rushed chop to his head as Quertus tried to take advantage of the winding blow he had struck. The blade clattered to the side, but a moment later there was a searing pain in Cato’s thigh, just above the knee, as the point of the Thracian’s sword tore a shallow wound across his flesh.
The two men parted and Quertus let out a triumphant cry as he saw the crimson streak across the prefect’s knee. His supporters cheered while the legionaries fell silent, staring anxiously at their commander, trying to determine the seriousness of his injury. Cato risked a quick glance down and saw the blood running down his shin and over the top of his leather boots. He lowered and raised himself cautiously but felt no increase in the pain and no telltale twinge that would indicate serious damage to his muscles. Even so, he was bleeding, and it would sap his strength the longer the fight lasted. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward again and feigned a slight stumble, letting out a genuine groan.
Quertus laughed drily. ‘I’m disappointed, Prefect Cato. I’d have hoped for more of a contest. But look at you. Thin and weak and bleeding like a stuck pig. I could let you bleed out but I want a good kill. Something that will show all the men that I am fit to be their commander.’
Cato leaned over his injured leg and looked up from under his dark fringe, breathing deeply. He licked his lips and rasped, ‘You’re not fit to be in the Roman army, let alone command one of its forts.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ Quertus lowered himself slightly and approached cautiously. Cato let him come and raised his sword, the point wavering as he straightened his back and prepared to fight for his life once again. As Quertus raised his sword to strike and lifted his right foot to swing forward, Cato launched himself forward with a throat-tearing roar. There was just enough time for the Thracian’s eyes to widen in surprise before the point of Cato’s sword flashed up, forward and into the other man’s left shoulder. The blade tore through cloth, skin and muscle before jarring against a bone. Quertus grunted explosively under the impetus of the blow and staggered. Cato pressed on, throwing his weight behind the sword, twisting the handle as he drove forward.
But Quertus’s fearsome reputation on the battlefield was well-earned and he recovered swiftly, tearing himself free of the blade then twisting away from Cato so that the prefect’s momentum carried him a few paces past before he scrabbled to a halt and turned to face Quertus. At once Cato threw himself forward and there was a desperate exchange of blows. The men began to cheer again, each side urging their officer on, and now the legionaries were shouting almost as loudly as the auxiliaries. With a last ringing clatter of blades, both men retreated from each other and crouched, chests heaving as they exchanged hostile glares.
‘You’re a crafty bastard. .’ Quertus growled. ‘I’ll give you. . that.’
Cato kept his silence and began to circle slowly. The wound in his opponent’s shoulder was deep but it was hard to make out the blood seeping into the folds of Quertus’s black tunic, save for the glistening where the cloth had become saturated. Cato nodded with satisfaction. While it was not a mortal wound, it was bleeding badly and would get worse if the Thracian exerted himself.
‘What the fuck is this?’ a groggy voice demanded.
Out of the corner of his eye Cato was aware of Macro rising unsteadily to his feet, a hand clutched to his head. He stared at the two officers and quickly sized up the situation. ‘Gut him, lad!’ he bellowed. ‘Kill the bastard!’
With an angry growl Quertus came on again, slashing left and right with his longer blade, driving Cato back as he parried each blow, feeling the force of the blows jar his sword arm with a tingling pain that threatened to loosen his grasp of the handle.
Then it happened.
The full, savage weight of the Thracian’s cavalry sword smashed against the hilt of Cato’s gladius. His fingers spasmed and he felt the blade slip from his grasp. At once Quertus let out a triumphant roar and moved in for the kill. Cato leaped to the side and heard the swish of the blade as the sword swept down behind him and struck the ground with a dull metallic note. He sidestepped quickly as his opponent drew his sword back and came on with the point at waist height, ready to strike a final, killing blow.
‘You can’t run from me,’ Quertus sneered. ‘Stand and take your death like a man, not like a cowardly Roman!’
Cato kept his arms wide, his legs braced, ready to spring in any direction the moment he detected his foe was about to strike. At the same time he knew he was being manoeuvred back against the gatehouse. Around him the air was thick with the cries of the Thracian’s supporters, baying raucously for his blood. The calmness that had filled his mind had shattered. Now his senses vied with his racing mind in a desperate jumble of glimpses of the faces in front of him, the pureness of the patch of blue sky in the clouds above, the vision of Julia as he smiled down at her the morning after their marriage, Macro laughing heartily as he cast a winning throw of dice, and the sweet smell of the air after a summer shower. . A man snatching at the myriad treasures of his life for that last taste of their delight before he was claimed by oblivion.
Something glittered briefly before it fell to the sand close by Cato’s feet. He glanced down and saw a cavalry sword by his boots and instinctively snatched the weapon up, his senses registering the difference in weight and balance to the short sword of the legions. His arm muscles tensed under the burden and he saw Quertus’s face harden as the triumphant victory that had been so certain only moments before began to slip from his grasp.
‘No more fucking about,’ the Thracian snarled as he hefted his weapon. ‘Now you die, Roman scum.’
His lips drew back to reveal his clenched teeth as he charged straight at Cato, sword arm outstretched and the point flying towards the prefect’s throat. Cato fell back. His heel struck the timbers of the gate and pain flared up his calf. There was no retreat, no chance of dodging to the side. He knew he could do nothing now but stand his ground. He raised the spatha, as if to try and parry the blade cutting through the air towards him with the full weight of the Thracian behind it. Cato swallowed hard, and felt the muscles of his throat tighten in fear, and then dived for the ground directly at the feet of his opponent. The sword flashed overhead and splintered the gate as the blow struck. A heavy boot kicked Cato in the side of his head, jarring his neck. Then he hit the ground and rolled on to his shoulder and the handle of the spatha lurched in his grip as the point bit deeply into Quertus’s flesh. Cato held the weapon tightly as the sword was wrenched down in his hand, forcing his wrist to twist the blade. Boots scuffed the ground and there was a deep groan from the Thracian and then stillness.
Cato’s head was ringing, yet he was aware that the shouting had stopped. He was dazed by the blow to his skull and it was a moment before he saw Quertus’s features no more than a pace away. His eyes were wild and staring and his jaw sagged, gasping for breath. Then nausea filled Cato’s guts as his head spun, forcing him to clench his eyes shut briefly.
‘He’s done for,’ a voice muttered thickly, and Cato tried to nod, thinking to accept his fate. He felt hands reach under his arms and draw him up, away from the ground. His head began to clear and the nausea passed so he risked opening his eyes. A familiar face was anxiously looking at him.
‘Cato. . sir?’
He blinked and forced himself to reply, slowly and clearly. ‘Macro. You all right?’
‘Am I all right?’ Macro let out a deep laugh and tapped the side of his head. ‘Ain’t been a weapon yet made that’ll get through this skull!’
Cato nodded. ‘I dare say. What. . Quertus?’
‘Like I said. Done for.’ Macro nodded towards the ground and Cato looked down and saw the Thracian lying on his side, the cavalry sword buried almost to the hilt in his groin and angled up into his vital organs. He rocked from side to side as a pool of blood expanded beneath him, a low keening note in his voice as he gasped for breath.
Cato’s mind quickly cleared. ‘Good.’
He looked up at the faces of the men surrounding the rear gatehouse of the fort. Some of the Thracians seemed stunned. Others were clearly angry, their expressions darkening as the legionaries began to cheer Cato’s name.
‘Better get that leg seen to, sir,’ Macro was saying. He took off his neckcloth and bent down and carefully dressed the wound.
Cato struggled to keep his mind focused. He had done it. He had bested the Thracian. In front of the whole garrison. He had taken a terrible risk, gambled his life, in order to put an end to the struggle for supremacy over the garrison and now he stared at the auxiliaries with cold authority. A figure stepped forward and Cato’s eyes flickered towards the man and he recognised Centurion Stellanus.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
‘What is it?’
