Free Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves by Simon Scarrow Page A

it.’
    ‘Right.’
    Verica slowly made his way round the parade ground, watching the drill movements with apparent interest, occasionally stopping to comment on some detail or to ask Cato a question. As they returned to the first group, one of Verica’s followers, a dark-haired man with a bare chest under his riding cloak, seized a training sword from the hands of one of the men. The instructor was about to protest when he caught sight of Cato gently shaking his head. The dark-haired man looked over the stave with a contemptuous expression and laughed.
    ‘Who’s that?’ Cato whispered to Tincommius.
    ‘Artax. Another one of the king’s nephews.’
    ‘Big family then?’
    ‘If you only knew,’ sighed Tincommius as Artax rounded on Cato.
    ‘Why are our warriors being made to play with toys when they should be training to kill our enemies?’
    Artax walked over to Cato, and threw the stave down at the centurion’s feet with a sneer. Cato kept his face expressionless as Artax looked him up and down, and spoke in words that dripped contempt.
    ‘It’s no wonder that Romans give toys to their men when their officers are little more than boys themselves.’
    Cato felt his pulse quicken and he couldn’t help smiling. ‘Then I’d like to see how well you can handle that toy, if you think you’re man enough.’
    Artax laughed and leaned forward to pat Cato on the shoulder. But Cato was too quick for him and, stepping back, he unfastened the clasp and handed his scarlet cloak to Tincommius. Then he stooped down, picked up the training sword and hefted it in the palm of his sword hand. Artax’s expression turned into a sneer once again and then he too slipped off his cloak, and snatched another stave from the nearest recruit. Those around them backed away to give the two men sufficient space and Cato crouched lower, ready to fight.
    Artax immediately hurled himself forward with a wild cry and rained a succession of blows at Cato’s head. At once, the Atrebatans gave full throat to their cheers of support for Artax as he steadily drove Cato back, step by step. Cato coolly blocked every blow, gritting his teeth as the shock of the impacts travelled down his arm. Then, having roughly gauged the speed of his opponent’s reactions Cato waited for Artax to raise his arm for the next flurry of blows. This time Cato feinted towards the man’s throat. Artax jerked his head back and his midriff came forward to compensate. The centurion dropped the tip of his stave and thrust it hard into Artax’s stomach. There was solid muscle behind the hairy gut, but even so, the Briton gasped at the pain of the blow, staggering back from Cato.
    The centurion lowered his sword arm, his point made. Or so he thought. With a howl of rage Artax threw himself back at Cato, swinging his weapon ferociously. This time Cato knew the man intended him serious harm. And everyone else knew it too. The Atrebatans roared their support for Artax, and Cato heard his instructors shouting encouragement. To one side Verica and Tincommius watched in silence.
    The sharp crack of wood on wood filled Cato’s ears, and then suddenly there was burning pain in his chest as Artax slashed a blow past Cato’s guard and struck the Roman on his injured side. Cato gasped, drawing back and only just managing to fend off the next attack. Artax broke away and half turned to his fellow tribesmen to revel in their applause. Cato’s breathing came in shallow gasps; the agony in his side was too dreadful for any deeper breathing. His eyes glanced round at the cheering Atrebatans and he realised what a fool he had been. He had allowed his pride to jeopardise these men’s training. If he gave way now, then they would never have faith in the Roman way of war again. Without that training they would not stand a chance against the Durotrigans. The pain in his side was getting worse. He must take a risk and end the fight as quickly as possible, one way or