The Blood Crows

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Quertus swept his sword down and spurred his horse forward with an inchoate roar. His men took up the cry, as did Macro, while Cato clamped his jaw shut and breathed deeply and quickly through flaring nostrils as he urged his horse on, drawing his sword and using the flat of the blade to slap the animal’s rump. The line of horsemen rapidly gathered speed as they surged away from the bank of the stream, over the rich calf-deep grass that was bejewelled with dewdrops and speckled with bright yellow flowers. The sun was rising above the hills behind the horsemen and the first rays flooded the valley, burnishing it with pale gold light.

As the horses built up their speed to a full gallop, Cato felt the wind roaring in his ears and his body swayed and jolted at the impact of the horse galloping beneath him. He tightened his grip on the reins, clamped his thighs against the flanks of his mount and leaned forward, keeping his sword hand low and out to the side where it could not accidentally wound him, or Macro to his right. On either side the Thracians kept their spears vertical for the same reason and Cato saw that they were holding to their discipline; not a man had lost his head and lowered his point yet. The din of Macro’s excited shouts filled his ears. The faster horses began to pull ahead and Quertus bellowed above the din for his men to hold the line.

A hundred and fifty paces ahead, the Silurian warriors were hurrying towards the chief’s hut to form a defensive perimeter. They snatched up the first pieces of armour and weapons that came to hand. Most had shields, large, flat and round, with elegantly painted faces depicting wild animals. In their other hands they gripped an assortment of spears, swords and axes. As the gentle slope began to flatten out, Cato saw the chief emerge from his hut, a tall, broad figure, the top of his head bald, with the red hair of the fringe tied back in two plaits. His men had bought him enough time to pull on a chain-mail vest and he clutched a long-handled battleaxe in his right hand as he shouted orders to them.

As the Blood Crows swept on to the crest of the hillock, the outer huts forced them to flow round and crowd together, causing the riders to curse and the horses to whinny as they pressed up against each other. There were still men emerging from the huts and as Cato approached an entrance, the leather curtain swept back and a Silurian stood behind his raised shield and thrust a hunting spear out at the passing riders. The point tore into the flank of the standard-bearer’s horse, just ahead of Cato. A shrill neigh split the air as the animal jerked to the side, snatching the spear from the warrior’s grasp. The butt caught against the side of the hut and snapped with a sharp report and the splintered end spun towards Cato’s face. He ducked his head just in time and felt the impact as the wood glanced off the crown of his helmet. Then he looked up and twisted in his saddle to thrust his sword towards the man. The spatha he had drawn from the fort’s stores had a longer reach than the gladius he was used to, and the warrior leaped back as the sword struck the wooden door frame. Cato snatched it back and then the hut was behind him.

To his right he saw Macro strike down a short Silurian wearing a brown tunic. The man half turned just in time to see Macro’s blade slash through the air and into the side of his head, cutting flesh and shattering the jawbone. The warrior collapsed and was lost from view beneath the horses. There was a brief cry of pain, before it died, with him, crushed into the ground.

‘Kill them all!’ Quertus screamed, a manic expression etched into his features. His men echoed his cry as they cut down the handful of men who had responded too late to the alarm to join their comrades in front of the chief’s hut. A second man emerged from the largest hut, tall and powerfully built. He was protected by armour and a helmet, beneath which his blond hair flowed over his shoulders. He carried a spear and a shield and thrust himself between two men to take his place in the battle line. There was something about his face that struck Cato. Something familiar. But there was no time to give the thought more than an instant.

The Blood Crows surged forward, thundering across the open space, kicking over the remains of the fires and sending swirls of ash and bright cinders into the air. Some of the Thracians surged in between Macro and Cato, forcing them apart, and Cato found himself twenty feet to the left of his friend and the rest of the command party, just as the first of the horsemen lowered the points of their spears and charged headlong into the line of Silurian warriors. There was a rippling clatter and thud as weapons clashed and struck shields. Battle cries died on men’s lips as they locked in combat, furiously wielding their weapons as they hacked and thrust at each other. There was an opening between two horsemen ahead of Cato and he pulled on his reins to direct his mount into the gap, sword held up, ready to strike.

An enemy warrior sprang in front of him, baring his teeth through the thick dark hair of his beard. He raised his shield and stabbed a spear at the neck of Cato’s horse. The beast reared away, front legs lashing out as Cato threw his weight forward and clutched the reins tightly to avoid toppling back out of his saddle. A hoof connected with the point of the warrior’s spear, knocking it downwards, and the warrior retreated a few paces from the danger of the hoofs. Then the horse dropped forward and Cato struggled back into an erect position, just in time to parry another thrust from the Silurian. His long blade clanged and he twisted his arm to deflect the spear point, then spurred his horse forward, into the enemy warrior, thudding into his shield and knocking him back. Cato gave him no time to regain his balance and swung his sword down, reaching as far forward as he could. The edge hissed through the air and struck the man on the woad-patterned skin of his shoulder. The blade bit through his flesh and struck the man’s collarbone, which snapped beneath the savage force of the blow. He uttered an agonised cry and staggered back, his shield slipping from his fingers. Yet he still had the wit to wield his spear, even through the red veil of his pain, and thrust the point up at Cato.

Cato pulled savagely on his reins and Hannibal turned sharply to the right, and the point of the spear clattered off the shield. Cato twisted in the saddle and swung his sword again, unable to get much power into the blow. But it was enough to make the Silurian stumble back, blood streaming down his chest from the wound in his shoulder. He dropped his spear and clamped his hand over the torn flesh and turned to stagger away from the fight. Cato let him go, and seeing that there was no immediate threat, he looked round. The auxiliaries had driven into the loose ranks of the enemy and several small pockets of fighters were battling it out in front of the large hut. Macro was at the side of Quertus as both men charged into a loose pocket of Silurians and lay about them, scattering the enemy and cutting down another handful of warriors to add to those already lying on the ground, dead or wounded.

The chief, his tall companion and several of his men had formed a tight circle to hold off the Thracians. As Cato watched, one of the Blood Crows edged his horse in and thrust his spear. The tip clattered against a shield, and as he drew the weapon back, the tall man with the blond hair ran forward and piked the rider in his side. The impact was powerful enough to knock him out of the saddle and he fell to the ground on the other side of the horse. At once a burly Silurian armed with an axe leaped forward and swung his weapon down with both hands. The head of the axe smashed into the auxiliary’s back, driving him into the soil. Another blow to the back of his head split the iron helmet and shattered the man’s skull.

Then Cato saw the cohort’s standard-bearer, off to one side, trapped against the hut by a group of Silurians who used their swords to frighten the horse as they closed in for the kill. The shame of letting the standard fall into enemy hands was ingrained into every soldier of the Roman army and Cato automatically turned his horse towards the hut and spurred it forwards. He brushed past some horsemen who had been hanging back a short distance from the fighting. Cato brandished his bloodied sword and shouted an order.

‘Follow me!’

He did not wait to see if he had been obeyed as he concentrated his attention on the confrontation between the Silurians and the standard-bearer. Already one of them had injured the horse and blood flowed down its coat and spattered on to the ground. A second man feinted towards the rider, forcing him to turn and confront the danger. At once another darted forward on the other side and quickly stabbed him in the calf before leaping back. The standard-bearer cried out in pain and his lips parted in a grimace as he shifted from side to side, desperate to keep all of his opponents in view.

The sound of Cato’s approach caused the nearest of the warriors to glance round and then turn to face the new threat, feet braced as he covered his body with his shield and raised his sword, aiming the point at the Roman bearing down on him. Beyond him, Cato saw the standard-bearer look up into his eyes. There was a strange expression in the man’s face, cold and calculating. Then he released his grip on the shaft of the standard and the image of the black crow on the red cloth fluttered as it fell to the ground.

‘What. .’

Cato looked on in horror as the standard-bearer grasped the reins and urged his horse away from the side of the hut. One of the enemy fell upon the standard with a shout of triumph. He cast his shield aside and snatched up the standard before he saw Cato’s horse racing towards him. With a quick cry and gesture to his companions he ran off with the standard.

Leaning forward in his saddle, Cato held his sword out to the side as he charged the nearest of the Silurians. He slashed his sword through the air, but his enemy nimbly stepped aside then forward to make his own attack, a powerfully directed thrust at Cato’s waist. The nervous movement of his horse spoiled the attempt and the point glanced off the side of Cato’s breastplate. Cato made another cut, battering the Silurian’s shield and driving him off. Both men paused for an instant, sizing the other up, and then the Silurian’s companion rushed forward to join the fight. Beyond, the third man made good his escape, clutching his trophy, and disappeared round the back of the hut. Cato heard the sound of hoofs behind him, the men he had ordered to follow him, and pressed his attack on the Silurian who had turned to face him. Steering his mount forward he slashed at the shield again and again, thudding blows cutting splinters out of the painted wooden surface, driving the man back, away from his companion.

‘Deal with them!’ Cato shouted, as he spurred his horse on, making for the back of the hut. Only recovering the standard mattered at the moment. As his horse lurched into a gallop he heard the clatter of weapons behind him as the Thracians dealt with the two men. Cato’s mount thundered round the curve of the hut and then he saw the Silurian, holding the standard in front of him like a cross-staff as he ran down the slope away from the fight. Fifty paces on was a large wicker enclosure containing twenty or thirty horses, some of which were already saddled. A young Silurian groom had emerged through the gate to stare anxiously up the slope towards the sound of fighting. At once he ducked back inside and re-emerged a moment later with a pitchfork. He lowered the points towards Cato. The man with the standard rushed on, glancing back at his pursuer, his expression shot through with alarm as he saw the Roman close behind him.

Cato gripped his legs to the flanks of his mount and readied his sword as he closed on his prey. The blade rose, paused, as Cato judged the timing of his blow, and then slashed down. At the last instant the Silurian threw himself to one side and rolled over in the grass, still holding tightly to the Blood Crows’ standard.

‘Shit. .’ Cato hissed, reining and turning his horse towards the warrior, who regained his feet and sprinted on towards the enclosure, screaming orders to the young man at the gate. Cato urged his mount into a steady canter, converging with the warrior, but it was too late to pick him off before he reached the gate and there he turned. His chest heaved from his exertions as he thrust the point of the standard towards Cato. The chase was over and Cato stopped his horse a short distance from the two men. He could see that the young man with the pitchfork was afraid. His eyes were wide and the points of his makeshift weapon were trembling. Cato edged his horse closer and pointed his sword at the youth and flicked the blade to the side.

‘Go! Get out of here!’

Even though the words were not in his tongue, the meaning was clear enough and the Silurian began to shuffle to the side until a sharp word of command from his comrade stopped him. Cato heard the sound of hoofs behind him and glanced back up the slope to see the two Thracians riding down towards him. The sight lifted his spirits. There was no way the standard would be lost now. Then they slewed to a halt a hundred feet away.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Cato called out to them. ‘On me! Now!’

They did not react, and their mounts stood in the long grass, tails swishing, as the two men watched silently.

Cato felt rage burn in his veins. So much for the vaunted reputation of the Blood Crows, he thought bitterly. He was about to shout at them again when the Silurian with the standard let out a roar and charged towards him. There was little time to react and Cato turned to present his shield, his sword held overhead. The warrior’s eyes were wide and his lips were bared as he braced his shoulders and threw all his weight behind the thrust. The point struck the shield low, splintering the wood. The tip punched through the laminated strips and burst out the other side and struck the horse just in front of Cato’s knee. The horse lurched to one side as Cato swung his sword at the warrior’s head. The Silurian ducked, and wrenching the standard free he backed off and readied himself, then shouted at his comrade. The young man hesitantly moved forward, edging round to flank Cato.

‘Fuck. .’ he muttered, turning from side to side as he tried to keep both men in view. He risked a glance back up the slope to where the two Thracians still waited and a cold tremor rippled down his spine. This was not right. He turned his attention back to the enemy. The main threat came from the warrior. If Cato could put him down he was certain the youth would turn and run. On the other hand, the young man’s nervousness made him unpredictable. He could just as easily throw himself at Cato like a wild animal as flee from him. Instinctively Cato turned on him and leaned forward to strike at the pitchfork. The youth was not quick-witted enough to parry the blow and the blade snapped one of the prongs and knocked the tool down. At once Cato made a weak back-handed cut, the point of the sword ripping the man’s tunic and scoring a light flesh wound across his chest. He shrieked more in surprise than pain and staggered back in terror, releasing his grip on the pitchfork. Then he stumbled round and ran off, away from Cato and the enclosure, towards some huts a few hundred paces away.

The other Silurian hurled a contemptuous insult after him and then surged forward again, stabbing out with the Blood Crows’ standard. This time he aimed higher up and Cato lifted his shield to block the blow. At the last instant his opponent twisted the point aside so that the iron cross piece at the top of the standard swept past the edge of the shield. Then, with a powerful flick of the wrist, he hooked the crosspiece behind the shield and pulled with all his strength. The shield lurched in Cato’s grip and the trim at the top caught him a jarring blow under the chin. He tasted blood in his mouth and then the shield was wrenched again, and he let go. The standard and shield flew back towards the warrior who lost his footing and tumbled on to the grass. Before he could recover, Cato leaned down from his saddle and thrust his sword into the Silurian’s throat and pinned him to the ground, twisting the blade, before he wrenched it free. Blood pumped from the wound and the Silurian clamped his hands over his throat as he spat blood, gurgled, and struggled for breath. Certain that the man was finished, Cato eased himself down from the saddle to recover the Blood Crow standard and his shield. He slipped the shoulder strap of the shield over one of the saddle horns and then climbed back into the saddle, holding the standard aloft so that the weighted fall clearly revealed the image of the crow. His heart was filled with relief that the danger of the unit being shamed by the loss of the standard had been averted.

He turned his horse up the slope and saw the two Thracians flick their reins and steer their horses down the slope. Cato scowled at them and was about to berate them when he realised there was something in their expressions that wasn’t right. They looked at him coldly as they drew closer, then lowered their spears and held them out to the side, ready to strike.

Ready to strike Cato down.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Most of the enemy had fallen and the survivors clustered around their chief and the tall man with the blond hair, who fought as well as any man Macro had ever seen. He moved lightly on his feet and struck deft, lethal blows with his spear. He had already killed two of the Thracians and injured a third, without suffering a scratch in return. Around him were another ten or twelve Silurians, some injured, but all of them keeping their shields raised and their weapons pointed towards their foes.

There was a brief pause as the horsemen drew back and formed a crescent round the Silurians who were backed against the entrance to the chief’s hut. Their chests heaved as they stared warily at the Thracians.

Macro found himself close to Quertus and called across, ‘Time to tell ’em to give up. Do you know their tongue well enough to ask?’

Quertus glowered as he faced Macro. ‘They’ll fight to the end. There’ll be no prisoners.’

Macro edged his horse alongside the Thracian. ‘Yes, there will. You heard the prefect. We’ll take any that surrender. Only those that don’t are fair game.’

Quertus growled and glared towards the men in front of the hut.

‘Those are the orders,’ Macro said firmly. ‘Tell them to lay down their arms.’

For a moment it seemed that the other man would refuse. Then he nodded and drew a breath and called out to the enemy. As the fair man made his reply, Macro sat tall in his saddle and looked round for Cato.

‘Where the hell is he?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Sometimes I reckon it’s not safe to let that lad out. .’

Then he recalled the glimpse he had had of his friend chasing a man round the rear of the chief’s hut. Macro turned back to Quertus who was still trading comments with the native. He could see that the Silurians were easing themselves into upright postures as the exchange continued. Macro sensed that their surrender was almost assured and that he was no longer needed at Quertus’s side. He tugged on his reins and worked his way through the horsemen and then trotted towards the rear of the hut, in the direction he had seen his friend take a short time earlier. He passed a body lying sprawled on the ground and continued round. As he reached the top of the slope he felt a surge of relief as he spied the red crest of Cato’s helmet and saw that the prefect had the standard of the Thracian cohort in one hand and his shield in the other. A short distance in front of Cato were two of the Thracians, casually riding towards him. Macro was about to call down to his friend when the words died in his throat. The two men spurred their horses into a canter and charged towards Cato with their spears lowered.

‘What the fuck?’ Macro muttered. The realisation that his friend was in great danger hit him like a blow and he jabbed his heels in and slapped the rump of his mount. ‘Yah!’

The horse leaped forward, galloping down the slope. Ahead he could see the Thracians closing in. Cato watched them intently as he struggled with his shield, swinging it round to cover his body. Then, at the last moment, he lowered the standard, like a lance, and made for the man to his right. The three men came together with a thud as a spear glanced off the shield. There was a clatter of weapons as Cato and the man to his right wildly exchanged spear thrusts and parries. The standard was never designed for such work and was unwieldy in Cato’s hand as he fought for his life. His chances of surviving were made worse by the need to keep glancing to his left and fending off the attacks of the other Thracian. Macro could see that his friend could not hold his own for much longer and savagely urged his horse on. Then there was a sharp cry of frustration as the standard lurched out of Cato’s fingers and fell into the grass. He snatched his hand back and fumbled for his sword as his opponent moved in closer to his unprotected side to deliver the fatal blow. At the last moment Cato thrust his shield into the face of the man to his left and threw himself under the upraised spear of the other assailant and inside his shield to grab at his cloak and tunic in a desperate attempt to unseat the Thracian. The two writhed, with Cato half out of his saddle, while the other Thracian worked his horse towards the prefect’s back to strike from the rear.

At the sound of Macro’s horse the second man hesitated and looked round, then instinctively swerved his mount round to face the unexpected threat. Macro held his shield up and hunched down so that it covered him up to his cheek. There was no time to think and he simply clamped his jaw shut and rode directly towards the man. Only at the last instant did the Thracian understand Macro’s intention and try to spur his horse out of the way. It was too late and Macro’s horse collided heavily. With a shrill whinny of terror the other horse was knocked off its feet and it fell on to its side. It rolled on to its back, legs kicking wildly in the air. The rider let out a cry of panic before the weight of the horse above him drove the breath from his lungs and crushed his chest and limbs.

Cato was still struggling with the other man, one arm scrabbling for purchase around his torso while the other grasped the wrist of his spear hand and fought to keep the point away from his body.

‘Hold on, lad!’ Macro shouted as he took control of his frightened mount which was trying to shy away from the fight.

The remaining Thracian jerked hard on his reins, moving his horse away from Cato’s and pulling the prefect out of his saddle. Cato held on desperately, knowing that he was finished if he released his grip and gave the man enough room to use his spear. Then, when he felt as if he must fall under the other man’s horse, he released his grip on the man’s wrist and snatched at the handle of his dagger. He drew it out as quickly as he could and stabbed at the Thracian’s thigh and groin. The man let out howls of pain and rage and let his spear drop as he punched his fist into Cato’s cheekguard, and then struck him hard on the bridge of his nose. Cato felt something crack with a sharp pain and then blood coursed from his nostrils. The Thracian grunted, his fist raised to strike again, and Cato looked up to see the edge of a sword buried in the angle of his neck and he felt the warm splatter of the man’s blood on his face. The Thracian looked down at Cato, his mouth gaping, a look of surprise in his eyes, before they rolled up and he slumped in his saddle with a deep groan. Then the sword was wrenched back and the man uttered one more cry before his horse shimmied to one side, dragging Cato with it a short distance until he pulled his dagger from the Thracian’s leg and released his grip on his cloak. He fell to the ground, thrusting his dagger to the side so that he would not land on it. The impact was hard, driving the air from his lungs and jarring his helmeted head, but Cato had the presence of mind to tuck up as he lay on the ground as hoofs thudded into the grass around him.

‘It’s over, lad,’ Macro’s anxious voice called down to him.

Cato risked a look up and saw the transverse crest of a centurion’s helmet blocking out the strengthening light of the dawn sky. Reassured, he rolled on to his feet and rose unsteadily, wiping the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand. Macro retrieved the standard from where it was lying in the grass and planted the sharpened butt firmly into the ground. Then he turned and looked at the two Thracians. The horse which had been knocked over had struggled back on to its feet and stood a short distance from its rider who writhed feebly, gasping for breath. The other man swayed in his saddle for a moment and then slid off to one side and dropped to the ground. His mount skittered off a few steps before stopping and lowering his head to graze.

Macro turned to Cato. ‘Mind explaining what the fuck that was all about?’

Cato was still catching his breath and dealing with the pain from his broken nose. He held up a hand, the blood in his nostrils making his voice sound thick. ‘A. . moment. .’

‘They were out to kill you, lad. I saw it all. No question.’

Cato nodded and paced over to the man Macro had felled. He leaned down and saw the terrible wound where Macro’s sword had cut at an angle into his neck, shattering the collarbone and some ribs before coming to a stop six inches deep. The blood pulsed from the wound, pooling on his chest and overflowing on to the grass as the Thracian gritted his teeth and stared into the pale sky. Cato knelt down at his side.

‘Why did you attack me?’

The Thracian’s eyes flickered towards Cato but he did not reply. The prefect leaned closer. ‘Tell me!’

The man’s lips lifted in a faint, mocking smile.

‘Bastard needs a bit of prompting,’ said Macro. He moved round his friend and stood by the Thracian’s head. Lifting his boot, Macro pressed it down on the wound, gently at first, then increased the pressure so that the Thracian cried out in agony and writhed. Macro ground his boot into the wound, the hobnails biting into the bloodied flesh and bone, before he eased up.

‘You answer the prefect’s question, or you get some more of that.’

‘Why did you attack me?’ Cato repeated.

The Thracian was panting as he fought against the waves of pain from his injury. He licked his lips as he summoned up the strength to reply. ‘I did it. . for the centurion.’

‘The centurion? Quertus?’

The man nodded feebly. ‘The cohort. . belongs to him. . Not you. Never you.’

‘Did he order you to do this?’

The Thracian slumped back into the grass and began to tremble uncontrollably as he bled out. Cato grabbed his blood-saturated neckcloth and pulled his head up sharply. ‘Did Quertus order you to kill me?’ he growled at the man.

The man’s eyes rolled up into his head as he choked on his blood. Then, as it dribbled from the corner of his mouth, he spoke again, faintly. ‘Quertus. .’

‘What?’ Cato demanded. ‘What about Quertus? Speak!’

But it was too late. The Thracian’s head lolled back lifelessly and Cato glared at him for a moment before releasing his grip on the neckcloth and withdrawing his hand angrily. ‘Bastard!’

As he stood up, Macro removed his boot and wiped it in the grass nearby to get some of the blood off. The centurion stared down at the body and clicked his tongue. ‘Have to hand it to Quertus, he inspires loyalty in his men.’

‘Loyalty?’ Cato spat the word out bitterly. ‘Loyalty to what? Not Rome. Only to that sick bastard who wants to bathe himself in blood.’

Macro looked at his friend. ‘I was being ironic.’

They stared at each other before Cato smiled nervously, glad to release the tension that had built up in his chest. Macro grinned. ‘There you go. I think I must have known you for too long, Cato. Irony — now that’s not something that used to come so easily to me. Anyway, what in Hades’ name is going on? Do you think these bastards were acting on their own, or on the orders of Quertus?’

‘What do you think? He’s behind this. He wants me dead, just like the last prefect, so he can carry on running Bruccium like his own little kingdom.’

Macro puffed. ‘He’s taking a big risk. One dead prefect looks like bad luck. Two looks like a conspiracy.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘Fuck. . Conspiracy. It hangs about us like a bloody cloud. I thought we’d be living the good life once we got back to the army. Not this. . Are you sure Quertus is behind this?’

‘I’m certain. I was set up, Macro. The standard-bearer must have been in on it. He let the Silurians take the standard, knowing that I would give chase and be led away from the fight. As soon as I was separated from the rest of the cohort, these two went after me. They gave the enemy a chance to do for me first, before they stepped in to finish the job. All very neat. I’d have died a good death trying to save the standard and Quertus would have a story he could sell to you, and report back to headquarters when the time came.’ Cato nodded grimly. ‘He’s as cunning as a snake.’

Macro prodded the dead Thracian with the toe of his boot. ‘What do we do? He’s failed in his attempt, and you’re still alive. What now? Stick a knife between Quertus’s shoulder blades? Bastard deserves as much.’

Before Cato could reply, they heard the sound of approaching horses and looked up to see Quertus leading one of his squadrons down the slope towards them. Macro readied his sword as he turned to face them, his expression grim. Cato moved to his side, and placed his hand on top of the pommel of his sword.

‘Macro,’ he said quietly. ‘We’re in great danger. Let me do the speaking.’

His friend nodded, keeping a wary eye on the approaching riders.

Quertus reined in a short distance away and his men rumbled to a halt on either side. There was a brief stillness during which Cato scrutinised the face of the Thracian officer and saw the cold look of frustration there that confirmed his suspicions. Quertus gestured towards the standard.

‘You saved it, then. Saved the cohort’s honour.’

‘I saved the standard,’ Cato replied deliberately. Then he gestured to the bodies of the Thracians. ‘But I could not save these men.’

Quertus glanced at the bodies and then his dark eyes fixed on Cato. ‘What happened here?’ he asked in a flat tone.

‘They tried to take the standard from that Silurian. He slew them both before I could intervene.’

Macro stirred beside him; the explanation had taken him by surprise. Cato fervently prayed that Macro would hold his tongue for the next few moments. Quertus nodded slowly.

‘Then they died heroes.’

‘It would seem so.’

At length the Thracian gestured towards Cato’s face. ‘You’re wounded, sir.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Cato turned away and strode across to his horse and climbed into the saddle. Macro hesitated a moment, glaring at Quertus, before he followed suit. Cato looked round the valley and saw the distant figures of the men and women of the tribe running for their lives, clutching their children by the hand as they made for the trees each side of the valley. He wiped the blood from his lips. Already it was beginning to clot in his nose and the flow was no more than an oozing trickle. He cleared his throat.

‘Centurion Quertus, order your men to round up prisoners. They are only to kill those who resist. The prisoners, and our casualties, are to be taken up to the chieftain’s hut. Is that clear?’

Quertus nodded.

‘I said, is that clear, Centurion?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s better. Then see to it at once.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Quertus wheeled his horse round and barked out orders to his men. Riders set off at once to inform the other squadrons as Cato and Macro rode back up the slope. Quertus beckoned to the rest of his men and they fell in behind the prefect and his companion. At the top of the slope, Cato made his way round to the open area in front of the large hut and saw twenty or so of the enemy sitting on the ground, guarded by several of the Thracian auxiliaries. Amongst the prisoners was the blond man, conspicuous by his stature and the lightness of his hair compared to the mostly dark-haired Silurians. He had been stripped of his weapons, his shield and his helmet, and now Cato had a clearer view of his features. He reined in a short distance away and stared at the man.

‘Macro, see that one?’ Cato pointed. ‘He seems very familiar. Do you recognise him?’

Macro looked and shrugged. ‘Can’t say that I do.’

Cato frowned. ‘I’ve seen him before. Recently. Sure of it. .’

Cato steered his horse over towards the man and stopped six feet from where he sat. The native looked up defiantly.

‘On your feet!’ Cato ordered, gesturing with his hand.

The man did not move and Macro trotted up, red-faced. ‘You heard the prefect! On your fucking feet, you mangy dog!’

Slowly, and with as much haughty dignity as he could manage, the warrior stood up and squared his shoulders, regarding his captors with a contemptuous expression.

‘Who are you?’ Cato demanded. ‘You’re not a Silurian.’

‘I am of the Catuvellauni,’ the man replied in lightly accented Latin.

‘Then what are you doing here? Your tribe surrendered to us years ago.’ Cato forced himself to sound cold. ‘Which makes you an outlaw.’

‘Outlaw? I am no outlaw. I pledged to fight Rome to my last breath. Like many in my tribe, I chose to follow Caratacus.’

At the mention of the enemy leader’s name Cato felt a thrill of realisation flow through his mind. That was where he had seen him before. At the stone ring, standing amongst the entourage of the native king who had resisted Rome from the very first moment that the legions had landed on British soil. Like many of the Catuvellauni, he had light-coloured hair, but there was something more about him. His build and his face reminded Cato of Caratacus himself.

‘What is your name?’

‘My name?’ The warrior’s lips curled in a sneer. ‘My name is for my people and those men who fight at my side as brothers.’

‘Is that so?’ Macro smiled cruelly. ‘Sir, if he won’t give us his name, he has no need of his tongue any more. Let me cut the bastard’s tongue out.’

Macro reached for his dagger and drew the blade, holding it up so that the warrior could see it clearly. Cato said nothing for a moment, allowing Macro’s bloodthirsty request to do its work. He saw the warrior look away from the dagger as his mask slipped and he revealed a glimpse of the fear in his heart.

‘Tell me your name,’ Cato ordered. ‘While you still have a tongue in your head.’

The warrior looked up, hurriedly composing himself, and stared back at his captors. ‘Very well. I am Maridius.’

‘Maridius,’ Cato repeated. ‘Warrior of the Catuvellauni and, if I am not mistaken, brother of King Caratacus.’