ear.
‘I’m told that you have soldierly qualities in abundance, Macro. I believe you’re just the right man to whip him into shape. You’re to head to Paestum, train your charge and escort him to Rome for the fight. You have one month.’
‘A month?’ Macro cried. ‘You must be joking!’
‘On the contrary,’ Murena replied. ‘I’m deadly serious.’
‘But. . A month! That’s nowhere near enough time to prepare for battle.’
‘It’s not a battle. Just a fight in the arena.’
‘Just a fight?’ Macro shook his head wearily. ‘I have plenty of experiene in training legionaries. Even the best take months to whip into any kind of shape, and the worst can take three or four times that.’
‘Pavo is different. His natural talent with the sword is exceptional.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ said Macro.
‘Well this is no mere boast. The gladiator who first trained Pavo happens to be the doctore at one of the imperial schools. He claims he has never known a boy with such prodigious skill. And by all accounts the men in the Sixth haven’t seen a tribune handle a sword so well.’ Murena sighed as he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. ‘It’s his temperament that is the problem.’
‘What about the Emperor? He’s happy to have his skin saved by the son of a traitor?’
‘In the current climate, we can’t afford to be picky,’ Murena replied sourly. ‘Domestic squabbles have to be set to one side, for we cannot allow this barbarian to hang over us for any longer.’ Murena inspected the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Besides, I have reassured the Emperor that it is he, and not Pavo, who will bask in the glory of Rome’s honour being restored.’
As will you, no doubt, Macro thought. For once he managed to keep his opinion to himself. Macro’s tongue was his worst enemy at times. His lack of diplomacy was part of the reason why it had taken him so long to be in contention for promotion to centurion. He didn’t want to let the opportunity slip through his fingers now. Even if it meant working for a snake like Murena.
‘You could push the fight back a month or two,’ he offered. ‘Give me some more time with the lad.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Murena sniffed. ‘Announcements have already been made and the wheels have been put in motion for the fight. We cannot backtrack and we cannot tolerate any challenge to the Emperor’s authority. You must appreciate the precariousness of our situation.’
Macro cursed the gods under his breath. A short while ago he’d been licking his lips at the thought of indulging himself for a few days before returning to the Rhine and enjoying his new status as the toast of the Second. Now he was looking at a month in a backwater training a troubled gladiator in a ludus whilst surrounded by prisoners of war, errant slaves and wastrels. And the cost of losing to Britomaris and heaping further embarrassment on the Emperor didn’t bear thinking about.
‘I’ve dispatched a messenger by horse with instructions for the lanista at the ludus in Paestum. He’ll be expecting you. We’ll be hosting the match at the Julian plaza. The plaza is a somewhat more intimate venue than the amphitheatre, but it’s the perfect setting: rich and full of history. Caesar built it and Augustus hosted gladiator fights in it. Now the Emperor will assert his credentials there.’
The freedman called over the two Praetorian guards. ‘You are to leave immediately,’ he said without looking at Macro. ‘A horse has been saddled for you, and I’ll have my clerks draft an imperial warrant to give you the necessary authority to do as you need at the school. It is a five-day journey to Paestum I believe. Five days there and the same back leaves you with twenty days of training with your charge. Use it wisely. Questions?’
‘Just one,’ Macro said. ‘What if this Pavo doesn’t want to fight? I mean, if he bears a grudge against the Emperor for what happened to his family, he’s not exactly going to be enthusiastic about helping him out, is he? Especially since you’ve already condemned him to death.’
Murena smiled cruelly as he said, ‘I’ve got something that should provide him with a strong incentive to fight. .’
CHAPTER THREE
The doctore cracked his short leather whip on the blistering sand and glared at the new recruits. ‘Straighten your backs!’ he growled. ‘Raise your heads you worthless buggers!’
The men shuffled into the training ground and arranged themselves in a rough line in front of Calamus. The doctore cast his eye over the men the way a butcher inspects cattle at a market. He’d have his work cut out getting this lot into shape, he thought grimly. Calamus knew from experience how hard the training regime was, and how few men made it through the selection process. He’d once fought as a gladiator himself, yet all he had to show for it was a noticeable limp and a face lacerated with scars.
‘You’re here because you’re the lowest of the low,’ the doctore said. ‘Common criminals look down on you. Whores wouldn’t sleep with you. Even bloody slaves laugh at you. Rome shits on each and every one of you daily and if I had my way, I’d pack the lot of you off to the mines. But today is your lucky day, ladies. Our master is in a generous mood for a change. He’s given you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make something of your pathetic little lives.’
A silence fell across the training ground. The doctore looked for someone to make an example of and fixed his piercing eyes on a young man at the end of the line. He had an angular and awkward physique, and appeared somehow shorter than his actual height. His eyes radiated a defiance of everything around him and he wore an intricately decorated pallium cloak over his tunic. The mere sight of the cloak caused Calamus to blaze with anger.
‘You!’ Calamus shouted as he marched over to the young man. ‘That’s a rich-looking cloak. Very nice.’ He narrowed his eyes to dagger slits. ‘Who’d you steal it from?’
The young man shook his head. ‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘It’s mine.’
Calamus elbowed him in the solar plexus. The recruit grunted as he doubled over and dropped to his knees, coughing and spluttering on the ground. Calamus towered above him. ‘That’s “sir” to you, you little shit!’ he snarled. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Marcus Valerius Pavo,’ the recruit said between desperate draws of breath. ‘Sir.’
‘Tell me, Pavo, do you think I was born yesterday?’
‘No, sir.’
Calamus grabbed a fold of the cloak and shoved it in front of the recruit’s face. ‘And yet you expect me to believe that a desperate lowlife like you can afford a piece of finery like this?’
‘I didn’t steal it.’
‘Bollocks! Are you calling me a liar?’ Calamus said, lowering his voice.
‘It was a gift, sir.’
‘A gift?’ Calamus spat. ‘Scum like you don’t get gifts.’
‘I swear, sir. My father gave it to me.’
Calamus laughed and rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Oh, that’s a rich one! You don’t have a father, son. You were born a bastard like every other man in this ludus. But entertain me some more. Who do you reckon your old man is?’
‘Titus Valerius Pavo, sir. Legate of the Fifth Legion. Or at least he was.’
That caught Calamus off guard. He worked his features into a heavy-set frown and paused, unsure for a moment how to proceed. In his twenty years’ experience in the business Calamus had never heard of the son of a legate enrolling at a gladiator school.
‘Another rich-boy volunteer, eh?’ he seethed. ‘I know your kind. Pissed away your inheritance, did you? What was your poison, lad? Tarts? Booze? Gambling? Chariot races? Can’t be bothered to get a proper job? If you’ve come here thinking it’s an easy ride, you’re in for a fucking shock.’
‘I’m not a volunteer,’ Pavo said, scraping himself off the ground. ‘I’m here against my will. My father was killed by-’
