‘That’s it.’ Festus nodded with satisfaction. He focused himself once more on the fight, knowing these skills were needed to protect Portia. But he had reached a decision - he would bide his time and find out how Decimus fitted into Caesar’s world.
After all, Festus was training him to survive, and he knew he’d been slow this morning, finding it difficult to concentrate after his miserable night. Marcus did not resent his hard treatment. There was a burning pain and Marcus grimaced as he jumped back and held his club out in front of him, ready to parry the next blow. ‘Wake up, Marcus, you dozy fool!’ Festus shouted at him, whipping his cane out and flicking the end on to his shoulder. It was hours later, after his mind had turned over the situation with Crassus, Pompeius and Decimus a hundred times and he was still no closer to coming up with an answer, that Marcus’s weary mind finally began to embrace sleep. One thing was clear: Marcus would be in as much danger on the streets of the capital as he had been facing wild wolves in the arena.
But first he had to complete his training and wondered if this would be as hard and dangerous as that of Porcino’s gladiator school. At first fearful of the consequences of speaking to her alone, he’d begun looking forward to more time with her once he assumed his duty as her bodyguard. She was the closest he’d had to a friend for a long time. For a moment his mind wandered, and then he found himself thinking of Portia. Marcus shuffled on to his side and closed his eyes.
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