The two men parted and Quertus let out a triumphant cry as he saw the crimson streak across the prefect’s knee. His supporters cheered while the legionaries fell silent, staring anxiously at their commander, trying to determine the seriousness of his injury. Cato risked a quick glance down and saw the blood running down his shin and over the top of his leather boots. He lowered and raised himself cautiously but felt no increase in the pain and no telltale twinge that would indicate serious damage to his muscles. Even so, he was bleeding, and it would sap his strength the longer the fight lasted. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward again and feigned a slight stumble, letting out a genuine groan.

Quertus laughed drily. ‘I’m disappointed, Prefect Cato. I’d have hoped for more of a contest. But look at you. Thin and weak and bleeding like a stuck pig. I could let you bleed out but I want a good kill. Something that will show all the men that I am fit to be their commander.’

Cato leaned over his injured leg and looked up from under his dark fringe, breathing deeply. He licked his lips and rasped, ‘You’re not fit to be in the Roman army, let alone command one of its forts.’

‘We’ll see about that.’ Quertus lowered himself slightly and approached cautiously. Cato let him come and raised his sword, the point wavering as he straightened his back and prepared to fight for his life once again. As Quertus raised his sword to strike and lifted his right foot to swing forward, Cato launched himself forward with a throat-tearing roar. There was just enough time for the Thracian’s eyes to widen in surprise before the point of Cato’s sword flashed up, forward and into the other man’s left shoulder. The blade tore through cloth, skin and muscle before jarring against a bone. Quertus grunted explosively under the impetus of the blow and staggered. Cato pressed on, throwing his weight behind the sword, twisting the handle as he drove forward.

But Quertus’s fearsome reputation on the battlefield was well-earned and he recovered swiftly, tearing himself free of the blade then twisting away from Cato so that the prefect’s momentum carried him a few paces past before he scrabbled to a halt and turned to face Quertus. At once Cato threw himself forward and there was a desperate exchange of blows. The men began to cheer again, each side urging their officer on, and now the legionaries were shouting almost as loudly as the auxiliaries. With a last ringing clatter of blades, both men retreated from each other and crouched, chests heaving as they exchanged hostile glares.

‘You’re a crafty bastard . . .’ Quertus growled. ‘I’ll give you . . . that.’