Arena

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A cracking noise rattled the sky as the doctore lashed his leather whip at the recruits.

‘By Jupiter’s cock!’ Calamus boomed at the men practising with wooden swords against their posts at the far end of the training ground. The palus belonging to Bucco stood untouched. Pavo had yet to discover what had happened to his friend, and had privately resigned himself to the likelihood that Calamus had dispatched Bucco to a mine in some far-flung corner of the Empire.

‘Is this the best you miserable bastards can do? I think you lot might be the worst recruits I’ve ever seen. Keep this up, ladies, and you’ll all be working in the mines before the year is out.’

The recruits increased their pace, sweating away under the piercing gaze of the doctore despite the cold of the early morning. Some gladiators were desperate to please the trainer and win an opportunity to fight in the arena. Others went through the motions, hoping to escape the wrath of Calamus and delay their appointment with the sword. Pavo busied himself with stabbing his palus with a fishing trident acquired from the armoury. Two weeks had passed since Calamus had first introduced him to his new weapons. Since then, Pavo had been left to train alone. After long hours of wielding the net and attacking the palus with the trident, he was still no closer to truly mastering the technique of a retiarius. The net seemed an entirely impractical device. Denter could simply dodge it, or cut himself free if caught. And then Pavo would be defending himself against a heavily armed gladiator with nothing more than a trident and a dagger.

He quelled the anxiety rising in his throat and considered the other recruits slogging away at their individual paluses. They wielded wooden swords of various lengths and styles. Some grasped legionary-style swords. Others trained with spears and short swords, depending on the gladiator type they had been selected for. During the first morning of training the doctore had explained to the recruits that the style of fighter they would eventually become was decided by the lanista, on Calamus’s advice. Once assigned, the recruits were trained by specialist instructors. A heavyset man with a scar running across his shoulders instructed the hoplite fighters, while a wiry, nimble comrade oversaw the provocators. Specialising in a particular type of combat meant that each man was another step closer towards his first appearance in the arena. They were all aware that if they did well in training, they were more likely to be paired with a weaker opponent on their first appearance, since it was the worst-kept secret among the gladiator schools that lanistas used the early bouts to get rid of the less able recruits by pitching them against promising young fighters, who in turn would curry favour with the mob by slaughtering their mismatched opponent.

The posts were arranged in two wide rows to give each man ample room to perform a series of stabs, lunges and thrusts at the various points representing the human body, and each had painted a crude face atop his palus. One or two of the new recruits had improved noticeably since Pavo had left to train separately with Macro. Although they had yet to make their debuts in the arena, they now attacked their paluses with powerful, coordinated movements, constantly shifting on the balls of their feet as the doctore had instructed. Their brows were furrowed in deep concentration. Their enlarged abdominal muscles and pectorals glistened with sweat. The climate in Paestum was wet and swampy even this late in the year, and Pavo found it difficult to breathe.

‘You!’ Calamus boomed at Pavo, pointing him out with a gnarled finger. ‘If I catch you slacking again, I swear to the gods you’ll spend the next week in solitary confinement.’

‘Yes, Doctore.’

The instructor tucked his thumbs into the metal belt that was strapped to his waist above his loincloth. ‘Perhaps you think you’ve got time to stand around picking your nose. Perhaps you think you don’t need to train; that just because you chalked up one lucky win in the arena, that gives you the right to nod off.’

‘No, sir,’ Pavo replied.

‘You’re getting too big for your boots, Pavo. You might have had your head up Fortuna’s arse when you fought Britomaris, but Denter is twice the gladiator that barbarian ever was.’ The doctore smirked at Pavo and gestured to the trident. ‘Since you clearly rate yourself, perhaps you’d care to show us all how to fight using that bloody thing.’

The other men stopped to watch Pavo. Taking a deep breath, the recruit scooped up the net in his left hand, clutching the trident in his right. He sensed Calamus’s steely gaze burning his back.

Pavo was poised to attack the palus when a chubby figure with a prominent paunch drooping over his loincloth emerged from the shadows of the east-facing porticoes. His cropped hair was unkempt and he lumbered across the sand towards the recruits. A moment later Calamus caught sight of him.

‘Well, stuff me in a sack and cast me off the Tarpeian Rock,’ the doctore said in a cutting tone. ‘Look who returns to grace us with his fucking presence. Manius Salvius Bucco.’ Raising his voice, he boomed at the figure, ‘Hurry it up, fatso! We don’t have all day.’

As Bucco drew towards the recruits, Pavo could see that he sported several bruises on his arms, legs and face. His lips were purpled and his jaw was swollen. He grimaced with every pained stride he took across the training ground before stopping at the palus to the right of Pavo. A river of sweat glistened on his forehead.

‘Bucco!’ Pavo murmured. ‘Where in Hades have you been?’

‘In the infirmary. Long story. I’ll explain later.’ Bucco paused to catch his breath. ‘I thought you’d sodded off to Rome for good. The ludus is no place for a high-born lad like you.’

Pavo smiled, thankful to see a friendly face at last. ‘How could I resist the lure of the house of Gurges?’ he said drolly. ‘Delicious food, wonderful sleeping quarters and charming company.’

Bucco laughed. Then he winced with pain and placed a hand to his sore ribcage.

‘Something funny, Bucco?’ Calamus rasped.

‘No, sir,’ Bucco replied soberly.

‘Achaeus has declared you fit to leave the infirmary, I see.’ The doctore examined the volunteer from head to toe. The dark look on his face suggested he did not like what he saw. ‘The old man must be thick as well as blind. Well, you’re just in time to see Pavo demonstrate how to use a trident.’

Wielding the trident in an overhand grip at the middle point of the shaft, Pavo yanked his right arm back so that the three wooden tines were parallel with his shoulder. Then he thrust the trident at the palus, driving it at the throat of the post with an angry shout. The tines thwacked weakly against the wood.

‘Fuck me, Pavo,’ the doctore said curtly. ‘I’ve seen some dross in my time, but you really are taking the piss. Call that a bloody stab? The only thing your opponent might die of is laughter.’

Pavo lowered his head in bitter disappointment. The size and weight of the trident conspired against him. No matter how he gripped it, he couldn’t seem to generate enough thrust to land a killer blow. And the tines were too short to cause any real damage. Each measured roughly the same length as an index finger. He doubted they would be able to penetrate deep enough through bone and muscle to puncture vital organs.

Calamus stormed past the wooden posts and stopped directly in front of the recruit, working his features into a rabid snarl. ‘You’re in trouble, Pavo. Big trouble.’

Pavo knew better than to rise to the bait. He stared at the horizon while the doctore fumed at him through his tunnel-like nostrils. Calamus edged closer. He dropped his voice to a hiss as he leaned forward.

‘Denter might be a drunkard, but he was one of the finest gladiators who ever graced the arena. A scrawny pipsqueak like you isn’t fit to wipe his arse. This net and trident won’t save you from what’s coming. Thousands of people are going to flock to the arena. And you know what they’re going to see? Denter disembowelling you. You’ll be joining your old man in the Underworld before the mob have had a chance to warm their seats.’

Calamus wheeled away from Pavo in disgust. He inspected the sundial in the middle of the training ground. A small spot of light hovered at the halfway point on the truncated surface of the dial. ‘Break for lunch, ladies. Before the rest of you make me as sick as Pavo.’

Propping their training swords against their paluses, the recruits plodded over to the canteen for a modest lunch. The doctore stopped on the half-turn as he caught sight of Bucco. His hands tensed against the leather strands of his whip. ‘I suppose you’re ready to return to training.’

Bucco puffed out his chest. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You don’t look ready to me, Bucco. You know what you look like to me?’

‘No, sir.’

‘A two-pound shit stuffed into a one-pound bag. I hear the gold mines in Dacia are in need of more men. Could be the ideal place for you, fatso. Horrible conditions down there, mind. Constant risk of floods and falling rocks. Tunnels tighter than a Vestal Virgin’s privates. You’d get stuck.’

Calamus jabbed Bucco in the belly with the grip end of his short whip. The volunteer gulped loudly. ‘You’re an embarrassment to this ludus,’ he went on. ‘If you think I’m going to risk an armpit-plucker like you in the arena, shitting all over the good name of the house of Gurges, you’ve got another think coming.’

‘Do you mean that I’m not to fight at the games, sir?’ Bucco asked hopefully. ‘I could rake the sand, sir, or prepare food and drink for the men. I’m a good cook. The secret is always to add lots of garum sauce.’

‘No, fatso. It’s the mines for you,’ Calamus said. He paused, and his severe eyes beamed with wicked intent. ‘On second thoughts, I’ve got a much better job. One that involves making a complete fool of yourself. A toga-lifting clown like you will feel right at home.’

‘Really? What is it, sir?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ the doctore laughed. Bucco looked puzzled as Calamus turned his back on the recruits and paced across the ludus towards the assembled veterans.

Now that they were alone, Pavo approached Bucco and nodded at his bruises.

‘What happened to you?’

Bucco looked away. ‘I got into a spot of bother with Carbo.’

Pavo frowned. ‘Carbo? I’ve heard that name before.’ He recalled his meeting with the lanista. ‘He was talking to Gurges. Something to do with a wager on the games.’

‘Spurius Gratius Carbo,’ Bucco said. A frown weighed heavily on his forehead. ‘He’s the bookie I was telling you about.’

Pavo felt pressure build between his ears as he recalled the nights spent listening to his cellmate ruing his misfortune with the dice. Bucco had travelled from his home in Ostia to Paestum in the hope of borrowing money from a distant relative to cover his debts. But the relative had been long since removed from Paestum and Bucco had drowned his sorrows at a local tavern, where he’d started talking with a gladiator recruiter from the local ludus. The money on the table — two thousand sestertii upon signing the contract and a further two thousand at the end of his two-year service, together with winnings on top for each victory he notched up — seemed too good to be true. However, Bucco did not plan to pay off his debts with victories earned in blood.

Pavo fumed. He frowned at Bucco’s injuries. ‘Carbo did this to you?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘He didn’t strike me as the strong type.’

‘Not Carbo.’ Bucco winced again and put a hand to the small of his back. ‘His cronies. He employs ex-gladiators as bodyguards.’ Tears welled in Bucco’s eyes. He hesitated to go on. ‘I’m sorry, Pavo. I placed a bet on your fight with Britomaris.’

‘I see,’ Pavo said, confused.

‘I don’t think you do.’ He hesitated, kicking the foot of his post despondently. Then his eyes met Pavo’s and he said, ‘I bet on you to lose.’

Pavo’s entire body jolted. He took a shaky step back from Bucco. His forearms trembled. He fought a strong urge to strike Bucco and dug his fingernails painfully into the palms of his hands.

‘Carbo talked me into it,’ the volunteer protested. ‘I’m sorry, Pavo. I wasn’t thinking.’

‘There’s a surprise,’ Pavo murmured through clenched jaws.

‘I only made the bet because Carbo offered me stupid odds,’ Bucco sniffed. His swollen cheeks were now smeared with tears. ‘After your victory, I didn’t have the money to pay off my debt when Carbo came calling. He got one of his cronies to beat me up. He told me to come up with the money by the end of the month or else.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘You have to help me, Pavo.’

‘Oh yes, I’ll get you out of the giant hole you’ve dug yourself,’ Pavo said scornfully. ‘Then you can squander your winnings on another stupid bet with Carbo. Thank you, but no. You’re on your own this time, Bucco.’

‘I’m not asking you to help me,’ the volunteer said softly. ‘I’m asking for the sake of my family.’

‘What in Hades do you mean?’ Anger constricted Pavo’s neck muscles and made his voice scratchy and stiff. It took a considerable effort for Bucco to raise his anxious head to look at his friend. His eyes were moist and his lips quivered with fear.

‘They’re gone,’ he said. ‘Carbo took them. My wife Clodia and my little boys, Papirius and Salonius. Kidnapped them from my home. He said if I couldn’t pay, he’d sell them into slavery. He’s given me a week to raise the money, but I don’t have it. You’ve got to help me get them back.’

Pavo closed his eyes. Although he was furious with Bucco for wagering money on him to fail against Britomaris, the thought of the man’s family suffering for his folly forced Pavo to stifle his resentment. He knew the pain of losing loved ones. A voice scratched at the base of his skull telling him that although it was too late to save his own family, he could help save another. He took a deep breath, swallowed his anger, and opened his eyes. Bucco stared expectantly at him.

‘Fine,’ Pavo said at last. ‘I’ll help. But I’m only doing this for your family.’

‘Thanks, Pavo. You’re a good friend.’

The gladiator raised a palm. ‘Save the thanks for when Clodia and your boys are free.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Bucco asked tentatively.

‘Have a word with Carbo and tell him to release them. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll wrap my fingers around his fat throat and choke him until he gives up the location of your wife and children.’

Bucco pursed his lips. ‘What if he won’t tell you?’

‘If you have a better plan, Bucco, feel free to share it.’

‘Sorry.’ Bucco contemplated his feet. ‘I’m grateful for your help, really. I just want my family back.’ His face reddened with shame. ‘I swear to Venus, I’ll never gamble again!’

Pavo grunted and rubbed his jaw. ‘Do you have someone on the outside? Someone who could get to your family if I found out where they’re being held?’

‘I think so,’ Bucco said. ‘An old mucker of mine called Umbrenus. He’s a merchant in Puteoli.’

‘Be ready to pass a message on to him,’ Pavo warned. ‘Once I’ve confronted Carbo, they won’t be safe. Umbrenus will have to reach them before Carbo has a chance to sell them on. I take it Carbo is a regular visitor to the ludus? He is a bookie, after all. His trade depends entirely on him judging the form of gladiators for upcoming matches and scamming the public.’

Bucco nodded. ‘He comes once a week. Not just to watch. To collect. Half the men in the school have accounts with him. Most of them are in debt, like me. Slaving away at the palus while he profits from other people’s misery!’ He thumped a plump fist into the palm of his hand.

‘When is he coming next?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Bucco. ‘At dawn.’