There was something in them, weights of some sort. Sand, or maybe even metal.

Ugo obviously didn’t like to leave anything to chance.

Damn him.

This changed everything. James would have the hell of a job not being knocked cold. He scurried away from Fitzpaine and threw a questioning look to Zoltan, who seemed concerned.

By moving constantly and keeping clear of Fitzpaine, James managed to scrape through the rest of the round, but the bell seemed a long time coming.

He went over to Zoltan and slumped on to the chair.

‘What is the matter?’ said the Hungarian.

‘He’s got weights in his gloves,’ said James. ‘It’s like being hit by a motor car.’

‘I thought so,’ said Zoltan and he fired off a colourful string of insults at Ugo. ‘But don’t worry. You are doing the right thing, James. You have to keep out of his way. Don’t let his punches find their mark. Those gloves of his will be heavy, and with each swing they will get heavier. It will get harder and harder for him to keep them up, and as he grows tired his blows will have less strength behind them. If ever you see an opening, go in quickly, hit him and retreat before he has a chance to come back at you. You might just wear him down.’

‘I don’t know,’ said James. ‘I just don’t know if I can do it.’

He was already exhausted. The constant tension and need to keep moving had drained him, but most tiring of all was being repeatedly hit. Well, he would have to concentrate on taking that pounding on the gloves and not the face or body.

The referee rang the bell for the second round and James took a last swig of water before walking cautiously to the centre of the arena, not taking his eyes off Fitzpaine for a moment. It was a burning hot day and the circular stadium walls trapped the heated air. It scalded James’s lungs and caused sweat to stream down from his head to his feet. Sand stuck to his damp legs.

But one thought cheered him.

It was just as bad for Fitzpaine.

James could see the strain on his face. If had he had thought this was going to be an easy win, he was having to think again now.

Fitzpaine obviously wanted it over quickly. He grunted and charged at James. James blocked his assault, keeping his gloves up and turning his body to take the punches on his upper arms. He backed away and looked down: he was already heavily bruised.

He bided his time. He didn’t want to waste any energy. He threw the occasional light jab at Fitzpaine to soften him and keep him scared, but never powerfully enough to give him any idea of how hard he could really punch.

In came Fitzpaine again, but slower this time, his feet dragging.