Murena chuckled to himself and shook his head. ‘Condemned to death in the arena. The Emperor paired him with Hermes, no less. Titus put up rather a good show. I’m surprised he had a drop of blood left him in when the time came for Hermes to finish him off.’

‘No bloody wonder the lad is angry,’ Macro murmured, in a voice low enough that his words evaded Murena’s ear.

‘I’m told that you have soldierly qualities in abundance, Macro. I believe you’re just the right man to whip him into shape. You’re to head to Paestum, train your charge and escort him to Rome for the fight. You have one month.’

‘A month?’ Macro cried. ‘You must be joking!’

‘On the contrary,’ Murena replied. ‘I’m deadly serious.’

‘But . . . A month! That’s nowhere near enough time to prepare for battle.’

‘It’s not a battle. Just a fight in the arena.’

‘Just a fight?’ Macro shook his head wearily. ‘I have plenty of experiene in training legionaries. Even the best take months to whip into any kind of shape, and the worst can take three or four times that.’

‘Pavo is different. His natural talent with the sword is exceptional.’

‘I’ve heard that before,’ said Macro.

‘Well this is no mere boast. The gladiator who first trained Pavo happens to be the doctore at one of the imperial schools. He claims he has never known a boy with such prodigious skill. And by all accounts the men in the Sixth haven’t seen a tribune handle a sword so well.’ Murena sighed as he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. ‘It’s his temperament that is the problem.’

‘What about the Emperor? He’s happy to have his skin saved by the son of a traitor?’

‘In the current climate, we can’t afford to be picky,’ Murena replied sourly. ‘Domestic squabbles have to be set to one side, for we cannot allow this barbarian to hang over us for any longer.’ Murena inspected the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Besides, I have reassured the Emperor that it is he, and not Pavo, who will bask in the glory of Rome’s honour being restored.’

As will you, no doubt, Macro thought. For once he managed to keep his opinion to himself. Macro’s tongue was his worst enemy at times. His lack of diplomacy was part of the reason why it had taken him so long to be in contention for promotion to centurion. He didn’t want to let the opportunity slip through his fingers now. Even if it meant working for a snake like Murena.

‘You could push the fight back a month or two,’ he offered. ‘Give me some more time with the lad.’