their swords and crouched, waiting for the order to attack. Cato drew back into the mouth of the tunnel and hurriedly outlined the report for Narcissus. The German assigned for the task nodded as Plautus translated, then handed the man his tinder box and one of the extinguished torches. The German turned to make his way back into the darkness. A moment later there was a faint flare as he struck sparks, then again, before a brief pause and then a steady glow swelled in the gloom. It quickly faded away as the man made his way off into the tunnel.
Cato crept forward to join Macro who was squatting behind a large rock in the middle of the line of Germans. Cato drew a deep breath to steady his nerves and then tightened his grip on the handle of his sword. ‘Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be. Let’s have ‘em.’
Cato tensed his limbs, glanced left and right to see that the rest of the men were watching him intently. Then he snatched a breath and shouted, ‘Follow me!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
As the cry echoed off the walls of the cave Cato leaped over the rocks in front of him and sprinted towards the men and women at the tables. Macro let out a deafening roar that was instantly drowned out by the savage cries of the Germans as they charged. The laughter and drunken talk of Cestius and his men ceased abruptly as they stared at the bearded intruders racing towards them, swords drawn, bellowing barbaric war cries. For a moment Cestius and his men were too stunned to move. Then the spell was broken as Cestius turfed the woman off his lap and sprang to his feet, ripping out his short sword as he did so.
‘Don’t just fucking sit there! Pick up yer tools and get ‘em!’ he shouted.
Cato was charging towards Cestius, visible over the heads of his men, when a stocky man with dark features and hairy arms stepped into his path, swinging up a heavy club pierced with nails. Gritting his teeth, the man swung the club in a savage arc towards Cato’s head. The end of the club, with its lethal spikes, whistled through the air and Cato ducked low as the weapon passed inches from his scalp with a whoosh. The man grunted as the shaft of the weapon struck his other shoulder, hard. Cato thrust his sword up at an angle and the point ripped through the man’s tunic and sliced open the muscles packed over his ribs. Instead of recoiling in surprise and pain, as Cato expected him to, the man just roared with anger, his senses numbed by drink. He swung the club in a vicious backhand. This time Cato stumbled back out of range and the head of the club swept past his face, and on into the head of one of the man’s companions who was staggering drunkenly forward to get into the fight. The full weight of the club struck home and with a sound like an egg being thrown against a wall, the points of the club pierced skin and bone and drove deep into the man’s brain. His head snapped to the side and then he collapsed, dragging the club down with him.
With an angry curse his comrade wrenched violently at the handle of the club, trying to free it, but all he succeeded in doing was waggling his victim’s head about obscenely. The man’s jaw worked furiously and his eyes bulged as blood and brain matter spattered from his wounds. Cato pounced forward and stabbed the man armed with the club deep in the guts. He wrenched his sword free, thrust him aside and moved on, scanning the battling figures for Cestius. The flames of the braziers threw wild shadows as the men fought and the air was filled with thuds and the clatter and ringing of blades. It was hard to make out the features of any man in these conditions, and only the beards and bulk of the Germans singled out one side from the other. To his left Cato could hear Macro somewhere close at hand, bellowing at his enemies as he laid about him with his sword.
Cato caught a glint of metal to his right and spun round to see a man charging him with a dagger held high. His face was distorted by a savage battle cry and his unkempt beard bristled. Cato swung his sword up and knocked the blow aside.
‘Fool!’ he yelled at the man. ‘I’m on your side!’
The man he took for a German growled a surly apology in Latin and then his eyes widened at the same instant that Cato realised his mistake. The wine had taken the edge off the other man’s reactions and Cato struck first, punching the hilt of his sword into his opponent’s nose which gave with a dull crack. Blood streaming down his face, the man stumbled back, tripped over a bench and fell, knocked cold as his skull struck the edge of one of the tables. Cato moved on, thrusting between men locked in savage duels, searching for Cestius. There was a sudden flurry of rags as someone slammed into his chest with a shrill screech. Cato absorbed the blow and looked down to see a short fat woman with tangled black hair pummelling his chest with her clenched fists. The moment she realised he was looking down at her, she raked his cheek with her fingernails. Cato felt a burning sensation as she drew blood and he instinctively rammed his knee up and into her chest and then kicked hard. She flew back and slammed into one of the gang members with a deep grunt, then stood fixed in place by the sword that had pierced her back and burst out of her abdomen and through her grubby brown tunic. The man thrust her body forward with his left hand as he ripped his sword free, then punched the bloodied blade at Cato’s face. What he lacked in swordsmanship he made up for in brute strength and Cato’s attempt to parry the blow only just deflected it from his face. Even so the edge of the blade cut into the top of his ear.
‘Bastard!’ Cato cried out in rage. He gritted his teeth and launched himself forward, balling his left hand into a fist. The blow caught his opponent on the jaw. It was a solid punch and would have dazed a normal man. But those who followed Cestius were chosen for their strength and toughness. They were men from the slums of Rome where you either learned to talk with your fists or you were beaten down into the gutter. His head snapped back but then he straightened and laughed at Cato. His expression abruptly changed to one of puzzled surprise as he looked down and saw that Cato’s sword had pierced him in the side, just below the ribs. Cato twisted the blade one way, then the other, working it into the man’s vital organs. Each twist brought a deep agonised groan to the man’s lips. Then Cato ripped the blade out in a dark gush of blood.
The agony of his mortal wound only seemed to enrage the man further and he threw himself at Cato and both fell on top of a table, the impact knocking their swords from their hands. The man’s face was inches from Cato’s; his sour breath stank of cheap wine and roasted meat. One hand was groping its way up Cato’s chest and he realised that the man was reaching for his throat. Cato grabbed the hand and tried to force it aside, but his opponent was too strong for him and Cato felt the fingers pinch viciously into his neck. He was dimly aware of a hot dampness across his stomach and chest as the man’s blood flowed from his wound. Cato clawed at the man’s hand but it clenched more tightly still, and he felt his eyes bulge and a dark red veil begin to close in over his vision.
Some twenty feet away Macro was wrestling with another of Cestius’s men, each grasping the wrist of the other’s sword hand in a deadly test of strength. Their eyes met and the gang member half growled and half chuckled as he strained his muscles and felt Macro’s arms begin to give.
‘That the best you can do?’ the man sneered.
‘Not quite the best,’ Macro spat back. ‘Try this!’
He drew his head back and with a savage jerk head-butted the other man in the face. It was a tactic he had used several times before in battles and skirmishes, but rarely without a helmet on. As their skulls cracked loudly together, the other man’s jaw snapped shut under the impact, his teeth biting deeply into his tongue. Macro felt a piercingly sharp pain across his forehead. His head reeled sickeningly.
‘Fuck, that hurts …’ he groaned. Then, sensing that his opponent’s grip had eased off, Macro thrust him back, ripped his sword arm free and thrust the blade into his opponent’s throat. The gangster collapsed to his knees, blood pumping from his wound. Macro kicked him to the ground. He looked about him. The fight had spread out across the floor of the cave and several bodies lay on the ground or sprawled across the tables and benches. Cestius was exchanging vicious sword blows with one of the Germans while Septimus finished off a wiry man with a thrust to his heart. Macro felt a stab of anxiety as he failed to see any sign of his friend. Then he noticed two figures struggling on top of a table a short distance away. The man on top was one of Cestius’s gang members. Macro could just make out that the individual beneath was tall and thin and his gangling legs were kicking out desperately as he tried to free himself.
‘Not again,’ Macro muttered to himself as he raced across to save Cato. As he pushed past one of Plautus’s men Macro saw Cestius smash his sword down into the skull of the German warrior, cutting through bone and brains. Cestius wrenched his sword free with a vicious yank and then retreated a pace to quickly survey the skirmish. With a bitter frown he turned to run towards the base of the ladder leading up to the tunnel.
