The light was fading when Cato left the prisoners and made one last circuit of the fort to ensure that his men were ready to face whatever the enemy might throw at them during the second night. As he made his way along the wall that overlooked the river he saw some of the Thracians below, leading strings of horses down the last stretch of the path to the river. More men, dismounted, were spread out along the slopes, keeping watching for the approach of the enemy. The unmistakable figure of Quertus was already in the shallows, watering his beast. Looking across to the far bank, Cato could see that the tribesmen were powerless to intervene. That would change soon enough, he mused. Caratacus was sure to post slingers along the bank to harry any further attempt by the defenders to lead their mounts to drink at the river.
When he completed his tour of the wall, Cato climbed into the gatehouse tower once again to check on the activity of the enemy before he returned to his quarters for a quick meal. Then once he had decided on the night’s password he would rest for a few hours. He had decided to entrust the second watch of the night to Macro, who could be depended upon to raise the alarm in good time if Caratacus decided to make another night attack. The climb up the ladder seemed exhausting and Cato realised he had had no sleep for nearly two days. Now that he thought of it, nothing seemed more welcoming than the prospect of his simple cot in the modest living quarters of the garrison commander.
The rain had stopped and down in the valley the evening gloom was pricked by the red glow of campfires. Cato could see a party hard at work trimming several tree trunks at the edge of the parade ground. The sight did not unduly unsettle him until his gaze came to rest upon another party of warriors busy bundling slender saplings together and binding them tightly. They were too big for faggots and then he realised that Caratacus had given orders to make fascines to bridge the ditch. The enemy would start dragging them forward as soon as night fell. They would tumble them into the ditch and slowly build up more causeways across the defences to enable them to bring the rams to bear against other sections of the wall. It was clear that the Silurians were determined to carry through their attack. Nothing was going to stop them taking Bruccium, Cato reflected. So much for his new command. It had lasted less than a month.
‘What the fuck am I thinking?’ Cato suddenly demanded of himself with a fierce whisper. He had no right to be defeatist, not while the lives of hundreds of men depended on his leadership. It was the most woeful and shaming self-indulgence and he felt disgust and loathing for himself. Not for the first time, Cato felt as if he was just playing the part of being a prefect and the real fear was that he would be found out. Other men, the real professional soldiers, would see through his façade. Worst of all was the prospect of Macro at last recognising him for what he was. To lose Macro’s respect would break his heart. It had been an odd friendship from the outset, Cato reflected. At first Macro had despaired of his efforts to learn the soldier’s trade, but in time he had shown enough courage and ingenuity to win the veteran over. It was Macro’s seal of approval that had given Cato the heart to fight on, up through the ranks, to surpass even his mentor. Macro had been more of a father to him than his own father, more than a brother. That was the peculiar bond of soldiers, he realised. A bond more powerful than family ties, not love perhaps, but something even more essential, and more demanding.
Cato let out an exasperated sigh. He was doing it again! The endless round of self-investigation that served no purpose. His mind was wandering because he was tired, he concluded. Rest was what he needed. Very badly.
Turning away from the enemy camp, Cato left the gatehouse and trudged back to his quarters where Decimus brought him what was left of the bread, stale and hard, and a wedge of the local goat’s cheese. It was a poor meal and Cato had little appetite but he made himself eat, knowing that he needed to sustain himself through the coming trials of the siege. The evening briefing of his officers was perfunctory as each knew his duties and had little to report. Cato dismissed them swiftly and retired to his quarters, removed his sword belt and cuirass but left his boots on in case he was roused by an emergency, and slumped down on his bed. He reached across to extinguish the wick on the small oil lamp that provided the room with a dim light and lay back on the straw-filled bolster. He stared up towards the barely discernible rafters and wood shingle tiles. Once again he mentally went over the defences of the fort but before he had got very far he had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep and for once began to snore as loudly as his friend Macro.
The blare of the horn took a moment to wake Cato, and there was an instant of foggy incomprehension as he stirred. Then, with a stab of panic, he bolted upright and was instantly alert. Swinging his boots over the side of the cot he snatched up his sword belt and ran for the door. As he went through the small courtyard he saw the clerks emerging from their quarters, faces bleary by the light of the sentry’s brazier. There was already a hint of the coming dawn in the distant sky and Cato felt a surge of anger. Why hadn’t Decimus come to wake him over an hour earlier, as ordered? Cato looked for Decimus, meaning to order him to fetch his helmet and armour and come to find him, but there was no sign of his servant and no time to look for him. Outside in the street the first men were already spilling from their barracks, kit in hand as they raced to take up their positions on the wall. There was no sound of fighting, no war cries from outside the fort, just the hurried tramping of boots and shouted orders from the officers of the garrison’s two cohorts.
Cato stopped, not sure in which direction to head. His instinct told him to run to the wall overlooking the enemy camp, but the horn was sounding from the rear wall. It seemed that Caratacus was trying a different approach, and Cato ran down the street leading to the rear gatehouse. It was a common feature of Roman camps to build four gates, regardless of their functionality. Bruccium was no different, even though three of the gates opened on to steep slopes. He heard shouts ahead, and then the ringing clatter and scrape of weapons.
‘To the rear gate!’ Cato shouted as he ran. ‘To the rear!’
The cry was taken up and boots pounded through the darkness behind him and to the side as men raced between the barrack blocks towards the rear gate. Cato could see the gatehouse looming at the end of the street, the top of the tower illuminated by the glow of a small brazier. Below it dark shapes swirled about, and Cato felt an icy dread as he realised the enemy must have broken in. How was that possible? This was Macro’s watch. He would not have let such a thing happen.
Then he heard his friend shouting above the fray. ‘Hold the bastards back!’
Cato tore his sword from the scabbard and slung the latter aside as he ran hard towards the fight. Bursting out from between the last pair of barracks he glimpsed two or three men holding horses to one side and a score of others, Thracians, around the inner gate engaged with a handful of men defending the passage. Then he saw that the smaller group were carrying legionary shields and wearing Roman helmets. One even had the crest of a centurion. So that was it. Caratacus had used some captured kit to trick his way into the fort.
Macro called out again. ‘Don’t let ’em get out, lads!’
Out? Cato abruptly scrambled to a halt. What was this? What was happening? More men were emerging all around the gatehouse, some bearing torches they had hastily snatched up from the watch fires that burned through the night. By their light the scene became clear. Quertus and a band of his men were trying to cut their way through the section of legionaries manning the gatehouse, and the duty officer, Macro. As more men arrived on the scene, they hesitated as they saw the skirmish, not sure what to do, which side to take in the unequal fight. The Thracian commander looked up, his expression wild and fearful.
‘Kill them!’ he shouted to his followers. ‘Now, or we’re dead men!’
Cato strode forward, sword held ready. ‘Quertus!’ he bellowed. ‘Throw down your weapons, you and your men. Do it now!’
The Thracians at the gate backed away from the legionaries uncertainly, turning
towards the approaching prefect. Around them, in a growing ring, stood the legionaries and auxiliaries roused from their sleep by the alarm. Cato grasped what must have happened and he stopped a safe distance from Quertus.
‘You’re trying to desert. . Centurion Petillius!’
‘Sir?’ the officer responded from the gathering crowd.
‘Get your men over to the gate at once!’
‘Yes, sir! Legionaries! On me!’
Men surged forward and took position between the Thracians and the gate. There was enough light now for Cato to see the horse holders clearly and he gave a start.
‘Decimus? What in the name of the gods are you doing?’
His servant shrank before his superior’s gaze, and then released the reins of the horses he was tending and edged forward, glancing from Cato to Quertus and back again. Then he hurried across to join the ranks on either side of the Thracian officer. The other handlers followed his cue and ran across to join their leader. In amongst them he saw Maridius, arms bound to his side. Cato glared at them all, still unwilling to believe the evidence of the treachery before his eyes. Then he turned to the gate. ‘Macro!’
There was no reply. Cato edged round and joined Petillius and his men. ‘Macro! Speak up, man!’
‘He’s here, sir!’ a legionary replied and Cato thrust his way through to the foot of the gatehouse. In the gloom he saw a legionary spreadeagled on the ground, lying still. Another was sitting with his back to the gate, nursing an injured arm, one hand clamped over the wound to stem the blood. One of the men was kneeling beside a figure lying on his side. Cato felt his heart leap as he crouched down. Macro’s eyes were flickering and he groaned feebly, but there was no sign of blood on his body.
‘He took a blow to the head,’ said one of the sentries. ‘Saw it happen just after you arrived, sir.’
Cato felt relief, then the rage flowed back and he stood and turned to Quertus, his sword thrust out towards the Thracian. ‘Arrest that man! Arrest all of them!’
‘Sir?’ Centurion Petillius looked confused.
‘Cowards!’ Cato spat. ‘Cowards and deserters! Do as I order. Arrest them!’
Petillius took a step towards them. ‘Drop your weapons!’
Quertus laughed harshly. ‘I don’t think so. If you take on me then you take on all my men. Isn’t that right, boys? We’ve had enough of this Roman puppy! He has not earned the right to command you. This fort is mine. This fort belongs to Thracians!’ He punched his sword into the air and the men around him cheered uncertainly, then again with more heart. Cato noticed that some of those who stood in the ring of men around the gatehouse joined in, and began to cross the open ground to join their commander. A chill of fear trickled down his spine at the growing danger of the situation. He stepped forward and addressed the ring of men.
‘Hear me! Hear me!’
The cries of the other men died away and Cato thrust his finger at Quertus. ‘This man, this coward, was about to abandon the fort and leave us to our fate!’
‘Liar!’ Quertus shot back. ‘I was sending my men to raise the alarm since this Roman refused to give the order! He would have us die here! I would save us.’
Cato pointed at Maridius. ‘Then what is the enemy prince doing here? You were going to use him as a hostage to get through the enemy lines. Is that not so?’
Quertus’s eyes narrowed craftily. ‘Of course. What chance would my men have without him? Better to put him to some good use than let him rot in chains.’
‘And you were going to remain here, I suppose,’ Cato asked cynically. ‘After you sent these men on their way?’
‘Of course. My place is here, beside my comrades. Leading them into battle.’
Cato’s lip curled. ‘You liar! You coward. The proof of your treachery is there by the gate. The men you attacked in order to escape from the fort. You would have killed them all and ridden off leaving the gate open to the enemy. No doubt you hoped that we’d be wiped out, and you could return to Glevum and claim to have cut your way free, with a valuable prisoner to hand over to the legate. I can see it all.’
‘You can see nothing!’ Quertus shouted back. He swept his arms out as if to embrace his men. ‘My brothers, now is the time to take our fort back from this arrogant fool! It is he who should be arrested! He is the coward, the prefect without the heart to kill his enemy right down to the last hunting dog. He is not worthy of your loyalty. I have proved myself to you time and again. Follow me, my brothers! Follow me! And put this dog in chains with the Silurian scum!’
Quertus thrust his sword up with a deep roar which was echoed by his most ardent followers in the gathering crowd. Cato’s heart pounded in his chest. He felt his authority slipping from his grasp with every passing moment. He must act while there was still a chance to sway the Thracian auxiliaries. He could count on the loyalty of the legionaries, but they were outnumbered. If it came to a fight, they would lose. There was only one thing he could do to save the situation. He must grasp the opportunity that Quertus had unwittingly offered him.
Drawing himself up, Cato stepped forward, out into the open between the legionaries and Quertus and his band, where all could clearly see him. He raised his arms and slowly the noise began to die down.
‘Centurion Quertus accuses me of being a coward. You all heard him. I will not take such an insult from any man! You are all brave soldiers. Only a brave officer deserves your loyalty. So let us put it to the test. Let us see who is fit to command the Blood Crows!’ He pointed his sword directly at Quertus. ‘I challenge him to fight me for the right to command. If he refuses then it proves he is the coward I say he is!’
There was a stunned silence before Quertus stepped forward and confronted Cato with a cold smile. ‘You would fight me?’ He lowered his voice so that only Cato might hear his next words. ‘You’re a damned fool, Prefect Cato. . and now you’ll die because of it.’
Quertus shrugged off his fur coat and unfastened the straps at the side of his breastplate and let it drop to the ground so that he stood in his tunic, like Cato. Except that he was nearly a head taller and broad in proportion. He let the blade of his sword rest against his shoulder. ‘Do you want to settle this with the spatha or the gladius?’
Cato thought swiftly. The cavalry sword had greater reach and weight, but he had trained to use the legionary weapon and had wielded one through every campaign he had fought in. ‘I was a legionary before I was ever a prefect. And I’ll fight as a legionary should.’
Quertus gave a wolfish grin. ‘As you wish. Then let us begin. Clear the ground there!’ he bellowed and the Thracians stepped back to create an open space twenty paces across, lit by the wavering glow of the torches held by several of their number. Above them a pallid hue was already bleeding across the sky, and Cato could see that the clouds were thinner than in the previous days, and there was even a patch that looked as if it might break to reveal the heavens. He felt a strange calmness come over him now that he was committed. Then he turned his attention to the Thracian and lowered himself into a crouch and held his sword ready.
‘There can only be one commander at Bruccium,’ he said calmly. ‘There can be no quarter asked or given. This is a fight to the death.’
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 rippi
ng 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!’
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