Arena (48 page)

Taking a deep breath, Pavo surged at Ruga and plunged the wooden tip of his sword down at his shins, hoping to draw the veteran into lowering his shield and exposing his chest to attack. In a blur of motion Ruga twisted at the waist and parried the blade with an outward sweep of his shield. Pain exploded in Pavo’s forearm as the shield edge slammed into him. He fought to stop himself involuntarily releasing his grip on the sword. Now Ruga pushed forward on the balls of his feet and charged at him, tucking his shield close to his left shoulder.

Pavo gasped as the shield clattered into his chest, badly winding him. The force of the impact knocked him backwards. In the same instant Ruga hoisted the shield up above his head, angling his forearm so that it lay flat. Then he jerked his arm forward, thrusting the edge at Pavo. The younger man’s head snapped back as the leather trim slammed into his chin and sent a burst of hot pain screaming through his skull. His legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. He tasted vomit in his mouth. Ruga stood above him and dropped the shield to his side, patting the top edge, his glazed eyes as wide and bright as polished coins. He grinned at Pavo.

‘A provocator’s main offensive weapon is not his sword, but his shield. Hermes knows this better than anyone. The mistake Criton made was the same as nearly every other gladiator has made against Hermes.’

‘They attack with their sword!’ Pavo realised, thumping his fist against his thigh as he got to his feet. ‘As soon as they thrust at Hermes, he retreats behind his shield and picks them off at range.’

Ruga nodded. ‘Your sword is a foot and a half long. Using it brings you into thrusting range. Your shield is twice that length. Forget about trying to impale the bastard on the point of your sword like they teach you in the ludus.’

A thought struck Macro. ‘Good advice for staying out of trouble, I suppose. Keeping range and all that. But it doesn’t solve the problem of how Pavo is supposed to cut the bastard down.’

Ruga frowned at the optio. ‘How do you mean?’

Macro picked up the shield, testing its weight and strength, his face furrowed in deep concentration. ‘Normally a gladiator can get a good thrust between the ribs. Smoothly push the blade up until it nicks the heart and lungs.’

Ruga nodded again. ‘Go on.’

‘As far as I can see, a provocator is armoured from head to bloody toe. Leg greaves, arm manicas, full-face helmet, chest protector, the lot. They’ve got more protection than a decent fort.’

‘It’s true,’ Pavo added, stemming the blood trickling out of his nose. ‘We saw how Hermes hid behind his shield against Criton. He presented a solid wall of armour to his opponent.’

Macro scratched the back of his head and puffed out his cheeks. ‘The trick is how to break through that armoured front. There’s only one obvious striking point on the body … the throat.’

Pavo turned to Ruga. ‘How am I supposed to get past his shield and armour?’

Ruga snorted. ‘Many opponents have asked themselves the same question. That’s why Hermes is regarded as the finest gladiator ever to grace the arena. Stopping him is hard enough. Defeating him is almost impossible.’

‘Then how did you come so close?’ Pavo asked.

There was a pause as Ruga glanced away. At length the retired gladiator limped over to a stone step at the side of the courtyard and sat down. He sighed wearily, a distant look in his eyes as he spoke.

‘We were fighting in front of Emperor Tiberius. The closing fight of the games at the Festival of Saturnalia. Thirty thousand spectators had flocked into the arena to see us fight. They certainly got their money’s worth. Our match seemed to last for ever. Neither of us could find a way through the other’s defences. By the end of it, we were both bloodied, bruised and exhausted. I thought I had done enough to just shade it and win on a decision. Sure enough, the umpire raised his stick to indicate the victor … me.’

Pavo and Macro shared a disbelieving look. ‘You actually
beat
Hermes?’

Ruga laughed bitterly. ‘I thought so. That’s why I took off my helmet, to receive the adulation of the crowd. Then Hermes charged at me. Bastard hacked at my face and left me with this.’ He pointed to the scars.

‘But what about the umpire calling an end to the fight?’

‘He reckoned I misunderstood his signal. Pah! Load of bollocks.’

Ruga fell silent. Pavo glanced up at the darkening skies, anger pounding in his veins, his hands balling into tight fists until his fingers almost drew blood from his clammy palms.

‘I swear to Jupiter, I won’t fall for the same trick. Hermes is mine.’

That provoked a cynical laugh from the retired gladiator, and as he lifted his head, there was a cold and sober look in his eyes. ‘Don’t you see, boy? The fight was fixed so that Hermes wouldn’t lose. He’s the Emperor’s favourite gladiator. When you step out into that arena, you won’t just be facing another gladiator. You’ll be taking on the Emperor’s chosen man.’

‘Harder!’ Macro yelled. ‘Put your back into it, lad!’

Grinding his teeth and tensing his muscles, Pavo struggled to lift the weight of the four-wheeled wagon in the street outside the Drunken Goat. Macro stood under the arch leading to the courtyard and watched as he gripped the front edge of the platform and attempted to lift the wagon a second time. Ruga looked on from the courtyard. Pavo’s arm muscles burned and he bent slightly at the knees as his legs strained with the enormous weight. The baskets filled with stones loaded on to the oak platform trembled as the wagon slowly tilted off the ground. Pavo held it there for a moment. Every fibre of his being screamed with pain and told him to drop it. But he clamped his eyes tightly shut and thought of Hermes, and the suffering he had endured to arrive at this point. He had come a long way to gain his revenge. He would not give up now.

‘Release!’ Macro barked.

With a pained roar Pavo snatched his hands away from the underside of the platform and jolted back a step. The wagon juddered as the front end crashed down. Macro stepped forward and counted the baskets.

‘Fourteen. Not bad. We’ll make a champion out of you yet, sunshine.’

Pavo winced in pain but felt pride burning inside him. ‘Champion of the Arena,’ he mused before glancing at Macro. ‘Do you really think I can do it?’

‘Not if you sit on your arse daydreaming I don’t. Now give me another set … with more weight this time.’

Pavo’s heart sank and Ruga laughed heartily. Macro waved at the tavern owner to add another basket to the load. The wheels groaned under the extra weight.

‘But sir—’

Macro cut him off with a wave of his hand. ‘Not a word, lad. You want to beat Hermes, you’ll have to be strong enough to move around the arena with that armour bearing down on you. Got it?’

‘Yes … sir,’ Pavo mumbled, momentarily regretting his decision to appoint Macro as his trainer.

The optio had pushed him harder than ever before in the four weeks since he began training for the fight. The first week had been torturous, and Pavo barely had the strength to walk as he returned to the imperial ludus each evening after training and slumped on to the freezing floor of his cell. But by the end of the second week he had grown visibly stronger. At the start of training he’d struggled to wield the larger shield used by the provocator gladiators, his bicep stinging under the strain. Now his enlarged muscles allowed him to effortlessly grip the shield as he practised his attacking moves with Ruga each afternoon. With just one day left until he confronted his sworn enemy, Pavo dared to believe that victory might be within his grasp.

Macro slapped a hand against his thigh and nodded firmly.

‘Now … lift!’

Although his expression remained stony, Macro felt his chest swell with pride as Pavo resumed his weightlifting exercise. The optio had feared the worst when his young charge won the right to face Hermes. But there was a steeliness in Pavo that surprised Macro. He had never seen the lad burn with such intensity as he had done in the past four weeks. Macro had put him through a series of punishing physical exercises designed to increase his lower body strength. The wagon lifts, as he termed them, were just one of a series of exercises that he had devised to compensate for their lack of training equipment. The owner of the Drunken Goat had taken an interest in the three men who ate lunch at his establishment each day, and after hearing the story of the brave young lad who was going to fight Hermes, he had offered to lend a hand; hence the wagon lifts.

But a cold dread gnawed at Macro. His own fate was tethered to that of the young gladiator. If Pavo fell in the arena, the imperial secretary would reveal the optio’s participation in the beast fights to the officers in the Second Legion, bringing his military career to a swift and inglorious end. That grim thought forced Macro to redouble his efforts and leave no stone unturned in his bid to prepare Pavo for his fight. As well as the wagon lifts, Macro had his charge pushing a heavy cart up the Aventine Hill to bulk up his thigh muscles, and doing circuits of the courtyard with a training shield in each hand.

‘By the gods, he has to win,’ Macro muttered to himself, clenching his scarred knuckles into tight fists.

He was interrupted by a shrill crashing noise as Pavo released the wagon and one of the baskets fell and shattered an amphora leaning against the wall of the inn. Wine spilled across the flagstones. Pavo soothed his aching wrist and winced at the tavern owner.

‘The imperial secretary will reimburse you,’ Macro said.

The tavern owner waved a hand at the optio. ‘Forget the wine. Just win the fight and teach that arrogant scum Hermes a lesson.’

‘Probably watered down anyway,’ Macro remarked glibly to Pavo as one of the tavern workers quickly set about scooping up the shattered clay shards from the street.

Ruga moistened his lips. ‘I could do with a skinful myself.’ He flashed a broad grin at Pavo. ‘Tell you what, boy. Beat Hermes and the first jug of wine is on me.’

Pavo forced a smile. Strange, but since being condemned to the ludus, he had never given any thought to a life beyond the arena. He supposed it was the same for nearly all gladiators. The high fatality rate made thoughts of freedom irrelevant and even dangerous. For his own part, the overpowering desire to avenge his father and restore honour to the Valerian family name had excluded all other considerations.

‘Chin up.’ Macro clapped his hands. ‘We’ve still got work to do.’

Pavo raised his weary head and grimaced. ‘Can’t we rest now, sir?’

‘Plenty of time for that in the afterlife! Now, give me one more set of lifts.’

‘Yes … sir.’

As Pavo grasped the wagon, a voice from down the street interrupted him. ‘Training hard, I see.’

A shiver ran down Pavo’s spine. He stood bolt upright and spun away from the wagon, turning his gaze beyond the Drunken Goat. Macro and Ruga glanced in the same direction to see Murena striding towards them, sidestepping the clay shards and spilled wine. The guard accompanying him dismissed the tavern owner and his workers so that the aide could talk freely. Murena looked at Pavo and clicked his tongue approvingly.

‘It seems Ruga and the optio have been fulfilling their side of our arrangement.’ He continued to stare at Pavo. ‘You’ve toned up nicely since we last met.’

Macro flashed a dark look at Murena and folded his arms defensively across his chest. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

‘Relax, Optio,’ Murena replied, smiling with fake warmth. ‘I have simply come to watch Pavo train. Pallas is understandably curious to learn how our young gladiator is getting on.’ He reset his gaze on Pavo and nodded. ‘Very well, by the looks of it.’

‘Not bad,’ Macro agreed guardedly. ‘Given that we’ve only had a month to prepare.’

The aide stroked his smoothly shaven jaw with his bony fingers. ‘And how do you rate his chances against Hermes?’

Suppressing his contempt for the freedman, the soldier took a deep breath and thought for a moment.

‘The lad has done everything we’ve asked of him. Between myself and Ruga, we’ve pushed him hard. Hermes will never have faced a gladiator in such good condition.’

Murena’s eyes narrowed as he continued to smile at Pavo. ‘You didn’t answer my question, Optio. Will he or will he not defeat Hermes tomorrow?’

The soldier shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Even with the two of us training him morning and afternoon, he is up against the greatest champion in all of Rome. You know how the old saying goes. The only safe bet about fighting in the arena is that one man walks out and the other gets dragged out by a hook.’

Something shifted in the aide’s demeanour as he switched his gleaming gaze to Macro. ‘I am well aware of the vagaries of gladiator combat. It’s one of the reasons Pallas and myself were reluctant to promote such fights as a means of controlling the mob.’

‘And now you’re relying on Pavo to save your careers,’ Macro remarked. ‘Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?’

The smile disappeared from Murena’s face. ‘Rome is full of treachery, Macro. A common soldier such as yourself will never grasp the difficulties of governing millions of feckless subjects. Pallas and I will do whatever is necessary to stay in power.’

Macro yawned. ‘Save your lecturing for some other poor sod.’ He nodded at Pavo and jerked his thumb towards the Drunken Goat. ‘Come on, lad. Time for a quick rest and some food before you begin your final training session with Ruga.’

‘Don’t be late to the arena tomorrow, Optio.’ Murena smirked. ‘I would hate you to miss the pre-fight entertainment we have planned.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Macro asked, narrowing his eyes.

Murena looked pleased with himself. He stared hard at Pavo. ‘Let’s just say there will be a special role for the Liberators guilty of conspiring against Emperor Claudius.’

Pavo shivered in his bones. Macro turned away, shaking his head, and went into the tavern. Pavo followed him inside. The aide watched them both leave. Ruga turned to head after them but Murena instantly swept forward and blocked his path.

‘Out of my way,’ the retired gladiator growled.

‘Not yet. I have something I need you to do … if you want your job back.’