Cato kept his silence and began to circle slowly. The wound in his opponent’s shoulder was deep but it was hard to make out the blood seeping into the folds of Quertus’s black tunic, save for the glistening where the cloth had become saturated. Cato nodded with satisfaction. While it was not a mortal wound, it was bleeding badly and would get worse if the Thracian exerted himself.

‘What the fuck is this?’ a groggy voice demanded.

Out of the corner of his eye Cato was aware of Macro rising unsteadily to his feet, a hand clutched to his head. He stared at the two officers and quickly sized up the situation. ‘Gut him, lad!’ he bellowed. ‘Kill the bastard!’

With an angry growl Quertus came on again, slashing left and right with his longer blade, driving Cato back as he parried each blow, feeling the force of the blows jar his sword arm with a tingling pain that threatened to loosen his grasp of the handle.

Then it happened.

The full, savage weight of the Thracian’s cavalry sword smashed against the hilt of Cato’s gladius. His fingers spasmed and he felt the blade slip from his grasp. At once Quertus let out a triumphant roar and moved in for the kill. Cato leaped to the side and heard the swish of the blade as the sword swept down behind him and struck the ground with a dull metallic note. He sidestepped quickly as his opponent drew his sword back and came on with the point at waist height, ready to strike a final, killing blow.

‘You can’t run from me,’ Quertus sneered. ‘Stand and take your death like a man, not like a cowardly Roman!’

Cato kept his arms wide, his legs braced, ready to spring in any direction the moment he detected his foe was about to strike. At the same time he knew he was being manoeuvred back against the gatehouse. Around him the air was thick with the cries of the Thracian’s supporters, baying raucously for his blood. The calmness that had filled his mind had shattered. Now his senses vied with his racing mind in a desperate jumble of glimpses of the faces in front of him, the pureness of the patch of blue sky in the clouds above, the vision of Julia as he smiled down at her the morning after their marriage, Macro laughing heartily as he cast a winning throw of dice, and the sweet smell of the air after a summer shower . . . A man snatching at the myriad treasures of his life for that last taste of their delight before he was claimed by oblivion.