For a moment Cato did shrink back, and his men with him, as the blade hissed through the air. The optio regarded it with horror, well imagining the bone-shattering impact it would have on any man foolish enough to venture within its sweeping arc. Every instant he delayed Cato knew that the Briton’s companions would be making good their escape. But he was seized in the grip of an icy dread that sent shivers rippling up his backbone and turned his guts to water. He was shocked to find himself shaking. Every fibre of his being told him to turn and run and leave his men to deal with this terrifying giant of a man. And with that thought came a wave of bitter self-contempt and revulsion.

Cato tensed, watching the sweep of the axe, waiting for it to pass him by. As it swooped past his shield, he gritted his teeth and threw himself on the Briton, thrusting his sword into the man’s body once again. The man grunted at the impact then raised his knee and kicked out at Cato. His boot slammed into Cato’s thigh and almost toppled him. Cato struck again, this time thrusting his shield into the man’s face while he twisted the blade inside his opponent, trying for a vital organ. Blood, hot and sticky, poured over his sword grip and hand, yet the Durotrigan warrior still kept coming, bellowing with pain and defiance. He dropped the axe and grabbed at Cato’s face and throat with his huge powerful hands. The optio gasped in agony as his windpipe was crushed in the Briton’s grip. With one arm trapped by his shield strap, Cato let go of his sword and snatched at the hand clenched round his throat. Other men were alongside him now, smashing their shields into the giant and thrusting their swords in from all sides. He took it all, growling from deep in his chest, a sound of pure animal rage, and still he kept his grip on his foe, throttling him. Cato, close to blacking out, thought he must surely die, but suddenly the grip slackened. Dizzily he heard the wet thud of sword strikes as the legionaries brutally finished off the Briton.

With a deep rasping sigh, the man slumped to his knees, his hands fell away from Cato’s throat and dropped to his side. One of the legionaries warily kicked him in the chest and he fell back on the disturbed snow, quite dead.

‘You all right, Optio?’

Cato was leaning against the stonework, gasping for air as blood pounded through his neck. He shook his head to try and clear the dizziness.

‘I’ll live,’ he croaked painfully. ‘Have to keep after the others… Let’s go.’