face was embedded in grass and mud. He just managed to raise his head enough to see the face of the man he had wounded no more than a foot away, contorted with pain and spitting a curse at his attacker. Then Cato felt a tremendous blow on his back that drove him deep into the ground. He fought for breath, the great weight of the horse writhing on top of him for an instant as the animal let out a long terrified whinny, hoofs lashing the air.
Cato knew the damage a wounded horse could do with its hoofs and hugged the ground, feeling the painful pressure on his right leg as the dying horse pinned him down. Then he realised that he no longer had his sword in his hand. Quickly raising his head, Cato saw the handle in the grass in front of his face, and beyond that the intent glare in the eyes of the warrior, who had also been trapped by the mortally wounded horse. The other man reacted first, snatching at the weapon with his injured hand. Cato thrust his left hand out, fingers clawing to get a firm grasp round the man’s wrist before he could use the sword. Both were pinioned by the horse as they struggled desperately for control of the weapon. Twisting round, Cato managed to get his other hand into action and grabbed at the bloody stumps of the warrior’s fingers and squeezed tightly. A scream of agony split the air and a moment later his remaining fingers loosened their grip and Cato tore the handle from his enemy and grasped it in his right hand. He stabbed at the man’s chest and the warrior tried to fend the blow aside with his bare hands, incurring further wounds. Drawing the blade back, Cato braced himself on the ground and then rammed it home with all his strength, feeling the point drive into the man’s chest. He tugged the blade free and thrust again. There was an explosive grunt from his enemy, who slumped back, feebly mouthing words as he stared up into the sky, the fingers of his good hand pressed over wounds that pulsed blood between his fingers.
Cato slumped down on to his elbow, breathing heavily, keeping the crimson-stained sword pointing towards the other man. It was clear that he no longer presented a threat. Cato tried to look round to see how the fight was going but the length of the grass and the trembling body of the horse obscured his view. The ring of blades, the crack of weapons on shields, and the softer thud on flesh and bone, punctuated by cries of agony, anger and triumph, sounded on all sides. There was a sharp pain in Cato’s right leg. He looked down and saw that it was pinned under the heavy leather mass of the saddle. He tried to pull it free but the pain instantly became unbearable and he eased back on to his elbow with a bitter curse of frustration. The warrior’s head rolled to the side and he grinned at Cato’s discomfort, until a gush of blood spilled from his lips and he spluttered and coughed, spraying flecks of blood across the side of Cato’s face. He struggled pitifully as the blood filled his lungs, drowning him.
‘Fuck,’ Cato muttered fiercely to himself. ‘I am not going to die here.’
He tried to free himself again, bracing his left boot against the horse’s rump as he strained his muscles to try and free his trapped leg. But it was hopeless, the weight of the dying animal bore down on the saddle and made the task impossible. At length Cato slumped back on to his elbows. ‘Shit. . shit. . shit. .’
There was nothing he could do, and he held his sword ready and waited for someone to come for him, friend or foe.
Macro slashed his blade down, grimacing as the edge bit deeply into his opponent’s skull with a sound like the cracking of a large egg. The tribesman’s body convulsed and his sword dropped from his nerveless fingers. A moment later the man collapsed beside his weapon, eyelids fluttering wildly as blood and brains spattered out of his shattered head. Straightening up in his saddle, Macro swept his gaze over the men fighting around him. None of the enemy was near enough to present a direct threat and Macro hurriedly assessed the situation.
The enemy’s formation had broken and now a series of duels were being fought out across the ground in front of the fort. There were plenty of bodies lying on the ground, and Macro could see that perhaps a third of Trebellius’s men were down. The rest were outnumbered and now that the initial impact of the charge had passed, the tribesmen were beginning to have the upper hand, as they heavily outnumbered the Romans. Even as Macro watched, several of the warriors, led by their chief, had surrounded the standard-bearer of the squadron. He held the staff close to his body while cutting at any native that came within reach of the long blade of his spatha. But there were too many of the enemy and one, more daring than his comrades, leaped forward and snatched the reins from the hand of the standard-bearer and savagely wrenched the horse’s head round to unbalance its rider. The chief stepped in and thrust his sword into the Roman’s side, while another man ripped the shaft of the standard away and held it aloft with a cry of glee. Macro could see the mortified expression on the face of the standard-bearer as he used what strength he had left to steer his horse round with his knees and slash his sword across the back of the warrior who had seized the squadron’s insignia. The standard dropped to the ground as the native collapsed and then his comrades fell on the Roman, hauling him from his saddle before they butchered him on the ground.
Macro saw that Trebellius and four of his men were closer to the fallen standard and he cupped his left hand to his mouth.
‘Decurion! Save the standard!’
Trebellius looked round and saw Macro, who stabbed his finger in the direction of the natives who had finished off the standard-bearer and were already making off with their trophy. Their success had encouraged their comrades and Macro saw that the fight was in the balance. He turned towards the fort.
‘Come on, you bastards! Help us!’
The commander of the garrison had already correctly read the situation and even as Macro’s words died on his lips, the gates opened and the auxiliaries quick-marched in tight formation towards the skirmish. Macro felt a surge of relief as he raised his sword again and looked round for a fresh opponent. Then it struck him: there was no sign of Cato. He felt an icy stab of anxiety at the base of his spine as he scanned the scene.
‘Cato! Sir! Where are you?’
Then he saw the flutter of red in the grass fifty paces away, the thin horsehair crest of the prefect’s helmet, and Macro pulled harshly on his reins to turn his horse towards his friend. Close by lay the bulk of a horse and Macro realised at once that Cato must be trapped underneath. A short distance away one of the natives had just finished off a legionary with his spear and pulled the bloodied tip free. He looked round and the same red crest now caught his attention. With a look of cruel intent he turned and paced towards Cato.
‘No, you bloody don’t!’ Macro growled as he spurred his horse forward.
Cato sensed the man’s approach before he saw him and turned to see the tall figure striding through the wild tussocks of grass towards him. He wore a thick brown cloak over a black tunic and strapped leggings. The ends of a silver torc gleamed at his throat and his hair, drenched by the drizzle, hung lankly across his shoulders. All this Cato saw in an instant, then he strained to free his leg again, groaning with the effort. The horse had bled out and lay still, a dead weight pressing down on the saddle and the leg caught beneath. He turned on his side and propped himself as best he could on his left elbow as he raised his sword and aimed the point at the oncoming warrior.
The man saw that he had an easy kill and grinned cruelly as he raised his spear and made to strike at the helpless Roman officer. Cato clenched his teeth and glared back, determined not to show any fear at his imminent death. There was only fleeting regret that it had to be this way, slaughtered like a tethered goat, so ignominious, so shameful. He hoped that when his death was reported to Julia back in Rome, the details would not be revealed and that she would grieve for him as the hero he wanted to be. Not like this.
The tribesman drew back his shaft to strike and Cato tensed his arm. Down flashed the head of the spear, tapering like a broad leaf to tear as great a wound as possible. Cato timed his parry well, not lashing out too soon and risking missing the strike; the edge of his sword connected with the head of the spear with a loud clang and the point deflected away from his throat, over his shoulder and whispered close to his ear so that he felt the brush of air on his skin.
With a frustrated grunt his opponent whipped the spear back for another attempt. This time he targeted Cato’s sword, viciously cutting horizontally and knocking the blade aside so hard that Cato nearly lost his grip and pain coursed through his fist at the impact. Then the man swung the butt of the spear round and delivered a heavy blow to the side of Cato’s helmet. Stunned, Cato slumped back helplessly and the warrior let out a roar of triumph and raised his spear a last time, to deliver the killing blow.
‘No you don’t!’ Macro bellowed and the warrior hesitated and looked round. Then the horse was upon him and Macro threw himself from the saddle on to the spearman and they crashed to the ground side by side. It was a hard landing and both lost hold of their weapons. Macro snatched out the dagger from his belt and stabbed it into his enemy, tearing through the coarse material of the cloak. The thickness of the material saved the man as only the tip of the blade penetrated his flesh. By the time Macro stabbed again he was already rolling away and
