‘Tough shit. I told you before, there’s no money.’
A knowing smile tickled the Thracian’s lips. ‘A barefaced lie, Roman. I know that you acquired the princely sum of forty-five thousand sestertii from the sale of three men. That’s ample funds with which to pay off what me and my men are owed.’ Bato extended his palm. ‘Hand it over.’
‘Piss off! That money is already accounted for. There are more pressing debts to settle than your fucking prize money.’
‘I am trying to be reasonable, Optio. This is your last chance to save the ludus.’
Macro glared at the Thracian. ‘Back down now, or I’ll have every man here crucified, so help me.’
Bato sneered. ‘You can threaten us all you like, Roman. It will get you nowhere. We want our privileges and our money. And let me see …’ The Thracian paused, stroking his chin. ‘Yes, we would like to negotiate a higher percentage for future victories in the arena. I think an increase to seventy-five per cent of the winning fees sounds like a good deal. What do you think, boys?’
The other Thracians cheered in agreement. Macro breathed furiously through his nostrils, his temper darkening with each passing moment. ‘If you think I’m going to give in to some rabble-rousing savage, you’ve got another think coming.’
‘As you wish. But we shall not cooperate until you agree to our demands.’ Bato folded his arms. ‘Your move, Roman.’
Macer pulled the optio to one side until they were out of earshot of the gladiators. Lowering his shrill voice, the commander said, ‘We should negotiate. Give them what they want. No need for any bloodshed, sir.’
Macro clenched his jaw and looked at the commander in disgust. ‘I won’t negotiate with a bunch of thugs. Besides, if I agree to their demands, the imperial secretary and his aide will go through the roof. This ludus is already on the brink. We can’t afford to hand over most of the winnings to Bato and his mob just because they’re not happy.’
Macer fell silent. From the corner of his eye Macro spied a violent rage brewing in Aculeo. Now the doctore stepped forward and struck his whip at Bato. Macer winced at the distinct crack of leather tearing off strips of raw flesh. But the Thracian did not blink. Enraged, Aculeo stepped closer. Blood gushed down the gladiator’s chiselled torso. The doctore hocked up phlegm in the back of his throat and spat into the Thracian’s face.
‘You’ll get back to your cell now, scum, or I’ll whip you so hard you’ll be in the infirmary for the next month.’
Bato hardened his stare at Aculeo, the saliva slithering down his nose.
‘Fucking Thracians,’ Aculeo growled.
Bato launched his balled right hand at Aculeo, aiming for the neck, dropping his right shoulder and bringing his hand round in a wide arc. As he did so, Macro glimpsed a dark object jutting out of the underside of Bato’s fist. Fear burned in his throat as he realised that the gladiator was gripping a clay shard. The doctore’s eyes widened abruptly as he was struck. The whip fell from his hands. He looked dumbly down as Bato slashed the clay shard across his throat. There was a ripping sound as the shard cut through soft flesh. Blood flowed freely out of the wound. Bato wrenched the shard away, and hot blood splashed over the doctore’s chin and trickled down his chest. He staggered backwards and collapsed in a heap on the sand. The guards drew their swords. At the same instant the other gladiators pulled out weapons concealed under their belts and loincloths. Macer visibly shrivelled, taking a step backwards and glancing uncertainly at his men as all hell broke loose.
‘Kill them!’ Bato roared, pumping his blood-coated fist in the air. ‘KILL THEM ALL!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The seven guards were too stunned to react as the gladiators charged them. The nearest gladiator, a broad-shouldered Thracian with a hairy chest, lunged at Macer, yelling at the top of his hoarse voice. The commander lost his nerve and began blindly slashing at the gladiator, his sword trembling in his limp-wristed grip, a look of sheer terror on his face. Macro turned to the guards. An unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability struck him. Unlike them, he had no weapon, having left his sword in the lanista’s quarters.
‘Hold your ground!’ he barked at the top of his voice.
He looked back to the paluses just in time to spot Duras hurtling towards him, teeth bared, eyes blazing with fury. He gripped a sharpened stake in his right hand and plunged the tip at Macro, driving it towards his chest. Macro instinctively parried the thrust with a forceful swipe of his right hand. There was a dull slap as his forearm connected with the gladiator’s bicep. Now Macro dropped his shoulder and slammed into the gladiator, sending the man stumbling backwards and crashing to the sand. He snatched up Duras’s stake. A blur of colour to the right seized his attention. A pair of unarmed gladiators were storming towards him.
‘Come on!’ Macro goaded, shaking his stake at them. ‘Which one of you bastards wants it first?’
The gladiators swapped a quick look. Then they both charged at Macro, swinging their fists above their heads. Macro easily deflected their sluggish blows. Pouncing at the gladiator on his right, the optio drove his stake into the man’s neck. A look of agony contorted the Thracian’s face. He made a savage gargling sound, pawing desperately at his throat as Macro tore the stake free. A fist hammered the optio in the right side of the stomach as the second gladiator attacked him. Blocking out the pain, Macro turned to face the man, twisting at the waist and lowering his left shoulder. With his feet planted firmly on the sand, he skewered the gladiator in his exposed abdomen. The man howled in agony. Macro ripped out the stake and glanced up. The guards had backed up to the east-facing porticoes, crouching behind their large shields as the gladiators swarmed at them. Staying hunched, they tentatively stabbed and sliced at thin air with their short swords in an attempt to keep the Thracians at bay. The bodies of two gladiators lay sprawled at their feet.
Macro thought quickly. Although the guards had superior weaponry compared to the clay shards, surgical blades and lengths of wood in the hands of the gladiators, they were taken aback by the wild fervour in the eyes of the men. The gladiators threw themselves at the guards, foaming at the mouth as they roared battle cries in their native tongue. In turn the guards hacked frantically at the charging gladiators. The air quickly filled with the crunching thud of metal against flesh.
One gladiator leapt forward at one of the guards foolish enough to lower his shield and jabbed him in the neck repeatedly with a scalpel. The guard thrashed from side to side as the life spurted out of him. Sensing that the situation was turning desperate, Macro darted forward, his sandals pounding on the parched sand, and hammered his fist into the face of a gladiator attempting to flank the guards. The Thracian’s expression registered dumb shock, eyes blinking as his head snapped back.
Now a bearish gladiator slashed wildly at Macro with a clay shard. Macro easily ducked the attack and piked his wooden stake into the man’s thigh. Grabbing the legionary sword and shield from the slain guard, he sprang forward on the balls of his feet, rushing over the corpse and crunching his shield into the nearest gladiator, then cutting up with the sword and sinking the blade into the man’s armpit. The gladiator growled angrily, staggering back as the blood coursed from his gaping wound. Lowering his sword to hip level, Macro now thrust at a second gladiator, managing to stab the man in his chest with a solid angled drive. Then he flicked his wrist, giving the blade a good twist and grinding up the gladiator’s bowels, drawing a terrified squeal of pain from the man as he collapsed to the sand.
‘Stick it to ’em!’ Macro yelled to the guards. ‘Cut every one of ’em down!’
The men began pressing forward, hunched behind their shields, inspired by the courageous actions of the optio. Slowly they regained the advantage, savagely attacking the poorly armed gladiators. Sword points glinted. Several gladiators continued their attack but their resistance soon crumpled as their makeshift weapons proved no match for their opponents’ swords. There was a ferocious roar as the guards pushed forward again, thrusting at the gladiators, stabbing at the mass of exposed torsos with ruthless abandon. The screams of the gladiators were swiftly replaced by the groans and strains of the attacking guards, and the frenzied thunk of swords slamming into bone. Suddenly the surviving gladiators retreated towards the training posts, looking on with dismay as their comrades disappeared under a hail of sword tips and a cloud of dust. Macro did not have time to congratulate himself. He searched frantically around the training ground for Bato.