'The one you're looking at,' replied the centurion.

A frown creased Memor's lined forehead. 'Big nose, blue eyes. You're strong too.' He let go of Romulus' chin and pulled up the right sleeve of his russet military tunic. Where a slave brand might have been, there was a linear scar, partially obscured by a tattoo of Mithras sacrificing the bull. To expert eyes, however, it was obvious that Romulus had been a slave once. Brennus' excision had been that of a battlefield surgeon, quite unlike the skilled art of those who specialised in removing brands from wealthy freed slaves, and the tattoo Romulus had paid for in Barbaricum only sufficed to divert passing glances. Memor knew at once what he was seeing. Stepping back, he sized Romulus up. 'By all the gods,' he said, his face colouring with old anger. 'Romulus? Isn't that your name?'

Resigned, he nodded.

The centurion looked surprised. 'You know him?'

Memor spat a violent oath. 'The scumbag belongs to me! Eight years ago, he and my best gladiator got out one night and murdered a noble. Of course the bastards ran away. Disappeared completely, although I heard a rumour they'd joined Crassus' expeditionary force.'

The centurion chuckled. 'I don't know about that, but he was certainly in one of Caesar's legions.'

'I was in Crassus' army,' muttered Romulus. 'Thousands of us were taken captive after Carrhae. I managed to escape with a friend some months later.'

Petronius' and the centurion's faces were the picture of shock. Apart from Cassius Longinus and the remnants of his command, no further survivors from the disaster in Parthia had returned to Rome.

Memor spun back. 'You and the big Gaul? Where is he?'

'Not him,' said Romulus heavily. 'He's dead.'

Disappointment filled the lanista's features.

With his grief over Brennus' death scraped raw once more, Romulus could still see Memor's mind working. After all, he too had been an excellent gladiator – at only fourteen years old. Now he was a grown man, who had served in the army. An even better prospect. 'Surely this one could return to me rather than being killed off?' Memor asked. He paused, then couldn't help himself. 'He's my property after all.'

'Don't try your luck. The whoreson joined the army as a slave, which means he's under my jurisdiction until he dies,' snapped the centurion. 'I don't care if he's fucking Spartacus himself. He and his friend go into the arena and they don't come out.'

There was to be no way of making back the money he'd lost from Brennus' and Romulus' disappearance. Furious, Memor lifted his whip. 'I'll teach you,' he hissed at Romulus.

'Don't damage them either,' warned the centurion. 'Caesar will be expecting a top-class spectacle, not just some cripples being mauled to death in double-quick time.'

Cheated of even this, Memor stepped back. 'Shouldn't be ungrateful, I suppose. It'll be a pleasure to see you die,' he said with a cruel smile. 'I believe that the bestiarii have a fine selection available at the moment. Tigers, lions, bears and the like. Apparently there are even more exotic creatures too.'

The other prisoners gave one another fearful looks. Even Petronius shuffled his caligae to and fro. Romulus managed to keep his face blank. He was also scared, but he was damned if Memor would get to see it.

'I'll leave that decision up to you,' offered the centurion, tossing the keys for the padlocks to Memor. 'They're on in two days.' With a curt nod, he led the legionaries out of the yard.

'Unchain them.' Memor handed the keys to one of his men, a skinny Judaean with buck teeth and a scraggly beard. 'Then find the worst cell you can. Tell the cook they are to get no food.' Still in a bad mood, he stalked off.

Rubbing their skin where the neck rings had chafed, the prisoners followed the Judaean to a dank, windowless chamber with mould growing on the walls. It was barely big enough for two or three of them to sleep side by side, let alone eight. There were no bunks or blankets either. Smirking, Memor's man walked off.

The two friends moved away from the doorway. There was no point spending any more time in the cell than they had to. Leaning back against the wall, they watched the gladiators, who, with the excitement over, had gone back to their training.

'Two days until we go to Hades,' muttered Petronius. 'Not long.'

Fighting despair once more, Romulus nodded grimly.

Petronius thumped one fist into the other. 'Why did that black-haired bastard have to interfere? If it hadn't been for him,…' he sighed.

'We cannot understand the gods' purpose,' said Romulus. Even to his ears, the words sounded hollow.

'Spare me your piety.' Clearing his throat, Petronius spat on the sand. 'We don't deserve a fate like this.'

Romulus' spirits hit a new low.

They were damned.

Two days later… Scowling, Fabiola totted up the figures on her parchment again. It made no difference: they were as depressing as the first time she'd calculated them. Time had passed since her takeover of the Lupanar, and business was still not improving. It wasn't as if she hadn't been busy, she thought angrily. The brothel had been redecorated from top to bottom and the baths refilled. Fifteen heavies recruited by Vettius lounged around the entrance and the street, ready to fight at a moment's notice. Unless one had a very large force, attacking the premises now would be tantamount to suicide. Thanks to some well-placed bribes at the slave market, Fabiola was the owner of a bevy of new prostitutes: dark-eyed, brown-skinned Judaeans, Illyrians with raven tresses and pitch-black Nubians. There was even a girl from Britannia with red hair and a cream complexion that Fabiola could have wished for herself.

Posters advertising the Lupanar's revamp had been put up all over Rome too, aimed at attracting both new custom and old. A common method of raising public awareness, this should have resulted in a flood of men through the door. Instead, it had been a mere trickle. Fabiola sighed. She had underestimated Scaevola's ability to affect her business. There could be no doubt that the brothel's failure to take off was thanks to the fugitivarius, whose blockade of the Lupanar had begun the day after Antonius' visit. Her hopes that Scaevola would find out about her affair with the Master of the Horse and just disappear had proved fruitless. While Fabiola didn't think Antonius knew of her feud, she hadn't dared mention it to him yet either. Any time she ever thought about it, her new lover seemed to mention the fugitivarius – in glowing terms.

Scaevola's initial tactics had been blatant: open intimidation of potential customers by his thugs right outside the brothel. Incensed, Fabiola had sent Vettius and his men out to deal with them. After a pitched battle and a handful of casualties, the fugitivarius had withdrawn his forces to the surrounding streets. The situation had then settled into an uneasy peace, broken by the occasional bloody skirmish. While the fighting was bad for business, the damage done by Scaevola's ever-present heavies was even worse. It was impossible to stop them too. Fabiola's guards could not protect the Lupanar and also stand on every street corner day and night.

It was all rather depressing, thought Fabiola morosely. Brutus' funds weren't limitless, and the place wasn't making any money. While she didn't mind spending most of her time in the brothel, the poor trade meant that she was having little luck in discovering anyone of senior rank who was prepared to join a conspiracy against Caesar. Every one of her prostitutes had been drilled to repeat the smallest detail let slip by a client about the political situation. Thus armed, Fabiola planned to focus her attention on those who spoke badly of Caesar in any way. Information, though, like customers, was proving to be thin on the ground. She could only suppose that, eager to avoid trouble, most people were keeping their lips sealed.