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.’