The Thracian shouted, the first cry in an otherwise silent fight, and came at him, slamming his lighter oval shield high and jabbing with the point of his sword. Ferox went back, step by step, giving ground and not getting a chance to reply to the flurry of blows from left and right. He was near the post now, the ditch only a couple more paces behind him. One jab punched through the wickerwork near the top of his curved rectangular shield and he tried to twist it to trap the blade, but the Thracian was too quick and while Ferox’s guard was down scythed his long sword through the air and struck his left shoulder. The centurion staggered, hissing with pain, and lost his hold on the shield’s handgrip so that it fell to the ground. The Thracian grinned wickedly as the centurion crouched.

Ferox sprang up, flinging himself against the cavalryman, hurling them both sideways. His hand grabbed the Thracian’s right wrist, pushing it so that his long spatha was driven against the heavy wooden post. Ferox cut at it, not with much of a swing but with all his force, and there was a sharp crack as the wooden training spatha broke. Half the blade was hanging down loose and the Thracian was so surprised that Ferox was able to hook one foot around his leg and trip him up.

The watching soldiers sighed in disappointment, until someone started laughing and the rest joined in. The Textoverdi who had started to come to watch just stayed wrapped tight in the cloaks, their faces expressionless, after the manner of the clan.

‘Time!’ called the man on sentry duty in the gate-tower of Syracuse.