A cold shiver crawled down Macro’s spine. News of the execution of the Fifth’s legate had not yet reached the Rhine, but the more the officer heard about how the imperial palace now dealt with its enemies, the less he liked the sound of it. Bashing up barbarians in Germany and Gaul was all well and good, but the thought of Romans stabbing each other in the back reminded him of the civil wars that had dogged Rome during the days of the Republic.
‘Dissent in the ranks cannot be tolerated,’ Murena said, as if reading Macro’s mind. ‘We had to set an example.’
‘But you let the son live?’
‘He wasn’t in Rome at the time. Pavo was a military tribune in the Sixth Legion. We had him placed under arrest and returned to Rome. The Emperor had planned to execute the young man in the arena, and to that end we slung him into a gladiator school in Paestum. The lanista has promised to see to it that Pavo dies in the arena within the year.’
Macro curled up his lips in thought. ‘And now you want Pavo to save the honour of Rome?’
‘These are desperate times. With Hermes out of the picture, we need Pavo. At least for the time being. Training him, however, may not be so straightforward. The young man is rather upset about the whole business of his father being killed.’
‘How did he die?’ Macro asked cautiously.
Murena chuckled to himself and shook his head. ‘Condemned to death in the arena. The Emperor paired him with Hermes, no less. Titus put up rather a good show. I’m surprised he had a drop of blood left him in when the time came for Hermes to finish him off.’
‘No bloody wonder the lad is angry,’ Macro murmured, in a voice low enough that his words evaded Murena’s ear.
‘I’m told that you have soldierly qualities in abundance, Macro. I believe you’re just the right man to whip him into shape. You’re to head to Paestum, train your charge and escort him to Rome for the fight. You have one month.’
‘A month?’ Macro cried. ‘You must be joking!’
‘On the contrary,’ Murena replied. ‘I’m deadly serious.’
‘But . . . A month! That’s nowhere near enough time to prepare for battle.’
‘It’s not a battle. Just a fight in the arena.’
‘Just a fight?’ Macro shook his head wearily. ‘I have plenty of experiene in training legionaries. Even the best take months to whip into any kind of shape, and the worst can take three or four times that.’
‘Pavo is different. His natural talent with the sword is exceptional.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ said Macro.
‘Well this is no mere boast. The gladiator who first trained Pavo happens to be the doctore at one of the imperial schools. He claims he has never known a boy with such prodigious skill. And by all accounts the men in the Sixth haven’t seen a tribune handle a sword so well.’ Murena sighed as he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. ‘It’s his temperament that is the problem.’
‘What about the Emperor? He’s happy to have his skin saved by the son of a traitor?’
‘In the current climate, we can’t afford to be picky,’ Murena replied sourly. ‘Domestic squabbles have to be set to one side, for we cannot allow this barbarian to hang over us for any longer.’ Murena inspected the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Besides, I have reassured the Emperor that it is he, and not Pavo, who will bask in the glory of Rome’s honour being restored.’
As will you, no doubt, Macro thought. For once he managed to keep his opinion to himself. Macro’s tongue was his worst enemy at times. His lack of diplomacy was part of the reason why it had taken him so long to be in contention for promotion to centurion. He didn’t want to let the opportunity slip through his fingers now. Even if it meant working for a snake like Murena.
‘You could push the fight back a month or two,’ he offered. ‘Give me some more time with the lad.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Murena sniffed. ‘Announcements have already been made and the wheels have been put in motion for the fight. We cannot backtrack and we cannot tolerate any challenge to the Emperor’s authority. You must appreciate the precariousness of our situation.’
Macro cursed the gods under his breath. A short while ago he’d been licking his lips at the thought of indulging himself for a few days before returning to the Rhine and enjoying his new status as the toast of the Second. Now he was looking at a month in a backwater training a troubled gladiator in a ludus whilst surrounded by prisoners of war, errant slaves and wastrels. And the cost of losing to Britomaris and heaping further embarrassment on the Emperor didn’t bear thinking about.
‘I’ve dispatched a messenger by horse with instructions for the lanista at the ludus in Paestum. He’ll be expecting you. We’ll be hosting the match at the Julian plaza. The plaza is a somewhat more intimate venue than the amphitheatre, but it’s the perfect setting: rich and full of history. Caesar built it and Augustus hosted gladiator fights in it. Now the Emperor will assert his credentials there.’
The freedman called over the two Praetorian guards. ‘You are to leave immediately,’ he said without looking at Macro. ‘A horse has been saddled for you, and I’ll have my clerks draft an imperial warrant to give you the necessary authority to do as you need at the school. It is a five-day journey to Paestum I believe. Five days there and the same back leaves you with twenty days of training with your charge. Use it wisely. Questions?’
‘Just one,’ Macro said. ‘What if this Pavo doesn’t want to fight? I mean, if he bears a grudge against the Emperor for what happened to his family, he’s not exactly going to be enthusiastic about helping him out, is he? Especially since you’ve already condemned him to death.’
Murena smiled cruelly as he said, ‘I’ve got something that should provide him with a strong incentive to fight . . .’
CHAPTER THREE
Paestum
The doctore cracked his short leather whip on the blistering sand and glared at the new recruits. ‘Straighten your backs!’ he growled. ‘Raise your heads you worthless buggers!’
The men shuffled into the training ground and arranged themselves in a rough line in front of Calamus. The doctore cast his eye over the men the way a butcher inspects cattle at a market. He’d have his work cut out getting this lot into shape, he thought grimly. Calamus knew from experience how hard the training regime was, and how few men made it through the selection process. He’d once fought as a gladiator himself, yet all he had to show for it was a noticeable limp and a face lacerated with scars.
‘You’re here because you’re the lowest of the low,’ the doctore said. ‘Common criminals look down on you. Whores wouldn’t sleep with you. Even bloody slaves laugh at you. Rome shits on each and every one of you daily and if I had my way, I’d pack the lot of you off to the mines. But today is your lucky day, ladies. Our master is in a generous mood for a change. He’s given you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make something of your pathetic little lives.’
A silence fell across the training ground. The doctore looked for someone to make an example of and fixed his piercing eyes on a young man at the end of the line. He had an angular and awkward physique, and appeared somehow shorter than his actual height. His eyes radiated a defiance of everything around him and he wore an intricately decorated pallium cloak over his tunic. The mere sight of the cloak caused Calamus to blaze with anger.
‘You!’ Calamus shouted as he marched over to the young man. ‘That’s a rich-looking cloak. Very nice.’ He narrowed his eyes to dagger slits. ‘Who’d you steal it from?’
The young man shook his head. ‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘It’s mine.’
Calamus elbowed him in the solar plexus. The recruit grunted as he doubled over and dropped to his knees, coughing and spluttering on the ground. Calamus towered above him. ‘That’s “sir” to you, you little shit!’ he snarled. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Marcus Valerius Pavo,’ the recruit said between desperate draws of breath. ‘Sir.’
‘Tell me, Pavo, do you think I was born yesterd
ay?’
‘No, sir.’
Calamus grabbed a fold of the cloak and shoved it in front of the recruit’s face. ‘And yet you expect me to believe that a desperate lowlife like you can afford a piece of finery like this?’
‘I didn’t steal it.’
‘Bollocks! Are you calling me a liar?’ Calamus said, lowering his voice.
‘It was a gift, sir.’
‘A gift?’ Calamus spat. ‘Scum like you don’t get gifts.’
‘I swear, sir. My father gave it to me.’
Calamus laughed and rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Oh, that’s a rich one! You don’t have a father, son. You were born a bastard like every other man in this ludus. But entertain me some more. Who do you reckon your old man is?’
‘Titus Valerius Pavo, sir. Legate of the Fifth Legion. Or at least he was.’
That caught Calamus off guard. He worked his features into a heavy-set frown and paused, unsure for a moment how to proceed. In his twenty years’ experience in the business Calamus had never heard of the son of a legate enrolling at a gladiator school.
‘Another rich-boy volunteer, eh?’ he seethed. ‘I know your kind. Pissed away your inheritance, did you? What was your poison, lad? Tarts? Booze? Gambling? Chariot races? Can’t be bothered to get a proper job? If you’ve come here thinking it’s an easy ride, you’re in for a fucking shock.’
‘I’m not a volunteer,’ Pavo said, scraping himself off the ground. ‘I’m here against my will. My father was killed by—’
‘Shut up,’ the doctore thundered. ‘Frankly I couldn’t give a toss why you’re here. As far as I’m concerned you’re a fucking recruit and nothing else.’
Pavo kept his mouth shut. He had been beaten and spat on and shouted at by men below his station ever since a guard of Praetorians arrived at the camp of the Sixth Legion and placed him under arrest. The doctore didn’t scare him. Not much did now. Not after what had happened to his family.
He watched Calamus wheel away in disgust and pace up and down in front of the men, his voice echoing around the porticoes and travertine columns surrounding the training ground. Pavo noticed that the tendons of his bare feet were bulbous and distorted from years of fighting on sand.
‘This isn’t the army,’ Calamus said. ‘Gladiators aren’t legionaries.’ He shot a scathing look at Pavo. ‘If you want to spend the next twenty-five years digging holes and collecting seashells for the Emperor, you’ve come to the wrong place.’
One of the recruits to Pavo’s right laughed uneasily. Pavo watched Calamus glower and turn to look at him. He was a short man with cropped dark hair and a nose with a break at the bridge. He had a layer of fat about his waist and wore a plain, tattered tunic.
‘You! Name?’
‘Manius Salvius Bucco, sir,’ the man replied nervously.
‘Bucco? I know a Bucco. He’s a toga-lifter. Are you a toga-lifter, son?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Bollocks, of course you are! Are you a volunteer or a slave?’
‘Volunteer, sir.’
‘Want to be a gladiator, do you, Bucco?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t make me laugh. You don’t look like gladiator material to me, Bucco. You look like something I’d scrape off my boot. Tell me, why are you disgracing my ludus? Murder someone and now on the run, are you? Shag your master’s missus when he was away on business at the forum? Is that it?’
‘No, sir.’ Bucco lowered his head in shame. Pavo squirmed. Although he felt sorry for poor Bucco, he was also glad that Calamus had found someone else to bully. ‘I gambled. Fell in with some bad people, sir. Figured I would enrol and pay off my debts.’
‘A gambler! What’d you play?’
‘Dice mainly, sir.’
Calamus smirked. ‘I should’ve known! You look like a mug. Only idiots play dice, Bucco. How much did you lose?’
‘Ten thousand sestertii.’
‘Good gods, man!’ Calamus exclaimed. ‘And look at the shape of you! You’d have to win twenty fights to earn that much, and I’ve never seen a fat bastard win once. Or the son of a legate, for that matter.’
Pavo frowned. He didn’t approve of the doctore’s attitude to the military. His father Titus had been something of a hero to his men – a real soldier’s soldier – in stark contrast to the half-wits and aristocrats who populated most of the senior posts in the legions. Titus had further endeared himself with his love of the chariot races, and he could often be seen at the Circus Maximus cheering on his beloved Greens. But his enjoyment of the races was nothing compared to his devotion to gladiatorial combat. Pavo remembered with fondness his father explaining how Rome had been founded on blood and sacrifice, and that no man could be worthy of leading others without understanding those twin virtues. He had often regaled Pavo with the story of the beleaguered General Publius Decius Mus, who sacrificed himself to the gods of the underworld during the Samnite Wars in exchange for success in battle.
Twenty years of service, and Rome had repaid Titus by condemning him to death. The back of Paro’s throat burned with outrage at the memory of seeing his father’s bowels slashed open by the tip of a sword and his entrails scooped out by his murderer, while the shrill cheer of the crowd bayed for blood.
‘Gladiators don’t build forts or go on marches,’ Calamus boomed as he wheeled away from Bucco and addressed the recruits as one. ‘Make no mistake, when you’re lying on your arse in the sand and some bastard has a blade to your throat, there will be no comrades charging to save you. Gladiator fighting is a precise skill, ladies. It is not an art, as some poseurs make out. Art is for women, or worse, Greeks. A gladiator goes into the arena alone and comes out alone, and the only difference is whether he walks out or has to be dragged. Gladiators dedicate themselves to one-on-one warfare. Bucco, why is your fucking hand raised?’
‘When do we get to eat, sir?’
The question made Pavo wince. He suddenly remembered how hungry he was – it had been a long morning. They’d been escorted to the ludus at dawn for a thorough examination by the medic, a mealy-eyed old Greek called Achaeus. There had been a lot of waiting around since, the men fidgeting tensely as they waited to see what lay in store for them.
‘You’ll get to eat, Bucco, when I say so. You shit when I say so, you sleep when I say so. You don’t even think without getting permission from me first. Got it?’
‘Yes, sir!’
Calamus jerked his head at a huddle of men under the north-facing portico. Pavo noted their overly developed muscles and heavily scarred torsos. The doctore summoned one of them over. ‘Amadocus!’
A veteran turned towards Calamus and trudged towards the doctore with a grunt. Pavo studied the man. He had white skin the colour of chalk and a mane of light hair, with a darker beard shaved close at the cheeks. His muscles were clearly defined. His veins bulged like rope on his forearms and neck. He stopped beside Calamus as the doctore gestured to his scars.
‘Tell the men how many matches you’ve fought.’
‘Thirteen, sir,’ he answered in heavily accented Latin. Pavo noticed that the veteran had a stubborn, hostile look in his deep-set eyes.
‘And how many times have you lost, Amadocus?’
‘Never, sir.’
‘Never!’ The doctore beamed with pride at the reply, Pavo noted as Calamus swung his icy stare back to the recruits. ‘You miserable buggers might look at this haggard face and see a man who’s taken his fair share of knocks. Amadocus is a scrapper, plain and simple. But thanks to my instruction he’s still alive while his many opponents are taking a nice long trip through the Underworld.’
Calamus nodded at the veteran. ‘That will be all, Amadocus.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the Thracian replied, no discernible expression on his face.
Pavo watched Amadocus march back towards the huddle of veterans as Calamus glared at the new recruits. The doctore took a deep breath and turned his head in the direction of a balcony overlooking the courtyard. ‘Now
stand upright, the lot of you. Your lanista, Vibius Modius Gurges, wishes to introduce himself.’
Calamus stepped aside. Pavo craned his neck and saw a figure float into view at the balcony. He had a small face with thin lips with eyes set deep into their sockets. His skin was stretched tightly across his face. He rested his hands on the balcony plinth and stared curiously at Pavo for a moment before addressing the men.
‘Calamus is your mentor, your doctore. He will turn some of you into legends of the arena, gods willing,’ Gurges said, flicking his eyes from Pavo over the rest of the group. ‘But I am your master. I own you, body and soul. All of you have a solemn promise to me to be burned, bound, beaten and killed by the sword. Some of you will fulfil that promise before the year is out. A lucky few will live a little longer. Most Romans consider you the dregs of humanity. But I don’t.’ Gurges raised his head to the heavens, then clasped his hands in front of his face. ‘In fact, I envy you.’
Gurges paused and sucked in a deep breath. ‘I envy you because you get the chance to die a glorious death. In Rome, as some of you might know, there is no greater honour. Crowds will cheer your name. Women will want to be with you. Even some men will want to be you. Children will talk of your legend for years after your blood has run dry.’
Gurges paused. A wicked smile tickled the corners of his mouth as a slave emerged carrying a silver tray with a single wine goblet balanced on top. The lanista scooped it up and toasted the recruits. ‘To your success,’ he said. ‘Or not.’
He drained the wine in a single gulp, then nodded to Calamus. ‘As you were.’
‘Back to training!’ Calamus barked at the gladiators. ‘New recruits at the palus. Move it!’
Pavo paced towards the wooden posts located in the middle of the training ground with a heavy heart. The posts were a short step from a sundial used to time the length of each exercise. Training like a common legionary, thought Pavo. His privileged life as a tribune in the Sixth Legion suddenly seemed a distant dream.
Arena: Barbarian (Book One of the Roman Arena Series) Page 3
