eh?’

  ‘A… a prick?’

  ‘A prick, Watch Officer! Come with me!’ He dragged the soldier out of the ranks, putting a booted foot into his backside. ‘Run, you fucker! Let’s see how long you can keep up with the horses, shall we?’

  ‘Ah, the enjoyment of watching an experienced professional in action. I see man management is still a strong point with the infantry.’

  Marcus shook his head in resigned amusement, waving Silus away.

  ‘You’d best be off to see what’s going on over the next hill. And I’d better rescue that soldier before Watch Officer Augustus puts his severed head on a spear to encourage the rest of my men. Enjoy your day’s scouting!’

  The decurion shot him an ironic salute and moved away to rejoin his men, shouting a command and nudging his horse into a fast trot. As the scouts headed for the horizon Marcus turned his attention back to the hapless soldier, already fifty paces up the road with Cyclops in vigorous and noisy pursuit.

  ‘Hold this for a minute. I need to dig my cloak out and put the bloody thing on.’

  Morban passed his standard to the trumpeter marching at his side and reached for the heavy woollen rectangle, thanking the foresight that had made him roll it up and wrap it around his belt. The younger man smirked down at him as he tugged it about his barrel-shaped body with a grunt of satisfaction.

  ‘Feeling the cold, are you?’

  The standard bearer answered in a voice loud enough to be heard over the clash of hobnails, never taking his attention off the brooch’s stubborn pin.

  ‘Bloody thing won’t close. I knew I should have got this seen to while we were in barracks. The pin’s too short, and the bloody thing’s bent in the middle.’ He shot the trumpeter a vindictive glance, then turned his head and raised an eyebrow to the soldiers marching behind them. ‘A bit like your cucumber, from what I could see of that rather unpleasant act you were performing last night when I walked into the barrack without knocking and giving you time to hide it away. Now have you had enough, or do you want some more, tiny bent cock?’ Morban waited for a moment to be sure that the abashed trumpeter wasn’t going to scrape together enough wit to come back at him with any one of the retorts he would have mustered under the same accusation, then shook his head in genuine disgust. ‘Soldiers with less than ten years’ service should be seen and not heard, I’d say.’ The veteran marching behind him nodded his agreement, his voice a gravelly rasp as he rose to Morban’s game.

  ‘I knows. Give ’em a few months and they loves to play with the big lads, but they goes all quiet and runs away the second you gives ’em a proper smacking. Shouldn’t be allowed to join in with the fun and games until they’ve done their ten and learned to stand up for themselves. And to hold their beer…’

  He winked at Morban, who gave the trumpeter a significant glance. The younger man started to protest, but swiftly closed his mouth again as Morban raised an eyebrow at him.


  ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. Just make do with starting a conversation about something that can’t be turned against you.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as the weather. See, when we set out this morning the sun was all bright and shiny, and you were thinking about a lovely warm day for marching, but now the sky’s the same colour as…’

  The trumpeter opened his mouth to suggest something that matched the western sky’s dull grey, but was beaten to it by the soldier behind him.

  ‘… as his face when he’d done puking all over his boots the other night?’

  ‘That’s it, just the same colour!’ Morban smirked at the younger man for a moment before taking pity on his expression of bemused fury. ‘Now, now, don’t you go getting all hot and bothered. Look, there’s trees on the horizon; that’s the forest we’re marching to conquer!’

  ‘So that’s this Arduenna the locals all worship, is it?’

  Tribune Scaurus looked across the farmland that stretched out before them to the forested hills in the distance, their dark slopes blending with the overcast sky.

  Frontinius was marching beside him with a slight limp, the legacy of a sharp-eyed barbarian archer’s arrow at the battle of Lost Eagle the previous year. He nodded without breaking step.

  ‘Yes, Tribune, that’s the Arduenna. If the maps are right we’re only a couple of miles from the forest edge, although that might as well be twenty given the river that runs between here and the hills. A hundred paces wide and more, and apparently deep enough to be unfordable, other than across the shallows at Mosa Ford. If Dubnus has it wrong then we’ll have to go all the way west to the river bridge on the road to the Treveri capital, then march back to the east along the river bank.’