The Leopard Sword

3

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…’

‘And yet it seems you’re gradually becoming hardened to this life? Even if you could not kill a man in cold blood yourself, you watched another man do so without intervening? You fear that in becoming strong enough to defeat your enemies, you will perhaps become so like them that you risk losing that part of yourself that your father sought to make strongest? After all, you’ve told me often enough how he always stressed decency to your fellow man when he spoke to you about how a man should live.’

Her husband nodded, looking to the tent’s roof as he sought the memory of his father’s words, spoken in the precious days before imperial scheming had seen the senator and his family murdered, and their estate confiscated by the jealous and grasping men arrayed behind the young emperor.

‘“Dignity, truthfulness, tenacity, but above all, whenever you are able to exercise it, mercy.” That’s what he used to tell me whenever our conversation turned to the ethics that a member of the senate should live by. Slowly but surely I feel my grasp on his teachings sliding away from me. With every enemy I put to the sword I am a little less of the man he raised, and a little more like the men who destroyed our family.’

Felicia hugged him again, whispering in his ear.

‘I’ll never allow you to become anything like the men that performed those dreadful acts, and nor will your friends. But you will only survive this nightmare if you can harden yourself to do whatever you must to stay alive, and to protect those close to you.’

The tent’s flap opened, and Arminius put his head through it. Seeing the couple in each other’s arms he raised a hand and started to back away, but Felicia beckoned him to come in.

‘Exactly what my husband needs: a friend to take him for a drink and listen to the story of his day.’

Arminius squeezed through the flap, pushing the boy Lupus in front of him then bowing to the doctor and grinning at his friend.

‘The drink we can probably manage, eventually. The tribune sent me to fetch you, Centurion. There’s a ritual being held in Prefect Caninus’s temple tonight, and we’re respectfully invited to attend. I’d suggest you wear your cloak though; there’s a bitter wind out here that will cut you to the bone without it. And you, boy…’ He tapped Lupus on the shoulder as the child stood staring in dismay at Marcus’s soiled equipment. ‘You can get stuck into this lot. I want to see it all gleaming when we come back, and make sure you get every speck of blood off those rings. Don’t forget that it’s your birthday in a few days, and if you keep the centurion’s gear in the right condition you’ll see the benefit soon enough. Do a good job of it and we’ll practise with sword and shield in the morning, make a proper fight of it.’

The boy nodded glumly and sat down among the pile of gear, pulling the rags and brushes he needed from his bag, resigned to the usual nightly routine of cleaning armour and polishing boots that was the price of his morning training sessions with the German. Marcus pulled his cloak around him, picking his vine stick up from the bed.

‘Very well, let’s go and see what sort of temple to Our Lord Tungrorum boasts. It’ll have to be something special to match the one at Badger Holes.’

Arminius laughed, shaking his head.

‘Just like a soldier. Everything you people have just has to be the best, doesn’t it? You get more like Julius every day.’

Marcus shrugged, pinning his cloak into place.

‘There are worse men to emulate.’

The German smiled wryly back at him.

‘Just as long as you don’t go off into town at night with a pocket full of gold on the hunt for paid company. He was heading out as we walked past the Fifth Century’s tents, looking cleaner than I think I’ve ever seen the man. He’s even trimmed his beard.’

Marcus frowned at the German.

‘How do you know about Annia’s profession?’

Arminius smiled in reply.

‘I didn’t, until you just told me. You must be tired to have let that slip. No…’ He shook his head to forestall his friend’s irritation. ‘It’ll stay between us. So the good centurion has a friend from his former life here, does he?’

Felicia raised an eyebrow at him.

‘And you’d deny him the opportunity for a little happiness?’

Arminius shook his head.

‘Never. But love and money don’t mix, in my experience. Your friend may be taking a path that ends in disappointment. And he’s not a man that responds well to not getting his own way.’

Julius found the brothel without much trouble, following the directions he’d been given by the men delivering the centurions’ mess wine ration. Their foreman had smiled knowingly at the big Tungrian when he’d asked the question, nodding and agreeing that he knew the establishment the gentleman had in mind, but adding that he’d best bring a heavy purse if he intended sampling the Blue Boar’s merchandise.

He paused down the street, watching quietly from the shadows as a pair of men knocked on the door beneath the brothel’s flickering lamps, spoke briefly to whoever was behind it and then stepped inside, the heavy wooden door closing swiftly behind them. The sound of bolts sliding home echoed harshly in the otherwise empty street. Tempted to walk away, and to pretend the chance meeting with his former love had never happened, the big man gritted his teeth and strode forward into the light, knocking firmly on the door’s stout timbers with his vine stick, the only thing approximating to a weapon he’d carried with him from his tent. A viewing slit protected by iron mesh, slid open, and appraising eyes appeared in its opening, a familiar grating voice speaking after a short pause.

‘Well, now, look who we have here. Brave of you to come to this door, soldier boy, given that one word from me would set a gang of the ugliest bastards you’ve ever seen loose on you. Still carrying your sword?’

Julius shook his head, keeping his face free of any hint of irritation at the bodyguard’s air of superiority.

‘I was a bit quick to react in the forum, so I’ve come to make my peace. With the lady, and with you and your mate. I just want to drink a cup of wine and have a talk with her, for old time’s sake, and I’d be pleased to extend the same courtesy to you. There was no need for me to treat you so harshly, when all you were doing was what you’re paid for. Officer or not, I’m not too proud to admit when I’m wrong.’

The bodyguard regarded him through the slit’s stout iron mesh for a moment, then stepped back and slid the door’s bolts from their recesses, whistling sharply as he did so. When the door opened there were three doormen waiting for him, all with the professionally expressionless faces of men disappointed with life’s inability to prevent the brave and the foolish from presenting them with challenges that were only to be met with swift and brutal violence. The man he’d bested in the forum beckoned him inside, then opened his hands in the universally understood gesture to prepare for a search, and Julius stood patiently while the bodyguard’s colleagues ran their hands over his body in a swift, competent and comprehensive search. They stepped back, and the thin man from the forum confrontation shook his head with a vague air of disappointment.

‘Nothing, not even a small knife strapped to his dick. Unless he’s got a spear hidden up his arse, this one’s spotlessly clean. Although I’m not sure I like the look of that stick.’

Julius smiled, raising his vine stick and shrugging.

‘Wherever I go, it goes. There’re plenty of disrespectful young fucks in my century would like nothing better than to find this and hide it away, or burn it in a brazier, to get back at me for all the times I’ve beaten some respect into them with it. This one’s been with me all the time I’ve been a centurion, and seen me through three battles with barbarians in the last year, so I’ve become attached to it. But I’ll surrender it, if you like?’

The bodyguard laughed, shaking his head and waving his comrades away.

‘There’s more than enough of us to manage one soldier, and we’ve got every weapon ever invented hidden away around the place. I don’t think a length of wood is going to trouble us too much. You, Baldy, go and tell the mistress that her friend from the forum’s come to visit.’ He leaned close to Julius, his breath smelling of wine and spiced food. ‘Now then, Centurion Julius, your apology was a good one, and I accept it, so welcome to the Blue Boar, the best, the most expensive and the most exclusive whorehouse in Tungrorum. Behave nicely with the mistress, drink your wine like a gentleman, buy some time with one of the girls if you like, but just remember I’ll be watching you. One sign of trouble and your apology will go up your arse, along with that fucking stick. You’re a hard man, that’s clear, and I can see your scars all right, but I’ll have you dealt with right harsh if there’s any bother, right?’

Julius looked the bodyguard in the eye and held out his hand.

‘Right. I may be stupid and hot-tempered, but I never make the same mistake twice. You’ll have no trouble from me. Might I know your name?’

The bodyguard nodded slowly, taking the offered clasp in a firm, cool grip.

‘I go by the name of Slap. Been called it so long I almost can’t remember what my old mum actually called me when I fell out of her.’

‘Slap?’

‘On account of what I do when it gets late in the evening, and the wine starts to do the talking and makes the customers do things they’d never normally consider. I’m the slap man, the one that gives them a gentle tickle with this.’ He held up a big fist, the knuckles liberally decorated with scars. ‘And it usually calms things down right quickly. And if not, there’s always my mate, Stab.’ He tipped his head to the thin man, who stood with a smirk on his face in front of the curtain that Julius guessed led into the brothel. ‘He’s the one who grabbed your cock to make sure you weren’t carrying iron, although I think he secretly just likes grabbing cock.’

Julius shook his head, unable to keep a smile from his face.

‘Slap and Stab, eh? I’ll have to introduce you to my mates Knuckles and the Badger. You’d get on like a house on fire. Oh, and my “name” is Latrine. You can probably work it out.’

The underground temple was already almost full of worshippers when Marcus and Arminius walked down the steps and into the chamber’s torchlit gloom, having first passed inspection by the Raven-grade initiates at the top of the stairs. Flicking back the cloak hood that had protected his anonymity, as required by the ritual, Marcus looked with interest at the temple’s crowded space. Nearly thirty men were packed into the chamber’s tight confines, and Arminius had to crane his neck to spot Scaurus through the press. Driving a politely insistent path through the crowded subterranean room the muscular, long-haired barbarian nodded and smiled at the other worshippers, hiding his amusement behind a blank expression as they shrank out of his way. Marcus followed him, keeping an eye on both sides of the big man’s path and watching as the disturbed worshippers, clearly men of money and reputation for the most part, cast angry glances after the German, their muttered asides clearly not complimentary. One or two of them caught Marcus’s eye, and most of them averted their gaze on seeing his frosty expression, although one man in particular returned the stare impassively, a gaze the young Roman found hard to read.

He looked down the rectangular room, catching a glimpse of an impressive stone frieze fully six feet high and the same in width. The two-inch-thick slab of marble was sculpted with the familiar image of Mithras slaying the bull in the cave into which he had carried it at the end of his long hunt, the main scene surrounded by lavish carvings of the images associated with each of the religion’s seven grades. Scaurus turned as Arminius and Marcus reached his side, and, as was always the case in temple, clasped the two men’s arms as equals, any hint of their formal relationship put aside in the worship of their god. Scaurus’s brow was decorated with the laurel wreath befitting his status as a Lion, the fourth most senior of the religion’s ranks. Prefect Caninus echoed the gesture of greeting with both men, his smile of welcome reassuring amid the congregation’s obvious hostility.

‘You’re just in time, my brothers. The priest is about to start the ceremony. Here, we’ve saved you both a space.’

Marcus looked about him, realising that most of the worshippers were either men in late middle age or boys barely old enough to shave. He leaned closer to Scaurus, not wanting his remark to be overheard.

‘A different congregation to that I’d expected.’

The tribune nodded, his reply equally subtle in tone.

‘Our colleague Caninus tells me that the city has been somewhat underdeveloped in commercial terms ever since the plague killed a third of its inhabitants. Any bright young lad that wants to get on tends to head west to Beech Forest, or east to the fortresses on the Rhenus. What you see here are the men that have managed to build successful business, and their sons, plus a few senior people from the municipal authorities. First Minervia have their own temple, of course, which is why these men are all looking at us like men who’ve trodden barefoot on cold dog faeces. They’re not happy to be worshipping alongside the men who’re bleeding their city white, even if we are brothers in Our Lord, and despite the fact that we’re here for their protection. Ah, there’s our good friend Procurator Albanus, and the stone-faced character to his right is Petrus, his assistant. I’m still working out which one of them is the real-’

‘Gentlemen, please take your places! The ritual is about to begin!’

The temple’s pater stood in front of the magnificent stone frieze with his arms outstretched to either side, while his acolytes moved out into the room to darken the chamber, as demanded by the ritual. The worshippers settled down onto the stone benches that lined both long sides of the temple, reclining horizontally and propping themselves up on their elbows as the pater watched his assistants take the torches down from their iron wall loops and walk them away up the temple’s steps, the light receding up the stairs in bright haloes until the only remaining source of illumination was a single small lamp which an acolyte, almost invisible in his dark red garments, placed reverently in the priest’s hands. After a moment of utter silence, the only sound that of his congregation breathing in the darkness, the pater raised the pinpoint of flame to illuminate his face, his eyes closed against the flame’s brightness. He blew out the lamp, and the temple chamber was plunged into complete darkness. Marcus’s keen ears picked up a faint rustle from behind the frieze, and then a soft halo of light appeared to surround the marble slab. A point of light rose into view; it came from a small lamp carried by an acolyte, and as he deposited it before the frieze the tiny flame breathed gentle life into the picture it portrayed. The temple’s pater spoke again, still invisible in the darkness.

‘Beloved brothers, and welcome visitors from beyond our city’s walls, we now join in the ritual of our beloved Lord, Mithras the Unconquered, who spilled the eternal blood of the bull at the command of Sol, God of the Sun, to save us all. Let us pray that he looks down on us from his place in the heavens with the Sun God, and give thanks for all the wonders he has given us.’

‘You took a big chance coming here, Centurion. It’s a good thing I suspected you’d appear at our door sometime soon, and persuaded my business partner’s men to go easy on you if you did. Or would you have taken them on with your bare hands and that stick?’

Annia nodded to Julius’s vine stick, laid carefully on the table before him, and the big man smiled ruefully.

‘Probably not, given the size of them.’

He tipped his head to Slap, standing in the room’s corner and carefully positioned to be within listening distance whilst giving the illusion of some privacy, and the big man smirked back at him. Annia shook her head at him with a gentle smile.

‘Exactly. Although you never were a man for thinking through the consequences of your actions, were you? But you’re here, so let’s see if we can’t entertain you. Girls!’ She snapped her fingers with the manner of a woman who was used to having her commands obeyed, and a line of five women emerged from behind a curtain where they had clearly been waiting for the evening’s customers. Eyeing them appreciatively, Julius found himself hardening despite having no intention of sampling the brothel’s wares. Annia smiled knowingly, leaning forward to stroke his erect manhood through the tunic’s fine wool. ‘Well, some things never change. If anything I’d say that’s got a little bigger. Clearly some things do improve with age. Will you partake of a little enjoyment, Centurion, on the house, of course? It must be a long time since you’ve had the opportunity to ride anything quite as soft and eager to please as my girls.’

Julius surveyed the line of women for a moment, noting with a smile how neatly any and every taste was catered for. From a skinny girl scarcely old enough to be considered fit for her role, her apple-sized breasts barely hidden beneath a skimpy shift, to a mature woman in the last flush of her beauty, ripe and sultry with heavy breasts and a face that promised a lifetime’s experience, any age of female company a man might desire was paraded before him. He swallowed, painfully aware of both his own arousal and the woman’s cool, amused eyes upon him.

‘I came to talk, Annia, not to…’

‘Not to fuck? You’re a collector’s item, Centurion, an outright rarity. We have the occasional men that pay simply to have the company of a pretty girl, but they tend to be the older men whose cocks have lost their bounce, not fighting bulls like you with their pricks standing at attention. I’ll bet you wouldn’t last thirty seconds in the hands of Helvia there.’ She gestured to the oldest of the women, who winked on cue and slid a finger down into her vagina’s hairy cleft with a winsome smile. Julius’s face must have been a picture, for Annia burst into a peal of uncontrollable laughter. For a moment he was fifteen years old again, with that same laugh thrilling him as she climbed on top of him in one of their hiding places. She reached out and squeezed his penis again, and watched with a smile as he fought to retain control. ‘See. You very nearly released yourself into that nice tunic, and all you’ve had so far is a wink and a gentle squeeze. So..?’

She gestured to the line of prostitutes again, and with a feeling that he was going to regret the decision he shook his head firmly.

‘Thank you, but I really did come to talk.’ Taking a purse from his belt he opened its drawstring neck, rattling the heavy coins within. ‘I can afford to pay for the privilege.’

Annia shook her head, pushing the purse away and ignoring the intake of breath from the bodyguard behind her.

‘There’ll be no need for that. I’m not given to fucking the customers these days, not unless they’re queuing out of the door, and even then I charge an eye-watering sum for the pleasure. Ownership does have some benefits, and mine is being able to be choosy as to when and with whom I get on my back. So, what would you like to discuss? Just what is it that you think we have to talk about, given the way we parted, and the fact that we’ve not laid eyes on each other for fifteen years?’

Julius shook his head sadly, and when he spoke his voice was that of a man utterly lost.

‘I don’t know.’

One of the temple’s Raven initiates walked solemnly down the double line of reclining worshippers, bowing deeply to Scaurus in honour of the laurel wreath that decorated his brow.

‘Forgive me, brother Lion, but there is a man at the temple door who claims he is one of your officers. Apparently there is some trouble in the city.’

Scaurus nodded to his companions and stood up, abandoning his half-eaten ceremonial meal and bowing to the expectant priest who had appeared at the Raven’s shoulder.

‘You must forgive me, Pater, earthly matters demand my attention. I will spend an hour in prayer to repay our Lord Mithras for this early departure.’ He slipped a leather purse into the priest’s hands. ‘A gift, Pater, a small contribution for the maintenance of your most impressive temple. The reversible altar relief is quite masterful. You must have a generous and devoted congregation.’

The priest nodded with a quiet smile, used to visiting worshippers’ amazement when the heavy stone relief depicting Mithras’s triumph over the bull was rotated on the circular turntable on which it rested to reveal its equally skilfully depicted reverse, a carving of Mithras and Sol feasting on the dead bull’s hide.

‘My pleasure, brother Lion, and my regards to your companions. Mithras is a soldier’s god, and I feel certain that he will indulge your need to restore order in the earthly realm above us. Please do grace us with your presence again, and bring that young man with you. Perhaps we can advance him a grade in the ordeal pit?’

Scaurus smiled in return, inclining his head in agreement.

‘Indeed so, Pater, although when he took the hood last winter, while we were confined to camp by the snows, he threw himself into his studies with such gusto that he has already advanced to the rank of Bride, and his demeanour in the ordeal of ice brought great dignity to our Lord.’

The priest raised his eyebrows, apparently genuinely impressed.

‘A man to watch, then? He’ll join you in the fourth rank and become a Lion in no time. And now that’s enough politeness, my son. Away with you. Who knows what mischief your children are up to while their father worships down here?’

Scaurus bowed to the priest again, muttering a brief apology to Caninus before leading the other two men away up the stairs behind the waiting Raven. Arminius paused at the foot of the steep flight of stone steps and flicked a glance around the room, noting with interest the look that the pater seemed to be sharing with Petrus, then he turned to follow his master, pulling a set of heavy brass knuckles from a pouch on his belt.

‘Who do we have out on the town tonight?’

Arminius grinned at the tribune’s question as they walked quickly down the road between shuttered houses, hearing the faint sounds of men fighting echo between the closely packed dwellings.

‘That’s the best bit. The lottery came up with the Third and Eighth Centuries.’

Marcus groaned, shaking his head in resigned disgust.

‘The first two centuries allowed out, and one of them is stuffed full of Dubnus’s bloody legionaries? This is going to get sporty.’

The bitterly cold wind was still whistling through the city’s streets the next morning when all three cohorts paraded outside the walls to watch punishment being meted out to the captured bandits.

‘There’ll be some thick heads out there this morning. Serves the bastards right for getting the first evening in the city.’ Marcus ignored Morban’s morose grumbling, watching with amusement as Dubnus marched his century into position next to the 9th, his face still dark with anger at the previous evening’s events. ‘Perhaps now he’s having second thoughts about having let a half-century of legion morons join up with us.’

His centurion shook his head in exasperation.

‘Would those be the legion morons that saved my wife’s life last autumn, Standard Bearer? Perhaps your bitterness is rooted in the fact that you didn’t think to lay odds on there being a fight in the city last night, despite the two centuries most likely to-’

He stopped speaking when he saw the smug look on Morban’s face, and walked away with a look of disgust on his face. The Tungrian auxiliaries still regarded the men of Dubnus’s ‘detachment Habitus’ with the ingrained jaundice that traditionally came to the surface whenever legionary and auxiliary came into close contact. He strolled down the line of the 9th Century’s front rank, catching his friend’s eye as the angry centurion stalked along the 8th’s line, looking for any excuse to further berate his men. Dubnus raised a gloomy eyebrow and tapped his open palm with the vine stick gripped in his other hand, raking a meaningful stare across his soldiers, none of whom appeared to be meeting his eye. Marcus was forced to smile at the memory of his colleague, a man more used to finishing fights than starting them, laying about him with gusto when the brawling between his century’s former legionaries and the men of the 1st Minervia had recommenced the previous night. The friends met at the junction between the two centuries’ ranks, and Dubnus nodded glumly, speaking loudly enough for his men to hear.

‘Thanks for your help last night. These fucking idiots would have taken on every bloody legionary in the city if we’d not given their chains a good jerk. One or two of them want to be careful they don’t end up taking the places of those poor bastards.’ He tipped his head at the small group of captured bandits awaiting their punishment under the watchful eyes of twice as many guards. Glancing across the lines of soldiers Marcus could see more than one man with a reproachful look on his face, and it was quickly clear that an incensed Dubnus had spotted them too.

‘Don’t be giving me the cow’s eyes, you pricks! One insult, one little fucking jibe at your expense, and you thin-skinned idiots are up on your toes and ready to mix it with ten times your strength. And no, “they were taking the piss out of the cohort” does not get you off the hook, because it was you they were taking the piss out of — you, for deciding to serve with a bunch of uncivilised, shaggy-bearded barbarians in armour! You shat in your own beds and now you can bloody well lie in it, you collection of half-witted…’

He turned back to Marcus, shaking his head angrily. From somewhere within the century’s ranks a quiet voice muttered the word ‘Habitus’, and half a dozen other men repeated the battle cry under their collective breath. Dubnus spun round to stare at them in fury, but found his men standing with their backs straight, their battered faces staring defiantly at him from between the cheek pieces of their helmets. Waving a hand at them in disgust he returned his attention to Marcus, barking a command over his shoulder.

‘Shut the fuck up and wait, in silence, while I have a word with my colleague here. His men, you’ll note, haven’t said a bloody word since he dropped them into position. They’re yours, Titus, so keep them quiet unless you want my undivided and very personal attention once we’re off parade. And try not to start any more fights!’

His chosen man shot him a wounded glance from the century’s rear, but wisely kept his mouth shut. For all that he’d been trying to separate the two warring groups of soldiers when the cohort’s centurions had arrived on the scene, it was widely reported that he’d been one of the first men in the 8th Century to bridle when the legion troops had discovered their origins and started showering them with abuse for leaving legion service to fight with the Tungrians.

‘You’ve created a monster, Dubnus. They won’t back down from a fight for anyone, or so it seems, and you’ve only yourself to blame. It was you that took a half-century of men who’d run from their first fight and gave them their pride. You gave them a name to defend, and you told them to fight to the last man to preserve its honour. You can’t be too disappointed when they take what you’ve told them and apply it literally. And the rest of your century got stuck in beside them.’

His friend nodded almost imperceptibly, turning back to stare bleakly across the sea of battered faces facing him and shaking his head at the black eyes and split lips liberally scattered across the ranks.

‘I can’t let them see it, but I’m proud of them for it. Three full legion centuries facing up to forty-odd men and they didn’t back down. Mind you, I’ve got to respect the rest of the century, and the Badger’s boys from the Third; they piled in alongside the Habitus lads without a second’s hesitation. It was a good thing we got there in time, or there’d have been blood on the cobbles the way it was heating up. Anyway, what are you grinning for?’

Marcus started, suddenly aware of his lopsided smile.

‘I was just thinking back to the way that our quiet and shy Selgovae tribesman dived into the fight last night. He’s another one to watch out for.’

‘He’s a big arrogant bastard, that’s for sure, but I’ve no room for complaint on that front. And he did put that little squabble to sleep in no time flat.’

Half of the cohort’s centurions, led by Tribune Scaurus and accompanied by Arminius and the giant Lugos, who had appeared at their side unbidden, had been forced to wade into the unbalanced fight between auxiliaries and legionaries, which had quickly swelled to fill the narrow street outside one of the city’s seamier drinking establishments. Fighting to drive a wedge between the two sides, to force them apart and stop the fight, they had applied their vine sticks without restraint, literally beating apart the two halves of the brawl with brute force. As the two sides of the argument had seethed at each other across the thin line of authority represented by the centurions, Lugos had taken a legion soldier caught on the wrong side of the line of furious officers, held him by the scruff of his neck and literally hurled him bodily into the mass of his comrades. Shrugging off his cloak he’d turned to tower over the legionaries, his tattooed arms rippling as he’d clenched his massive fists and bellowed out a hoarse-voiced challenge that had silenced the bedlam of the encounter in an instant.

‘You want fight? You fight me! I fight you all! ’

His snort of disgust, and the disdainful way he’d turned his back to retrieve his cloak when not one of the legionaries had risen to the challenge, had signalled the brawl’s end and left the bemused centurions to pick up the pieces.

‘It’s a shame that Martos still isn’t accepting him on equal terms.’

Dubnus grimaced.

‘I honestly don’t think the big lad’s all that bothered, do you? Besides, if the brother of the man that killed your father turned up here would you be quick to make him welcome? Lugos’s people made a right mess of the Votadini, one way and another.’

They stood and watched as the remainder of the Tungrian centuries marched onto the parade ground, and after a few minutes Dubnus nudged Marcus, tipping his head at the senior officers standing to one side of the condemned men.

‘I’ll bet that’s an interesting conversation after last night’s excitement.’

Marcus laughed hollowly.

‘You wouldn’t even get Morban to take that bet.’

The senior officers stood in a small group watching the soldiers make their way onto the parade ground, the two tribunes side by side, while Procurator Albanus and Prefect Caninus stood a discreet distance from their colleagues in the well-founded expectation that the two military men had plenty to discuss after the events of the previous night. The two first spears and the civilian officer’s various deputies and aides gathered in a group behind them, Albanus’s deputy, Petrus, prominent amongst them, while both Frontinius and Sergius were treating the other members of the party with a hint of shared military disdain. Tribune Belletor watched the Tungrian centuries marching up with a mixture of envy and irritation, his face set hard as he turned to speak to Scaurus, who was watching his men’s crisp precision with a quiet smile.

‘It’s all very well for you to smile, colleague. I’ve got several men in the hospital this morning because your animals don’t understand the limits of off-duty behaviour. I’m told that your men were fighting with coins between their knuckles!’

To his indignation, Scaurus laughed tersely in the face of his colleague’s anger.

‘Then you can be thankful that my officers managed to calm it all down before it got to the point where knives were drawn, colleague. Your legionaries clearly need to learn not to take liberties with men who’ve seen the ugly face of battle all too recently.’

Belletor seethed with anger.

‘I beg to differ. If you can’t restrain your men then I suggest you keep them in their barracks. Or do you presume to tell me that my legionaries have to make allowances for your men’s inability to differentiate between savages and citizens?’

Scaurus spoke without taking his eyes off his men, his voice perfectly level despite his obvious irritation.

‘Oh they can tell the difference between blooded fighting men and tiros, of that you can be sure, because if they couldn’t we’d be burying men this morning. And, since you don’t seem to see the need to control the number of your legionaries that are allowed into the city each night, I’m going to have to keep everyone, your men and my own, in barracks after dark. We’ll have to come up with a rota to determine which centuries are allowed to spend their money getting drunk, and when.’

Belletor stared at him in dumbfounded silence, taking a long moment to find his voice again.

‘By what right…?’

Scaurus smiled at him thinly.

‘If you think I’m going to keep two cohorts of men who’ve all seen battle in the last few weeks, who’ve all killed, and seen their comrades die in agony, confined to barracks so that a collection of raw recruits and time-expired veterans who should know better can get pissed every night, you’ve even less intelligence than I’d supposed to be the case. Between us we have twenty-six centuries, your six and ten in each of my…’ He paused, shaking his head at his own error. ‘Twenty-five centuries, since I had one of mine destroyed to the last man in Britain. So we’ll allow one-fifth of our strength into the city every night, which will let them all have a beer every few days. We’ll segregate them by cohort, so your six centuries will get one night in five and half of each of my ten-century cohorts will get the same.’

Belletor shook his head.

‘And what if I refuse to accept this outlandish proposal?’

Scaurus shrugged.

‘I’d be more interested in the “why” than the “what”. Why would you even consider rejecting something so eminently sensible, and equitable for that matter? Are you frightened of losing face with your officers? Or is it just a question of your own expectations of what a man of your rank ought to do, under the circumstances?’ Belletor stared at him in silence. ‘I see. So even you’re not really sure. As to what happens if you choose to reject this perfectly sound piece of advice, that’s simple enough. I’ll be forced to use my military seniority and declare the city off limits to all military personnel, with a strict rotation of off-duty privileges which will be enforced by our centurions. I’ll have no repeat of last night’s stupidity, and the best way to ensure that is to avoid any off-duty fraternisation until our respective cohorts know each other a little better. You can have until the end of this salutary demonstration of imperial justice to make up your mind whether this will happen as a tactic we agree between us, or as something that I enforce. And now I’d say it’s time for the show to begin. Prefect? ’

Caninus stepped forward, his face impassive despite the obvious tension between the two military men.

‘Tribune?’

‘All three cohorts are paraded, so I’d say it’s time to get this necessary unpleasantness over with.’

Caninus nodded briskly and gestured to his deputy, a tall, lean man with a flat, expressionless face.

‘Let’s get to it, Tornach. Bring out the prisoners and prepare them for execution.’

He strode out in front of the waiting cohorts, turning to look at the small gathering of civilians who had decided to brave the cold for a sight of the condemned men’s last moments. Behind him Tornach led out a party of prisoners, each man with his arms bound behind his back and his ankles hobbled, each one with a pair of Caninus’s men in close attendance to prevent any last-minute attempt to escape the harsh justice remorselessly bearing down on them. The prefect coughed, then raised his voice to address his audience.

‘Citizens of Tungrorum! Soldiers of the First Minervia Legion and the Tungrian First and Second Auxiliary Cohorts! These men before you have been caught in the act of attempting armed robbery on the empire’s roads, some of them with fresh blood on their hands. The penalty set by the state for their crime is death. It is a penalty which I have no hesitation in carrying out, given the fact that they are believed to have killed on multiple occasions in the recent past. Citizens, some of you may have lost property or loved ones to their rapacious acts of theft. The empire will now exact retribution on your behalf. Are the prisoners ready for punishment?’

His deputy barked an order at the armed men escorting the prisoners, who were now arrayed in a rough line facing the fascinated citizenry. One man of each pair kicked their prisoner in the back of the knees, forcing him to kneel, while the other took a grip of his hair to hold his head down, bared for the executioner’s blade. Tornach looked up and down the line before responding to his superior’s question, and then picked up a heavy-bladed axe from the ground beside him.

‘Ready, Prefect!’

Caninus signalled his permission to proceed with a grim-faced nod, and his deputy walked forward to the first of the eight prisoners with his face set in hard lines. He placed the axe on the helpless man’s neck, ready to deliver the killing stroke, but waiting for a second before raising it above his head and looking to Caninus for his final instruction.

‘Carry out the sentence!’

The axe flashed down, cleaving the prisoner’s head from his shoulders. It hit the damp ground with a slight bounce, rolling to stare lifelessly at the paraded soldiers.

In the 9th Century’s ranks Morban muttered a word, loudly enough for the men around him to hear it.

‘One.’

Marcus turned from his place in front of the century and raised an incredulous eyebrow at him, but the standard bearer’s face remained impassive. The executioner walked swiftly to the next prisoner, placing the axe on his neck before lifting it to deliver the lethal blow. The head bounced once, landing with its face away from the soldiers, and Morban remained silent, ignoring Marcus’s searching stare. The prisoner waiting beyond Tornach’s next victim started to shout, his voice shaking with desperation at his impending execution. He ignored the increasingly vicious blows to his head that his guards were raining upon him, the words tumbling out of him like beads cascading from a broken necklace.

‘ Not me! I had no choice! There are men here with more blood on their hands than me! ’

Marcus swung to face his men, whose surprise at the new development was quickly turning to whispered discussion.

‘Silence in the ranks!’

Up and down the cohorts’ lines centurions were issuing similar cautions to their men, one or two wielding their vine sticks to silence the miscreants. The prisoner was screaming louder now, as the third man’s head fell to the ground with a dull thump. Fighting the grip on his hair that locked his head in place, he strained his gaze sideways to stare at the small group of senior officers.

‘ Him! He’s the one they’re all terrified of! I know! I heard his

…’

The man gripping his hair released his grasp, smashing a fist into the back of his head, and before the stunned prisoner had time to recover from the blow Tornach was upon him, swinging up the blade as he stepped briskly over the headless corpse of his latest victim. Seeing his death approaching the desperate prisoner shuffled on his knees, turning his head away as the axe fell in a bloody arc. His last words were a gabble of terrified incoherence, abruptly silenced by the axe’s blade. Silence hung over the parade ground for a moment, broken only by the prefect’s stern command, his face white with anger.

‘Continue the punishment!’

Marcus heard Morban speak again, his voice lowered in disgust.

‘A shouter. Why didn’t I lay odds on a shouter?’

With all of the prisoners beheaded the Tungrians were marched off parade, and they went back to their various tasks. First Spear Frontinius was keen to get the construction of their barracks completed, and to end their reliance on the increasingly dilapidated tents. He gathered his centurions about him, detailing their duties for the day.

‘The usual routine, Centurions: two centuries to guard duty, the rest to building. Let’s get these barracks finished today, shall we? Centurion Dubnus?’

The big man stepped forward from the group of his brother officers.

‘First Spear.’

Frontinius fixed him with a hard stare.

‘I’ve a word from the tribune for you. You can tell your ex-legionaries that they’ll be ex-Tungrians if there’s even a hint that they’ve been looking for trouble with First Minervia again. On top of that, Rutilius Scaurus assures me that he will hand them over to his colleague Tribune Belletor for administrative punishment and whatever duties he feels are worthy of their position as former legionaries. I wouldn’t have thought that your men would find that entirely to their liking, would you?’

Dubnus suppressed a smile, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.

‘No, First Spear, I’d say they’ll be keen not to have that happen.’

‘Then pass the word along, Centurion. They’ve had their last chance. The next time any one of detachment Habitus steps over the line it’s going to feel like they bent over in the bathhouse at the wrong moment. Dismissed.’

Marcus caught Julius’s eye as the officers headed away to chivvy their men to work, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at his friend.

‘Arminius tells me you went into the city last night?’

The muscular centurion nodded, shooting a quick glance at Dubnus’s receding figure as their colleague headed back to his men. Dubnus walked with the swift and purposeful stalk of a man whose day would be spent drumming home his tribune’s warning with all the vigour for which he was famed throughout the cohort.

‘Between us, brother? If you tell Dubnus what I was about last night I’ll never hear the end of it.’

Marcus nodded.

‘Between us. Did you find her?’

Julius stared at his boots, shaking his head.

‘Yes. She’s the mistress of an establishment called the Blue Boar in the north-eastern quarter of the city, a smart place with all the usual comforts, you know, soft couches, expensive drinks, and girls the likes of which we can usually only dream. She offered me a free ride with any of them that took my fancy, but, despite having a hard-on like a two-denarius blood sausage, all I could see was women like she must have been fifteen years ago, forced to do something she must have found hateful as the price of putting bread on her plate. So I told her I just wanted to talk, which was a lie, of course. All I really wanted to do was undo the mistake I made in leaving her here when I took the military oath. We talked for a few minutes like strangers, which is what we are, I suppose, but it was mostly her talking about how her life went after I left, while I just sat there red-faced and made cow’s eyes at her, and her bodyguards sniggered at me behind my back. When even that got too much for me I made my excuses and made to leave…’

He fell silent and closed his eyes, shaking his head.

‘And?’

Julius sighed, then a faint, embarrassed smile played on his lips.

‘She got up, took me by the hand and pulled me into a curtained alcove. Her smart-arsed bodyguard, who now regards me as his personal property from the look of it, told me they call it the “Quicky Cubicle”. She drew the curtain, put a finger on my lips and then stuck her hand up my tunic and pulled me off in about as much time as it takes to tell you. Then she gave me a quick peck on the cheek, called for a cloth and sent me on my way. Which is why I missed all the fun with Dubnus’s boys.’

Marcus regarded him levelly for a moment.

‘And where does all this leave you?’

His friend shook his head again.

‘I don’t know. Part of me knows I just need to walk away and forget the whole thing, put it down to the choices we make that can never be undone, but all I really want to do is take that fucking place apart with my bare hands and try to make amends to her.’

‘And you think that’s what she’d want?’

Julius smiled wanly.

‘What do you think she’d rather be, a centurion’s woman, never knowing which rainy shithole fort she might find herself in next, or independent, and the mistress of her own destiny?’

Marcus raised an eyebrow.

‘I’ve no idea. But then neither do you. Have you considered asking her?’

Marcus left Qadir organising the 9th for their day’s labour, which consisted of carrying building materials to the more skilled workers, and sought out Arminius. He found the German sparring with Lupus, by turns attacking the child and pushing him to defend himself, then falling back in defence to coach him in the use of his sword. Marcus stood and watched, nodding approval at the boy’s slit-mouthed determination as he went forward against his instructor, his wooden training sword ceaselessly seeking an opening in the German’s defences.

‘How’s the boy doing?’

The German turned away from the child to ensure that he wouldn’t be overheard.

‘Better than I expected. He’s quick with the sword, he’s got natural footwork… I’ll turn him into a warrior, given a few years. Perhaps he’ll even be good enough to spar with me on even terms.’

Marcus looked at the child speculatively.

‘Would you say it’s time for him to have some proper equipment? I believe your agreement with Morban was based on his finding the money to provide his grandson with whatever he needs?’

Arminius grinned wolfishly.

‘I take it that your statue waver has just managed to make himself a profit of some kind?’

Marcus shrugged indifferently.

‘I’ve no idea, and the agreement is for you to enforce as you see fit. I just found it interesting that he was counting the number of heads which fell facing us this morning. It was the kind of concern a man like Morban might have if he were running a book, if you take my meaning. You might find him more amenable to making a purchase for the boy now than he would have been yesterday. Or, for that matter, more amenable than if you wait until he’s had a chance to scatter the contents of both his purse and his manhood across the city’s entertainment establishments.’

Later that evening, when tribune and first spear took their usual cup of wine to discuss the day’s events, First Spear Frontinius found his superior in reflective mood.

‘So Tribune Belletor agreed to the new rules for allowing the men into the city?’

‘Oh yes. Well, he didn’t have very much choice in the matter, as it happens, a fact I made very clear to him earlier today.’

‘And yet, Tribune, you seem strangely distracted this evening. Is there something troubling you?’

Scaurus raised an eyebrow.

‘Is there? I don’t know. Everything seems to be pretty much as it should be. Eight of the barracks are more or less complete, and we’ll have them all built and weatherproofed in a day or so. Order has been restored in the city, and any fighting that happens now will be a matter for you or First Spear Sergius to sort out internally, so there’s a source of strife removed. It’s just…’

‘The execution today?’

‘That’s perceptive of you. Yes. The man that started shouting.’

Frontinius shrugged.

‘There’s often one man who can’t meet his end without letting everyone within earshot know how he’s feeling about it, you know that. Not everyone’s a stoic.’

He regarded Scaurus over the rim of his cup, and to his relief saw that the other man was shaking his head in bemusement at the comment.

‘It wasn’t the fact that he was shouting that bothered me, Sextus Frontinius. They could all have begged for mercy at the top of their voices and I wouldn’t have turned a hair. What was of concern to me was what he was shouting.’

Frontinius raised his eyebrows in question, sipping at his wine again.

‘I wasn’t really listening, if I’m being totally honest, Tribune. I recall he was trying to tell us all about his innocence though.’

‘In point of fact, he was apparently trying to tell us that we had by far the greater perpetrator in our midst. First of all he shouted, “There are men here with more blood on their hands than me!” and he followed that up with, “He’s the one they’re all terrified of! I know! I heard his…” But we’ll never know what it was he heard, since Caninus’s overzealous deputy promptly silenced him. I heard our colleague ripping into him afterwards for silencing the man in mid-revelation, but done is done. The fact remains, however, that in that moment of utter clarity some men get just before their death, that condemned robber was trying to tell us that we have an enemy within. He couldn’t point out the man he was accusing, but he was looking squarely at the senior officers and the men around us while he was shouting the odds. Which leaves us with two questions.’

‘Who he was looking at?’

‘Yes. That, and exactly what he meant by “He’s the one they’re all terrified of”.’