Octavian tried to flee but, instead of holding him, the other apprentices laughed and pushed him back toward the butcher’s boy. He raised the sword again and then a shadow loomed over the apprentices and a heavy hand connected solidly with the butcher boy’s head, knocking him flat.

Tubruk reached down and picked up the knife from where it had fallen on the stones of the street. The butcher’s boy began to rise and Tubruk closed his fist and punched him down into the filth of the street, where he scrabbled, dazed.

“Never thought I’d see the day when I was fighting with children,” Tubruk muttered. “Are you all right?” Octavian watched him with openmouthed astonishment. “I’ve been looking for you for hours.”

“I was . . . taking the sword to Tabbic. I didn’t steal it,” Octavian replied, tears threatening again.

“I know, lad. Clodia guessed you were heading that way. Looks like a good thing I came to find you, doesn’t it?” The old gladiator glanced at the ring of apprentices who stood nervously around, unsure whether to run or not.

“If I were you, lads, I’d get away before I lose my temper,” he said. His expression made the consequences quite clear and they wasted no time disappearing.

“I’ll send the sword to Tabbic myself, all right? Now, are you coming back to the estate or not?”

Octavian nodded. Tubruk turned to make his way back through the crowds to the gate. It would be close to dawn before they reached the estate, but he knew he wouldn’t have slept with Octavian lost anyway. For all his faults, he liked the boy.

“Wait, Tubruk. Just a moment,” Octavian said.

Tubruk turned with a frown. “What is it now?”

Octavian stepped over to the battered apprentice and kicked him as hard as he could in the crotch. Tubruk winced in sympathy.

“Gods, you have a lot to learn. That isn’t sporting when a man is down.”

“Maybe not, but I owed it to him.”

Tubruk blew air out of his cheeks as Octavian fell in with him.

“Maybe you did, lad.”

*                                                      *                                                      *

Brutus couldn’t believe what was happening to him. The man was inhuman. He had no breath for banter and he’d almost lost the bout in the first few seconds as Domitius had struck with a speed he’d never seen before. His anger had fired his reflexes to match the attack, and the crack of blocked strikes was relentless for longer than he would have believed possible. The man didn’t seem to stop for breath. The blows came constantly, from all angles, and twice Brutus had almost lost his sword when he was caught on the arm. With real weapons, that might have been enough to finish it, but in the practice bouts it had to be a clearly fatal blow, especially when there was money riding on the result.