Pavo cocked his head inquisitively at Macro. ‘Why did you receive instruction from a gladiator?’
‘Let’s just say I had a score to settle, and Draba helped me do it. Now get a move on!’
‘Yes, sir.’ The trainee winced as he hauled himself upright and staggered down the training ground, his muscles sagging under the load of the marching yoke, shield and armour. But the fact he had addressed Macro as ‘sir’ told the optio he was getting somewhere with his young charge. Pavo was finally channelling his aggression into the training. Macro nodded to himself in satisfaction as Pavo set off on another lap, a grimly determined look stitched into his features.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of sweat and aggression for Pavo. After twenty laps of the training ground the optio got him to perform a set of nausea-inducing strength exercises beneath the unrelenting sun. Pavo carried out a hundred abdominal crunches and a series of hanging leg raises from wooden posts mounted at head-height at the porticoes on the west side of the training ground. He then practised lumbering two pigs’ bladders loaded with sand, one in each hand, from one end of the training ground to the other. Pavo could hardly move by the end of the session. His muscles were sore and stiff, his veins stretched out like tense rope. Life as a military tribune had been relatively soft on his body compared to the hardships the enlisted soldiers had to endure, and it had been a long time since Pavo had trained with such intensity. But with every drop of sweat and strain of sinew, he began to relish the challenge in front of him. News of Appius had refocused Pavo. Now he vowed to redouble his efforts. If he could not set himself free, he could at least see to it that his infant son avoided the same fate he had endured.
For his part Macro was impressed and a little surprised by the determination and drive of his young charge. He’d never seen a man born into privilege throw himself so hungrily into his labours. The only concern picking away at the back of Macro’s head was Pavo’s damaged hand. The injury had deprived the officer of the chance to size up his charge’s skills at the palus and his natural ability with a sword. With a sigh he realised he’d have to take Murena’s word for it.
‘I swear to the gods, I’ll make a champion of him yet,’ Macro mumbled to himself.
For the next nineteen days Macro worked tirelessly on Pavo’s fitness. During agonising sprint sessions, Macro instructed the trainee to practise dashing from one end of the training ground to the other, before counting to five, and sprinting back in the opposite direction. He ran until his legs could carry his body no further, and then ran some more. He ran with a constant feeling of sickness in his mouth and a stitch spearing his right side. Macro forced him to run until he could do a hundred laps without breaking into a sweat. He worked with Pavo on endless long jumps, high jumps and lunges to put some extra spring into his gangly legs. Gradually Pavo noticed his muscle ache was wearing off as he crawled out of his cell each morning and dragged himself to the training ground. By the end of the circuit programme he could feel his thighs and abdominal muscles becoming firmer and more supple. He had found his stride and was standing upright instead of spilling his guts on the floor. He felt leaner, faster and more agile. He was ready to face Britomaris.
On the twentieth day, Macro made preparations for their return to Rome. Pavo’s hand had healed sufficiently for him to grasp a sword without too much pain, although he grimly understood that the injury would not be gone entirely by the time of his bout. He’d be taking on Britomaris with a damaged hand.
Pavo arose with a feeling of dread in his guts that morning. Macro had arranged to meet him at dawn with a pair of horses at the ludus gates. Arising from his cell, he noticed Bucco watching him from the other side of the cell. On most mornings Bucco overslept, his loud snoring echoing through the barracks and incurring the wrath of the doctore. This morning though, the volunteer was wide awake.
‘You’ll be off to Rome, then?’ he said, stretching his arms and legs. Bucco had already lost an alarming amount of weight since enlisting. The tortuously long hours spent at the palus, combined with the limited diet, had left him pale and lean. The palms of his hands were covered in calluses.
Pavo nodded as he rolled up his cloak and tucked it under his arm. ‘It appears so.’
‘Never been there myself. What’s it like?’
‘Rome?’ Pavo chuckled. ‘The weather is stifling, the food is rubbish, the streets are filthy, everything is over-priced and everyone’s in a mad rush, but other than that, it’s fine.’
‘Oh,’ Bucco said with a frown. He stared out of the small window that afforded the men a view of Paestum’s dilapidated forum. ‘I rather thought it might be. .’ he shrugged. ‘You know, centre of the world and all that.’
‘I’m being harsh. It’s a wonderful city, really. Just one full of bad memories for me.’
Pavo ran a hand over his cloak. It was stained with the filth of the ludus and it reeked of sweat and urine. But he felt a strange attachment to it. It was, he reflected, his only worldly possession.
Bucco rose to his feet. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
Pavo nodded. ‘Thanks, Bucco.’
A guard unlocked their cell and ushered Pavo towards the stone stairs that led to the ground floor. As they passed each of the other cells, veteran gladiators bellowed abuse at Pavo. The kinder ones wished him a quick death in the arena. The less kind ones he tried not to think about. He descended the stairs, the guard close behind with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword at all times in case Pavo tried to make a break for freedom. From the ground floor they passed down the corridor that led towards the training ground. The guard escorted Pavo around the perimeter towards the main building at the northern end which housed the servants’ quarters, medical facilities and the administrative offices. Daylight had not yet broken and a gritty, speckled darkness accompanied by an eerie silence hung like a veil over the empty ground. Not a soul in sight, Pavo realised.
Then he saw a shadow skulking towards them from across the training ground. Pavo stopped in his tracks to focus on it. He smelled Amadocus before he recognised him. The trainee wrinkled his nose as the veteran drew nearer.
‘Pavo!’ Amadocus thundered. ‘I want a word with you.’
Just my luck, thought Pavo through gritted teeth as Amadocus pounded across the training ground, his club-like feet thudding on the crisp sand with every giant stride. He halted at the verge of the ground.
‘Gurges has got me on latrine duty,’ Amadocus said, raising his shit-flecked palms at Pavo. ‘Four fucking weeks. This is your fault.’
Pavo smiled to himself. ‘If I recall, you were the one who attacked me,’ he said.
Amadocus snarled then spat on the ground. ‘You started it the moment you stepped into my ludus. Pissing about with your fancy handwork at the palus.’ He rubbed dirt out of his eye. ‘I hear you’re off to fight Britomaris.’
Pavo felt his neck muscles stiffen. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.’
Amadocus pulled an unpleasant face as he took a step closer to Pavo. ‘It should be me fighting in the arena. The great Amadocus! Champion of the house of Gurges! Not some woman born with a silver spoon in his mouth.’
Amadocus went to take another step towards Pavo. But the guard began to unsheathe his sword and barked, ‘Back to work.’
Amadocus smiled as he retreated across the ground, pointing a filthy finger at Pavo. ‘Better pray you die in Rome, rich boy,’ he said. ‘If I see you in this ludus again, I’ll rip your guts out.’