At a word of command, two Thracians at opposite sides of the circle dashed straight towards Cupido's group. If they struck the positions covered by Cupido or Flamma, the spearman, their momentum would have achieved Menander's aim: to smash open the little group and leave them individually vulnerable. But with a shuffle of feet it was Niger and Salamis who faced them.
The retiarius swung his net with a flick of the wrist and the first Thracian fell sprawling at his feet. With one movement Niger stabbed the man in the throat with his trident, retrieved his net, and resumed his position facing the enemy. In the same instant, Sabatis smashed his shield into the face of his charging attacker and knocked him backwards. With a single thrust, he pierced the off-balance gladiator's exposed belly with his gladius and left him writhing in the dust, blood spurting like wine from a punctured goatskin.
The crowd roared their appreciation and the depleted ring of Thracians retreated to their original positions. Menander glanced into the stands where Caligula watched with cold eyes and felt a deathly shiver run down his spine.
Rufus could see the Thracian leader's hesitation, and he knew that Cupido, who lived or died by his instincts, would have sensed it. But the four were still faced by a dozen.
Menander now knew that piecemeal attacks would only result in a slow stream of casualties and in growing frustration for the Emperor. He must stake everything on one throw, using the strength of his numbers. 'Form lines,' he ordered.
The Thracian ring transformed into two ranks, rectangular shields locked solidly together. Menander took up position on the far left of the first line and shouted: 'Advance!'
Rufus recognized that the tight-knit formation adopted by Cupido and his gladiators would not protect them against the classic battle tactics of the legion. When the two ranks reached the smaller band they would wrap around their flanks and while the front rank was testing their defences and taking the casualties, the second would exploit any gaps. Cupido would be overwhelmed.
Cupido had known this moment would come. He had hoped to be able to inflict more casualties on the Thracians, perhaps Menander himself, before he was forced to change tactics, but it was not to be.
'Flamma,' he said quietly.
The Syrian gave an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement.
'Wait until I give the order to break. They will be confused for a moment. One, perhaps even two, will give you an opening. Aim low. I want to hear them screaming for their mothers.'
Cupido waited until the advancing lines were less than ten paces away before he gave the command. 'Break!'
Immediately the huddle split, with Sabatis and Niger moving left, the big murmillo taking position just beyond the flank of the Thracian line, and Cupido moving right to do the same. As Cupido predicted, for an instant Menander and his men did not know how to react. The ranks halted, uncertain how to deal with this threat to both flanks.
The split second of confusion was enough for Flamma, who stood, balanced and ready to throw. The first javelin took the centre man of the front rank low in the groin, the leaf-shaped blade nicking an artery as it buried itself, leaving him writhing in the dust, shrieking in torment.
The second spear was in Flamma's hand almost before the first had reached its victim. It should have taken its target just below the ribs, but the Thracian's shield edge deflected the point downwards, through the cloth of his linen kilt, to pierce the muscle of his upper thigh, crippling him.
While the Thracians were still stunned by the death cries of their comrade, Flamma, now armed only with a dagger, took up position behind and to the right of his leader.
Menander cursed under his breath. It was time to end this cat and mouse game. Splitting his remaining men into three groups, he threw them forward, himself joining the unit attacking Cupido and Flamma.
The first precipitous rush cost Menander one of his gladiators, who died with Cupido's long sword in his throat, and left a second nursing a ragged slash that was his reward for underestimating Flamma's ability with the dagger.
Rufus had been so mesmerized by what was happening to Cupido that he was blind to anything else in the arena. But now he could see that the overwhelming numbers pitted against Sabatis and Niger had begun to tell. The little retiarius was bleeding from at least three cuts and struggled to hold his surviving opponents. As Rufus watched, Niger plunged his trident deep into the chest of the nearest. But the other Thracians attacked simultaneously and he went down under a hail of blows. Above the baying of the crowd, Rufus could hear the sickening thud of blades hacking through flesh and bone before one of the men bent and picked up Niger's severed head by his shock of dark hair and raised it towards Caligula.
Sabatis, great Sabatis, had given his all. Three of the enemy crawled or lay in the dust around his kneeling form as he choked out his life in dark strings that stained the dirt, his body pierced by a dozen wounds, but still unwilling to die.
Only Cupido was untouched. Flamma had taken a slash which had cut deep into his knife arm. Now he was truly defenceless.
Menander ordered his men, reinforced reluctantly by Niger's killers, to hold Cupido's attention as he manoeuvred to take the golden gladiator in the flank. Cupido could sense his intention, but facing four swords he could do little to counter it. Seeing an opening, Cupido cut first right, and then left, into the necks of the two most vulnerable Thracians, but the commitment left him open to attack, and Menander needed no invitation.
The Thracian commander scythed at Cupido's exposed ribs, intending to cut him to the spine. But he had reckoned without Flamma. The little spearman threw his body between the sword and his leader, taking the blow across the nape of his neck and dying instantly. Flamma's sacrifice gave Cupido the instant he needed to force his remaining opponents back. One he cut down before the last, terror in his eyes, dropped his weapon and fled.
For a long moment Cupido stood, shoulders bowed. Rufus could see his chest heaving with the exertions of the prolonged combat, and rivulets of sweat created intricate designs in the opponents' blood which stained his skin.
The golden gladiator looked up into the stands where Caligula stood, his face a confused mixture of anger and frustration, then turned to Menander.
The final combat took less than a minute. Menander knew he was no match for Cupido. His parries were sullen and slow and his feet seemed unwilling to move. Finally, Cupido, seemingly casually, slipped his leg between the Thracian's and flipped him over on to his back as if he was a novice at his first training session. Almost nonchalantly, he held his sword beneath Menander's chin, the point forcing his opponent's head backwards and exposing his throat.
Once more the empty-eyed gold mask turned to the stands, where the Emperor waited, hands clenched tight on the rail in front of him. Caligula raised his thumb, before ostentatiously hiding it in his fist to show that Cupido should sheathe his sword.
Cupido's eyes behind the golden mask never left the Emperor's. Their stares remained locked as he leaned forward and put all his weight on to his sword, forcing it home through flesh and bone with a crunching sound that could be heard in the stands.
The silence in the arena had the intensity of a solid object. Ten thousand hearts did not dare beat. Ten thousand mouths did not dare take a breath. Rufus waited with the rest, paralysed by fear. This was an insult Caligula would never forgive or forget. Every eye in the stadium was on the Emperor, waiting for the command that would bring his Praetorians on to the blood-pooled sands to avenge him.