The young man shook his head. ‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘It’s mine.’

Calamus elbowed him in the solar plexus. The recruit grunted as he doubled over and dropped to his knees, coughing and spluttering on the ground. Calamus towered above him. ‘That’s “sir” to you, you little shit!’ he snarled. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Marcus Valerius Pavo,’ the recruit said between desperate draws of breath. ‘Sir.’

‘Tell me, Pavo, do you think I was born yesterday?’

‘No, sir.’

Calamus grabbed a fold of the cloak and shoved it in front of the recruit’s face. ‘And yet you expect me to believe that a desperate lowlife like you can afford a piece of finery like this?’

‘I didn’t steal it.’

‘Bollocks! Are you calling me a liar?’ Calamus said, lowering his voice.

‘It was a gift, sir.’

‘A gift?’ Calamus spat. ‘Scum like you don’t get gifts.’

‘I swear, sir. My father gave it to me.’

Calamus laughed and rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Oh, that’s a rich one! You don’t have a father, son. You were born a bastard like every other man in this ludus. But entertain me some more. Who do you reckon your old man is?’

‘Titus Valerius Pavo, sir. Legate of the Fifth Legion. Or at least he was.’

That caught Calamus off guard. He worked his features into a heavy-set frown and paused, unsure for a moment how to proceed. In his twenty years’ experience in the business Calamus had never heard of the son of a legate enrolling at a gladiator school.

‘Another rich-boy volunteer, eh?’ he seethed. ‘I know your kind. Pissed away your inheritance, did you? What was your poison, lad? Tarts? Booze? Gambling? Chariot races? Can’t be bothered to get a proper job? If you’ve come here thinking it’s an easy ride, you’re in for a fucking shock.’

‘I’m not a volunteer,’ Pavo said, scraping himself off the ground. ‘I’m here against my will. My father was killed by-’

‘Shut up,’ the doctore thundered. ‘Frankly I couldn’t give a toss why you’re here. As far as I’m concerned you’re a fucking recruit and nothing else.’

Pavo kept his mouth shut. He had been beaten and spat on and shouted at by men below his station ever since a guard of Praetorians arrived at the camp of the Sixth Legion and placed him under arrest. The doctore didn’t scare him. Not much did now. Not after what had happened to his family.

He watched Calamus wheel away in disgust and pace up and down in front of the men, his voice echoing around the porticoes and travertine columns surrounding the training ground. Pavo noticed that the tendons of his bare feet were bulbous and distorted from years of fighting on sand.

‘This isn’t the army,’ Calamus said. ‘Gladiators aren’t legionaries.’ He shot a scathing look at Pavo. ‘If you want to spend the next twenty-five years digging holes and collecting 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, are you? 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 half-wits and aristocrats who populated most of the senior posts in the legions. Titus had further endeared himself with his love of the 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 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 Paro’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 cheer 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 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 towards Calamus and trudged towards the doctore with a grunt. Pavo studied the man. He had white 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,’ he answered in heavily accented Latin. Pavo noticed that the veteran 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, Pavo noted as Calamus 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.’