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 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.