Arena (42 page)

Earlier that morning the optio had attended a special announcement held in the Roman Forum. A huge crowd had gathered to hear official confirmation of the fight between Pavo and Hermes. Rumours had spread from the arena to the taverns in the immediate aftermath of the former’s triumph in the group fight. The air in the Forum had been drenched in the fragrant aroma of exotic spices from nearby market stalls while the sun burned in a clear sky as the speaker’s voice boomed off the surrounding porticoes. The two men would be competing as provocators – a type of heavily armoured combat that Pavo had never taken part in before. Only seasoned gladiators fought as provocators, Macro knew, due to the skill and muscle necessary to move about the arena.

At the same time the sponsors had announced that the date of the fight had been pushed back two months to give both fighters ample time to prepare for the contest. Few among the crowd complained about this development. The tavern owners and merchants hawking memorabilia now had more time to make a healthy profit from the many thousands of gladiator fans who had descended on Rome, and the bookmakers stood to make a killing from cashing in on fervent speculation over the contest. The decision had puzzled Macro, who had assumed the imperial secretary would want to rush Pavo back into the arena as quickly as possible, giving him little time in which to rest and prepare for his fight. Coupled with the offer to watch Hermes in action at the Circus Maximus, Macro shared his young charge’s concerns. There was always some scheming motive behind everything that Pallas and Murena did, he knew.

At that moment the central starting gate opened and a deafening roar went up in the stadium. Macro swivelled his gaze back to the track as the umpire emerged from the shadows with a pair of attendants following close behind him bearing a pair of blunted short swords. A few moments later a gladiator stumbled out of the same gate. A bronze helmet covered his head and the large rectangular shield in his left hand quivered as he trudged towards the officials gathered in the centre of the ellipse.

‘Who’s the poor fellow facing Hermes?’ Pavo wondered aloud.

‘Criton,’ a voice said to his right. ‘He’s going to get battered!’

Pavo turned towards a spectator wearing a stained tunic. There was a glazed look in his eyes and he gripped a wineskin in his right hand.

‘Criton?’ Macro repeated. ‘Never heard of him.’

The spectator grinned. ‘That’s because he’s a second-rate gladiator from Macedonia. Belongs to a travelling troupe. Hardly worthy of sharing the same arena as the colossus of Rhodes.’

Macro glanced back at the track as Criton received his weapon from the attendant. ‘He is fortunate that this is just a sparring contest, then.’

‘Why is Hermes matched with such a lowly sparring partner?’ Pavo asked the spectator, ignoring Macro.

‘Simple. Hermes has only just come out of retirement. No doubt he would’ve returned sooner, if those bastards hadn’t ambushed him in the street and broken several of his bones. He’s recovered faster than anyone expected, but he’s still in need of a warm-up contest ahead of the big fight.’ The spectator nudged Pavo conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, that rich upstart Pavo is in for a nasty surprise.’

‘Oh? How so?’ Pavo briefly considered revealing his name to the spectator but decided against it. He was curious to find out more about Hermes from one of his adoring fans.

The spectator paused and took a swig from his wineskin. Drops trickled down his chin and dripped on to his tunic as he continued.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I hear Pavo is handy with a sword. Especially for a rich boy. But Hermes is a completely different jug of garum to anything he will have faced so far. He is strong – and he’s quick on his feet for a big man.’

Pavo shrugged. ‘There’s plenty of other gladiators that applies to equally.’

The spectator leaned in. Pavo wrinkled his nose at the powerful whiff of wine on the man’s breath. ‘But you won’t find another gladiator who is also so good with a sword. The fifty bouts he’s won is ample proof of that.’

Macro swung his gaze to the spectator with a sneer.

‘Load of bollocks! Everyone knows the lanistas protect their best gladiators to negotiate a better price when it comes to renting them out. I bet half the fights Hermes won were against a bunch of cooks and fullers.’

‘Obviously you’re not a fan.’ The spectator pulled a face at Macro. ‘You’ll change your mind when he gives Criton a proper thrashing.’

‘Why is Hermes coming out of retirement anyway?’ asked Pavo. ‘After all, he’s a freedman gladiator, not a condemned man. Whenever he’s fought in the past few years he’s been able to demand a fortune from the sponsors.’

The spectator shrugged. ‘No one knows for certain. Plenty of sponsors have tried to coax him out since he announced his intention to retire for good. Emperor Caligula, among others.’

‘So why change his mind now?’

‘I’ve heard rumours that one of the Greeks working for Claudius had something to do with it,’ the spectator replied.

Pavo was about to enquire further when a wild cheer erupted in the tiers. The stadium trembled. The sense of anticipation in the crowd was palpable as the spectators rose to their feet as one and directed their gaze towards the far end of the racetrack.

‘Look!’ the spectator exclaimed. ‘Here he comes!’

Pavo and Macro followed his line of sight. A single gate stood at the eastern end of the track, beyond the bronze turning posts. A hushed silence swept over the stadium as the gate opened. Pavo felt the hairs bristle on the nape of his neck as a huge figure marched boldly out, his vast muscles glistening with sweat. The veins on his muscular arms bulged like tensed rope. The man was significantly bigger than his opponent. Pavo could not recall ever seeing a gladiator of such large proportions.

‘Shit,’ he whispered, his blood chilling. ‘So
that’s
Hermes.’

T
he champion of Rome entered the Circus Maximus to a burst of thunderous applause. Several spectators occupying one of the upper tiers unfurled a large banner proclaiming their support for Hermes. The spectator standing next to Pavo jumped to his feet and shouted himself hoarse as he joined in with the chants chorusing around the stadium.

‘He wins every fight, makes his rivals look shite! Hermes! Hermes!’ the fans sang.

‘Fuck off, Criton!’ a nearby spectator rasped above the general din.

Pavo glanced at Criton. The Macedonian stood next to the umpire, his hands trembling with fear. The champion acknowledged his fans with a vigorous pump of his fist, drawing another round of fervent applause as he strutted towards the temporary arena, bowing to the section of the crowd displaying their banner.

Macro snarled. ‘Look at this idiot, grandstanding to the mob. He wouldn’t last long in the Second. No place for showboats in the legions.’

Pavo studied Hermes as the champion passed his seat. The gladiator was in tremendous shape, he thought. As well as the standard helmet, manica, leg greave and chest protector worn by the provocator type of gladiator, he also wore a leather belt, studded with gold, wrapped round his torso above his loincloth. The belt glimmered faintly in the pallid morning light as one of the attendants handed him his blunted sword, which he took in his right hand. He gripped his large shield in his left. An image of Cerberus, the three-headed dog who guarded the gates of the Underworld, had been painted in bright colours on the front of the shield.

A short distance away Criton stood rooted to the spot, seemingly frozen in fear as the umpire went through the rules of engagement with the two gladiators, his voice almost drowned out by the crowd. When he had finished, he retreated to the chalk line and a cheer went up in the stadium as he gave the signal for the fight to begin. The spectator next to Pavo shouted deliriously as he urged Hermes to savage his opponent.

‘Show him no fucking mercy!’

‘Beat him senseless, Hermes!’ a woman close by shrieked.

Criton immediately charged at Hermes, panicked into action by the heated fervour of the crowd and the scale of the occasion. With a lusty roar he planted his right foot on the ground and launched a quick thrust with his sword, aiming the smooth tip at his opponent’s armoured chest. Hermes immediately shifted to his right, evading the thrust and striking his sword against Criton in one smooth motion. His sword clattered on the side of his opponent’s helmet and the brittle clang of metal slamming against metal rang sharply around the stadium. Criton stumbled forward, his legs almost buckling as the impact momentarily disorientated him. Frantically shaking his head clear, he retreated from Hermes, repelling his foe by repeatedly thrusting his sword at him. But Hermes advanced steadily behind his shield, deftly deflecting each blow as he patiently let his opponent wear himself out.

‘Criton is in trouble,’ Macro remarked. ‘Hermes is toying with the wretch. If he isn’t careful, he’s going to get badly roughed up.’

Pavo didn’t reply. He was engrossed by the contest unfolding in the stadium. Still crouching behind his shield, Hermes closed in ominously on his opponent. Criton thrust his sword again. The colossus from Rhodes parried the attack. Frustrated by his inability to land a blow, Criton let out a full-blooded roar and lunged at Hermes. But the champion effortlessly parried his opponent’s sword thrust, swiping his shield arm in a wide arc and deflecting the weapon away from his chest with swift and brutal speed.

In the next instant he dropped to a low crouch and shunted the bottom edge of his shield down at Criton’s bare feet. A sharp crack like wood snapping was followed by a howl of agony from the Macedonian as the shield rim crushed his toes. Criton dropped his shield. Bright red spots of blood stained the sand as he hobbled frantically away from Hermes, his movements clumsy and ragged with the heavy armour weighing down on him. Now Hermes pounded towards his stricken enemy, moving with greater speed and intent on striking the decisive blow. Criton looked up and saw Hermes bearing down on him. Roaring manically, the Macedonian gripped the sword with both hands and plunged it in a downward thrust that Hermes neatly parried. Then Hermes shot forward in a blur of motion and kicked the bottom of his opponent’s shield, tilting the top edge towards him. To gasps of disbelief from the audience, he slammed his sword down on top of the shield, wrenching it from Criton’s grip and battering the Macedonian with it. The blade fell from Criton’s hand as Hermes booted him backwards and sent him crashing to the sand. The gladiator towered over his soundly beaten foe. With a guttural roar he chucked his sword and shield aside in an arrogant gesture that Pavo found distasteful. Criton scrambled towards the chalk line, signalling to the umpire to end the fight. Nodding, the umpire raised his wooden stick.

The decision provoked a raft of angry shouts from the spectators. The man next to Pavo was spitting with fury at the prospect of the fight being cut short. The attendants looked to the umpire as he shifted uncertainly on his feet. Doubtless the organisers had chosen a weak opponent to fight Hermes because they didn’t want to risk the champion suffering an injury a few days before the closing of the games. But clearly the short-lived contest had failed to satisfy the mob.

Hearing the cries of displeasure from his fans, Hermes paced over to Criton as he lay prone and defeated on the ground. The umpire attempted to block his path. Hermes shoved him out of the way and stooped down beside Criton, tearing off his opponent’s helmet to howls of delight from the spectators. Before Criton could crawl out of danger, Hermes grabbed the floored gladiator and pummelled him repeatedly in the face. Then he lifted Criton to his knees. Clamping one hand over the Macedonian’s mouth, he grabbed the back of his skull with his free hand and let out a savage grunt as he snapped his opponent’s neck with a violent jerk of his arms. Criton spasmed as he uttered an agonising cry of despair. Then he went limp and Hermes released his grip. A frenzied cheer rose from the crowd as Criton slumped to the ground.

The spectator shook Pavo by the shoulder. ‘I told you! Best gladiator ever, is Hermes.’

Pavo forced a smile. A dreadful feeling stirred inside him. He had never witnessed such a ruthless combination of brute strength and skill. He watched Hermes make a series of bows to his fans before strutting towards the gate at the eastern end of the stadium and leaving the startled attendants to drag away the lifeless corpse of his vanquished opponent. As soon as Hermes had disappeared, two more gladiators staggered blindly into the makeshift arena to continue the pre-chariot race entertainment. They were wearing full-face helmets without eyeholes in the visors, to the mild amusement of the audience. The spectator sitting next to Pavo and Macro abruptly rose from his seat and departed in search of more wine from one of the taverns located outside the stadium. Macro saw that the colour had drained from Pavo’s face and slapped his thigh.

‘Come on, lad. Let’s get out of here. We’ll head to the ludus and start training. In two months’ time we’ll have whipped you into decent fighting shape.’

They shuffled past the spectators and headed for the nearest exit leading from the tier to the arcade. Pavo moved slowly. He felt as if a great weight was pressing down on him. Based on what he had just seen, defeating Hermes seemed an impossible task, even allowing for time to recover from his injuries and properly train under the optio. As they descended the steps leading out of the Circus Maximus, he felt certain his journey as a gladiator would end in defeat. The champion was too powerful. Hermes would kill him in front of the Emperor. Just as he had killed his father a year ago, Pavo reflected gloomily.

The sun had brought some warmth to the street outside. Brothel touts and bookmakers loitered around the arcade, scavenging for business from the spectators disgorging from the numerous exits. Pavo noticed a gaunt-faced woman curled up at the side of the arcade with her infant child. The baby wailed, its screams piercing the air as the mother begged Pavo to spare a few coins. Anguish swept through him and his mind wandered back to thoughts of his own child, followed by an immediate sense of relief.