‘Bash his bloody skull in!’ a voice screamed behind Pavo.
It sounded close, almost on his shoulder. Pavo quickly glanced round, realising that he had retreated nearly into the spectators. A scrawny Persian man puckered his brow at him. His eyes were different colours and he sported a curly black beard. Pavo knew the man as Orodes, a prisoner of war captured during a Parthian raid into Armenia. Orodes booted Pavo in the back. The blow sent the younger man lurching towards the centre of the circle, and Amadocus’s seething mass.
The Thracian wound up for a decisive slash at Pavo’s neck. But Pavo ducked his head. Gripping his shield with both hands, he thrust the top edge up towards Amadocus. The move caught the Thracian by surprise. He groaned as the rim smacked up at his chin, his jawbone slamming shut. Before his opponent could come to his senses, Pavo cast his lumbering shield aside and dived towards him. The look of anger on the Thracian’s face melted away as he lost his footing and fell backwards with Pavo on top of him. There was a rowdy cheer from the spectators as the two men crashed to the training-ground floor with a crunching thump. At first the big Thracian was stunned. Then he rolled over on top of Pavo, using his immense strength to pin his opponent to the ground. Pavo balled his right hand into a fist and slammed a punch at Amadocus on the bridge of his nose. His knuckles flared with pain. The spectators booed, urging the Thracian to finish off his opponent. Pavo thumped Amadocus a second time. Now blood streamed out of the Thracian’s nostrils and splattered across his lips. Enraged, Amadocus thrust out his right arm at Pavo and clamped his fingers around his throat. Now the Thracian smiled cruelly as he slowly crushed his opponent’s windpipe. Pavo felt the air trap in his lungs. His eyes bulged inside their sockets. He realised he was going to die.
Suddenly a wooden sword came whooshing down in front of Pavo and struck Amadocus on his head. The Thracian grunted as he fell away, his arms flopping by his sides. Pavo rolled over and gasped with relief as air filled his burning lungs.
‘That’s enough,’ Calamus boomed, thrusting them apart with his sword. The Thracian glowered at Pavo. Two veterans, fellow Thracians who Pavo had seen by his opponent’s side in the canteen, stepped forward from the circle. Each one slipped an arm around Amadocus and hauled him to his feet. They began to escort Amadocus away, but the Thracian gestured for them to stop. He turned back to Pavo and scowled.
‘This isn’t over, Roman.’ He spat blood. ‘I pray to the gods that we will fight to the death in the arena, and the last thing you see before you visit the Underworld will be my sword plunging into your fucking neck.’
‘You two.’ Calamus nodded at the other Thracians. ‘Take Amadocus to see Achaeus and get him cleaned up. Our lanista insists on paying that Greek physician a king’s ransom, so we may as well get some use out of the senile old fool.’
The two Thracians pulled Amadocus away. The circle of spectators hastily parted for the three men, veteran and recruit alike distracted by the sight of Amadocus hobbling towards the medical quarters mumbling curses.
‘Right, you lot. Enough pissing about. Get back to training, and the gods help anyone I catch slacking off this afternoon.’ For a second none of the men moved. Calamus lashed his short leather whip on the sand, causing one or two of the recruits to flinch. ‘That’s an order, ladies. This is a ludus, not a fucking Greek debating society.’
There were grumbles and low whispers as the men reluctantly dispersed and trudged towards the opposite ends of the training ground. The recruits headed for the paluses assembled at the southern end of the ground, whilst the veterans gathered to fight in pairs in the shade of the portico at the northern end. Calamus frowned at the dispersing crowd and turned to Pavo.
‘Come with me, rich boy,’ the doctore growled as he seized him by his left arm and marched him across the training ground.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Pavo demanded, ignoring the angry looks thrown in his direction from the gladiators.
‘The lanista wants you,’ Calamus said. ‘Don’t ask me why. Frankly I couldn’t give a fuck about a snivelling little shit like you. You might have fluked that win over Britomaris, but don’t think for a second you’re worthy of being branded a true gladiator. Not while I have a say on the matter. Mark my words, one of these days Amadocus will have his hands wrapped around your throat again. And next time, I won’t save you.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Calamus guided Pavo under the shadow of the portico and up a stone staircase leading to a door with a pair of lightly armed guards positioned either side. The guards stepped aside and Calamus yanked open the hefty door, ushering Pavo down a colonnade with a series of small rooms to the left and a garden to the right adorned with an ornate fountain and sculptures of gladiators striking various poses. Beyond the colonnade a short passage opened on to a wide room with a high ceiling. Pavo spotted Gurges standing beside a shallow pool of rainwater positioned directly beneath an opening in the roof. Reflected light from the pool shimmered across his face. There was a bronze bust mounted on a plinth, and a wooden chest fitted with polished bronze locks. Gurges did not appear to notice Pavo and Calamus at first. He was deep in discussion with a corpulent man dressed in a vast tunic that had the proportions of a sail. His green eyes glinted and he sported a trimmed black beard with a shaved upper lip and dark hair curled in the Greek fashion. Gold rings gleamed on each of his chubby fingers.
‘So it’s agreed, then,’ the corpulent man said. ‘Fifty thousand sestertii is the bet. Should your man win, you’ll stand to make four hundred thousand sestertii. Lose, and the fifty thousand is mine.’ He examined his gold rings and went on, ‘I would prefer to have something in writing. It is the custom.’
Gurges chuckled. ‘You don’t trust me to pay if I lose, Carbo?’
‘I am a bookmaker,’ Carbo replied tersely, pressing the palms of his hands together in front of his double chin. ‘It is in my best interests to be cautious when a client lays down a fairly, shall we say, substantial sum. Naturally, I would never question the integrity of the house of Gurges.’
The lanista chuckled. ‘Very well. I’ll arrange for the necessary contract to be drawn up. Now, unless there’s anything else, I shall see you at the banquet to discuss the other gladiators for the forthcoming show.’
‘I look forward to it.’
The lanista signified the end of the conversation, wheeling away from Carbo and acknowledging Calamus with a brisk nod. As Carbo made to leave, he spotted Pavo and stopped. He smiled curiously at the trainee. ‘So this is the hero of Rome?’ he mused. ‘The man who saved the reputation of Emperor Claudius from ruin, eh?’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ grumbled Calamus.
Carbo stuck out his bottom lip in disappointment. He waddled a couple of paces towards Pavo and paused a moment while he tickled a flabby fold of skin under his chin. ‘I must say, you’re somewhat slighter than I expected. Mind you, many gladiators have so much muscle on them these days, they can hardly move.’
‘The muscle is so they can swing a sword,’ Calamus interjected. ‘And the layer of fat on top protects their organs when a blade cuts through their flesh and draws blood.’
‘Yes, well. Thank you for that, doctore.’ Carbo shivered at the thought. He nodded to Pavo. ‘You did well to triumph against that savage Britomaris. But I fear you will do even better to survive long against your next opponent.’
‘Next opponent?’ Pavo asked. His heart thumped inside his chest.
The lanista patted Carbo on the back and the men said their goodbyes. Then Carbo departed, winking at Pavo as he waddled past on his way to the corridor. Another fight, thought Pavo. He offered a silent prayer to the gods that he would at last face Hermes, and achieve the revenge he had craved since the man had beheaded his father in front of the Emperor.