He climbed down the ladder into the gatehouse, dropping the last few feet, and rushed towards the doorway giving out on to the wall. No more than ten feet away the comrade of the axeman dropped down into a crouch and turned to face Cato as he burst out of the gatehouse, sword held out to the side, ready to strike. Light from a brazier directly below cast a vivid glow on the near side of the man’s face, revealing a wiry beard and wet locks of hair, beneath which his eyes blazed as he weighed up his Roman opponent. Then, with a snarl, he charged Cato, a long sword raised above his head, ready to slash down and cleave his opponent’s skull. Cato was raising his sword ready to parry the blow when Macro barged out of the gatehouse behind him and knocked him towards his opponent. Half stumbling, half falling, he instinctively knew that he must use his forward momentum if he was to survive the next instant. Already the warrior’s sword was sweeping round, glinting like molten bronze as it reflected the bright glow from the brazier.

‘Shit!’ Macro hissed as he leaped to the side.

Cato threw his weight forward, tumbled under the warrior’s outstretched arm and crashed into the man’s chest. An acrid sweaty odour filled Cato’s nostrils. The impact drove the man back a step before his heel caught on the edge of a rough-hewn plank and he tripped and fell. Cato thrust out his leading foot and locked the knee to break his momentum and stumbled to a halt over his opponent. The Silurian was still holding his sword and he desperately swung it in an arc at Cato’s shin. It would have been a crippling blow had the tip not struck the inside of the parapet with a thud. Both men exchanged a brief look before the native tried to snatch his sword back. But it was too late for him. Cato leaned forward and punched his short sword into the man’s ribs, felt the impact ripple down his arm before a bone cracked and the blade sliced into his resisting flesh. Cato gave the sword a violent twist, just as he had been trained to do as a recruit. He placed his boot on his victim’s chest and wrenched his sword out of the wound with a wet sucking noise. The Silurian gasped and slumped back, mouth agape.