Gurges shrugged and reached for another pastry. ‘It’s a net and a trident. You cast your net over your opponent so that he is entangled. Then you stab him with the trident. How hard can it be?’
Biting his tongue, Pavo turned away from the lanista and stomped back down the corridor with a sinking feeling at his prospects for the coming fight. ‘By the gods, how can this day get any worse?’ he muttered to himself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A cracking noise rattled the sky as the doctore lashed his leather whip at the recruits.
‘By Jupiter’s cock!’ Calamus boomed at the men practising with wooden swords against their posts at the far end of the training ground. The palus belonging to Bucco stood untouched. Pavo had yet to discover what had happened to his friend, and had privately resigned himself to the likelihood that Calamus had dispatched Bucco to a mine in some far-flung corner of the Empire.
‘Is this the best you miserable bastards can do? I think you lot might be the worst recruits I’ve ever seen. Keep this up, ladies, and you’ll all be working in the mines before the year is out.’
The recruits increased their pace, sweating away under the piercing gaze of the doctore despite the cold of the early morning. Some gladiators were desperate to please the trainer and win an opportunity to fight in the arena. Others went through the motions, hoping to escape the wrath of Calamus and delay their appointment with the sword. Pavo busied himself with stabbing his palus with a fishing trident acquired from the armoury. Two weeks had passed since Calamus had first introduced him to his new weapons. Since then, Pavo had been left to train alone. After long hours of wielding the net and attacking the palus with the trident, he was still no closer to truly mastering the technique of a retiarius. The net seemed an entirely impractical device. Denter could simply dodge it, or cut himself free if caught. And then Pavo would be defending himself against a heavily armed gladiator with nothing more than a trident and a dagger.
He quelled the anxiety rising in his throat and considered the other recruits slogging away at their individual paluses. They wielded wooden swords of various lengths and styles. Some grasped legionary-style swords. Others trained with spears and short swords, depending on the gladiator type they had been selected for. During the first morning of training the doctore had explained to the recruits that the style of fighter they would eventually become was decided by the lanista, on Calamus’s advice. Once assigned, the recruits were trained by specialist instructors. A heavyset man with a scar running across his shoulders instructed the hoplite fighters, while a wiry, nimble comrade oversaw the provocators. Specialising in a particular type of combat meant that each man was another step closer towards his first appearance in the arena. They were all aware that if they did well in training, they were more likely to be paired with a weaker opponent on their first appearance, since it was the worst-kept secret among the gladiator schools that lanistas used the early bouts to get rid of the less able recruits by pitching them against promising young fighters, who in turn would curry favour with the mob by slaughtering their mismatched opponent.
The posts were arranged in two wide rows to give each man ample room to perform a series of stabs, lunges and thrusts at the various points representing the human body, and each had painted a crude face atop his palus. One or two of the new recruits had improved noticeably since Pavo had left to train separately with Macro. Although they had yet to make their debuts in the arena, they now attacked their paluses with powerful, coordinated movements, constantly shifting on the balls of their feet as the doctore had instructed. Their brows were furrowed in deep concentration. Their enlarged abdominal muscles and pectorals glistened with sweat. The climate in Paestum was wet and swampy even this late in the year, and Pavo found it difficult to breathe.
‘You!’ Calamus boomed at Pavo, pointing him out with a gnarled finger. ‘If I catch you slacking again, I swear to the gods you’ll spend the next week in solitary confinement.’
‘Yes, Doctore.’
The instructor tucked his thumbs into the metal belt that was strapped to his waist above his loincloth. ‘Perhaps you think you’ve got time to stand around picking your nose. Perhaps you think you don’t need to train; that just because you chalked up one lucky win in the arena, that gives you the right to nod off.’
‘No, sir,’ Pavo replied.
‘You’re getting too big for your boots, Pavo. You might have had your head up Fortuna’s arse when you fought Britomaris, but Denter is twice the gladiator that barbarian ever was.’ The doctore smirked at Pavo and gestured to the trident. ‘Since you clearly rate yourself, perhaps you’d care to show us all how to fight using that bloody thing.’
The other men stopped to watch Pavo. Taking a deep breath, the recruit scooped up the net in his left hand, clutching the trident in his right. He sensed Calamus’s steely gaze burning his back.
Pavo was poised to attack the palus when a chubby figure with a prominent paunch drooping over his loincloth emerged from the shadows of the east-facing porticoes. His cropped hair was unkempt and he lumbered across the sand towards the recruits. A moment later Calamus caught sight of him.
‘Well, stuff me in a sack and cast me off the Tarpeian Rock,’ the doctore said in a cutting tone. ‘Look who returns to grace us with his fucking presence. Manius Salvius Bucco.’ Raising his voice, he boomed at the figure, ‘Hurry it up, fatso! We don’t have all day.’
As Bucco drew towards the recruits, Pavo could see that he sported several bruises on his arms, legs and face. His lips were purpled and his jaw was swollen. He grimaced with every pained stride he took across the training ground before stopping at the palus to the right of Pavo. A river of sweat glistened on his forehead.
‘Bucco!’ Pavo murmured. ‘Where in Hades have you been?’
‘In the infirmary. Long story. I’ll explain later.’ Bucco paused to catch his breath. ‘I thought you’d sodded off to Rome for good. The ludus is no place for a high-born lad like you.’
Pavo smiled, thankful to see a friendly face at last. ‘How could I resist the lure of the house of Gurges?’ he said drolly. ‘Delicious food, wonderful sleeping quarters and charming company.’
Bucco laughed. Then he winced with pain and placed a hand to his sore ribcage.
‘Something funny, Bucco?’ Calamus rasped.
‘No, sir,’ Bucco replied soberly.
‘Achaeus has declared you fit to leave the infirmary, I see.’ The doctore examined the volunteer from head to toe. The dark look on his face suggested he did not like what he saw. ‘The old man must be thick as well as blind. Well, you’re just in time to see Pavo demonstrate how to use a trident.’
Wielding the trident in an overhand grip at the middle point of the shaft, Pavo yanked his right arm back so that the three wooden tines were parallel with his shoulder. Then he thrust the trident at the palus, driving it at the throat of the post with an angry shout. The tines thwacked weakly against the wood.
‘Fuck me, Pavo,’ the doctore said curtly. ‘I’ve seen some dross in my time, but you really are taking the piss. Call that a bloody stab? The only thing your opponent might die of is laughter.’
Pavo lowered his head in bitter disappointment. The size and weight of the trident conspired against him. No matter how he gripped it, he couldn’t seem to generate enough thrust to land a killer blow. And the tines were too short to cause any real damage. Each measured roughly the same length as an index finger. He doubted they would be able to penetrate deep enough through bone and muscle to puncture vital organs.
Calamus stormed past the wooden posts and stopped directly in front of the recruit, working his features into a rabid snarl. ‘You’re in trouble, Pavo. Big trouble.’