Marcus raised his sword and turned so that he presented his side to Quintus, limiting the size of the target the tribune could strike at. Then he steadily advanced. Quintus lowered himself into a crouch and adopted the same stance, but held his ground and waited for Marcus. The tips of their swords touched and Marcus applied a gentle pressure as he slid his point a short distance down his opponent’s blade. Quintus dropped the point, cut under and tapped Marcus’s sword aside. Then he feinted with a little jump forward, straightening his arm. Marcus pretended to parry the blow and correctly anticipated that the tribune would cut under his sword again. He knocked it aside, forcing the other sword back with the length of the blade close to his guard, stepping in to Quintus as he did so. The move forced the young man to back off quickly, to prevent Marcus getting too near, and he swept his sword from side to side to block any attacks to his body. Marcus contented himself with flicking his sword so that it nicked the flesh of his opponents forearm, opening a long shallow gash that looked worse than it was as the blood began to flow. Then he stepped back out of reach and stared at Quintus, trying to gauge his next move.

The tribune backed off and looked anxiously at the cut as the more knowing members of the crowd murmured their approval of the initial exchange. Marcus had won control of the centre of the makeshift arena, a move that he knew would undermine his opponent’s confidence. Sure enough, there was no mistaking the glimmer of fear in Quintus’s expression as he lowered himself into a crouch again, determined to seize back the initiative.

It was obvious that he would attack even before he began to move, his legs bracing for the explosive charge across the hard ground. Marcus let him come, then ducked to one side as the blade passed harmlessly by his head. The momentum carried Quintus forward, and Marcus lowered his sword to slash it across his thigh as he passed. Both turned to face each other and now there was no hiding the fear in the tribune’s eyes. Marcus forced himself to keep his face like a mask: cold, ruthless and unreadable.

Quintus licked his lips and spoke in a low voice. ‘Marcus, you can’t kill me. Think of Portia ... She considers you her friend. She trusts you. Would you betray her trust, her affection, by striking down her husband? I love her, Marcus. If I am lost she will be alone in the world.’ As he spoke he edged forward, his sword tip lowered, his tone genuine.

Marcus struggled to push the memory of Portia from his mind, but could think only of the words she had spoken to him, and the soft touch of her lips.