‘Going somewhere, Roman?’ Duras asked in a thick, slow voice, his stale breath filling Pavo’s nostrils.
Pavo stood rooted to the spot, his path blocked by the giant bodyguard, fear burning in his throat as the blood drained from his head. Despite the heat emanating from the hot room behind him, he was suddenly very cold.
‘You’re plotting to escape,’ he said quietly.
Duras laughed deep in his chest. His colossal pectoral muscles rippled as he leaned in to Pavo and narrowed his pit-like eyes to slits. ‘Suppose we are, Roman. What are you going to do about it? Report us to the fucking lanista?’
‘You mean Macro? If you have a legitimate grievance, I suggest you discuss the matter with him.’
‘He’s a Roman cunt, just like you. I have a better idea. When we’ve finished cutting up the guards, and those fucking Celts, we’ll sling you and the lanista in the same grave.’
Pavo took a deep breath. He heard the patter of footsteps at his back. He turned to see the six gladiators from the hot room closing round him. The man in the middle brandished one of the sticks covered in rusty nails, tapping the tip of the weapon against the palm of his hand. Pavo realised he had no way of escaping the Thracians. They had him cornered. He turned back to Duras.
‘Perhaps I can join your rebellion?’ He struggled to sound convincing.
Duras smirked as he glanced at the other men. ‘A stuck-up Roman siding with us Thracians? Bato would never stand for it. Nah! Far better to beat you to death right now. Bato planned on killing you anyway.’
‘You don’t have to do this. I won’t betray you.’ Pavo felt anxiety rise in his throat.
Duras cracked his knuckles. ‘We have a problem. You overheard our plan. We can’t trust you not to go running to the lanista, and there’s no place in our ranks for a fucking Roman …’
Pavo’s bowels knotted and he took a step back from Duras, only to bump into the other Thracian gladiators. He tried to duck away to the side, but the bodyguard reacted quickly, wrapping his arms round him and locking his hands round his wrists, gripping the young gladiator in a suffocating hold. Pavo writhed free as the gladiator wielding the stick lifted his weapon above his head, bringing it crashing down against the side of his skull. A piercing sound rang through his ears as the stick clattered into his jaw, drawing hot blood from his cheek. The gladiator swung at him again, disorientating him, while the other gladiators swooped over him, raining a flurry of punches and kicks down on him. He felt sick. Pain burst through his chest as an attacker drove his fist into him. He stopped struggling. Duras released his grip. Pavo collapsed. His face slapped painfully against the marble floor. He was dimly conscious of Duras kneeling beside him, smiling manically from ear to ear. Pavo tried to scrape himself off the floor. A sharp pain flared between his ribs, forcing him to abandon the attempt. Then the giant Thracian placed a bare foot on his chest, pinning him to the ground. The other gladiators surrounded him.
‘Got you now, rich boy,’ Duras hissed.
Pavo closed his eyes and prepared to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
That afternoon Macro undertook a thorough inspection of the ludus’s facilities. Accompanied by a clerk, he cast a shrewd eye over the infirmary, baths, latrines, canteen, guards’ quarters and armoury, as well as the large two-storey dormitory housing the gladiators two to a cell. The scale of work needed was daunting, but he was determined to make whatever repairs his measly budget permitted. The men needed new training equipment, vital if the optio was going to whip the fighters into decent shape ahead of the forthcoming games. He also reasoned that repairs to the latrines and general upkeep of the cells would improve morale among the men and silence some of the grumbles on the training ground. To fund the work, the previous day Macro had approved the sale of three gladiators to the lanista of a private ludus to the west of Capua. Although sales of imperial stock were theoretically forbidden, the practice had become commonplace under the debt-ridden reign of Caligula, the previous emperor, and Murena had granted Macro special dispensation to sell off excess stock to secure the immediate financial future of the ludus. The sale of three seasoned German provocators had raised 15,000 sestertii each, a staggering sum in comparison to Macro’s legionary wage of 900 sestertii per annum.
Even so, most of the income had already been accounted for. Corvus had racked up substantial debts with the local merchants charged with supplying the ludus with victuals. In addition, the administrative staff and guards were owed several months’ pay. That would eat up the lion’s share of the windfall, with Macro earmarking the remaining sum for the long-overdue maintenance work. After all that expenditure, there would be a small sum left in the coffers to cover any medical bills for gladiators who suffered injuries in the build-up to the games. The sums involved in running a ludus horrified the optio. He privately wondered how lanistas ever managed to turn a profit.
Macro made his way from building to building, pointing out repairs and improvements to be made, which the clerk inscribed on a wax tablet. At the armoury, he stopped to inspect the wrought-iron gate. The air was dusty and rich with the tang of metal. Oil lamps flickered in the corridor. The sharpened tips of swords, spears and daggers glinted menacingly in the gloom. The jambs either side of the gate were surmounted by a crude arch engraved with various gladiator types engaged in battle. Macro grabbed hold of one of the gate bars and tugged at it. The gate groaned on its hinges.
‘This lock is fucked,’ he sighed to the clerk. ‘Any old fool could break in.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The meek reply irritated Macro. He’d awoken early that morning with a throbbing hangover, having ended the previous day with an exploration of Corvus’s wine store. His predecessor had been quite the connoisseur. The cellar underneath the lanista’s quarters was well stocked with Falernian and Caucinian, and even had a couple of amphoras filled to the brim with the finest Faustian. It wasn’t hard to see how Corvus had squandered his wealth. Although the quality of the wine was high, Macro hankered for a skinful of the cheap stuff sold at market stalls near the legionary camp on the Rhine. Soon, he reassured himself, he would be relieved of his duties at the ludus and return to action.
He rounded on the clerk. ‘This gate is all that separates a hundred and twenty angry gladiators from enough weapons to arm an entire fucking cohort. Now, I’m assuming you remember the story of how that evil bastard Spartacus and his bandits chopped up half of Campania?’
The clerk hung his head in shame. ‘Yes, sir.’
Macro nodded tersely. ‘Then you’ll also know that after Crassus and his legions gave that shit-stirring Thracian a good kicking, strict laws were passed about when and where gladiators could wield a sharpened bit of steel.’
‘Of course, sir,’ the clerk replied helpfully, shifting on his feet.
‘The only time a gladiator gets to use a real sword is when he’s about to step out into the arena. Not in his cell, not while he’s having a shit, and not on the training ground. Swords are to be kept strictly under lock and key at all times in the ludus. Not left behind a bit of rusting iron. Are we clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Macro cast a heated glance at the armoury. ‘By this time tomorrow this lock had better be replaced and security of the armoury tighter than a Vestal Virgin’s cunny. Otherwise I’ll make sure you get nailed to a cross. Understood?’
The clerk gulped loudly. ‘Understood, sir.’
‘Good.’ Macro grunted and turned away.
As he marched back to his quarters, he felt a sense of shame at having to use the clerk for the administrative side of the business of managing the ludus. He did not have much choice in the matter, since he could not read or write. His illiteracy was one of his few regrets. As a young boy in Ostia, he’d been taught to identify a handful of letters and numbers, but whole sentences proved impossible and he had never sought to develop his ability. As a soldier, he’d seen no need for it – until he had learned that literacy was a prerequisite
for promotion to the rank of centurion. The notion that his illiteracy might prevent him from rising through the ranks festered in his guts, and he resolved to learn his letters and numbers before one of the officers in the legions discovered his secret. Now that he was on the cusp of reaching the rank of centurion, he knew he would have to do something about it soon.
He entered a large rectangular room at the entrance to the lanista’s quarters from the east-facing porticoes. The wan twinkle of lamps revealed vividly coloured frescoes adorning the walls. Sunlight cascaded through an opening in the roof and glistened on the surface of a shallow pool filled with rainwater. A set of stone stairs led down to the basement to the right. In front of the pool was an ornamental desk decorated with ivory and bronze, laden with papyrus scrolls and wax tablets. Macro stopped when he noticed a figure pacing nervously up and down the room, muttering under his breath. He was a willowy man with greying locks and a compressed mouth, as if cut with the point of a knife. He wore an off-white tunic and a ceremonial crimson cape fastened at the left shoulder with a clasp. A large chain of dormitory cell keys dangled from his belt. The optio recognised the man as the commander of the ludus garrison.
Macro cleared his throat. The commander glanced up and, seeing Macro, abruptly halted.
‘Ah, the imperial lanista,’ Quintus Tullius Macer intoned in a high-pitched voice. ‘Just the man I was looking for. I want a word with you.’ He flicked his eyes to the clerk. ‘In private, please.’
Macro nodded to the clerk. ‘Dismissed.’
As the clerk departed down a corridor into a side room, the commander of the guard straightened his back and folded his arms across his chest in a defensive posture. He studied the optio for a moment.
‘You are making a grave mistake in the way you’re running the ludus, Macro.’
Macro snorted his contempt. ‘That’s “sir” to you.’
The commander huffed. ‘I am an officer in the Praetorian Guard. I don’t have to address you as “sir”.’
Macro rounded on Macer. ‘You’re on secondment from the guard. Inside this ludus, I am the sole voice of authority, and you had better start addressing me as such. Are we clear?’
Macer glared at the optio. ‘As you wish … sir. But my protest stands. If you persist with implementing harsh measures over the gladiators, you will drive the imperial ludus to ruin.’
‘Harsh measures?’ Macro looked at the commander in disbelief. ‘Good old-fashioned legionary discipline, I call it. Something the men under your command could do with, Macer.’
‘My guards are perfectly capable of defending this ludus, sir.’
Macro snorted derisively. ‘I’ve spent fourteen years as a soldier. I can tell the quality of a fighting man. There’s more chance of Neptune himself jumping out of the Tiber than your guards winning a scrap.’
Macer continued to stare implacably at the optio. He had an officious air about him that reminded Macro of the staff officers in the legions. He took an immediate dislike to the man.
‘This is not a legionary camp. This is the imperial ludus, sir,’ Macer continued. ‘We do things differently here. It would behove you to accept that simple fact, as Corvus did.’
‘Behove, eh? Speak in simple Latin, man! This isn’t a bloody poetry circle.’
Macer twisted his lips in resentment. ‘Yes … sir. I mean, we must tread carefully with the gladiators. Bato is a noble chief of a warrior tribe. He is not some insolent scum from the Aventine who just happens to wear a legionary uniform and a sword. You must treat him with respect.’
Macro exploded with rage. ‘Respect? Fuck off! That Thracian tosser threw down a direct challenge to my authority. Disobedience is not tolerated in the legions, and I won’t tolerate it from you either.’
‘Be that as it may, you have picked a fight with the wrong man.’
‘Bato is a troublemaker. I’ve seen dozens of soldiers like him. Bad apples. They need discipline. Give him a few good lashes of the whip and a week on half-rations and he’ll soon fall into line.’
Macer shook his head. ‘I fear not. Bato is no ordinary gladiator, sir. He used to be the First Sword at the ludus until that new chap, Marcus Valerius Pavo, was installed in his place. Pavo’s appointment has pissed Bato off.’
Macro shrugged. ‘He’ll have plenty of time to calm down once Aculeo has finished flogging him.’
Macer clamped his lips shut for a moment, venting his anger through his nostrils.
‘The problem is not restricted to Bato. It runs deeper than one man. You see, when Bato was captured, many of the men in his tribe were taken prisoner alongside him. Since they were all exceptionally good fighters, they were transferred en masse to the imperial ludus.’
Macro’s face shaded red with anger. ‘How many followers are we talking about?’
‘Nearly half the men in the ludus, sir.’
‘You mean to say that we have a ludus stocked full of prisoners of war itching for revenge against their Roman captors?’
Macer gave a brief nod of his head. After an uncomfortable pause he looked up at Macro. Fear gleamed in his eyes. ‘If you push Bato too hard, his men will rebel against your authority. There are a hundred and twenty gladiators within these walls, sir, and only sixteen guards under my command. The Thracian is a simple creature, and he will abide by the conditions of his imprisonment so long as he has wine and women and money. By depriving these men of their privileges, you have laid down a challenge. I fear we will all pay a heavy price for your actions.’
Macro considered the commander with open contempt. He was about to reprimand him when the sound of heavy footsteps cut him off. Spinning round, he saw Aculeo hurrying up the marble steps, gesturing frantically.
‘Sir!’ the doctore shouted breathlessly. ‘Sir, you must come with me at once!’
Macro stiffened at the look of alarm in the trainer’s eyes.
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Speak, man!’
Aculeo paused to catch his breath. ‘It’s the gladiators,’ he began throatily. ‘Sir, I’m afraid we’ve got a problem.’
Macro rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me. Pavo again?’ He clicked his tongue. ‘That boy is more trouble than he’s worth.’
‘No, sir,’ the doctore gasped. He looked from Macro to Macer. ‘It’s Bato and his men.’
Macro choked at the doctore’s words. ‘What have they done?’
‘They’re refusing to return to their cells, sir.’
Grey clouds smothered the darkening sky as Macro, Macer and Aculeo strode out from under the east-facing porticoes and marched across the training ground. A crisp breeze fluttered across the ludus, and the optio was momentarily reminded of the rain-lashed frontier of the Rhine.
‘If only I was so lucky,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘What’s that, sir?’ Aculeo asked.
‘Nothing,’ Macro grumbled.
Shutting out the piercing headache at the front of his skull, he saw a pair of orderlies unloading amphoras from a supply wagon stationed in front of the main entrance. The outer gate had been opened and the portcullis was raised, the iron spikes fixed to the bottom of the oak bars gleaming dully in the gloom. With a heavy grunt Macro swivelled his incensed gaze towards the training posts to the north. There he spotted the troupe of gladiators. He stopped a short distance from the men. Their wooden swords and wicker shields were scattered on the sand at their bare feet in a show of dissent. The gladiators themselves were strangely calm, Macro thought. Their arms were folded across their chests and they stared at him with a cold-blooded defiance that unsettled him. Bato stood at the training post nearest to the guards. His hands were bunched into tight fists at his sides.
A squad of armed guards formed a semicircle round the gladiators. They wore legionary-type uniforms of red tunics under iron cuirasses and sword belts over their shoulders. Their cuirasses were battered and their hobnailed sandals were badly in need of repair. They rested their hands nervously on the
pommels of their swords, their legionary-issue shields raised to their chests. One or two of them looked towards Macer for guidance. The commander offered no leadership to his men, Macro thought with disgust. He merely pursed his lips, his eyelids twitching as he tried to shy away from the confrontation.
‘What in Hades is going on here?’ Macro demanded, turning away from the commander to face the guards and resting his hands on his hips.
‘I ordered the men to return to their cells,’ one of the guards reported, ‘but they won’t obey.’
Macro counted the gladiators. ‘There are eighteen men here, lad. Where’s the rest of ’em?’
‘Returned to their cells, sir. We cut short their supper. Thought it best to lock them up, given this protest.’
‘What about the other guards?’
‘Patrolling the ludus, sir. We’ve got one gladiator unaccounted for.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Pavo, sir.’
The imperial lanista felt a tinge of regret at making an example of Pavo in front of the other men at the canteen. Perhaps he had been too harsh on the young lad. But he instantly dismissed Pavo from his thoughts. There could be no special treatment for the young man. Whatever sympathy he had for Pavo was tempered by the fact that he always seemed to be getting himself into some kind of strife. Macro turned to the line of gladiators.
‘Right, you lot, that’s enough. Return to your cells this instant, or I’ll have the lot of you on half-rations for a week.’ He fixed his gaze on Bato. ‘I suppose you’re the ringleader?’
Bato bowed mockingly. ‘I am but the mouthpiece of the downtrodden.’
‘Bollocks! I should’ve known you were up to no good.’ Macro looked away from the Thracian and addressed the other gladiators. ‘Here’s my one and only offer. Whoever stops this foolish protest now will be spared punishment. There’s no reason to follow this idiot into the mines.’
‘We want our wine!’ one of the gladiators heckled.
‘And our cunny!’ Duras joined in.
Arena Page 20
