Simon Scarrow - Arena

Macro shook his head. ‘My neck is on the line, lad. Same as yours.’

A sudden despair overcame the young gladiator, his fists trembling with utter rage. ‘Those Greek bastards! Roping us into their scheming. I hope they both rot in the Underworld.’

‘No worries there,’ Macro hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Best thing for it is to make sure Hermes is waiting for them when they get there, eh?’

Pavo glanced up and down the tunnel. ‘Why isn’t Ruga here?’

Macro shrugged. ‘Gods know. Probably getting pissed in some dubious watering hole.’

Pavo nodded distractedly. Behind the anxious thrill of his imminent appearance in the arena, a hot panic flared between his temples. Hermes was the favourite for the fight, and through the creaking grandstands he could hear the chants of the mob cheering his opponent’s name. He felt as if all of Rome was against him then.

An attendant stooped at his feet to fasten the straps on the metal greave round his leg, pulling them tight so that the cloth padding was pressed against his shin. That was the last of the armour he had been issued. His bronze body armour was wrapped tight round his chest, causing him to sweat profusely in spite of the chill. The crowd quietened as the announcer ran through the formalities. Pavo listened. A sudden wave of nausea lodged in his throat.

A mild cheer rang out as Pavo’s name was announced.

Macro said quietly, ‘It’s almost time.’

Pavo nodded. ‘It’s been an honour, sir.’

‘Likewise, lad. Even if you were sometimes a prickly shit.’

A pattering of hurried footsteps echoed further down the tunnel. Pavo instantly spun round and squinted in the gloom at a figure hurrying towards him. He stood sharply upright as the figure neared and he recognised the short, portly man with the plump face. His cheeks were shaded red with exertion and beads of sweat glistened on the folds of his neck. Pavo blinked as he stood rooted to the spot, as if not believing the face staring back at him.

‘Bucco …?’ he spluttered at last. ‘By the gods, what are you doing here?’

Pavo had not seen his comrade in many months — not since he’d transferred to the imperial ludus in Capua. Now the sight of a friendly face in Rome warmed his heart and steadied his nerves. The two men clasped arms. Attendants brushed past, bearing buckets filled with sand to sprinkle over the bloodstains.

Bucco caught his breath. ‘I came as quick as I could,’ he said. ‘Some imperial aide called Murena told me I could find you here. It’s good to see you, friend.’

‘Murena?’ Pavo looked at Bucco in surprise. ‘He sent you?’

Bucco nodded. ‘Woke me up this morning at my lodgings in the Subura.’

‘You mean to say you’ve been in Rome all this time?’

‘A month or so. A man came looking for me in Ostia claiming to be a servant of Senator Lanatus. He told me to come to Rome to take your son.’

‘Another lie,’ Pavo muttered icily.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing,’ he replied quickly. ‘What happened when you arrived in Rome?’

‘The senator refused to see me.’ Bucco scratched his elbow. ‘After I was turned away from his house, a couple of Praetorians grabbed me and hauled me off to the imperial palace. They asked me what my business was with Lanatus. I explained everything, and the next thing I knew, some greasy official handed me your son.’

Pavo froze. His stomach clenched anxiously. ‘Appius …’ He looked frantically up and down the tunnel. ‘Where is he? Did you bring him with you? I must see my son before I face Hermes. I want to say goodbye to him, in case …’ He clenched his jaw, overcome with a bitter grief.

Bucco smiled weakly at his comrade. ‘I’ve been under strict orders not to bring him to you since I took him in from the palace. The aide, Murena, didn’t want to interfere with your training sessions. I had no choice but to agree.’

Pavo frowned. ‘Then where is he?’

‘With my wife, Clodia, at our lodgings in the Subura. I sent for my family after I decided to stay on in Rome and try my hand at acting.’ Bucco lowered his head. ‘Your son can speak now,’ he added quietly. ‘He has been saying a few words.’

An almost unbearable grief seized Pavo just then. He clenched his fists, his heart beating furiously inside his chest. There and then he vowed to defeat Hermes. He would not lose to his nemesis. The welfare of his son hinged on his winning the fight and saving the reputation of the Valerian family name. He clamped his eyes shut and mouthed a silent prayer to the gods to protect his son. He opened them when Macro placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

‘It’s time, lad.’

Pavo glanced at the soldier and nodded. Then he quickly turned to Bucco.

‘Can you promise me something?’

‘Name it.’

Pavo paused for a moment. He glanced away from Bucco towards the entrance to the arena and choked back tears. Lips trembling, he took a deep breath and turned back to his comrade. ‘If I die today, Appius is the last in the line of the Valerians. There is no other family to look after my son. Should I fall, raise Appius for me.’

Bucco forced a smile. ‘I shall,’ he promised.

Pavo nodded softly. ‘Thank you, Bucco.’

‘May the gods be with you, my friend.’

Pavo took a deep breath as the bucina players blared notes on their bass instruments and the feverish roar of the crowd filled the arena. Macro gave him a final pat on the back and a moment later a pair of officials thrust the young man down the short entrance tunnel. The ground shook underfoot with the rumbling anticipation of the crowd. Pavo felt a sick feeling in his guts. His armour weighed down heavily on him and his sweat flowed freely. He mopped his brow as he arrived at the entrance and took one last look over his shoulder. Macro nodded at him with a look of steely determination. Bucco stood by his shoulder and smiled faintly, his dim eyes filling with tears. Facing forward, Pavo grimly accepted his shield from one of the attendants. An image of Nemesis had been painted on the front. He smiled wryly. How appropriate, he thought. Then the second attendant slipped the full-face helmet over his head, dramatically reducing his field of vision.

Pavo swallowed hard. His neck muscles instinctively tensed. His breathing rasped inside the helmet as he sucked in cool air through the small airholes. The blood rushed in his head and he waited for the attendant to give the signal.

Then he marched into the arena to face his sworn enemy.

Grey clouds pressed heavily in the sky like grain sacks fit to burst at the seams as Pavo stepped out on to the sand. The visor on his helmet severely restricted his line of sight, cutting off his peripheral vision and forcing him to concentrate on the scene directly in front of him. As a consequence he could not see the ground at his feet and he shuffled tentatively at first as he approached the chalk line that marked the wide circle in the centre of the arena within which the gladiators were required to remain during their bout. This was a regular feature of fights to the death, forcing the competitors to remain in close proximity to each other instead of retreating to the sides of the square arena.

As he neared the circle Pavo lifted his gaze to the hastily constructed imperial box situated on the northern stand. The Emperor sat at the front, flanked by his German bodyguards and his entourage of imperial lackeys. The box was distinctly less impressive than the ornate structure at the Statilius Taurus arena, Pavo decided, and shorn of its elegance Claudius cut a rather sad and pathetic figure, smacking his lips as he sat in his chair, giddy with excitement at the prospect of the fight. A violent pressure pulsed behind Pavo’s eyes as he spotted Pallas and Murena to the left of the Emperor. To his right stood a middle-aged man with crow’s feet around his eyes, flashing a practised smile at Claudius. Pavo dimly recognised him.