Simon Scarrow - Arena

‘I swear to the gods I’ll make a champion of him yet,’ Macro mumbled to himself.

For the next nineteen days Macro worked tirelessly on Pavo’s fitness. During agonising sprint sessions he instructed the trainee to practise dashing from one end of the training ground to the other, before counting to five and sprinting back in the opposite direction. Pavo ran until his legs could carry his body no further, and then ran some more. He ran with a constant feeling of sickness in his mouth and a stitch spearing his right side. Macro forced him to run until he could do a hundred laps without breaking into a sweat. He worked with Pavo on endless long jumps, high jumps and lunges to put some extra spring into his gangly legs. Gradually Pavo noticed that his muscle ache was wearing off as he crawled out of his cell each morning and dragged himself to the training ground. By the end of the circuit programme he could feel his thighs and abdominal muscles becoming firmer and more supple. He had found his stride and was standing upright instead of spilling his guts on the floor. He felt leaner, faster and more agile. He was ready to face Britomaris.

On the twentieth day, Macro made preparations for their return to Rome. Pavo’s hand had healed sufficiently for him to grasp a sword without too much pain, although he grimly understood that the injury would not be gone entirely by the time of his bout. He’d be taking on Britomaris with a damaged hand.

Pavo awoke with a feeling of dread in his guts that morning. Macro had arranged to meet him at dawn with a pair of horses at the ludus gates. As he rose, he noticed Bucco watching him from the other side of the cell. On most mornings Bucco overslept, his loud snoring echoing through the barracks and incurring the wrath of the doctore. This morning, though, the volunteer was wide awake.

‘You’ll be off to Rome, then?’ he said, stretching his arms and legs. Bucco had already lost an alarming amount of weight since enlisting. The tortuously long hours spent at the palus, combined with the limited diet, had left him pale and lean. The palms of his hands were covered in calluses.

Pavo nodded as he rolled up his cloak and tucked it under his arm. ‘It appears so.’

‘Never been there myself. What’s it like?’

‘Rome?’ Pavo chuckled. ‘The weather is stifling, the food is rubbish, the streets are filthy, everything is overpriced and everyone’s in a mad rush, but other than that, it’s fine.’

‘Oh,’ Bucco said with a frown. He stared out of the small window that afforded the men a view of Paestum’s dilapidated forum. ‘I rather thought it might be …’ He shrugged. ‘You know, centre of the world and all that.’

‘I’m being harsh. It’s a wonderful city, really. Just one full of bad memories for me.’

Pavo ran a hand over his cloak. It was stained with the filth of the ludus and it reeked of sweat and urine. But he felt a strange attachment to it. It was, he reflected, his only worldly possession.

Bucco rose to his feet. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

Pavo nodded. ‘Thanks, Bucco.’

A guard unlocked their cell and ushered Pavo towards the stone stairs that led to the ground floor. As they passed each of the other cells, veteran gladiators bellowed abuse at Pavo. The kinder ones wished him a quick death in the arena. The less kind ones he tried not to think about. He descended the stairs, the guard close behind with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword at all times in case Pavo tried to make a break for freedom. From the ground floor they passed down the corridor that led towards the training ground. The guard escorted Pavo around the perimeter towards the main building at the northern end, which housed the servants’ quarters, medical facilities and the administrative offices. Daylight had not yet broken, and a gritty, speckled darkness accompanied by an eerie silence hung like a veil over the empty ground. Not a soul in sight, Pavo realised.

Then he saw a shadow skulking towards them from across the training ground. Pavo stopped in his tracks to focus on it. He smelled Amadocus before he recognised him. The trainee wrinkled his nose as the veteran drew nearer.

‘Pavo!’ Amadocus thundered. ‘I want a word with you.’

Just my luck, thought Pavo as Amadocus pounded across the training ground, his club-like feet thudding on the crisp sand with every giant stride. He halted at the verge of the ground.

‘Gurges has got me on latrine duty,’ Amadocus said, raising his shit-flecked palms at Pavo. ‘Four fucking weeks. This is your fault.’

Pavo smiled to himself. ‘If I recall, you were the one who attacked me,’ he said.

Amadocus snarled, then spat on the ground. ‘You started it the moment you stepped into this ludus. Pissing about with your fancy handiwork at the palus.’ He rubbed dirt out of his eye. ‘I hear you’re off to fight Britomaris.’

Pavo felt his neck muscles stiffen. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.’

Amadocus pulled an unpleasant face as he took a step closer to Pavo. ‘It should be me fighting in the arena. The great Amadocus! Champion of the house of Gurges! Not some woman born with a silver spoon in his mouth.’

He went to take another step towards Pavo. But the guard began to unsheath his sword and barked, ‘Back to work.’

Amadocus smiled as he retreated across the ground, pointing a filthy finger at Pavo. ‘Better pray you die in Rome, rich boy,’ he said. ‘If I see you in this ludus again, I’ll rip your guts out.’

The crowd rumbled expectantly as Macro made a final check on Pavo’s equipment. The two men were in a small, dark room on the western side of the Julian plaza. A short corridor led towards the colonnades that lined the arcades surrounding the roofed forum, which had been converted into an arena for the purposes of the day’s spectacle. Macro remembered his father taking him around the plaza as a boy. He recalled the rich smell of spices, cinnamon and incense that came from shops selling luxury goods on the walkways off the arcade, and the vast sculptures of the great Emperor Augustus and Julius Caesar mounted on plinths behind the travertine columns. The plaza looked very different now. Temporary wooden galleries had been erected in front of the colonnades, blocking out much of the sunlight. Through the corridor Macro could see the forum floor blanketed with bright white sand. He could hear the creak of the gallery walkways as the last members of the audience made their way to their allocated seating.

‘Nervous?’ the optio asked Pavo.

The trainee knitted his brow in the middle and stared defiantly at Macro. ‘I’m not afraid of dying, sir. I’m afraid of losing.’

The optio suddenly felt a pang of pity for his charge. He sympathised with Pavo. As a soldier, Macro’s greatest fear in battle wasn’t dying, but letting down his comrades. But he had had the grain of comfort of knowing that he had seventy-nine men around him who were thinking the same thing. Pavo, however, was all on his own.

Pavo adjusted the metal guard on his right shoulder until it was secure. From the arena the master of ceremonies began his preamble, though his authoritative voice was lost in the din of the crowd. Pavo could barely make out his thanks to the Emperor on behalf of the audience for hosting the spectacle. His warning about throwing objects at the gladiators, jumping into the arena or otherwise interfering in the contest was also greeted roundly with boos and heckles. The mood among the mob was more rowdy than Pavo could ever remember hearing. Even the crowds at the chariot races seemed fairly hushed by comparison. The roar trembled in his bones as Macro threw an arm over his shoulder and patted him on the back.