EPILOGUE

Six hundred miles away, just off the north coast of Africa, a rotting, ramshackle old arena – a quarter of the size of the mighty Colosseum – creaked in the blustery sea wind.

Only a few spectators had turned up to watch the second-rate gladiators, since all the best ones were in Rome for Hadrian’s birthday bash. But at least some of the locals were still up for a good tussle, and Crixus – a hefty lump of a man – was always worth the entry fee.

There he stood now, in the middle of the sandpit, waiting for his opponent.

Crixus gripped his heavily spiked mace and watched in amazement as a very odd figure entered.

It looks like a horse, he thought. A strange, stripy horse. “’Ere! What’s all this nonsense?” he blurted. “I ain’t fighting no horse!”

The stripy horse threw back his cloak and drew his sword, which glinted in the sun. “Not a horse,” he said. “A zebra.”

 

To be continued…