been at the ludus for less than a day, and already the trainer and most of the recruits despised him. It must be some kind of record, he thought moodily, as he took a deep breath and pretended not to notice.
‘A gladiator only gets to use a real sword when he fights in the arena, since no Roman worth his salt trusts a gladiator with a real sword in the ludus. You have that ungrateful wretch Spartacus to thank for that.’
The doctore squinted at the sun gleaming off the sword.
‘Plenty of you may know about Spartacus. Some of you may even admire the bastard,’ he said, staring down the barrel of his bulbous nose at the recruits. ‘Don’t. Spartacus fought as a gladiator, received three square meals a day and a warm bed, and instead of seeking glory in the arena, he chose to piss it all away. When he died, six thousand of his followers were crucified along the road to Capua, so you can see how well that worked out. Learn from me, and you might end up better off than old Spartacus. One or two of you may live long enough to taste freedom.’
Calamus plunged the sword into the sand and pointed at the dozen wooden posts to his right. They were arranged in two rows of six, spaced two sword-widths apart, one post for each new recruit, standing at roughly the same height as a tall Roman.
‘Until you prove yourselves worthy of the brotherhood, you will practise at the palus using a wooden sword. You will practise day and night. You will practise in your sleep. You will practise until your arms drop off. From this day on, your life is nothing but this palus,’ Calamus tapped the nearest post on the head, like a star student, ‘and your sword. Bucco!’
‘Yes, sir?’
The doctore puckered his brow. ‘Extra rations for the men if you can tell me what this wooden post really is.’
Bucco wiped his forehead. Pavo watched the other recruits glaring at him with hungry eyes, willing him to get the right answer so they could fill their empty bellies.
‘Come on then, fatso,’ Calamus growled. ‘I don’t have all fucking day.’
‘A wooden post?’ Bucco ventured between snatches of breath.
Calamus looked ready to explode.
‘A …
post
? Fuck me, Bucco, you’re even thicker than you look. And believe me, from where I’m standing, that is no mean feat.’
Calamus took an angry step towards Bucco, and for a moment Pavo thought the trainer might thrash him with his whip. Instead he grabbed Bucco by the fleshy folds of his neck and hauled him in front of the nearest palus, venting his anger.
‘This is no post. This is the palus! This is your sworn enemy! This is the merchant who stole your girlfriend and the father who kicked you senseless when he came home pissed every night. You will learn to hate the palus with every bone in your body. Despise it. Unleash your rage on it, and it will reward you by making you a decent swordsman.’
Calamus released Bucco and shoved him back towards the line of recruits as he turned to address the group.
‘You will all be assigned your own palus. Each man will paint a face on his. Not the face of your girlfriend – or boyfriend for you, Bucco – but someone you truly hate. You will stab your sword at that face every day, until your rage has been channelled fully. Bucco!’
‘Yes, sir?’
Pavo looked on as the doctore pointed at Bucco. ‘Let’s see if you’ve learned anything in your miserable little life.’
The recruit cautiously approached the nearest palus, which had a practice sword lying beside it. The silence was broken only by the clashing thud of wood against wood as the veteran gladiators battled each other in pairs at the other end of the courtyard. Bucco didn’t strike Pavo as a natural gladiator. But he had bulk, and some of the better gladiators he had seen in the arena carried a reasonable amount of fat on them. More flesh to protect their vitals. One of two were even obese. Perhaps he will surprise me, Pavo thought.
‘Come on,’ Calamus barked with
‘A gladiator only gets to use a real sword when he fights in the arena, since no Roman worth his salt trusts a gladiator with a real sword in the ludus. You have that ungrateful wretch Spartacus to thank for that.’
The doctore squinted at the sun gleaming off the sword.
‘Plenty of you may know about Spartacus. Some of you may even admire the bastard,’ he said, staring down the barrel of his bulbous nose at the recruits. ‘Don’t. Spartacus fought as a gladiator, received three square meals a day and a warm bed, and instead of seeking glory in the arena, he chose to piss it all away. When he died, six thousand of his followers were crucified along the road to Capua, so you can see how well that worked out. Learn from me, and you might end up better off than old Spartacus. One or two of you may live long enough to taste freedom.’
Calamus plunged the sword into the sand and pointed at the dozen wooden posts to his right. They were arranged in two rows of six, spaced two sword-widths apart, one post for each new recruit, standing at roughly the same height as a tall Roman.
‘Until you prove yourselves worthy of the brotherhood, you will practise at the palus using a wooden sword. You will practise day and night. You will practise in your sleep. You will practise until your arms drop off. From this day on, your life is nothing but this palus,’ Calamus tapped the nearest post on the head, like a star student, ‘and your sword. Bucco!’
‘Yes, sir?’
The doctore puckered his brow. ‘Extra rations for the men if you can tell me what this wooden post really is.’
Bucco wiped his forehead. Pavo watched the other recruits glaring at him with hungry eyes, willing him to get the right answer so they could fill their empty bellies.
‘Come on then, fatso,’ Calamus growled. ‘I don’t have all fucking day.’
‘A wooden post?’ Bucco ventured between snatches of breath.
Calamus looked ready to explode.
‘A …
post
? Fuck me, Bucco, you’re even thicker than you look. And believe me, from where I’m standing, that is no mean feat.’
Calamus took an angry step towards Bucco, and for a moment Pavo thought the trainer might thrash him with his whip. Instead he grabbed Bucco by the fleshy folds of his neck and hauled him in front of the nearest palus, venting his anger.
‘This is no post. This is the palus! This is your sworn enemy! This is the merchant who stole your girlfriend and the father who kicked you senseless when he came home pissed every night. You will learn to hate the palus with every bone in your body. Despise it. Unleash your rage on it, and it will reward you by making you a decent swordsman.’
Calamus released Bucco and shoved him back towards the line of recruits as he turned to address the group.
‘You will all be assigned your own palus. Each man will paint a face on his. Not the face of your girlfriend – or boyfriend for you, Bucco – but someone you truly hate. You will stab your sword at that face every day, until your rage has been channelled fully. Bucco!’
‘Yes, sir?’
Pavo looked on as the doctore pointed at Bucco. ‘Let’s see if you’ve learned anything in your miserable little life.’
The recruit cautiously approached the nearest palus, which had a practice sword lying beside it. The silence was broken only by the clashing thud of wood against wood as the veteran gladiators battled each other in pairs at the other end of the courtyard. Bucco didn’t strike Pavo as a natural gladiator. But he had bulk, and some of the better gladiators he had seen in the arena carried a reasonable amount of fat on them. More flesh to protect their vitals. One of two were even obese. Perhaps he will surprise me, Pavo thought.
‘Come on,’ Calamus barked with