Aculeo cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Hear that, Pavo?’
‘Hear what?’
The doctore grinned. ‘That’s the sound of me giving a shit.’
Still grinning, he turned away and began marching towards the latrines. Pavo glumly followed him under the porticoes and down a dimly lit corridor, simmering with outrage at having to do a job he considered beneath him. The whiff of perfumed oil wicks coming from the baths could not stifle the fetid smell of human waste emanating from the latrines. The two smells merged into a pungent, putrid stench that violated Pavo’s nostrils and had him fighting his gag reflex.
Aculeo paused by the entrance to the latrines, blocking Pavo’s route.
‘Not yet, lad,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some business to take care of first.’
He winked at Pavo and ducked inside, leaving the young gladiator to loiter amid the shadows, listening to the strains and groans of the doctore as he relieved himself. A short while later Aculeo emerged, hefting up the belt strapped above his loincloth. A noxious stench followed him like a cloud. Pavo pinched his nostrils in disgust.
‘Ahhh!’ Aculeo patted his belly. ‘That was a particularly good shit. Happy Saturnalia, Pavo.’
The paved floor of the filthy latrine was soiled with faeces and the doctore had been careful to foul the water trench cut into the foot of the toilet bench, dirtying the only source of clean water. Aculeo whistled as he set off down the corridor. After a few paces he stopped and turned back to Pavo.
‘It, ah, got a bit hairy in there. Must have been all that cake and wine I had for dessert last night. Make sure you give everything a hard scrub, there’s a good lad. I want to see that latrine spotless when you’re done. Brush and all.’
Pavo gritted his teeth. ‘Yes … sir.’
It was late afternoon by the time Pavo finished cleaning the latrine. He staggered out with his hands caked in foulness, his stomach heaving and his head ringing with anger at his treatment. Never in all his life had he felt so insulted. He cursed Macro too, and Murena for condemning him to live among barbarians and slaves. He lumbered down the long corridor towards the baths, a leaden despair clouding his thoughts. Cleaning out latrines was in some ways a greater shame than his imminent crucifixion. It served as a painful reminder of the utter depths to which he had sunk.
He entered the changing room, grateful for a few moments’ peace. The distant shouts of the doctore resonated from the training ground, ordering the men to retire to their cells after the end of their afternoon training programme. Pavo decided to remain alone with his melancholic thoughts. He had no wish to surround himself with rowdy gladiators. Setting his loincloth and belt in a neatly folded pile, he crossed under the ornate stucco reliefs and headed towards the hot room. A wave of heat washed over him as he approached the entrance, warming his skin.
A voice pricked his ears.
‘We need more weapons. This isn’t enough.’
The voice came from inside the hot room. Pavo crept towards the doorway, trapping his breath in his throat. He craned his neck and peeked round the entrance. Inside he spied half a dozen gladiators standing soberly in a semicircle in the middle of the room. He had seen the men before, seated among the Thracians in the canteen. To his astonishment, he spotted an array of makeshift weapons arranged on the mosaic floor at their feet. There were clay shards taken from shattered plates and cups, wooden training swords which had been sharpened at the tips in the fashion of palisade stakes, and a collection of short sticks with rusted nails hammered through them.
‘What about the infirmary?’ another gladiator suggested.
‘Scalpels and needles?’ a third asked. ‘Against guards armed with swords and spears?’
‘We only need to rush ’em and get the keys,’ the first gladiator countered. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. ‘Once we’ve released the other men from the cells, getting our hands on some proper weapons won’t be a problem. Then we’ll overpower the guards, loot the ludus and make our escape.’ The man had a sinister gleam in his eyes as he added, ‘Not before we’ve taken care of those bloody Celts, of course.’
‘Once we’re in the hills, those Roman fucks will never catch us,’ the second gladiator said. ‘We’ll be free to take what we want. There’ll be wine and cunny for us all!’
The first gladiator thumped his fist against the wall. ‘Bato is right. That bloody lanista reckons he has the run of the ludus. Well he’s wrong. He’s denied us our bounty and privileges. If we aren’t given what we’re owed, there’s nothing for it but to take it ourselves. Tell you what, boys. We’ll earn more working as a brigand unit than we have ever done fighting in the arena!’
The gladiators growled in excitable agreement. The first man nodded to one of his comrades. ‘Go to the infirmary. Pretend to Kallinos you have some vague illness. Steal what you can. Go now. We don’t have much time. Bato says we must act today.’
The gladiator hurried towards the door. In a blind panic, Pavo spun round to escape from the baths.
‘Going somewhere, Roman?’ Duras asked in a thick, slow voice, his stale breath filling Pavo’s nostrils.
Pavo stood rooted to the spot, his path blocked by the giant bodyguard, fear burning in his throat as the blood drained from his head. Despite the heat emanating from the hot room behind him, he was suddenly very cold.
‘You’re plotting to escape,’ he said quietly.
Duras laughed deep in his chest. His colossal pectoral muscles rippled as he leaned in to Pavo and narrowed his pit-like eyes to slits. ‘Suppose we are, Roman. What are you going to do about it? Report us to the fucking lanista?’
‘You mean Macro? If you have a legitimate grievance, I suggest you discuss the matter with him.’
‘He’s a Roman cunt, just like you. I have a better idea. When we’ve finished cutting up the guards, and those fucking Celts, we’ll sling you and the lanista in the same grave.’
Pavo took a deep breath. He heard the patter of footsteps at his back. He turned to see the six gladiators from the hot room closing round him. The man in the middle brandished one of the sticks covered in rusty nails, tapping the tip of the weapon against the palm of his hand. Pavo realised he had no way of escaping the Thracians. They had him cornered. He turned back to Duras.
‘Perhaps I can join your rebellion?’ He struggled to sound convincing.
Duras smirked as he glanced at the other men. ‘A stuck-up Roman siding with us Thracians? Bato would never stand for it. Nah! Far better to beat you to death right now. Bato planned on killing you anyway.’
‘You don’t have to do this. I won’t betray you.’ Pavo felt anxiety rise in his throat.
Duras cracked his knuckles. ‘We have a problem. You overheard our plan. We can’t trust you not to go running to the lanista, and there’s no place in our ranks for a fucking Roman …’
Pavo’s bowels knotted and he took a step back from Duras, only to bump into the other Thracian gladiators. He tried to duck away to the side, but the bodyguard reacted quickly, wrapping his arms round him and locking his hands round his wrists, gripping the young gladiator in a suffocating hold. Pavo writhed free as the gladiator wielding the stick lifted his weapon above his head, bringing it crashing down against the side of his skull. A piercing sound rang through his ears as the stick clattered into his jaw, drawing hot blood from his cheek. The gladiator swung at him again, disorientating him, while the other gladiators swooped over him, raining a flurry of punches and kicks down on him. He felt sick. Pain burst through his chest as an attacker drove his fist into him. He stopped struggling. Duras released his grip. Pavo collapsed. His face slapped painfully against the marble floor. He was dimly conscious of Duras kneeling beside him, smiling manically from ear to ear. Pavo tried to scrape himself off the floor. A sharp pain flared between his ribs, forcing him to abandon the attempt. Then the giant Thracian placed a bare foot on his chest, pinning him to the ground. The other gladiators surrounded him.