The Leopard Sword: Empire IV (11 page)

‘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.’

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?’

Called 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.’

In the large tent that he shared with his wife, Felicia, Marcus was slumped in a camp chair while Felicia unlaced his muddy and blood-spattered boots, tossing the first of the pair onto the pile for cleaning. His mail shirt and weapons were already piled in one corner, awaiting the attentions of Lupus, Morban’s grandson. ‘Get that tunic off and I’ll put it in cold water. It’s a good thing it’s not your nice white one.’

She slyly glanced up at him to gauge his response, but found him staring at the tent’s wall, his expression dulled by whatever was happening behind his eyes. After a moment he realised that she was silent, and started guiltily.

‘I’m sorry, I was miles away. What were you saying?’

Felicia tossed the second boot aside and slowly stood up, her pregnancy now a visible bulge in her stola.

‘Your tunic.’

She held out a hand, waiting while he stripped it off to reveal his pale torso, the muscles finely sculpted by the unremitting daily exercise of carrying his armour and equipment.

‘Put this one on.’

He raised an eyebrow.

‘The white one?’

‘It looks good on you, and all the others are still damp. You can’t hide it away just because it’s your best.’

He smiled at her and stood, pulling on the garment and adjusting its belt to ensure that the hem was above his knees, then took her in his arms.

‘I hide it away because it’s the one I wore when we got married.’

She smiled back, poking at a faded stain in the pale wool.

‘As if we’ll ever forget, since we have the evening’s wine to remind us.’ He winced, remembering the raucous carousing he and his brother officers had enjoyed that night, after Felicia had gone to bed and sent him back to join them. She smiled again, tugging his ear affectionately. ‘You had a lot of bad memories to deal with, and if the price of doing so was a few stains on a tunic I’d say it was good value.’

‘I killed again today.’

Her smile softened.

‘I know, my love. I can always tell, whether there’s blood on your armour or not. You may be a natural with your swords, but you’re not hardened to the results of using them, are you?’

Marcus shook his head.

‘Not only did I kill today, but I watched while Silus murdered three men in cold blood to make the fourth tell us where the rest of their gang was camped out. Yes, I know –’ he raised his hands to forestall her response – ‘they were bandits, and they’d murdered a farmer and his men not long before, so they deserved their fate. And yet . . .’