Simon Scarrow - Arena

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to judge.’

Bucco sighed. ‘Forget it. Not your fault I’m here, is it?’

‘Your sons — how old are they?’

‘Papirius is seven, Salonius is four.’ Bucco stared wistfully at his empty bowl, lost in thought. ‘They’re good boys. The little ’un wants to be a soldier when he grows up. Says he wants to conquer Britain all by himself.’

‘I have a son of my own,’ Pavo said. ‘Or I did,’ he added quietly. He moved on quickly, before Bucco could ask about Appius and open the still-sore wound. ‘It must be hard for them to see their father in a ludus.’

‘Well I don’t imagine I’ll be here for very long,’ Bucco replied casually.

‘Oh?’ Pavo raised his eyebrows. ‘I hate to point it out to you, Bucco, but it’ll take you a long time before you’ve got enough money to settle your debts in full. Even with the signing-on fee, that still leaves you short by six thousand sestertii.’

Bucco lowered his voice and tapped the side of his nose furtively. ‘Between you and me, I’ve got a plan for settling up sooner rather than later.’

Pavo puckered his brow. ‘What are you talking about?’

The volunteer leaned in to Pavo, a slovenly grin stretched across his flabby jowls. ‘There’s a bookmaker who visits the ludus every so often. You can place bets with him on the fights. The way I see it, being here I’ll be able to judge the form and ability of the gladiators: injuries, training, that sort of thing. I can’t lose! I’m going to use the money I received when signing my contract to buy my way out of here before the year is out.’

‘What if you get the bets wrong?’ the recruit asked.

‘I won’t. Come on, don’t give me that look! Can you honestly see me leaving the ludus in one piece? Look at the size of some of the veterans. Bloody beasts! What chance do I stand against any of that lot? This way I can make enough money to repay my debts and settle my contract with old Gurges. It’s got to be a better bet than bleeding to death in some godforsaken arena.’

Pavo was about to reply, but he was interrupted by a call from the doctore, ordering the recruits to their cells. Bucco grudgingly stood up. The others began to file out of the canteen. Pavo remained for a moment on the floor. He wanted a moment of peace to himself as he made a solemn vow to see his quest through to the bitter end. He wouldn’t stop before he had a chance to watch the life drain out of Hermes. Nothing would stand in his way. Opening his eyes, Pavo rose to his feet, suddenly alone. He turned towards the corridor and noticed someone blocking his path.

‘Going somewhere?’ Amadocus whispered.

Pavo froze as light from a nearby lamp illuminated the veteran’s features. Up close, Pavo could see that he had the bulbous nose and cauliflower ears of a man who had been in his fair share of brawls. He towered over Pavo, his eyes glinting. The recruit was dimly aware of three more veterans behind Amadocus. The Thracian stood his ground while the other men slowly circled Pavo, breathing heavily through their nostrils.

‘Let me through,’ Pavo said.

Amadocus stood his ground. Pavo could hear the three other men at his back. ‘Son of a legate, they say. Military tribune. Pah!’ He flicked his eyes up at Pavo. ‘I fucking hate Romans. And if there’s one thing I hate more than Romans, it’s Roman soldiers.’

Pavo looked around. The canteen was empty. The rest of the gladiators and the servants had left. There was no one to help him.

‘I saw you at the palus today, Roman. And I tell you, there’s only one thing worse than a Roman soldier. Any idea what that is?’

‘No.’ Pavo shrugged. He saw that Amadocus had balled his right hand into a fist. He took a step back from Pavo and grinned at the other three men.

‘He doesn’t know, lads,’ Amadocus said as his accomplices steered back behind the enlarged shoulders of the veteran. They laughed meanly and glared at Pavo, and the recruit craned his neck past Amadocus as he tried to catch sight of the guards. They had disappeared, and Pavo had an awful feeling that they had abandoned their post on purpose.

‘A Roman soldier who’s a show-off, that’s what,’ Amadocus went on, staring viciously at Pavo. ‘Just because you can hit a bit of wood, don’t go around thinking you’re a gladiator. You have to earn this in blood.’ The veteran raised his left wrist to reveal a reddish ‘G’, representing the house of Gurges, branded on his flesh. Pavo had noticed that all of the veteran gladiators sported the same brand. He had overheard another recruit explain that to receive a branding was an honour bestowed only when a trainee gladiator triumphed in the arena and became a veteran.

The recruit said nothing. Amadocus chuckled as he cupped his hand to his ear and turned it towards Pavo.

‘What’s that, Roman? Something to say?’

Pavo still said nothing.

‘That’s what I thought.’ Amadocus clucked as he stepped closer. Pavo could smell the foul breath coming off him. ‘A fucking coward. Just like your old man.’

A hot rage burst inside Pavo. He spat into Amadocus’s face, the thick globule catching him on the forehead, sliding down between his eyes and on to his nose. For a moment the veteran was stunned. He took a step back, his muscles palpitating with anger as he wiped the spit away from his face and studied it in the palm of his hand. His eyes were wide and his brow furrowed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

Then he punched Pavo in the stomach. The recruit doubled up in pain and fell forward. Amadocus grabbed him by the nape of his tunic and smashed a knee into his face, the dome of the bone slamming into the bridge of his nose. Agony shot through Pavo’s skull, and he lost his balance abruptly. He dropped to the ground, and a flurry of hard feet to his chest and abdomen winded him further. He rolled on to his front, curling up into a tight ball to shield himself from the repeated wave of blows. Each time he tried scrabbling to his feet, another hit thudded down on the small of his back and struck him like a hammer. His face was smeared with the foul hay that had been raked across the canteen floor. His nostrils were violated by the thick stench of sweat and piss.

‘Spit on me, will you!’ Amadocus fumed above the pounding between his temples. ‘I’ll teach you some manners, you little prick!’

Pavo tried crawling away from Amadocus and the other veterans, his face and hands tarnished with dirt, the salty taste of blood in his mouth. He clawed his way towards the far end of the canteen, towards the trestle tables and the cooking pots filled with gruel. Then a boot plummeted down on to his hand, and there was a sickening crunch as it crushed his fingers. Pavo winced in pain. The boot ground his fingers underfoot, as if crushing grapes in a wine vat. It rose suddenly, freeing his hand, but Pavo felt himself being lifted off the ground and thrown forward. There was a crashing din as he fell head-first into a stack of pans, pots and clay bowls. His skull jarred as he landed with a thud, and beyond the piercing sound in his ears he could faintly hear Amadocus stomping towards him. Pavo grabbed a bronze pot emptied of gruel and in the same blur of motion he rolled on to his right side and swung it at Amadocus just as the veteran reached down to grab him. Amadocus grunted as the pot clattered against the side of his skull with a hollow thud. He stumbled backwards, dazed and shocked. He shook his head clear and turned to his shocked accomplices.

‘Fucking get him!’

The three other men closed in on Pavo. The middle one rushed at him, a couple of steps ahead of the other two. He had a dense beard and a thickset frame. He swung a roundhouse punch which Pavo jerked away from, and as momentum carried the blow on its trajectory above his head, Pavo lunged at the man and butted him in the middle of his chest. He grunted as the force of the blow sent him stumbling backwards. His comrades stepped out of the way as he tripped over a bench and fell to the ground amid a cacophony of shattering cups and bowls. The man to the right, a gaunt-looking figure with an angular frame and gaps in his front teeth, spun around and grabbed Pavo from behind, wrapping a bony arm around his neck and clamping his other hand to the recruit’s forehead while the third man, a bear of a figure and a head taller than the others, made to unload a punch at his guts.