‘Appius,’ Pavo nodded. ‘He’s a year old. His mother died during childbirth. My father Titus and mother Drusilla raised him. Until they were murdered.’

‘I have good news for you. Well, good and bad,’ Macro said, weighing up a thought with his head. ‘Appius is alive. He’s being held at the imperial palace. Win, and the Emperor has promised to release him.’

A tingle of cold dread flared at the back of Pavo’s scalp. His muscles went numb with rage and shock. His son. Alive. At the mercy of that snake Pallas and his lackey Murena. Pavo booted the foot of the palus and belted out an explosive roar of anger. Macro backed off a step.

‘Is there no end to Pallas and his cruelty?’ Pavo growled bitterly. ‘First he takes my father away from me. Then he dangles my only son before me like a carrot in front of a donkey.’

Macro watched Pavo wrestle with his rage. Taming this lad would be tricky, he thought to himself. The trainee paced up and down the ground furiously, his muscles trembling, his fists clenched, a ball of uncontrollable rage gripping him. Then he stopped, took a deep breath, and glanced at Macro.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll fight Britomaris. But I don’t need advice from a mere optio. I’m good with a sword. I can take that barbarian perfectly well on my own. Be on your way.’

Macro sucked in a deep breath and folded his arms across his barrel-like chest. ‘Have you seen Britomaris fight?’

‘No . . . Sir,’ Pavo said hesitantly.

‘Well, it just so happens that I have. And I can tell you a couple of things about our barbarian friend. One: he’s big. Much bigger than you. Two: he’s bloody strong. Same as any barbarian. They grow up in a cruel world. There are none of life’s little luxuries for these monsters. You could be Hercules himself with a sword, it wouldn’t matter. He’d knock you down just by breathing on you.’

Pavo visibly deflated. He felt a cold knot of fear in the pit of his stomach as the scale of the task in front of him grew more ominous. He’d been cocky about his chances against Hermes in a fight. Perhaps too cocky, the trainee reflected. Now, as he was forced to confront the reality of an actual fight to the death, he found his confidence rapidly draining.

‘Cheer up,’ Macro said, patting Pavo on the back. ‘You’re going to fight in front of the Emperor, for the glory of Rome, in front of thousands of people. Fights don’t get much bigger. And this is only your first fight, you lucky bugger. You should be kissing Fortuna’s arse.’

Pavo shrugged off Macro. ‘You have a perverse idea of luck.’