‘Bash his bloody skull in!’ a voice screamed behind Pavo.
It sounded close, almost on his shoulder. Pavo quickly glanced round, realising that he had retreated nearly into the spectators. A scrawny Persian man puckered his brow at him. His eyes were different colours and he sported a curly black beard. Pavo knew the man as Orodes, a prisoner of war captured during a Parthian raid into Armenia. Orodes booted Pavo in the back. The blow sent the younger man lurching towards the centre of the circle, and Amadocus’s seething mass.
The Thracian wound up for a decisive slash at Pavo’s neck. But Pavo ducked his head. Gripping his shield with both hands, he thrust the top edge up towards Amadocus. The move caught the Thracian by surprise. He groaned as the rim smacked up at his chin, his jawbone slamming shut. Before his opponent could come to his senses, Pavo cast his lumbering shield aside and dived towards him. The look of anger on the Thracian’s face melted away as he lost his footing and fell backwards with Pavo on top of him. There was a rowdy cheer from the spectators as the two men crashed to the training-ground floor with a crunching thump. At first the big Thracian was stunned. Then he rolled over on top of Pavo, using his immense strength to pin his opponent to the ground. Pavo balled his right hand into a fist and slammed a punch at Amadocus on the bridge of his nose. His knuckles flared with pain. The spectators booed, urging the Thracian to finish off his opponent. Pavo thumped Amadocus a second time. Now blood streamed out of the Thracian’s nostrils and splattered across his lips. Enraged, Amadocus thrust out his right arm at Pavo and clamped his fingers around his throat. Now the Thracian smiled cruelly as he slowly crushed his opponent’s windpipe. Pavo felt the air trap in his lungs. His eyes bulged inside their sockets. He realised he was going to die.
Suddenly a wooden sword came whooshing down in front of Pavo and struck Amadocus on his head. The Thracian grunted as he fell away, his arms flopping by his sides. Pavo rolled over and gasped with relief as air filled his burning lungs.
‘That’s enough,’ Calamus boomed, thrusting them apart with his sword. The Thracian glowered at Pavo. Two veterans, fellow Thracians who Pavo had seen by his opponent’s side in the canteen, stepped forward from the circle. Each one slipped an arm around Amadocus and hauled him to his feet. They began to escort Amadocus away, but the Thracian gestured for them to stop. He turned back to Pavo and scowled.
‘This isn’t over, Roman.’ He spat blood. ‘I pray to the gods that we will fight to the death in the arena, and the last thing you see before you visit the Underworld will be my sword plunging into your fucking neck.’
‘You two.’ Calamus nodded at the other Thracians. ‘Take Amadocus to see Achaeus and get him cleaned up. Our lanista insists on paying that Greek physician a king’s ransom, so we may as well get some use out of the senile old fool.’
The two Thracians pulled Amadocus away. The circle of spectators hastily parted for the three men, veteran and recruit alike distracted by the sight of Amadocus hobbling towards the medical quarters mumbling curses.
‘Right, you lot. Enough pissing about. Get back to training, and the gods help anyone I catch slacking off this afternoon.’ For a second none of the men moved. Calamus lashed his short leather whip on the sand, causing one or two of the recruits to flinch. ‘That’s an order, ladies. This is a ludus, not a fucking Greek debating society.’
There were grumbles and low whispers as the men reluctantly dispersed and trudged towards the opposite ends of the training ground. The recruits headed for the paluses assembled at the southern end of the ground, whilst the veterans gathered to fight in pairs in the shade of the portico at the northern end. Calamus frowned at the dispersing crowd and turned to Pavo.
‘Come with me, rich boy,’ the doctore growled as he seized him by his left arm and marched him across the training ground.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Pavo demanded, ignoring the angry looks thrown in his direction from the gladiators.
‘The lanista wants you,’ Calamus said. ‘Don’t ask me why. Frankly I couldn’t give a fuck about a snivelling little shit like you. You might have fluked that win over Britomaris, but don’t think for a second you’re worthy of being branded a true gladiator. Not while I have a say on the matter. Mark my words, one of these days Amadocus will have his hands wrapped around your throat again. And next time, I won’t save you.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Calamus guided Pavo under the shadow of the portico and up a stone staircase leading to a door with a pair of lightly armed guards positioned either side. The guards stepped aside and Calamus yanked open the hefty door, ushering Pavo down a colonnade with a series of small rooms to the left and a garden to the right adorned with an ornate fountain and sculptures of gladiators striking various poses. Beyond the colonnade a short passage opened on to a wide room with a high ceiling. Pavo spotted Gurges standing beside a shallow pool of rainwater positioned directly beneath an opening in the roof. Reflected light from the pool shimmered across his face. There was a bronze bust mounted on a plinth, and a wooden chest fitted with polished bronze locks. Gurges did not appear to notice Pavo and Calamus at first. He was deep in discussion with a corpulent man dressed in a vast tunic that had the proportions of a sail. His green eyes glinted and he sported a trimmed black beard with a shaved upper lip and dark hair curled in the Greek fashion. Gold rings gleamed on each of his chubby fingers.
‘So it’s agreed, then,’ the corpulent man said. ‘Fifty thousand sestertii is the bet. Should your man win, you’ll stand to make four hundred thousand sestertii. Lose, and the fifty thousand is mine.’ He examined his gold rings and went on, ‘I would prefer to have something in writing. It is the custom.’
Gurges chuckled. ‘You don’t trust me to pay if I lose, Carbo?’
‘I am a bookmaker,’ Carbo replied tersely, pressing the palms of his hands together in front of his double chin. ‘It is in my best interests to be cautious when a client lays down a fairly, shall we say, substantial sum. Naturally, I would never question the integrity of the house of Gurges.’
The lanista chuckled. ‘Very well. I’ll arrange for the necessary contract to be drawn up. Now, unless there’s anything else, I shall see you at the banquet to discuss the other gladiators for the forthcoming show.’
‘I look forward to it.’
The lanista signified the end of the conversation, wheeling away from Carbo and acknowledging Calamus with a brisk nod. As Carbo made to leave, he spotted Pavo and stopped. He smiled curiously at the trainee. ‘So this is the hero of Rome?’ he mused. ‘The man who saved the reputation of Emperor Claudius from ruin, eh?’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ grumbled Calamus.
Carbo stuck out his bottom lip in disappointment. He waddled a couple of paces towards Pavo and paused a moment while he tickled a flabby fold of skin under his chin. ‘I must say, you’re somewhat slighter than I expected. Mind you, many gladiators have so much muscle on them these days, they can hardly move.’
‘The muscle is so they can swing a sword,’ Calamus interjected. ‘And the layer of fat on top protects their organs when a blade cuts through their flesh and draws blood.’
‘Yes, well. Thank you for that, doctore.’ Carbo shivered at the thought. He nodded to Pavo. ‘You did well to triumph against that savage Britomaris. But I fear you will do even better to survive long against your next opponent.’
‘Next opponent?’ Pavo asked. His heart thumped inside his chest.
The lanista patted Carbo on the back and the men said their goodbyes. Then Carbo departed, winking at Pavo as he waddled past on his way to the corridor. Another fight, thought Pavo. He offered a silent prayer to the gods that he would at last face Hermes, and achieve the revenge he had craved since the man had beheaded his father in front of the Emperor.
Gurges waved a bony hand at Calamus. ‘Leave us, doctore.’
‘Yes … sir.’
The lanista patiently watched Calamus retreat down the corridor, his hands placed behind his bac
k. At the clunk of the shutting door, he at last turned to Pavo and abruptly perched himself on the ledge of the pool. He crossed his legs in the dainty fashion of the Greeks and said, ‘I understand from Calamus that you’ve been making an enemy of Amadocus.’
Pavo wiped sweat from his face. ‘He started it, sir.’
Gurges laughed. ‘Ignore him. He’s just upset that you’re threatening his position within the ludus.’ The lanista dipped a hand into the pool and went on, tracing circles in the rainwater, ‘You had better get used to the attention. You’re the new darling of the mob, Pavo. And you know what that means?’
He was interrupted by a Greek slave entering with a tray of tiny pastries. Pavo felt his empty stomach rumble at the sight of the food. He lived in a state of permanent hunger and thirst, working up a ferocious appetite during the hours spent on the training ground that was hardly sated by the standard fare of barley wheat, bread and the odd cup of vinegared water. The slave hovered at Gurges’s side while the lanista picked away at the snacks. Too distraught with hunger to watch Gurges eat, Pavo turned his gaze to the bronze bust. Upon further examination he realised it was a portrait of the lanista. He silently scolded the sculptor for doing such a dishonest job. Gurges’s crooked nose had been smoothed out. His balding pate had been generously transformed into a thick head of curly hair. Pavo briefly wondered how a lowly lanista, considered on a par with a brothel madam, managed to live in such splendour.
‘I have exciting news for you,’ Gurges said. Pavo felt an icy shiver of anticipation crawl up his spine.
‘Am I to fight Hermes at last?’ he asked.
The lanista burst into laughter. ‘Hermes? There’s more chance of me shagging a Vestal Virgin than enticing him out of his recent retirement. Besides, he’s still recovering from his recent mugging. Word has it a gang of street robbers roughed him up and broke several of his bones. It’ll be a while yet before he’s fit enough to take to the sands, even assuming that he’d want to step out of retirement.’
Pavo burned with anger. ‘But we had a deal. You said if I won you would help me get my fight with Hermes.’ His voice rose and trembled with indignation.
‘I promised no such thing,’ Gurges replied, feigning an insulted look. ‘I only said that I’d see what I could do. It so happens that I am still making enquiries. But I’m sure you appreciate that these matters take time. Hermes is a darling of the Emperor. The last time he retired was under Caligula, and it took a great deal of persuading to convince him to return to the arena.’
Gurges rose and paced over to Pavo, licking his fingers clean. His crude manners offended Pavo, who had been educated by his father to believe that conduct and dignity were what separated the Romans from the barbarian hordes at the edges of the Empire. ‘Even if the old boy did accept your challenge, it’s highly unlikely the Emperor would personally sanction it. The risk of losing Hermes and undermining his own reputation would be too great. My point, dear boy, is that bringing Hermes out of retirement is a costly business. You need to make it worth my while. All you’ve done so far is cost me money.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘We are to host a spectacle,’ said Gurges, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Right here, in Paestum. Dignitaries from across the Empire will come to watch the fighters of the house of Gurges. My name will be famous throughout the provinces.’
‘Who’s the sponsor?’ Pavo wondered aloud.
‘In theory, Emperor Claudius.’ Gurges puffed out his chest with pride and stared into the middle distance, as if looking directly at the Emperor. He turned back to Pavo. ‘In practice, me. You see, the Emperor is far too busy cementing his hold on power to handle the daunting task of organising a spectacle for the mob. I kindly offered to take care of matters for him. Claudius will be represented in Paestum by the imperial secretary.’
‘Pallas!’ Pavo felt a cold, clammy fear grip his bowels. ‘He convinced Claudius to execute my father. I pray to the gods daily that he meets a violent end.’
Gurges laughed and said, ‘You should be thanking the man, not cursing him. Pallas has kindly chosen you on behalf of the Emperor to top the bill. You’ll be fighting against an illustrious name from the past. A talented gladiator by the name of Decimus Cominius Denter.’
‘And if I defeat him, I’ll fight Hermes?’ Pavo asked, his voice tinged with hope.
‘One step at a time, young man,’ Gurges replied, patting the gladiator on the back as if they were old friends. ‘Your next fight will not be straightforward.’ The lanista shifted awkwardly on the spot. ‘You are to train as a retiarius.’
Pavo felt a stab of anxiety. ‘A net fighter?’
‘That’s right.’ Gurges nodded. ‘You’ll fight with a trident and a net. No shield. Your opponent will fight as a secutor, armed in the traditional way, with a short sword and a legionary shield.’
Pavo bristled with anger. He furrowed his brow. ‘There must be some mistake. I’m a swordsman. I learned my trade in the military. I should be fighting as a murmillo or a hoplite, or perhaps a thraex. Any other type of gladiator, in fact. Not with a damn net.’
Gurges stared irritably at the high-born fighter. ‘It’s not often we get such a grandiose spectacle in Paestum, and Claudius is personally sponsoring the event. You’ll fight with a fucking stick if the Emperor demands it.’
‘And why should I do what he says?’ Pavo replied angrily. ‘Claudius and his lackeys confiscated my father’s property. I have no inheritance. My parents are dead and buried in unmarked graves and my son is being held hostage in the imperial palace.’
Gurges gently scratched his chin. ‘How badly do you want to kill Hermes?’
‘It’s the only reason I train,’ Pavo said, his veins thumping against his temples at the thought of striking down the legendary gladiator.
‘I see,’ said Gurges quietly. ‘Then consider this. You’re the slayer of Britomaris. To the mob you’re already a hero. They talk of you in taverns and public baths. But that’s just one bout. You might just be a flash in the pan. Now, a fight against Denter will be the biggest seen in Paestum for many years. Men and women will flock here from Pompeii and Puteoli, Capri and Capua.’ Gurges rubbed his hands gleefully. ‘We’ll rake it in. We’ll sell statuettes and replica swords. I might even charge people to watch you work at the palus.’
Pavo huffed. ‘And why should I want to help you get filthy rich?’
‘Luring Hermes into the arena will be no easy task. But should you put on a good show for me, we’ll have enough of a profit to persuade him to renounce his retirement and accept your challenge.’
Pavo went quiet for a moment as conflicting thoughts swirled inside his head. There was an irrefutable logic to Gurges’s plan. Retired gladiators only stepped back into the arena for tens of thousands of sestertii. And Pavo was broke. A voice cautioned him that he would be foolish to trust the lanista, but then what choice did he have if he wanted to face Hermes?
‘Do we have a deal?’ Gurges asked.
Pavo nodded grudgingly.
‘Splendid.’ A smile retreated to the corners of the lanista’s mouth. ‘There is one, ah, slight problem.’ He wrung his hands. ‘You are undertaking an entirely new style of fighting, and there is no specialist net-fighting trainer in the ludus. Calamus will help you as best he can, but for the most part you’re on your own. I’m sure a hungry young man like you will get the hang of it soon enough.’
Pavo’s face darkened angrily. ‘How am I supposed to learn to fight someone like Denter without getting the proper training?’
Gurges shrugged and reached for another pastry. ‘It’s a net and a trident. You cast your net over your opponent so that he is entangled. Then you stab him with the trident. How hard can it be?’
Biting his tongue, Pavo turned away from the lanista and stomped back down the corridor with a sinking feeling at his prospects for the coming fight. ‘By the gods, how can this day get any worse?’ he muttered to himself.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
A cracking noise rattled the sky as the doctore lashed his leather whip at the recruits.
‘By Jupiter’s cock!’ Calamus boomed at the men practising with wooden swords against their posts at the far end of the training ground. The palus belonging to Bucco stood untouched. Pavo had yet to discover what had happened to his friend, and had privately resigned himself to the likelihood that Calamus had dispatched Bucco to a mine in some far-flung corner of the Empire.
‘Is this the best you miserable bastards can do? I think you lot might be the worst recruits I’ve ever seen. Keep this up, ladies, and you’ll all be working in the mines before the year is out.’
The recruits increased their pace, sweating away under the piercing gaze of the doctore despite the cold of the early morning. Some gladiators were desperate to please the trainer and win an opportunity to fight in the arena. Others went through the motions, hoping to escape the wrath of Calamus and delay their appointment with the sword. Pavo busied himself with stabbing his palus with a fishing trident acquired from the armoury. Two weeks had passed since Calamus had first introduced him to his new weapons. Since then, Pavo had been left to train alone. After long hours of wielding the net and attacking the palus with the trident, he was still no closer to truly mastering the technique of a retiarius. The net seemed an entirely impractical device. Denter could simply dodge it, or cut himself free if caught. And then Pavo would be defending himself against a heavily armed gladiator with nothing more than a trident and a dagger.
He quelled the anxiety rising in his throat and considered the other recruits slogging away at their individual paluses. They wielded wooden swords of various lengths and styles. Some grasped legionary-style swords. Others trained with spears and short swords, depending on the gladiator type they had been selected for. During the first morning of training the doctore had explained to the recruits that the style of fighter they would eventually become was decided by the lanista, on Calamus’s advice. Once assigned, the recruits were trained by specialist instructors. A heavyset man with a scar running across his shoulders instructed the hoplite fighters, while a wiry, nimble comrade oversaw the provocators. Specialising in a particular type of combat meant that each man was another step closer towards his first appearance in the arena. They were all aware that if they did well in training, they were more likely to be paired with a weaker opponent on their first appearance, since it was the worst-kept secret among the gladiator schools that lanistas used the early bouts to get rid of the less able recruits by pitching them against promising young fighters, who in turn would curry favour with the mob by slaughtering their mismatched opponent.
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