Arena (18 page)

Macro started to protest. He was cut short by a scuffle breaking out in the crowd as the hooligans and local supporters of Pavo clashed outside the tavern. There was the piercing sound of clay shattering when one of the Pompeiians threw a jug at the mob. The herald raced through the rest of his announcement, striving to make himself heard above the fracas. Some of the Pompeiians traded punches with the crowd. Their comrades hooted and hollered. A flustered Pallas signalled to the sparse number of men from the urban watch, who quickly intervened, separating the fighters and moving the Pompeiians on.

The doctore marched to the front of the line of gladiators and clapped his hands.

‘Right, then, ladies,’ he said. ‘Time to eat.’

The men began hurrying towards the benches. Calamus immediately raised a palm. Groaning, they halted.

‘Now remember what I said. Don’t go stuffing your bellies. Eat a little, not a lot. I don’t want to see any of you shitting out your guts when you step on to the sand.’ Calamus shot a look of contempt at the condemned criminals. ‘Leave the pigging out to those sorry bastards. It’s their last night before they tramp off to the Underworld. The rest of you have a chance of walking out alive. Some of you, anyway.’ Calamus looked at Pavo as he uttered the last words, and laughed.

Pavo took up his spot on the bench in a daze. The condemned men gathered meekly around a separate table, their chins tucked closely to their chests as they picked at the food on their plates in morbid silence. Half of the crowd stayed to watch the gladiators eat what would for some be their last meal. Others turned their attention to the goods on offer at the stalls, or departed to debate the upcoming games over a jug of cheap wine in the nearest tavern. Bucco plonked himself next to Pavo and looked half-heartedly at a tray of dainty pastries. His normally voracious appetite had deserted him. He slid a tray of shellfish across to his companion.

‘You’d better eat something,’ he implored. ‘You don’t want to fight Denter on an empty stomach.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ Pavo replied pithily.

‘Makes two of us, then,’ Bucco muttered as he stared at his feet.

‘What’s the matter, Roman?’ a glottal voice spat from further down the table. Pavo leaned forward to see Amadocus gorging on a bowl of sausages. Morsels of meat spilled down his front. He jerked his head in the direction of Macro. ‘Upset that your boyfriend has found a new lover?’

Pavo did not reply. Privately he was crestfallen at the thought of Macro training Denter. He struggled to fathom why the optio would help seal the fate of someone who had been wronged by the imperial palace. He made a silent plea to the gods to curse Macro.

A sudden burst of angry shouts broke out at the next table. Pavo awoke from his daydream and looked across to see Denter throwing Orodes to the ground and casually dropping into his spot at the bench. The other gladiators at the table stared at him in silence.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Orodes snapped as he scraped himself off the ground.

Denter grabbed a fistful of shellfish and shovelled them ravenously into his mouth. He washed down the mouthful with a loud slurp of wine and let out a monstrous belch. ‘You were in my seat, Persian.’

Anger rumbled in Orodes’s throat. He stood behind Denter and waited for him to move. But the veteran kept piling more food on his plate and swigging from the wine. Orodes stared coldly at the back of Denter’s head. Denter polished off the wine and slammed the cup on the table. In a blink, Orodes snatched the cup, hoisting it like a trophy above his head, and brought it crashing down on top of Denter’s skull. The sound of shattering pottery pierced the air. Denter froze. A wild smile formed on his lips as wine mixed with blood from his head wound and soaked his beard. He licked the mixture off his bottom lip. Then he slowly rose from the bench and turned to face Orodes. The Persian gulped with abject fear. His eyes widened with the realisation that striking Denter had been a terrible mistake.

In a sudden burst of anger, Denter charged at Orodes and wrapped his long arms around his neck. The other gladiators looked on in shock as Denter twisted the Persian’s head at an angle and clamped his teeth around his ear. Orodes howled in agony. Denter chewed on the ear for several painful moments. Then he ripped his head away in a furious grunt. Orodes squealed like a boiled rat as the ear was torn from his head. Blood sprayed the trays of food on the table. Denter spat mangled skin and cartilage from his mouth, his chin awash with blood, and let out a chilling roar.

‘Carbo was right,’ Bucco said. ‘Denter really is crazy.’

Two guards stormed towards Denter. A savage grin formed on the gladiator’s lips. The others shuffled back as Denter lowered to a crouch in front of the abandoned table, securing his palms against the edge. Springing upright, he tipped the table on to its side, then released his grip so it came crashing down at the onrushing guards. There was a cacophony of noise as an assortment of jugs and cups and trays smashed on the ground. The two guards scrambled to get out of the way as the table pounded down on top of them. The thud of wood against the paved ground was accompanied by the distinct crack of shattering ribcages. A third guard attacked Denter from across the forum, slashing his sword wildly. The blade hacked across Denter’s back and drew a howl of pain from the veteran. He clasped a hand to his back as another six guards swooped over their fallen comrades and surrounded him. Denter pumped a fist defiantly at the sky, much to the delight of the hooligans being marched away from the square. Then he disappeared behind a whirlwind of armour and swords. After a brief struggle, the guards wrestled him to the ground.

‘That’s it!’ Gurges fumed, his face stitched with rage. ‘The banquet is over! You!’ The lanista jabbed a bony finger at the chest of the nearest guard. ‘Round up the gladiators. I want them escorted back to the ludus at once. Condemned criminals are to return to jail for the night.’

The guards snapped into action, roughly hauling the gladiators to their bare feet and marching them into a ragged line. Bucco staggered into place as Pavo spied Gurges returning to the imperial secretary, his head hung low and his palms clasped humbly in front of him. Although Pavo was out of earshot, the tone of the lanista’s voice told the young gladiator that he was in the middle of a grovelling apology. The freedman looked unimpressed. Murena, Pavo noticed, had quietly slipped away from Pallas’s side to seek out Macro.

A guard grasped Pavo by the forearm and shifted him into line behind Bucco. The volunteer cast a final despondent look at the feast left on the trestle tables. Then the guards marched the gladiators out of the square and back to the ludus.

Macro watched Pavo and the other gladiators tramp out of the forum. The mob lingered, captivated by the abrupt outbreak of violence. The optio stared at Denter. His charge remained pinned to the ground by the guards. A pair of servants helped Orodes to his feet. Gurges instructed them to escort the wounded Persian to the ludus infirmary. The optio stared at the severed ear lying on the ground amid the scattered olives and breads and shards of shattered clay cups. He looked up to see Murena picking his way across the carnage.

‘What in Hades was that about?’ the aide rasped. His eyes were narrow and sharp like the teeth of a wolf. ‘We had a deal, Optio. You were supposed to keep Denter sober until after his fight with Pavo.’

‘And I would have kept my word if you hadn’t invited him along to the banquet,’ Macro countered with a snort and a hard glare. ‘I’ve been minding that lunatic for six long weeks, but I can’t watch him every hour of the day. My back was turned for a minute. Next thing I know, some lads are buying him rounds in the tavern. If we hadn’t had to bother with all this pomp and ceremony, Denter would be tucked up in bed now, sober as a state funeral.’

Murena flashed a scolding look at the soldier.

‘I don’t tell you how to do your job, Optio. Don’t tell me how to do mine.’

Macro shrugged. ‘Just saying.’

Two guards dragged Denter to his feet and slipped their arms across his shoulders. His eyes were glazed and heavily lidded. Drool slobbered from his slack lips and dribbled down his chest. He mumbled something incoherent about Titus. Macro and Murena watched the guards manhandle him away from the square. Macro yawned.

‘Well, that’s his chances of winning fucked,’ the optio announced.

‘Not necessarily,’ Murena replied.

‘What do you mean?’ Macro scoffed. ‘The man’s out of his skull. He’ll not recover in time for tomorrow. And look at that.’ He pointed to the injury inflicted by the guard. Blood puckered out of a crescent-shaped gash running the length of his back. Macro had seen plenty of wounds in his years in the Second Legion, and he could instantly discern that it was not deep enough to be fatal. Which is why we stab instead of slash in the military, he reminded himself. But it would still require treatment, and in the meantime Denter would find his movement severely restricted.

‘The idiot will be lucky if he can hold his bloody sword straight,’ the optio concluded.

Murena laughed. It was a cagey laugh and one that Macro had heard before, shortly after Pavo had conquered Britomaris, when the optio had learned of the plot by the aide to poison the young man. Now the hairs on Macro’s neck bristled.

‘It’s taken care of, Optio.’

‘What have you done?’ Macro hissed at the aide, fighting an urge to break his spindly neck.

Murena waved a hand at Gurges. The lanista nodded and scurried towards his waiting litter. ‘Let’s just say that Denter won’t be the only one finding it difficult in the arena tomorrow.’

Macro frowned. ‘Suit yourself. But I’d be wary of Pavo losing, if I were you.’

Murena looked sharply at the soldier. ‘Why?’

‘That lot, for starters.’ Macro jerked a thumb at the Pompeiians. The thinly spread guards were struggling to move the gang on. Their number had doubled in size and their mood had grown openly hostile. ‘More of them are on the way. From what I hear, the fans from Pompeii travel in large numbers.’

Murena smiled weakly at the hooligans. ‘I hardly think a few fist fights between rival gladiator fans are cause for concern, Optio.’

‘It’s not them you should be worried about.’ Macro folded his arms stiffly across his chest and nodded at the overturned trestle table. ‘The mob loves Pavo. They won’t want to see their hero getting chopped down, and they won’t like a bunch of nutters from Pompeii crowing about it. You think the mood was ugly today, wait until you see what they’re like tomorrow.’

T
he roar of the crowd trembled through the arena and shook the building to its foundations.

‘No mercy for Mesonius!’ the crowd yelled in unison. ‘Kill the murmillo!’

The arena shuddered again as the crowd gave full throat to its bloodlust. Pavo felt sick. The air in the tunnel was laden with the stench of sweat and vomit. Hysterical screams emanated from the makeshift infirmary. Since Pavo topped the programme, his fight against Denter would be the last contest of the day’s schedule. He had spent the afternoon listening to the shrill clash of metal, the roar of the mob and the howls of men being operated on by Achaeus. The closer he edged towards his fight, the more the passage of time seemed to stretch out, straining his nerves to the limit.

He steadied his breathing and focused on the task in front of him. He watched Calamus and waited for the signal to enter the arena. The doctore stood with his back to Pavo as he looked on at the action unfolding beyond the gates at the mouth of the tunnel. Two guards manned either side of the gates, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. Six more were positioned at equal intervals down the length of the tunnel. They had kept a watchful eye over the men throughout the day. With good reason, Pavo thought. The moment before he stepped out to face death was the only time when Rome trusted a gladiator with a sharpened blade.

The crowd hushed. The herald’s voice resonated through the passageways as he formally announced the next pairing of gladiators.

‘It’s time,’ Calamus growled.

A chill clamped around the back of Pavo’s neck. Two orderlies hurried down the tunnel from the armoury. One of them clutched Pavo’s weapons, the net slung over his shoulder while his hands gripped the trident and dagger. The second orderly carried the keys to the armoury, as well as a large clay cup. Accepting the weapons, Pavo dumped the net by his feet, tied the dagger to his belt, and concentrated on testing the balance of the trident.

Calamus turned away from the gate. He seemed amused at Pavo’s tense expression. ‘Don’t look so glum, boy. Most of the recruits die on first appearance. You did well to make it this far.’

Pavo clamped his jaws shut and turned his attention to the net. The rope was made of soft flax fibres spun together in yarn and twisted into thin strands. It was round and wide enough to trap a large man underneath, with small meshes to make it harder for the ensnared gladiator to escape. Sharpened lead pellets were fixed to the edges of the net to make it easier to cast. Although Pavo felt terribly naked without a helmet or a shield, he would not be hampered by the weight of the equipment. Aside from the trident and net, he wore guards on his left arm and leg, with a shoulder guard mounted above his right arm padding to provide extra protection to his net-throwing arm and a flared tip on the shoulder guard for shielding his head behind should Denter aim for the jugular.

Pavo was securing the loop on the corner of the net around his left wrist when an orderly shoved the clay cup in front of his face. He lowered his gaze and a felt an instant wave of nausea hit him. The cup was brimming with a lumpy liquid the colour of coal and sprinkled with grey flakes. The smell clogged Pavo’s nostrils. He choked back the nausea rising in his throat.

‘Gods!’ He looked horrified. ‘What foul brew is this?’

‘Standard pre-fight concoction, courtesy of Achaeus,’ Calamus answered matter-of-factly for the orderly. ‘It’s got a secret ingredient in it. Helps you keep your nerves in the arena. Drink up, lad.’