Simon Scarrow - Arena

He touched a hand to his temple. His head throbbed dully from the effects of the jug of cheap wine he’d sunk the previous evening with Ruga at the Drunken Goat. The two men had worked into the night, drawing up a training schedule that would give Pavo a fighting chance against Hermes. With only four weeks to prepare, they had decided to divide the programme into morning and afternoon sessions, with the former focusing on strength and stamina and the latter dedicated to working on Pavo’s combat technique and strategies.

Training began shortly after dawn each day. There was a short break at midday for a simple meal at the Drunken Goat — boiled pork and root vegetables accompanied by a piece of stale bread. Pavo considered it a relative feast compared to the barley gruel and vinegary wine he’d been served in the imperial ludus. Although he now trained and ate outside the ludus, Cornicen still went to great lengths to make his life a misery, even removing the straw bedding in his cell. At night Pavo lay shivering, swearing to the gods that he would not allow such petty tactics to get in the way of his desire to beat Hermes and avenge his father. In the afternoons Ruga stirred from his drunken slumber and sparred with the young gladiator, teaching him the sword-fighting techniques he’d need to counter the astonishing speed and power of his nemesis.

‘The secret to beating Hermes is to ignore everything you’ve learned about fighting,’ Ruga announced as he grabbed one of the training swords and pointed the tip at Pavo. ‘Hermes is a master of the counterattack. He deliberately lures his opponents into a trap, then packs them off to the Underworld with a choice stab to the throat. Attacking him is fraught with danger.’

The optio shook his head. ‘But the lad has to attack. Sitting back is asking for trouble. If he does that, Hermes will just pick him off.’

‘Macro is right,’ Pavo cut in. ‘Hermes destroyed Criton in such a manner three days ago at the Circus Maximus. I can’t defend against his brute force. No one can. He’s too strong.’

‘Ah, but Criton made a fatal mistake.’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Pavo replied doubtfully.

Ruga grinned. ‘Here. I’ll show you.’

The retired gladiator passed his training sword to Pavo, who gripped it round the weighted pommel. Then Ruga hefted up one of the two large rectangular wicker shields propped against the wall, clasping his left hand round the grip at the centre of the shield. He tapped the flat surface of the shield with his right hand and gestured to Pavo to attack.

‘Well, boy?’ he rasped. ‘What are you waiting for?’

Pavo forced his tensed muscles to relax and held his ground for a moment. He studied Ruga carefully, determined not to get caught out this time. His opponent had no sword to attack with, so it ought to be relatively simple to rout him. Ruga held the shield in a sturdy grip, with his elbow tucked tight to his chest, the top edge level with his chin and the bottom edge reaching down to his knee. The shield thus covered the main part of his body.

Taking a deep breath, Pavo surged at Ruga and plunged the wooden tip of his sword down at his shins, hoping to draw the veteran into lowering his shield and exposing his chest to attack. In a blur of motion Ruga twisted at the waist and parried the blade with an outward sweep of his shield. Pain exploded in Pavo’s forearm as the shield edge slammed into him. He fought to stop himself involuntarily releasing his grip on the sword. Now Ruga pushed forward on the balls of his feet and charged at him, tucking his shield close to his left shoulder.

Pavo gasped as the shield clattered into his chest, badly winding him. The force of the impact knocked him backwards. In the same instant Ruga hoisted the shield up above his head, angling his forearm so that it lay flat. Then he jerked his arm forward, thrusting the edge at Pavo. The younger man’s head snapped back as the leather trim slammed into his chin and sent a burst of hot pain screaming through his skull. His legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. He tasted vomit in his mouth. Ruga stood above him and dropped the shield to his side, patting the top edge, his glazed eyes as wide and bright as polished coins. He grinned at Pavo.

‘A provocator’s main offensive weapon is not his sword, but his shield. Hermes knows this better than anyone. The mistake Criton made was the same as nearly every other gladiator has made against Hermes.’

‘They attack with their sword!’ Pavo realised, thumping his fist against his thigh as he got to his feet. ‘As soon as they thrust at Hermes, he retreats behind his shield and picks them off at range.’

Ruga nodded. ‘Your sword is a foot and a half long. Using it brings you into thrusting range. Your shield is twice that length. Forget about trying to impale the bastard on the point of your sword like they teach you in the ludus.’

A thought struck Macro. ‘Good advice for staying out of trouble, I suppose. Keeping range and all that. But it doesn’t solve the problem of how Pavo is supposed to cut the bastard down.’

Ruga frowned at the optio. ‘How do you mean?’

Macro picked up the shield, testing its weight and strength, his face furrowed in deep concentration. ‘Normally a gladiator can get a good thrust between the ribs. Smoothly push the blade up until it nicks the heart and lungs.’

Ruga nodded again. ‘Go on.’

‘As far as I can see, a provocator is armoured from head to bloody toe. Leg greaves, arm manicas, full-face helmet, chest protector, the lot. They’ve got more protection than a decent fort.’

‘It’s true,’ Pavo added, stemming the blood trickling out of his nose. ‘We saw how Hermes hid behind his shield against Criton. He presented a solid wall of armour to his opponent.’

Macro scratched the back of his head and puffed out his cheeks. ‘The trick is how to break through that armoured front. There’s only one obvious striking point on the body … the throat.’

Pavo turned to Ruga. ‘How am I supposed to get past his shield and armour?’

Ruga snorted. ‘Many opponents have asked themselves the same question. That’s why Hermes is regarded as the finest gladiator ever to grace the arena. Stopping him is hard enough. Defeating him is almost impossible.’

‘Then how did you come so close?’ Pavo asked.

There was a pause as Ruga glanced away. At length the retired gladiator limped over to a stone step at the side of the courtyard and sat down. He sighed wearily, a distant look in his eyes as he spoke.

‘We were fighting in front of Emperor Tiberius. The closing fight of the games at the Festival of Saturnalia. Thirty thousand spectators had flocked into the arena to see us fight. They certainly got their money’s worth. Our match seemed to last for ever. Neither of us could find a way through the other’s defences. By the end of it, we were both bloodied, bruised and exhausted. I thought I had done enough to just shade it and win on a decision. Sure enough, the umpire raised his stick to indicate the victor … me.’

Pavo and Macro shared a disbelieving look. ‘You actually beat Hermes?’

Ruga laughed bitterly. ‘I thought so. That’s why I took off my helmet, to receive the adulation of the crowd. Then Hermes charged at me. Bastard hacked at my face and left me with this.’ He pointed to the scars.

‘But what about the umpire calling an end to the fight?’

‘He reckoned I misunderstood his signal. Pah! Load of bollocks.’

Ruga fell silent. Pavo glanced up at the darkening skies, anger pounding in his veins, his hands balling into tight fists until his fingers almost drew blood from his clammy palms.

‘I swear to Jupiter, I won’t fall for the same trick. Hermes is mine.’