Macro lowered his head and watched in frustration, until he felt a gentle tug on his foot. Glancing back, he saw Cato open his hand questioningly. Macro shook his head, then eased himself down until he could whisper to Cato without any risk of being overheard.
'We have to wait. Watch me. When I give the signal we get up, quiet as we can, and move on them. You strike when I strike. Not before.'
'Right,' Cato breathed.
They lay in the snow, swords in hand, waiting for their chance. As the snow melted beneath him Cato felt it soaking into his tunic, and chilling the bare skin beneath. He started to shiver again, even though his heart was pounding with terror and excitement. Ahead of him, Macro was still as a rock; only his eyes followed the movement by the tree trunk. The torturer continued his grisly work, and they could catch everything he was saying to his victim.
'Come on, man! You'll tell us in the end. Make no mistake, though. You will die, but you can make it easier on yourself. Much easier.'
'I swear I know nothing,' the victim choked. 'I don't know what you're looking for. I swear it!'
There was a pause before the questioner spoke again, in a low voice that dripped with menace. 'Time, I think, to fry your balls off. Let's see if that loosens your bloody tongue.'
He backed away, turned towards the fire and leaned forward to place his sword blade in among the coals. Macro tensed his muscles and waved a hand at Cato. Then both men rose into a low crouch, swords held ready, and stepped softly towards the tree trunk. The snow creaked under each footfall, and Cato placed each step as carefully and as slowly as he could, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on the back of the man in front of him. He was aware of the dark mass of Macro to his left, easing towards the man at the other end of the trunk. Then he caught a scent of woodsmoke, horse-flesh and the sharper tang of burned meat, and fought down the bile in his stomach.
The torturer straightened up and raised his blade, glowing a dull red against the dark background of the hill. He turned round and froze as he caught sight of the two shapes beyond the tree trunk.
'What the fu-'
'Get 'em!' Macro bellowed, and threw himself forward, kicking up snow as he thrust the point of the sword into the back of the man in front of him. Cato didn't have time to brace himself and just stretched out an arm and launched an attack on his man as the latter began to turn round. Cato's point went high, and straight into the man's ear with a wet crunch. The head snapped to one side under the impact of the blow and he crumpled over. The man in the middle leaped up and back from the tree trunk. He had his sword out in an instant, raising the blade to counter any attack. The torturer stood by his side, eyes flickering left and right. He smiled.
'There's only two of them. We can take 'em.'
Having cut down half the opposition, Macro and Cato paused on their side of the tree trunk. The surprise of the attack was gone. Now it was a straight paired duel. Without taking his gaze from the other men, Macro called out to Cato,'The one with the hot blade's yours. I'll take the other bastard.'
Cato nodded and moved round the edge of the tree trunk, crouched low and ready to spring into an attack. He didn't get the chance. With a roar, the man with the glowing sword charged at him. The tip of the sword slashed through the air in a bright sparkling arc and Cato just had time to thrust his blade up to parry the blow, and the glowing tip glanced off his handle and landed in the snow with a sputtering hiss. Cato recovered quickly and thrust at the man's chest, but the torturer was too quick for him and recovered from his attack, lurching backwards so that Cato's point met only thin air. The two men paused to size each other up, and Cato was dimly aware of Macro slashing away at the other man, but dare not shift his gaze from his immediate foe.
The torturer waved his free hand at Cato.'Come on, boy, if you think you're good enough.'
Cato sneered. He wasn't going to fall for the bait that easily. 'Fuck you.'
The man laughed, then his face froze into an intense and deadly concentration. He quickly stepped forward and feinted. Cato knew he was being tested and flinched slightly, but kept his blade still. The man grunted, and then launched a real attack; a whirling series of slashes and cuts, forcing Cato backwards, towards the tree trunk as he desperately countered each blow with a sharp ring as the blades connected, sending jarring waves of pain down his arm. Then he felt the bark against the back of his thigh and knew there was no further retreat. The attacker came on with renewed frenzy. Then, with a guttural shout of rage and triumph, the man smashed Cato's sword down on to to the top of the tree trunk and made to cut his blade up and sideways into Cato's face. But it had lodged in the wood and his arm shuddered as the blade refused to budge. He frowned. Without thinking, Cato lashed out with his left fist and caught the man on the bridge of his nose, crunching bone and dazing him. Cato felt his blade trapped beneath that of his foe, and released his grip before slamming his right fist into the man's face, following that with a flurry of blows that sent the man reeling back, step by step until he collapsed into the snow.
Only then did he glance up and see how his friend was doing. But Macro needed no help. His man was already down, and the centurion was standing over him, one foot braced on his enemy's chest as he wrenched the blade out from between the man's ribs.
Macro glanced round. 'You all right, lad?'
'Not a scratch.' Cato turned round and went to retrieve his blade. A hand shot out and grabbed his ankle and he sprawled on the ground. He turned on his side at once and lashed out with his foot. The man he had stabbed in the ear snarled at him through clenched teeth, even as he glared at Cato with a strange unfocused expression. But his grip was as firm as a vice and his fingers locked painfully around the flesh of Cato's ankle. Cato kicked out with his free boot, bringing the iron studs down on the man's knuckles. Still he held on, blood streaming from the gouged flesh. Beyond him Cato could see that the torturer had scrambled back on to his feet. He looked at Cato, then Macro, and turned and ran towards the horses.
'Stop, him!' Cato shouted.
Macro reacted at once and dashed forward, sending sprays of powdery snow flying in his wake. Cato turned back towards the tree trunk, grabbed the handle of his sword and with a convulsive heave he wrenched the blade free. He sat up and, gritting his teeth, he slashed it down into the injured man's forearm, cutting deep into flesh and shattering the bones. The grip on his ankle loosened and Cato wrenched his boot free of the nerveless fingers. The man grimaced, then his eyes slowly rolled up and he slumped face first into the snow, blood and grey matter oozing out of the side of his shattered skull.
A sharp neigh drew Cato's attention towards the trees and he saw the torturer leaning low across the back of a horse as he wheeled it round and spurred it across the drainage ditch and on to the road. Macro scrambled after him, but it was too late, and he stopped when he reached the ditch and could only slap his sword against his thigh in frustration as the horse galloped off up the road and into the night.
Cato turned his attention to the prisoner and kneeled down beside him. He was a tall man, well-built, of middle age with short dark hair. He wore riding breeches and soft leather boots. His bare chest had several patches of scorched flesh and there was a burn on his cheek. He forced a smile as Cato loomed over him.
'My rescuers, I hope.'
Cato reached round and fumbled with the thongs that bound him to the tree trunk, found the knot and then worked it apart. When the bindings came free the man slumped forward and rubbed his wrists.