Simon Scarrow - Britannia

Cato swept past him and looked for another foe. About him the men of both sides were mostly locked in one-to-one duels. Here and there the odds were less even, and some took advantage of the chaos to strike at the enemy’s back when they caught a man facing the other way. There was none of the etiquette of the arena: just kill or be killed. Cato caught the gaze of a tall, darkly featured warrior whose hair had been tied back by a leather thong. He carried a long-handled axe in both hands and swung it in an arc as he glared at Cato. His muscled arms strained as the axe flew faster and faster, then he launched himself at the prefect with a loud shout ripping from his lungs.

Cato had seen how much damage such an axe could do, and crouched as he threw his shield up to block the blow. An instant later the top of the shield exploded in a welter of splinters, shattered bronze trim and strips of leather. The impact tore at his grip, but his fist was tightly clenched and he held on. Then the axe head whirled away, and he seized his chance, thrusting his sword into his opponent’s thigh, then hacking down at the soft leather and straps of his boot, shattering the bones there. The warrior let out a cry of agony and rage as he staggered backwards. His weapon had lost its momentum and he could only swing it weakly this time, so that Cato’s shield easily absorbed the blow. He punched forward, driving the man on to his wounded foot. There was a gasp and a pained groan, and the warrior fell on to his back, the axe slipping from his fingers and clattering to the rocks.

Cato kept his damaged shield and sword up as he glanced round. The Blood Crows were more than holding their own: only three men were down, as against several more of the enemy. Beyond, on the crags on the far side of the gorge, he could see the other group of warriors starting to hurl their first rocks down on the leading testudo. He hissed a curse. Where the hell were Harpex and his men?

He spotted an older, thickset man in a helmet shouting orders and encouragement to his comrades. The enemy leader pushed his way to the front and raised his sword to strike at the auxiliary in front of him. The soldier instinctively raised his shield, and the tribesman grinned ferociously as he grasped the rim with his spare hand and wrenched it aside before striking down with his sword. The heavy blade shattered the Thracian’s bronze helmet and smashed through his skull right down to his jaw. The tribesman wrenched the blade free, then kicked the body away, roaring a triumphant battle cry and shaking his bloodied sword high where his followers could see it.

Swallowing his fear, Cato stepped forward and spoke calmly and loudly enough for his men to hear. ‘You are nothing but a fat pile of shit, old man, and I am going to cut you down. I am Prefect Marcus Licinius Cato, of the Blood Crows.’ He repeated the name of the cohort again in the fragments of the Silurian dialect he had picked up from the native traders who had come to the fort. He felt a flicker of satisfaction as he saw the man’s eyes widen briefly at the name of the unit whose bloody raids deep into enemy territory had earned them a fearsome reputation amongst the mountain tribes to the south.

It took a moment for the tribesman to recover his poise, and he snarled back at Cato, the contempt behind his words clear to the Roman soldiers. His comrades cheered him even as some of them continued exchanging blows with the Thracians. By unspoken consent, a space opened out around the two leaders, and they warily approached to within striking distance and weighed each other up. Cato saw that his foe was past the prime of life but that there was plenty of muscle there, along with the evidence of good living. Blue tattooed patterns swirled down each bare arm, and stretches of white scar tissue spoke of the many battles he had fought.

Cato advanced his shield, looking over the splintered ruin at the top, and raised his sword to chin height, aiming the point directly at the man’s face. It was as much a gesture of defiance as a threat, and the veteran warrior’s lip curled in disdain as he raised his longsword and gave the shield a hard poke. At once Cato pressed forward, battering at the sword with his shield and trying to get inside the man’s reach to stab him with his shorter weapon. But the tribesman was more agile than he appeared and kept his distance, even opening it enough after three paces to turn the attack back on Cato, hacking viciously at the splintered top of the shield so that Cato had little chance to strike back as he struggled to block the attacks. Each blow carved a fresh chunk out of the oval shield, and opened a split that weakened it further. At the same time, the prefect concentrated on working his opponent round so that his back was towards the cliff and he would have nowhere to retreat when Cato made his next rush forward.

The warrior paused to breathe, his chest heaving with exertion as he kept his eyes fixed on Cato and his sword moving slowly from side to side. A sudden break in the clouds bathed the valley in bright sunshine, and the man blinked at the glare. Cato rushed forward, this time alternating between shield and sword as he smashed aside each attempt to block his attacks. His opponent’s concentration was so fixed on fending off the blows that he did not realise until the last moment that he had been driven back to the edge of the crags. One of his men shouted a warning and the leader snatched a backward glance, then Cato struck, thrusting forward behind his shield, driving it into the warrior’s body and knocking him off balance. As his heel slipped over the edge, the tribesman dropped his sword, snatched at the sides of Cato’s shield and pulled with all his might. Cato, caught off guard, felt himself lurch forward, but released his hold on the shield’s handle and pushed himself back just in time. The shield fell away and the man toppled back with a desperate cry that was snatched away as he bounced off a protruding rock and cartwheeled to the foot of the cliff in silence, like a child’s corn doll.

His followers froze in shock. Before they could recover their resolve, Cato called out to his men. ‘Disengage! Now!’

The Blood Crows drew back cautiously, and Cato turned to the enemy and addressed them with authority. ‘Drop your weapons! Do it!’ He pointed to his own sword and stabbed a finger at the ground. ‘Now.’

There were at least ten still standing, and at first none of them moved, although Cato could see that they were unsure and afraid. He sheathed his blade and approached the nearest of them, a youth holding a wavering spear in both hands. He slowly walked round the point and took the shaft away from the boy.

‘Sit.’

The native nodded and dropped to the ground swiftly. There was a brief pause before the others did the same, setting their weapons down in front of them. Cato turned to Corvinus. ‘Leave five of your men to gather up their weapons and throw them over the cliff before they stand guard on the prisoners. If there’s any trouble, they’re to send ’em the same way as their leader.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Leaving Corvinus to assign the guards, Cato led the others across to the edge of the cliff overlooking the gorge. As they picked their way over the uneven surface, a cry of alarm sounded from the crags opposite, and Cato saw that Harpex and his men had reached the top and were fanning out to form a skirmish line to take on the other party of enemy warriors. There was nothing he could do to help, so he made his way to the edge, where small piles of unused rocks remained. He peered over and saw that the first testudo was breaking up as it reached the barricade, the men starting to climb it to get at the defenders. Several more legionaries had been struck down before Cato’s intervention had stopped the bombardment of his men. The second testudo was passing just beneath him, as yet unaware that the crags had been seized by the Blood Crows.