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. .
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.
‘Come on,’ Calamus barked with barely disguised contempt. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping at the sword like it’s a bit of posh cunny. Pick it up.’
Bucco tentatively picked up the sword. His shoulder sagged as he struggled with the weight of it. Lifting it in a two-handed grip, Bucco puffed out his cheeks as he aimed at a low point on the post, swiping the sword in a wide arc from his side rather than bringing it over his head with a reckless slashing motion. The point of the sword clattered meekly into the post four feet off the ground. It was an almost apologetic thrust. Pavo winced as the doctore looked on in disgust.
‘Gods below,’ Calamus fumed. ‘You’re trying to slay a man, not touch him up.’ He snatched the sword back from Bucco. ‘Maybe tomorrow you can show me how to dress like a Greek as well as fight like one.’
Pavo watched Bucco sink back into line. He looked crestfallen. Calamus cast his eyes over the rest of the recruits. ‘Who wants to see if they can do better than the toga-lifter then?’
No one spoke up. The doctore settled his cold, grey gaze on Pavo. ‘Rich boy! Get your arse over here.’
A tense atmosphere fell over the recruits as Pavo stepped forward and wrapped the fingers of his right hand around the grip. The training sword was surprisingly heavy. Much heavier than a real blade, he thought. He stood level with the palus, his feet planted shoulder-width apart. He took a deep breath. Pavo felt a heft in his arm muscles as he lifted the sword. In the same breath he felt his heart burn with resentment at the humiliation that had been inflicted upon his family since Claudius had come to the throne. He grasped the sword so tightly his knuckles whitened. The palus disappeared. Instead Pavo saw the figure of Hermes standing in front of him. An uncontrollable frenzy washed over the recruit as he suddenly dropped his right shoulder and twisted his torso, thrusting the sword against the palus with such force that both post and weapon shuddered. In the same blur of motion Pavo retracted his arm, angling his wrist so that his thumb was perpendicular to the ground and thrust near the top of the palus at the point of an imaginary neck. There was a crack as the post shuddered. Pavo quickly launched a third attack lower down, driving the point of the sword into the groin area. Calamus waved for him to stop. The son of the legate took a step back from the post, his muscles inflamed as he stared coldly at three coin- sized divots on the post.
A bout of silence swept like the shadow of a cloud across the training ground. His veins pulsing, Pavo retreated a couple of steps from the palus and let the sword clatter to the ground.
‘Well, that wasn’t completely shit,’ the doctore pursed his lips. He made a point of not looking at Pavo. ‘Right, I’ve seen enough for one day. It’s fair to say none of you will be giving me nightmares about my own proud record in the arena. Remove yourselves to the barracks. We resume tomorrow at dawn. Anyone late to roll-call will be flogged and given half-rations for the day. Dismissed!’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘About bloody time!’ Bucco announced to Pavo as half a dozen lightly armoured guards ushered the new recruits under the east-facing portico and down a gloomy corridor. From a room up ahead to the left, Pavo could hear the crackle of meat sizzling on a grill. Bucco patted his belly in anticipation and beamed at Pavo. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’
Bucco licked his lips as he drew near to the cookhouse entrance. Pavo peered inside and looked on longingly as several slaves toiled over a side of pork hanging above a large grill. He feasted his eyes on bowls of sweet figs, grilled mushrooms layered with cheese, and a mouth-watering assortment of pickled fruit, all carefully arranged on silver trays, together with cakes that were dripping with honey and a large bunch of freshly picked grapes. His empty belly rumbled with hunger.
‘Let’s get stuck in,’ Bucco said to Pavo.
‘Hold it.’ A guard gripped Bucco by the shoulder. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘To eat.’ Bucco gestured to the cookhouse. ‘What does it look like?’
The guard sniggered.
‘This isn’t for scum like you,’ he said. ‘That’s the lanista’s dinner they’re preparing.’
Before the men could protest, the guard brusquely shoved them beyond the cookhouse and further down the
