The first dog had finally regained its feet, and took position between the other two, warily waiting for a chance to dash in and snap at the boar. The latter now had to keep watch in three directions and its great dark head was constantly turning this way and that. Cato watched the spectacle with a curious mixture of sentiment. He had been to the games in Rome a few times and had witnessed the bloody contests between beasts before. They had always struck him as somehow distasteful, even as he had thrilled to the tense atmosphere, and the excitement of the fights themselves, but afterwards he was left feeling guilty, sordid. Now, this fight between the hunting dogs and the boar induced that same sense of compulsive interest and repulsive self-awareness.

There was a sharp yelp of agony as the injured dog feinted towards the boar’s leg and retreated too slowly to avoid the tusks. Now it lay where it had fallen, belly and chest ripped open. Glistening intestines slipped out into a smeared pool of blood as the dog jerked its legs in a pathetic attempt to rise back to its feet.

Macro smacked his thigh. ‘I can taste that wine already!’

The boar took advantage of the fallen adversary, padded over and slashed at the stricken dog. In doing so, it brought about its own destruction. In a blur of grey one of the other dogs leaped on to the boar’s back and buried its teeth in the boar’s bristling neck. The third dog flew in from the side and clamped its teeth round the boar’s throat. Instantly the boar lowered its head, frantically trying to shake its attackers loose, but the powerful jaws held firm, crushing its windpipe. Slowly the beast weakened, the flailing of the trotters gradually fading. At last the boar swayed a moment before its legs gave out and it slumped to the ground, with the dogs’ jaws still clamped below its head. A roar of delight erupted from the crowd, drowning out the groans of those who had backed the boar.

‘Fuck!’ Macro shouted. ‘Where’d they get that boar from? Bloody fight was rigged!’

Tincommius laughed. ‘Shall I collect my wine in the morning, Centurion?’

‘Do what you like.’

Cato ignored them, and watched in sick fascination as the dogs tore out the boar’s throat with all the vicious efficiency of many years of training for their role in the hunt. Once the boar was quite dead the handlers moved in and carefully replaced the leashes on their charges. The dead dog was heaved back into the wagon, then half a dozen bodyguards strained with the loose mass of the boar, struggling to lift it on top of the mangled form of its erstwhile foe. Then the wagon was trundled out of the hall again, and a fresh murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd as they waited for the final entertainment of the evening.