Arena (53 page)

‘Is that the end of your career as a gladiator, then?’ Macro asked.

Pavo nodded. ‘I’ve no wish to step back inside the arena.’ He looked down at his son and smiled. ‘Besides, I’m about to begin a new career.’

Macro’s expression darkened. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to follow Bucco and become a bloody actor!’

‘No chance.’ Pavo laughed. ‘Actually, it’s not so much a new start as a return to an old job.’ He paused for a moment and looked at Macro with a determined expression. ‘The Emperor has appointed me as a tribune to the Fifteenth Legion. I’m to leave for the camp at Carnuntum, near the Danube, as soon as I’ve put my affairs in order.’

‘Tribune, eh?’ Macro raised an eyebrow. ‘Not bad … even if it is with those slackers in the Fifteenth. And the Danube is supposed to be the armpit of the Empire. The Rhine is almost civilised by comparison.’

‘So I hear,’ Pavo replied sourly. He glanced back at the imperial palace. ‘I’m sure one of those slippery Greeks is behind all this. The imperial household seems rather keen on hastening my departure from Rome.’

‘Give you your moment in the sun, then post you to some filthy backwater where you won’t pose a threat to the Emperor, eh?’ Macro shook his head, glad that he no longer had to deal with the politics and scheming of Rome. He nodded at Appius. ‘What about your son?’

Pavo turned back to the boy and ruffled his hair. ‘Appius will join me. As I travelled with my father across the Empire before him.’

Macro scratched his jaw. ‘Fair enough. I suppose there are worse postings than the Danube. Judaea, perhaps. At least you’ll have a chance to cut down more scum like Hermes. You seem to have a knack for chopping up barbarians.’

Pavo smiled. The two men clasped hands. Of one thing the new Champion of the Arena was certain. He would not forget Macro in a hurry.

‘Look after yourself, lad,’ the soldier said as he made to leave.

‘And you too … Centurion.’

Macro turned his back. Pavo watched him trudge off. After a couple of steps he stopped and turned back to the former gladiator. ‘One more thing, Pavo.’

‘Yes, sir?’

The centurion cleared his throat as a pained expression crossed his weathered face. ‘That business about me having to appear in the beast fights last month. We’ll keep that to ourselves, eh? Not a word to anyone.’

Pavo smiled softly. ‘Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘Where have you been all these fucking months?’ Centurion Lucius Batiacus Bestia barked as he rolled up Macro’s travel warrant.

A chilly wind carried through the Second Legion fortress on the banks of the River Rhine, stirring Macro’s cloak as he stood stiffly in front of the gate at the southern end of the camp. The sentries had not been expecting any arrivals, and having been away from the camp, Macro did not know the password. After a sharp exchange of words, a message was sent to Bestia, the veteran centurion in the Second and Macro’s superior. It was only when Bestia laid eyes on his comrade that the gate was opened. The sky was grey and the ground was a sea of churned mud as winter slowly gave way to spring.

‘Well?’ Bestia asked, tapping his foot. ‘I’m still waiting on an answer.’

Macro weighed up his words carefully. It had been a little under two months since he had departed Rome and tramped north. The march back to the legionary fortress had been good exercise, and despite the snow in the mountain passes and the mud of the forest tracks, he had marched twenty miles a day, stopping only to eat and put his head down at night. The newly promoted centurion had had plenty of time to think about his excuse for his prolonged absence from his comrades. But now with Bestia giving him a long, hard look, his mind was suddenly blank.

‘I, er … I mean …’

Bestia crossed his arms and frowned. ‘I think I know what happened here … Centurion.’

‘You do, sir?’ Macro blinked and tried to compose his face, suddenly afraid that Murena or one of his imperial colleagues had somehow sent word back to the Second Legion after all. He stiffened his muscles and prepared for Bestia to give him the bad news that his career as a soldier was over.

Bestia grinned. ‘You’ve been pissing away your reward money on tarts and wine. Then you panicked and realised you’d been away from your real mates for too long, so you used your new friends in high places to get you out of trouble with some half-baked excuse about being retained on imperial business. Bollocks! You don’t fool me, Macro. You were up to your neck in cunny and Falernian this whole time.’

Macro kept a straight face but breathed a deep sigh of relief. Bestia would jibe him relentlessly about his extended period of leave for several months, but that would be the worst of it. A smile escaped and the veteran centurion grunted at him.

‘There’s a ragged bunch of new recruits due here any day now. They’ll need to be whipped into shape. Doubtless some of them will head your way and will need training.’ He paused and looked hard at Macro. ‘That is, unless you’re too busy making friends in the palace.’

Macro straightened his back and sucked in a lungful of cold Rhine air. ‘It’s good to be back, sir.’

Bestia laughed. ‘Ha! Be careful what you wish for, Centurion.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Summer will soon be upon us. Those barbarians across the Rhine will be stirring. Mark my words, Centurion Macro. The excitement’s just about to begin …’

Centurion: officer in the Roman army, commanding a century of eighty men.

Denarius: silver coin worth four sestertii.

Doctore: gladiator trainer in the ludus. Often an ex-gladiator himself.

Editor: sponsor of a games.

Hoplite: a Greek soldier armed with a round shield, spear and a sword. The inspiration for the hoplomachus type of gladiator.

Lanista: owner of a troupe of gladiators; imperial lanistas managed the Emperor’s personal retinue of gladiators.

Lictor: civil servants, often ex-centurions, who accompanied the Emperor and senior magistrates in Rome. The lictors carried bundles of rods with an axe on the outside to symbolise the power over life and death.

Ludus: gladiator school, where the veterans and recruits trained, ate and slept.

Murmillo: type of gladiator nicknamed the ‘fish man’. Typically only heavily built men would be selected to train as murmillos. They fought with short swords and large wooden shields and wore fin-like helmets.

Optio: second-in-command of a century of men in a legion, reporting to the centurion.

Palus: wooden training post used by trainees to practise their sword skills on.

Provocator: heavily armoured type of gladiator armed with a short sword and a legionary-style shield.

Retiarius: specialist type of gladiator armed with a trident and a net.

Rudis: wooden sword given to gladiators who earned their freedom in the arena.

Secutor: type of gladiator specifically paired with a retiarius.

Sestertius: large brass coin, the standard unit of price in ancient Rome. The average legionary pay was 900 sestertii per annum, and a loaf of bread cost half a sestertius.

Thraex: gladiator armed in the Tracian style with a small shield and a short sword.

Rome had an uneasy relationship with its gladiators. Admired and loathed in equal measure, they often played a crucial role in keeping the mob content – and creating a wellspring of support for the Emperor. Julius Caesar set the trend by establishing his own school of gladiators and laying on great spectacles, free of charge, to the delight of the mob, who idolised him in return. Later on, emperors, high priests and dignitaries competed to stage ever more elaborate spectacles in order to win popular support. But these same aristocrats also held a scathing view of the gladiators themselves, believing them to be degenerates on a par with slaves. Becoming a gladiator placed a man in a permanent state of infamy, and stories of the sons of senators and equestrians signing on to gladiator schools – to pay off debts, or to seek out new thrills – scandalised the establishment. How commonly high-born men signed on at schools isn’t known. Although most of the surviving inscriptions on gladiator gravestones belong to freedmen, they were more likely to be able to afford an inscription thanks to the generosity of friends and family. The slaves, prisoners of war and criminals who populated these schools would not have been so fortunate. But the fact that aristocrats who became gladiators were written about suggests that this was a fairly rare occurrence. Certainly the disgrace of a military tribune such as Pavo being thrown into a ludus would have given rise to heated gossip in bathhouses and inns throughout Rome.

Most gladiators died within a year or two of signing up, with the less talented fighters pitted against each other in brutal group fights. For many, the only hope of escaping death was to win their freedom by earning enough prize money to buy out their contract with their lanista. A select few fighters so impressed the watching Emperor during their bouts that they were awarded the wooden rudis of freedom on the spot, in recognition of their heroics in the arena – very much like the young high-born gladiator in his decisive grudge match.