‘I would prefer to wait until Brixus returns to share our entertainment, but we shall have to start without him. As you all know, both Brixus and I were once gladiators. Men torn from our homes by the legions of Rome, ripped from the bosom of our families and enslaved. Then sold, like cattle, to a lanista to train in the art of killing other men - for no better reason than it whetted Rome’s appetite for entertainment. Tonight we shall return the favour in kind: these Romans will provide our entertainment.’ He punched his spare hand into the air and the crowd let out an excited roar.

Mandracus indulged them for a moment while Marcus felt his blood freeze in his veins. So that was their fate.

‘Quiet!’ Mandracus boomed, gesturing to the crowd to calm down. ‘Tonight I give you a feast of entertainment,’ he continued. ‘A series of fights to the death. The winners of each bout will then face each other until one is left standing. That man, that champion,’ he spoke the word in a tone laced with irony, ‘will be spared. He will become a slave of the camp, for all of you to use and abuse as you will, until he dies.’

Marcus saw the nearest faces in the crowd nod approval. Some looked at the prisoners and shook their fists, shouting insults, the bitterness of their long years in slavery finding expression in this chance for revenge.

‘Let the entertainment begin!’ Mandracus called out, and strode over to the Romans. All their armour and cloaks had been stripped from them, and they sat in their tunics and boots. Mandracus gazed over them a moment before raising his finger to point. ‘You ... and you. Stand!’

The two legionaries were slow to react and the rebels hauled them to their feet, dragging them into position, twenty feet apart, in the middle of the open ground. As their bonds were cut, the men stood rubbing their wrists. A sword was dropped at the feet of each man before the rebels backed away.

‘The rules are simple,’ Mandracus told them. ‘You fight to the death. If you go down, then don’t bother appealing for mercy. That’s it. Now pick up your swords and wait for the word to begin.’

Marcus looked at the two men. One was a wiry veteran with dried blood on his left arm where he had been wounded in the ambush. His opponent was a fresh-faced youth, trembling as he stared down at the sword.

‘Pick up your weapons!’ Mandracus bellowed.

At once the youth did as he was told and held the weapon out, its point wavering wildly. The veteran did not move. Then he drew himself up and folded his arms.

‘I don’t take orders from slaves.’