‘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.