‘First blood.’ He smiled thinly, then turned to hand the sword back to Caesar.

The proconsul chuckled as he sheathed the blade and gestured to the astonished-looking tribunes. ‘Help Quintus back to his bench.’

Once the wheezing youth was seated, Caesar addressed his officers again. ‘If that is what a boy gladiator can do, then you can imagine what an experienced man is capable of. I think we’ve all learned the lesson. Never, ever take your opponent for granted. The briefing is over. Have your men ready to march at first light.’

He nodded to the camp prefect and the latter shot to his feet and barked. ‘Stand to!’

Every officer rose and stood stiffly, except Quintus who was forced to bend forward, still struggling to fill his lungs.

‘Dismissed!’

The officers began to file out of the tent, and Quintus angrily shook off one of his friends’ hands as they tried to help him. He glared at Marcus as he dabbed the blood from the small cut on his cheek. ‘Be careful, boy.’ he growled. ‘I will not forget this, nor forgive it.’

Marcus showed no reaction but felt a warm glow of satisfaction as Quintus hobbled from the tent. Caesar waited until the last of the centurions was leaving before he patted Marcus on the shoulder. ‘Nice work. That one needed to be taught a lesson. More than one lesson perhaps,’ he added bitterly. ‘He takes too much for granted. I think this campaign is just what he needs to grow up a little and be worthy of the name he bears, especially as he now represents my name too.’

There was a rustle and Marcus and Caesar turned to see the camp prefect holding the tent flap back. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but there’s a man just arrived. Says he comes from Marcus Licinius Crassus.’

‘Crassus?’ Caesar raised an eyebrow. ‘Did he say what he wants?’

‘Only that he desires to speak with you at once.’

Caesar shrugged. ‘Very well, show him in. I’ll speak with him briefly. Marcus, gather up your slates and get yourself back to Ariminum. Have Portia’s cook feed you well. Then pack your kit and be ready to leave the house before dawn.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Marcus stuffed his slates into the shoulder bag and pulled up the hood of his cloak to cover his head from the rain.

During their exchange the camp prefect had ducked his head out of the tent and beckoned to the man waiting outside. A moment later a tall, lean man limped into view. His cloak was flecked with mud and beads of water and what was left of his hair was plastered against his scalp. But as he saw him, Marcus’s heart lurched in his chest and he felt a burning rage sweep through his limbs. He recognized the man at once. There was no mistake about it. Decimus. The man who had made an attempt on Caesar’s life the year before, and the moneylender whose thugs had murdered Titus and dragged Marcus and his mother off into slavery.