Arena (26 page)

Macro considered the commander with open contempt. He was about to reprimand him when the sound of heavy footsteps cut him off. Spinning round, he saw Aculeo hurrying up the marble steps, gesturing frantically.

‘Sir!’ the doctore shouted breathlessly. ‘Sir, you must come with me at once!’

Macro stiffened at the look of alarm in the trainer’s eyes.

‘What are you talking about?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Speak, man!’

Aculeo paused to catch his breath. ‘It’s the gladiators,’ he began throatily. ‘Sir, I’m afraid we’ve got a problem.’

Macro rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me. Pavo again?’ He clicked his tongue. ‘That boy is more trouble than he’s worth.’

‘No, sir,’ the doctore gasped. He looked from Macro to Macer. ‘It’s Bato and his men.’

Macro choked at the doctore’s words. ‘What have they done?’

‘They’re refusing to return to their cells, sir.’

Grey clouds smothered the darkening sky as Macro, Macer and Aculeo strode out from under the east-facing porticoes and marched across the training ground. A crisp breeze fluttered across the ludus, and the optio was momentarily reminded of the rain-lashed frontier of the Rhine.

‘If only I was so lucky,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘What’s that, sir?’ Aculeo asked.

‘Nothing,’ Macro grumbled.

Shutting out the piercing headache at the front of his skull, he saw a pair of orderlies unloading amphoras from a supply wagon stationed in front of the main entrance. The outer gate had been opened and the portcullis was raised, the iron spikes fixed to the bottom of the oak bars gleaming dully in the gloom. With a heavy grunt Macro swivelled his incensed gaze towards the training posts to the north. There he spotted the troupe of gladiators. He stopped a short distance from the men. Their wooden swords and wicker shields were scattered on the sand at their bare feet in a show of dissent. The gladiators themselves were strangely calm, Macro thought. Their arms were folded across their chests and they stared at him with a cold-blooded defiance that unsettled him. Bato stood at the training post nearest to the guards. His hands were bunched into tight fists at his sides.

A squad of armed guards formed a semicircle round the gladiators. They wore legionary-type uniforms of red tunics under iron cuirasses and sword belts over their shoulders. Their cuirasses were battered and their hobnailed sandals were badly in need of repair. They rested their hands nervously on the pommels of their swords, their legionary-issue shields raised to their chests. One or two of them looked towards Macer for guidance. The commander offered no leadership to his men, Macro thought with disgust. He merely pursed his lips, his eyelids twitching as he tried to shy away from the confrontation.

‘What in Hades is going on here?’ Macro demanded, turning away from the commander to face the guards and resting his hands on his hips.

‘I ordered the men to return to their cells,’ one of the guards reported, ‘but they won’t obey.’

Macro counted the gladiators. ‘There are eighteen men here, lad. Where’s the rest of ’em?’

‘Returned to their cells, sir. We cut short their supper. Thought it best to lock them up, given this protest.’

‘What about the other guards?’

‘Patrolling the ludus, sir. We’ve got one gladiator unaccounted for.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Pavo, sir.’

The imperial lanista felt a tinge of regret at making an example of Pavo in front of the other men at the canteen. Perhaps he had been too harsh on the young lad. But he instantly dismissed Pavo from his thoughts. There could be no special treatment for the young man. Whatever sympathy he had for Pavo was tempered by the fact that he always seemed to be getting himself into some kind of strife. Macro turned to the line of gladiators.

‘Right, you lot, that’s enough. Return to your cells this instant, or I’ll have the lot of you on half-rations for a week.’ He fixed his gaze on Bato. ‘I suppose you’re the ringleader?’

Bato bowed mockingly. ‘I am but the mouthpiece of the downtrodden.’

‘Bollocks! I should’ve known you were up to no good.’ Macro looked away from the Thracian and addressed the other gladiators. ‘Here’s my one and only offer. Whoever stops this foolish protest now will be spared punishment. There’s no reason to follow this idiot into the mines.’

‘We want our wine!’ one of the gladiators heckled.

‘And our cunny!’ Duras joined in.

‘Death to the Romans!’ a voice from the back taunted.

Macro looked hard at Bato. He resisted a powerful urge to beat up the Thracian for challenging his authority but forced himself to hold back, conscious of the fact that the ludus guards and their weak-willed commander could not be relied upon to deal with the other gladiators.

‘Now look here. I’m the lanista. I set the rules. You bloody well follow them, got it?’

‘Fuck your rules!’ Duras chanted. ‘Fuck the ludus!’

Bato chuckled as he gestured at the gladiators. ‘You see, Roman. You’re wasting your breath. The men are all sworn to me. We have made our position clear. We will not cooperate with you until our privileges are restored and our bounty is paid.’

‘Tough shit. I told you before, there’s no money.’

A knowing smile tickled the Thracian’s lips. ‘A barefaced lie, Roman. I know that you acquired the princely sum of forty-five thousand sestertii from the sale of three men. That’s ample funds with which to pay off what me and my men are owed.’ Bato extended his palm. ‘Hand it over.’

‘Piss off! That money is already accounted for. There are more pressing debts to settle than your fucking prize money.’

‘I am trying to be reasonable, Optio. This is your last chance to save the ludus.’

Macro glared at the Thracian. ‘Back down now, or I’ll have every man here crucified, so help me.’

Bato sneered. ‘You can threaten us all you like, Roman. It will get you nowhere. We want our privileges and our money. And let me see …’ The Thracian paused, stroking his chin. ‘Yes, we would like to negotiate a higher percentage for future victories in the arena. I think an increase to seventy-five per cent of the winning fees sounds like a good deal. What do you think, boys?’

The other Thracians cheered in agreement. Macro breathed furiously through his nostrils, his temper darkening with each passing moment. ‘If you think I’m going to give in to some rabble-rousing savage, you’ve got another think coming.’

‘As you wish. But we shall not cooperate until you agree to our demands.’ Bato folded his arms. ‘Your move, Roman.’

Macer pulled the optio to one side until they were out of earshot of the gladiators. Lowering his shrill voice, the commander said, ‘We should negotiate. Give them what they want. No need for any bloodshed, sir.’

Macro clenched his jaw and looked at the commander in disgust. ‘I won’t negotiate with a bunch of thugs. Besides, if I agree to their demands, the imperial secretary and his aide will go through the roof. This ludus is already on the brink. We can’t afford to hand over most of the winnings to Bato and his mob just because they’re not happy.’

Macer fell silent. From the corner of his eye Macro spied a violent rage brewing in Aculeo. Now the doctore stepped forward and struck his whip at Bato. Macer winced at the distinct crack of leather tearing off strips of raw flesh. But the Thracian did not blink. Enraged, Aculeo stepped closer. Blood gushed down the gladiator’s chiselled torso. The doctore hocked up phlegm in the back of his throat and spat into the Thracian’s face.

‘You’ll get back to your cell now, scum, or I’ll whip you so hard you’ll be in the infirmary for the next month.’

Bato hardened his stare at Aculeo, the saliva slithering down his nose.

‘Fucking Thracians,’ Aculeo growled.

Bato launched his balled right hand at Aculeo, aiming for the neck, dropping his right shoulder and bringing his hand round in a wide arc. As he did so, Macro glimpsed a dark object jutting out of the underside of Bato’s fist. Fear burned in his throat as he realised that the gladiator was gripping a clay shard. The doctore’s eyes widened abruptly as he was struck. The whip fell from his hands. He looked dumbly down as Bato slashed the clay shard across his throat. There was a ripping sound as the shard cut through soft flesh. Blood flowed freely out of the wound. Bato wrenched the shard away, and hot blood splashed over the doctore’s chin and trickled down his chest. He staggered backwards and collapsed in a heap on the sand. The guards drew their swords. At the same instant the other gladiators pulled out weapons concealed under their belts and loincloths. Macer visibly shrivelled, taking a step backwards and glancing uncertainly at his men as all hell broke loose.

‘Kill them!’ Bato roared, pumping his blood-coated fist in the air. ‘KILL THEM ALL!’

T
he seven guards were too stunned to react as the gladiators charged them. The nearest gladiator, a broad-shouldered Thracian with a hairy chest, lunged at Macer, yelling at the top of his hoarse voice. The commander lost his nerve and began blindly slashing at the gladiator, his sword trembling in his limp-wristed grip, a look of sheer terror on his face. Macro turned to the guards. An unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability struck him. Unlike them, he had no weapon, having left his sword in the lanista’s quarters.

‘Hold your ground!’ he barked at the top of his voice.

He looked back to the paluses just in time to spot Duras hurtling towards him, teeth bared, eyes blazing with fury. He gripped a sharpened stake in his right hand and plunged the tip at Macro, driving it towards his chest. Macro instinctively parried the thrust with a forceful swipe of his right hand. There was a dull slap as his forearm connected with the gladiator’s bicep. Now Macro dropped his shoulder and slammed into the gladiator, sending the man stumbling backwards and crashing to the sand. He snatched up Duras’s stake. A blur of colour to the right seized his attention. A pair of unarmed gladiators were storming towards him.

‘Come on!’ Macro goaded, shaking his stake at them. ‘Which one of you bastards wants it first?’

The gladiators swapped a quick look. Then they both charged at Macro, swinging their fists above their heads. Macro easily deflected their sluggish blows. Pouncing at the gladiator on his right, the optio drove his stake into the man’s neck. A look of agony contorted the Thracian’s face. He made a savage gargling sound, pawing desperately at his throat as Macro tore the stake free. A fist hammered the optio in the right side of the stomach as the second gladiator attacked him. Blocking out the pain, Macro turned to face the man, twisting at the waist and lowering his left shoulder. With his feet planted firmly on the sand, he skewered the gladiator in his exposed abdomen. The man howled in agony. Macro ripped out the stake and glanced up. The guards had backed up to the east-facing porticoes, crouching behind their large shields as the gladiators swarmed at them. Staying hunched, they tentatively stabbed and sliced at thin air with their short swords in an attempt to keep the Thracians at bay. The bodies of two gladiators lay sprawled at their feet.

Macro thought quickly. Although the guards had superior weaponry compared to the clay shards, surgical blades and lengths of wood in the hands of the gladiators, they were taken aback by the wild fervour in the eyes of the men. The gladiators threw themselves at the guards, foaming at the mouth as they roared battle cries in their native tongue. In turn the guards hacked frantically at the charging gladiators. The air quickly filled with the crunching thud of metal against flesh.

One gladiator leapt forward at one of the guards foolish enough to lower his shield and jabbed him in the neck repeatedly with a scalpel. The guard thrashed from side to side as the life spurted out of him. Sensing that the situation was turning desperate, Macro darted forward, his sandals pounding on the parched sand, and hammered his fist into the face of a gladiator attempting to flank the guards. The Thracian’s expression registered dumb shock, eyes blinking as his head snapped back.

Now a bearish gladiator slashed wildly at Macro with a clay shard. Macro easily ducked the attack and piked his wooden stake into the man’s thigh. Grabbing the legionary sword and shield from the slain guard, he sprang forward on the balls of his feet, rushing over the corpse and crunching his shield into the nearest gladiator, then cutting up with the sword and sinking the blade into the man’s armpit. The gladiator growled angrily, staggering back as the blood coursed from his gaping wound. Lowering his sword to hip level, Macro now thrust at a second gladiator, managing to stab the man in his chest with a solid angled drive. Then he flicked his wrist, giving the blade a good twist and grinding up the gladiator’s bowels, drawing a terrified squeal of pain from the man as he collapsed to the sand.

‘Stick it to ’em!’ Macro yelled to the guards. ‘Cut every one of ’em down!’

The men began pressing forward, hunched behind their shields, inspired by the courageous actions of the optio. Slowly they regained the advantage, savagely attacking the poorly armed gladiators. Sword points glinted. Several gladiators continued their attack but their resistance soon crumpled as their makeshift weapons proved no match for their opponents’ swords. There was a ferocious roar as the guards pushed forward again, thrusting at the gladiators, stabbing at the mass of exposed torsos with ruthless abandon. The screams of the gladiators were swiftly replaced by the groans and strains of the attacking guards, and the frenzied thunk of swords slamming into bone. Suddenly the surviving gladiators retreated towards the training posts, looking on with dismay as their comrades disappeared under a hail of sword tips and a cloud of dust. Macro did not have time to congratulate himself. He searched frantically around the training ground for Bato.

A rush of motion ahead seized his attention. Duras had cornered Macer. The bodyguard wrenched the shield away from the commander’s feeble grip and tossed it aside as if it was made of papyrus. Macer screamed as he retreated from the gladiator, a terrified look stitched into his lax features. Duras roared throatily, diving at Macer. The commander jumped back with fear, slipping on disembowelled entrails and landing on his backside. There was a distinct jingle as the dormitory cell keys tumbled from his belt and landed just out of reach. Duras watched Macer scrabble away on his hands and knees, abandoning the keys, Macro looking on helplessly as the bodyguard bent his enormous frame at the waist and scooped the keys off the ground, chucking them to Bato.