Macro snorted derisively. ‘I’ve spent fourteen years as a soldier. I can tell the quality of a fighting man. There’s more chance of Neptune himself jumping out of the Tiber than your guards winning a scrap.’
Macer continued to stare implacably at the optio. He had an officious air about him that reminded Macro of the staff officers in the legions. He took an immediate dislike to the man.
‘This is not a legionary camp. This is the imperial ludus, sir,’ Macer continued. ‘We do things differently here. It would behove you to accept that simple fact, as Corvus did.’
‘Behove, eh? Speak in simple Latin, man! This isn’t a bloody poetry circle.’
Macer twisted his lips in resentment. ‘Yes … sir. I mean, we must tread carefully with the gladiators. Bato is a noble chief of a warrior tribe. He is not some insolent scum from the Aventine who just happens to wear a legionary uniform and a sword. You must treat him with respect.’
Macro exploded with rage. ‘Respect? Fuck off! That Thracian tosser threw down a direct challenge to my authority. Disobedience is not tolerated in the legions, and I won’t tolerate it from you either.’
‘Be that as it may, you have picked a fight with the wrong man.’
‘Bato is a troublemaker. I’ve seen dozens of soldiers like him. Bad apples. They need discipline. Give him a few good lashes of the whip and a week on half-rations and he’ll soon fall into line.’
Macer shook his head. ‘I fear not. Bato is no ordinary gladiator, sir. He used to be the First Sword at the ludus until that new chap, Marcus Valerius Pavo, was installed in his place. Pavo’s appointment has pissed Bato off.’
Macro shrugged. ‘He’ll have plenty of time to calm down once Aculeo has finished flogging him.’
Macer clamped his lips shut for a moment, venting his anger through his nostrils.
‘The problem is not restricted to Bato. It runs deeper than one man. You see, when Bato was captured, many of the men in his tribe were taken prisoner alongside him. Since they were all exceptionally good fighters, they were transferred en masse to the imperial ludus.’
Macro’s face shaded red with anger. ‘How many followers are we talking about?’
‘Nearly half the men in the ludus, sir.’
‘You mean to say that we have a ludus stocked full of prisoners of war itching for revenge against their Roman captors?’
Macer gave a brief nod of his head. After an uncomfortable pause he looked up at Macro. Fear gleamed in his eyes. ‘If you push Bato too hard, his men will rebel against your authority. There are a hundred and twenty gladiators within these walls, sir, and only sixteen guards under my command. The Thracian is a simple creature, and he will abide by the conditions of his imprisonment so long as he has wine and women and money. By depriving these men of their privileges, you have laid down a challenge. I fear we will all pay a heavy price for your actions.’
Macro considered the commander with open contempt. He was about to reprimand him when the sound of heavy footsteps cut him off. Spinning round, he saw Aculeo hurrying up the marble steps, gesturing frantically.
‘Sir!’ the doctore shouted breathlessly. ‘Sir, you must come with me at once!’
Macro stiffened at the look of alarm in the trainer’s eyes.
‘What are you talking about?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Speak, man!’
Aculeo paused to catch his breath. ‘It’s the gladiators,’ he began throatily. ‘Sir, I’m afraid we’ve got a problem.’
Macro rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me. Pavo again?’ He clicked his tongue. ‘That boy is more trouble than he’s worth.’
‘No, sir,’ the doctore gasped. He looked from Macro to Macer. ‘It’s Bato and his men.’
Macro choked at the doctore’s words. ‘What have they done?’
‘They’re refusing to return to their cells, sir.’
Grey clouds smothered the darkening sky as Macro, Macer and Aculeo strode out from under the east-facing porticoes and marched across the training ground. A crisp breeze fluttered across the ludus, and the optio was momentarily reminded of the rain-lashed frontier of the Rhine.
‘If only I was so lucky,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘What’s that, sir?’ Aculeo asked.
‘Nothing,’ Macro grumbled.
Shutting out the piercing headache at the front of his skull, he saw a pair of orderlies unloading amphoras from a supply wagon stationed in front of the main entrance. The outer gate had been opened and the portcullis was raised, the iron spikes fixed to the bottom of the oak bars gleaming dully in the gloom. With a heavy grunt Macro swivelled his incensed gaze towards the training posts to the north. There he spotted the troupe of gladiators. He stopped a short distance from the men. Their wooden swords and wicker shields were scattered on the sand at their bare feet in a show of dissent. The gladiators themselves were strangely calm, Macro thought. Their arms were folded across their chests and they stared at him with a cold-blooded defiance that unsettled him. Bato stood at the training post nearest to the guards. His hands were bunched into tight fists at his sides.
A squad of armed guards formed a semicircle round the gladiators. They wore legionary-type uniforms of red tunics under iron cuirasses and sword belts over their shoulders. Their cuirasses were battered and their hobnailed sandals were badly in need of repair. They rested their hands nervously on the pommels of their swords, their legionary-issue shields raised to their chests. One or two of them looked towards Macer for guidance. The commander offered no leadership to his men, Macro thought with disgust. He merely pursed his lips, his eyelids twitching as he tried to shy away from the confrontation.
‘What in Hades is going on here?’ Macro demanded, turning away from the commander to face the guards and resting his hands on his hips.
‘I ordered the men to return to their cells,’ one of the guards reported, ‘but they won’t obey.’
Macro counted the gladiators. ‘There are eighteen men here, lad. Where’s the rest of ’em?’
‘Returned to their cells, sir. We cut short their supper. Thought it best to lock them up, given this protest.’
‘What about the other guards?’
‘Patrolling the ludus, sir. We’ve got one gladiator unaccounted for.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Pavo, sir.’
The imperial lanista felt a tinge of regret at making an example of Pavo in front of the other men at the canteen. Perhaps he had been too harsh on the young lad. But he instantly dismissed Pavo from his thoughts. There could be no special treatment for the young man. Whatever sympathy he had for Pavo was tempered by the fact that he always seemed to be getting himself into some kind of strife. Macro turned to the line of gladiators.
‘Right, you lot, that’s enough. Return to your cells this instant, or I’ll have the lot of you on half-rations for a week.’ He fixed his gaze on Bato. ‘I suppose you’re the ringleader?’
Bato bowed mockingly. ‘I am but the mouthpiece of the downtrodden.’
‘Bollocks! I should’ve known you were up to no good.’ Macro looked away from the Thracian and addressed the other gladiators. ‘Here’s my one and only offer. Whoever stops this foolish protest now will be spared punishment. There’s no reason to follow this idiot into the mines.’
‘We want our wine!’ one of the gladiators heckled.
‘And our cunny!’ Duras joined in.
‘Death to the Romans!’ a voice from the back taunted.
Macro looked hard at Bato. He resisted a powerful urge to beat up the Thracian for challenging his authority but forced himself to hold back, conscious of the fact that the ludus guards and their weak-willed commander could not be relied upon to deal with the other gladiators.
‘Now look here. I’m the lanista. I set the rules. You bloody well follow them, got it?’
‘Fuck your rules!’ Duras chanted. ‘Fuck the ludus!’
Bato chuckled as he gestured at the gladiators. ‘You see, Roman. You’re wasting your breath. The men are all sworn to me. We have made our position clear. We will not cooperate with you until our privileges are restored and our bounty is paid.’