The Leopard Sword: Empire IV (16 page)

Julius stepped into the brothel casting a wary eye around the main room’s softly lit expanse. An elderly man was sitting in one corner with a pair of girls in close attendance; one sat on his lap squealing with simulated enjoyment while he toyed with the other’s breasts in a half-hearted, vaguely embarrassed manner. Apart from that the place was empty. The barman held up an empty wine cup, remembering him from his previous visit, and Julius nodded gratefully, dropping a coin on the counter. He sat at the bar and sipped at the wine, watching as the two whores jollied their elderly customer along to keep his money flowing.

‘Have you come to drink, or was there something more you wanted?’

He turned to the staircase that led up to the rooms where the establishment’s entertainment was conducted, his heart jumping at the sight of Annia halfway down the wooden steps. She was dressed in a diaphanous gown that did little to conceal her body, and he shifted uncomfortably while she smiled down at him archly.

‘I came . . . for you. I mean . . .’

She shook her head in apparent despair, beckoning him up the stairs.

‘I told you this isn’t going to work, Julius, but for old time’s sake I’ll take your money just this once. You do have money?’ The look on her face was enough to have him on his feet without conscious thought, just the way it always had in days when they were little more than children discovering each other in the secret places where they’d taken refuge from the world around them. Draining his cup, he walked up the stairs to meet her, raising his eyebrows at her outstretched hand.

‘How much.’

Her face softened into something close to sadness.

‘I’m the most expensive woman you’ll ever enjoy, Centurion. A gold aureus for one hour, but it’ll be an hour to live in your memory for a long time. I’ve had a lot of practice since you took my virginity.’ He handed her the coin and she tossed it down to the waiting barman, who dropped it into the cash box beneath the bar. ‘Good, now that we’ve got that slightly sordid transaction out of the way, let’s see what we can manage by way of entertainment.’ Taking him by the hand she led him up the stairs and through one of the doors around the first-floor landing, closing it behind him and putting a finger to his lips, whispering in his ear almost inaudibly as she nuzzled at his neck. ‘Don’t say anything; these rooms are watched by my associate’s men. Touch my breasts like a man who wants to get his money’s worth . . . that’s it. Once you’re on top of me put your hand under the pillows and you’ll find a key for a secret door on the east side of the building. The lock’s hidden behind the shrine to Venus Erycina set into the wall. It leads to my private quarters, but you must only use it after dark. Come tomorrow night.’

She pulled away from him, opening her gown to reveal her naked body and running her hands over nipples that were already stiff from his attentions before dropping to her knees in front of him. Her voice was loud when she spoke, loud enough to be heard by any hidden watcher.

‘Now lift that tunic and let me give you pleasure. Let’s make sure you get your money’s worth.’

‘It’s nice stuff, all right, I’ll give you that.’

Arminius was holding a mail shirt up to the morning light that was falling through a thin window, examining its thick iron rings with a critical eye. The armourer came out from behind his counter and folded his meaty arms; they rippled with knots of muscle and were criss-crossed with the burns and scars of decades spent working with hot metal and sharp iron. He raised an eyebrow at the barbarian’s apparently lacklustre praise.

‘I told you when you came here yesterday that it’s better than nice; it’s the best you’ll find this side of the River Mosa. Even the legion smiths up on the Rhenus don’t make their gear to my standards. Look at that mail coat properly. The best leather backing, cut from top-quality hide and not split to make the leather go further, mind you. The rings are twice as thick as the ones in your standard-issue mail, thick enough to stop a thrown spear, and there isn’t a sword blade made that could cut them, with only two exceptions. You put the boy in my gear, you’re providing him with the best protection there is.’ Arminius raised an eyebrow at the man’s sales pitch, and the armourer spread his arms. ‘I’m just saying that you have to pay for quality. Look, here’s the deal we discussed: four hundred sestertii to arm and armour the boy here. Look at this.’ He fished under the shop’s counter, pulling out a bundle of equipment. ‘See, a mail shirt made for a lad not much bigger than the boy, made to my usual standard and with room for him to grow into it, and a helmet,
and
a two-thirds size sword. Look at the sword’s quality.’ He passed Arminius the weapon, and the German held it up to the light. ‘Don’t touch the blade, it—’

The German gave him an amused look.

‘I know. Sweat will make the blade rust. It’s nice work though. Look at this, Marcus.’

He passed the sword to the Roman, who looked up and down its length with an approving eye, testing its weight with an expression of surprise.

‘Very nice, armourer. How did you make this?’

The smith smiled knowingly.

‘Ah now, you can’t be expecting me to reveal the secrets of my trade to two men I barely know, can you? But I can see you have an eye for a blade, Centurion, so I’ll let you see something even better.’

He ducked behind the counter and came up with a full-sized weapon in a dull metal scabbard, pulling out the weapon to reveal its blade. Marcus reached out and took the sword from him, looking closely at the sword’s edge while the smith proudly watched in silence.

‘This pattern . . .’

The armourer nodded.

‘The pattern reveals the secret of the blade’s strength. It is made from a mixture of finest-quality steel from Noricum on the River Danubius, combined with good iron. They are heated together to make them workable and then folded together time after time after time until the resulting sword has many layers of the two. This weapon took me more hours than I’d care to count, heating and cooling, and always forging the two metals together, and then I spent another week polishing it to bring out the pattern you can see along the blade. It will cleave an iron sword in two if you swing it hard enough, and there is no mail made that can resist its blade. It is my masterpiece.’

Marcus looked at the sword, and instantly knew he had to possess the weapon.

‘And your price for this sword?’

The smith started.

‘In truth I’ve never thought to sell it. It is of incalculable value to me.’

The Roman raised an eyebrow.

‘That would be a first, a tradesman unwilling to sell his work.’

The armourer protested, raising his hands and shaking his head.

‘It is my finest work, Centurion, the perfect blade. I could never—’

‘And you’ll keep it behind that counter for the rest of your days, rather than allowing it to be used for the purpose for which it was forged? Name your price.’

The other man’s face furrowed as he thought for a moment.

‘The price, Centurion? For a month of my life, for the best materials to be had, even if their expense was ruinous? For my life’s labour and experience poured into one blade? I couldn’t take less than fifty gold aurei . . .’

Marcus smiled. The price was astounding for a sword, and was more than likely intended to scare him away.

‘Done.’ The smith’s eyes widened in amazement that the Roman was willing to spend so much money on a weapon. ‘I’ll be back this afternoon with the money. I’m assuming that you’ll throw in the child’s equipment as a gesture of good will at that price?’

The armourer dithered.

‘I’ll halve the price, Centurion. Two aurei for the child’s gear will close the deal.’

Marcus nodded, then pointed to a shelf above the man’s head.

‘Before I leave, I’d like to see that helmet you have there, if I may?’

The smith reached up and pulled down a gleaming cavalry helmet. He passed it to Marcus, who looked with interest at its finely tinned face mask.

‘Sixteen layers of iron and steel, Centurion, each one hammered so flat that the mask is still as light as a feather, but it’ll stop an arrow loosed from twenty paces. Should I name a price for you?’

Marcus shook his head with a smile.

‘I’m probably in enough trouble with my wife already, thank you. It’s a nice piece though.’ He turned to leave, only to find Dubnus and a jaded-looking Julius in the shop’s doorway. They walked in, and Julius looked with a professional interest at the racks of weapons around him.

‘Qadir said we’d find you here. We’re under orders from Uncle Sextus to find you and then go to the bathhouse and get cleaned up. We’ve got an interview with the tribune this afternoon, and he doesn’t want us smelling like a pack of badgers when we turn up, apparently.’

He turned back to the door, only to find Dubnus indicating a small item on one of the shelves behind the counter.

‘Didn’t you lose a whistle on the way here, Julius?’

Dubnus kept his face admirably straight while Julius stared back at him, winking at Marcus and raising his eyebrows in unspoken warning once the older man’s back was turned.

‘Yes, I did, now you mention it. I’m surprised you remembered. How much for the whistle, smith?’

‘Over there, next to that shifty-looking type, there’s a space.’ Marcus turned to follow Julius’s hand and saw the open bench his friend was pointing out. ‘You go and take possession, and I’ll see what’s taking Dubnus so long. He’s probably threatening the bloody cloakroom attendants again.’

He stepped back into the bathhouse’s undressing room to find the muscular young centurion pressing one of the bathhouse slaves up against the room’s cold stone wall.

‘. . . and if any of our gear mysteriously goes missing while we’re bathing you’re going to wish your mother had never laid hands on your dad’s cucumber when I get hold of you, and the same goes for all your fucking—’

Julius tapped him on the shoulder, and nodded his head towards the warm room.

‘That’s enough of that. If the pricks are stupid enough to lay a finger on our gear then they’ll take what’s coming. Now come and join me and Two Knives in the warm room, before we lose our bloody seats.’

The two men walked back into the baths to find Marcus surrounded by a group of irritated locals. He was smiling serenely at the men standing around him while they gesticulated furiously at the empty spaces on the stone bench on either side of him. His hands were behind his back, as if he were stretching his spine, but Julius noticed with a practised eye that his right foot was resting against the bench’s stone pedestal, ready to thrust him up into their faces at any hint of the debate turning physical. He tapped the closest of them on the man’s bare shoulder and then folded his scarred, muscular arms, fixing the man with a hard-eyed stare before looking down ostentatiously at the eagle tattooed on his right shoulder, with the characters COH I TVNGR inked beneath it.

‘For those among you that haven’t learned to read yet, I’ll translate. This says “First Tungrian Cohort”. So I suggest you lot stop waving your dick beaters around like a bunch of Gaulish housewives and fuck off now, before you start to irritate me.’

For a moment it looked as if the local men might argue the point, but the sight of an even bigger specimen appearing at Julius’s shoulder, and showing every sign of being a man in search of a fight, was enough to turn them away, grumbling but clearly outmuscled. The two centurions took their places next to Marcus, Julius groaning in pleasure as he settled back onto the warm stone.

‘Oh yes, that’s much better. I’m going to sweat out a bucket of dirt today, and no two ways about it.’ He looked down at Marcus’s hands with a raised eyebrow, as his younger colleague brought his right hand out from behind his back, opened his fist and waggled the fingers, dropping a handful of coins into his left palm and passing them to his friend. ‘A well-brought-up boy like you knuckling up for a fight like a common soldier? You’d better not let the tribune catch you doing that.’

Marcus shrugged.

‘There were five of them, and they weren’t looking happy at being beaten to the last seats in the room.’

‘And you were just working out which one to put down first, weren’t you, you bloodthirsty young bugger?’ Julius shook his head with a wry grin. ‘And there’s the difference between the three of us, I’d say. Dubnus, when he’s not busy threatening the bath slaves with what he’ll do to them if his new cloak brooch goes missing, would just have grabbed the nearest man, banged his head on the wall, dropped him and scared the rest of them off with a smile. I, believe it or not, would rather just face that sort of idiot down, and let the scars and tattoos do their job. But you, the well-educated son of a senator and in theory the born peacemaker of the three of us, you’d have come off that bench like a whorehouse bouncer, wouldn’t you?’

Marcus shifted uncomfortably.

‘I can’t argue with you, Julius; you’ve seen me lose my temper too many times. I just can’t . . .’

He shrugged helplessly, shaking his head, and his friend ruffled his hair affectionately.

‘I know. If there’s a confrontation to be had you can barely hold yourself back, and when that last tiny bit of self-control is flicked away by some idiot’s careless words, or even the wrong look on a man’s face, you can’t stop yourself from attacking with any weapon that’s to hand. I saw it the other night, when we were dragging Dubnus’s boys off those legionaries. When everyone else was staring at Lugos and his “I fight you all” act, you were busy putting your vine stick into the guts of anyone that got in your way. I counted four of them on their hands and knees in your wake, and I doubt that most of them even saw you coming.’ The older centurion shook his head with a good-natured laugh. ‘You’re a good man for war right enough, but what will you do when the fighting ends, I wonder? Men like us find peacetime hard enough when they’ve got used to a regular diet of blood, but men like
you
. . .’ He paused. ‘Marcus, you can work out what will cause the most damage to a man given the tools at hand faster than anyone I’ve ever met, but you don’t have the restraint that sometimes only comes to a man after years of bitter experience, or sometimes never comes at all. I was the same at your age, all knuckles and fight, and it wasn’t until I was ten years in that I started to calm down, and learned to send men away with a look rather than breaking their faces. I never had your speed, or your fearsome temper; I was just a fight looking for someone else to join in. But you’re something else, something much more dangerous, because there’s nothing restraining you . . .’ He looked the younger man up and down. ‘I’d say there’s not much call for men with your particular mindset – call it a blessing or call it a curse – once the fighting stops and the boredom of a peacetime routine settles on us all like a cloak made of woven lead.’