your way free, with a valuable prisoner to hand over to the legate. I can see it all.’
‘You can see nothing!’ Quertus shouted back. He swept his arms out as if to embrace his men. ‘My brothers, now is the time to take our fort back from this arrogant fool! It is he who should be arrested! He is the coward, the prefect without the heart to kill his enemy right down to the last hunting dog. He is not worthy of your loyalty. I have proved myself to you time and again. Follow me, my brothers! Follow me! And put this dog in chains with the Silurian scum!’
Quertus thrust his sword up with a deep roar which was echoed by his most ardent followers in the gathering crowd. Cato’s heart pounded in his chest. He felt his authority slipping from his grasp with every passing moment. He must act while there was still a chance to sway the Thracian auxiliaries. He could count on the loyalty of the legionaries, but they were outnumbered. If it came to a fight, they would lose. There was only one thing he could do to save the situation. He must grasp the opportunity that Quertus had unwittingly offered him.
Drawing himself up, Cato stepped forward, out into the open between the legionaries and Quertus and his band, where all could clearly see him. He raised his arms and slowly the noise began to die down.
‘Centurion Quertus accuses me of being a coward. You all heard him. I will not take such an insult from any man! You are all brave soldiers. Only a brave officer deserves your loyalty. So let us put it to the test. Let us see who is fit to command the Blood Crows!’ He pointed his sword directly at Quertus. ‘I challenge him to fight me for the right to command. If he refuses then it proves he is the coward I say he is!’
There was a stunned silence before Quertus stepped forward and confronted Cato with a cold smile. ‘You would fight me?’ He lowered his voice so that only Cato might hear his next words. ‘You’re a damned fool, Prefect Cato. . and now you’ll die because of it.’
Quertus shrugged off his fur coat and unfastened the straps at the side of his breastplate and let it drop to the ground so that he stood in his tunic, like Cato. Except that he was nearly a head taller and broad in proportion. He let the blade of his sword rest against his shoulder. ‘Do you want to settle this with the spatha or the gladius?’
Cato thought swiftly. The cavalry sword had greater reach and weight, but he had trained to use the legionary weapon and had wielded one through every campaign he had fought in. ‘I was a legionary before I was ever a prefect. And I’ll fight as a legionary should.’
Quertus gave a wolfish grin. ‘As you wish. Then let us begin. Clear the ground there!’ he bellowed and the Thracians stepped back to create an open space twenty paces across, lit by the wavering glow of the torches held by several of their number. Above them a pallid hue was already bleeding across the sky, and Cato could see that the clouds were thinner than in the previous days, and there was even a patch that looked as if it might break to reveal the heavens. He felt a strange calmness come over him now that he was committed. Then he turned his attention to the Thracian and lowered himself into a crouch and held his sword ready.
‘There can only be one commander at Bruccium,’ he said calmly. ‘There can be no quarter asked or given. This is a fight to the death.’
Quertus nodded. ‘To the death.’
Cato swallowed, took a last deep breath and called out, ‘Then begin!’
CHAPTER THIRTY
The last word was still on Cato’s breath when Quertus charged at him, mouth agape as he let out a deafening, savage roar. If it was supposed to terrify Cato, the tactic failed. He did not flinch as he held his sword out with a solid grip and a firm arm. The Thracian swung his longer blade in a sweeping diagonal arc towards Cato’s neck and Cato thrust his weapon to the side to deflect the blow. Metal struck metal with a shrill ring and a bright spark that instantly died as the tip of Quertus’s sword buried itself harmlessly in the ground. Cato whipped his blade back across his opponent’s chest in an effort to draw first blood and he was rewarded with a ripping sound as the point tore open the folds of the centurion’s tunic just below the neck hem. Quertus scrambled back and raised his sword to block any further blows.
Cato knew that he must keep close to his opponent if he was to use his weapon to best effect and pressed forward, thrusting and making small, vicious cuts that forced the other man to parry and block desperately as the onslaught drove him back towards the ring of spectators. The latter hurried out of the way, parting to reveal the grassy bank of the rampart to one side of the gatehouse. Then, swiftly summoning up his powerful strength, Quertus smashed Cato’s sword aside and swung wildly at his head. Now it was Cato’s turn to retreat and he stepped back easily, poised on the balls of his feet so that he could use his leg muscles to spring in whichever direction he needed. A gap opened up between the two fighters, and Cato edged back yet further to give himself space to consider his next move. Both men were breathing quickly, and Cato felt blood pounding in his skull, as if he had been running for some distance. His limbs felt light and eager, as if they had a life of their own, and there was a burst of exhilaration in his heart as he kept his eyes fixed on the Thracian.
Quertus gritted his teeth and the corners of his mouth lifted in a wry expression of amusement.
‘Quite the warrior, aren’t you, Prefect? You have more backbone than I thought,’ the Thracian growled. ‘But it won’t save you.’
Cato leaped forward a step and feinted, partly to test his opponent’s reflexes, and partly to shut him up. Quertus retreated nimbly and held his sword out, the point aimed at Cato’s face, taking advantage of his greater reach to stop Cato in his tracks.
‘Not so fast!’
Cato returned to a safe distance and weighed up his enemy. The man was quick as well as strong, a dangerous combination indeed. Yet there was also a swaggering arrogance that might yet play into Cato’s hands — if he lived long enough to exploit it. At the same time he was aware of the anxious excitement in the faces of the men watching the duel. At first there had been silence but now a voice called out, ‘Finish the Roman brat!’
A handful of other Thracians called out their support for their leader and clenched their hands into fists and shook them at Cato. At once the smaller number of legionaries responded with cries of support for Cato. More joined in and the air was thick with shouts. Cato was reminded of the atmosphere of a gladiator spectacle and was thankful that he had never had to endure the fear and shame of those forced to fight for the entertainment of the mob.
Keeping a wary eye on his opponent, Quertus steadily paced his way round the ring of spectators until he had his supporters at his back and Cato was forced to gaze into their hostile expressions. The encouragement from the legionaries struggled to make itself heard over the din of the Thracians but one voice rang out.
‘Get stuck in, sir! Kill that Thracian dog!’
‘Quiet, you fool!’ another voice cut in behind Cato’s back. ‘You want that Thracian dog to come looking for you afterwards?’
Cato smiled bitterly to himself. So, even the legionaries, much as they feared and disliked Quertus, were cautious about their commander’s chances of winning the fight. Well, he would show them, Cato resolved. He would prove them wrong, and prove that he had the right to command the garrison by force of arms as well as by the Emperor’s authority.
Quertus stood, calm and relaxed, as if in contempt for his foe, and then he turned his back on Cato and faced his men, arms raised to acknowledge their acclaim. The sound of their cheering rose in response and Quertus punched both fists into the air repeatedly.
Cato gritted his teeth and moved towards the man’s back, momentarily visualising the point of his sword plunging in, cutting through his spine and angling into his black heart. The auxiliaries shouted a warning to their officer and Quertus spun round and lowered himself into a crouch. He forced a laugh for the benefit of his men and called out in a loud voice, ‘Attack me while my back’s turned, would you? And you call me a coward!’
As his men responded excitedly to his taunt, Quertus paced forward confidently, swinging his blade in a broad ellipse. Cato did not stop, did not hesitate, but moved directly into contact, viciously striking the spatha aside and lunging for the other man’s chest. Quertus parried the blow firmly and stepped forward, punching the guard into Cato’s chest and knocking him back. Cato rode the blow to lessen its impact but even so the air was driven from his lungs and pain burned across his ribs. At the same time he was forced to throw his sword up to block a
