Macro was in a foul mood. The only inn that had any rooms available in the middle of the night had been the Drunken Goat, a stinking cesspit on the outskirts of Paestum. The wine had tasted like donkey piss and the bill had been eye-watering. He’d spent the night on an uncomfortable hay mattress and had been awoken by the innkeeper’s wife kicking him out an hour before dawn. That morning Macro had made his way to the ludus bleary-eyed and ferociously hungry, and to his shock found himself regretting the day he’d been decorated. What should have been the proudest moment of his life had quickly descended into a nightmare. Not only did he have precious little time before the fight, but his charge was a belligerent brat.

Macro stepped closer to Pavo. He eyed him from head to toe, the way an officer instructor inspects his men on parade.

‘Your face is covered in bruises,’ he said. ‘A bit of advice for you, Pavo. Next time you’re trading punches with someone much bigger than you, learn how to block.’ The officer caught sight of the recruit’s right hand and gestured towards it. ‘What in Hades’ name happened there?’

Pavo glanced down. His fingers had swollen to twice their size and his palm was badly purpled. Pavo hadn’t noticed the injury last night. He’d gone to sleep with his mind reeling at the idea of saving the reputation of the very man who’d ordered his father to fight in the arena. But when Pavo had woken up he’d felt a dull ache spreading up his forearm, and at breakfast he could barely flex his fingers.

‘That rat Amadocus did it,’ he said with a snarl, ‘When he cornered me last night in the canteen. Can’t hold a sword, thanks to that bastard.’

Macro shook his head. ‘Never mind. You’re not going to be using a sword much.’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Pavo.

Macro grinned. ‘You’re not going to fight like a gladiator, boy. Capito has tried that against Britomaris already and you know the result. Trading blows with that barbarian is suicide. You’re bound to lose.’

Pavo huffed. ‘You’re implying that I’ve agreed to fight Britomaris.’

‘You don’t have a choice,’ said Macro. ‘You’re a trainee gladiator now, not a citizen.’

‘I could lose to Britomaris. Heap further shame on the Emperor. I’m sentenced to die anyway in this bloody ludus. I’ve nothing to lose by letting Britomaris kill me. My old life has been taken away.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ the officer said, kneeling down and clutching a fistful of sand. He met the trainee’s eye. ‘You do have something to lose.’

Pavo cocked his head at Macro. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You have a son, yes?’