Just as he had promised, Macro was waiting for Pavo in the ludus training ground the following morning. The optio fixed his steely gaze on the young recruit as he strode across from the east-facing portico. The men of the gladiator school had been given a piece of stale bread washed down with a cup of vinegary wine as breakfast in their cells. Bucco and the other recruits resumed their work at the paluses positioned near the sundial in the middle of the courtyard, while Amadocus and the veterans practised fighting in pairs at the far end. A single palus had been erected for Macro at the opposite end. A pair of pigskins and a set of full legionary armour comprising a helmet, cuirass and bronze belt, as well as a shield and a marching yoke, were laid out on the ground in the shadow of the optio. The lanista gazed down from the balcony and stared intently at Macro. He looked displeased at the prospect of a soldier training a recruit in his ludus. There was a risk that Macro might make Calamus look bad, Pavo supposed, and in a ludus the authority of the doctore was absolute. He tried to shut everything else out and approached the officer with a sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of being paired against Britomaris.

‘You’re late,’ Macro growled, gesturing up at the sun gleaming over the roof tiles.

‘Sorry,’ said Pavo.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Macro corrected him.

Pavo glared at the officer. ‘You’re forgetting who you’re talking to, optio. You’re a mere drill-instructor. I’m a military tribune, second in command of the Sixth Legion. Address me correctly in the future.’

‘And you’re forgetting that you’re in a fucking ludus,’ Macro thundered, his face darkening, his blood boiling between his temples. ‘You’re not a tribune any more. And frankly I don’t care much for some privileged broad-striper talking down to Rome’s newest hero.’

‘Hero?’

Macro nodded curtly. ‘Decorated by the Emperor himself.’

Pavo dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, sealing his lips tightly shut. Much as he hated to admit it, Macro was right. He was the man in charge. He had imperial authority. Pavo had been stripped of his rights and condemned to the arena. According to the strict social mores of Rome, he was no better than a common slave.

‘Question my authority again, and I’ll have Calamus thrash you. Understood?’

‘Yes . . . sir,’ Pavo said through clenched jaws.