With a blur, Quintus charged, his sword sweeping in a clumsy but deadly arc. Marcus backed off as he blocked the blow and sparks flew. Quintus continued his assault with a vicious flurry of strokes as he growled, ‘I will not die! I will win! Win!’

Marcus cleared his mind of everything but the reaction to each attack, and met it with a block or parry, conserving his strength as his opponent wasted energy. Then, as Quintus swung again, Marcus counter-attacked before the tribune could reverse the stroke. Stabbing the blade with all his strength, Marcus went for the hamstring above and behind Quintus’s knee. His aim was true but the cold and exhaustion had left him weak, and instead of a crippling blow the sword cut deep into the flesh and muscle without severing it.

Quintus let out a cry of pain and staggered away, bleeding freely. The advantage won, Marcus pushed ahead, feinting and thrusting to force his opponent backwards. Then Quintus’s boot slipped on the icy ground. He stumbled and fell on to his back, throwing his arms wide. Marcus leapt forward and stamped his foot on the wrist of the tribune’s sword arm, so that his fingers spasmed and the sword fell from his grasp. Marcus kicked it away, then stood over the tribune and touched the point of his blade to Quintus’s throat.

‘No! I beg you, spare me!’ Quintus pleaded. ‘For Portia!’

Marcus hesitated. He had concentrated on winning the fight. Not on its aftermath. He stood still, sword arm trembling slightly with the cold.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Mandracus demanded. ‘Kill him.’

Marcus did not move and Quintus closed his eyes tightly, his head tipped to one side.

‘Kill him,’ Mandracus ordered. ‘Or I will kill you.’

The rasp of a blade sounded and Marcus saw the rebel striding towards him. He willed himself to strike, to thrust his blade into the tribune’s throat, but he could not do it. Mandracus stood to one side and hissed. ‘This is your last chance ...’

When Marcus did not react, he raised his sword.

‘Wait!’ a voice cried from the crowd. Marcus turned to see a commotion near the track leading to the secret entrance to the valley. He heard a horse’s hoofs as the dark figure of a rider emerged into the rosy glow cast by the flames from the fires. Behind him came other figures on foot, some limping and others supported by their comrades. Anxious muttering filtered through the crowd. Mandracus slowly lowered his sword and turned towards the rider.

‘Brixus.’

Chapter 19

19

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Brixus demanded as he rode into the open space outside his hut.