Gurges grunted irritably and turned to leave. Macro watched him go, then frowned at the pots and cups scattered across the ground. He sized Pavo up, and the expression on his face suggested to the recruit the soldier did not approve of what he saw.
‘It’s been a bloody long journey,’ he said finally. ‘We begin tomorrow at dawn. You’d better pray you’re more effective with a sword than you are with your fists, lad. For both our sakes.’
CHAPTER SIX
Just as he had promised, Macro was waiting for Pavo in the ludus training ground the following morning. The optio fixed his steely gaze on the young recruit as he strode across from the east-facing portico. The men of the gladiator school had been given a piece of stale bread washed down with a cup of vinegary wine as breakfast in their cells. Bucco and the other recruits resumed their work at the paluses positioned near the sundial in the middle of the courtyard, while Amadocus and the veterans practised fighting in pairs at the far end. A single palus had been erected for Macro at the opposite end. A pair of pigskins and a set of full legionary armour comprising a helmet, cuirass and bronze belt, as well as a shield and a marching yoke, were laid out on the ground in the shadow of the optio. The lanista gazed down from the balcony and stared intently at Macro. He looked displeased at the prospect of a soldier training a recruit in his ludus. There was a risk that Macro might make Calamus look bad, Pavo supposed, and in a ludus the authority of the doctore was absolute. He tried to shut everything else out and approached the officer with a sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of being paired against Britomaris.
‘You’re late,’ Macro growled, gesturing up at the sun gleaming over the roof tiles.
‘Sorry,’ said Pavo.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Macro corrected him.
Pavo glared at the officer. ‘You’re forgetting who you’re talking to, optio. You’re a mere drill-instructor. I’m a military tribune, second in command of the Sixth Legion. Address me correctly in the future.’
‘And you’re forgetting that you’re in a fucking ludus,’ Macro thundered, his face darkening, his blood boiling between his temples. ‘You’re not a tribune any more. And frankly I don’t care much for some privileged broad-striper talking down to Rome’s newest hero.’
‘Hero?’
Macro nodded curtly. ‘Decorated by the Emperor himself.’
Pavo dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, sealing his lips tightly shut. Much as he hated to admit it, Macro was right. He was the man in charge. He had imperial authority. Pavo had been stripped of his rights and condemned to the arena. According to the strict social mores of Rome, he was no better than a common slave.
‘Question my authority again, and I’ll have Calamus thrash you. Understood?’
‘Yes. . sir,’ Pavo said through clenched jaws.
Macro was in a foul mood. The only inn that had any rooms available in the middle of the night had been the Drunken Goat, a stinking cesspit on the outskirts of Paestum. The wine had tasted like donkey piss and the bill had been eye-watering. He’d spent the night on an uncomfortable hay mattress and had been awoken by the innkeeper’s wife kicking him out an hour before dawn. That morning Macro had made his way to the ludus bleary-eyed and ferociously hungry, and to his shock found himself regretting the day he’d been decorated. What should have been the proudest moment of his life had quickly descended into a nightmare. Not only did he have precious little time before the fight, but his charge was a belligerent brat.
Macro stepped closer to Pavo. He eyed him from head to toe, the way an officer instructor inspects his men on parade.
‘Your face is covered in bruises,’ he said. ‘A bit of advice for you, Pavo. Next time you’re trading punches with someone much bigger than you, learn how to block.’ The officer caught sight of the recruit’s right hand and gestured towards it. ‘What in Hades’ name happened there?’
Pavo glanced down. His fingers had swollen to twice their size and his palm was badly purpled. Pavo hadn’t noticed the injury last night. He’d gone to sleep with his mind reeling at the idea of saving the reputation of the very man who’d ordered his father to fight in the arena. But when Pavo had woken up he’d felt a dull ache spreading up his forearm, and at breakfast he could barely flex his fingers.
‘That rat Amadocus did it,’ he said with a snarl, ‘When he cornered me last night in the canteen. Can’t hold a sword, thanks to that bastard.’
Macro shook his head. ‘Never mind. You’re not going to be using a sword much.’
‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Pavo.
Macro grinned. ‘You’re not going to fight like a gladiator, boy. Capito has tried that against Britomaris already and you know the result. Trading blows with that barbarian is suicide. You’re bound to lose.’
Pavo huffed. ‘You’re implying that I’ve agreed to fight Britomaris.’
‘You don’t have a choice,’ said Macro. ‘You’re a trainee gladiator now, not a citizen.’
‘I could lose to Britomaris. Heap further shame on the Emperor. I’m sentenced to die anyway in this bloody ludus. I’ve nothing to lose by letting Britomaris kill me. My old life has been taken away.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ the officer said, kneeling down and clutching a fistful of sand. He met the trainee’s eye. ‘You do have something to lose.’
Pavo cocked his head at Macro. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You have a son, yes?’
‘Appius,’ Pavo nodded. ‘He’s a year old. His mother died during childbirth. My father Titus and mother Drusilla raised him. Until they were murdered.’
‘I have good news for you. Well, good and bad,’ Macro said, weighing up a thought with his head. ‘Appius is alive. He’s being held at the imperial palace. Win, and the Emperor has promised to release him.’
A tingle of cold dread flared at the back of Pavo’s scalp. His muscles went numb with rage and shock. His son. Alive. At the mercy of that snake Pallas and his lackey Murena. Pavo booted the foot of the palus and belted out an explosive roar of anger. Macro backed off a step.
‘Is there no end to Pallas and his cruelty?’ Pavo growled bitterly. ‘First he takes my father away from me. Then he dangles my only son before me like a carrot in front of a donkey.’
Macro watched Pavo wrestle with his rage. Taming this lad would be tricky, he thought to himself. The trainee paced up and down the ground furiously, his muscles trembling, his fists clenched, a ball of uncontrollable rage gripping him. Then he stopped, took a deep breath, and glanced at Macro.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll fight Britomaris. But I don’t need advice from a mere optio. I’m good with a sword. I can take that barbarian perfectly well on my own. Be on your way.’
Macro sucked in a deep breath and folded his arms across his barrel-like chest. ‘Have you seen Britomaris fight?’
‘No. . Sir,’ Pavo said hesitantly.
‘Well, it just so happens that I have. And I can tell you a couple of things about our barbarian friend. One: he’s big. Much bigger than you. Two: he’s bloody strong. Same as any barbarian. They grow up in a cruel world. There are none of life’s little luxuries for these monsters. You could be Hercules himself with a sword, it wouldn’t matter. He’d knock you down just by breathing on you.’
Pavo visibly deflated. He felt a cold knot of fear in the pit of his stomach as the scale of the task in front of him grew more ominous. He’d been cocky about his chances against Hermes in a fight. Perhaps too cocky, the trainee reflected. Now, as he was forced to confront the reality of an actual fight to the death, he found his confidence rapidly draining.