Arena (7 page)

Pavo struck first, launching a high kick at the larger man, bending his leg at the knee and aiming at his chest. The man shrieked as the sole of the recruit’s foot thumped into his midriff, winding him and turning him purple in the face. Pavo jerked his shoulders to try and shake off the smaller man, who had him in a headlock, but his grip was surprisingly firm despite his bony physique. Pavo tried backtracking a few steps, building up momentum in his feet in a bid to slam his assailant into the canteen wall and wind him. He heard a crack at his back and the harsh exhalation of breath as his attacker crashed into the canteen wall. But still the man refused to relinquish his grip. Pavo felt himself going faint as the arm constricted his air passage. Ahead of him, the bear-like gang member had recovered from the brutal kick to the stomach and staggered towards him.

‘Now I’m going to make you fucking sorry.’

Then Pavo saw a flicker of movement behind the man.

‘That’s enough!’

Amadocus and his men spun around to see Gurges standing in the corridor, flanked by an exasperated Calamus and a third man Pavo didn’t recognise. This third man was stocky, a little shorter than the doctore, and wore a simple tunic with a pair of leather sandals and a red cloak. The clobber of an off-duty soldier, thought Pavo as he wiped blood from his mouth and eyed the lanista warily.

‘What’s going on here?’ Calamus demanded, baring his teeth. He locked his sunken eyes on Amadocus. ‘You. What are you doing out of your cell at this time of night? Explain yourself.’

Amadocus lowered his eyes deferentially. ‘Sir. I am sorry.’ He twisted his neck towards Pavo. ‘This recruit was causing a disturbance.’

‘Is this true, Pavo?’ The doctore turned to face him.

‘No!’ the recruit protested. ‘I didn’t—’

‘Forget it,’ Gurges interrupted. He gestured to Amadocus and the three other veterans, and shot them a final withering look. ‘Calamus. See these men to their cells. I’ll deal with them later. Pavo and I have a pressing matter to discuss.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the doctore replied. He marched the veterans through the door one by one. Amadocus was the last to leave. He flashed a fierce scowl at the recruit as he stormed out of the canteen. Pavo felt a cold tremor of fear shoot up his spine at the thought of having made an enemy of Amadocus and his thugs. He wondered how his day could get any worse.

Then the man in the military-issue clothing stepped out of the shadows. Pavo studied him. He had the grizzled look of a battle-hardened veteran and the scars to prove it, even though his eyes told Pavo that he couldn’t be much older than thirty. As a military tribune, Pavo had encountered dozens of men like this in the Sixth – career soldiers, men who’d signed away their lives at the age of eighteen, or earlier perhaps, lying to enlist as soon as they could. Men who made it their business to shed blood for Rome in far-flung corners of the Empire. A cause that Pavo had once believed in himself. Until Rome had sunk its teeth into his neck.

‘It appears your stay here is to be rather shorter than I had hoped,’ Gurges said, choosing his words carefully, glancing at the stocky man out of the corner of his eye. Pavo thought he detected a trace of resentment in the lanista’s voice.

‘What are you talking about?’ Pavo said, his voice barely a whisper. In the distance he could hear the roars and shouts of Amadocus and the other veterans being manhandled into their cells.

Gurges wrinkled his lips. He hesitated, gesturing to the scroll he held in his hands. He went on, ‘This man is a soldier, Pavo. Sent from Rome, on imperial orders, no less. You are to fight the barbarian Britomaris. To the death.’

Pavo looked stony-faced at the soldier. He knew the name Britomaris. At training that morning the recruits had been talking of his defeat of Capito. Rumours had swirled through the ludus: that Britomaris ate babies for breakfast, that he was born in the Underworld, that his manhood could snap a vestal virgin in half.

‘I understand the fight will be held at the Julian plaza in Rome. An impressive venue,’ Gurges said, drawing Pavo out of his stupor. The lanista frowned again. ‘A great pity that we won’t get the chance to see you in action here in Paestum. For your sake as well as mine.’

The soldier grunted. ‘If I may,’ he began gruffly. Gurges nodded jadedly and the soldier turned to Pavo. ‘My name is Lucius Cornelius Macro. I’m an optio in the Second Legion. I’m here to train you for the fight.’

‘Who sent you?’

Macro pursed his lips. ‘The order was signed by Marcus Antonius Pallas.’

Pavo laughed. ‘So it’s as good as from the Emperor himself, then.’

‘That’s about the size of it, lad.’ He narrowed his eyes at Pavo. ‘You’re familiar with the name?’

‘You could say that,’ the young recruit replied, his mood improving rapidly. ‘Pallas was the man who convinced the Emperor to condemn my father to death in the arena. I’ve heard that Claudius was set to spare his life until that arse-licking Greek swayed his decision. That aide of his does most of his bidding.’

‘Murena,’ Macro muttered.

‘That’s the one,’ Pavo nodded. ‘Thick as thieves, those two.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Macro cut himself short, aware of the political danger of criticising the imperial household in the presence of the lanista. Gurges struck Macro as an untrustworthy sort of fellow. ‘Enough talk. Let’s knuckle down to business. As you can see, I’ve already cleared this matter with your lanista. From what I’ve been told, you’re a natural with a sword, so we’re not totally fucked.’

Gurges cleared his throat. Macro shot a look at him.

‘About my compensation,’ the lanista said carefully. ‘This is a fine young specimen of a man. I won’t sell him off for less than the going rate.’

Macro produced a bag filled with coins from under his tunic and chucked it at the lanista, who caught it in his cupped hands and licked his lips as he peeked inside.

‘I suppose this looks to be an adequate level of compensation,’ he said greedily. ‘And I presume you’ll be staying with us, Optio?’

‘You must be joking,’ Macro said. ‘I’ll get myself a nice warm bed at a cosy inn in town.’ He watched a cockroach scuttle across the floor. ‘Although even a shit bed would be better than staying in this armpit of a house.’

Gurges grunted irritably and turned to leave. Macro watched him go, then frowned at the pots and cups scattered across the ground. He sized Pavo up, and the expression on his face suggested to the recruit that the soldier did not approve of what he saw.

‘It’s been a bloody long journey,’ he said finally. ‘We begin tomorrow at dawn. You’d better pray you’re more effective with a sword than you are with your fists, lad. For both our sakes.’

J
ust as he had promised, Macro was waiting for Pavo on the ludus training ground the following morning. The optio fixed his steely gaze on the young recruit as he strode across from the east-facing portico. The men of the gladiator school had been given a piece of stale bread washed down with a cup of vinegary wine as breakfast in their cells. Bucco and the other recruits resumed their work at the paluses positioned near the sundial in the middle of the courtyard, while Amadocus and the veterans practised fighting in pairs at the far end. A single palus had been erected for Macro at the opposite end. A pair of pigskins and a set of full legionary armour comprising a helmet, cuirass and bronze belt, as well as a shield and a marching yoke, were laid out on the ground in the shadow of the optio. The lanista gazed down from the balcony and stared intently at Macro. He looked displeased at the prospect of a soldier training a recruit in his ludus. There was a risk that Macro might make Calamus look bad, Pavo supposed, and in a ludus the authority of the doctore was absolute. He tried to shut everything else out and approached the officer with a sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of being paired against Britomaris.

‘You’re late,’ Macro growled, gesturing up at the sun gleaming over the roof tiles.

‘Sorry,’ said Pavo.

‘Sorry,
sir
,’ Macro corrected him.

Pavo glared at the officer. ‘You’re forgetting who you’re talking to,
Optio
. You’re a mere drill instructor. I’m a military tribune, second in command of the Sixth Legion. Address me correctly in the future.’

‘And you’re forgetting that you’re in a fucking ludus,’ Macro thundered, his face darkening, his blood boiling between his temples. ‘You’re not a tribune any more. And frankly I don’t care much for some privileged broad-striper talking down to Rome’s newest hero.’

‘Hero?’

Macro nodded curtly. ‘Decorated by the Emperor himself.’

Pavo dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, sealing his lips tightly shut. Much as he hated to admit it, Macro was right. He was the man in charge. He had imperial authority. Pavo had been stripped of his rights and condemned to the arena. According to the strict social mores of Rome, he was no better than a common slave.

‘Question my authority again, and I’ll have Calamus thrash you. Understood?’

‘Yes … sir,’ Pavo said through clenched jaws.

Macro was in a foul mood. The only inn that had any rooms available in the middle of the night had been the Drunken Goat, a stinking cesspit on the outskirts of Paestum. The wine had tasted like donkey piss and the bill had been eye-watering. He’d spent the night on an uncomfortable hay mattress and had been awoken by the innkeeper’s wife kicking him out an hour before dawn. That morning Macro had made his way to the ludus bleary-eyed and ferociously hungry, and to his shock found himself regretting the day he’d been decorated. What should have been the proudest moment of his life had quickly descended into a nightmare. Not only did he have precious little time before the fight, but his charge was a belligerent brat.

Macro stepped closer to Pavo. He eyed him from head to toe, the way an officer instructor inspects his men on parade.

‘Your face is covered in bruises,’ he said. ‘A bit of advice for you, Pavo. Next time you’re trading punches with someone much bigger than you, learn how to block.’ The officer caught sight of the recruit’s right hand and gestured towards it. ‘What in Hades’ name happened there?’

Pavo glanced down. His fingers had swollen to twice their size and his palm was badly purpled. He hadn’t noticed the injury last night. He’d gone to sleep with his mind reeling at the idea of saving the reputation of the very man who’d ordered his father to fight in the arena. But when he had woken up, he’d felt a dull ache spreading up his forearm, and at breakfast he could barely flex his fingers.

‘That rat Amadocus did it,’ he said with a snarl, ‘when he cornered me last night in the canteen. Can’t hold a sword, thanks to that bastard.’

Macro shook his head. ‘Never mind. You’re not going to be using a sword much.’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Pavo.

Macro grinned. ‘You’re not going to fight like a gladiator, boy. Capito has tried that against Britomaris already and you know the result. Trading blows with that barbarian is suicide. You’re bound to lose.’

Pavo huffed. ‘You’re implying that I’ve agreed to fight Britomaris.’

‘You don’t have a choice,’ said Macro. ‘You’re a trainee gladiator now, not a citizen.’

‘I could lose. Heap further shame on the Emperor. I’m sentenced to die anyway in this bloody ludus. I’ve nothing to lose by letting Britomaris kill me. My old life has been taken away.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ The officer met the trainee’s eye. ‘You do have something to lose.’

Pavo cocked his head at Macro. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You have a son, yes?’

‘Appius.’ Pavo nodded. ‘He’s almost two. His mother died during childbirth. My father Titus and mother Drusilla raised him.’ He swallowed. ‘Until they were murdered.’

‘I have good news for you. Well, good and bad,’ Macro said, weighing up the thoughts in his head. ‘Appius is alive. He’s being held at the imperial palace. If you win, the Emperor has promised to release him.’

A tingle of cold dread flared at the back of Pavo’s scalp. His muscles went numb with rage and shock. His son. Alive. At the mercy of that snake Pallas and his lackey Murena. Pavo booted the foot of the palus and belted out an explosive roar of anger. Macro backed off a step.

‘Is there no end to Pallas and his cruelty?’ Pavo growled bitterly. ‘First he takes my father away from me. Then he dangles my only son before me like a carrot in front of a donkey.’

Macro watched Pavo wrestle with his rage. Taming this lad would be tricky, he thought to himself. The trainee paced up and down the ground furiously, his muscles trembling, his fists clenched, a ball of uncontrollable rage. Then he stopped, took a deep breath and glanced at Macro.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll fight Britomaris. But I don’t need advice from a mere optio. I’m good with a sword. I can take that barbarian perfectly well on my own. Be on your way.’

Macro folded his arms across his barrel-like chest. ‘Have you seen Britomaris fight?’

‘No … sir,’ Pavo said hesitantly.

‘Well, it just so happens that I have. And I can tell you a couple of things about our barbarian friend. One: he’s big. Much bigger than you. Two: he’s bloody strong. Same as any barbarian. They grow up in a cruel world. There are none of life’s little luxuries for these monsters. You could be Hercules himself with a sword, it wouldn’t matter. He’d knock you down just by breathing on you.’

Pavo visibly deflated. He felt a cold knot of fear in the pit of his stomach as the scale of the task in front of him grew more ominous. He’d been cocky about his chances against Hermes in a fight. Perhaps too cocky, he reflected. Now, as he was forced to confront the reality of an actual fight to the death, he found his confidence rapidly draining.

‘Cheer up,’ Macro said, patting Pavo on the back. ‘You’re going to fight in front of the Emperor, for the glory of Rome, watched by thousands of people. Fights don’t get much bigger. And this is only your first one, you lucky bugger. You should be kissing Fortuna’s arse.’

Pavo shrugged him off. ‘You have a perverse idea of luck.’

‘Just trying to put some fire in your belly,’ Macro said, furrowing his brow at his student’s prickly nature. ‘Look, there’s no point moping about feeling sorry for yourself. If you go into the arena with that kind of attitude, you’ll stand no chance.’