The barbarian followed up with a weighted punch that struck Capito on the shoulder and shuddered through his bones. He collapsed onto the sand and in a flash Britomaris threw himself forward. The two men rolled in the sand, exchanging blows while the umpire stood a few paces away and ordered them both to their feet. But he was powerless to intervene. Capito tried to scrabble clear but the barbarian smashed a fist into him and sent the gladiator crashing face down into the sand. The blow stunned Capito. He lay there for a moment in dumb shock and wondered what had happened to his sword. Then he felt a powerful blow like teeth sinking into his flesh strike him on the back. Something warm and wet was draining out of his back and down his legs. He rolled onto his side and saw Britomaris towering over him and grasping a sword. It was Capito’s sword.

Capito became conscious of blood pooling around him, gushing out of his back. ‘What?’ he said disbelievingly. ‘But . . . how . . .?’

The crowd went deadly quiet. Capito felt sick. His mouth was suddenly very dry. Blotches bubbled across his vision. The crowd implored him to get up and fight, but he couldn’t. The blow had struck deep. He could feel blood filling his lungs.

‘I call on you, gods,’ he gasped. ‘Save me.’

He glanced up at the podium in despair. The Emperor stared down with cold disapproval. Capito knew he could expect no mercy. None of the gladiators could be granted a reprieve – not even the highest-ranking imperial warrior. His reputation demanded that he accept death fearlessly.

Capito trembled as he struggled onto his knees, clamped his hands around the solid legs of Britomaris and bowed deeply, presenting himself for execution. He stared hopelessly at the bloodied sand as he silently cursed himself for underestimating his opponent. He prayed that whoever faced Britomaris next would not make the same mistake.

His limbs spasmed as the sword plunged into his neck behind his collarbone, and tore deep into his heart.

CHAPTER TWO

The officer raised his head slowly from his cup of wine and focused on the two Praetorian guards standing in front of him, dimly lit by the dull glow of a single oil lamp. Outside the inn, the street was pitch-black.

‘Lucius Cornelius Macro, optio of the Second Legion?’ the guard on the left barked. The officer nodded with pride and raised his cup to the guards. They wore plain white togas over their tunics, he noticed, which was the distinctive garb of the Praetorian Guard.

‘That’s me,’ Macro slurred. ‘Come to hear the story behind my decoration too, I suppose. Well, take a seat, lads, and I’ll give you every grisly detail. But it’ll cost you a jug of wine. None of that Gallic swill though, eh?’

The guard stared humourlessly at Macro. ‘You’re required to come with us.’