‘Ha!’ The nobleman smiled grimly. He shook his head and came on, sword held out ready to strike down the defenceless Roman officer.
There was only one chance for Cato now. He plucked the Blood Crows’ standard from the snow and held it in both hands, lowering the point towards his foe as if it was a spear, with the fall of dark cloth hanging down from the cross-piece. He feinted, but the other man just laughed and casually swatted the head of the standard aside with his sword and strode forward to finish Cato off. Quickly stepping back, Cato swung the end of the standard. The weighted folds of cloth fell across the warrior’s face, obscuring his vision, and he stopped dead, raising his spare hand to brush the cloth away. Pulling the staff back, Cato let it drop so that the head was between his opponent’s legs, then twisted it round so that the cross-piece was behind the man’s ankle. He yanked the shaft back viciously, and as the man’s leg came flying up, he lost his balance and fell, both arms flailing. He landed heavily, the breath driven from his lungs with a deep grunt. Cato stepped over him, and their eyes met as the nobleman struggled to bring his sword up and round to protect himself.
‘Drop it!’ Cato raised the spike at the end of the standard and pointed it at the man’s chest. There was a beat when he thought his opponent would surrender, but then the nobleman’s eyes narrowed and he made to swing his sword at Cato’s flank. Gritting his teeth, Cato bunched his arm muscles and drove the spike into the opening below the man’s chin, then pressed down hard, feeling the iron point tear through flesh and grind between bones before it burst out of his body, through the mail vest and into the ground.
The nobleman’s head snapped back and his jaws opened wide in a gasp, flecks of blood spraying out on his breath. His sword arm went limp and the blade slapped into the snow at his side as Cato worked the standard round in a crude circle to do as much damage to his opponent as he could. Then he braced a foot on the man’s mailed chest and pulled the base of the standard out, dark and slick with blood that steamed in the cold air. The young nobleman writhed weakly as he bled out, feet working in the snow, head rolling from side to side. He muttered quietly to himself, and the Roman briefly wondered if it might be a prayer, or some final words to a loved one.
Cato retrieved his sword and looked round to make sure he was in no immediate danger. Close by, Thraxis was standing over a stricken enemy, while the other Blood Crow was staggering back, nursing a wound to his thigh. Blood was flowing freely down his leg and spattering the white ground beneath. The three warriors who had come to the aid of the man Cato had felled now backed away, aghast at the mortal wounding of their leader. Their shocked reaction was swiftly shared by many of the other defenders, who fell back in a moment of doubt.
A cheer rose from some of the auxiliaries on the rampart as they saw that Cato had recaptured the standard, and their comrades added their voices. At once Cato grasped that a decisive point had been reached and raised the standard high over his head, calling to his men, ‘Blood Crows! Blood Crows! On to victory!’
The auxiliaries charged forward, hurling themselves on their shaken enemy. All the time, more of their comrades were climbing through the gaps in the palisade to add their weight to the fight. The companions of the dying nobleman quickly recovered, however, and fell back to try and rally their followers, who had abandoned half the fortification to the Romans. They still had the advantage in numbers and might yet hold the position, despite their wavering spirits. Cato knew that he had to keep the initiative.
‘Thraxis, over here!’
The Thracian trotted across. ‘Sir?’
‘Give me your shield and take the standard. Quickly, man!’
The auxiliary did as he was ordered, and a moment later he stood beside his prefect, a grim look of satisfaction on his features as he glanced up at the standard that had been entrusted to him. Cato took a firm grip on the handle of the shield and made ready to advance towards the enemy, who were re-forming their ranks on the far side of the redoubt. His throat felt hot and dry, despite the cold, and he had to clear it before he called out again.
‘Blood Crows! Rally to the standard!’
Those who were not engaged hurried across to form up on either side of Cato, and others joined them as they entered the fortification. As soon as twenty or so men had assembled, Cato swung towards the enemy and paced forward. ‘Follow me.’
The Blood Crows advanced, shields to the front and sword arms bent as they made ready to strike. On the rampart, their comrades continued to battle with the defenders there, but Cato knew that the fight for the redoubt would be won or lost here in the centre of the earthwork. No more than fifteen paces away, the enemy was facing up to receive them, a dense mass of wild-haired warriors, many sporting swirling tattoos on their faces and arms as their features fixed into expressions of defiance and hatred. There was fear there too, Cato noted, and he found an echo of that sentiment in his own heart as he did every time he went into battle. It was that instinctual desire to turn and run for safety that he had long since forced himself to master.
One of the enemy noblemen raised his sword and let out a roar before swinging the blade down, pointing it directly at Cato and launching himself into a charge. His comrades reacted a moment later and followed him, two paces behind. Cato did not react to the challenge but continued at a steady pace so that his men would enter the fight together. He almost smiled at the impulsive nature of these warriors and how it so often played into the Romans’ hands, as he aimed to demonstrate in the next few heartbeats.
The man leading the charge thrust his shield forward and swung his sword in a high arc to smash it down on Cato’s helmet and split his skull open. Cato dropped to his knee and punched his shield up to take the blow. An instant later, he lurched back under the impact of first the sword and then the warrior’s shield. As soon as the latter made contact, he swung his own sword slightly out and round before angling the point up, feeling the steel bite deeply into his opponent’s thigh. He twisted and withdrew the blade as the man staggered to a halt with an enraged bellow. Then, rising, he shoved his shield hard and pressed close to the man as he stabbed again, this time into his shoulder, tearing through muscles and opening up a terrible wound that at once started to bleed profusely. Another shove sent the man staggering back across the snow, and he fell against his followers before slumping to the ground. Those closest to him slowed and stopped in their tracks.
‘Blood Crows! Charge!’ Cato screamed the order, and with a savage cry his men burst into motion and hurled their weight behind their shields as they crashed into the wavering ranks of the tribesmen. The Thracian auxiliaries had won a reputation for their ferocity in action and now added bloody lustre to their fame as they carved their way into the dense mass of natives before them. They pressed hard, working their swords in quick savage blows, and crimson drops and splashes streaked and smeared the packed snow and ice underfoot. The viciousness of the counter-charge and the loss of their second leader quickly took its toll on the natives, and any hope they had of saving the redoubt gave way to a fight to save their skins as they began to back away, desperately warding off the Blood Crows’ swords.