The Leopard Sword

2

‘It’s not much of a market, is it? I remember this place from when I was a boy, with every wall lined with traders, and all of their stalls loaded with fruit and vegetables. But this…’

Julius stood with his hands on his hips and looked about the forum’s thin population of traders and their limited variety of produce, shaking his head slowly. Marcus and Dubnus had volunteered to come with him on the task to which he’d been appointed by Frontinius, and the two men exchanged a glance. The state of the city’s housing had also become apparent to them in the daylight. There were empty houses in every street, many of them falling into sad disrepair and at least one with a sapling sprouting through an open window.

‘The city’s population seems to have been slashed in size from those days, by the plague, I suppose. And since the whole province appears to have been turned over to growing grain, from what we saw on the march in, perhaps a shortage of meat and vegetables is the price they have to pay. There doesn’t seem to be any shortage of bread though.’

The big man nodded at Marcus’s observation.

‘Which is one small mercy, but I wonder where the meat and vegetables to feed two cohorts of big strong lads are going to come from if this is the best they can do. Anyway, forget the food, what we’re looking for is someone that’ll sell us something to wet our-’

He stopped talking abruptly, drawing curious glances from his colleagues as he stared in silence at a small party walking past them through the forum, a woman flanked by two burly men who could only be bodyguards, to judge from their size and demeanour.

‘Come on, Julius, stick to the job in hand. You’re not going to get what Uncle Sextus sent you out for by ogling every good-looking floozy who walks past.’

If their colleague had heard Dubnus’s jocular comment he didn’t acknowledge it, and he strode out into the forum without a backward glance, his attention locked on the woman’s back. His friends exchanged baffled glances, Dubnus frowning irritably after his colleague.

‘We’d better go with him. Those two have the look of men who’ll reach for their knives rather than waste time on pleasantries.’

When he was a half a dozen paces behind the small group Julius called out a single word to the woman.

‘Annia?’

She stopped walking and turned to face him, and to Marcus’s eye her expression was a combination of hope and dread. At close quarters he realised that she was a beauty, her features enhanced by cosmetics of a quality and subtlety that he hadn’t seen since leaving Rome the previous year, her black hair artfully arranged to frame a face that, if it wasn’t in the first flush of youth, was still strikingly handsome. Her eyes narrowed on seeing the big centurion standing before her, and her lips tightened. Marcus guessed that her frown of recognition wasn’t the reaction for which Julius had been hoping. The men to either side of her moved quickly, stepping forward to intercept the Tungrian without any sign of deference to his uniform. With a tight smile one of them, a bulky man, put a firm hand on Julius’s chest, dropping the other onto the hilt of his knife. His hair was cropped close to his skull while a bushy moustache bristled under a nose which had clearly been broken more than once. The other man, whip thin and with a dark, brooding look to him, reacted with equal professionalism, taking a quick step to one side and putting his hand to the handle of a long blade, clearly ready to unsheathe the weapon if necessary. If they weren’t military trained, they clearly had enough experience of their roles to perform them competently.

‘That’s close enough, soldier boy. The lady doesn’t want to be bothered by the likes of you.’

The bodyguard’s harsh voice was hard-edged with the promise of force to back up his words, and Marcus felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising as the familiar urge to fight made his nostrils flare and his eyes widen. The second bodyguard, alert to the situation’s potential for violence, noticed as the young officer rose slightly onto the balls of his feet, unconsciously poising himself to fight, and he shook his head in caution. His voice was more reasonable than his colleague’s, if no less confident in his abilities.

‘The lady doesn’t want to be disturbed, sonny. Better if you were to go and bother someone else, eh?’

Julius turned to his friends and momentarily bowed his head as if accepting the bodyguards’ rebuttal, then struck without warning, grabbing the hand that was still planted on his chest and bending it back with savage force, twisting it to his left to put the man off balance before using the bodyguard’s instinctive resistance to heave him to the right, shoving him into his colleague hard enough to put them both on the ground. The bodyguards leapt to their feet to find three hard-faced centurions ready for them with their swords drawn, and looked at each other in consternation. From the corner of his eye Marcus saw a man turn and leave the forum at something close to a run, and realised they only had a matter of moments before reinforcements arrived to back up the angry bodyguards. Julius lowered his gladius, putting up a placatory hand.

‘Steady, boys. Don’t make the mistake of biting off more than you can handle. All I want is a quiet conversation with the lady, and then you can go on your way with no more damage done than a bit of embarrassment. Or we can fight, and when Tungrians fight it’s all or nothing. So don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

While the bodyguards were still pondering Julius’s words, their faces reflecting their confusion, the woman stepped forward and lifted her hand.

‘It’s my decision who I speak with, not yours.’ She gave the two men a pointed stare before turning back to Julius. ‘And not yours either, Julius. That is you, isn’t it, behind the beard and the hard words?’

He nodded, bowing his head.

‘I’m sorry. Your men were a little too quick to give offence.’

‘And you were more than ready to take it. Just as you were fifteen years ago, as I recall? So here you are, back in Tungrorum after all this time. I’ll assume you didn’t come back to find me, and that this is just a coincidence?’

Marcus heard a note enter Julius’s voice that he’d not heard in all the time they’d served together.

‘I meant to come back for you, Annia, but you never answered the messages I sent with the men who came back here to retire. I supposed that you’d met someone else.’

One of the bodyguards smirked, and Marcus’s eyes narrowed as, in a sudden flash of insight, he worked out what it was about her that had been bothering him. The woman’s hollow laugh confirmed his guess.

‘I met a few other men, as it happens. Look at me, Julius, look properly.’ She raised her arms and performed a twirl on the spot. ‘Does nothing bother you about what you see? The toga I’m wearing, for example? I know it’s not made of the prescribed floral pattern, but it’s still quite a giveaway. Or perhaps you’ve noticed my lack of footwear? The city authorities are quite strict in enforcing that nice little rule.’

The centurion stared at her for a moment before realisation dawned.

‘You’re a…’ He shook his head and tried again. ‘I–I mean, you’ve become…’

‘Yes, I’ve become a whore. And, as I’m sure you can tell from the quality of my clothing, not to mention the men paid to make sure I’m not bothered when I walk through the city, really quite a good whore. Your precious love of all those years ago turned to servicing men for money to survive. I didn’t have much choice in the matter, not with my father dead, and my mother and I dependent on whatever money I could bring in.’ She shook her head in dismissal of the memory, her voice hardening. ‘So, here we are, the soldier and the whore reunited after all these years. What stories we could tell each other. But perhaps it’s better if we leave it there, and try to forget what might have been, if only you hadn’t felt compelled to join the army and leave me here to rot.’

The big man stood aghast, and the man he’d disarmed opened his mouth to make some cutting remark, only to close it again as Dubnus caught his eye with an extravagant glare.

‘Why didn’t you write and tell me? I would have sent you money, all my money…’

‘And how would I have done that? We didn’t have enough to buy what little we needed to survive, never mind paying someone to carry a message to Britannia. I’ve done well, all things considered. I’m well looked after, and I’m in partnership with a local businessman who supplies the city with grain and fresh provisions. We have an arrangement that ensures I’m left to run my house without fear of harassment, and a dozen girls working hard can turn over more money than you’d think, even with a healthy percentage for protection. I’m a wealthy woman compared to most people in Tungrorum.’

‘And that, I think, is enough.’ The moustached bodyguard stepped forward with his confidence rediscovered and his expression painfully close to being one of mockery, jerking his head to indicate several men approaching them across the forum. ‘The lady needs to be on her way, and this reunion, touching though it’s been, is over.’ Julius nodded with a faraway look on his face, and Marcus tensed himself to strike if the bodyguard made any move to take advantage of the centurion’s distraction, but the lady’s escort did nothing more than shake his head disparagingly and mutter an insult under his breath. ‘ Cunt-struck prick.’

Dubnus bristled with anger and made to step up to him, but stopped with a frown as Marcus put out a hand to restrain him. Sheathing his sword, Marcus then moved forward and put his face within a few inches of the bodyguard’s, speaking in quiet but fierce tones.

‘I’d be a little more careful who you insult, if I were you. And when you’re done with trying to get yourself killed, you can take a message to your employer. Tell him that there’s a customer looking for enough wine to keep twenty thirsty centurions happy for a month, and quickly. We’re camped on the empty ground by the west gate, and he needs to ask for First Spear Frontinius. The good stuff, mind you, and we’re paying in gold.’

Unabashed, the bodyguard raised an eyebrow at his mate, a slight smirk on his face.

‘In gold, is it? We’ll pass your message on, soldier. Fresh gold’s always welcome here.’

He turned away, putting a proprietorial hand on the lady’s arm and leading her towards one of the market’s exits. Julius watched them walk away across the forum, his expression still wistful as he addressed his colleagues, ignoring the newly arrived bruisers who closed ranks behind Annia’s bodyguards to deny the Tungrians a chance to follow her.

‘And that, brothers, was my first love. The blows that life deals you just when you least expect them, eh?’ He sighed, his voice hardening as he regained control of himself. ‘Feel free to mention this meeting to anyone you like, but be prepared to sleep with one eye open if you do.’

To his surprise Dubnus, usually the first with a quip at his expense, shook his head dourly.

‘It wouldn’t be funny, brother. Forget you ever laid eyes on her, and we’ll do the same.’ He winked at Marcus, tapping his pouch with a significant stare at the back of Julius’s head. ‘And if you ever want someone to cheer you up, I’m your man. All you have to do is whistle. ’

The view to the west from the top of the Tungrorum city wall was less than impressive, Qadir decided, its monotony made all the worse by the frequency with which the 9th Century’s Hamians were being allocated the duty of standing watch over the open fields beyond them, while the two Tungrian cohorts were on construction duties. Half of the century, and among them all of the twenty-odd Hamians who had elected to stay with the cohort, were dispersed along three hundred paces of the wall’s eastern length, while the rest were hard at work with the other centuries below them. The sounds of hammering and sawing were an incessant accompaniment to their vigil, as the soldiers below laboured, sweated and bled to erect the wooden barrack blocks required to house their numbers. Empty fields that receded into the featureless grey had been intriguing to the Hamian members of the century at first, but their interest in the open ground’s potential for archery had quickly palled with the continued presence of the bitterly cold fog that wreathed the landscape beyond the city’s walls.

‘There!’ The man at his side started and pointed into the mist, his voice lowered to avoid spooking the cautious animal. Following his arm Qadir saw the outline of a magnificent stag advancing slowly out of the murk, bending its heavily antlered head to pick carefully at the sparse grass. The soldier shrugged the bow case from his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at his chosen man. Qadir looked long and hard at the animal, calculating the amount of meat that his men’s skilled hands would strip from its carcass, before regretfully shaking his head and putting a restraining hand on the man’s arm.

‘Our goddess will not look with favour upon the man who looses an arrow at such an easy target. That animal was made to be hunted with skill and stealth through the great forest, not to be shot down for straying into this unnatural wilderness of empty land. Spread the word: the man that shoots a single arrow at the beast will suffer my displeasure, and likely that of Our Lady the Deasura too. Go.’

The soldier nodded and turned away to pass Qadir’s command to his fellow Hamians. The big chosen man was a placid individual for the most part, but every man in the 9th Century was only too well aware that they crossed him at their peril, such was his temper when eventually roused. Qadir watched with satisfaction as the soldier walked down the wall’s broad fighting platform, taking pleasure from the fact that he had spared an innocent creature of the forest from an ignoble death.

‘That’s a fine-looking beast. Plenty of meat on those bones, I’d guess?’

The chosen man turned, rolling his eyes in mock disgust.

‘Still you have the ability to ghost your way to my shoulder, Centurion. I stand abashed at your skills.’

He opened his arms in a slight bow of respect, and Marcus nodded in return, his face creased by a wry smile.

‘So we’re not hunting today?’

Qadir shook his head, watching the stag as it turned and slid back into the mist.

‘It would not be fitting. Such a prize needs to be taken in a true hunt, not like the target on a practice ground. As long as he is under my men’s bows, he will have the protection of the Deasura herself.’

Marcus shrugged easily, still smiling.

‘In which case he’s lucky to have encountered the only leader of men with your eastern philosophy for a hundred miles or more.’

They stared out into the empty fog in silence for a moment before Marcus found the words for which he had been groping.

‘You’ve been a different man of late, Qadir. Morban thinks you’ve realised what a mistake you made in deciding to stay with us.’

The Hamian stared out into the mist.

‘An easy assumption to make, I suppose. The easterner comes to his senses when he realises that most of the infantryman’s life is nothing more than rain, marching, boredom and more rain.’

Marcus laughed.

‘And that the other small part is nothing but blood, terror and death?’

The Hamian smiled slowly.

‘In your company, Centurion, it does seem that way.’ He turned to look at his friend. ‘But in all truth, none of that bothers me. I am troubled by a different fact.’

He fell silent again and turned back to the mist, his face bleak in the morning’s cold light. And just when Marcus thought that the subject was closed, the Hamian sighed and turned to face his friend again.

‘My continuing black mood, Centurion, is the result of your near death at the hands of imperial killers before we left Britannia. And I’m not the only man that feels this way. If not for three unwashed barbarians and a centurion still recovering from a serious wound, both you and your woman would have suffered the fate they had planned for you. We are all ashamed to have allowed those Roman animals to have taken you from the cohort without any attempt at rescue.’

Marcus smiled gently at his words.

‘You couldn’t have saved me even if you’d been aware of what had happened, which you weren’t. Nobody but Arminius, Martos and Lugos could have run fast enough to arrive in time, not with all the weight we all carry in weapons and armour. And since it worked out well enough in the end, let’s have an end to this introspection, shall we? There’ll be plenty of other chances for you to pull my grapes out of the press.’

The Hamian looked into his face, his weary expression brightening.

‘Very well. I will put the failure behind me, and consider only how best to provide you and yours with the protection I have sworn to deliver.’

‘Sworn?’ Marcus’s expression turned quizzical. ‘You mean an oath to the gods?’

‘Just one goddess, Our Lady the Deasura. And I’m not the only one. You’re unjustly accused, every other member of your family has been murdered, and only you, your woman and her unborn child stand between the empire and the final destruction of your name. None of your friends will allow that to happen, not without challenge.’

The Roman shook his head, his eyebrows raised in amazement.

‘I’m speechless, Qadir. I…’

‘There is no need for you to comment. We need neither your approval nor your assistance in this matter. Simply accept that you have friends who will fight to see you survive this injustice, and go about the duties that accompany this new identity you have chosen knowing that we watch over you.’

They looked down over the wall onto the ground below, and at the wooden frames that were being erected to form the basis for the barracks. At length Marcus spoke again.

‘Thank you. And to avoid embarrassment for all concerned we’ll speak of it no more, although I remain quite astonished.’ He took a deep breath, and waved an arm at the scene below. ‘It’s going more slowly than the first spear hoped.’

Qadir nodded.

‘We are none of us carpenters. Everyone below us is skilled with a sword and shield, but few have any skill or desire to wield a saw. Perhaps if the legion were helping the job would go more smoothly?’

Marcus laughed softly.

‘Perhaps it would. But I fear that the word “if” is most likely to stay the case. Speaking of which…’

Two hundred paces to the north of their place on the wall the city’s west gate had been opened, and a column of soldiers was marching out in full armour. The two men watched as the legionaries poured out of the city at the march, both of them counting the soldiers until the last rank cleared the gate. Qadir raised an eyebrow, watching as the marching column was swallowed up by the drifting fog.

‘Two centuries. It seems that the legion’s tribune has changed his mind about the need to patrol outside the city.’

Frontinius and Scaurus watched the building work from the doorway of the tribune’s tent, the first spear standing in silence while his superior officer listed the progress made in getting the two cohorts properly supplied.

‘So we have enough food to see us through another week, although I’m concerned as to the impact of our presence on the city’s grain stocks. What with our two cohorts and Belletor’s men that’s another two thousand mouths to feed. Hungry mouths too, ones not used to going without their full ration.’

Frontinius scratched his head, looking critically at the dirt that came off his scalp under his fingernails.

‘Gods, but I could do with a proper bath. I used to think the bathhouse at the Hill was a bit draughty and poky, but I’d give my left ball for a good long sweat right now. What about that great big grain store outside the gates? Surely there’s enough corn in there to feed everyone and to spare?’

Scaurus raised a sardonic eyebrow.

‘That grain, First Spear Frontinius, belongs to the empire. Why else do you think it was built outside the walls, but to keep temptation from overcoming the citizens of Tungrorum? You’ll have noticed that our colleague Belletor has soldiers posted around it to dissuade the populace from any idea of getting at its contents? It seems that Tribune Belletor and Procurator Albanus are aligned on that much, at least. No, we’ll have to keep a close eye on the city’s food stocks. I won’t have civilians going hungry to feed the men who are supposed to be protecting them. Doubtless those men that delivered our wine already have a strong grip on the supply of scarce items at inflated prices, so it’ll be the poor that suffer if we turn a blind eye. It appears that Albanus’s deputy, Petrus, is the merchant in question, so I doubt the city authorities will be taking much of an interest in the event of our causing a shortage.’

He looked down at the tablet in his hand.

‘As to shelter, how long do you think it’s going to take to complete the construction?’

Frontinius scratched his head again.

‘The best part of a week, based on their current progress. We don’t have enough of either the right tools or the skills to go any faster.’

Scaurus shook his head, his face hardening.

‘Not fast enough, First Spear. You’ll have to find a way to get it done quicker. I want these men out in the countryside hunting down bandits, not developing their building skills inside these walls.’ Frontinius grimaced, but nodded his understanding as his tribune scowled down at his tablet. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, Tribune. Bathing and drinking.’

‘Ah… I see.’

‘My thoughts exactly when Julius pointed it out to me earlier. The men haven’t seen the inside of a bathhouse or a beer shop since we marched away from the coast. Bathing shouldn’t be too hard to arrange, although we’ll have to agree a rota with the legion boys to avoid the inevitable friction; it’s the drinking that worries me more. There are several likely looking establishments in the city, and that’s before we get to the unlicensed beer shops that any soldier worth his salt will find for himself soon enough.’

Scaurus nodded, his face creasing into a knowing smile.

‘Quite so. And if we try to stop the men from using them we’ll just end up with them sneaking about the camp after dark, and risk someone getting speared by a sentry who doesn’t know him and doesn’t like the look of him. No, we’ll have to organise some sort of rota for that as well. Since Julius came up with the point he can follow it through, especially as he knows the city better than anyone else. Have him organise a schedule that allows the men enough time to enjoy themselves, but not so much that they’ll end up roaring drunk and starting fights. While he’s at it he can have a chat with the owners of the taverns to warn them that they’ll be getting some extra custom, and perhaps he could discuss the timings of our boys’ visits with First Spear Sergius too. It wouldn’t do our image with the locals much good for Tungrians and legionaries to end up in the same hostelries at the same time, eh?’

Frontinius looked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

‘It looks like we’ll be able to tell Sergius in person.’

Scaurus swivelled, frowning at the sight of 1st Minervia’s senior centurion approaching from the legion’s barracks, a crowd of thirty or so men following him in tunic order, most of them carrying leather bags. Sergius saluted Scaurus smartly, nodding his greeting to Frontinius.

‘Greetings, gentlemen. It’s a fine morning for a patrol, or at least that’s what Tribune Belletor said as he was mounting his horse all nicely wrapped up in his cloak. I’m not sure what our first and second centuries will think about it, but either way they’re out for the day.’ He turned to look across at the labouring Tungrians. ‘Your boys are well stuck in, I see, but I’m ready to bet good money that you’re going slower than you’d like. Knowing Procurator Albanus I’m pretty sure that the city authorities will have provided you with a smaller number of tools than you need, and low-quality stuff at that. And, with no disrespect intended, your men don’t look like it’s coming naturally to them either.’ He turned back to them, finding both men staring at him with quizzical expressions. ‘And no, I’ve not come to gloat, but to do something a good deal more constructive than my tribune would find acceptable, given the poor start to your relationship.’ He waved a hand at the legionaries behind him. ‘All of these men are skilled builders, and they have their tools with them. I’ve no shortage of either, but what I don’t have are enough trained soldiers to get a grip of the cohort’s large number of new recruits. You know how that works best, eh, colleague?’

Frontinius nodded knowingly, seeing where the other man’s line of reasoning was taking them.

‘One experienced soldier for every four or five recruits. Any more than that and he can’t keep a close enough eye on them to spot what they’re doing wrong and correct them while they’re doing it. Thirty such veterans of a few nasty fights could train two centuries at a time.’

‘Exactly. And in return, thirty skilled builders would be two for each of your barrack blocks. Not enough to throw them up in a day, but it would make a big difference to the speed and quality of the build to have men who knew what they were doing pointing out the mistakes as they were being made.’

Both men turned to Scaurus with questioning looks. Raising his hands, he shook his head and laughed out loud.

‘No, gentlemen, the less I know the better! The pair of you can work out whatever shady deal it is you think will best meet the needs of your respective cohorts while I go and root out our cavalrymen. Since they’re lucky enough to have found empty stables for their beasts, they can make themselves useful rather than sitting round getting fat. Mind you…’ He turned back to face them with a conspiratorial look. ‘Mind you, given that we wear red and your men wear white, it might be a good idea for your men to swap tunics while they’re doing each other’s jobs. Just a thought.’

Marcus and Qadir were still looking out at the foggy landscape when a horseman rode up to the wall’s rear and called for them. Eager to be out of the city, the sturdy animal pranced about on the spot as its rider waited for the officers to appear over the parapet.

‘Decurion Silus’s compliments to you, Centurion. He was wondering if you and your chosen man would care to join the mounted squadron for a look-around? It’s been approved by the tribune.’

Marcus looked along the wall’s fighting platform, spying the bulky figure of his standard bearer a hundred paces distant. Morban was talking animatedly with a group of soldiers and as Marcus watched with narrowed eyes he slapped palms with one of them.

‘Another wager made, no doubt. The man’s incorrigible. Remind me to have a discussion with him about his grandson when we get back. Morban! ’

He beckoned the standard bearer to him, waiting with a tapping foot while the veteran soldier waddled up the stretch of wall between them, snapping to attention when he reached his centurion.

‘Centurion?’

‘Is Watch Officer Augustus still helping with the building work?’

‘Yes, sir, the one-eyed old bast-’ Catching a hardening of Marcus’s face, he quickly rephrased his reply. ‘Yes, he is, Centurion.’

‘In that case you’re in command of the Ninth until we come back from patrol. Silus has a couple of empty saddles, from the look of it.’ Morban saluted again, adopting a determined expression. ‘And I’d lose the frown, Standard Bearer. It makes you look as if you’re struggling with a particularly difficult bowel movement.’

Marcus and Qadir hurried down from the wall and headed off towards the west gate, while Morban gestured to the soldiers with whom he’d been speaking before.

‘Time to pay up, gentlemen. As predicted only a moment ago, I am now in command of the Ninth until that nice young gentleman decides his arse is sore and he comes back from playing with the donkey wallopers. Thank you.’ He took a coin from each of the soldiers, dropping his winnings into a heavy pouch on his belt. ‘Rest happy in the knowledge that your pay will shortly be making a powerful impression on the whores of this fair city.’

Marcus and Qadir found the mounted squadron waiting for them at the gate, and the young centurion threw a mock salute at their decurion.

‘Greetings, Silus. Your messenger said you had a pair of horses too flighty to be ridden by anyone but myself and my chosen man?’

Silus grinned slyly at him, extending a welcoming hand to indicate a pair of horses without riders.

‘Indeed, Centurion. Qadir is well known for his discernment with regard to horses, and his consummate skill in the saddle. With that in mind I have reserved the very best of our horses for him.’ He gestured to an empty saddle, raising an eyebrow at the Hamian whose sour mood had clearly lifted on seeing the horse in question. ‘You remember this beast, I presume?’

The Hamian threaded his way through the throng of horses, stroking muzzles and patting flanks until he reached his mount, a magnificent chestnut mare he had last ridden in Britannia. He nodded his thanks to Silus and jumped into the saddle with the practised grace of an accomplished horseman. Silus smiled at the sight of horse and rider reunited, leaning out of the saddle to mutter conspiratorially to Marcus.

‘I do like to see man and beast so well matched.’ Marcus raised a sardonic eyebrow, knowing what was coming next. ‘And no more so than in your case. For you, Centurion, I have an animal which we already know can match your quick temper and restless desire for a fight.’

He raised his arm and indicated a big rangy grey stallion waiting impatiently alongside his own horse. Marcus shook his head wryly then walked round to greet the animal, which responded by nudging at him with its muzzle.

‘You see, dear old Bonehead remembers you! He knows that he has only to put his ears back and you’ll happily allow him his head, certain that he’ll take you straight into the deepest shit available. I’ve never seen a horse and rider more made for each other.’

Marcus shook his head in mock disgust, climbing into the saddle and accepting a spear and shield from the cavalry officer.

‘Let’s be away, then, Decurion. I’ll do my best to remain in control of this high-spirited animal, although Mercury himself may struggle to stay with us if he spots a deer. You, I fear may be left far behind, given that your poor animal’s carrying all that extra weight.’

The men guarding the gate opened the massive wooden doors, and the squadron trotted out into the thinning mist.

‘Tribune Scaurus wants us to scout away to the west, as far as the point where the road forks to the south to cross the Mosa at Arduenna Bridge.’

They proceeded at an easy trot, allowing the horses a pace that wouldn’t overtax them. Silus led the way with the squadron’s standard bearer riding alongside him. The dragon standard’s long cloth tail hung limply in the damp air, droplets of moisture forming on the bronze head’s highly polished surface, much to its bearer’s disgust, and the occasional gust of air rippled the mist and elicited the faintest of moans from the reed concealed within its fiercely fanged mouth. Silus upped their pace to a brisk trot, and within a half-mile’s progress the rear of the legion centuries’ column appeared out of the mist before them. The decurion extended his arms to either side, his hands held out rigidly like blades, and he called back over his shoulder loudly enough to be sure that the infantry’s rearmost ranks would hear him.

‘Pass to either side, and ignore any comments that might come our way. Just content yourselves with the fact that they’ll be tramping through mounds of horseshit soon enough!’

The legionaries launched a barrage of insulting and occasionally witty comments at the horsemen as they trotted past the marching column, and, as was equally traditional, the riders kept their gazes fixed on the direction of travel and their faces set in expressions of utter disinterest. One wag in the leading century bellowed out the first line of a song beloved of foot soldiers across the empire, and his comrades joined in with all the gusto expected of them.

The cavalry love buggering sheep,

In various bogs and ditches,

When they’ve done the flock they all suck cock,

Those dirty sons of bitches!

The squadron rode on, the final rider turning in his saddle with a smile of glee as the horse in front of him lifted its tail to deposit a long trail of droppings in the marching column’s path.

Silus raised a hand to signal the canter, and the riders spurred their mounts to the faster pace, their clattering hoof beats rattling dully across the empty fields. After ten minutes of riding Silus frowned, peering forward into the light mist. A man was running towards them, staggering along the road’s cobbles in a manner that suggested he was close to dropping from exhaustion. Reining in his horse, the decurion jumped down from his saddle and caught the runner by his arm as he slumped to the road’s surface.

‘Bandits… attacking… carts…’

He pointed back into the mist from which he’d staggered, his chest heaving, and Silus, half carrying him to the side of the road, barked a terse question at him.

‘How many?’

The hapless carter shook his head.

‘Mist… too many…’

The decurion looked up at Marcus.

‘No telling how many of them might be waiting for us. We should probably wait for the infantry to catch up.’

His friend hefted his spear.

‘Probably. And probably lose them as a result. They’ll vanish off into this murk with their prize as quickly as they appeared from it.’

Silus nodded grimly.

‘Very well, we’ll go after them alone, but ride on the verge rather than the road. Let’s not give them any warning. Lower that standard too, or they’ll hear it howling from miles away once we get up some speed. Ride! ’

Tribune Scaurus found Prefect Caninus in his headquarters, a small building tucked away behind the forum. The prefect’s men were hard at work preparing their gear and sharpening their weapons as Scaurus walked between them to the office at the building’s rear, and he felt their eyes on his back as he knocked at the office door. Inside, by the light of the lamps that had been lit to compensate for the shuttered windows, the prefect was standing at a map of the area around Tungrorum painted on the wall behind his desk, an exact copy of the one they’d discussed in the basilica the previous day. The diagram was littered with hand-painted annotations, each one consisting of three lines of text beside a small cross to indicate a location. The crosses were for the most part aligned with the main roads to east and west, and the notes that accompanied each one were abbreviated in the official style. The tribune put down the bag he was carrying and shook his colleague’s hand before turning to examine the map with him.

‘You keep a record of bandit activity, then?’

The prefect nodded, waving a hand at the map.

‘That which is reported to my office, yes. I’m trying to spot a pattern. Something to give me an idea of where they might be hiding themselves, so that I can get on the front foot for a change, rather than just reacting to their attacks. It also gives me a clue as to how many of them are out there, and where they might be hiding. Look here

…’ Smiling grimly he pointed to a tight cluster of a dozen crosses ten miles or so to the west of the city. ‘There’s one group of robberies, more or less where you ran into that band of thieves on your way here. Perhaps we’ll hear no more from them.’

Scaurus examined the map for a moment.

‘So we have clusters of robberies here…’ He pointed to the east, on the road between the city and the small settlement at Mosa Ford, ten miles distant from Tungrorum. ‘Here…’ His finger moved to indicate the road to the south, passing within a few miles of the forest of Arduenna in its path to Augusta Treverorum, the city of the Treveri tribe. ‘And here, on the main road to the west.’

Caninus nodded, slapping a finger into the middle of a group of twenty or so crosses.

‘Exactly. That’s where they’ve been attacking the grain convoys, seven times this year, and always when we’re elsewhere, as if they have some inside knowledge of my men’s movements. They always strike in force, never less than two or three hundred strong, and that means the carters never have enough men to hold them off. Especially since they managed to subvert the auxiliaries sent from the frontier to hunt them down.’

Scaurus shook his head.

‘That’s been puzzling me ever since you first mentioned it. What happened to make a whole cohort of trained soldiers throw in their lot with a gang of bandits? Why abandon any hope of becoming a citizen for a life of constant uncertainty and a good-sized chance of a violent death?’

Caninus waved a hand at his chair.

‘Take a seat and I’ll tell you.’ He paced across the office before turning back, his face bearing the look of a troubled man. ‘It’s the band that is operating out of the forest that’s most of the problem here. The rest of them are disorganised, slaves and deserters trying their luck, and taking advantage of the fact that we’re overstretched. If that was all there was to it I could probably keep a lid on things with the men I have, but the fact is that the man in control of that gang is undisputedly good. Almost supernaturally lucky, or skilled. Or both. They must have some sort of hiding place deep in the woods, somewhere off the usual hunting tracks, because I’ve not found any trace of them in the months we’ve been searching the forest, which we do whenever I can spare the manpower. I know, it’s not enough to explain the desertions…’ He rubbed his face wearily with one hand before continuing.

‘It’s their leader. He seems to have them all convinced that they’re not bandits, but rebels against the empire. He tells them that it was the imperial army that brought the plague back from the east, and that it’s the emperor’s fault we all lost friends and loved ones. He’s got them believing that they’re freedom fighters, rather than the thieving scum they really are. Worse than that, they seem to believe that he’s invincible. He wears a cavalry helmet with one of those flashy reflective face masks whenever he thinks he’s running the risk of being seen, so nobody has any idea of who he is, or where he’s come from. He carries a sword made of some strange metal which is reputed to have the strength to cut through just about anything, including, believe it or not, iron sword blades. And he’s utterly ruthless.’

Scaurus shrugged slightly.

‘I’ve seen a lot of hard men in my time. What do you mean by ruthless, exactly?’

Caninus was silent for a moment before speaking.

‘You asked me why a cohort of auxiliaries would desert. Well, it wasn’t a full cohort; it was three centuries of Treveri soldiers.’

Scaurus shook his head unhappily.

‘Some idiot sent men recruited in the Treveri lands, which are, what, fifty miles to the south of here, to deal with a local banditry problem?’

Caninus nodded.

‘You’ve guessed it. The legatus at Fortress Bonna, clearly a man without much understanding of local history, detailed the Treveri cohort’s prefect to take four centuries and clear this particular gang of bandits from the forest. If he’d been any kind of student of recent history he would have known that the Treveri have had a mixed relationship with the empire ever since their initial cooperation with the Blessed Julius in defeating the Nervians. The very fact that they threw in their lot with the Batavians when they decided to revolt should have been enough of a clue, but I suppose that after a hundred years the memory’s become a bit distant. All the same…’

He raised his eyebrows at the irony of it all, sharing a moment of dark amusement with Scaurus, who sat and waited for him to continue.

‘Anyway, nothing much went amiss until they sent a century out on outpost duty to guard the road to Claudius Colony. The bandits overran it one dark night, slaughtered every soldier who raised a sword to them and took the rest prisoner. They then put the centurion’s head on a spear. It didn’t take whoever he is — the local nickname for him is “Obduro”, by the way — to work out where the men of the other three centuries were from. He surrounded their camp the next night and called on them to kill their officers and join him in the fight for “their people’s” independence in the name of the goddess Arduenna. And so they did. Her name has a powerful magic for men raised in the shadow of the forest.’

Scaurus opened the bag at his feet, fishing out the dented cavalry helmet.

‘This won’t have been his, then, from the sound of it?’

Caninus picked up the helmet and examined the face mask, badly dented from the impact of Julius’s brow guard.

‘Sadly not. It would have solved most of our problems if it had been — cutting the snake’s head off, so to speak — but this is far too shabby to have been his. I presume that you took this from one of the bandits that attacked you during your march here?’ Scaurus nodded, and Caninus spread his hands, palm upwards, in a gesture of frustration. ‘You see the man’s influence? Even the dimmest of common robbers has worked out that the myth of Obduro can work for him too.’

‘Why “Obduro”? Why call yourself “hard”?’

Caninus smiled wryly.

‘Oh it’s not his choice. That’s the name the people of the town gave him when his modus operandi became clear, after the first couple of times his men overran a guard post, or a detachment of soldiers. He has them killed, as I said a moment ago, almost literally to the last man. Nothing protracted, but no mercy shown either, except to the few men he takes back into the forest, presumably for the purposes of sacrifice to their goddess, and the one man he chooses to bring the news of his latest victory to me.’

Scaurus frowned.

‘Specifically to you?’

The prefect grinned at him without humour, his expression suddenly bleak.

‘Oh yes, most specifically to me. He’s developed something of a determination to see me dead, it seems. He mocks me with every fresh message that we receive from him, making sure that the survivor seeks me out and tells me in graphic details what will happen to me when I’m captured. He tells them that he’ll know if they don’t pass the message exactly as he tells them to, and that he’ll visit the same fate he has planned for me on them unless they follow his instructions to the letter. He tells them to do it publicly, not in private, so that the people around me hear everything.’

‘Which implies he has some good sources of information close to you?’

The prefect stared at his boots for a moment.

‘Yes, that thought had occurred to me, but whoever it is must be either terrified or utterly devoted to him. Someone with a family member taken hostage, perhaps, or just a loved one who’s an easy target. Don’t forget that a score of travellers pass through Tungrorum every day, on their way along the main road from Beech Forest to Mosa Ford. Any of them could be one of his people, sent to deal out the threats he’s made to ensure obedience from whoever it is he has close to me.’

He leaned back against the wall, shaking his head wearily.

‘Most of my men have family in the city, and every one of them presents an opportunity for threats and coercion to a man as ruthless as he is, so any one of them might be his agent, willing or not. The only answer that I can see is to find this Obduro and remove his head from his shoulders in the time-honoured fashion, and to do it in such a way as not to show the dice I’m rolling until they hit the table.’

The tribune stood and walked across to the map.

‘And given that I’m the commander of the only battle-experienced unit that’s available to help you, I think we’d better start coming up with ways to impose ourselves on this particular gang’s freedom of action. As you say, you’ve been reacting to him for the last few months, and searching for him without any result. I’m guessing that my fourteen hundred men have much more chance of finding him than your thirty.’

Caninus pointed at the forest’s dark mass, dominating the southern half of the map.

‘The only place to take the fight to him is in there. But be careful, Tribune. Arduenna has a justifiable reputation for being dangerous for the unprepared, especially at this time of year. It may be spring, but winter can return to the forest in an instant.’

He touched the amulet on his right wrist in a reflexive gesture, and Scaurus nodded solemnly.

‘I see you are a believer in Mithras Unconquered. I’d be grateful of a chance to worship alongside you, if the city has a temple? And you needn’t worry, colleague. I’m not going to set a single foot into that maze of trees without your advice to guide me. And now I’d better go and see how my men are progressing with their building work.’ He picked up his cloak and made to leave, but turned as he reached the door. ‘By the way, you mentioned that you were sent here from Fortress Bonna. Is that where you were raised?’

Caninus shook his head, pointing to the spot on the map that was Tungrorum.

‘No, Tribune, I’m a local boy, born and brought up here in the city. I travelled away from Tungrorum for several years in the imperial service, but when the chance came to return to my birthplace I jumped at it. Although, with hindsight, perhaps my decision would have been different had I known what I was stepping into.’

Scaurus nodded in sympathy.

‘Never go back, eh?’

The prefect shook his head slowly.

‘No, Tribune, it wasn’t the coming back that was the mistake. My error was in having any expectation of the place being as I’d left it.’

The squadron parted to either side of the road, their hoof beats muffled by the soft ground as they cantered quickly to the west, their shields and spears held ready to fight. For long, anxious moments they rode steadily forward into the murk, unsure of what they might confront at any second, and with every moment the tension mounted. Marcus was starting to believe that they had missed the bandits in the mist, when a sharp-eyed rider on the right-hand side of the road pointed at the fields and shouted a warning to his decurion. Almost invisible in the fog, the indistinct shape of a grain cart was just discernible, with the figures of several men gathered around its rear apparently attempting to free a wheel from the track’s thick mud. Marcus wheeled the big grey to face the bandits, swinging the spear’s head down from its upright carrying position. The horse needed no further encouragement once it saw the weapon’s wicked iron head drop into its field of vision, and it sprang forward across the field’s heavy clay soil toward the robbers at the gallop, clods of earth flying up in its wake.

Faced with a wall of cavalrymen charging down on them out of the mist the bandits wavered for a moment and then turned to run, their attempts to flee reduced to little better than a stagger by the field’s thick mud. Marcus picked a runner as the men scattered in all directions and rode him down, the cold iron blade stabbing brutally into the small of the man’s back and punching him to the ground with a grunt. Tearing the blade free Marcus turned the horse in search of another target. He heard a horse’s scream of distress and the sound of a rider hitting the ground hard, followed an instant later by a bellow of victory underlaid by a gurgling, agonised groan. Riding towards the noise he barely had time to react as a shaven-headed swordsman charged at him from out of the murk, a bloody blade held high and ready to strike at the horse’s long nose. Stabbing out with the spear, Marcus rammed the weapon’s iron head into the attacker’s face, sending him reeling into the mud with both hands clutching at his shattered, bleeding features.

Having kept his seat by clinging to the enraged animal’s neck, Marcus trotted the grey forward past another three grain carts, steering the horse around the bodies of dead and dying bandits. At the head of the short line of carts he found a tight knot of ten or so bandits in the middle of a circle of horsemen whose spears were lowered and ready to stab into them. Silus caught sight of him and rode over to speak face to face, keeping his voice low.

‘Not bad with only one man down. I’ve given orders for him to be placed in one of the wagons, and perhaps if he lives long enough your woman can work her healing magic on him. As to this sorry collection of cut-throats, what do you think? Should we kill them here, or take them back to Tungrorum?’

Marcus grimaced.

‘First things first, I’d say. We need to find out what they did with the carters, and where they were going with that grain. There may be more of them waiting for this lot to return, in which case…’

‘We could clean out that nest of snakes as well. Good idea.’ Silus turned to his men, bellowing an order to his deputy.

‘Double Pay! Disarm them and get them kneeling in a line beside that cart, hands tied behind their backs and their knees hobbled.’ He dismounted, and Marcus followed suit. ‘You do realise that getting information out of them is going to get unpleasant?’

The Roman nodded, preoccupied with sliding the tip of his dagger into a sack of grain and putting the grains that spilled from the small hole under his nose, recoiling slightly from their odour.

‘ Qadir! ’

The chosen man led his mount across the field, kicking at the cart’s wooden wheel to dislodge some of the mud clinging to his boots.

‘Centurion?’

Marcus offered the grain to him, then watched as the Hamian put his nose to the kernels and breathed in slowly. Grimacing, he took one and popped it in his mouth, chewing it briefly before spitting the fragments out with a look of disgust.

‘Tainted. Mould, I’d say. And with mouldy corn it’s a coin toss as to whether you can eat it safely or not, never mind the foul taste. Get it wrong and you’ll be sick for days, weak as a baby and rolling around in your own faeces. I’m surprised that any farmer would bother shipping this to Tungrorum. There’s no way that an experienced buyer is going to give them anything for it.’

Marcus nodded his head to the tethered captives.

‘And we may never know why they were bringing it to the city, unless one of these men can take us to any survivors of the robbery.’ His chosen man raised an eyebrow. ‘I know, it’s not very likely, but..’

He led the Hamian across to where Silus was waiting for him, sword drawn and face appropriately grim as he stared up and down the line of terrified-looking bandits.

‘Not so bloody brave now, are you? Well, I can make it worse for you, much worse. You’ve got a choice to make, you scum. You can either die here, nice and quick, or you can choose to tell us what we want to know.’

One of the bandits looked up at him, his face twisted in defiance.

‘What, and then you’ll let us go, will you?’

Silus smiled broadly at him, walking across to his side.

‘Excellent. There’s always one man that wants to go first.’ He nodded at the cavalryman standing in front of the line of kneeling men, and the soldier stepped forward, grabbed the defiant bandit’s hair and used it to pull his head down, baring his neck for the sword. Silus put his spatha on the exposed flesh, sawing the rough sharpened blade backwards and forwards, the sword’s weight exerting enough pressure on the skin to start a thin line of blood trickling down the helpless man’s throat.

‘Of course I’m not going to let you go, but at least you’ll get to survive today, and who knows, if you sing loudly enough perhaps the procurator will spare you for assisting us?’

‘Spare us? More likely he’ll-’

Silus whipped up the blade, taking a quick breath with the upstroke before hacking down into the exposed neck with enough power to partially sever the man’s head from his shoulders, then lifted the sword again to finish the job. The headless corpse toppled forward, blood still pumping from the stump of the dead man’s neck. It sprayed the soldier with a hot jet that made him drop the man’s head and fumble to wipe his eyes clean. Bending, Silus picked up the head by the hair, scowling at the man whose job it had been to hold it. He raised the bloody, mud-spattered trophy, giving the other bandits a good long look at their comrade. The faces reflected fear, hate, but mostly the numb realisation that they would face the same fate soon enough. Marcus watched from the side of the line, his thoughts racing as he considered the murder of the helpless prisoner.

‘So, one man wanted to die here, in this muddy field, with no one to spare him a coin for the ferryman. Does anyone else feel the same need to leave this life here and now? Or would any of you like to talk, and spare the rest of us having to go through this ritual until you’re all dead? No?’

He nodded to the soldier, who gripped the next man’s hair and turned his face away while the decurion braced himself with a two-handed grip on the weapon’s hilt and inhaled quickly. The sword rose and fell in one clean blow this time, and Silus nodded to himself.

‘It seems I’m getting the hang of this. Anyone want to talk? No? Very well.’

He stepped up to the next man down the line, raising the blade as the soldier once again took a grip of the victim’s hair. Tensing himself for the downstroke the decurion took another quick breath of air, but held off from delivering the fatal blow as the helpless man beneath his sword let out a creaking moan of desperation and audibly soiled himself. Silus grinned at the terrified bandit, wrinkling his nose at the sudden stench of terror.

‘Nobody wants to die on an empty stomach. Perhaps I’m not being fair.’ He looked sideways at the man on the far side of the first bandit to die, watching as the colour drained from his face. ‘After all, I started in the middle of the line; perhaps I should have chosen the man on the other side to go third.’ He beckoned to the soldier holding down the bandit’s head to raise it, allowing him to see the victim’s face. ‘What do you think? Fairer to go the other way for a bit?’ The captive goggled up at him wordlessly, almost unable to comprehend his desperate circumstances, and Silus stroked his chin as if deep in thought. ‘It does seem a bit lopsided.’

The decurion turned away from the bandit, beckoning his assistant to follow him, and the soldier released his grip on the prisoner’s hair. Reprieved, the helpless man fell forward into the mud and started to cry like a baby, watching as the decurion moved up the line. He gestured to the soldier, who grabbed his new victim’s copper-hued hair and dragged him forward, ready for the killing stroke. Silus lifted the sword, and stood over the man, waiting patiently for some reaction. After a moment his victim turned his head as much as he could, given the harsh grip on his hair, and snarled at his executioner.

‘Get it done!’

The decurion looked down at him with a gentle smile.

‘Now there’s a man with a pair of balls I can respect. You’re not going to shit yourself any time soon, are you? I can’t kill this man; he deserves a better exit than a quick hack in a muddy field. No, let’s go back to the other one.’

His original victim, still lying in the field’s cold mud, gave out a shrill squeal of horror.

‘No! No, not me! I’ll tell you anything you want to know! Anything! ’

The redhead spat his anger into the soil.

‘Shut your mouth! There’re good men will die if you betray them, and we’re dead whatever happens, here or in some-’

Silus whirled around, hacking off his head in one swift movement before turning back to the weeping bandit with a tight smile.

‘No one likes to be interrupted when they’re speaking. You were saying…?’

When the legion column arrived on the scene, Tribune Belletor found Marcus and a handful of soldiers stacking the dead bandits by the roadside, the badly wounded Tungrian having been wrapped in his cloak and laid in the rearmost cart for transport back to the city.

‘What’s happened here, Centurion. Some sort of battle?’

Marcus briefed him on the short action, watching as the tribune looked about him at the carnage wrought upon the bandits with an expression of mixed horror and distaste. The senior officer’s glance chanced upon the three headless victims of Silus’s interrogation, and his face creased into an unhappy frown.

‘Those men appear to have been beheaded?’

Marcus nodded, his face impassive.

‘Field interrogation, Tribune. The remainder of the squadron is running the rest of the band to ground based on the information gained.’

‘That’s not acceptable, Centurion.’ He shook his head angrily, and Marcus waited for him to continue, wondering if the legion officer was a more humane man than his reputation indicated. ‘Look at their arms!’ Marcus realised that Belletor had spotted the slave brands on the dead men’s arms. ‘No, each of these men is someone’s property. My father farms a large estate in Italy, so I know the value of good slaves.’

‘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.’