Looking beyond the tribesman, Cato took in the wider scene. There were perhaps twenty more warriors fifty paces away, lining the edge of the crag, heavy rocks in their hands as they prepared to hurl them down on to the approaching legionaries. So far it seemed they had not paid the swordsman’s warning cries any attention. But now he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted to them as loudly as he could. The nearest men turned to look over their shoulders, then, seeing the handful of Romans, abruptly dropped their missiles and began to rush across the rocky terrain to confront the threat to their position. Emboldened by his approaching comrades, the first man buried the point of his sword in the back of his victim’s neck before wrenching it free and charging towards the next auxiliary. There were already five men on the crags with Cato, and they braced themselves to deal with the warrior as the prefect glanced back down the side of the cliff to where the rest of his men were still climbing.
‘Get up here! Fast as you fucking can!’
Then he turned to join the others as the warrior leapt at them, swinging his sword in a vicious wide arc at the first auxiliary in his path. Despite the strain of the long climb, the man brought his shield up and punched out to deflect the blow, then stepped into his enemy’s reach to deliver a brutal thrust of his sword. The tribesman doubled over as the impact drove him off his feet. The point of the blade burst through the fur cloak on his back, having cut through his spine, and his legs buckled, dragging the sword down with him. The auxiliary kicked him to the rocky surface and braced his foot against the man’s sternum as he wrenched the bloodied blade free.
‘Good work!’ Cato slapped the auxiliary on the shoulder, then drew his own sword and readied his shield as his men fell in on either side. Behind him he could hear the grunts and curses of the other Blood Crows as they reached the top and struggled to their feet before joining their comrades facing the enemy. As one of the auxiliaries made to advance across the crags, Cato called out, ‘Hold your position! Wait until the others catch up.’
By the time the last of the squadron had reached the top, the first of the enemy had stopped only a spear’s length away, expression wild as he weighed up the Thracians, sword in one hand, a small shield barely bigger than a buckler in the other. As his companions began to join him, equally determined-looking, he fixed his gaze on Cato and screamed a war cry, mouth agape, lips stretched back and teeth bared, then charged. Cato just had time to thrust his shield out to absorb the warrior’s first blow. It caught the edge of the oval shield, forcing it round in Cato’s grip so that his chest was exposed as the man followed up with a savage punch of his own shield. Cato caught it on the guard of his sword, and then pressed on with a weak thrust that delivered no more than a bruising impact to his opponent’s chain-mail vest. But it was enough to send the man reeling back a pace before they both recovered their fighting stances and faced off again. Cato was dimly aware of the struggles on either side as his men and the enemy joined the contest for possession of the crags. The scrape and clatter of blades and the crash of blows landed on shields mingled with the grunts and curses of the combatants.
The man facing Cato lowered himself into a crouch, watching intently as he waited for his opponent to make a move. The prefect smiled grimly, recognising that the initiative had passed to him, then stepped forward quickly, leading with his left boot and pushing his shield forward, forcing his enemy to strike out with his sword in order to stand his ground. Cato let his shield absorb the blow before he struck back. Up came the blade, knocking the short sword aside. As the man’s arm swung out after the sword, Cato rushed forward into his body. At the last moment, he lowered the brim of his helmet and savagely butted the reinforced brow guard into the warrior’s face. The blow was hard and jarred Cato’s neck, but the unexpected attack did its job and the man staggered back, dazed. Too dazed to save himself as Cato stabbed his sword up into the tribesman’s throat and ripped it free in a welter of blood. The warrior dropped his sword and clasped his hand to his throat as he slumped to his knees, gurgling horribly.
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.