‘Got you now, rich boy,’ Duras hissed.
Pavo closed his eyes and prepared to die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
That afternoon Macro undertook a thorough inspection of the ludus’s facilities. Accompanied by a clerk, he cast a shrewd eye over the infirmary, baths, latrines, canteen, guards’ quarters and armoury, as well as the large two-storey dormitory housing the gladiators two to a cell. The scale of work needed was daunting, but he was determined to make whatever repairs his measly budget permitted. The men needed new training equipment, vital if the optio was going to whip the fighters into decent shape ahead of the forthcoming games. He also reasoned that repairs to the latrines and general upkeep of the cells would improve morale among the men and silence some of the grumbles on the training ground. To fund the work, the previous day Macro had approved the sale of three gladiators to the lanista of a private ludus to the west of Capua. Although sales of imperial stock were theoretically forbidden, the practice had become commonplace under the debt-ridden reign of Caligula, the previous emperor, and Murena had granted Macro special dispensation to sell off excess stock to secure the immediate financial future of the ludus. The sale of three seasoned German provocators had raised 15,000 sestertii each, a staggering sum in comparison to Macro’s legionary wage of 900 sestertii per annum.
Even so, most of the income had already been accounted for. Corvus had racked up substantial debts with the local merchants charged with supplying the ludus with victuals. In addition, the administrative staff and guards were owed several months’ pay. That would eat up the lion’s share of the windfall, with Macro earmarking the remaining sum for the long-overdue maintenance work. After all that expenditure, there would be a small sum left in the coffers to cover any medical bills for gladiators who suffered injuries in the build-up to the games. The sums involved in running a ludus horrified the optio. He privately wondered how lanistas ever managed to turn a profit.
Macro made his way from building to building, pointing out repairs and improvements to be made, which the clerk inscribed on a wax tablet. At the armoury, he stopped to inspect the wrought-iron gate. The air was dusty and rich with the tang of metal. Oil lamps flickered in the corridor. The sharpened tips of swords, spears and daggers glinted menacingly in the gloom. The jambs either side of the gate were surmounted by a crude arch engraved with various gladiator types engaged in battle. Macro grabbed hold of one of the gate bars and tugged at it. The gate groaned on its hinges.
‘This lock is fucked,’ he sighed to the clerk. ‘Any old fool could break in.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The meek reply irritated Macro. He’d awoken early that morning with a throbbing hangover, having ended the previous day with an exploration of Corvus’s wine store. His predecessor had been quite the connoisseur. The cellar underneath the lanista’s quarters was well stocked with Falernian and Caucinian, and even had a couple of amphoras filled to the brim with the finest Faustian. It wasn’t hard to see how Corvus had squandered his wealth. Although the quality of the wine was high, Macro hankered for a skinful of the cheap stuff sold at market stalls near the legionary camp on the Rhine. Soon, he reassured himself, he would be relieved of his duties at the ludus and return to action.
He rounded on the clerk. ‘This gate is all that separates a hundred and twenty angry gladiators from enough weapons to arm an entire fucking cohort. Now, I’m assuming you remember the story of how that evil bastard Spartacus and his bandits chopped up half of Campania?’
The clerk hung his head in shame. ‘Yes, sir.’
Macro nodded tersely. ‘Then you’ll also know that after Crassus and his legions gave that shit-stirring Thracian a good kicking, strict laws were passed about when and where gladiators could wield a sharpened bit of steel.’
‘Of course, sir,’ the clerk replied helpfully, shifting on his feet.
‘The only time a gladiator gets to use a real sword is when he’s about to step out into the arena. Not in his cell, not while he’s having a shit, and not on the training ground. Swords are to be kept strictly under lock and key at all times in the ludus. Not left behind a bit of rusting iron. Are we clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Macro cast a heated glance at the armoury. ‘By this time tomorrow this lock had better be replaced and security of the armoury tighter than a Vestal Virgin’s cunny. Otherwise I’ll make sure you get nailed to a cross. Understood?’
The clerk gulped loudly. ‘Understood, sir.’
‘Good.’ Macro grunted and turned away.
As he marched back to his quarters, he felt a sense of shame at having to use the clerk for the administrative side of the business of managing the ludus. He did not have much choice in the matter, since he could not read or write. His illiteracy was one of his few regrets. As a young boy in Ostia, he’d been taught to identify a handful of letters and numbers, but whole sentences proved impossible and he had never sought to develop his ability. As a soldier, he’d seen no need for it — until he had learned that literacy was a prerequisite for promotion to the rank of centurion. The notion that his illiteracy might prevent him from rising through the ranks festered in his guts, and he resolved to learn his letters and numbers before one of the officers in the legions discovered his secret. Now that he was on the cusp of reaching the rank of centurion, he knew he would have to do something about it soon.
He entered a large rectangular room at the entrance to the lanista’s quarters from the east-facing porticoes. The wan twinkle of lamps revealed vividly coloured frescoes adorning the walls. Sunlight cascaded through an opening in the roof and glistened on the surface of a shallow pool filled with rainwater. A set of stone stairs led down to the basement to the right. In front of the pool was an ornamental desk decorated with ivory and bronze, laden with papyrus scrolls and wax tablets. Macro stopped when he noticed a figure pacing nervously up and down the room, muttering under his breath. He was a willowy man with greying locks and a compressed mouth, as if cut with the point of a knife. He wore an off-white tunic and a ceremonial crimson cape fastened at the left shoulder with a clasp. A large chain of dormitory cell keys dangled from his belt. The optio recognised the man as the commander of the ludus garrison.
Macro cleared his throat. The commander glanced up and, seeing Macro, abruptly halted.
‘Ah, the imperial lanista,’ Quintus Tullius Macer intoned in a high-pitched voice. ‘Just the man I was looking for. I want a word with you.’ He flicked his eyes to the clerk. ‘In private, please.’
Macro nodded to the clerk. ‘Dismissed.’
As the clerk departed down a corridor into a side room, the commander of the guard straightened his back and folded his arms across his chest in a defensive posture. He studied the optio for a moment.
‘You are making a grave mistake in the way you’re running the ludus, Macro.’
Macro snorted his contempt. ‘That’s “sir” to you.’
The commander huffed. ‘I am an officer in the Praetorian Guard. I don’t have to address you as “sir”.’
Macro rounded on Macer. ‘You’re on secondment from the guard. Inside this ludus, I am the sole voice of authority, and you had better start addressing me as such. Are we clear?’
Macer glared at the optio. ‘As you wish … sir. But my protest stands. If you persist with implementing harsh measures over the gladiators, you will drive the imperial ludus to ruin.’
‘Harsh measures?’ Macro looked at the commander in disbelief. ‘Good old-fashioned legionary discipline, I call it. Something the men under your command could do with, Macer.’
‘My guards are perfectly capable of defending this ludus, sir.’