Simon Scarrow - Arena

The streets were bustling and loud with the hubbub of traders’ voices as Macro and Pavo headed south from the imperial palace towards the Aventine Hill. Children’s voices rang out above the metallic clank of shopkeepers releasing bolt locks as they opened their shop fronts for the day. Macro moved at a brisk pace, thoughts weighing heavily on his mind. Although he did not share his concern with his young charge, he worried about the lack of time in which to prepare. Normally three to four months was required to properly train even a veteran gladiator for a fight against a fearsome opponent. Pavo had a mere four fights under his belt and would be facing a supremely fit champion.

Macro surprised himself with how badly he wanted to see Pavo triumph. Respect for high-born Romans did not come naturally to the optio, who had grown up in humble surroundings. But Pavo had proved himself not only a talented swordsman but a hard-working student who possessed an indomitable spirit. Even with the might of the imperial household against him, he had never buckled under pressure and his fighting qualities would make him a worthy officer in any legion. And as his mentor, Macro felt a certain sense of pride.

A short while later Macro and Pavo threaded their way through the seething mass of humanity crammed on to the Aventine Hill. Decrepit tenement blocks stood several storeys high, cutting out what little natural light there was and casting a fetid gloom over the downtrodden inhabitants. The air was filled with the dull hammering of coppersmiths hard at work and the occasional cry of crazed drunks coming from within the dimly lit taverns scattered throughout the district.

‘What in the name of the gods is this place?’ Pavo spluttered. ‘And what is that smell?’

Macro slapped a hand on the gladiator’s shoulder and gave him a hearty shake. ‘This is the Aventine Hill. The beating heart of Rome.’

There was a squelching sound as Pavo trod in something wet and slimy. Stopping in his tracks, he looked down in horror at a foul brown puddle. There were similar puddles all along the street. The young gladiator fought a strong urge to puke as he realised that a river of filth was literally running through the street. Macro chuckled at his companion.

‘Open sewer,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘The Aventine is riddled with ’em.’

Pavo looked for somewhere to wipe his fouled feet. ‘This is not the heart of the city, sir. It is a repugnant slum. How anyone can live like this is quite beyond me.’

Macro widened his eyes. ‘You’re one to talk, lad. The gladiator who lives in a rank cell, eating maggot-infested gruel twice a day.’

Pavo furrowed his brow at Macro. ‘My conditions are not out of choice, sir. They were imposed on me by Cornicen, as you well know. It’s not my fault the imperial lanista singled me out for special treatment.’

‘Always get on with the lanistas, don’t you, lad?’ Macro joked.

The younger man glared at the optio and waved a hand in front of him where men with dishevelled beards and wearing threadbare tunics shuffled solemnly through the streets. Babies wailed from within crumbling tenement blocks.

‘My point is that these people have chosen to wallow in their own filth.’

Macro cocked an eyebrow at Pavo. ‘Haven’t been to the Aventine before, have you?’

‘Never,’ the young gladiator replied proudly. ‘My family home was on the Appian Way. I rarely ventured within the city walls. Sometimes to attend processions in the Forum or listen to the debates going on in the Senate.’

Macro shook his head. ‘Lucky for you. I once lived in this pit. And I can assure you, I had no choice in the matter, like the rest of these poor devils.’

They passed a bakery. A crowd of stick-thin Romans meekly gathered outside, waiting to exchange their grain rations for loaves of bread. Pavo knew that millions across the Empire depended on the grain ration. Perhaps Macro was right, he considered. Perhaps these individuals weren’t scroungers on the grain dole, as he’d previously assumed. He fell quiet, lost in thought as they moved through the streets.

Macro stayed silent at his side. After his mother had run away from the family home when Macro was a child, he had moved with his father to the Aventine Hill to be closer to his uncle Sextus. The sprawling streets and angry shouts of mid-morning drunks were instantly familiar to the soldier.

At the end of the street they spotted a rundown tavern built into the ground floor of a four-storey block. A brightly painted sign hung from a wall outside. A chorus of loud belches and roaring laughs emanated from inside. Pavo frowned at the sign and read it out loud.

‘The Drunken Goat. Come thirsty, leave merry.’ He shrugged. ‘Has a certain ring to it.’

Macro nodded at an arch next to the tavern.

‘Must be this way.’

The two men passed under the arch and entered a courtyard at the back of the tenement block. The courtyard reminded Macro of the place where Draba had trained him many years ago. Refuse was piled in the corners and the air was thick with the stench of decay and damp. Two pairs of wicker shields and wooden swords were stacked against the wall. They were the same as the training weapons issued to new recruits in the legions, deliberately designed to be heavier than real weapons so that novice swordsmen developed their muscles as well as honing their sword-fighting techniques. High tenement blocks surrounded the courtyard, and even with the clouds clearing in the sky, the shafts of sunlight found it difficult to penetrate the gloom.

Macro looked around the courtyard and frowned.

‘Bastard is late,’ he muttered, kicking one of the training shields in frustration. ‘Typical gladiator. No discipline.’

At that moment a full-throated roar erupted from inside the tavern. The wooden door at the back crashed open and a huge figure staggered out. Pavo turned towards the man. His burly torso was heavily scarred, but the scars were nothing compared to the appalling injuries to his face. His muscles were slack with age and he had a large paunch. The man raised his small, dim eyes to Macro.

‘Publius Didius Ruga?’ Macro asked, taken aback by the sight in front of him.

‘That’s me.’ His voice was slurred. He thumped a mangled fist on his lacerated chest. ‘Finest fucking gladiator in the days of Emperor Tiberius, I’ll have you know.’ He burped.

At first Pavo could not believe that the maimed veteran in front of him had once proved himself the equal of Hermes. He studied Ruga as the man approached him, limping slightly. Ruga cocked his head at the young gladiator.

‘You must be the thick bastard Murena was telling me about,’ he said disdainfully.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Pavo replied with a start.

A cynical smile creased the veteran’s face. ‘Anyone who wishes to fight Hermes is a fool. As my scars should make clear. What’s your excuse, boy?’

Pavo stared at Ruga. ‘I’m no fool. Hermes took the life of my father,’ he replied coldly. ‘And I don’t want to merely fight Hermes. I want to kill him.’

Ruga kept smiling. ‘I’m sure you do. But fifty or so gladiators have stepped out to face Hermes and not one of them has triumphed. What makes you think you can do any better?’

Pavo glanced at the optio. ‘I have the best trainer in Macro. He’s one of the finest soldiers in the legions. He knows more than anyone about handling a sword.’

Ruga bowed his head in the direction of the soldier. ‘With all due respect, Optio, your student’s past achievements in the arena count for nothing. Fighting Hermes is like taking on five gladiators at the same time.’

‘Bollocks to this. I don’t have to justify myself to some washed-up swordsman,’ Macro said impatiently. ‘Look here. We’ve got a month until the big fight. Now can you help us or not?’