shields that are twice as heavy as the real articles. Obviously, we couldn’t practise with those here. But outside Capua, it would be a different matter.’
‘You mean the plain to the north of the walls?’ It was used similarly to the Campus Martius at Rome. There, the young men of the city, noble and commoner alike, practised all kinds of athletic activities. ‘We can’t go there. Someone would see us. It’d only be a matter of time before Father heard.’
‘I was thinking of the waste ground to the south, where the city’s refuse is dumped. No one will trouble us in a place like that,’ said Paccius with a sly grin.
‘Good idea. And I can tell Father that you’re going to teach me how to throw the javelin and discus, on the training area to the north. He couldn’t complain about that.’
‘I know a trader who’ll sell me the gear.’ Paccius turned to go.
‘Wait.’ Carbo hesitated. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s nothing. Wait until tomorrow,’ Paccius warned. ‘You might not feel the same way after an hour at the palus.’
‘I will,’ vowed Carbo. ‘This goes far beyond your duty as a slave.’
‘Aye, well…’ The Samnite coughed. ‘I’ve been looking after you all these years. It seems stupid to stop now.’
Taken aback by the unexpected thickness in his throat, Carbo nodded. ‘Good. Tomorrow morning, then?’
‘Tomorrow morning,’ agreed Paccius. He walked off without another word.
A gust of wind carried down into the courtyard, and Carbo shivered, suddenly very aware of the sweat coating every part of his skin. It was time for a wash and a change of clothes. Thinking of his father’s task that day, he sighed. Jupiter, Greatest and Best, help us, please.
Carbo tackled Jovian the moment he returned. His father was a short man with thinning black hair and a kind face, which of recent days had been lined with worry. Carbo forgot all about that as he launched into an explanation of his idea. To his initial relief, his father had made no objection to the idea of Paccius training him in use of the discus and javelin. Guilt soon replaced Carbo’s delight, however. It was unsurprising that he’d had no resistance. Jovian’s visage had been grey with exhaustion — or worry.
Carbo was about to ask what was wrong when his mother had intervened. ‘It will get you out of the house. These past six months, you’ve hardly gone out,’ she’d said with an encouraging smile.
Carbo had muttered his thanks, but his good mood had gone. He turned to catch Jovian mouthing the words ‘Three days’ and ‘Marcus Licinius Crassus’ to his mother. Was that the deadline for paying his debts? Was Crassus, the richest man in the Republic, his father’s main creditor? Carbo didn’t know, but given Jovian’s grim expression, and the tears that had appeared in his mother’s eyes, there weren’t many other conclusions to draw. Neither of his parents proffered any further information and Carbo spent a restless night wondering how he could help. Nothing came to mind, which wasn’t surprising. At sixteen, with no trade or profession yet to his name, he had little to offer anyone. Carbo’s frustration at this was exacerbated by the fact that his father’s career choice for him — that of a lawyer — was very well paid. So it wouldn’t be for years, but he’d earn far more that way than he would as a lowly soldier.
The following morning, Jovian left early, saying again that he would be gone all day. Carbo’s mother was in bed, feeling unwell. Once he had checked on her, Carbo and Paccius headed out into the city. The family’s modest house was situated in a prosperous area near the forum. Self-conscious as always, and more angry than he had ever been, Carbo glowered at the people who thronged the narrow streets. He longed for the peace of the countryside, where he’d spent his childhood. Few but Paccius noticed his fury. The shopkeepers selling wine, bread, fresh meat and vegetables were more concerned with bawling at more receptive passersby. The tradesmen — blacksmiths, carpenters, potters, fullers and wheelwrights — were toiling in their workshops, too busy to stand around studying those who walked past.
Where there was space, jugglers and acrobats stretched their muscles, preparing to start their entertainment. An occasional snake charmer sat cross-legged, flute in hand, pointing at his basket and describing the most venomous serpents imaginable. It was early, so the doorways between the open-fronted shops that served as entrances to the flats above were empty of the prostitutes that usually hustled there for business. Only the lepers, scabrous and maimed, pestered Carbo. Their presence helped him to raise a sardonic smile. There were others even more ugly than he.
Paccius took him to a dingy establishment near the south gate. Carbo’s excitement grew as he studied what was on sale. Rather than the usual foodstuffs, ironware or domestic goods, this place sold weapons. Wooden racks outside held swords by the dozen, mostly gladii; Carbo also spotted the distinctive curve of at least one Thracian sica and, beside it, several Gaulish longswords. Bundles of javelins and thrusting spears were propped against the shop’s walls; shields of various sizes and shapes were stacked carelessly alongside.
Clutching the money given him by Carbo, Paccius went inside to talk to the grizzled proprietor. He emerged a moment later with two large wicker shields. Under one arm, he bore a pair of wooden gladii.
‘We can hardly bring them back to the house,’ said Carbo. ‘Father will realise what’s going on.’
‘It’s all arranged. For a nominal fee, we can leave the equipment at the shop and pick it up each morning.’
Paccius’ ingenuity brought a grin to Carbo’s face. His anger returned with the next heartbeat, however. Unless his father secured a new loan, they would have three days, no more. Three days until what? He didn’t want to imagine.
Paccius led Carbo out from Capua’s southern walls, past an area of open ground that was littered with huge piles of household refuse and human waste. The carcasses of mules, dogs and even an occasional man sprawled here and there, their rotting flesh adding to the acrid stench that filled the air. Unsurprisingly, the spot was deserted. Even the beggars who came daily to search the heaps of stinking rubbish did not linger unless they had to. Carbo’s skin snaked with dread. Gods, could we end up picking through the filth here? he wondered, staring at the black, hopping shapes of crows pecking busily at eyeballs and body openings. Their cousins, the vultures, hung far overhead in lazy ones and twos, searching out the best morsels.
Paccius stopped by the skeleton of a dead tree, the branches of which grasped at the air like claws. ‘This will be your palus. We’ll begin here.’
Carbo knew enough of gladiator training to understand that the narrow, gnarled trunk would act as a post for him to launch attacks on with his sword. He grinned savagely, imagining that it was not a tree, but Marcus Licinius Crassus, tied to a stake. ‘What do you want me to do?’
With a veteran’s poise, Paccius showed him how approach the tree, shield in hand. ‘Treat it with respect, as if it’s an enemy warrior who wants to cut you into pieces. Move lightly, on the balls of your feet. Position your head low, so that only your eyes are visible, and keep your sword close to your side. When you’re near enough, thrust for the belly, or the heart.’ He pointed at a blackened opening in the centre of the trunk, where some disease had eaten away the tree’s core. ‘Pull back, hack the right side and then the left. Keep doing that until I tell you to stop.’
Copying what Paccius had done, Carbo padded confidently towards the ‘palus’. As soon as he could, he stabbed the gladius into the hole. His arm jarred under the impact of healthy wood, and he pulled the heavy blade back. At once he set to, chopping at both sides of the dead tree with a vengeance. Splinters flew and chunks of rotten timber fell away, and Carbo redoubled his efforts. By the time he’d counted twenty blows, Crassus was long dead, cut into mangled chunks of flesh. Carbo’s right arm had also begun to tire. He looked questioningly at Paccius.
‘Did I tell you to stop?’
‘No.’
‘Keep going then,’ snapped the Samnite.
Sullenly, Carbo obeyed. This wasn’t what he had been expecting; it was a world away from wielding a real gladius, as he had the day before. And his target was just a tree, not the man who held his family’s fortunes in the palm of his hand. Soon every fibre of muscle in his arm was screaming for rest, and the air was catching raggedly at the back of his throat with each breath. His remaining pride, such as it was, wouldn’t let him glance at Paccius.
‘That’s enough.’
Gasping with relief, he let the gladius fall. Without warning, Paccius jumped forward and drove his shield against Carbo’s. He stumbled backwards, away from his weapon. With a snarl, the Samnite advanced, his sword at the ready. ‘So that’s what you would do in a real battle, is it? Drop your gladius, and leave yourself completely
