Marcus flushed with embarrassment. He did not want to seem foolish in the eyes of this man. He had come to admire Caesar, despite the ruthless streak of ambition that ran through him like a marble pillar. He shook his head. ‘I’m not really surprised, sir. It’s just that I had not realized the full scale of it.’

Caesar shrugged. ‘That’s politics for you. The greatest game there is. And the stakes are as high as they come. For now, Pompeius and Crassus are prepared to share power with me, but that cannot last forever. There will come a time when the three of us become two, and then one. That will be the best outcome for Rome. A cure for all the petty squabbling that prevents Rome from achieving even greater glory than she already enjoys. All that matters is that I am the last man standing. On that day I will be sure to reward all those who have helped me win power. And you have done far more to deserve my gratitude than most, Marcus.’

‘How many years will that take?’ Marcus asked anxiously. ‘My mother may not survive that long, sir. She has to be rescued before then.’

‘And she will be. As soon as I have the opportunity. But I have a greater reward in mind for you, Marcus. What is it that all men crave, no matter their age? Fame and power. For me that is achieved by claiming imperium — the authority and respect that is conferred upon Rome’s greatest heroes. For you there is a different route to glory. You have the potential to be a great gladiator, perhaps one of the greatest of all time. For as long as men fight in the arena the name of Marcus Cornelius will be revered. You cannot tell me the prospect does not stir your heart, eh?’ Caesar concluded with a smile.

Marcus was tempted by the vision that Caesar held out to him. He knew that he fought well, and took a quiet satisfaction in his skill and the knowledge that Titus would have been proud of him. He wondered what Spartacus would have felt. Pride, yes. But also shame at the prospect of Marcus fighting and killing in order to satisfy the bloodlust of the Roman mob. Spartacus and thousands of his followers had died to put an end to slavery, an end to gladiator fights and an end to the danger of Rome continuing to extend its brutal power over the rest of the known world. They had sacrificed everything to prevent men like Caesar winning his imperium, a prize that was bought at the expense of countless others buried in the foundations of their fame. The same fate would befall him, Marcus realized. If he ever did become a hero of the arena, then it would only add to the popularity of his patron, Caesar. With a chilling sense of certainty, he knew that was all the proconsul really cared about. Everyone else was a means to that end.