The Leopard Sword: Empire IV (3 page)

‘Close enough, unless you want to find out what the point of my sword feels like as I slide it between your ribs!’

Their gradual advance stopped at Julius’s challenge, a single man stepping forward from their encircling line. What Marcus had taken for features set in stony resolution resolved themselves into the dull iron lines of a cavalry helmet, and when the man spoke his voice was distorted by the close-fitting face mask.

‘We are three times your strength. Lay down your arms and surrender your coin, and nobody gets hurt. Try to fight us and we’ll slaughter you like cattle.’

Julius stepped forward, sliding his gladius back into its scabbard and reaching into a pouch on his belt.

‘You’re right; there is a better way of settling this.’

Marcus and Dubnus exchanged knowing glances, and behind them Lugos growled softly, barely restraining himself from wading into the bandits single-handed. The centurion raised his hands, a flash of silver glinting in the swirling mist, and the masked bandit relaxed slightly, holding up an open hand to keep back his fellow robbers.

Julius’s face hardened into a predatory smile as he moved closer. ‘No, really, there’s no need for any of
us
to get hurt. You, on the other hand, should run.
Now
.’ He lifted a hand to his face, putting a shining whistle to his lips while the bandit leader scowled and raised his sword to fight. ‘No? I warned you . . .’

After blowing a single piercing note he dropped the whistle and ripped his dagger from its sheath, stepping in to attack the masked bandit with the weapon held low. His assailant swung his sword in a clumsy diagonal cut, aiming for the junction of the Roman’s head and neck, but Julius spun to his right and ducked under the blow, pushing his weight off his right foot and springing onto the bandit, bearing him to the ground and breaking his grip on the sword’s hilt. He rammed the dagger’s foot-long blade up into the bandit’s exposed left armpit and then, as the other man screamed with the agony of his wound, snapped his head down to deliver a crunching butt with his helmet’s brow guard, smashing a deep dent into the cavalry helmet’s iron face mask. Pushing himself off the bandit’s inert body he jumped back to his feet and swept his gladius from its scabbard again, turning to the nearest of the bandits with a broad smile.

Unable to contain himself any longer Lugos had already stepped off the road to confront two of the robbers, raising the hammer as if to bring it down on the nearest man’s head, but then changing the attack at the last minute and sweeping the weapon’s heavy iron beak into their legs. One of the pair dropped to the ground in crippled agony, forcing the other to jump back sharply. Pushed off balance by the sudden move the robber tripped and fell headlong backwards, his arms splayed out to either side. The huge barbarian hoisted the hammer over his head, swinging its vicious hooked blade down in a whistling arc to bury it deep in the fallen man’s chest with a sickening crunch of splintering bones. As Martos and Arminius advanced to either side of him, the German swiftly finishing off the bandit felled by his first swing, the giant Briton put a foot on the dying man’s stomach and tore the hammer’s blade loose in a scatter of rib fragments, his eyes searching the mist for his next victim.

Marcus and Dubnus moved quickly to join Julius as he advanced into the throng of bandits, Dubnus hurling his axe in a spinning arc that ended with a wet, crunching thump of iron into flesh and bone before dodging a spear thrust from another man. He gripped the weapon’s extended shaft to drag his assailant off balance, then, drawing his gladius, he thrust the blade deep into the spearman’s thigh. Wrenching the weapon loose in a spray of blood he tore the spear from his victim’s faltering grip, spun it a half turn over his head to present the blade and then stamped forward, slinging the spear to transfix another of the bandits edging towards them. Marcus took on a pair of swordsmen, feinting towards the first to back him up before spinning to attack the other head on. He steered the robber’s sword aside with the gladius, then hacked the longer spatha in his other hand deep into the defenceless bandit’s side. His opponent convulsed in agony as the cold iron sliced into his body, slumping to the ground as the Roman swung back to face the other man, the bloody spatha pointing at the robber’s chest as he backed slowly away. The bandits were looking at each other in silent amazement now, not yet willing to run from their intended prey but afraid to take the fight to them, given that so many of their own number were either dead or wounded.

For a moment silence ruled the open field, aside from a distant, rhythmic sound so faint as to be at the limit of audibility but rapidly gaining in volume, a metallic ripple that pulsed through the fog like the gnashing of a million tiny iron teeth. Julius smiled even wider, spreading his hands and turning on the spot to encompass them all as he spoke.

‘You hear that? That, my friends, is the sound of your death rushing towards you! I’d say you’ve twenty heartbeats left, thirty at best, before a huge armoured monster comes out of this fog and tears you all to pieces. Either run now or make your peace with your gods.’

He paused, theatrically putting a cupped hand to his ear. The sound was swelling now, hardening, its distinct rhythm starting to disintegrate into one long clattering rattle. Marcus stared at the filthy, exhausted bandits around him, seeing every man’s face reflect the same urge to run that they were all feeling. With a visible start one of the robbers realised what was happening; he turned to flee just as the first soldiers came out of the mist at the forced-march pace, their heads back to suck in the damp air. Marcus recognised the centurion running alongside the four-man-wide column as Clodius, at the exact moment that his colleague raised his drawn sword and bellowed an order at his men.

‘Third Century, take them down!’

The bandits scattered in all directions, and the centurions watched in bemusement as the column’s ordered ranks broke into organised chaos in the space of an instant, individual soldiers choosing their victims and going after them like hunting dogs. Each of the desperate men suddenly found himself pursued by half a dozen soldiers eager for blood, and the mist filled with the shouts and screams of hunter and hunted. One zealous soldier ran at the three barbarian scouts with his spear raised, mistaking them for robbers in the heat of battle. A moment later he was staggering backwards, clutching his face, as Arminius, his face dark with anger, stepped forward to stop him dead with a swift jab of his massive fist. The unfortunate Tungrian fell onto his backside with blood streaming down his face.

‘You’ve broken by dose!’

The German shook his head contemptuously, gesturing back at his companions.

‘And whose fault is that? Just count yourself fortunate it was me and neither of these two that put you right. The prince would have gutted you like a fish, and the big lad would have taken off your head with the same punch. Now go and bleed somewhere else.’

Clodius walked across to his brother officers with a raised eyebrow, pulling off both his helmet and its padded linen liner, allowing the cold air to get to his grey-streaked hair. He watched as his men dragged the corpses of their victims back across the muddy fields.

‘I should have known you three would find some kind of trouble.’

Dubnus wiped his sword clean on the greasy fabric of a dead man’s tunic and sheathed the blade before replying.

‘It found us.’

Clodius grunted morosely.

‘Nothing new there. How’s your wound, young Dubnus? Still giving you problems when you get down on your knees for a . . .’ Catching a movement in the corner of his eye he half turned and then snapped out an order. ‘Third Century, stand at attention!’

Tribune Scaurus strolled into the knot of centurions with First Spear Sextus Frontinius in close attendance, returning their salutes while his deceptively soft grey eyes took in the scene about them.

‘I know we’re here to kill bandits, gentlemen, but given that we haven’t even reached Tungrorum yet this all seems a little keen, even by your standards.’ He looked around him at the litter of scattered corpses and the few groaning survivors of the swift fight. ‘And that, I have to say, seems to be that. Normally I’d be of the opinion that since we killed them we’d best burn or bury them, but under the circumstances . . .’ He turned to Frontinius with a questioning look. ‘What do you say, First Spear?’

The senior centurion limped across to the fallen body of the robbers’ leader, pulling the cavalry helmet from the corpse’s head to reveal the dead man’s smashed face; the blood that had streamed from his broken nose was stark against the pale grey of his skin.

‘I’d say he didn’t find this helmet at the side of the road. I’d say he’s probably killed enough good men that his death will please our gods. And I’d say that we leave him here to rot with the rest of his gang.’

Scaurus pursed his lips and nodded.

‘Agreed. Strip them of their weapons and anything else of value, and load the survivors onto the supply carts. I’d imagine the authorities in Tungrorum will be happy enough to receive a few captured bandits for some public punishment.’ He half turned away, then swung back to Frontinius with a swift nod. ‘And that’ll be enough of these gentlemen walking out in front of the cohort for one day. I don’t mind losing officers in battle as long as they have the good grace to die expensively, but given we’re already short of good centurions I won’t risk making our problems any worse by tempting fate like that.’ The 1st spear nodded, giving the three officers a significant stare. ‘And what happened to him?’

A bandage carrier was fussing over the soldier whose nose had been broken by Arminius. The German stepped forward, nodding to Scaurus.

‘He seemed set on putting his spear through me, so I changed his mind for him.’

The tribune raised an eyebrow at his bodyguard.

‘You seem to have done rather too good a job of it, from what I can see.’ He tapped the hapless medic on the shoulder, eliciting a flustered, bloody-fingered salute from the man. ‘Either you get that back in place now or you can deal with it at the end of the day. We’ve no time to be standing round in the mist while you work it out.’

The bandage carrier spread his wet and bloodied hands in apology.

‘Sorry, Tribune, I just can’t get a grip on the bone.’

Arminius pushed him aside without ceremony, putting a hand on the terrified soldier’s shoulder to prevent him from rising.

‘Stay put, you. This won’t take a minute.’ He grasped the soldier’s nose, rubbing it briskly between finger and thumb to gauge the break’s location. While the soldier was still squawking in pain at this rough treatment, the German took a handful of hair to hold his head in place and quickly manipulated the bone back into place. With a shrill scream of agony the soldier passed out, his weight suspended from the German’s grip on his scalp. Shaking his head, Arminius pushed him into the bandage carrier’s arms. ‘It’s done. He’ll have a pair of black eyes for a week or so. It might teach him to pick his targets with a little more care.’

First Spear Frontinius nodded to his tribune, a wry smile touching his lips.

‘It seems that your man has a way with mending broken bones, Tribune. Perhaps Centurion Corvus’s wife might do well to recruit him for her clinic?’

Scaurus shook his head, watching the German walk away.

‘I think not. He’s more than a little lacking in the delicate approach required of a medical man. He’s been that way ever since I saved him from the sword back in the war with the Quadi, and I can’t see him changing now.’ He turned to look at the road ahead, still wreathed in drifting curtains of mist. ‘Well, then, shall we get these cohorts back on the road? I’d estimate there’s still another ten miles to the city, and there’ll be no respite from this cursed drizzle until we get there.’

As the leading centuries formed back into their marching column Marcus noted that Julius was scanning the ground around the corpse of the bandit group’s leader.

‘Lost something?’

His friend nodded, keeping his eyes on the ground.

‘My whistle. It was a nice one too.’

Glancing about him, Marcus caught Dubnus’s eye, and saw that he was pointing ostentatiously at his own belt pouch and grinning smugly. Giving up the search, Julius turned back to his colleagues to find Dubnus apparently searching the ground at his feet with exaggerated interest.

‘I could do with a nice whistle; mine sounds like a castrated cat.’

The older man shook his head in disgust as the 3rd Century, set to lead the long two-cohort-strong column of march, started to move again at Clodius’s bellow of command.

‘Very funny, Dubnus. I suppose that’s the price I have to pay for being first into the fight. As per
fucking
usual.’

He stamped away to join his own 5th Century, leaving the two friends to wait for their men to march past.

‘How long will you hold onto it?’

Dubnus shrugged at Marcus’s question.

‘Until he’s bought a new one? I’ll sneak it back into his pouch once he’s laid out some coin for a replacement.’ He frowned at his friend’s sudden solemnity. ‘
What?
It’s not like I’ve lifted his purse!’

Marcus shook his head.

‘No, it’s me. I was just thinking how funny Rufius was going to find this.’

Dubnus put a spade-like hand on his friend’s mailed shoulder.

‘I know. I miss the old bastard almost as much as you do, but life, as Morban keeps telling anyone that will listen, is for those left around to profit from it. And here come your boys now. Go and cheer up Qadir with the story of our colleague’s whistle. You know he always turns grumpy when it’s too wet for his lads to play with their bows.’

After another four hours of marching, all of it through an afternoon made into premature twilight by the swirling mist, even Marcus was ready for the day’s journey to end. Marching alongside his chosen man, Qadir, at his century’s rear, he noted that the usually imperturbable Hamian’s demeanour became grimmer as the day progressed.

‘I’m going up to the front to make sure Morban’s not bullying the trumpeter too badly.’