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don’t even think without getting permission from me first. Got it?’
    ‘Yes, sir!’
    Calamus jerked his head at a huddle of men under the north-facing portico. Pavo noted their overly developed muscles and heavily scarred torsos. The doctore summoned one of them over. ‘Amadocus!’
    A veteran turned and trudged towards the doctore with a grunt. Pavo studied the man. He had skin the colour of chalk and a mane of light hair, with a darker beard shaved close at the cheeks. His muscles were clearly defined. His veins bulged like rope on his forearms and neck. He stopped beside Calamus as the doctore gestured to his scars.
    ‘Tell the men how many matches you’ve fought.’
    ‘Thirteen, sir,’ answered the veteran in heavily accented Latin. Pavo noticed that he had a stubborn, hostile look in his deep-set eyes.
    ‘And how many times have you lost, Amadocus?’
    ‘Never, sir.’
    ‘Never!’ The doctore beamed with pride at the reply and swung his icy stare back to the recruits. ‘You miserable buggers might look at this haggard face and see a man who’s taken his fair share of knocks. Amadocus is a scrapper, plain and simple. But thanks to my instruction, he’s still alive, while his many opponents are taking a nice long trip through the Underworld.’
    Calamus nodded at the veteran. ‘That will be all, Amadocus.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ the Thracian replied, no discernible expression on his face.
    Pavo watched Amadocus march back towards the huddle of veterans as Calamus glared at the new recruits. The doctore took a deep breath and turned his head in the direction of a balcony overlooking the courtyard. ‘Now stand upright, the lot of you. Your lanista, Vibius Modius Gurges, wishes to introduce himself.’
    Calamus stepped aside. Pavo craned his neck and saw a figure float into view on the balcony. He had thin lips, and eyes set deep into their sockets. His skin was stretched tightly across his small face. He rested his hands on the balcony plinth and stared curiously at Pavo for a moment before addressing the men.
    ‘Calamus is your mentor, your doctore. He will turn some of you into legends of the arena, gods willing,’ he said, flicking his eyes from Pavo over the rest of the group. ‘But I am your master. I own you, body and soul. All of you have made a solemn promise to me to be burned, bound, beaten and killed by the sword. Some of you will fulfil that promise before the year is out. A lucky few will live a little longer. Most Romans consider you the dregs of humanity. But I don’t.’ Gurges raised his head to the heavens, then clasped his hands in front of his face. ‘In fact, I envy you.’
    He paused and sucked in a deep breath. ‘I envy you because you get the chance to die a glorious death. In Rome, as some of you might know, there is no greater honour. Crowds will cheer your name. Women will want to be with you. Even some men will want to be you. Children will talk of your legend for years after your blood has run dry.’
    A wicked smile tickled the corners of Gurges’s mouth as a slave emerged carrying a silver tray with a single wine goblet balanced on top. The lanista scooped it up and toasted the recruits. ‘To your success,’ he said. ‘Or not.’
    He drained the wine in a single gulp, then nodded to Calamus. ‘As you were.’
    ‘Back to training!’ Calamus barked at the gladiators. ‘New recruits at the palus. Move it!’
    Pavo paced with a heavy heart towards the wooden posts located in the middle of the training ground. The posts were a short step from a sundial used to time the length of each exercise. Training like a common legionary, he thought. His privileged life as a tribune in the Sixth Legion suddenly seemed a distant dream.
    ‘Not you, rich boy,’ the doctore ordered. Pavo stopped in his tracks and shot a puzzled look at Calamus.
    ‘Is there a problem?’
    ‘The lanista wants a word,’ Calamus replied.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    A household slave ushered Pavo down a wide