Simon Scarrow - Arena

‘That depends.’

‘On what? From what we’ve been told, you already struck a deal with Murena. Unless you train the lad, you can forget about returning to your old line of work as a bodyguard.’

Ruga glared at the soldier. Without replying, he paraded over to the training equipment stacked against the wall and picked up one of the wooden swords. He pointed the tip at Pavo and said, ‘Show me what you can do.’

‘You’re not serious,’ Pavo spluttered.

‘Defeating Hermes is about more than pure skill, boy. It’s about having the desire to win. More than that, it’s about not shitting your loincloth when Hermes is coming at your throat with a foot and a half of sharpened steel. Getting my old job back with Senator Macula is all well and good, but I’m not short of coin for the odd drink, and I’d rather walk away now unless you prove to me that you’ve got a hell’s chance of cutting down that fucking savage.’

‘You’re drunk,’ Pavo said in disgust.

‘I’ve still got what it takes, boy.’

Pavo raised an eyebrow. The retired gladiator paused for a moment as he reached down with his free hand and unsheathed a wooden dagger fixed to a leather strap fastened round his tunic. Several lines of text were engraved along the length of the blade. He held the dagger closer so that Pavo could read it. The retired gladiator’s name was engraved on a brass plate fixed to the blade. Next to it were the date and the name of the last opponent he faced in the arena.

‘Hermes,’ Pavo whispered as he read the name.

Ruga grunted. ‘My rudis of freedom, presented to me by Tiberius after I came closer than any man to overcoming the colossus from Rhodes. I may be worn as old boots now, but I can still teach you a trick or two.’

Sheathing his rudis, Ruga chucked the training sword at Pavo, scooped up the second sword and kicked off his sandals in readiness for combat.

‘Sir …?’ Pavo asked, glancing at Macro.

The optio shrugged. ‘You heard the man. Show him what you’ve got.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Pavo gulped.

He gripped the sword in his right hand. The lead weight in the pommel made the weapon heavier than a standard short sword, and he slowly adjusted to the increased weight as he turned to face Ruga. Macro clapped his hands to signal the start of the bout, but Pavo hesitated. Ruga bared his teeth at the young gladiator, seeing the uncertainty in his eyes.

‘Come on, boy!’ he growled. ‘Attack me!’

Pushing his concerns about injuring the retired gladiator to one side, Pavo inched towards his opponent. Ruga studied him intently as Pavo lunged at him, thrusting the tip of his sword at his exposed neck. In a lightning flash of movement Ruga leaned to his left and deflected the attack with a sudden flick of his sword before pushing forward on his right foot and cracking Pavo on the bridge of his nose with a deft upward thrust. Pavo saw white for an instant. Ruga took two steps back, his lips parted in a drunken grin.

The younger man tasted something salty in his mouth and put a hand to his face. Hot blood trickled out of his nose. Ruga moved with a litheness that belied his hefty physique. Shaking his head clear, Pavo filled his lungs and launched a low thrust at Ruga, driving the tip of his sword at his groin. Ruga jinked to the right this time, circling Pavo as momentum carried him forward. A jarring pain shuddered through the young gladiator as the veteran slammed the weighted pommel of his sword against his back. Clamping his jaws shut and fighting the nausea rising in his throat, Pavo spun raggedly round and staggered away from his opponent. Ruga was bustling with vigour now, his aged muscles pumping, his eyes wide with fury.

‘Come on!’ he goaded. ‘Surely you can do better than that?’

Enraged at having allowed himself to be caught out twice, Pavo charged at the retired gladiator with renewed determination. Ruga launched a stabbing move at his chest. Pavo quickly feinted and responded with a driving thrust that caught the veteran on the chin. Ruga hopped backwards. Pavo attacked him quickly a second time, his skill with a sword bewildering the retired gladiator. Ducking a solid thrust to the throat, Ruga jabbed his sword at Pavo’s midriff. The younger man quickly parried with a flick of his wrist, arcing his wooden blade across his chest.

Now Pavo snatched a breath and brought his sword crashing down towards his opponent’s temple. At the last moment Ruga jerked his sword up above his head and blocked the attack. Immediately the veteran cursed as he realised he’d left his torso exposed. Pavo punished him before he could backtrack, booting him in his paunch. Ruga staggered backwards. Pavo stormed forward and moved in for the decisive blow. He lunged at the veteran, aiming his training sword at his throat. But in a swift stroke Ruga dropped to a crouch and ducked the blow. Extending his right arm, he swiped his sword across the ground, knocking the younger man off balance. Pavo stumbled. Ruga followed up with a fist to the guts that sent his opponent tumbling to the ground with a desperate grunt. A sharp pain tremored down Pavo’s spine as he slammed against the flagstones.

Ruga was on to him in a flash, kicking away the sword that had fallen uselessly from his floored opponent’s grip. At the same time he pressed the tip of his own sword against the younger man’s neck. Out of the corner of his eye Pavo spied Macro shaking his head in dismay.

‘If you were fighting against Hermes, you’d be dead,’ Ruga croaked between snatched breaths. ‘Right now you couldn’t beat the champion of Rome if he was fighting blind.’

Pavo climbed awkwardly to his feet, furious with himself for losing to a retired gladiator — and one who was clearly the worse for wear. He shook his groggy head clear and gestured for his sword.

‘Again,’ he demanded. ‘I’ll beat you this time.’

Ruga clenched his hand into a fist. His eyes twinkled. ‘That’s more bloody like it, boy! Never give up. That’s the attitude you’ll need if you want to defeat Hermes.’ He scratched his straggly beard and considered Pavo. ‘You have excellent reactions. I can see the optio has trained you well. But there’s still plenty of work to be done with your movement and defence. With the right training, you may have a chance.’

‘We have a month until the fight,’ Macro cut in, quietly satisfied that Ruga could be of value during their training programme. ‘Do you think it’s possible to get him ready for Hermes by then?’

Ruga smiled. ‘Perhaps. But it’s going to be tough. From now until the day of the games we’ll need to work him harder and longer than any gladiator who has ever trained for a fight.’

‘I’ll do it!’ Pavo exclaimed defiantly. ‘Whatever it takes. Hermes will fall by my sword, I swear.’

‘Good. Then we begin immediately,’ Ruga said as Macro nodded his approval. ‘Just as soon as I’ve got my breath back and had another drink.’

‘A provocator fights with thirty pounds of equipment,’ Ruga boomed, his hoarse voice echoing around the courtyard the following afternoon. He counted off the items on his scarred fingers. ‘Helmet, armour, sword, shield. He has to carry a much heavier load than any other gladiator type. And if you’re going to defeat Hermes, you need to rethink the way you fight. You must learn how to move, how to defend, how to attack without tiring. One thing’s for sure. If you approach your fight the way you did yesterday, you’ll knacker yourself in next to no time, and Hermes will stick you like a pig.’

A mild breeze whipped up, swirling dust around their feet. Macro stood at the edge of the courtyard, his cloak draped across his muscular shoulders, squinting in the gloom as Ruga put the young gladiator through his paces. The optio had been present at the Forum the previous day, where an announcement had been made to the excited crowd gathered to hear details of the forthcoming bout. Instead of hosting the fight at the Statilius Taurus arena, the sponsors had declared that Hermes and Pavo would fight in a temporary wooden arena constructed in the Roman Forum. Macro knew enough about the history of gladiator combat to see that the decision was a masterstroke from Pallas. His old trainer, Draba, had regaled him with stories of how, in the days before a dedicated arena had been constructed, gladiator events were frequently staged in the Forum. Hosting a one-off fight there would conjure memories of the great gladiator bouts of the past. Macro had departed the Forum after the announcer revealed the details of the prize on offer for the victor, a new title never before bestowed on a gladiator: Champion of the Arena.