‘Not you, rich boy,’ the doctore ordered. Pavo stopped in his tracks and shot a puzzled look at Calamus.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘The lanista wants a word,’ Calamus replied.
CHAPTER FOUR
A household slave ushered Pavo down a wide passageway with a vaulted ceiling painted in bright colours. At the end the slave turned left and stopped outside a bronze-panelled door with posts sheathed in carved marble. An intricate mosaic on the floor depicted a gladiator combat between a pair of lightly-armoured fighters with whips.
At that moment the door swung open and Pavo lifted his eyes from the mosaic. The lanista stood in the doorway. Up close he looked even shorter and thinner than he had on the balcony, Pavo thought, as if he had shrivelled up. His arrogant demeanour had disappeared. Now a serious, dark expression was cast over his features.
‘Come in,’ Gurges said.
Pavo followed the lanista into an office with contrasting marble tiles covering the floor and richly decorated walls. The lanista eased himself onto a chair behind an oak desk and nodded to his slave.
‘Fetch more wine,’ Gurges said. ‘The Falernian. Not that piss I ply my guests with.’
The slave shuffled outside. Gurges leaned back in his chair. Pavo stood in front of the desk, his arms resting by his sides.
‘I am the lanista of the oldest and grandest ludus in Paestum,’ Gurges said. ‘Well, the oldest, though perhaps no longer the grandest. Fucking hard to make an honest living these days.’
Pavo said nothing, unsettled by the lanista’s loose tongue. He saw that Gurges’s eyes were glazed and it occurred to Pavo that this probably wasn’t the lanista’s first drink of the day. Gurges folded his arms behind the back of his head and pushed out his bottom lip.
‘The high priests might turn their noses up at my work, but when it comes to keeping the mob happy, they need people like me. Men who live and work among the lowest scum Rome has to offer, looking for a champion.’
The slave returned with a fresh goblet of wine. Like everything else in the lanista’s home, it appeared expensive and crass. Gurges admired the goblet for a moment. Then he said to the slave, ‘Fetch Calamus. I want an update on the injured gladiators.’
‘Yes, master,’ the slave replied and quickly departed from the study. Gurges took a gulp of wine, and set the cup down on the desk with a sharp rap. A few drops splashed over the oak. His eyes were wide and angry as they fixed on Pavo.
‘You can handle a sword, from what I hear.’
Pavo shrugged. ‘Well enough.’
‘Good. I trust you’re aware of the deal I cut with that slippery Greek?’
‘Pallas,’ Pavo muttered through clenched jaws. ‘The snake.’
‘You’re to die within the year, for twenty thousand of the Emperor’s sestertii. I’ll honour the deal, because I’m a man of my word. But there’s nothing from Pallas to dictate what I do with you in the interim. For one year you belong to me, body and soul. And for that year, you’ll fight. A lot. I intend to pitch you into the arena at every opportunity. And I expect you to win. I know what you posh lads are like, I’ve had a few pass through my ludus in my time. One boy, he shoved his head through the wheels of the cart on the way to a fight. Chose to snap his bloody neck in half rather than face the arena and left me out of pocket, the selfish prick.’
Pavo took a deep breath. ‘There’s only one man I want to face. The man who killed my father.’
Gurges stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘And who might that be?’
‘Hermes of Rhodes,’ said Pavo icily. ‘The Emperor ordered my father to fight him to the death in the arena. Hermes showed him no mercy or respect. Disembowelled him, then cut off his head and paraded it around the arena like a trophy. He disgraced my father and my family name in front of thousands. I will fight him, and I will have my revenge.’
Gurges steepled his fingers on the desk and studied the son of the legate in silence. ‘Hermes, eh?’ he said after a long pause. ‘That won’t be easy to arrange. Hermes is officially retired now. He only comes out into the arena for a hefty fee. We’re talking a hundred thousand sestertii.’
‘I don’t care,’ Pavo said. ‘I’ll find a way.’
Gurges picked at a morsel of food lodged in his teeth. Pulling his finger out of his mouth he rubbed the morsel between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Arrogant lad, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ Pavo said. ‘Just wronged.’
A chill gripped Pavo as an image flashed across his mind of Hermes lying prostrate on the arena floor, blood spilling from his slit throat. He burned with rage. His father had been humiliated in the arena. His family’s wealth had been seized by Claudius and pumped into the imperial coffers. Pavo’s infant son, Appius, had vanished and he feared the worst. The child could have been sold into slavery or butchered in some dark alley, joining his mother Sabina – who had died during childbirth – in the afterlife. Pavo had been stripped of his position as tribune and condemned to a barbaric death. He had nothing left to live for, except the prospect of killing Hermes.
‘Perhaps we can come to an arrangement,’ Gurges said. Calamus arrived and waited patiently by the study door. ‘If you earn me some good victories, I may be able to help you in your quest to fight Hermes.’
Pavo said nothing.
‘Give it some thought.’ Gurges continued, ‘In the meantime, watch your back. Some of the gladiators in this ludus are prisoners of war. One or two might have even been captured by your old man. As for the rest, well,’ he swept his arms across his desk as if clearing away imaginary clutter. ‘Let’s just say they don’t like high-born brats like you intruding on their ludus.’
Gurges reached for his wine cup and raised it to his lips, forgetting that he’d already emptied it. Frowning, he rose abruptly from his seat as Calamus brushed past Pavo. The doctore watched the recruit depart down the passageway. Once he was out of earshot he turned to the lanista.
‘He’s trouble, that one,’ Calamus grumbled. ‘We should just be rid of him.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Gurges replied, flattening out a slight crease in his tunic. ‘Times are hard. We haven’t had a champion since the great Proculus, seven bloody long years ago.’
Calamus made to reply, but Gurges levelled his eyes with the doctore and cut in before he could speak. ‘With his raw talent and the fame of his family name, crowds will flock to see Pavo. We’ll sell out the amphitheatre ten times over.’ He looked back down the passageway at Pavo’s shrinking figure. ‘He could save us. And gods know, we need a new champion. Either that or we go out of business. Now, tell me how those useless bastards in the hospital are faring . . .’
Calamus stabbed at the sky, as if drawing blood from the bellies of the clouds.
‘This is a sword,’ the doctore said. ‘Look at it. Admire the blade. Consider the craftsmanship that has gone into making such a fine weapon.’ He smiled for a moment before making a thrusting motion at the recruits. ‘Now imagine the point puncturing your ribcage,’ he said. ‘Cutting through your flesh.’ He twisted the sword in his hand. ‘Carving up your vitals.’
He held the weapon outstretched and pointed the tip at Pavo, who stood at the end of the line. Pavo felt the other recruits’ eyes burning holes in him. In the shadows beneath the balcony he could see the veteran fighters occasionally throw angry stares at him between training exercises. Word of his privileged upbringing had spread quickly, Pavo realised. Since arriving in the ludus he had learned that most of the men in the gladiator school were prisoners of war, slaves or criminals. There was a sprinkling of freedmen volunteers, men of lowly status and desperate circumstances willing to accept the stain on their characters inflicted by becoming a gladiator in exchange for a chance of glory and money. But all the men were of a much lower social status than Pavo. He knew from long experience in the Sixth that nothing bred resentment like an upper-class accent. Still, Pavo had been at the ludus for less than a day and already the trainer and mo
st of the recruits despised him. It must be some kind of record, he thought moodily, as he took a deep breath and pretended not to notice.
‘A gladiator only gets to use a real sword when he fights in the arena, since no Roman worth his salt trusts a gladiator with a real sword in the ludus. You have that ungrateful wretch Spartacus to thank for that.’
The doctore squinted at the sun gleaming off the sword.
‘Plenty of you may know about Spartacus. Some of you may even admire the bastard,’ he said staring down the barrel of his bulbous nose at the recruits. ‘Don’t. Spartacus fought as a gladiator, received three square meals a day and a warm bed, and instead of seeking glory in the arena, he chose to piss it all away. When he died, six thousand of his followers were crucified along the road to Capua, so you can see how well that worked out. Learn from me, and you might end up better off than old Spartacus. One or two of you may live long enough to taste freedom.’
Calamus plunged the sword into the sand and pointed at the dozen wooden posts to his right. They were arranged in two rows of six, spaced two swords-widths apart, one post for each new recruit, standing at roughly the same height as a tall Roman.
‘Until you prove yourselves worthy of the brotherhood you will practise at the palus using a wooden sword. You will practise day and night. You will practise in your sleep. You will practise until your arms drop off. From this day on your life is nothing but this palus,’ Calamus tapped the nearest post on the head, like a star student, ‘and your sword. Bucco!’
‘Yes, sir?’
The doctore puckered his brow at Bucco. ‘Extra rations for the men if you can tell me what this wooden post really is.’
Bucco wiped his brow. Pavo watched the other recruits glaring at him with hungry eyes, willing him to get the right answer so they could fill their empty bellies.
‘Come on then, fatso,’ Calamus growled. ‘I don’t have all fucking day.’
‘A wooden post?’ Bucco ventured between snatches of breath.
Calamus looked ready to explode.
‘A . . . post? Fuck me, Bucco, you’re even thicker than you look. And believe me, from where I’m standing that is no mean feat.’
Calamus took an angry step towards Bucco and for a moment Pavo thought the trainer might thrash him with his whip. Instead he grabbed Bucco by the fleshly folds of his neck and hauled him in front of the nearest palus, venting his anger.
‘This is no post. This is the palus! This is your sworn enemy! This palus is the merchant who stole your girlfriend and the father who kicked you senseless when he came home pissed every night. You will learn to hate the palus with every bone in your body. Despise it. Unleash your rage on it, and the post will reward you by making you a decent swordsman.’
Calamus released Bucco and shoved him back towards the line of recruits as he turned to address the group.
‘You will all be assigned your own palus. Each man will paint a face on his. Not the face of your girlfriend – or boyfriend for you, Bucco – but someone you truly hate. You will stab your sword at that face every day, until your rage has been channelled fully. Bucco!’
‘Yes, sir?’
Pavo looked on as the doctore extended the sword grip towards Bucco. ‘Let’s see if you’ve learned anything in your miserable little life.’
The recruit cautiously approached the nearest palus, which had a practise sword lying beside it. The silence was broken only by the clashing thud of wood against wood as the veteran gladiators battled each other in pairs at the other end of the courtyard. Bucco didn’t strike Pavo as a natural gladiator. But he had bulk, and some of the better gladiators he had seen in the arena carried a reasonable amount of fat on them. More flesh to protect their vitals. One of two were even obese. Perhaps Bucco will surprise me, Pavo thought.
‘Come on,’ Calamus barked with barely disguised contempt. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping at the sword like it’s a bit of posh cunny. Pick it up.’
Bucco tentatively picked up the sword. His shoulder sagged as he struggled with the weight of it. Lifting it in a two-handed grip, Bucco puffed out his cheeks as he aimed at a low point on the post, swiping the sword in a wide arc from his side rather than bringing it over his head with a reckless slashing motion. The point of the sword clattered meekly into the post four feet off the ground. It was an almost apologetic thrust. Pavo winced as the doctore looked on in disgust.
‘Gods below,’ Calamus fumed. ‘You’re trying to slay a man, not touch him up.’ He snatched the sword back from Bucco. ‘Maybe tomorrow you can show me how to dress like a Greek as well as fight like one.’
Pavo watched Bucco sink back into line. He looked crestfallen. Calamus cast his eyes over the rest of the recruits. ‘Who wants to see if they can do better than the toga-lifter then?’
No one spoke up. The doctore settled his cold, grey gaze on Pavo. ‘Rich boy! Get your arse over here.’
A tense atmosphere fell over the recruits as Pavo stepped forward and wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the grip. The training sword was surprisingly heavy. Much heavier than a real blade, he thought. He stood level with the palus, his feet planted shoulder-width apart. He took a deep breath. Pavo felt a heft in his arm muscles as he lifted the sword. In the same breath he felt his heart burn with resentment at the humiliation that had been inflicted upon his family since Claudius had come to the throne. He grasped the sword so tightly his knuckles whitened. The palus disappeared. Instead Pavo saw the figure of Hermes standing in front of him. An uncontrollable frenzy washed over the recruit as he suddenly dropped his right shoulder and twisted his torso, thrusting the sword against the palus with such force that both post and weapon shuddered. In the same blur of motion Pavo retracted his arm, angling his wrist so that his thumb was perpendicular to the ground and thrust near the top of the palus at the point of an imaginary neck. There was a crack as the post shuddered. Pavo quickly launched a third attack lower down, driving the point of the sword into the groin area. Calamus waved for him to stop. The son of the legate took a step back from the post, his muscles inflamed as he stared coldly at three coin-sized divots on the post.
A bout of silence swept like the shadow of a cloud across the training ground. His veins pulsing, Pavo retreated a couple of steps from the palus and let the sword clatter to the ground.
‘Well, that wasn’t completely shit,’ the doctore pursed his lips. He made a point of not looking at Pavo. ‘Right, I’ve seen enough for one day. It’s fair to say none of you will be giving me nightmares about my own proud record in the arena. Remove yourselves to the barracks. We resume tomorrow at dawn. Anyone late to roll-call will be flogged and given half-rations for the day. Dismissed!’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘About bloody time!’ Bucco announced to Pavo as half a dozen lightly armoured guards ushered the new recruits under the east-facing portico and down a gloomy corridor. From a room up ahead to the left, Pavo could hear the crackle of meat sizzling on a grill. Bucco patted his belly in anticipation and beamed at Pavo. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’
Bucco licked his lips as he drew near to the cookhouse entrance. Pavo peered inside and looked on longingly as several slaves toiled over a side of pork hanging above a large grill. He feasted his eyes on bowls of sweet figs, grilled mushrooms layered with cheese, and a mouth-watering assortment of pickled fruit, all carefully arranged on silver trays, together with cakes that were dripping with honey and a large bunch of freshly picked grapes. His empty belly rumbled with hunger.
‘Let’s get stuck in,’ Bucco said to Pavo.
‘Hold it.’ A guard gripped Bucco by the shoulder. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘To eat.’ Bucco gestured to the cookhouse. ‘What does it look like?’
The guard sniggered.
‘This isn’t for scum like you,’ he said. ‘That’s the lanista’s dinner they’re preparing.’
Before the men could protest, the guard brusquely shoved them beyond th
e cookhouse and further down the corridor. They passed a heavily guarded armoury sealed off with a wrought iron gate. Armour and swords gleamed on wall racks. The guards stopped the recruits when they reached a dark, damp room at the end of the corridor, located next to the stairs that led up to the cells on the second storey of the ludus.
‘This is where you lot eat,’ the guard grinned as he waved a hand around the canteen.
A powerful stench of manure hit Pavo as he realized the canteen was right next to the stables. Straw had been scattered across the floor, and from its damp, rotten texture, he guessed it had already been used in the stables. Pavo spotted cockroaches scuttling across the floor. Blowflies buzzed in the air. The other recruits scuttled towards the far end of the canteen, where a cook with teeth like old tombs poured small rations of barley gruel into clay bowls.
Pavo felt his heart sink at the sight of the squalor. There were two trestle tables with a pair of benches either side taken up by the veterans. The recruits had to content themselves with squatting on the floor. Many seemed accustomed to their surroundings, ignoring the insects crawling over their legs and the rancid smell. Pavo supposed these men had grown up as slaves and were familiar with such appalling living conditions. At the roll call that morning he’d been surprised to discover that Bucco was the only volunteer recruit. Eighteen of the other men were runaway slaves and four had been accused of murder. Laws introduced by Augustus and reinforced by subsequent emperors had attempted to rein in the number of volunteer gladiators, and the fact that most of the men around Pavo came from a much lower station only increased his sense of isolation.
A brief pang of nostalgia hit him as he remembered the feasts that had been laid on for his father at the imperial palace. Titus had been highly respected by Emperor Tiberius, Caligula’s predecessor and a military man to the bone. Titus and Tiberius would often relive past glories on the battlefield over jars of honeyed wine late into the evening whilst Pavo played at gladiators with the other children in the palace gardens.
Arena: Barbarian (Book One of the Roman Arena Series) Page 4
