hand as he shouted orders to them.
As the Blood Crows swept on to the crest of the hillock, the outer huts forced them to flow round and crowd together, causing the riders to curse and the horses to whinny as they pressed up against each other. There were still men emerging from the huts and as Cato approached an entrance, the leather curtain swept back and a Silurian stood behind his raised shield and thrust a hunting spear out at the passing riders. The point tore into the flank of the standard-bearer’s horse, just ahead of Cato. A shrill neigh split the air as the animal jerked to the side, snatching the spear from the warrior’s grasp. The butt caught against the side of the hut and snapped with a sharp report and the splintered end spun towards Cato’s face. He ducked his head just in time and felt the impact as the wood glanced off the crown of his helmet. Then he looked up and twisted in his saddle to thrust his sword towards the man. The spatha he had drawn from the fort’s stores had a longer reach than the gladius he was used to, and the warrior leaped back as the sword struck the wooden door frame. Cato snatched it back and then the hut was behind him.
To his right he saw Macro strike down a short Silurian wearing a brown tunic. The man half turned just in time to see Macro’s blade slash through the air and into the side of his head, cutting flesh and shattering the jawbone. The warrior collapsed and was lost from view beneath the horses. There was a brief cry of pain, before it died, with him, crushed into the ground.
‘Kill them all!’ Quertus screamed, a manic expression etched into his features. His men echoed his cry as they cut down the handful of men who had responded too late to the alarm to join their comrades in front of the chief’s hut. A second man emerged from the largest hut, tall and powerfully built. He was protected by armour and a helmet, beneath which his blond hair flowed over his shoulders. He carried a spear and a shield and thrust himself between two men to take his place in the battle line. There was something about his face that struck Cato. Something familiar. But there was no time to give the thought more than an instant.
The Blood Crows surged forward, thundering across the open space, kicking over the remains of the fires and sending swirls of ash and bright cinders into the air. Some of the Thracians surged in between Macro and Cato, forcing them apart, and Cato found himself twenty feet to the left of his friend and the rest of the command party, just as the first of the horsemen lowered the points of their spears and charged headlong into the line of Silurian warriors. There was a rippling clatter and thud as weapons clashed and struck shields. Battle cries died on men’s lips as they locked in combat, furiously wielding their weapons as they hacked and thrust at each other. There was an opening between two horsemen ahead of Cato and he pulled on his reins to direct his mount into the gap, sword held up, ready to strike.
An enemy warrior sprang in front of him, baring his teeth through the thick dark hair of his beard. He raised his shield and stabbed a spear at the neck of Cato’s horse. The beast reared away, front legs lashing out as Cato threw his weight forward and clutched the reins tightly to avoid toppling back out of his saddle. A hoof connected with the point of the warrior’s spear, knocking it downwards, and the warrior retreated a few paces from the danger of the hoofs. Then the horse dropped forward and Cato struggled back into an erect position, just in time to parry another thrust from the Silurian. His long blade clanged and he twisted his arm to deflect the spear point, then spurred his horse forward, into the enemy warrior, thudding into his shield and knocking him back. Cato gave him no time to regain his balance and swung his sword down, reaching as far forward as he could. The edge hissed through the air and struck the man on the woad-patterned skin of his shoulder. The blade bit through his flesh and struck the man’s collarbone, which snapped beneath the savage force of the blow. He uttered an agonised cry and staggered back, his shield slipping from his fingers. Yet he still had the wit to wield his spear, even through the red veil of his pain, and thrust the point up at Cato.
Cato pulled savagely on his reins and Hannibal turned sharply to the right, and the point of the spear clattered off the shield. Cato twisted in the saddle and swung his sword again, unable to get much power into the blow. But it was enough to make the Silurian stumble back, blood streaming down his chest from the wound in his shoulder. He dropped his spear and clamped his hand over the torn flesh and turned to stagger away from the fight. Cato let him go, and seeing that there was no immediate threat, he looked round. The auxiliaries had driven into the loose ranks of the enemy and several small pockets of fighters were battling it out in front of the large hut. Macro was at the side of Quertus as both men charged into a loose pocket of Silurians and lay about them, scattering the enemy and cutting down another handful of warriors to add to those already lying on the ground, dead or wounded.
The chief, his tall companion and several of his men had formed a tight circle to hold off the Thracians. As Cato watched, one of the Blood Crows edged his horse in and thrust his spear. The tip clattered against a shield, and as he drew the weapon back, the tall man with the blond hair ran forward and piked the rider in his side. The impact was powerful enough to knock him out of the saddle and he fell to the ground on the other side of the horse. At once a burly Silurian armed with an axe leaped forward and swung his weapon down with both hands. The head of the axe smashed into the auxiliary’s back, driving him into the soil. Another blow to the back of his head split the iron helmet and shattered the man’s skull.
Then Cato saw the cohort’s standard-bearer, off to one side, trapped against the hut by a group of Silurians who used their swords to frighten the horse as they closed in for the kill. The shame of letting the standard fall into enemy hands was ingrained into every soldier of the Roman army and Cato automatically turned his horse towards the hut and spurred it forwards. He brushed past some horsemen who had been hanging back a short distance from the fighting. Cato brandished his bloodied sword and shouted an order.
‘Follow me!’
He did not wait to see if he had been obeyed as he concentrated his attention on the confrontation between the Silurians and the standard-bearer. Already one of them had injured the horse and blood flowed down its coat and spattered on to the ground. A second man feinted towards the rider, forcing him to turn and confront the danger. At once another darted forward on the other side and quickly stabbed him in the calf before leaping back. The standard-bearer cried out in pain and his lips parted in a grimace as he shifted from side to side, desperate to keep all of his opponents in view.
The sound of Cato’s approach caused the nearest of the warriors to glance round and then turn to face the new threat, feet braced as he covered his body with his shield and raised his sword, aiming the point at the Roman bearing down on him. Beyond him, Cato saw the standard-bearer look up into his eyes. There was a strange expression in the man’s face, cold and calculating. Then he released his grip on the shaft of the standard and the image of the black crow on the red cloth fluttered as it fell to the ground.
‘What. .’
Cato looked on in horror as the standard-bearer grasped the reins and urged his horse away from the side of the hut. One of the enemy fell upon the standard with a shout of triumph. He cast his shield aside and snatched up the standard before he saw Cato’s horse racing towards him. With a quick cry and gesture to his companions he ran off with the standard.
Leaning forward in his saddle, Cato held his sword out to the side as he charged the nearest of the Silurians. He slashed his sword through the air, but his enemy nimbly stepped aside then forward to make his own attack, a powerfully directed thrust at Cato’s waist. The nervous movement of his horse spoiled the attempt and the point glanced off the side of Cato’s breastplate. Cato made another cut, battering the Silurian’s shield and driving him off. Both men paused for an instant, sizing the other up, and then the Silurian’s companion rushed forward to join the fight. Beyond, the third man made good his escape, clutching his trophy, and disappeared round the back of the hut. Cato heard the sound of hoofs behind him, the men he had ordered to follow him, and pressed his attack on the Silurian who had turned to face him. Steering his mount forward he slashed at the shield again and again, thudding blows cutting splinters out of the painted wooden surface, driving the man back, away from his companion.
‘Deal with them!’ Cato shouted, as he spurred his horse on, making for the back of the hut. Only recovering the standard mattered at the moment. As his horse lurched into a gallop he heard the clatter of weapons behind him as the Thracians dealt with the two men. Cato’s mount thundered round the curve of the hut and then he saw the Silurian, holding the standard in front of him like a cross-staff as he ran down the slope away from the fight. Fifty paces on was a large wicker enclosure containing twenty or thirty horses, some of which were already saddled. A young Silurian groom had emerged through the gate to stare anxiously up the slope towards the sound of fighting. At once he ducked back inside and re-emerged a moment later with a pitchfork. He lowered the points towards Cato. The man with the standard rushed on, glancing back at his pursuer, his expression shot through with alarm as he saw the Roman close behind him.
