The Gates of Rome. Conn Iggulden

old man, Marcus. I’ll be back in a moment.’

      Alone, Gaius took up his position.

      Renius watched him through eyes narrowed against the sun.

      ‘Why did you choose to fight first?’

      Gaius shrugged. ‘All lives end. I chose to. That is enough.’

      ‘Aye, it is. Begin, boy. Let’s see if you have learned anything.’

      Gently, smoothly, they began to move around each other, gladii held out and flat-bladed, catching the sun.

      Renius feinted with a sudden shift of a shoulder. Gaius read the feint and forced the old man back a step, with a lunge. The blades clashed and the battle began. They struck and parried, came together in a twist of heaving muscle and the old warrior threw the young boy backwards, sprawling in the dust.

      For once, Renius didn’t mock him, his face remaining impassive. Gaius rose slowly, balanced. He could not win with strength.

      He took two quick steps forward and brought the blade up in a neat slice, breaking past the defence and cutting deeply into the mahogany skin of Renius’ chest.

      The old man grunted in surprise as the boy pressed the attack without pause, cut after cut. Each was parried with tiny shifts of weight and movements of the blade. The boy would clearly tire himself in the sun, ready for the butcher’s knife.

      Sweat poured into Gaius’ eyes. He felt desperate, unable to think of new moves that might work against this hard-eyed thing of wood that read and parried him so easily. He flailed and missed and, as he overbalanced, Renius extended his right arm, sinking the blade into the exposed lower abdomen.

      Gaius felt his strength go. His legs seemed weak sticks and folded beyond his control under him, rubbery and painless. Blood spattered the dust, but the colours had gone from the courtyard, replaced by the thump of his heartbeat and flashes in his eyes.

      Renius looked down and Gaius could see his eyes shine with moisture. Was the old man crying?

      ‘Not … good … enough,’ the old gladiator spat. Renius stepped forward, his eyes full of pain.

      The brightness of the sun was blocked by a dark bar of shadow as Marcus slid his sword under the sagging throat skin of the old warrior. One step behind Renius, he could see the old man stiffen in surprise.

      ‘Forgotten me?’ It would be the work of a single thought to pull the blade back sharply and end the vicious old man, but Marcus had glanced at the body of his friend and knew the life was pouring out of him. He allowed the rage to build inside him for a moment and the chance for a quick death disappeared as Renius stepped smoothly away and brought up his bloody sword again. His face was stone, but his eyes shone.

      Marcus began his attack, in past the guard and out before the old man had a chance to move. If he had been trying for a fatal blow, it would have landed, as the old man held immobile, his face rigid with tension. As it was, the blow was simply a loosener and the life in the old man came back with a rush.

      ‘Can’t you even kill me when I hold still for the strike?’ Renius snapped as he began to circle again, keeping his right side to Marcus.

      ‘You were always a fool – you have a fool’s pride,’ Marcus almost growled at him, forced to pay attention to this man as his friend died in the heat, alone.

      He attacked again, his thought become deeds, no reflection or decision, simply blows and moves, unstoppable. Red mouths opened on the old body and Marcus could hear the spatter of blood on the dust like spring rain.

      Renius had no time to speak again. He defended desperately, his face showing shock for a second before settling into his gladiatorial mask. Marcus moved with extraordinary grace and balance, too fast to counter, a warrior born.

      Again and again, the old man only knew he had stopped a blow when he heard the clash of metal as his body moved and reacted without conscious thought. His mind seemed detached from the fight.

      His thoughts spoke in a dry voice: ‘I am an old fool. This one may be the best I have trained, but I have killed the other – that was a mortal blow.’

      His left arm hung, flapping obscene and loose, the shoulder muscle sliced. The pain was like a hammer and he felt sudden exhaustion slam into him, like the years catching up with him at last. The boy had never been this fast before, it was as if the sight of his friend dying had opened doors within him.

      Renius felt his strength desert him in one despairing sigh. He had seen so many at this point where the spirit cannot take the flesh further. He warded off the battered blade of the gladius without energy, batting it away for what he knew would be the last time.

      ‘Cease, or I will drop you where you stand,’ came a new voice, quiet, but carrying somehow through the courtyard and house.

      Marcus didn’t pause. He had been trained not to react to taunts and no one was taking this kill from him. He tensed his shoulders to drive in the iron blade.

      ‘This bow will kill you, boy. Put the sword down.’

      Renius looked Marcus in the eyes, seeing madness there for a moment. He knew the lad would kill him and then the light was gone and control had come back.

      Even with the heat of his own blood warming his limbs, the yard seemed cold to the old man as he watched Marcus glide backwards out of range and then turn to look at the newcomer. Renius had rarely been so certain of his own death to come.

      There was a bow, with a glinting arrowhead. An old man, older than Renius, held the bow without a shiver of muscle, despite the obvious heft of the draw. He wore a rough brown robe and a smile that stretched over only a few teeth.