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!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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?’
Pavo bit his tongue. ‘Yes … sir.’
‘Right.’ Aculeo took a breath and bellowed, ‘Take a break! Make it quick! I want to see every sorry one of you back on the sand at the double-quick!’
Pavo fell into line with the other men pacing towards the canteen, his mood bleak. He was surprised to find himself yearning for his old ludus in Paestum. At least there he’d had a friend in Bucco. Now his premature appointment to First Sword had incurred the wrath of the other gladiators, and no one wanted to be associated with him. Even Macro, his former mentor, had distanced himself.
Entering the canteen at the southern end of the ludus, Pavo joined the orderly queue under the watchful eye of the guards. The gladiators lined up broodingly, accepting their bowls of gruel mixed with animal fat and gristle. Pavo received a plate of grilled sausages and steamed vegetables, as was his privilege as First Sword. He searched for a free place at one of the trestle tables. But the gladiators already seated at the table eyed him as he drew near and began shuffling along the wooden bench, filling up the empty space.
‘This one’s taken, Roman,’ one of the men said sourly.
Pavo turned to another free spot at the end of a table. A gladiator at the next seat placed his hand on the spot and stared coldly at Pavo.
‘Taken,’ he said.
Sighing, the young gladiator turned to a table located at the far end of the canteen. A veteran sat alone, stirring his gruel with a craggy finger. He offered no protest as Pavo eased on to the bench on the opposite side of the trestle table. The wizened old fighter merely raised his bowl to his lips and sipped his gruel.
‘By the gods, this is revolting!’ He grimaced. ‘It’s bad enough they don’t pay us the bounty we are due and take away our wine and whores. Now they insist on feeding us slops unfit for animals!’ He pushed his bowl away despondently, then looked up at Pavo and considered the young gladiator. ‘So you’re the new First Sword, eh?’
Pavo nodded.
‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’ the veteran said. ‘I was a young champion like you once. Had the world at my feet. Gladiators feared my name. Women promised me every sexual favour under the sun during my fights. Some of the men too. Greeks, usually. I had it all.’
‘What happened?’ Pavo asked.
‘That bastard Corvus told me he’d give me my freedom after I turned thirty. He went back on his word and I tried to escape. But Corvus got wind of the plan and the guards caught me crawling through the sewers.’