‘What the fuck?’ Macro muttered. The realisation that his friend was in great danger hit him like a blow and he jabbed his heels in and slapped the rump of his mount. ‘Yah!’
The horse leaped forward, galloping down the slope. Ahead he could see the Thracians closing in. Cato watched them intently as he struggled with his shield, swinging it round to cover his body. Then, at the last moment, he lowered the standard, like a lance, and made for the man to his right. The three men came together with a thud as a spear glanced off the shield. There was a clatter of weapons as Cato and the man to his right wildly exchanged spear thrusts and parries. The standard was never designed for such work and was unwieldy in Cato’s hand as he fought for his life. His chances of surviving were made worse by the need to keep glancing to his left and fending off the attacks of the other Thracian. Macro could see that his friend could not hold his own for much longer and savagely urged his horse on. Then there was a sharp cry of frustration as the standard lurched out of Cato’s fingers and fell into the grass. He snatched his hand back and fumbled for his sword as his opponent moved in closer to his unprotected side to deliver the fatal blow. At the last moment Cato thrust his shield into the face of the man to his left and threw himself under the upraised spear of the other assailant and inside his shield to grab at his cloak and tunic in a desperate attempt to unseat the Thracian. The two writhed, with Cato half out of his saddle, while the other Thracian worked his horse towards the prefect’s back to strike from the rear.
At the sound of Macro’s horse the second man hesitated and looked round, then instinctively swerved his mount round to face the unexpected threat. Macro held his shield up and hunched down so that it covered him up to his cheek. There was no time to think and he simply clamped his jaw shut and rode directly towards the man. Only at the last instant did the Thracian understand Macro’s intention and try to spur his horse out of the way. It was too late and Macro’s horse collided heavily. With a shrill whinny of terror the other horse was knocked off its feet and it fell on to its side. It rolled on to its back, legs kicking wildly in the air. The rider let out a cry of panic before the weight of the horse above him drove the breath from his lungs and crushed his chest and limbs.
Cato was still struggling with the other man, one arm scrabbling for purchase around his torso while the other grasped the wrist of his spear hand and fought to keep the point away from his body.
‘Hold on, lad!’ Macro shouted as he took control of his frightened mount which was trying to shy away from the fight.
The remaining Thracian jerked hard on his reins, moving his horse away from Cato’s and pulling the prefect out of his saddle. Cato held on desperately, knowing that he was finished if he released his grip and gave the man enough room to use his spear. Then, when he felt as if he must fall under the other man’s horse, he released his grip on the man’s wrist and snatched at the handle of his dagger. He drew it out as quickly as he could and stabbed at the Thracian’s thigh and groin. The man let out howls of pain and rage and let his spear drop as he punched his fist into Cato’s cheekguard, and then struck him hard on the bridge of his nose. Cato felt something crack with a sharp pain and then blood coursed from his nostrils. The Thracian grunted, his fist raised to strike again, and Cato looked up to see the edge of a sword buried in the angle of his neck and he felt the warm splatter of the man’s blood on his face. The Thracian looked down at Cato, his mouth gaping, a look of surprise in his eyes, before they rolled up and he slumped in his saddle with a deep groan. Then the sword was wrenched back and the man uttered one more cry before his horse shimmied to one side, dragging Cato with it a short distance until he pulled his dagger from the Thracian’s leg and released his grip on his cloak. He fell to the ground, thrusting his dagger to the side so that he would not land on it. The impact was hard, driving the air from his lungs and jarring his helmeted head, but Cato had the presence of mind to tuck up as he lay on the ground as hoofs thudded into the grass around him.
‘It’s over, lad,’ Macro’s anxious voice called down to him.
Cato risked a look up and saw the transverse crest of a centurion’s helmet blocking out the strengthening light of the dawn sky. Reassured, he rolled on to his feet and rose unsteadily, wiping the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand. Macro retrieved the standard from where it was lying in the grass and planted the sharpened butt firmly into the ground. Then he turned and looked at the two Thracians. The horse which had been knocked over had struggled back on to its feet and stood a short distance from its rider who writhed feebly, gasping for breath. The other man swayed in his saddle for a moment and then slid off to one side and dropped to the ground. His mount skittered off a few steps before stopping and lowering his head to graze.
Macro turned to Cato. ‘Mind explaining what the fuck that was all about?’
Cato was still catching his breath and dealing with the pain from his broken nose. He held up a hand, the blood in his nostrils making his voice sound thick. ‘A. . moment. .’
‘They were out to kill you, lad. I saw it all. No question.’
Cato nodded and paced over to the man Macro had felled. He leaned down and saw the terrible wound where Macro’s sword had cut at an angle into his neck, shattering the collarbone and some ribs before coming to a stop six inches deep. The blood pulsed from the wound, pooling on his chest and overflowing on to the grass as the Thracian gritted his teeth and stared into the pale sky. Cato knelt down at his side.
‘Why did you attack me?’
The Thracian’s eyes flickered towards Cato but he did not reply. The prefect leaned closer. ‘Tell me!’
The man’s lips lifted in a faint, mocking smile.
‘Bastard needs a bit of prompting,’ said Macro. He moved round his friend and stood by the Thracian’s head. Lifting his boot, Macro pressed it down on the wound, gently at first, then increased the pressure so that the Thracian cried out in agony and writhed. Macro ground his boot into the wound, the hobnails biting into the bloodied flesh and bone, before he eased up.
‘You answer the prefect’s question, or you get some more of that.’
‘Why did you attack me?’ Cato repeated.
The Thracian was panting as he fought against the waves of pain from his injury. He licked his lips as he summoned up the strength to reply. ‘I did it. . for the centurion.’
‘The centurion? Quertus?’
The man nodded feebly. ‘The cohort. . belongs to him. . Not you. Never you.’
‘Did he order you to do this?’
The Thracian slumped back into the grass and began to tremble uncontrollably as he bled out. Cato grabbed his blood-saturated neckcloth and pulled his head up sharply. ‘Did Quertus order you to kill me?’ he growled at the man.
The man’s eyes rolled up into his head as he choked on his blood. Then, as it dribbled from the corner of his mouth, he spoke again, faintly. ‘Quertus. .’