Pavo furrowed his brow at Macro. ‘My conditions are not out of choice, sir. They were imposed on me by Cornicen, as you well know. It’s not my fault the imperial lanista singled me out for special treatment.’
‘Always get on with the lanistas, don’t you, lad?’ Macro joked.
The younger man glared at the optio and waved a hand in front of him where men with dishevelled beards and wearing threadbare tunics shuffled solemnly through the streets. Babies wailed from within crumbling tenement blocks.
‘My point is that these people have chosen to wallow in their own filth.’
Macro cocked an eyebrow at Pavo. ‘Haven’t been to the Aventine before, have you?’
‘Never,’ the young gladiator replied proudly. ‘My family home was on the Appian Way. I rarely ventured within the city walls. Sometimes to attend processions in the Forum or listen to the debates going on in the Senate.’
Macro shook his head. ‘Lucky for you. I once lived in this pit. And I can assure you, I had no choice in the matter, like the rest of these poor devils.’
They passed a bakery. A crowd of stick-thin Romans meekly gathered outside, waiting to exchange their grain rations for loaves of bread. Pavo knew that millions across the Empire depended on the grain ration. Perhaps Macro was right, he considered. Perhaps these individuals weren’t scroungers on the grain dole, as he’d previously assumed. He fell quiet, lost in thought as they moved through the streets.
Macro stayed silent at his side. After his mother had run away from the family home when Macro was a child, he had moved with his father to the Aventine Hill to be closer to his uncle Sextus. The sprawling streets and angry shouts of mid-morning drunks were instantly familiar to the soldier.
At the end of the street they spotted a rundown tavern built into the ground floor of a four-storey block. A brightly painted sign hung from a wall outside. A chorus of loud belches and roaring laughs emanated from inside. Pavo frowned at the sign and read it out loud.
‘The Drunken Goat. Come thirsty, leave merry.’ He shrugged. ‘Has a certain ring to it.’
Macro nodded at an arch next to the tavern.
‘Must be this way.’
The two men passed under the arch and entered a courtyard at the back of the tenement block. The courtyard reminded Macro of the place where Draba had trained him many years ago. Refuse was piled in the corners and the air was thick with the stench of decay and damp. Two pairs of wicker shields and wooden swords were stacked against the wall. They were the same as the training weapons issued to new recruits in the legions, deliberately designed to be heavier than real weapons so that novice swordsmen developed their muscles as well as honing their sword-fighting techniques. High tenement blocks surrounded the courtyard, and even with the clouds clearing in the sky, the shafts of sunlight found it difficult to penetrate the gloom.
Macro looked around the courtyard and frowned.
‘Bastard is late,’ he muttered, kicking one of the training shields in frustration. ‘Typical gladiator. No discipline.’
At that moment a full-throated roar erupted from inside the tavern. The wooden door at the back crashed open and a huge figure staggered out. Pavo turned towards the man. His burly torso was heavily scarred, but the scars were nothing compared to the appalling injuries to his face. His muscles were slack with age and he had a large paunch. The man raised his small, dim eyes to Macro.
‘Publius Didius Ruga?’ Macro asked, taken aback by the sight in front of him.
‘That’s me.’ His voice was slurred. He thumped a mangled fist on his lacerated chest. ‘Finest fucking gladiator in the days of Emperor Tiberius, I’ll have you know.’ He burped.
At first Pavo could not believe that the maimed veteran in front of him had once proved himself the equal of Hermes. He studied Ruga as the man approached him, limping slightly. Ruga cocked his head at the young gladiator.
‘You must be the thick bastard Murena was telling me about,’ he said disdainfully.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Pavo replied with a start.
A cynical smile creased the veteran’s face. ‘Anyone who wishes to fight Hermes is a fool. As my scars should make clear. What’s your excuse, boy?’
Pavo stared at Ruga. ‘I’m no fool. Hermes took the life of my father,’ he replied coldly. ‘And I don’t want to merely fight Hermes. I want to kill him.’
Ruga kept smiling. ‘I’m sure you do. But fifty or so gladiators have stepped out to face Hermes and not one of them has triumphed. What makes you think you can do any better?’
Pavo glanced at the optio. ‘I have the best trainer in Macro. He’s one of the finest soldiers in the legions. He knows more than anyone about handling a sword.’
Ruga bowed his head in the direction of the soldier. ‘With all due respect, Optio, your student’s past achievements in the arena count for nothing. Fighting Hermes is like taking on five gladiators at the same time.’
‘Bollocks to this. I don’t have to justify myself to some washed-up swordsman,’ Macro said impatiently. ‘Look here. We’ve got a month until the big fight. Now can you help us or not?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what? From what we’ve been told, you already struck a deal with Murena. Unless you train the lad, you can forget about returning to your old line of work as a bodyguard.’
Ruga glared at the soldier. Without replying, he paraded over to the training equipment stacked against the wall and picked up one of the wooden swords. He pointed the tip at Pavo and said, ‘Show me what you can do.’
‘You’re not serious,’ Pavo spluttered.
‘Defeating Hermes is about more than pure skill, boy. It’s about having the desire to win. More than that, it’s about not shitting your loincloth when Hermes is coming at your throat with a foot and a half of sharpened steel. Getting my old job back with Senator Macula is all well and good, but I’m not short of coin for the odd drink, and I’d rather walk away now unless you prove to me that you’ve got a hell’s chance of cutting down that fucking savage.’
‘You’re drunk,’ Pavo said in disgust.
‘I’ve still got what it takes, boy.’
Pavo raised an eyebrow. The retired gladiator paused for a moment as he reached down with his free hand and unsheathed a wooden dagger fixed to a leather strap fastened round his tunic. Several lines of text were engraved along the length of the blade. He held the dagger closer so that Pavo could read it. The retired gladiator’s name was engraved on a brass plate fixed to the blade. Next to it were the date and the name of the last opponent he faced in the arena.
‘Hermes,’ Pavo whispered as he read the name.
Ruga grunted. ‘My rudis of freedom, presented to me by Tiberius after I came closer than any man to overcoming the colossus from Rhodes. I may be worn as old boots now, but I can still teach you a trick or two.’
Sheathing his rudis, Ruga chucked the training sword at Pavo, scooped up the second sword and kicked off his sandals in readiness for combat.
‘Sir …?’ Pavo asked, glancing at Macro.
The optio shrugged. ‘You heard the man. Show him what you’ve got.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Pavo gulped.
He gripped the sword in his right hand. The lead weight in the pommel made the weapon heavier than a standard short sword, and he slowly adjusted to the increased weight as he turned to face Ruga. Macro clapped his hands to signal the start of the bout, but Pavo hesitated. Ruga bared his teeth at the young gladiator, seeing the uncertainty in his eyes.
‘Come on, boy!’ he growled. ‘Attack me!’
Pushing his concerns about injuring the retired gladiator to one side, Pavo inched towards his opponent. Ruga studied him intently as Pavo lunged at him, thrusting the tip of his sword at his exposed neck. In a lightning flash of movement Ruga leaned to his left and deflected the attack with a sudden flick of his sword before pushing forward on his right foot and cracking Pavo on the bridge of his nose with a deft upward thrust. Pavo saw white for an instant. Ruga took two steps back, his lips parted in a drunken grin.