Barbarian a-1 Page 5

  Pavo puckered his brow. ‘What are you talking about?’

  The volunteer leaned in to Pavo, a slovenly grin stretched across his flabby jowls. ‘I’ve got a friend on the outside,’ he said. ‘He’s going to lay down money on the fights. Big money. What with me being in the ludus, I can give him insider information on the form and ability of the gladiators. Injuries, training, that sort of thing. Trust me, Pavo, I’m going to make a killing! With a bit of luck I’ll buy my way out of here before the year is out.’

  ‘What if you get caught?’ the recruit asked.

  ‘I won’t. Come on, don’t give me that look! Can you honestly see me leaving the ludus in one piece? Look at the size of some of the veterans. Bloody beasts! What chance do I stand against any of that lot? This way I can make enough money to repay my debts and settle my contract with old Gurges. It’s got to be a better bet than bleeding to death in some godforsaken arena.’

  Pavo was about to reply, but he was interrupted by a call from the doctore, ordering the recruits to their cells. Bucco grudgingly stood up. The others began to file out of the canteen. Pavo remained for a moment on the floor. He wanted a moment of peace to himself as he made a solemn vow to see his quest through to the bitter end. He wouldn’t stop before he had a chance to watch the life drain out of Hermes. Nothing would stand in his way. Opening his eyes, Pavo rose to his feet, suddenly alone. He turned towards the corridor and noticed someone blocking his path.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ Amadocus whispered.

  Pavo froze as light from a nearby lamp illuminated the veteran’s features. Up close, Pavo could see that he had the bulbous nose and cauliflowered ears of a man who had been in his fair share of brawls. He towered over Pavo, his eyes glinting. The recruit was dimly aware of three more veterans behind Amadocus. The Thracian stood his ground while the other men slowly circled Pavo, breathing heavily through their nostrils.

  ‘Let me through,’ Pavo said.

  Amadocus stood his ground. Pavo could hear the three other men breathing at his back. ‘Son of a legate, they say. Military tribune. Pah!’ He flicked his eyes up at Pavo. ‘I fucking hate Romans. And if there’s one thing I hate more than Romans, it’s Roman soldiers.’

  Pavo looked around. The canteen was empty. The rest of the gladiators and the servants had left. There was no one to help him.

  ‘I saw you at the palus today, Roman. And I tell you, there’s only one thing worse than a Roman soldier. Any idea what that is?’

  ‘No,’ Pavo shrugged. He saw that Amadocus had balled his right hand into a fist. He took a step back from Pavo and grinned at the other three men.

  ‘He doesn’t know, lads,’ Amadocus said as his accomplices steered back behind the enlarged shoulders of the veteran. They laughed meanly and glared at Pavo, and the recruit craned his neck past Amadocus as he tried to catch sight of the guards. They had disappeared, and Pavo had an awful feeling that they had abandoned their post on purpose.

  ‘A Roman soldier who’s a show-off, that’s what,’ Amadocus went on, staring viciously at Pavo. ‘Just because you can hit a bit of wood, don’t go around thinking you’re a gladiator. You have to earn this in blood.’ The veteran raised his left wrist to reveal a reddish ‘G’, representing the house of Gurges, branded onto his flesh. Pavo had noticed that all of the veteran gladiators sported the same brand. He had overheard another recruit explain that to receive a branding was an honour bestowed only when a trainee gladiator triumphed in the arena and became a veteran.

  The recruit said nothing. Amadocus chuckled as he cupped his hand to his ear and turned it towards Pavo.

  ‘What’s that, Roman? Something to say?’

  Pavo still said nothing.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Amadocus clucked as he stepped closer Pavo’s face. The recruit could smell the foul breath coming off him. ‘A fucking coward. Just like your old man.’

  A hot rage burst inside Pavo. He spat into Amadocus’s face, the thick globule catching him on the forehead, sliding down between his eyes and onto his nose. For a moment the veteran was stunned. He took a step back, his muscles palpitating with anger as he wiped the spit away from his face and studied it in the palm of his hand. His eyes were wide and his brow furrowed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

  Then he punched Pavo in the stomach. The recruit doubled up in pain and fell forward as Amadocus grabbed Pavo by the nape of his tunic and smashed a knee into his face, the dome of the bone slamming into the bridge of his nose. Agony shot through Pavo’s skull, and he lost his balance abruptly. He dropped to the ground, and a flurry of hard feet to his chest and abdomen winded him further. He rolled onto his front, curling up into a tight ball to shield himself from the repeated wave of blows. Each time he tried scrabbling to his feet, another hit thudded down on the small of his back and struck him like a hammer. His face was smeared with the foul hay that had been raked across the canteen floor. His nostrils were violated by the thick stench of sweat and piss.

  ‘Spit on me, will you!’ Amadocus fumed above the pounding between his temples. ‘I’ll teach you some manners you little prick!’

  Pavo tried crawling away from Amadocus and the other veterans, his face and hands tarnished with dirt, the salty taste of blood in his mouth. He clawed his way towards the far end of the canteen, towards the trestle tables and the cooking pots filled with gruel. Then a boot plummeted down onto his hand, and there was a sickening crunch as the boot crushed his fingers. Pavo winced in pain. The boot ground his fingers underfoot, as if crushing grapes in a wine vat. It raised up suddenly, freeing his hand, but Pavo felt himself being lifted off the ground and thrown forwards. There was a crashing din as he fell head-first into a stack of pans, pots and clay bowls. His skull jarred as he landed with a thud, and beyond the piercing sound in his ears, he could faintly hear Amadocus stomping towards him. Now Pavo grabbed a bronze pot emptied of gruel and in the same blur of motion he rolled onto his right side and swung it at Amadocus just as the veteran reached down to grab Pavo. Amadocus grunted as the pot clattered against the side of his skull with a hollow thud. He stumbled backwards, dazed and shocked. He shook his head clear and turned to his shocked accomplices.

  ‘Fucking get him!’

  The three other men closed in on Pavo. The middle one rushed at him, a couple of steps ahead of the other two. He had a dense beard and a thickset frame. He swung a roundhouse punch which Pavo jerked away from, and as momentum carried the blow on its trajectory above his head Pavo lunged head-first at the man and butted him in the middle of his chest. He grunted as the force of the blow sent him stumbling backwards. His comrades stepped out of the way as he tripped over a bench and fell to the ground amid a cacophony of shattering cups and bowls. The man to the right, a gaunt-looking figure with an angular frame and gaps in his front teeth, spun around and grabbed Pavo from behind, wrapping a bony arm around his neck and clamping his other hand to the recruit’s forehead while the third man, a bear of a figure and a head taller than the others, made to unload a punch at his guts.

  Pavo struck first, launching a high kick at the larger man, bending his leg at the knee and aiming at his chest. The man shrieked as the sole of the recruit’s foot thumped into his midriff, winding him and turning him purple in the face. Pavo jerked his shoulders to try and shake off the smaller man who had him in a headlock, but his grip was surprisingly firm despite his bony physique. Pavo tried backtracking a few steps, building up momentum in his feet in a bid to slam his assailant into the canteen wall and wind him. He heard a crack at his back and the harsh exhalation of breath as his attacker crashed into the canteen wall. But still the man refused to relinquish his grip. Pavo felt himself going faint as the arm constricted his air passage. Ahead of him, the bear-like gang member had recovered from the brutal kick to the stomach and staggered towards him.

  ‘Now I’m going to make you fucking sorry.’

  Then Pavo saw a flicker of movement behind the man.

  ‘That’s
enough!’

  Amadocus and his men spun around to see Gurges standing in the corridor, flanked by an exasperated Calamus and a third man Pavo didn’t recognise. This third man was stocky, a little shorter than the doctore, and wore a simple tunic with a pair of leather sandals and a red cloak. The clobber of an off-duty soldier, thought Pavo as he wiped blood from his mouth and eyed the lanista warily.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ Calamus demanded, baring his teeth. He locked his sunken eyes on Amadocus. ‘You. What are you doing out of your cell at this time of night? Explain yourself.’

  Amadocus lowered his eyes deferentially. ‘Sir. I am sorry.’ He twisted his neck towards Pavo. ‘This recruit was causing a disturbance.’

  ‘Is this true, Pavo?’ the doctore turned to face him.

  ‘No!’ the recruit protested. ‘I didn’t-’

  ‘Forget it,’ Gurges interrupted. He gestured to Amadocus and the three other veterans, and shot them a final withering look. ‘Calamus. See these men to their cells. I’ll deal with them later. Pavo and I have a pressing matter to discuss.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the doctore replied. He marched the veterans through the door one by one. Amadocus was the last to leave. He flashed a fierce scowl at the recruit he stormed out of the canteen. Pavo felt a cold tremor of fear shoot up his spine at the thought of having made an enemy in Amadocus and his thugs. He wondered how his day could get any worse.

  Then the man in the military-issue clothing stepped out of the shadows. Pavo studied him. He had the grizzled look of a battle-hardened veteran and the scars to prove it, even though his eyes told Pavo that he couldn’t be much older than thirty. As a military tribune, Pavo had encountered dozens of men like this in the Sixth — career soldiers. Men who’d signed away their lives at the age of eighteen, or earlier perhaps, lying to enlist as soon as they could. Men who made it their business to shed blood for Rome in far-flung corners of the empire. A cause that Pavo had once believed in himself. Until Rome had sunk its teeth into his neck.

  ‘It appears your stay here is to be rather shorter than I had hoped,’ Gurges said, choosing his words carefully, glancing at the stocky man out of the corner of his eye. Pavo thought he detected a trace of resentment in the lanista’s voice.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Pavo said, his voice barely a whisper. In the distance he could hear the roars and shouts of Amadocus and the other veterans being manhandled into their cells.

  Gurges wrinkled his lips. He hesitated, gesturing to the scroll he held in his hands. He went on, ‘This man is a soldier, Pavo. Sent from Rome, on imperial orders no less. You are to fight the barbarian Britomaris. To the death.’

  Pavo looked stony faced at the soldier. He knew the name Britomaris. At training that morning the recruits had been talking of his defeat of Capito. Rumours had swirled through the ludus, that Britomaris ate babies for breakfast, that he was born in the Underworld, that his manhood could snap a vestal virgin in half.

  ‘I understand the fight will be held at the Julian plaza in Rome. An impressive venue,’ Gurges said, drawing Pavo out of his stupor. The lanista frowned again at the soldier. ‘A great pity that we won’t get the chance to see you in action here in Paestum. For your sake as well as mine.’

  The soldier grunted. ‘If I may,’ he began gruffly. Gurges nodded jadedly and the soldier turned to Pavo. ‘My name is Lucius Cornelius Macro. I’m an optio in the Second Legion. I’m here to train you for the fight.’

  ‘Who sent you?’

  Macro pursed his lips. ‘The order was signed by Marcus Antonius Pallas.’

  Pavo laughed. ‘So it’s as good as from the Emperor himself, then.’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, lad.’ He narrowed his eyes at Pavo. ‘You’re familiar with the name?’

  ‘You could say that,’ the young recruit replied, his mood improving rapidly. ‘Pallas was the man who convinced the Emperor to condemn my father to death in the arena. I’ve heard Claudius was set to spare his life until that arse-licking Greek swayed his decision. That aide of his does most of his bidding.’

  ‘Murena,’ Macro muttered.

  ‘That’s the one,’ Pavo nodded. ‘Thick as thieves, those two.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Macro cut himself short, aware of the political danger of criticising the imperial household in the presence of the lanista. Gurges struck Macro as an untrustworthy sort of fellow. ‘Enough talk. Let’s knuckle down to business. As you can see, I’ve already cleared this matter with your lanista. From what I’ve been told, you’re a natural with a sword, so we’re not totally fucked.’

  Gurges cleared his throat. Macro shot a look at him.

  ‘About my compensation,’ the lanista said carefully. ‘This is a fine young specimen of a man. I won’t sell him off for less than the going rate.’

  Macro produced a bag filled with coins from under his tunic and chucked it at the lanista, who caught the bag in his cupped hands and licked his lips as he peeked inside.

  ‘I suppose this looks to be an adequate level of compensation,’ the lanista said greedily. ‘And I presume you’ll be staying with us, optio?’

  ‘You must be joking,’ Macro said. ‘I’ll get myself a nice warm bed at a cosy inn in town.’ He watched a cockroach scuttle across the floor. ‘Although even a shit bed would be better than staying in this armpit of a house.’

  Gurges grunted irritably and turned to leave. Macro watched him go, then frowned at the pots and cups scattered across the ground. He sized Pavo up, and the expression on his face suggested to the recruit the soldier did not approve of what he saw.

  ‘It’s been a bloody long journey,’ he said finally. ‘We begin tomorrow at dawn. You’d better pray you’re more effective with a sword than you are with your fists, lad. For both our sakes.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Just as he had promised, Macro was waiting for Pavo in the ludus training ground the following morning. The optio fixed his steely gaze on the young recruit as he strode across from the east-facing portico. The men of the gladiator school had been given a piece of stale bread washed down with a cup of vinegary wine as breakfast in their cells. Bucco and the other recruits resumed their work at the paluses positioned near the sundial in the middle of the courtyard, while Amadocus and the veterans practised fighting in pairs at the far end. A single palus had been erected for Macro at the opposite end. A pair of pigskins and a set of full legionary armour comprising a helmet, cuirass and bronze belt, as well as a shield and a marching yoke, were laid out on the ground in the shadow of the optio. The lanista gazed down from the balcony and stared intently at Macro. He looked displeased at the prospect of a soldier training a recruit in his ludus. There was a risk that Macro might make Calamus look bad, Pavo supposed, and in a ludus the authority of the doctore was absolute. He tried to shut everything else out and approached the officer with a sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of being paired against Britomaris.

  ‘You’re late,’ Macro growled, gesturing up at the sun gleaming over the roof tiles.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Pavo.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Macro corrected him.

  Pavo glared at the officer. ‘You’re forgetting who you’re talking to, optio. You’re a mere drill-instructor. I’m a military tribune, second in command of the Sixth Legion. Address me correctly in the future.’

  ‘And you’re forgetting that you’re in a fucking ludus,’ Macro thundered, his face darkening, his blood boiling between his temples. ‘You’re not a tribune any more. And frankly I don’t care much for some privileged broad-striper talking down to Rome’s newest hero.’

  ‘Hero?’

  Macro nodded curtly. ‘Decorated by the Emperor himself.’

  Pavo dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, sealing his lips tightly shut. Much as he hated to admit it, Macro was right. He was the man in charge. He had imperial authority. Pavo had been stripped of his rights and condemned to the arena. According to the strict social mores of Rome, he was no bet
ter than a common slave.

  ‘Question my authority again, and I’ll have Calamus thrash you. Understood?’

  ‘Yes. . sir,’ Pavo said through clenched jaws.

  Macro was in a foul mood. The only inn that had any rooms available in the middle of the night had been the Drunken Goat, a stinking cesspit on the outskirts of Paestum. The wine had tasted like donkey piss and the bill had been eye-watering. He’d spent the night on an uncomfortable hay mattress and had been awoken by the innkeeper’s wife kicking him out an hour before dawn. That morning Macro had made his way to the ludus bleary-eyed and ferociously hungry, and to his shock found himself regretting the day he’d been decorated. What should have been the proudest moment of his life had quickly descended into a nightmare. Not only did he have precious little time before the fight, but his charge was a belligerent brat.

  Macro stepped closer to Pavo. He eyed him from head to toe, the way an officer instructor inspects his men on parade.

  ‘Your face is covered in bruises,’ he said. ‘A bit of advice for you, Pavo. Next time you’re trading punches with someone much bigger than you, learn how to block.’ The officer caught sight of the recruit’s right hand and gestured towards it. ‘What in Hades’ name happened there?’

  Pavo glanced down. His fingers had swollen to twice their size and his palm was badly purpled. Pavo hadn’t noticed the injury last night. He’d gone to sleep with his mind reeling at the idea of saving the reputation of the very man who’d ordered his father to fight in the arena. But when Pavo had woken up he’d felt a dull ache spreading up his forearm, and at breakfast he could barely flex his fingers.

  ‘That rat Amadocus did it,’ he said with a snarl, ‘When he cornered me last night in the canteen. Can’t hold a sword, thanks to that bastard.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘Never mind. You’re not going to be using a sword much.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Pavo.

  Macro grinned. ‘You’re not going to fight like a gladiator, boy. Capito has tried that against Britomaris already and you know the result. Trading blows with that barbarian is suicide. You’re bound to lose.’