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!’

A handful of other Thracians called out their support for their leader and clenched their hands into fists and shook them at Cato. At once the smaller number of legionaries responded with cries of support for Cato. More joined in and the air was thick with shouts. Cato was reminded of the atmosphere of a gladiator spectacle and was thankful that he had never had to endure the fear and shame of those forced to fight for the entertainment of the mob.