‘Isn’t that normally an offence punishable by death?’
The veteran grunted. ‘Corvus was a greedy shit. He wouldn’t kill a gladiator he could still make a few denarii off of. He condemned me to life in the ludus.’
Pavo felt a pang of pity for the veteran. He slid his plate across.
‘Here. Have mine.’
The veteran ogled the feast of cooked meat and vegetables. He smacked his lips and reached out to grab a sausage smeared with honey, then hesitated. ‘Are you sure, lad?’
Pavo nodded. ‘I’m not hungry.’
The veteran shrugged and started to shovel food into his mouth, making appreciative noises as he washed the sausages down with a thirsty slurp of vinegared wine. After wolfing down the vegetables, he let out a loud belch. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and glanced furtively over his shoulder.
‘A word to the wise. Watch your back. There’s trouble brewing, and you’d do well not to be caught up in it.’
‘What do you mean?’ Pavo asked cautiously.
‘The ludus is split down the middle.’ The veteran pointed with a greasy finger to the two sets of gladiators sitting at the trestle tables either side of the canteen. ‘On the left, you have the Thracians, under Bato. He’s pissed off with you being named First Sword. That used to be his title.’
‘Great,’ Pavo noted wryly. ‘I seem to be in the habit of making enemies of late.’
The veteran shook his head. ‘On the right, you’ve got your Celts. Fucking animals. They have a long-standing feud with the Thracians. The two tribes sit at separate tables and train separately. They even sleep in separate parts of the cell block.’
‘They hate each other?’
‘Hate is putting it mildly.’ The veteran scratched his cheek. ‘They’d rip each other’s throats out if they were given half a bloody chance. One of the Celts butchered Bato’s brother in training a while back. The Celts claimed it was accidental. Bato believes they deliberately set out to murder his brother. There’s been bad blood between the two camps ever since.’
A powerful feeling of loneliness struck Pavo. As First Sword and a fallen aristocrat, he had been shunned by the other gladiators. The rivalries bubbling under the surface of the ludus, so obvious to the veteran, were a surprise to the young gladiator.
‘You spoke of trouble. What do you think is going to happen?’ he asked.
The veteran leaned across the table and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I’ve heard rumours that Bato is planning something big. Whatever it is, he’d want to take revenge on the Celts first. Carve the lot of them up. You know what Thracians are like. Long memories. But if Bato sees fit to stir things up round here, most of the men in the ludus will follow his lead.’
He became silent as a shadow fell across the trestle table.
‘Well, well! Look who’s decided to grace us with his presence.’
The veteran lowered his head at the voice coming from behind Pavo. The young gladiator turned casually. Bato glowered at him, his nostrils flared with anger.
‘Do me a favour. Two fights, and you get awarded First Sword? That’s bollocks, that is.’
A gigantic gladiator towered by his side. He was shaven-headed and pale as chalk, with a reddish scar running down his chest to his groin. Bato noticed Pavo staring at the man at his side and laughed.
‘This is my bodyguard, Duras. He has the hardest punch in all of Thrace. Duras used to kill Roman scum with his bare hands. Once punched a man so hard his head exploded. Isn’t that right, Duras?’
The bodyguard grunted his assent.
Bato looked with contempt at Pavo. ‘You might carry the title of First Sword, but every man in this ludus knows I’m the true champion. I should be the one getting all the glory and the fame. Tarts screaming my name. The only reason you’re even here is because the Emperor appointed that short-arsed army officer, your pal, as lanista.’
‘He’s not my friend,’ Pavo muttered.
‘You’re both Romans. That makes you both enemies of mine.’
Pavo stood up to leave the canteen. Duras thrust his palm at the young gladiator, shoving him back against the table edge. Something snapped inside Pavo. He grabbed the empty clay plate to his side and shot forward, swinging it at the bodyguard. Duras grunted as it shattered against the side of his skull. Bato leapt back as clay shards clattered across the canteen floor. Duras bared his teeth. Working his thick fingers into a bunched fist, the bodyguard punched Pavo in the solar plexus. The blow stunned the young gladiator and sent him stumbling back.
Catching his breath as he regained his balance, Pavo bolted forward in a flash, slamming into Bato head first. Duras looked on in disbelief as Bato gasped, his face purpling as a rush of air shot out of his mouth. He fell backwards, tripping over an upturned bench and collapsing on his back with Pavo on top of him. The other gladiators watched with stunned looks on their faces as Pavo slammed his knuckles against Bato’s nose. He shaped to punch again. This time a pair of hands clasped his wrists, wrenching him away from Bato. The young gladiator spun round, ready to punch the bodyguard. Then he saw the face staring back at him and reluctantly relaxed his fist.
‘What’s going on here?’ Macro boomed.
Pavo grimaced. ‘Sir, I can explain-’
‘I’ve had enough of you, rich boy! You’re nothing but trouble. It follows you around like a bad smell.’ The optio looked at Bato. The floored Thracian cupped his blood-spattered nose and groaned.
Just then the doctore came crashing into the canteen. Beads of sweat lined his brow and he gripped the short whip in both hands. He flicked his menacing eyes from Bato to Pavo.
‘Making new friends, are we?’
‘That Roman shit hit me first,’ Bato said in a nasal tone. ‘Came at me for no good reason.’
‘True?’ Macro asked Pavo.
Before the young gladiator could reply, Bato waved a hand at Duras and the other Thracians. ‘Ask any of them.’
The men conversed in their native tongue, then looked to Macro and nodded in broad agreement. The optio stiffened his lips.
‘Well that settles it, Pavo. You’ll have to be disciplined.’
‘But Macro — I mean, sir …’
‘No buts! As First Sword you’re expected to set an example to the other men.’ Macro jerked his head at the imperial gladiators. ‘What do you think that lot will do if they see you escaping punishment? It’ll damage morale. And we can’t have that, now can we?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Those are the rules. There can be no exceptions. Aculeo?’
‘Sir?’ the doctore answered.
‘Punish this man as you see fit.’
The doctore flashed a cruel grin at Macro. ‘With pleasure, sir.’
Macro glowered at Pavo. ‘Now piss off out of my sight.’
A deep resentment stirred in the young gladiator towards Macro. Despite their differences, he had developed a close bond with the optio. The two men had both fought for Rome with distinction, and had an appreciation of the fine art of soldiering. They were united by their shared hatred for Pallas and Murena. Now the optio was treating him like an errant slave, cold and distant and aloof. Stung by a sense of betrayal, Pavo followed Aculeo out of the canteen. He began trudging towards the training posts, bracing himself for the terrible pain that awaited him at the end of the doctore’s whip. Aculeo stopped in his tracks and planted his hands on his hips.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he asked.
Pavo frowned. ‘To the palus, sir. To be lashed.’
‘I’m not going to lash you,’ Aculeo replied with a hearty chuckle. ‘That’d be far too easy! No. A high-born lad such as yourself deserves a special punishment.’ He pointed to a building situated at the north-east corner of the ludus. ‘You’re on latrine duty, Pavo. The drains are blocked again, thanks to bloody Corvus. Do what you can to unblock them, eh?’
‘I shall do no such thing!’ Pavo retorted indignantly. ‘That’s slave’s work.’