The Leopard Sword

by Anthony Riches

  Marcus shook his head at the thought, reflexively touching the Mithras-blessed amulet at his wrist.

  ‘Who set you to follow and kill me?’

  The tracker’s face darkened.

  ‘Before I tell you that, you must understand why I came after you. Last winter, while we were confined to the city by the snows, the prefect’s deputy came to me in secret. Like me, Tornach was born in the forest and is a steadfast believer in her power, and I had come to trust him as a decent man. When others under the prefect’s command tried to abuse their power over the people we encountered on patrol, looking to rob or rape them, he always ensured their discipline, without favour or exception, and always in the goddess’s name. Even the non-believers were forced to accept her disciplines, and he was without mercy in punishing any man that broke her commandments. I treated him with great respect, and believed him to be a man I could follow. But that night he came to me with a hard face, and with a blade drawn and ready to use. He told me that my woman and sons were captive, held by Obduro in his hidden stronghold, and that I was to carry out his orders without fail if I wanted to see them alive again. As proof of their captivity he showed me a silver bracelet that I gave my woman when she bore my eldest son, and he threatened them with a slow, dishonourable death if I failed to obey. And from that day I was a servant of Obduro.’

  He hung his head for a long moment before raising his gaze to stare at Marcus, his expression both contrite and defiant.

  ‘You judge me. I see it in your stare. And yet you have a child in your woman’s womb. In years to come, if you were held to ransom with that child’s life, what would you do, I wonder?’

  Marcus pursed his lips and nodded slowly.

  ‘Yes, so do I. Now answer my question.’

  ‘Who set me to follow you, with orders to put an arrow in you and bury any idea that you might discover Obduro’s fortress? It was Tornach, of course. Caninus made no secret that he expected you to attempt another search of Arduenna. He was worried that your presence would make the goddess angry with us all, but he did not feel able to prevent you from leaving the city. Tornach took me to one side and gave me a choice, either to find and kill you here, and earn my family’s freedom, or to refuse to do so and have my body dumped in a city bone pit, without the honour to earn Arduenna’s favour, and bring death on Obduro’s sacrificial altar to my sons. He showed me the knife I gave to my eldest son before I left the forest, the sister to the knife I wear on my own belt, as proof that he had my family in a safe place, and he promised in her name that I would join them when I had fulfilled this last task.’

  ‘So he gave you no choice at all.’ Marcus’s glance lingered on the running-boar decoration adorning the hunter’s empty sheath. ‘And it was Tornach who planned to kill us, the last time we ventured into the forest?’

  ‘Yes. He is the most devoted of the goddess’s followers I have ever known. For him, your boots treading on this ground is an insult to all he believes. The prefect may be a believer, but he is still a servant of your empire. I do not believe he had any part of the plan to kill you.’

  The Roman saw sincerity in the tracker’s pain-slitted eyes. He raised the dagger again, allowing Arabus’s eyes to linger on the blade for a long moment.

  ‘I have one last question for you. It will be hard for you to give me what I need to know, I suspect, but you have no choice in the matter. If you are to live, you must guide me to the altars of Arduenna, and tell me what I need to know if I am to find Obduro’s fortress.’

  Arabus gritted his teeth against the pain burning in his chest before grimly shaking his head.

  ‘I told you that I will not betray my loyalty to Arduenna. No unbeliever can be allowed to find the sacred groves dedicated to her, and it is there that Obduro has his hiding place. You can send me to Hades, but I cannot tell you what you want to know.’

  Marcus held the dagger up again.

  ‘I know. I ask you for the one thing that you know will prevent you from receiving the favour of your goddess. But you are going to show me where to find Obduro. Not because of this –’ the Roman sheathed the weapon before leaning forward – ‘but rather because of this . . .’ He tapped the wounded man’s empty sheath, putting a finger on the stylised boar carved into its thick leather, then handed him his knife, presenting the handle to him in a gesture of trust. ‘You’re going to help me find Obduro because today is not your day to die, but rather your day for revenge.’

  Scaurus stalked out in front of the Tungrian centuries with Arminius at his shoulder, buckling on his helmet as the five centurions gathered round him in a silent, hard-faced group, Prince Martos standing slightly off to one side in unconscious reflection of his place within the cohort’s world. He looked at them in silence for a moment before speaking.

  ‘Gentlemen. Our colleague Prefect Caninus has been murdered along with his men, ambushed by his brother Sextus, the man known as “Obduro”. He was killed out of hand as an act of revenge for an imagined slight from their shared past. By now the bandits will have crossed the Mosa and turned west, and they plan to track First Spear Frontinius and your brother officers down the road towards Beech Forest with the intention of striking at them after dark, when our men are camped for the night. And under such circumstances they might just prevail.’ He shook his head, looking about him again with an intent stare, gauging his officers’ resolve. ‘Which, Centurions, is not an eventuality I intend to permit. We will march to the west behind them, moving as fast as the men can carry their equipment and weapons, and we will trap the scum between our shields and those of our comrades. Martos, I’d be grateful if your men would scout the ground before us to avoid our falling into any trap that might be laid out for us.’ The Votadini prince nodded his acquiescence. ‘Thank you. Decurion Silus will lead his mounted century ahead of us, find the enemy and report back, whilst also taking word of this development to the first spear and carrying my orders for him to turn east and put Obduro and his men into the jaws of a trap from which there will be no escape. I’ll have that man’s head on a spear, cavalry helmet and all, by the end of the day. You’ve got a five-hundred count to get them ready to march, and then we move. Centurion Clodius, you are hereby appointed senior centurion until we join up with the rest of our force, then First Spear Frontinius will resume his command. Centurion Julius, a moment, please. The rest of you are dismissed.’

  Julius waited stone-faced as the other centurions scattered to their centuries, eager to make sure their men were ready for a forced march, none of them wanting to suffer the embarrassment of causing the cohort any delay in their headlong charge to the west. The tribune watched them go for a moment, then turned back to the heavily built centurion with a grim smile.

  ‘So, Centurion, what, you are wondering, have you done to have your expected position as Uncle Sextus’s deputy usurped by your colleague Clodius?’

  Julius shrugged, his heavyset face impassive.

  ‘The Badger’s a good man, Tribune, more than capable of leading the cohort down a road and deploying them to wipe out a few hundred bandits. I’ll admit I’m curious though. Was it something I’ve done?’

  Scaurus smiled, putting a hand on the big man’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes, Julius, it was something you’ve done. It was every little bit of professionalism you’ve displayed since I took this cohort under my command, every order given and every enemy killed. In the absence of the first spear you’re my best individual officer, and I’ve got a job that needs doing here that I can’t entrust to anyone less than my best centurion. We’re forced to withdraw our force from Tungrorum to deal with this new threat, but there’s enough money being held in the headquarters’ safe room to attract every thief and gang leader in this whole city, what with the pay chests and the proceeds of the grain fraud. I’m leaving you here, Julius, you and your century, and depending on you to make sure that nobody gets their grubby fingers on that money. I want a double-strength guard on the vault, and the rest of your men, whet
her eating, resting or sleeping, no more than a dozen heartbeats away. You can also keep Centurion Corvus’s wife and the wounded safe from harm while you’re at it, and relieve me of the trouble of carting that jar of naphtha around. As of this moment you’re free to kill anyone and everyone you suspect to be a threat to the emperor’s gold, without hesitation or fear of any repercussion. If we return that gold to the throne we will be congratulated and possibly even rewarded, but if we lose it again, having exposed its original loss and recapture to the throne’s eyes, the outcome will be altogether darker for everyone concerned. Do we understand each other, Centurion?’

  ‘Many men came this way, within the last half day. See?’ Marcus looked down from his saddle, grimacing non-committally at the ground where Arabus was pointing. The hunter climbed down gingerly from his place behind the Roman, wincing at the pain in his ribs as his feet touched the forest floor, then he squatted on his haunches and pointed at the numerous indentations in the soft ground ‘Look. Boot prints.’

  Marcus climbed down and squatted beside him, peering closely at the marks of men’s passage in the forest’s green-tinged light.

  ‘You’re right. And there are hundreds of them.’

  Arabus nodded sagely.

  ‘Enough boots for the whole of Obduro’s army. And they all point in one direction. That way.’ He pointed to the west. ‘They were making for the bridge over the Mosa, now that their own way across the river has been destroyed. What they will do when they have crossed the river is the question to be answered.’

  He looked at Marcus with a level gaze, clearly waiting for the Roman to deduce whatever conclusion it was that had already formed in his own mind.

  ‘And if the entire bandit army has marched, their stronghold may be unguarded, or only very lightly manned.’

  The tracker inclined his head in agreement.

  ‘Exactly. And we’re close to it now; I can smell woodsmoke in the air. Do you see that hill in front of us?’

  The Roman squinted through the dimly lit expanse of trees, struggling to make out the feature that Arabus was pointing to. The forest was sloping gently upwards before them, and he could see several dark knots of foliage studding the wooded slope as it rose to a crest four hundred or so paces distant.

  ‘Yes, I see it.’

  ‘From there we will be able to see Obduro’s fortress.’ We must leave the horse here. If Obduro has left men to guard their stronghold, then one unexpected sound might bring the entire band down on us. Come.’

  Marcus tied the animal’s reins to a tree and took the heavy leather bag from its place on his saddle horn before following the limping hunter up the long slope. He weaved around the thicker clusters of trees in the wake of the other man’s shadow-like progress up the hill, and earned a scornful glance over Arabus’s shoulder as he snagged a branch and flicked the leaves backwards in an unwanted burst of movement. Staring into the closest of the copses, the Roman discerned a figure hidden within the confusion of branches, something close to human but betrayed by its stark lines and unnatural stillness. Craning his neck to see better, and putting a hand to his sword’s hilt, he froze as a harsh voice whispered in his ear, the hunter’s approach so quiet that he had not realised the man was close behind him.

  ‘You are in the presence of Arduenna herself, Roman, closer than any non-believer has ever come and left with his life.’ The confusing image within the copse resolved itself as if cued by Arabus’s words, and Marcus realised that he was looking at a man-sized representation of the goddess. ‘I may owe you my life, and you may be the means by which I take my revenge, if you can prove that I have been so horribly wronged, but you must show her the proper respect or you will pay the price for failing to do so.’

  The Roman nodded, averting his eyes and muttering a swift prayer to Mithras for the god’s protection, and Arabus tugged at his sleeve, drawing him away from the sacred grove with the impatience of a man whose divided loyalties were being sorely tested. Climbing behind the tracker up the shadow-dappled slope, Marcus realised that each of the copses to either side of their path was similarly deified, the trees’ branches woven around statues of Arduenna. Sometimes the goddess was standing, sometimes she was mounted on a charging boar, but every one of the statues showed her wielding her bow. Remembering the sudden onset of the snow that had frustrated the Tungrians’ efforts to penetrate the forest, he shivered and silently mouthed another entreaty to Mithras before following Arabus towards the slope’s crest. He made barely ten paces progress before glancing into another thicket and, with a sick lurch of his stomach, discerning a pile of bones scattered around the statue’s feet. In a moment Arabus was at his side again, his face hard.

  ‘Sacrifice. Men taken in the course of their raids, those they don’t kill out of hand, are led here with the promise of being brought to the goddess, and joining in her eternal glory. It is a cruel lie. Obduro leaves them bound and helpless, their arms lashed to branches from different trees to suspend them before the goddess, and they die while she watches, sending her creatures to feed upon their corpses.’ He shook his head, his gaze averted from the evidence of the sacrificial victims. ‘Sometimes even upon their living bodies. And every sacrifice to her strengthens Obduro’s cause with Arduenna.’ A note of impatience entered his voice. ‘Now come, and pay no further heed to the goddess. My presence will protect you, for I am her devout follower, but she watches us nevertheless.’

  Following his guide’s example, Marcus got down onto his hands and knees, then slid onto his belly as they crested the ridge. He whistled quietly as the view afforded by its elevation was revealed, drawing an exasperated glance and a whispered admonishment from the tracker.

  ‘I swear to Arduenna that the only way you would ever catch a boar would be if it were to fall out of a tree onto your stupid Roman head.’

  Marcus nodded distractedly, staring out at the bandit fortress in wonder. The wooden palisade was surrounded on all sides by a slope that fell away from the hill’s flat summit at a steep angle, forming a natural defence around the stronghold.

  ‘Look at that. With a single cohort I could hold that position against a full legion.’

  Arabus stared out at the fort with pride in his eyes.

  ‘It has been a place of worship and refuge for our tribe for as long as we have lived in the forest, or so the stories tell us. Obduro led his band here several years ago, and set up an altar to the goddess inside his wooden walls.’

  ‘I’ve seen it. He sacrifices men upon it, and drinks their blood.’ The tracker’s eyes clouded at his harsh tone, and Marcus patted him on the shoulder, rolling onto his back and reaching into the leather bag that he had carried up the slope. ‘You did well in bringing me here, and I will prove to you the truth in my words, but first we have to get inside that palisade. It’s time for me to take the lead, and to find out if my acting skills are sufficient to the task.’

  ‘Petrus! The soldiers are on the move! They’re marching out of the city!’

  With a complacent smile the gang leader turned to the man framed in the Blue Boar’s door, nodding to the men waiting around him.

  ‘What did I tell you? I knew Obduro wouldn’t be sitting back and waiting for them to get bored and piss off of their own accord. And while the army’s away, we can have all the fun we like, starting with the retrieval of all that lovely gold they took from Albanus.’ He stood up and pointed to one of his lieutenants. ‘He’ll have left the money behind with a few men to look after it, and to watch each other in case temptation overcomes any of them. You, send men out and find them, quickly. I want to know where that gold is before they get any clever ideas about going to ground with it. And you two . . .’ The doormen standing on either side of Annia nodded, straightening their backs. ‘You can take her upstairs and make sure she doesn’t get any ideas about making a run for it. Who knows, that day you’ve been waiting for all these years might just have arrived. All that time spent watching her fuck other men for money but never getting
any yourselves might just be at an end . . . Have the hourglass ready.’ He sat down again to await further news, grinning at the horrified looks that Annia was giving him as Slap and Stab dragged her away up the stairs. ‘And if life really is kind, it’ll be that arsehole centurion who’s been left behind to guard the gold. We’ll soon see where his loyalties lie, won’t we?’

  Julius watched impassively from the city walls as his cohort marched out from the city and headed away down the road to the west at the forced-march pace, the sound of Clodius’s bellowed orders floating back on the breeze until first sound and then sight of the marching men was denied to him by the distance being covered by the fast-moving soldiers. The man standing alongside him, a veteran of twenty years’ service with whom he had long dispensed with all formality in private, stared after them and nodded approvingly.

  ‘Not bad. The Badger might make a half-decent first spear one day.’

  The centurion grunted reluctant agreement with his chosen man’s comment, turning away from the view down the road to stare out at the sprawling grain store. The legion cohort’s double-strength 1st century was standing guard on the depot, whose gates were firmly shut, under the command of the cohort’s first spear. Scaurus had taken him aside as the Tungrians made their last preparations to march, as the cohort’s centurions and their chosen men had examined each man’s boots and equipment for any sign of defect or negligence that might result in one of them falling out of the crippling fast line of march. Ignoring the bellowing of an incensed chosen man less than a dozen paces away, as the assistant centurion launched into a tirade questioning whether the soldier in question had ever actually learned the art of tying his bootlaces, then provided him with an incentive to perfection by means of forcibly introducing his brass knobbed pole to the soldier’s toes whilst screaming invective into his terrified face, the tribune had muttered final, quiet instructions.