‘I love the stench of fear, that raw meat smell. It excites my taste buds. Something of the animal in me takes over.’ He grinned at his host for this brief stop-over on his way to Rome. ‘It’s been a long time since I last saw some really professional butchery.’ Antonius shifted his grey and red toga higher on to his shoulder and extended a pudgy, white-skinned hand to point ahead of them. ‘No mere butchery, my dear Gilius. Not for the star performance, at least. You will see skilled mutilation and the subjugation of men by other men before their lives are taken. These are the most thrilling games in this part of the world. Nero himself is a regular visitor.’ Gilius, maintaining his placid composure, felt an inward thrill. He could hardly wait to see some real games after so long in the sand wastes of north Africa. But he knew that his composure mustn’t drop, that he must affect, at least outwardly, an appearance of disdain and boredom. It was the accepted thing to do. He was short, this visiting governor of some obscure African province.
