‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Murena sniffed. ‘Announcements have already been made and the wheels have been put in motion for the fight. We cannot backtrack and we cannot tolerate any challenge to the Emperor’s authority. You must appreciate the precariousness of our situation.’

Macro cursed the gods under his breath. A short while ago he’d been licking his lips at the thought of indulging himself for a few days before returning to the Rhine and enjoying his new status as the toast of the Second. Now he was looking at a month in a backwater training a troubled gladiator in a ludus whilst surrounded by prisoners of war, errant slaves and wastrels. And the cost of losing to Britomaris and heaping further embarrassment on the Emperor didn’t bear thinking about.

‘I’ve dispatched a messenger by horse with instructions for the lanista at the ludus in Paestum. He’ll be expecting you. We’ll be hosting the match at the Julian plaza. The plaza is a somewhat more intimate venue than the amphitheatre, but it’s the perfect setting: rich and full of history. Caesar built it and Augustus hosted gladiator fights in it. Now the Emperor will assert his credentials there.’

The freedman called over the two Praetorian guards. ‘You are to leave immediately,’ he said without looking at Macro. ‘A horse has been saddled for you, and I’ll have my clerks draft an imperial warrant to give you the necessary authority to do as you need at the school. It is a five-day journey to Paestum I believe. Five days there and the same back leaves you with twenty days of training with your charge. Use it wisely. Questions?’

‘Just one,’ Macro said. ‘What if this Pavo doesn’t want to fight? I mean, if he bears a grudge against the Emperor for what happened to his family, he’s not exactly going to be enthusiastic about helping him out, is he? Especially since you’ve already condemned him to death.’

Murena smiled cruelly as he said, ‘I’ve got something that should provide him with a strong incentive to fight . . .’

CHAPTER THREE

Paestum

The doctore cracked his short leather whip on the blistering sand and glared at the new recruits. ‘Straighten your backs!’ he growled. ‘Raise your heads you worthless buggers!’

The men shuffled into the training ground and arranged themselves in a rough line in front of Calamus. The doctore cast his eye over the men the way a butcher inspects cattle at a market. He’d have his work cut out getting this lot into shape, he thought grimly. Calamus knew from experience how hard the training regime was, and how few men made it through the selection process. He’d once fought as a gladiator himself, yet all he had to show for it was a noticeable limp and a face lacerated with scars.