Now the last of the gladiators assembled. Macro cast his eyes over the ludus as Aculeo ordered the men into formation. To his left stood the wooden training posts. On his right was the practice arena, a replica of the much larger arena in Capua, constructed from wood and with galleries capable of seating an audience of over two hundred. Two guards were stationed at a guard post south of the training arena, to the side of the main entrance to the ludus, an impressive structure with an intricately decorated arch above the gate bearing the reassuring symbol of the god Securitas. A series of guardrooms were built either side of the arch, along with solitary confinement cells for ill-disciplined gladiators. A portcullis sealed the mouth of the gate, along with an outer door which had a locking bar on the outside. Two additional guards were stationed by the outer door at all times. They were only permitted to open the door when the regular supply wagons arrived bearing food and wine for the ludus. The only other entrance was through the main doors at the front of the lanista’s quarters. If nothing else, the place seemed reasonably secure.
Aculeo called the men to attention. The gladiators slowly formed into ten fairly orderly lines of twelve. Stiffening his neck, the optio reasoned that since he was in charge for the foreseeable future, he may as well make a good fist of his command. If nothing else, it might sharpen his leadership skills.
Taking a deep breath, he addressed the men.
‘I am Lucius Cornelius Macro, optio of the Second Legion, decorated hero of Rome!’ His naturally gruff voice boomed across the training ground. ‘Ladies, I am your new lanista. You will all address me as “sir”, understand?’
The gladiators stared at Macro in leaden silence.
‘I can’t hear you!’ the optio thundered. ‘I said, do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the gladiators replied meekly.
‘Louder!’
‘YES, SIR!’ they bellowed in unison.
Macro nodded. ‘That’s better.’
He surveyed the gladiators with a sinking feeling in his guts. Many of the men were in poor condition. Some were slack-muscled and overweight. Quite a few sported prominent paunches or double chins. Not for the first time, Macro found himself cursing the prized decoration he’d been awarded. That decoration had brought him nothing but trouble. Biting back on his unease, he went on.
‘Your previous lanista, Gaius Salonius Corvus, left this ludus in a right bloody mess. It’s up to me to sort it out. That includes you lot. And speaking frankly, what I am looking at now makes me want to vomit.’
The gladiators looked surly.
‘You’re supposed to be the most feared swordsmen in the Empire. But an Egyptian beggar would strike more fear into the heart of a Roman soldier than any of you miserable bastards. If I had things my way, I’d pack the lot of you off to the mines. Unfortunately, I’m stuck with you. A great festival of games is scheduled to take place a month from now, when you will be pitted against your comrades from the imperial ludus in Rome.’
Macro paused as the gladiators absorbed the news with a degree of unrest. The announcement of forthcoming games always prompted a mixed response, he reflected, in a way that reminded him of soldiers greeting news of an imminent battle. There was excitement at a welcome break in the monotonous routine of training and drills, but also despair that some of them would soon shuffle over to the afterlife.
‘As imperial gladiators, I expect you to put on a good show for the Emperor. Corvus might have been happy to let you lose against the boys from Rome. But I didn’t travel all the way up here just to watch you be defeated. Lads, we are going to beat those noisy upstarts from the Roman ludus. If we want to win, there’s going to have to be some big changes around here.’
Macro paused again. Many of the veteran gladiators appeared unconvinced by his bold words. While the gladiators bore plenty of scars from the arena, they had grown attached to the comforts of life under their old master, and were understandably apprehensive about the prospect of hard training.
‘I have personally slaughtered enough barbarians to half fill this ludus. The secret to Roman warfare isn’t our weapons or the so-called leadership skills of our generals, thank the gods. It’s our drills.’ Macro thumped a fist against his chest. ‘We drill day and night. We drill until our arms ache and we can hardly stand. We drill in our fucking sleep. That’s what we’re going to do, ladies. From now until the day of the games there will be twice-daily training sessions.’ He gestured to Aculeo. ‘This is your new doctore. He’s also a military man through and through. He will help to instil legionary discipline in each and every one of you.’
There were grumbles from the throng of gladiators. Several directed evil glares at the doctore. Aculeo merely puffed out his chest in pride, oblivious of the venomous reception from the men.
‘The doctore will take training from dawn until noon,’ Macro continued. ‘After a short rest you’ll work at the paluses with the specialist coaches. By the end of each day you will be hurting worse than you have ever done in your pathetic lives. By the end of the month, you’ll have muscles in places you didn’t even know you had places. Then you’ll train some more. Am I understood?’
‘Here, what about our bounty?’ one of the men asked.
‘Too bloody right!’ another added. ‘We still haven’t received our share of the winnings from the previous fights! Some of us have wives and children to feed on the outside.’
Macro knitted his brow. ‘Blame that selfish turd Corvus. He left this ludus without an amphora to piss in. There’s no money to be had, so you’ll have to make do without the bounty for a while.’
Groans and murmurs of discontent erupted among the gladiators.
‘That can’t be true,’ the first gladiator insisted. He was a pale man whose upper body was covered in tattoos. ‘Corvus rented us out as bodyguards. He was raking it in. There must be some money to share around.’
‘Corvus rented you out to pay his debts,’ Macro replied coldly. ‘That’s why the Emperor had him bumped off. He left the ludus penniless. End of discussion.’
The gladiators exchanged angry looks. Macro sympathised with their grievance up to a point. Comparatively few gladiators achieved freedom by winning the rudis, the wooden sword awarded for triumphant gladiators at spectacular events. For most, their only real hope was to earn enough prize money to eventually buy out their contract with the lanista. A lower share of the winnings meant that a gladiator would need to survive more fights in order to purchase his freedom. Macro sensed the mood turning ugly. He silenced the protests with an abrupt wave of his hand. What he had to say next would undoubtedly provoke an acrimonious reaction.
‘While we’re on the subject of Corvus, I understand he permitted you lot cheap wine at supper and, gods forbid, even let you entertain tarts at night. Under my leadership, army rules will apply. No more wine. Anyone trying to smuggle a tart into their cells will be taken out to the training ground and given thirty lashes.’
‘No wine?’ one gladiator asked despairingly.
‘Not even a bit of fresh cunny?’ another shouted.
‘Plenty of that waiting for you in the afterlife,’ Macro replied.
‘That’s not fair! You can’t just take away our privileges like that. We’re imperial fighters, us lot. We deserve what Corvus promised us.’
‘Corvus is dead!’ Macro thundered. ‘I’m the lanista. And you had better fall into line. That goes for each and every one of you miserable bastards. The next man to speak out will get twenty lashes.’
Satisfied that he had settled the argument, Macro wheeled away, gesturing to Aculeo to begin the day’s training-ground exercises – twenty laps of the ludus followed by excruciating sets of press-ups, sit-ups and star jumps. He stopped dead at the sound of applause coming from somewhere within the massed ranks of gladiators.
‘What a fine speech, Roman,’ a voice rasped.
‘Who said that?’ Macro bellowed, turning back to the men.
The line of gladiators slowly parted to reveal a tall, well-built man with enlarged chest and shoulder muscles. He looked to be fitter than most of his peers. He struck Macro as a disciplined but serious sort of fellow. Judging from his straggly beard and the loose, flowing dark hair hanging down past his shoulders, Macro presumed he hailed from the barbaric lands to the east of Rome. A scar on his upper lip locked his mouth into a permanent scowl.
‘You!’ Macro shouted. ‘Name!’
‘Bato.’ The gladiator smirked at Macro. The men around him looked at him with a mixture of awe and fear. ‘I know your kind, Roman. I killed many soldiers like you on the field of battle in Thrace.’
Macro chuckled. ‘Didn’t stop you from getting captured and thrown into a ludus, I see.’
Bato glared back. ‘How perceptive of you. True, I am in bondage, with many of my brothers.’ He acknowledged a group of men standing at his broad shoulders. ‘But I fought bravely, as an honourable warrior and the proud leader of my tribe. Not like you Romans, hiding behind your shields like women.’
Macro stared hard at the gladiator. ‘You can comfort yourself with that thought tonight while you’re picking cockroaches out of your gruel and I’m treating myself to a cup of Falernian.’
The gladiator scowled. Macro balled his right hand into a fist and punched the man in the guts. There was a sharp draw of breath as the blow winded Bato and he doubled up in agony.
‘Speak out of turn again and I’ll have you on half-rations for a month.’
Macro turned to leave.
‘That’s right,’ said the gladiator, fighting to catch his breath. ‘Walk away.’
The optio spun back round. Bato flashed an evil stare and addressed the other gladiators between sharp breaths.
‘We didn’t triumph in the arena, defeat countless opponents, spill blood and fight our way to become imperial gladiators just so this halfwit soldier could push us around. Down with the lanista! I say we take what is rightfully ours!’
A pocket of the men cheered Bato. In a burst of anger, Aculeo lashed out with his whip, striking the sand at the feet of the gladiator. Bato stared back at him, his face shading white with rage.
‘Doctore,’ Macro ordered. ‘Lash this man at the post.’
‘Roman scum!’ Bato roared. The cheers among the other gladiators swelled.
‘Make it thirty lashes.’
‘I spit on you!’
‘Forty!’ Macro boomed above a deafening chorus of support.
‘Yes, sir.’
Aculeo stepped forward, smacking his lips at the prospect of inflicting severe pain on the Thracian. He grabbed hold of Bato with a firm grip and started dragging him away. The armed guards scattered around the training ground exchanged anxious looks, their lack of training and battle experience telling in their hesitant faces and the nervous twitches of their hands. Macro knew a poor soldier when he saw one, and a brief look at the garrison guards told him that they were no match for the men of the Second Legion. The guards watched the Thracian uneasily as he screamed his defiance, echoed by his comrades.
‘You haven’t heard the last of me, Roman!’ Bato roared as two more guards rushed to the doctore’s aid in an attempt to subdue him. ‘I’ll make you regret the day you set foot in this ludus!’
A
tense mood hung over the ludus as the gladiators toiled at the training posts. Pavo practised with his sword, a lead weight in his heart. Six days had passed since his meeting with Murena, and the young gladiator had sunk deeper into a pit of anguish with each passing day. His journey had come to a premature end, he reflected. There would be no vengeance over Hermes. No freedom for his son Appius. The humiliation and sense of injustice at his misfortune burned deeply in his heart, and for a fleeting moment he wished he had lost against Denter and perished in the arena, bringing an end to his misery.
He shook his head, angry with himself for permitting such black thoughts. The compulsive desire for revenge pounded between his temples. He thought of the promise he had made on his father’s grave to kill Hermes. He’d sworn that he would not rest until the blood flowed freely from Hermes’s neck. But unless he agreed to publicly support Claudius, he would not have the chance to fight his nemesis. In his weaker moments, Pavo weighed up the notion of offering his endorsement to the Emperor and asking Murena to overturn his decision. No, he told himself with a firm shake of his head. He would not give in. If he had to be executed in order to save the name of his family, so be it. Better to die with his pride and dignity intact than live a life of disgrace and condemn his son to a pitiful existence as a slave.
He stopped to catch his breath, muttering under his breath at the harsh training regime Aculeo had forced upon the men. They were not allowed to stop even for a brief moment during the earlier runs. Some had collapsed with exhaustion at the end. Blinking sweat out of his eyes, Pavo noticed Bato speaking furtively to several of his fellow Thracians.
‘Pavo! What in the name of the gods are you doing?’ The doctore stomped over to the young gladiator and prodded him in the stomach with his whip. ‘This is a ludus for gladiators, not Greeks! If you wanted to stand around all day gazing into thin air, you should’ve gone to Athens.’
‘Sir, I was just—’
‘Shut up!’ The veins on the doctore’s thick neck protruded like tensed rope. His eyes bulged with hatred. ‘Just because you’re First Sword doesn’t mean you can slack off in training. You’re no different to everyone else in this ludus. You might think you’re special, but to me you’re just a slave with a fucking sword.’
‘I meant no offence.’
‘You offended me the moment you were born.’ Pavo raised his eyes to meet the doctore’s bone-chilling glare. ‘I hate high-born officers almost as much as I hate showboating gladiators. And you are unfortunate enough to be both. You know what that means?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It means I hate you twice as much as any of the other scum in this ludus.’
‘Permission to speak freely, sir.’
‘No. You’re a gladiator, Pavo. You don’t speak freely. You do as you’re bloody well told. You shit when I say you shit and you speak when I tell you to speak. Are we clear?’