‘I don’t care,’ Pavo said. ‘I’ll find a way.’
Gurges picked at a morsel of food lodged in his teeth. Pulling his finger out of his mouth he rubbed the morsel between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Arrogant lad, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ Pavo said. ‘Just wronged.’
A chill gripped Pavo as an image flashed across his mind of Hermes lying prostrate on the arena floor, blood spilling from his slit throat. He burned with rage. His father had been humiliated in the arena. His family’s wealth had been seized by Claudius and pumped into the imperial coffers. Pavo’s infant son, Appius, had vanished and he feared the worst. The child could have been sold into slavery or butchered in some dark alley, joining his mother Sabina — who had died during childbirth — in the afterlife. Pavo had been stripped of his position as tribune and condemned to a barbaric death. He had nothing left to live for, except the prospect of killing Hermes.
‘Perhaps we can come to an arrangement,’ Gurges said. Calamus arrived and waited patiently by the study door. ‘If you earn me some good victories, I may be able to help you in your quest to fight Hermes.’
Pavo said nothing.
‘Give it some thought.’ Gurges continued, ‘In the meantime, watch your back. Some of the gladiators in this ludus are prisoners of war. One or two might have even been captured by your old man. As for the rest, well,’ he swept his arms across his desk as if clearing away imaginary clutter. ‘Let’s just say they don’t like high-born brats like you intruding on their ludus.’
Gurges reached for his wine cup and raised it to his lips, forgetting that he’d already emptied it. Frowning, he rose abruptly from his seat as Calamus brushed past Pavo. The doctore watched the recruit depart down the passageway. Once he was out of earshot he turned to the lanista.
‘He’s trouble, that one,’ Calamus grumbled. ‘We should just be rid of him.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Gurges replied, flattening out a slight crease in his tunic. ‘Times are hard. We haven’t had a champion since the great Proculus, seven bloody long years ago.’
Calamus made to reply, but Gurges levelled his eyes with the doctore and cut in before he could speak. ‘With his raw talent and the fame of his family name, crowds will flock to see Pavo. We’ll sell out the amphitheatre ten times over.’ He looked back down the passageway at Pavo’s shrinking figure. ‘He could save us. And gods know, we need a new champion. Either that or we go out of business. Now, tell me how those useless bastards in the hospital are faring. .’
Calamus stabbed at the sky, as if drawing blood from the bellies of the clouds.
‘This is a sword,’ the doctore said. ‘Look at it. Admire the blade. Consider the craftsmanship that has gone into making such a fine weapon.’ He smiled for a moment before making a thrusting motion at the recruits. ‘Now imagine the point puncturing your ribcage,’ he said. ‘Cutting through your flesh.’ He twisted the sword in his hand. ‘Carving up your vitals.’
He held the weapon outstretched and pointed the tip at Pavo, who stood at the end of the line. Pavo felt the other recruits’ eyes burning holes in him. In the shadows beneath the balcony he could see the veteran fighters occasionally throw angry stares at him between training exercises. Word of his privileged upbringing had spread quickly, Pavo realised. Since arriving in the ludus he had learned that most of the men in the gladiator school were prisoners of war, slaves or criminals. There was a sprinkling of freedmen volunteers, men of lowly status and desperate circumstances willing to accept the stain on their characters inflicted by becoming a gladiator in exchange for a chance of glory and money. But all the men were of a much lower social status than Pavo. He knew from long experience in the Sixth that nothing bred resentment like an upper-class accent. Still, Pavo had been at the ludus for less than a day and already the trainer and most of the recruits despised him. It must be some kind of record, he thought moodily, as he took a deep breath and pretended not to notice.
‘A gladiator only gets to use a real sword when he fights in the arena, since no Roman worth his salt trusts a gladiator with a real sword in the ludus. You have that ungrateful wretch Spartacus to thank for that.’
The doctore squinted at the sun gleaming off the sword.
‘Plenty of you may know about Spartacus. Some of you may even admire the bastard,’ he said staring down the barrel of his bulbous nose at the recruits. ‘Don’t. Spartacus fought as a gladiator, received three square meals a day and a warm bed, and instead of seeking glory in the arena, he chose to piss it all away. When he died, six thousand of his followers were crucified along the road to Capua, so you can see how well that worked out. Learn from me, and you might end up better off than old Spartacus. One or two of you may live long enough to taste freedom.’
Calamus plunged the sword into the sand and pointed at the dozen wooden posts to his right. They were arranged in two rows of six, spaced two swords-widths apart, one post for each new recruit, standing at roughly the same height as a tall Roman.
‘Until you prove yourselves worthy of the brotherhood you will practise at the palus using a wooden sword. You will practise day and night. You will practise in your sleep. You will practise until your arms drop off. From this day on your life is nothing but this palus,’ Calamus tapped the nearest post on the head, like a star student, ‘and your sword. Bucco!’
‘Yes, sir?’
The doctore puckered his brow at Bucco. ‘Extra rations for the men if you can tell me what this wooden post really is.’
Bucco wiped his brow. Pavo watched the other recruits glaring at him with hungry eyes, willing him to get the right answer so they could fill their empty bellies.
‘Come on then, fatso,’ Calamus growled. ‘I don’t have all fucking day.’
‘A wooden post?’ Bucco ventured between snatches of breath.
Calamus looked ready to explode.
‘A. . post? Fuck me, Bucco, you’re even thicker than you look. And believe me, from where I’m standing that is no mean feat.’
Calamus took an angry step towards Bucco and for a moment Pavo thought the trainer might thrash him with his whip. Instead he grabbed Bucco by the fleshly folds of his neck and hauled him in front of the nearest palus, venting his anger.
‘This is no post. This is the palus! This is your sworn enemy! This palus is the merchant who stole your girlfriend and the father who kicked you senseless when he came home pissed every night. You will learn to hate the palus with every bone in your body. Despise it. Unleash your rage on it, and the post will reward you by making you a decent swordsman.’
Calamus released Bucco and shoved him back towards the line of recruits as he turned to address the group.
‘You will all be assigned your own palus. Each man will paint a face on his. Not the face of your girlfriend — or boyfriend for you, Bucco — but someone you truly hate. You will stab your sword at that face every day, until your rage has been channelled fully. Bucco!’
‘Yes, sir?’
Pavo looked on as the doctore extended the sword grip towards Bucco. ‘Let’s see if you’ve learned anything in your miserable little life.’
The recruit cautiously approached the nearest palus, which had a practise sword lying beside it. The silence was broken only by the clashing thud of wood against wood as the veteran gladiators battled each other in pairs at the other end of the courtyard. Bucco didn’t strike Pavo as a natural gladiator. But he had bulk, and some of the better gladiators he had seen in the arena carried a reasonable amount of fat on them. More flesh to protect their vitals. One of two were even obese. Perhaps Bucco will surprise me, Pavo thought.