seashells for the Emperor, you’ve come to the wrong place.’
One of the recruits to Pavo’s right laughed uneasily. Pavo watched Calamus glower and turn to look at him. He was a short man with cropped dark hair and a nose with a break at the bridge. He had a layer of fat about his waist and wore a plain, tattered tunic.
‘You! Name?’
‘Manius Salvius Bucco, sir,’ the man replied nervously.
‘Bucco? I know a Bucco. He’s a toga-lifter. Are you a toga-lifter, son?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Bollocks, of course you are! Are you a volunteer or a slave?’
‘Volunteer, sir.’
‘Want to be a gladiator, do you, Bucco?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t make me laugh. You don’t look like gladiator material to me, Bucco. You look like something I’d scrape off my boot. Tell me, why are you disgracing my ludus? Murder someone and now on the run? Shag your master’s missus when he was away on business at the forum? Is that it?’
‘No, sir.’ Bucco lowered his head in shame. Pavo squirmed. Although he felt sorry for poor Bucco, he was also glad that Calamus had found someone else to bully. ‘I gambled. Fell in with some bad people, sir. Figured I would enrol and pay off my debts.’
‘A gambler! What’d you play?’
‘Dice mainly, sir.’
Calamus smirked. ‘I should’ve known! You look like a mug. Only idiots play dice, Bucco. How much did you lose?’
‘Ten thousand sestertii.’
‘Good gods, man!’ Calamus exclaimed. ‘And look at the shape of you! You’d have to win twenty fights to earn that much, and I’ve never seen a fat bastard win once. Or the son of a legate, for that matter.’
Pavo frowned. He didn’t approve of the doctore’s attitude to the military. His father Titus had been something of a hero to his men – a real soldier’s soldier – in stark contrast to the halfwits and aristocrats who populated most of the senior posts in the legions. Titus had further endeared himself with his love of chariot races, and he could often be seen at the Circus Maximus cheering on his beloved Greens. But his enjoyment of the races was nothing compared to his devotion to gladiatorial combat. Pavo remembered with fondness his father explaining how Rome had been founded on blood and sacrifice, and that no man could be worthy of leading others without understanding those twin virtues. He had often regaled Pavo with the story of the beleaguered General Publius Decius Mus, who had sacrificed himself to the gods of the Underworld during the Samnite Wars in exchange for success in battle.
Twenty years of service, and Rome had repaid Titus by condemning him to death. The back of Pavo’s throat burned with outrage at the memory of seeing his father’s bowels slashed open by the tip of a sword and his entrails scooped out by his murderer, while the shrill voices of the crowd bayed for blood.
‘Gladiators don’t build forts or go on marches,’ Calamus boomed as he wheeled away from Bucco and addressed the recruits as one. ‘Make no mistake, when you’re lying on your arse in the sand and some bastard has a blade to your throat, there will be no comrades charging to save you. Gladiator fighting is a precise skill, ladies. It is not an art, as some poseurs make out. Art is for women, or worse, Greeks. A gladiator goes into the arena alone and comes out alone, and the only difference is whether he walks out or has to be dragged. Gladiators dedicate themselves to one-on-one warfare. Bucco, why is your fucking hand raised?’
‘When do we get to eat, sir?’
The question made Pavo wince. He suddenly remembered how hungry he was – it had been a long morning. They’d been escorted to the ludus at dawn for a thorough examination by the medic, a mealy-eyed old Greek called Achaeus. There had been a lot of waiting around since, the men fidgeting tensely as they waited to see what lay in store for them.
‘You’ll get to eat, Bucco, when I say so. You shit when I say so, you sleep when I say so. You
One of the recruits to Pavo’s right laughed uneasily. Pavo watched Calamus glower and turn to look at him. He was a short man with cropped dark hair and a nose with a break at the bridge. He had a layer of fat about his waist and wore a plain, tattered tunic.
‘You! Name?’
‘Manius Salvius Bucco, sir,’ the man replied nervously.
‘Bucco? I know a Bucco. He’s a toga-lifter. Are you a toga-lifter, son?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Bollocks, of course you are! Are you a volunteer or a slave?’
‘Volunteer, sir.’
‘Want to be a gladiator, do you, Bucco?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t make me laugh. You don’t look like gladiator material to me, Bucco. You look like something I’d scrape off my boot. Tell me, why are you disgracing my ludus? Murder someone and now on the run? Shag your master’s missus when he was away on business at the forum? Is that it?’
‘No, sir.’ Bucco lowered his head in shame. Pavo squirmed. Although he felt sorry for poor Bucco, he was also glad that Calamus had found someone else to bully. ‘I gambled. Fell in with some bad people, sir. Figured I would enrol and pay off my debts.’
‘A gambler! What’d you play?’
‘Dice mainly, sir.’
Calamus smirked. ‘I should’ve known! You look like a mug. Only idiots play dice, Bucco. How much did you lose?’
‘Ten thousand sestertii.’
‘Good gods, man!’ Calamus exclaimed. ‘And look at the shape of you! You’d have to win twenty fights to earn that much, and I’ve never seen a fat bastard win once. Or the son of a legate, for that matter.’
Pavo frowned. He didn’t approve of the doctore’s attitude to the military. His father Titus had been something of a hero to his men – a real soldier’s soldier – in stark contrast to the halfwits and aristocrats who populated most of the senior posts in the legions. Titus had further endeared himself with his love of chariot races, and he could often be seen at the Circus Maximus cheering on his beloved Greens. But his enjoyment of the races was nothing compared to his devotion to gladiatorial combat. Pavo remembered with fondness his father explaining how Rome had been founded on blood and sacrifice, and that no man could be worthy of leading others without understanding those twin virtues. He had often regaled Pavo with the story of the beleaguered General Publius Decius Mus, who had sacrificed himself to the gods of the Underworld during the Samnite Wars in exchange for success in battle.
Twenty years of service, and Rome had repaid Titus by condemning him to death. The back of Pavo’s throat burned with outrage at the memory of seeing his father’s bowels slashed open by the tip of a sword and his entrails scooped out by his murderer, while the shrill voices of the crowd bayed for blood.
‘Gladiators don’t build forts or go on marches,’ Calamus boomed as he wheeled away from Bucco and addressed the recruits as one. ‘Make no mistake, when you’re lying on your arse in the sand and some bastard has a blade to your throat, there will be no comrades charging to save you. Gladiator fighting is a precise skill, ladies. It is not an art, as some poseurs make out. Art is for women, or worse, Greeks. A gladiator goes into the arena alone and comes out alone, and the only difference is whether he walks out or has to be dragged. Gladiators dedicate themselves to one-on-one warfare. Bucco, why is your fucking hand raised?’
‘When do we get to eat, sir?’
The question made Pavo wince. He suddenly remembered how hungry he was – it had been a long morning. They’d been escorted to the ludus at dawn for a thorough examination by the medic, a mealy-eyed old Greek called Achaeus. There had been a lot of waiting around since, the men fidgeting tensely as they waited to see what lay in store for them.
‘You’ll get to eat, Bucco, when I say so. You shit when I say so, you sleep when I say so. You
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