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.’

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 at the balcony. He had a small face with thin lips with eyes set deep into their sockets. His skin was stretched tightly across his 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,’ Gurges 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 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.’