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.’
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
