Simon Scarrow - Arena

Murena’s eyes narrowed as he continued to smile at Pavo. ‘You didn’t answer my question, Optio. Will he or will he not defeat Hermes tomorrow?’

The soldier shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Even with the two of us training him morning and afternoon, he is up against the greatest champion in all of Rome. You know how the old saying goes. The only safe bet about fighting in the arena is that one man walks out and the other gets dragged out by a hook.’

Something shifted in the aide’s demeanour as he switched his gleaming gaze to Macro. ‘I am well aware of the vagaries of gladiator combat. It’s one of the reasons Pallas and myself were reluctant to promote such fights as a means of controlling the mob.’

‘And now you’re relying on Pavo to save your careers,’ Macro remarked. ‘Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?’

The smile disappeared from Murena’s face. ‘Rome is full of treachery, Macro. A common soldier such as yourself will never grasp the difficulties of governing millions of feckless subjects. Pallas and I will do whatever is necessary to stay in power.’

Macro yawned. ‘Save your lecturing for some other poor sod.’ He nodded at Pavo and jerked his thumb towards the Drunken Goat. ‘Come on, lad. Time for a quick rest and some food before you begin your final training session with Ruga.’

‘Don’t be late to the arena tomorrow, Optio.’ Murena smirked. ‘I would hate you to miss the pre-fight entertainment we have planned.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Macro asked, narrowing his eyes.

Murena looked pleased with himself. He stared hard at Pavo. ‘Let’s just say there will be a special role for the Liberators guilty of conspiring against Emperor Claudius.’

Pavo shivered in his bones. Macro turned away, shaking his head, and went into the tavern. Pavo followed him inside. The aide watched them both leave. Ruga turned to head after them but Murena instantly swept forward and blocked his path.

‘Out of my way,’ the retired gladiator growled.

‘Not yet. I have something I need you to do … if you want your job back.’

Ruga shook his head firmly. ‘I’m training the boy, just as you demanded. That was our deal. One month with the lad and I’d be free to return to my old job as bodyguard to Senator Macula.’

Murena weighed up his response as he led Ruga into the courtyard, away from the bustle and noise of the street. ‘Pallas and I must take into account the possibility that Pavo might lose tomorrow.’

‘There’s always a possibility of defeat,’ Ruga conceded. ‘But he has a better chance of victory against Hermes than most. What else could you possibly want?’

‘A contingency plan.’

Ruga hesitated and glanced back to the street. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘I’m not asking for your approval, gladiator,’ Murena snapped. ‘You will do as I say, whether you like it or not.’ Composing himself, the aide lowered his voice. ‘Tell me, are you friends with any other retired gladiators?’

Ruga pursed his lips. ‘A few. Those who pay their dues to the gladiator guild mostly.’

‘And they are looking for work?’

‘Some of them. Why?’

Murena smiled thinly. ‘Good. Now listen carefully …’

The crowd packed into the temporary arena rumbled and then burst into spontaneous cheers as another gladiator was cut down on the sands. A chill ran down Pavo’s spine as he waited in the gloomy tunnel alongside Macro for his turn in the arena, the scaffolding directly above him shuddering as if with fear at the howls of pain coming from the butchery. Through the entrance to the arena he glimpsed the frantic glimmer of steel as a scrawny man armed with a short sword and a small round shield but no armour hacked madly at his elderly opponent.

This was the pre-match entertainment Murena had mentioned. It involved the guilty Liberators behind the conspiracy to assassinate the Emperor fighting to the death. The sight of a dozen public officials stabbing and slicing at each other in front of the baying mob made Pavo sick to the pit of his stomach. He frowned as the frail gladiator, Senator Lanatus, struggled to raise his shield to defend himself and stumbled frantically backwards from his opponent, begging for mercy.

‘Looks like the magistrate is about to gut the senator,’ Macro remarked as he narrowed his gaze towards the arena entrance. ‘Not long now, lad. As soon as this scrap is over it’ll be your turn to take to the sand.’

Pavo felt a cold tremor of dread tremble down his spine. ‘What will become of the winner of this fight?’ he wondered aloud.

Macro shrugged. ‘Crucifixion, perhaps. If he’s lucky the guards will execute him.’

‘Gods.’ Pavo shuddered and shook his head. He thought again of his agreement with Murena and Pallas. He secretly feared that the imperial secretary would reveal the truth of his involvement with the Liberators whether or not he won, but he knew he had no choice but to trust the two freedmen to keep their word.

In the next instant a shriek rang out as the magistrate plunged his sword into Lanatus’s exposed chest. The senator convulsed on the spot. Blood spewed out of his mouth as he sank to his knees on the sand. The crowd cheered the death of another Liberator. Some spat at the dying senator. Others shouted obscenities at him as a pair of guards rushed out of the tunnel and seized the magistrate.

Macro clapped his hands. ‘Right, lad. You’re up next.’

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Pavo forced his tensed muscles to relax and nervously counted down the moments until he stepped out into the arena. The air was dense and cold and felt icy in his lungs. This was it, he thought. The moment he’d been training for since he had been thrown into the ludus in Paestum, stricken with grief over the brutal murder of his parents, his son taken as a hostage and the ruin of his reputation and that of his family.

Revenge.

The tunnel he waited in was situated directly beneath the groaning wooden grandstands of the temporary arena, constructed in the centre of the Roman Forum on the same spot where the gladiator games were hosted in the time of Julius Caesar. The guards had arrived at the imperial ludus at dawn to escort him to the arena. A stab of fear had stirred in his veins at the sight of it. Although it was considerably smaller than the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre, the setting was infinitely more spectacular. The grandstands were flanked by a pair of marbled basilicas whose long porticoes and intricately decorated bas-reliefs glowed weakly in the pallid morning light. Beyond the arena Pavo had spotted the Arch of Augustus looming over the Forum, a symbol of imperial prestige. Macro had greeted him at the tunnel entrance. As Pavo made his final preparations, he had the strange sensation that even the gods were gazing down on Rome that day, eagerly awaiting the fight.

‘Now remember what we discussed,’ Macro said calmly, shaking Pavo out of his anxious stupor. The guards dragged the surviving magistrate out of the arena to a chorus of jeers and the optio had to raise his voice to make himself heard. ‘Don’t stay still for an instant. Keep moving. You don’t want to give that bastard a chance to corner you. Make him work, lad. Move, parry, attack. Just like we said, eh?’

‘Move, parry, attack,’ Pavo recited tonelessly.

Macro nodded. He gripped Pavo by the shoulders and stared him dead in the eyes. ‘I won’t lie to you, lad. Fighting Hermes is going to be bloody hard work. Ignore the pain and focus on your task. The same as they teach you in the legions.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ Pavo replied. ‘You’re not the one fighting a legend.’