Simon Scarrow - Arena

‘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.’

Pavo shrugged as the sun simmered and swelled on the horizon.

‘I don’t deserve this,’ he said, turning away from Macro. ‘Everything that’s happened to me. To my family. First my father. Then me. Now they’ve made a prisoner out of my son. How much more suffering does that wretch Pallas wish to inflict? It’s not fair.’

‘Bollocks!’ Macro barked with such venom that it sent a jolt quivering like an arrow up Pavo’s spine. ‘This is Rome, lad. There’s no such thing as fair. Even a high-born boy like you must know that. And yes, I know all about your family squabble. I’m sorry about what happened with Titus. He had respect, even from us hard-to-please men in the Second. But that’s all in the past now, lad. You have to focus on Britomaris.’

Pavo closed his eyes and sighed.

‘Do you know how my father died?’ he asked Macro, keeping his eyes closed, as if he was trying to seek peace in the dark. ‘Did that rat Murena tell you about how Rome treated a man who sacrificed everything to the city?’

Macro cleared his throat. ‘He told me that Hermes killed your old man in the arena.’