The Leopard Sword

by Anthony Riches

  ‘Fucking Cocidius, help me! Tribune?’

  Scaurus glanced at Belletor, and then stepped forward, his black cloak made grey by the snow sticking to it. His voice was edged with urgency.

  ‘We’ve learned a few things in the last year, First Spear Sergius. Please trust me when I tell you that lighting up these trees isn’t going to be a problem, not once we’ve got a flame. There’ll be enough heat and light for every one of us even before we’re all across the river, but we have to get the men moving now, or we’ll risk losing hundreds of them to the cold if this blizzard keeps up.’

  Sergius looked to his own tribune again, but found the man’s face a study in prevarication. He came to a decision, nodding his agreement with his colleague’s proposal.

  ‘Very well. I’ve got enough rope in our carts to put a line across the river for the men to hold onto.’

  Frontinius clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Good man, that’s the spirit. With a bit of luck we’ll get this lot across the river and into the warmth before any of them die of the cold. Julius?’

  His deputy stepped forward, his face turned away from the blizzard’s force.

  ‘First Spear?’

  ‘You’re in charge on this side. Get the legion troops across first, then the Second Cohort, then what’s left of the First. You’d better tell them to keep an eye on the mules too, and to butcher any that don’t survive the cold before they go stiff. That way at least we’ll have something to cook once we get the fires lit. You get this lot moving, and I’ll go back over there and make sure the men that are already across are still in one piece.’

  He eyed the river’s black water for a moment before stepping back onto the bridge’s slippery submerged stone, then turned back to shout one last instruction.

  ‘Martos! I’ll have you and your warriors across the river, if you please! Bring that jar with you, and in the name of whatever god it is you pray to, don’t drop the bloody thing in the river or we’re all as good as dead!’

  ‘Blindfold him, Grumo. And make sure he’s not going to offer any more resistance.’

  Having surrendered his helmet to one of the spearmen, Marcus stood in silence while a huge man dressed in brown walked out from behind the hedge of bandit spears and approached him with a hard look in his eyes. Even the knowledge that the blow was coming did little to help him ride its power, and he reeled back several paces at the force of the giant’s punch. The bandit’s massive fist had smashed into his temple in a blow calculated to addle his wits, and the Roman stood helplessly with his hands on his knees and watched through pain-slitted eyes as his assailant flourished a blindfold before tying it roughly over his eyes. Another man stripped away his weapons with swift, deft movements before gripping his arm and pulling him out of his slumped position, putting the ice-cold point of a blade up the sleeve of Marcus’s mail to prick at the soft skin of his armpit, only a single swift thrust from killing him. The weapon’s wielder jabbed his knife into the Roman’s defenceless flesh, sending him an unspoken warning that left a runnel of blood oozing into the tunic beneath his armour.

  ‘Keep still, you fucker, or I’ll jam this in to the hilt.’

  He guessed it was the archer whose life he’d spared, doubtless still raging over both his easy defeat and the death of his comrades.

  The flat, distorted voice spoke again from behind him, its tone peremptory.

  ‘Easy, man; he’s not going to offer us any resistance. And make sure his weapons don’t vanish on the way back to camp. I’ll not be party to theft from a guest.’

  The knifeman snorted amusement.

  ‘A guest, is he? Him that’s already killed three of my mates? Those swords are worth a fortune, and I don’t see—’

  The faint scraping of a blade on the throat of its scabbard silenced the argument in an instant.

  ‘You know my rule. Once this blade has been drawn it must taste blood, or its spirit will be offended to have been woken to no good purpose. I can still drop it back into the scabbard, but any further discussion of this subject will require me to be sure that I am in control here, and not you. Choose.’

  The blindfold was secured in place, and Marcus felt the big man step smartly away, probably getting himself out of the way of any sword play. The tightly knotted cloth was aggravating the ache in his head, but he knew better than to comment into the tense atmosphere, and had to be content with standing rock still in the blizzard’s freezing blast while the silence stretched out. At length the knifeman stepped away from him, and Marcus braced himself to dive for the ground if he heard the masked man’s blade whisper free of its scabbard. The distorted voice spoke again, its tone unchanged from the conversational manner in which, not a moment before, he had offered his man the choice between backing down and fighting.

  ‘Very wise. You would have been even wiser not to argue with me in the first place, but wisdom isn’t granted to all men in equal measure, is it?’ There was an instant’s pause, and then, in the very second when Marcus thought that the moment for violence had passed, he heard the dreadful rasp of a sword being drawn. Instinctively shrinking away from the archer, he heard a flurry of movement, followed by a sudden grunting gasp. The Roman heard his would-be killer’s slow exhalation of breath harden to a bubbling croak as he fell to the ground with a soft thump. Obduro spoke again into the hush that followed, his voice raised to a harsh shout.

  ‘Nobody questions my judgement without paying the going price for that brief moment of pleasure, a price that only I can decide! Nobody! Now, does anybody else want to ask the same question, or might we head for the fortress and get out from under Arduenna’s divine intervention?’ A moment’s silence spun out, with only the faint sound of snowflakes hitting the men’s helmets to break the quiet. ‘No? Very well, let’s be away from here. You can leave him to lie where he fell, and the animals can have his corpse as an offering to the goddess. Get his cloak around the prisoner and let’s get moving. Storm or no storm, his comrades are still searching for him, and I’d rather not risk them finding us. Let’s move!’

  A heavy weight settled on Marcus’s shoulders, the stink of wet cloak wool a momentary and comforting reminder of his men, and then a hand gripped his arm tightly, pulling him in the direction of their travel with a steady but irresistible strength. Obduro’s unearthly voice spoke quietly, close to his ear.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t let him live, now could I, Centurion? You of all people will understand the confidence trick that is leadership, the art of convincing those who follow you that you are a man to be feared. I lead these men as you might command a pack of dangerous dogs: I throw them scraps to keep them quiet, and I punish with a fist of iron any of them who decide to challenge me.’ Marcus nodded his understanding, and the bandit leader spoke again, guiding him to the left with a gentle pull of his arm. ‘Let’s not have you walking into a tree, eh? I want you conscious to witness what I have decided to reveal to you. You are to be privileged, Centurion; you are to see a part of Arduenna that no man not already pledged to our cause has ever seen without dying in agony as a sacrifice to the goddess. Today is clearly your lucky day.’

  Frontinius found the Tenth Century’s centurion standing in the middle of the bandit camp, the freshly cleared ground beyond its edge studded with the stumps of felled trees. With a rending tear of splintering wood another tree on the clearing’s edge arced into the open space, and two tent parties of the bearded pioneers fell on it in a flurry of axes, working swiftly to trim off the branches, which in turn were dragged away by waiting soldiers from the other Tungrian centuries already across the river. The remaining axemen set about the long trunk with practised strokes, hacking the sixty-foot log into sections short enough to be grappled by a team of soldiers and carried away to the growing pile of wood in the clearing’s centre, while other men laid the resin laden branches as the foundations for more fires.

  ‘Your boys are making good progress, Titus. I’ll soon have more labour across the bridge than yo
u’ll be able to supply with work.’

  The huge centurion nodded, casting an experienced eye around the clearing.

  ‘There’s space for three, maybe four fires. Enough to keep us all alive until this snow stops falling.’ He pointed to the first pile of wood. ‘This is tall enough to burn for hours. Leave me to start building the next fire, and you get that one alight.’

  The first spear nodded and turned away, calling out into the clearing’s frenzied activity.

  ‘Martos!’

  The barbarian prince stepped out of the pack of labouring soldiers, an earthenware jar tucked under one arm, while on either side of him a pair of his warriors fended off any man who ventured too close.

  ‘First Spear. Has the time come for your fire miracle?’

  Frontinius nodded.

  ‘It has.’ Martos made to put the jar at Frontinius’s feet, but the first spear raised a hand to stop him. ‘No, hold it a little longer, if you will. It’s harmless enough sealed up in that container, and I need fire ready to use before I can release it to work its magic.’

  Martos grunted, flicking snow from his long hair and turning to his men.

  ‘“Fire”, he says, as if the lighting of a fire in a snow storm were the easiest thing in all the world. Aerth! We need a flame!’

  One of his warriors came forward from the group gathered about their leader, an older man with a deeply lined face. At his side a younger man carried a bundle of some kind wrapped up in his cloak. Aerth fished in a belt pouch, waving several more of Martos’s warriors forward with a grumbling, gravel-throated command in his own language.

  ‘Make the shelter.’

  Four men knelt together in a huddle, three of them placing their shields to form a small curved wall against the wind, the fourth placing his board over the others to complete the enclosure. Snow no longer fell inside the tiny space and the blizzard’s wind was no more than a swirl of air. Aerth now knelt on the tiny patch of ground and bent his head, growling another command.

  ‘Kindling.’

  The young warrior knelt beside him, opening his bundled cloak and spilling an armful of twigs and dead bracken into the shields’ protection. The barbarian tested the kindling with his fingers, shaking his head at the results.

  ‘Still damp.’ He reached into his bag and pulled out a piece of rough wool, the untreated woven fibres thick with the natural waxy grease that soldiers treasured as waterproofing. Frontinius smiled darkly at Martos, ignoring the snow whipping past his face.

  ‘Your man seems to know his subject. That’s from one of our cloaks, I presume?’

  The Votadini leader nodded wryly, his one eye narrowing in a smile.

  ‘You know how it is, First Spear. A man must take his opportunities to gather the materials required for his expertise wherever he can. And your soldier will not have missed such a small piece of his garment.’

  Aerth stared up at the two men for a moment and then turned back to his task, his face a mask of concentration. Using a small knife he shredded the oil-encrusted wool into thin strips and reduced each one to its constituent fibres, then his nimble fingers wove them into a ball of kindling. Seeing Frontinius’s frown, Martos leaned forward and spoke quietly into the Tungrian’s ear.

  ‘He is a master at this. The secret lies in achieving the right mix of dry and damp material to sustain a flame.’

  As he spoke the kneeling warrior looked up, his grating voice barely distinguishable from the blizzard’s howl.

  ‘And knowing which of the gods will answer my prayer.’

  He stared up into the grey clouds briefly, his lips moving as he muttered an invocation to whatever deity it was that guided his hands, then he bent forward and struck a hard blow at the flint in his left hand with the rough iron haft of his dagger. A shower of sparks spat down into the kindling, and he bent so close to the ball that his nose was almost touching it, then blew softly onto the tiny spots of light. The men around him held their breath, but after a moment he knelt back on his heels with a grunt, raising his head to stare into the sky and repeat his invocation for divine assistance. Flint and iron met again, and again the barbarian bent over his kindling and blew with the delicate care of a man tending his firstborn, but again he sat back with a slight shake of his head. ‘The forest goddess is strong, and she forbids the flame in her kingdom.’ He lifted the dagger and pulled back his left sleeve to reveal a forearm crudely scored with cuts. Most of them had long since healed to white scars, but a few were fresher, their marks a livid red on his pale flesh. Martos leaned close to Frontinius, muttering in his ear.

  ‘Sometimes the gods want blood as the price of their assistance. This is his secret.’

  Frontinius nodded solemnly, watching as Aerth dragged the dagger’s shining blade down the length of his arm, the cut finely judged to be more than a scratch yet not so deep as to require stitching. A dark red rivulet ran down his arm to his fingertips, and, once more intoning the vow to serve his gods, the barbarian flicked his fingers three times, shooting drops of blood into the kindling’s entwined wood and leaves. Bending to his task again he lifted the dagger to strike, muttered a final word of entreaty, and hammered the iron home, sending a shower of sparks into the ball. After blowing gently on the kindling he turned his head away to breathe, then blew again, a little harder this time and with an intent focus on one of the few lingering spots of light. At first the spark remained no more than a hint of fire, but then it blossomed, taking hold of a scrap of greasy cloak material and swelling from spark to tiny flame. Aerth turned the ball in his hands, seeking to play the infant fire onto the best of the kindling, then looked up at Martos with a decisive nod. The one-eyed Votadini chieftain gestured urgently to the mound of wood and foliage.

  ‘Now is the time, First Spear! The fire will quickly burn through that much fuel!’

  Frontinius reached out to take the jar and pulling its stopper. He turned to the dark mass of wood, pouring a generous measure of the liquid onto a thick limb that protruded into the clearing, its branches thickly coated with dark green needles, then he ran a trail of the pungent fluid along the limb and into the centre of the fire. An acrid smell filled the air, making his eyes water as he stepped back.

  ‘Light that. But keep your face away from it. When it ignites it will burn like fury.’

  Aerth stepped forward with no sign of having listened to the Roman officer’s words, his eyes fixed upon the ball of kindling whose heart was now ablaze between his cupped hands. He stooped to hold it beneath the outstretched branch, playing the growing flame on the reeking wood. In an instant the flame found fuel, igniting the evaporating spirit with a loud whump and an explosion of fire that sent the barbarian back on his heels. He raised a hand to protect his eyes from the fire as it roared from infancy to full adulthood in a heartbeat, greedily chasing the trail of liquid laid by the first spear into the centre of the bonfire. The Votadini watched in amazed silence as the man-high pile of fresh timber went up in a pillar of flame, the pine needles laid beneath the logs giving up their stored resin in gouts of flame strong enough to take hold of the green timber

  ‘For the secret of this fire, I would give everything I have, and cut myself one hundred times.’

  Frontinius turned to find Aerth at his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the blazing pile of wood, his eyebrows no more than a memory and the residual stench of burnt hair. He unstoppered the jar again and held it up for the other man to sniff, watching with dark amusement as the barbarian recoiled at the eye-watering vapour rising from the container’s wide neck, replying in the man’s own language.

  ‘There is no secret, brother. This is naphtha, a natural liquid which can be purchased for more coin than you and I could ever imagine spending on the simple task of lighting a fire. Even the small amount that lit this blaze cost my tribune enough gold to pay eight soldiers for a year.’

  Aerth nodded, staring deep into the fire’s heart, and Frontinius realised that he was fascinated by the flame, drawn to it by somet
hing deep in his being. He clapped the barbarian on the shoulder and turned away, handing the jar to his century’s chosen man.

  ‘Put a guard on this. Two good men . . . no, four men that you could trust to defend your woman’s honour. The contents are worth enough money to pay the century for a year, and there will be more than one man with his eye on that jar now the power it contains is known.’

  He looked about him in the bonfire’s flickering light, bellowing an order over the swelling flames’ angry roar.

  ‘Centurions, to me! Let’s get some more of these fires burning!’

  ‘Perhaps you Romans will see the sense in leaving Arduenna well alone in future, eh? Many are her weapons, and this untimely snow is simply another example of her ability to deal with any intruder bent on defiling her sacred groves. She has shown that she will not tolerate your boots on her soil in sufficient numbers to defeat us, and we can wrap ourselves so deep in her protection that you might never find us in a month of searching. A little to the right here . . .’

  The path along which Marcus was being guided began to flatten out after its long climb, and after another moment of walking, still being guided by Obduro’s hand on his sleeve, the Roman felt a sudden change in the air around him. The snow was no longer being whipped into his face, and he felt stone underfoot. When the bandit leader’s hollow voice spoke again its note was subtly different.

  ‘Down these steps . . . that’s it, feel for them with your feet and take it slowly, we don’t want you going down them head first. And here we are. That’s better.’

  Marcus heard the sound of a cloak being shaken, then felt hands on the knot of his blindfold, while the point of a weapon dug sharply into his back and froze him in place. The rough woollen strip was pulled clear of his eyes, and he found himself blinking in the light of a blazing torch held by one of his captor’s men, while Obduro himself stood barely an arm’s reach from him, apparently examining him closely from behind the anonymity of his mask. Despite his readiness for any attempt at intimidation by his captor, Marcus was nevertheless taken aback by the experience of finding himself face to face with the bandit leader. Where he had been expecting a big man, capable of dominating his men with brute force, the bandit leader was of no better than average height and build. What caught the breath in Marcus’s throat was the mask attached to his cavalry helmet; when viewed from so close, its perfect shining surface reflected the scene around them.