Simon Scarrow - Arena

‘Cheer up, lad,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, if the worst happens out there, I’ll organise a whip-round with some of the lads in the Second. Buy you a decent burial spot. Can’t have the son of a legate being slung into a pit grave, can we?’

‘Great,’ Pavo replied.

Macro looked his charge in the eye. ‘Britomaris is scum. Back home he shags sheep and whores out his daughters. He probably even drinks milk. You’re not going to let an animal like that steal the glory of the arena, are you?’

‘No, sir!’ Pavo shouted, his voice trembling with adrenalin.

The master of ceremonies bellowed out the recruit’s name. Macro prodded Pavo in the chest. ‘Britomaris didn’t kill your old man, but I want you to go out there feeling like he did. Imagine he’s the one who stabbed Titus. The blood is on his hands, lad.’

A flicker of hatred glowed in Pavo’s eyes. The officer could tell he’d hit a raw nerve with talk of his father.

Macro gave his charge a final slap on the back. ‘You’re fighting for yourself. For your boy, Appius. But most of all you’re fighting for your father’s name.’ He thumbed at the galleries. ‘This lot were probably cheering when your old man died. Why don’t you show them what a Valerius is really made of! Wherever Titus is, make him proud.’

He watched Pavo depart down the corridor towards the servants at the arena entrance. Macro had a space reserved for himself at the podium, not far from the Emperor, and close to Pallas and Murena. As he made his way through the bowels of the plaza he passed a hastily erected surgeon’s counter, where a set of instruments were laid out on a table: a sickening array of forceps, scalpels, catheters and bone saws that turned Macro’s blood cold. There was a bowl of vinegar and a bucket of fresh water with a set of white cloths and a row of wine goblets set to one side. Macro knew from previous spectacles that the goblets were used by surgeons to save the blood from a newly dead gladiator to sell on the black market. Gladiator blood fetched a high price, especially for those seeking a cure for epilepsy. Macro hurried on, confounded by the layout of the plaza. There had to be an entrance to the stands somewhere near, he thought, glancing left and right and trying to get his bearings.

He slowed his stride as he heard two voices coming from within a second room. Thank the gods for that, he thought. I can ask them for directions. The voices were hushed and hurried, the soldier realised as he drew close to the door.

‘Hurry!’ one of the men implored angrily. Macro froze. He vaguely recognised the voice but couldn’t remember where he’d heard it. ‘It’s about to begin!’

‘Wait,’ the second man replied in a panicked tone. ‘I’ve got to get the mix right first. Too little poison and it won’t kill him!’

Intrigued, Macro poked his head inside. He saw a guard huddled over a gaunt older man who was pouring liquids into a bowl. With a start he recognised the guard as one of the Praetorians who had escorted him to the imperial palace a month ago. In addition to the sword he carried in a scabbard by his hip, the guard cradled a long spear of the type used by Britomaris in the arena. He was carefully dipping the tip of the spear into the bowl.

‘What the bloody Hades is going on here?’ Macro barked.

The surgeon looked up in horror and jumped back from the table. The Praetorian Guard looked up at Macro too. He grinned, seemingly unflustered by the optio’s sudden entrance.

‘Hang on,’ said Macro. ‘Where’s your mate?’

The Praetorian grinned still. Confusion clouded Macro. Then he heard footsteps behind him, too late for him to spin around. A dull thud crashed down on the optio’s skull. His world went black.

Pavo made his way under the temporary wooden stands into the main arena, his heart thumping against his breastbone, a rasping dryness in his throat. Britomaris had already entered the arena to a chorus of jeers as members of the crowd rained down obscenities on him. Britomaris seemed to be enjoying playing the role of villain, slowly turning to each quarter of the crowd in turn and raising a balled fist high above his head in a posture of defiance. His striped tunic and trousers had been replaced with a simple loincloth, so that just a cone-like helmet with a horse-tail crest signified his Celtic origins. He carried a long, narrow leather-bound shield with a decorated ceremonial bronze boss and his hair had been dyed blue. Pavo could make out the wild streaks of it as he reached the end of the corridor. A pair of officials stood guard at the entrance to the arena. The younger of the two held a convex shield fashioned in the style of a legionary’s, but without an emblem on the front.

The official handed Pavo the shield, then placed a legionary helmet over his head. The trainee hefted his shield to chest height as the crowd shouted impatiently for him to enter the arena.

‘Best of luck, eh,’ the older official said in a rough voice. He smirked at the trainee, revealing a set of rotten teeth with a gap at the front wide enough to push a thumb between. ‘Do us all a favour and try not to make too much of a mess. I don’t want to spend all bloody evening cleaning your guts off the sand.’

Pavo grunted. Then he burst out of the corridor and emerged to a wave of tumultuous cheers and applause. Adrenalin surged in his blood. He forgot about the nausea at the back of his throat and the fear in his bones. His muscles swelled and loosened. Riding a wave of euphoria, he glanced up at the central portico on the west side of the arena. Above the ornamented balustrade stood the makeshift imperial box. The two Greek freedmen were positioned to the left of the Emperor. Pavo recognised the good-looking one as Pallas. The other had curly dark hair and delicate features. Murena. Pallas looked anxious. Murena smiled thinly at Pavo, who felt the burning sensation in his throat boil up.

The next few moments passed in a blur. The master of ceremonies introduced the contenders to the crowd and reminded them that today would be a fight to the death. Trumpets blared. Drums beat an insistent rhythm. Another pair of servants entered the arena carrying the weapons. The servant on the left had a spear propped against his shoulder. The servant on the right carried a short sword sheathed in a scabbard which lay flat across his arms. The umpire — a stumpy man with a bald pate and a belly drooping over the belt of his tunic — ordered the servant to unsheathe the sword. He cursorily examined the tip of the blade to check its sharpness, then performed the same action with the spear. Pavo noted the spear’s wide iron head, with secondary tangs to inflict greater damage. An iron spike was attached to the base of the weathered ash shaft.

The umpire looked to Emperor Claudius and gave an approving nod to confirm the killing power of both weapons. The servants handed the spear to Britomaris and the sword to Pavo and hurried aside. Pavo gripped the double-edged short sword. He was still familiarising himself with the feel of the weapon when the Emperor gave the signal and the umpire shouted, ‘Engage!’

Pavo backtracked from Britomaris as soon as the words left the umpire’s mouth, just as Macro had instructed during those gruelling hours of training. The barbarian promptly charged at him, again just as the optio had warned. Taking six swift steps back from the centre of the arena, Pavo raised his shield in a defensive posture as Britomaris stabbed angrily at thin air with his spear. Pavo caught sight of the tangs glinting six inches from his face. He retreated further. The plaza floor covered a sprawling rectangular area roughly twice the size of the amphitheatre at Paestum. Pavo quickly discovered that the enormous space was ideal for his evasive tactics, permitting him to keep dropping away from Britomaris without the risk of being fatally cornered against a wall. Britomaris stormed after the recruit, his thickset legs bounding forward in big strides, his gargantuan torso already gleaming with sweat from his toil.