Macro’s mouth opened wide as he let out a deafening roar of battle rage, then he lowered his head and pounded forward. Cato gritted his teeth and stayed close to Macro’s flank. Ahead of them the gladiators braced themselves for the impact. Those with javelins still in hand grasped the shafts tightly, ready to use the weapons as spears. There was a rolling clatter of thuds and grunts, broken by the sharp ringing rattle of blades clashing as the Praetorians surged in among their foes.

Macro made straight for a barrel-chested German with shaggy hair tied back from his face. The man raised his heavy round shield and held a falcata out to the side, ready to strike. He bared his teeth in a snarl and leaped forward. The shields crashed together forcefully, but the greater momentum was with Macro. He threw his weight in behind his shield for good measure, causing the German to stumble back a couple of paces. Even so he was trained to recover swiftly and savagely parried Macro’s thrust, sending the point wide. Good as his responses and technique were, it was his training for individual combat that did for him. His attention was fixed on Macro and it was only at the last instant that he recognised the threat from Cato, coming from the other side. Cato punched his shield in, catching the German hard on the shoulder and knocking him off balance. He went down, his wide back bent over one knee. Cato struck without hesitation, ramming his blade deep between the shoulder blades, ripping through muscle and shattering the man’s ribs and spine. He wrenched the blade free, with a spray of hot blood, and instantly turned to guard against any attack.

‘Good kill, lad,’ Macro acknowledged.

The skirmish raged around them, the gladiators holding their own as they fended off the Praetorians’ blows with their shields or parried them away with deft flicks of their wrists. As Cato watched he caught sight of the leader as the man slammed his buckler into a guardsman’s helmet, snapping his head aside. Then the gladiator followed through with a powerful thrust into the exposed throat, ripping the blade free at once as he stepped back, lowering his body into a crouch, looking round for his next opponent. There were other Praetorians on the ground, Cato noted, and only two gladiators. Only the armour and larger shields of the Praetorians were saving them from suffering even more casualties in the uneven fight.

‘We’re losing this,’ Macro observed. ‘We’d better do something. We have to take charge.’

Cato nodded, keeping his eyes on the fight. It would draw attention to them, and there would be those who might wonder at their easy assumption of command - if they survived the skirmish.

Macro snatched a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Praetorians! On me! On me!’