Arena (13 page)

‘Great,’ Macro grumbled. ‘But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to leg it back to Germania. There are plenty of good gladiator trainers kicking their heels in the imperial ludus. Get one of them to work with your man Denter.’ Underneath his desire to return to action, the idea of conspiring against Pavo left a sour taste in the optio’s mouth. Even if he couldn’t spare Pavo a grisly death, he didn’t have to hasten it by teaching another man his weak points.

‘Nonsense,’ Murena replied with a dismissive wave of his slender hand. ‘Pallas and I consider you the perfect choice to train Denter. You tamed Pavo – a tempestuous young man. I think it highly unlikely that your new charge will be any worse.’

Macro choked on a laugh. The aide went on regardless.

‘I’ve arranged for a horse and the appropriate documents for your journey to Pompeii tomorrow at dawn, as well as a modest sum of expenses for your stay in the town. The lanista of the local ludus has organised your accommodation, and you will be permitted use of the training ground next to the barracks to work with Denter.’ They had reached a side entrance to the imperial palace and Murena stopped and turned to Macro. ‘Now, you must excuse me. There is much planning to do ahead of the fight. Paestum is a rather small arena and a great many dignitaries will wish to be in attendance.’

With that, he turned to leave. He paused when he spotted Macro pursing his lips. ‘Something the matter, Optio?’

Macro hesitated briefly. ‘I don’t understand how you’re so sure that Pavo will be humiliated,’ he said cautiously. ‘I mean, the mob are fawning over the lad. What happens if he puts up a good fight, and the crowd beg for mercy to be shown? I’ve seen it happen. If the Emperor gives the signal for death, the mood could turn ugly.’

Murena smiled knowingly. ‘You say that Pavo is skilled with a sword.’

‘Not just skilled,’ Macro replied, with a pang of pride in his chest. He had, after all, been the one who’d turned Pavo from a fearless but volatile trainee into an indomitable swordsman. ‘He is one of the best I’ve ever seen.’

‘Then the answer is simple. We will take his sword away from him.’

Paestum

‘O
n your feet, you bloody wretch!’

Pavo shook his head as his opponent tapped his wooden sword against the base of his wicker shield. A moment earlier the same sword had thwacked Pavo on the side of his skull and sent him crashing to his hands and knees on the floor of the ludus training ground. Now the metallic taste of blood was fresh in his mouth and a ringing noise filled his ears. He felt the callused palms of his hands scalding against the sun-baked sand. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, he lifted his eyes to his opponent. Amadocus towered over him. From his position on the ground, the young man could see only a pair of gnarled feet with blackened toenails, and bulging veins stretching up the length of his wide legs like the twisted fibres of a catapult. Pavo shook his dazed head clear and made to scrape himself off the ground. The veteran booted sand at his face.

‘You fight like a woman, Roman!’ Amadocus snarled in a guttural tone that mangled each word of Latin. Pavo blinked the sand out of his eyes as the Thracian snorted. ‘Think you’re special because you defeated that good-for-nothing Gaul? Fortuna was kissing your arse that day.’ He kicked another cloud of sand at Pavo. ‘Get up, damn you!’

‘Amadocus!’ a voice barked from behind Pavo. The veterans and recruits who were huddled in a tight circle around the fighters abruptly stopped cheering and listened to the gladiator instructor. ‘This is a training bout, not a fight to the death.’ The instructor’s lips curled into a cruel smile. ‘Let the young man get to his feet, so he may be given a proper beating.’

‘Yes, Doctore,’ Amadocus grumbled, while fuming through his nostrils. Pavo lifted his eyes a little higher and saw his opponent’s giant pectoral muscles heaving up and down, his blistered hand gripping the base of his training sword. Then the Thracian scowled and took a step back. His vast shadow slipped off the young gladiator like a cloak. Amadocus tapped his sword against his wicker shield again.

‘Hurry up, Roman,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ve been waiting for this chance to humble you ever since you were chosen to fight Britomaris.’

Pavo slowly picked himself off the ground. His leg muscles were taut and stressed from the morning’s yard exercises and he fought hard to steady himself. Amadocus stood two paces back, his shield resting at hip height and the tip of his sword pointing at his opponent’s throat. His pale face was locked into a scowl. Pavo stole a glance at the gladiator instructor past his shoulder. Calamus stood at the front of the circle of spectators, his arms folded across his bare chest, a withering expression etched across his lacerated face.

‘Come on then, you posh little prick!’ he sneered. ‘What are you waiting for? You slew Britomaris with a single stab. Surely you can stand up to a couple of light knocks from Amadocus.’

Pavo turned back to his opponent. Training-ground fights were normally timid affairs, he reminded himself. Neither gladiator wanted to get injured and risk their shot of glory in the arena. But the Thracian had attacked with a ferocious intensity, and now Pavo felt the hard stares from the twenty volunteers and forty-two veterans of the gladiator school of the house of Gurges as they willed him to lose.

A week had passed since Pavo had returned to Paestum, but already his victory over Britomaris seemed distant. He had returned not to a hero’s welcome – as befitted a man who had spared Emperor Claudius’s blushes – but to the filthy reality of life in the ludus. The veterans boiled with resentment at his surprise victory, while most of the new recruits loathed him for his privileged background.

Ignoring the hatred swirling around him, Pavo adjusted his stance and edged cautiously towards Amadocus. His wooden training sword felt heavy in his hand. When he was almost a sword’s length from the Thracian, he pushed forward on his right foot, bending his leg at the knee as he lunged at his opponent jerking his training sword upwards. Amadocus had been schooled as a Thracian class of gladiator and used a small curved training shield made of thickly thatched willow stem. It was much smaller than the standard legionary shield and the Thracian had it raised at chest height, leaving his neck exposed. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw the tip of Pavo’s sword darting towards his neck. The Thracian twisted sideways to evade the blow. He was too late. There was the dense clunk of weathered ash slamming into human bone as the sword struck Amadocus on the sternum and glanced up and off his collarbone. Badly winded, gasping for air, he bent forward and presented the back of his exposed head to his opponent.

Now Pavo drew a half-step closer. A pained retching sound escaped the Thracian’s slack mouth. Pavo hoisted his sword over his prone opponent. With a wrench of his torso, he plunged the sword down at the back of Amadocus’s head. The Thracian snarled and in a sharp jolt of movement jerked his shield up to block Pavo’s sword. A violent blow shuddered through Pavo’s wrist and echoed up his forearm as the Thracian’s shield swung in a wide arc, swatting the sword away. Amadocus rumbled with anger as Pavo lost his footing, the momentum of his attack sending him staggering to his left while Amadocus deflected his sword arm to the right. Pavo’s shoulder muscles were ripped in opposite directions. He cursed himself for launching a rash attack rather than retreating for cover behind his shield. Then Amadocus slashed his foot-long curved dagger upward. The edge of the wooden blade struck Pavo on his outstretched forearm. Pain flared in his wrist and his fingers eased their grip on his own sword. It dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. As he stooped down to pick it up, Amadocus cut him off with another swipe of his dagger, this time directed at Pavo’s stomach. The blow knocked the young gladiator off balance and he stumbled backwards, clutching his guts as nausea swelled in his throat. He looked up and saw Amadocus charging towards him, his deep-set eyes almost popping out of their sockets with rage.

Pavo shrunk his torso behind his three-foot-long oval shield just as Amadocus jabbed his blade in a quick thrust at his opponent. The shield juddered as the dagger pounded like a hammer on its wooden frame. The veteran started raining down a torrent of hefty blows, grunting with each big swipe of his weapon. There were gasps from the spectators at the ferocity of his attack. Pavo glanced in despair at his discarded sword. He pricked his ears, waiting for the inevitable call from Calamus to stop the fight. But the doctore remained silent. Amadocus struck again, and this time the shield cracked down the middle on impact, spattering Pavo’s face with splinters. Pavo retreated towards the edge of the circle. Around the two men a chorus of roars erupted from veterans and recruits, goading the Thracian on.

‘Bash his bloody skull in!’ a voice screamed behind Pavo.

It sounded close, almost on his shoulder. Pavo quickly glanced round, realising that he had retreated nearly into the spectators. A scrawny Persian man puckered his brow at him. His eyes were different colours and he sported a curly black beard. Pavo knew the man as Orodes, a prisoner of war captured during a Parthian raid into Armenia. Orodes booted Pavo in the back. The blow sent the younger man lurching towards the centre of the circle, and Amadocus’s seething mass.

The Thracian wound up for a decisive slash at Pavo’s neck. But Pavo ducked his head. Gripping his shield with both hands, he thrust the top edge up towards Amadocus. The move caught the Thracian by surprise. He groaned as the rim smacked up at his chin, his jawbone slamming shut. Before his opponent could come to his senses, Pavo cast his lumbering shield aside and dived towards him. The look of anger on the Thracian’s face melted away as he lost his footing and fell backwards with Pavo on top of him. There was a rowdy cheer from the spectators as the two men crashed to the training-ground floor with a crunching thump. At first the big Thracian was stunned. Then he rolled over on top of Pavo, using his immense strength to pin his opponent to the ground. Pavo balled his right hand into a fist and slammed a punch at Amadocus on the bridge of his nose. His knuckles flared with pain. The spectators booed, urging the Thracian to finish off his opponent. Pavo thumped Amadocus a second time. Now blood streamed out of the Thracian’s nostrils and splattered across his lips. Enraged, Amadocus thrust out his right arm at Pavo and clamped his fingers around his throat. Now the Thracian smiled cruelly as he slowly crushed his opponent’s windpipe. Pavo felt the air trap in his lungs. His eyes bulged inside their sockets. He realised he was going to die.

Suddenly a wooden sword came whooshing down in front of Pavo and struck Amadocus on his head. The Thracian grunted as he fell away, his arms flopping by his sides. Pavo rolled over and gasped with relief as air filled his burning lungs.

‘That’s enough,’ Calamus boomed, thrusting them apart with his sword. The Thracian glowered at Pavo. Two veterans, fellow Thracians who Pavo had seen by his opponent’s side in the canteen, stepped forward from the circle. Each one slipped an arm around Amadocus and hauled him to his feet. They began to escort Amadocus away, but the Thracian gestured for them to stop. He turned back to Pavo and scowled.

‘This isn’t over, Roman.’ He spat blood. ‘I pray to the gods that we will fight to the death in the arena, and the last thing you see before you visit the Underworld will be my sword plunging into your fucking neck.’

‘You two.’ Calamus nodded at the other Thracians. ‘Take Amadocus to see Achaeus and get him cleaned up. Our lanista insists on paying that Greek physician a king’s ransom, so we may as well get some use out of the senile old fool.’

The two Thracians pulled Amadocus away. The circle of spectators hastily parted for the three men, veteran and recruit alike distracted by the sight of Amadocus hobbling towards the medical quarters mumbling curses.

‘Right, you lot. Enough pissing about. Get back to training, and the gods help anyone I catch slacking off this afternoon.’ For a second none of the men moved. Calamus lashed his short leather whip on the sand, causing one or two of the recruits to flinch. ‘That’s an order, ladies. This is a ludus, not a fucking Greek debating society.’

There were grumbles and low whispers as the men reluctantly dispersed and trudged towards the opposite ends of the training ground. The recruits headed for the paluses assembled at the southern end of the ground, whilst the veterans gathered to fight in pairs in the shade of the portico at the northern end. Calamus frowned at the dispersing crowd and turned to Pavo.

‘Come with me, rich boy,’ the doctore growled as he seized him by his left arm and marched him across the training ground.

‘Where are you taking me?’ Pavo demanded, ignoring the angry looks thrown in his direction from the gladiators.

‘The lanista wants you,’ Calamus said. ‘Don’t ask me why. Frankly I couldn’t give a fuck about a snivelling little shit like you. You might have fluked that win over Britomaris, but don’t think for a second you’re worthy of being branded a true gladiator. Not while I have a say on the matter. Mark my words, one of these days Amadocus will have his hands wrapped around your throat again. And next time, I won’t save you.’

C
alamus guided Pavo under the shadow of the portico and up a stone staircase leading to a door with a pair of lightly armed guards positioned either side. The guards stepped aside and Calamus yanked open the hefty door, ushering Pavo down a colonnade with a series of small rooms to the left and a garden to the right adorned with an ornate fountain and sculptures of gladiators striking various poses. Beyond the colonnade a short passage opened on to a wide room with a high ceiling. Pavo spotted Gurges standing beside a shallow pool of rainwater positioned directly beneath an opening in the roof. Reflected light from the pool shimmered across his face. There was a bronze bust mounted on a plinth, and a wooden chest fitted with polished bronze locks. Gurges did not appear to notice Pavo and Calamus at first. He was deep in discussion with a corpulent man dressed in a vast tunic that had the proportions of a sail. His green eyes glinted and he sported a trimmed black beard with a shaved upper lip and dark hair curled in the Greek fashion. Gold rings gleamed on each of his chubby fingers.