'Because they will not rest until they control Crete. No matter how many they have to kill. I can offer you protection if you lead your people to Gortyna.'
'Protection?' The villager smiled as he stepped away from Cato.
There was a flicker of polished metal, and Cato glanced down to see that the man had drawn a small, delicately curved knife. At once the others followed suit. 'We don't need protection. But you might, Roman.'
Cato glanced round quickly. There were eight men in front of him, but half of them looked old and frail. Several more men stood around the confrontation. Some carried clubs and one had a barbed fishing spear.
'Put those knives away,' Cato ordered. 'Don't be a fool. My men and I are professional soldiers. If you want a fight, then you'd better understand that even though you outnumber us, we would still kill most of you, before even one of us fell.'
The leader of the villagers was silent for a moment, and then spat to one side. 'That's quite a claim, Roman.'
Cato flicked back his cloak and grasped his sword handle. 'Want to put it to the test?'
Behind him, there was a metallic rasp as the men of his escort drew their weapons. Behind them, the shepherd backed away a few steps then turned to run back up the track away from the village. As the sound of his footsteps died away, the two groups of men stared at each other in silence, waiting for the other to make a move. Then the fishermen's leader smiled slowly.
'All right then. There's no need for everyone to get themselves killed. Let's keep this between you and me, Roman. A straight fight.
If you win, you can take the boat and the best of my men to sail her.
If I win, then your men leave the village and find themselves a boat somewhere else.'
Cato thought quickly. Even though the leader of the villagers was powerfully built, he was not a trained fighter and was more likely to have used his blade for gutting fish than for fighting. It would be a risk, but it would save a much greater loss of life if a more general fight broke out between the two sides. He nodded.
'You have a deal. Swords or daggers?'
'I'll stick with this blade.' The villager grinned. 'It's served me well enough in the past.'
'Very well then.' Cato stretched his stiff legs for a moment. Then he unclasped his cloak and slipped his sword belt over his head, and turning to the nearest of his escort handed them over.
'Here, take these.' He leaned slightly closer and lowered his voice. 'If anything happens to me, the governor's message is here.'
Cato patted the leather tube under his tunic. 'Grab one of their men and make for the boat. Whatever happens, that message has to get through to Alexandria. Whatever the cost. Understand?'
'Yes, sir.'
Cato turned back to face the leader of the villagers. Drawing his dagger, he paced warily towards the man and stopped a safe distance away.
'We have agreed the terms. If you lose, then the boat will be mine, yes?'
The fisherman nodded. 'That's right. Lads, make sure he has what he wants, if he wins.'
Cato went into a crouch, blade held out slightly to one side, as he had been taught by Macro in the early days of his time in the Second Legion. Opposite him the villager did the same, while his companions backed away and formed a loose arc behind him.
As he stepped closer, Cato saw for the first time a scar on the brow of his opponent, a crude sun motif burned on to the skin. In a horrible moment of realisation, Cato knew that this was no mere fisherman after all. There was no time for further thought as the man suddenly lunged forward, slashing at Cato's knife arm. Cato whipped it back, turned slightly to his right to retain his balance and thrust back at the other man's arm. He leaped back out of range, with a grin.
'Good reactions, Tribune,' he muttered, in Latin, and for an instant Cato froze.
There was another blur of motion as the man lunged again. Cato moved to parry the blow, but quick as lightning the man's blade changed direction and cut in and up towards Cato's throat. Cato threw his head to one side, and the tip of the blade sliced through the air and nicked his ear, then the man jumped back.
The small cut burned and Cato felt a warm trickle flow down his neck. He shook his head and crouched, ready to attack or defend, as he spoke quietly. 'A soldier, then?'
The villager smiled. 'Once.'
'From the brand of Mithras, I'd say a legionary.'
The villager said nothing.
'So you're a deserter.'
What does it matter?' The man smiled. 'And don't think you can goad me. You're bleeding, Tribune. How does it feel, rich boy? I'm going to cut you down to size a piece at a time.'
Cato watched him intently, his mind racing. The man had been a professional soldier. The chances were that he knew as much, if not more, as Cato did about knife fighting. There was no technical advantage to be had then. But there was some hope. His opponent took him as some son of an aristocratic family and no doubt thought him soft and inexperienced.
'Try it, you' scum,' Cato sneered haughtily. Immediately he sprang forward, slashing out wildly with his blade, all the time keeping his arm extended and his body out of range of the other man's knife. The villager easily ducked the attacks or deflected them with swift parries that clinked and scraped as the two men duelled. Cato stumbled back, breathing heavily, as the blood continued to drip from his ear.
'You're soft, Tribune,' the other man sniffed. 'Just like all you aristocratic mother's boys. Playing at soldiers. I'm going to enjoy this.'
He stepped forward, feinting again and again, laughing as Cato frantically tried to block each thrust as he gave ground. Then, with a cry, Cato stumbled and fell back. At once the other man sprang forward, crouching as he came on, knife poised to strike into Cato's chest. Cato spun to one side and lashed out with his boot, catching the other man hard, behind the knee. His momentum and the loss of weight-bearing on the leg Cato had struck, caused the man to lose his balance, and he crashed heavily to the ground, face first. Cato jumped on to his back, snatching a clump of hair in one hand, while he pressed the tip of his knife into his opponent's throat so that it just cut the flesh. Leaning forward, he hissed into the man's ear:
'You're right. Amateurs should never, ever try and fuck with professionals.' He eased himself up. 'Give in, or I'll cut your throat where you lie.'
'Bastard
Cato pulled on the man's hair. 'Last chance. Submit or die.'
'All right, you win,' grunted the man.
'Louder. So everyone can hear it.'
'I give in! I give in. The Roman wins!'
'That's better.' Cato released his grip and let the man's head slump into the dirt. Rising up warily, he backed away and sheathed his dagger. His defeated opponent rolled over and sat up, rubbing the small cut in his neck. He stared at Cato with a puzzled frown.
'You're not like any tribune I ever met. Where were you raised, in the slums of the Subura?'
Cato shook his head.' No, in the imperial palace, as it happens.'
'What?'
'It doesn't matter. I need that boat now ' He paused and thrust his finger at the man. 'And I want you to sail it.'
'Me?'
'You were a soldier once. You're a bit rusty now, but useful in a fight.You'll do. What is your name, soldier?'
'Yannis. That's what I'm called here.'
'Fair enough.' Cato held out his hand, and after a brief hesitation the fisherman allowed him to help him back to his feet.
'If you're the head man here, your people will need a replacement. You'd better appoint one. If taking the boat means they may go hungry, then their best chance is to make for Gortyna. They should tell the men on the city gate that Tribune Cato sent them there.
Whatever happens, your people need to stay clear of any bands of slaves they see.'
Yannis nodded. 'All right then, Tribune. As you say'