‘We have to take their leader down,’ Macro grunted as he parried a sword thrust. ‘If he falls, they may lose heart.’

Cato risked a glance back, past the pavilion, and saw the nearest of the other Praetorian centuries hurriedly forming up. A trumpet sounding the alarm from beyond the palisade announced that the auxiliaries were also making ready to intervene. However, there was still time enough time for the gladiators to cut Tigellinus and his men to pieces. Up on the reviewing stand the Emperor had re-emerged, goblet still in hand. He glared angrily down on the scene.

‘What is this? Who gave the order for the fight to start?’

Cato cleared his throat. ‘Let’s do it then.’

Macro nodded and braced himself in a crouch, weight on the balls of his feet. ‘Ready, lad?’

‘Ready.’

‘Now! Disengage.’ Macro stepped back into the ring, closely followed by Cato. At once Macro called out another order. ‘Close up!’

Fuscius and the man to Macro’s right edged towards each other while Cato and Macro sidestepped round until they were lined up with the gladiators’ leader. Cato moved forward, pushing between two of his comrades. ‘Make way there! Make way.’

The guardsmen shuffled aside to let them in and Macro stared intently at the man no more than eight feet away. ‘We’ll take him when he next strikes. On my command.’

Cato tightened his grip on his sword and felt his blood surging through his veins, making his muscles tingle with the familiar tension of battle. The gladiator fixed his eyes on Macro who grinned and beckoned with his sword hand. ‘Go on then! Try me, if you dare!’ Macro moved his shield arm to the side to expose his chest, taunting his opponent.

The gladiator’s brow creased and he roared, ‘Then die, you bastard!’

He sprang forward, sword angled up at Macro’s throat. Macro kept his shield low and swung his sword up to parry the blow. At the last moment the gladiator did a cut over and redirected his attack at the angle between Macro’s helmet and his shoulder. The same instant Cato leaped forward, slamming his shield into the gladiator’s side as his sword hacked down into the other man’s extended sword arm. The edge cut deep into muscle before jarring against bone. The arm spasmed and the fingers exploded away from the sword handle so that the weapon clattered clumsily off the double layer of mail on Macro’s shoulder. The man stumbled back, blood gushing from his wound as he let out an animal howl of rage and pain. His followers parted around him, pulling back from the Romans, staring aghast at their leader. His sword arm hung uselessly at his side. He cast his buckler to the ground and clamped his shield hand over the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood.

‘Come on,’ Macro muttered to Cato. ‘Let’s finish this.’