Marcus drew the pattern-welded spatha, conscious of the spear points waiting within inches of his back, and handed it hilt first to Obduro. The bandit leader tested the weapon’s balance and peered closely at its dappled blade, nodding his appreciation.
‘A fine weapon indeed, and worth every moment of the smith’s labour. I would call it the finest sword I had ever seen, were it not in the shadow of this…’ He handed Marcus the spatha and waited until it was sheathed, then drew his own blade and presented the hilt to his captive. ‘Be mindful that my men will kill you if you so much as look at me in the wrong way while you hold this weapon. They have seen the havoc that it can wreak upon the best-armed men.’
Marcus gingerly accepted the sword, holding it with one hand on the hilt and the blade resting across his arm, admiring the workmanship but frowning at the weapon’s metal, a darker shade of grey than any sword he had seen previously, its entire length dappled with a pattern so dark as to be almost black. Obduro chuckled.
‘Let me spare you the trouble of asking the question. You look at the sword and you wonder from what manner of iron it has been wrought. The answer is that even I do not know for certain, although the man from whom I took it boasted that it had been forged in Damascus, in the distant east, with iron brought along trade routes which run far beyond the empire’s frontiers. He called it his “Leopard Sword”, and claimed that it had magical properties bestowed upon it by the gods.’ The masked man laughed darkly. ‘As to whether it is so blessed is not clear to me, but whatever divine properties it may possess clearly did not extend to the man from whom I took it. Such a blade may make an expert swordsman unassailable, but he was nothing of the sort. But in the hands of a master, like myself…’
He held out a hand for the weapon, and Marcus handed it back to him with a final long stare at the marvellously patterned blade. Wielding the sword with a flourish, Obduro called out a command to his men, three of whom stepped forward to face him with their shields raised, drawing their swords and slapping the blades against the brass shield edgings in a challenge to fight. Reaching out to take a small round shield the bandit leader sidestepped towards his practice partners, allowing them to edge around him until he was surrounded on three sides. Speaking over his shoulder to Marcus he hefted the sword, ready to fight.
‘Even the best swordsman would consider this situation a challenge worthy of his years of practice, but even now this blade gives me such an unfair advantage that were this a real fight these men would already be standing corpses, even if they did not yet know it. They have orders to fight me as they would a real opponent, and they know that I will not harm them if I can avoid doing so… a fair test of a swordsman’s prowess, I think you’ll agree.’
He lunged towards the man waiting before him, inducing a quick defensive back step from his opponent, then turned quickly and attacked the bandit behind him and to his right, striking hard at his opponent’s sword and, to Marcus’s amazement, effortlessly cleaving the blade in two and dropping a foot of pointed iron into the melting snow. Backhanding the blade back across the hapless bandit’s body, he hacked the man’s shield in two with a slicing cut that seemed to rip cleanly through the layered board and its brass rim as if it were no thicker than paper. As the disarmed bandit stepped back, raising his hands in surrender, the other two stamped in, seeing their chance to best their leader before he turned on either of them to repeat the trick, but Obduro was too quick for them, ducking under one swinging blow and hooking the man’s back foot with his own leg to dump him on the ground, then raising the mottled blade to drive it down through the length of the other’s shield from top to bottom, splitting it in two to leave him defenceless. The bandit screamed out a curse and dropped his sword, clutching at the hand that had been gripping the shield’s horizontal handle as a thick stream of blood gushed from between his fingers, and Marcus realised that the fearsome blade had hacked a deep cut into his hand between the middle knuckles. The last man put up his sword, unwilling to suffer a similar wound, and Obduro shrugged, looking at his weapon’s blade and wiping the blood from it with a rag before dropping it back into its scabbard.
‘Sometimes it is necessary to make a small sacrifice to demonstrate a point. He will be well cared for. And you see my point? In the hands of an average swordsman this weapon is formidable, whereas in mine it is given speed and purpose that make it invincible. This demonstration was for your benefit, Centurion Aquila, to ensure that you don’t get any ideas about attempting to find this place and seeking to use your undoubted skills upon me once you are healed. We may be equally blessed with the ability to throw iron around, but even the beautiful workmanship of your blade would be no match for this.’ He held the darkly dappled sword up to the light, turning his masked face to stare up at it. ‘And now it is time for you to perform the purpose for which I have spared you, Valerius Aquila. Go and tell your tribune that on this occasion he would be well advised to leave us alone. Your welcome here is now at an end, and the next time I see you I will be looking down the blade of my Leopard Sword at a standing corpse. Grumo.’
He nodded to the big man standing alongside Marcus, and as the Roman turned to see what he meant the bandit’s huge fist smashed into his jaw, dropping him to the ground with his face on fire with pain. A pair of boots stepped into his field of view as he knelt in the snow, and without looking up he knew that Obduro had moved to stand over him.
‘Forgive me, Valerius Aquila, for this last indignity. I can hardly release a man whose skill at arms is the match of my own without taking some small step to remove him from the forces ranged against me, can I?’
Blindfolded once more, and little better than semi-conscious, Marcus was led out of the bandit encampment and down the hill, then out into the forest. The big man walked him in silence, speaking only to communicate changes of direction, and after what seemed an age of half walking and half staggering, he muttered a single word of command.
‘Stop.’
The faint tang of wood smoke was in the air, carried on the breeze, and in the forest’s deep silence the Roman wondered whether he could hear, at the very edge of his battered senses, men’s voices barking orders. While he stood still, unsure as to whether Obduro’s command that he was to be kept alive was to be obeyed, he sensed the bandit moving around him. The big man gripped his injured jaw with one hand, its hold so fierce that it was all Marcus could do to stop himself groaning with the pain, and tore the blindfold away with the other. Keeping a tight hold of his prisoner’s face Grumo leaned close to him, his sour breath warm on the Roman’s skin in the morning’s chill. Swaying, and struggling to focus on the looming shadow, part blinded by the sudden sunlight and blinking fruitlessly against the effects of the blow he’d received, the Roman stared back at him, completely defenceless.
‘Look at you.’ The big man hawked and spat at his prisoner’s feet. ‘The mighty Roman conqueror? I could do you with my eating knife. If I didn’t know the chief would find out I’d butcher you here, and leave you for the pigs. You killed three of my men yesterday, and the next time I see you I won’t be waiting for anyone’s permission to finish the job.’ He released his hold on Marcus’s jaw, putting the flat of his hand on the Roman’s forehead and sending him staggering away to land on his back in the melting snow. ‘Away with you! Come back any time…’ He turned away, calling a final comment over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be waiting!’