The Leopard Sword

by Anthony Riches

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  By the same author in the Empire series

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Maps

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Historical Note

  The Cult of Mithras

  The Roman Army in 182 AD

  By the same author in the

  EMPIRE

  series

  Wounds of Honour

  Arrows of Fury

  Fortress of Spears

  About the Author

  Anthony Riches holds a degree in Military Studies from Manchester University. He began writing the story that would become the first novel in the Empire series, Wounds of Honour, after visiting Housesteads Roman fort in 1996. He lives in Hertfordshire with wife and three children.

  Find out more about his books at www.anthonyriches.com.

  THE LEOPARD SWORD

  Empire: Volume Four

  Anthony Riches

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Anthony Riches 2012

  The right of Anthony Riches to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 71185 1

  Hardback ISBN 978 1 444 71182 0

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  For Robin

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The writing of The Leopard Sword was at one point proving to be something of a challenge, with the book half-written but stubbornly refusing to progress beyond a knot in the plot from which I couldn’t tear myself free. At the low point of this increasingly panicked situation an old friend, on hearing of my plight on a rugby pitch touchline one Thursday night, uttered the words that were to reinvigorate my writing life: ‘Just come down to my office and write.’ So I did. No internet (critical that, nothing with which to fluff about in endless prevarication), just cups of tea and the occasional chat, that and a blazing eight or nine hundred words an hour. It was like going from dial-up to super-broadband in one step. Lesson learned, I now rent a converted henhouse on a local farm – no internet there either – and when I’m not doing ‘real’ work I commute a few miles to write in blissful peace and without any opportunity to do anything but write. So to you, Eddie Hickey, go the biggest thanks of all this time round. Let’s hope my new-found regime will see me turning out two books a year with perfect equanimity.

  Apart from that I have to offer all the usual but heartfelt thanks. To Helen for encouragement and occasional strong direction (and tolerating the last touches being put to the script in the south of France); to the kids for putting up with it all; and when the pressure notched up a bit the dogs for providing the alternative perspective of lives bounded by the need to get walked and fed. My agent Robin was his usual urbane self, and Carolyn the editor sat on her hands pretending to be calm while I struggled over the line.

  On the subject of Hodder & Stoughton it’s worth mentioning that my publisher remains a delight to work with, so thanks to Francine, Nick, Laure, Jaime, James, Ben and everyone else whose name I’m too scatterbrained to have remembered. Clare Parkinson did an amazing job on the copyedit and rescued me from several embarrassing errors, taking all that gore and unpleasantness in her stride. Well done. John Prigent also read the original manuscript, and made more than one telling comment, as ever!

  Lastly, and as ever, thanks to everyone else that’s helped me this time round but not been mentioned. To use that old cliché it’s not you, it’s me. Those people that work alongside me will tell you how poor my memory can be, so if I’ve forgotten you then here’s a blanket apology. Where the history is right it’s because I’ve had some great help, and where it’s not it’s all my own work.

  Thank you.

  Prologue

  Germania Inferior, September, AD 182

  ‘Fucking rain! Rain yesterday, rain today and rain tomorrow most likely. This bloody damp gets everywhere. My armour will be rusting again by morning.’

  ‘You’ll just have to get your brush out again, or that crested bastard will be up your arse like a rat up a rain pipe.’

  The two sentries shared a grimace of mutual disgust at the thought of the incessant work required to keep their mail free of the pitting that would bring the disapproval of their centurion down on them. The night’s cold mist was swirling around the small fort’s watchtower, individual droplets dancing on the breeze that was moaning softly across the countryside around their outpost. The blazing torch that lit their section of the fortlet’s wall was wreathed in a ball of misty radiance that enveloped them with an eerie glow, and made it almost impossible to see further than a few paces. Shielding their eyes from the light as best they could, they watched their assigned arcs of open ground, with occasional glances into the fort below them to make sure that nobody, neither bandit nor centurion, was attempting to creep up on them.

  ‘I don’t mind the polishing so much as having to listen to that miserable old bastard’s constant stream of bullshit about how much harder it was in “the old days”: “When the Chauci came at us from the sea, well, that was real fighting, my lads, not that you children would recognise a fight unless you had a length of cold, sharp iron buried in your . . .”’

  He fell silent, something in the darkness beneath the walls catching his attention.

  ‘What is it?’

  He stared down into the gloom for a long moment, blinking his tired eyes before looking away and then back at the place where he could have sworn the darkness had taken momentary form.

  ‘Nothing. I thought I saw something move, but it was probably just a trick of the mist.’ Shaking his head, he planted his spear’s butt spike on the watchtower’s wooden planks and yawned widely. ‘I hate this time of year; the fog has a man jumping at shadows all the fucking time.’

  His mate nodded, leaning out over the wall and staring down into the mist.

  ‘I know, sometimes you can imagine—’

  His voice choked off, and after a moment’s apparent indecision he slumped forward over the parapet and vanished from view. While the other sentry goggled in amazement a hand gripped the edge of the wooden wall, hauling a black-clad figure over its lip and onto the torchlit platform; the intruder’s other hand was gripping a short spear whose blade was running with the dead sentry’s blood. The attacker’s boots shone in the light, the flickering illumination glinting off the heavy metal spikes that had carried him up the wall’s sheer wooden face. The sentry stepped forward, dimly aware of shouting from another corner of the fortlet, and raised his spear to stab at the attacker even as the other man flicked his
hand as if in dismissal, sending a slender shank of cold iron to bury itself in his throat. Coughing blood, he staggered backwards and stepped out into thin air, plummeting to the hard earth ten feet below.

  Lying half asleep in his small and draughty barrack, the detachment’s centurion heard the unmistakable sounds of fighting as he dozed on his bed, and he was on his feet with his sword drawn from the scabbard hanging from the room’s single wooden chair before he was fully awake. Thanking the providence that had seen him lie down without removing his boots, he pulled on his helmet and stepped out through the door with a bellowed command for his men to stand to, feeling woefully under-equipped without the reassuring weight of his armour. A shadowy figure came at him out of the darkness to his right, the attacker’s spear shining in the light of the torch fixed to the wall behind the centurion, and with a speed born of two decades of practice he swayed to allow the weapon’s thrust to hiss past him before stepping in quickly to ram the gladius deep into his anonymous assailant’s chest. Shrugging the dying man off the blade to lie gurgling out what was left of his life on the damp grass, he advanced towards the fortlet’s gate, pausing to pick up a shield left lying alongside the broken body of one of the wall sentries. A throwing knife protruded from a bloody hole in the dead man’s throat, and the centurion scowled at the ease with which his men’s defences seemed to have been compromised.

  As the centurion advanced cautiously down the wall’s length, in hopes of making out the detail of what was happening around the fort’s entrance, his heart sank. The gate was already open, and a flood of attackers was pouring through it with their swords drawn. Sheltering in the palisade’s deeper shadow he watched as they overran the few men who still stood in defence of the fort, battering them brutally aside in a brief one-sided combat. Having already made the decision to slip away and report the disaster to his tribune in Tungrorum, the centurion shook his head, turning away from the sight of his command’s destruction just in time to spot a dark-clad figure coming at him out of the darkness with a short spear held ready to strike. Smashing the weapon aside with the shield, he punched hard at the reeling assailant’s face with his sword hand, catapulting the other man back against the wall. The intruder’s head hit the unyielding wood with a dull thud and he slumped slackly to the ground, his eyes glassy from the blow’s force. Kneeling to dimple the fallen attacker’s throat with the point of his gladius, the centurion hissed a question into the stunned face, the one question that had been on the lips of every soldier in the province for months.

  ‘Obduro? Who is Obduro?’

  The dazed man simply looked up in mute refusal to reply.

  ‘Tell me his fucking name or I’ll stop your wind!’ Desperation lent the words a lethal menace that left the victim in little doubt as to the sincerity of this threat.

  Regaining his senses, the fallen intruder cautiously shook his head, his eyes fixed on a point behind the vengeful centurion. He spoke quietly, his voice almost lost in the din of the one-sided fight: ‘More than my life’s worth.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Nodding slowly, his face hardening with the realisation that they were not alone, the centurion stood, and as he turned to face the men behind him he casually pushed the sword’s point through the helpless man’s throat, putting a booted foot on his victim’s heaving chest to hold the man’s body down while he withdrew the blade with a vicious twist. Half a dozen of the fort’s attackers were standing in a loose half circle around him, all but one with spears levelled at him. Their black clothing, clearly intended to provide them with concealment in the moonless night, gave no clue as to who they might be, although more than one face seemed distantly familiar. The sixth man was armed only with a sword at his waist, but the centurion took an involuntary step back at the sight of the Roman cavalry helmet that completely hid his features. Its thick iron faceplate was tinned and highly polished, the mirror-like surface broken only by a pair of black eye holes and a slit between the thin, cruel iron lips. It reflected a distorted version of the centurion as he raised his shield to fight.

  ‘You wanted Obduro? Then here I am. And that was an unnecessary death, Centurion, given the fact that your men are already scattered and beaten; and he was a good man, one of my best. You know I can make you pay heavily in lingering torment for that brief moment of revenge, and yet you still chose to pay that price for a fleeting moment of satisfaction. How amusing . . .’ The words were muffled to the point of being made barely audible by the helmet’s faceplate, and the voice was distorted enough to be unrecognisable, despite the rumours as to the wearer’s identity that were the stuff of soldiers’ gossip across the entire province. ‘Tonight we are taking prisoners, Centurion, recruiting men to join us in the deep forest. You could still live, if you’ll drop the sword and shield and bend your knee to me and promise faithful service. Or you could die here, alone and uncelebrated, no matter how brave your death might be.’

  The centurion shook his head, hefting the sword ready to fight.

  ‘Send your men at me, then, and let’s see how many I can put down before they stop me.’ He spat on the cooling corpse at his feet in an attempt to goad the masked man to a rash move. ‘I’ll cost you more than your boyfriend here before you kill me.’

  The masked man shook his head in return, then drew a long sword from the scabbard at his waist in response. The blade’s surface seemed to ripple in the torchlight, its intricate pattern of dark and light bands giving it an unearthly quality.

  ‘I do believe you’re right, Centurion, and I’ll not waste good men when there’s no need. I’ll take you down myself.’

  He bent to pick up a discarded shield before stepping forward to face the centurion, lifting the patterned sword to show his opponent the weapon’s point. They faced each other for a moment in silence before the soldier shrugged and took the offensive, stamping forward and hammering his sword into the masked man’s shield. Once, twice, the gladius rose and fell, and for a brief moment the centurion believed that he was gaining the upper hand as the other man stepped back from each blow, using his shield to absorb its force. Raising his sword again he stepped in closer, swinging the blade with all his strength. Halting his retreat, the masked man met the descending gladius with his own weapon. The two blades met with a rending screech, and in a brief shower of sparks the patterned sword sliced cleanly through the iron gladius’s blade and dropped two-thirds of its length to the ground in a flickering tumble. The centurion stared wide-eyed at the emasculated stump of blade attached to his ruined weapon’s hilt. Allowing no time for the shocked soldier to get his wits back, the masked man attacked with a pitiless ferocity. He hacked horizontally at his enemy with the seemingly irresistible sword, carving cleanly through the centurion’s shield. The layered wood and linen fell apart like a rotten barrel lid, leaving the soldier clutching the lopsided section of board in one hand and his sword’s useless remnant in the other. He threw the sword’s hilt at his opponent, clenching his fists in frustration as it bounced off the polished faceplate with a metallic clang, then hurled what was left of the shield after it, only to watch as the other man sliced the flying remains cleanly in two with a diagonal cut. Taking another step forward, the masked man dropped his shield and raised the patterned blade in a two-handed grip.

  ‘And now, Centurion, you can pay that price I mentioned.’

  Looking at his reflection in the helmet’s polished facemask the centurion saw defeat in his own face and, enraged by the very possibility, he gathered himself to jump at his enemy with a snarl of hatred. Attacking with a speed and purpose that matched the soldier’s berserk leap, the masked swordsman swung his sword in a short arc to slice into the centurion’s abdomen, pulling the blow rather than cutting him cleanly in two, and grinding the weapon’s ferocious edge across the centurion’s spine as he ripped it free. The eviscerated soldier dropped to the ground in a gout of blood and intestines, his eyes flickering as his brain absorbed the sheer scale of the destruction wrought on his body
. Bending as if to speak to the dying officer, the swordsman cleaned his blade on a fold in the other man’s tunic, then slipped the sword into its scabbard. He lifted the helmet’s faceplate to allow the cold night air to cool his sweating face. Looking down at the dying soldier he smiled bleakly, nodding his respect.

  ‘Well done, friend. You died like a man. And now you are on your way to meet your gods, once we give you the coin with which to pay for your crossing. In reality, of course, given where you are, you will only be meeting Arduenna. And trust me, Centurion, she is a spiteful, vindictive bitch.’

  He turned away, only to find his leg held in a firm grip. The dying centurion was using the last of his strength to clamp a trembling hand around his ankle.

  ‘You . . .?’

  He stared down into the fading light of the dying man’s eyes.

  ‘Yes. Me. It does come as a bit of a shock, doesn’t it?’ He pulled his leg free and watched blank-faced as the last vestige of life left the centurion’s body, then closed the faceplate over his features. ‘Bring his corpse over to the gate. I want as many of them as possible to join our cause and encourage their comrades in the city to do the same, and having him laid out for inspection ought to be all the encouragement they need.’

  1

  Germania Inferior, March, AD 183

  ‘It might be your homeland, Julius, but I think it’s a shithole.’ The heavily built young centurion pulled his thick woollen cloak tighter about him, grimacing at the cold mist surrounding them on all sides. The fog, which muffled his voice and reduced visibility to barely fifty paces, gave the impression that the small party was being enveloped by thick grey walls. ‘The weather’s no better than in Britannia, the food’s worse than in Britannia, and the beer’s just piss.’