‘Sweet Gods, spare us … Spare us.’ The sun had risen shortly before and a thin shaft of light had penetrated the gloom, illuminating the grim scene once again for those in the cold, stinking confines of the small space. It had been a miserable night for the three prisoners once they had been roughly shoved back through the narrow entrance and the door to the cell thudded behind them. The iron bolt had rasped home and the footsteps of the soldiers and the jailer had receded, then there was a brief silence before Festus slumped on to the straw with a dry rustle. Marcus stood by the door for a moment in the darkness, scarcely able to believe the fate that lay in store for them. He heard Lupus trying to stifle his sobs in the far corner and felt some pity for his friend. Marcus had already faced death in the arena. He had also learned that it did no good to allow himself to be paralysed by fear. Fear changed nothing. All a person could do was choose whether to surrender to that fear, or deal with it and continue the struggle.
