Simon Scarrow - Arena

Now Pavo grimaced as he made his way down from the entrance. The injuries sustained in his brutal clash with Hermes were still painful and he moved stiffly as he neared the wrought-iron gates at the bottom. The ornate colonnades cast long shadows over the steps. Squinting in the sunset, he noticed two silhouetted figures waiting for him. The new Champion of the Arena slowed his step as the Praetorian Guards stationed at their posts opened the gates. He limped towards the two figures outside. Then he caught sight of their faces and a surge of emotion swelled inside his chest.

Macro stepped towards him. His hand was clasped round the tiny fingers of a timid child by his side. The soldier grinned broadly at the stunned gladiator and cocked his head at the child.

‘This little rascal belongs to you, I believe.’

For a moment Pavo couldn’t speak. He dropped to his knees. Tears instantly welled in his eyes. ‘Appius!’

Macro released the child’s hand and gently nudged Appius towards his father. Pavo watched the child in amazement. Appius’s gait was awkward as he approached his father, and Pavo felt a surge of pride as he watched his son walking on his own. He had been a baby the last time Pavo had seen him; now he was a small boy. Pavo felt a sudden pang of sadness.

‘My son,’ he stuttered. ‘It’s really you.’

Appius looked curiously at his father. Pavo imagined that he must appear unrecognisable to the young boy. A straggly beard covered the lower half of his face. His arms and legs were marked with bruises and scars from his battles in the arena. His once skinny frame was enlarged with taut muscle.

‘I missed you so much, my boy.’

Pavo placed his hands on his son’s small shoulders. So young. There was a flicker of recognition in his blue eyes, as the child tried to place the face in front of him. At last he reached out and touched the wooden rudis Pavo was holding.

‘Sword,’ Appius said.

‘Yes, sword,’ Pavo replied.

The child raised his hand and lightly touched a scar on Pavo’s face. ‘Father.’

Pavo smiled. Overcome with joy, he hugged Appius tightly and clamped his eyes shut. It had all been worth it. The training, facing down the slippery freedmen in the imperial palace, surviving every vicious foe in the arena. For this one moment, holding his son tight as a free man, Pavo told himself he would have endured any hardship.

At length he stood painfully upright and smiled at Macro.

‘You’re in a bright mood … for a change.’

‘Course I bloody am, lad.’ Macro waved the scroll in his right hand bearing the wax seal of the Emperor’s office. ‘I’m a centurion now. Best of all, I’m finally heading back to the Rhine Frontier, and this time there’s not a meddling Greek in sight who can stop me.’

‘When did you receive your promotion?’

‘Earlier, while you lot were watching that shit Murena get nailed to a cross. Bucco asked me to stop by his lodgings in the Subura and bring Appius to you. I was more than happy to do so.’

‘Things worked out rather well for us both in the end, Macro. Or should I say, Centurion.’

‘Not too bad, I suppose.’ The newly promoted centurion patted his chest. ‘The Emperor gave me a thousand sestertii to go with the promotion. Very generous of him, that. It’s a long trek back to the Rhine and I’ll need the company of a few cheap tarts along the way.’

‘You’ll be leaving soon, then?’

Macro nodded as he tucked the scroll into his sidebag. ‘At dawn.’ He looked up and considered Pavo for a moment. ‘What’re you going to do now? Seeing as you’re a freedman and all.’

‘I’m a freed gladiator , Macro. There’s a difference. Rome’s social mores forbid me from returning to my former elevated standing.’

‘Bollocks to social mores, lad! You’re the most popular gladiator Rome has ever seen. They’ll be talking of the way you fought back from the brink to defeat Hermes for years to come.’

Pavo smiled weakly. The centurion was right. Other gladiators had been popular with the mob, but as a high-born man Pavo carried a unique appeal. His feats had gone some way to restoring pride to the Valerius family name. Along with the return of his estate in Antium, Pavo received an urn filled with coins from the Emperor for his victory over Hermes, which he put to good use. He set aside a small sum for a proper grave and monument to be built on the Appian Way in honour of his father, with the balance going to the gladiators’ guild, so that others who fell on the sand could be spared the indignity of being slung into a grave pit. In the wake of his victory Cursor had approached Pavo, offering to act as his trainer and manager, arranging show bouts across the Empire in return for a share of the profits. Pavo had politely turned down the offer.

‘Is that the end of your career as a gladiator, then?’ Macro asked.

Pavo nodded. ‘I’ve no wish to step back inside the arena.’ He looked down at his son and smiled. ‘Besides, I’m about to begin a new career.’

Macro’s expression darkened. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to follow Bucco and become a bloody actor!’

‘No chance.’ Pavo laughed. ‘Actually, it’s not so much a new start as a return to an old job.’ He paused for a moment and looked at Macro with a determined expression. ‘The Emperor has appointed me as a tribune to the Fifteenth Legion. I’m to leave for the camp at Carnuntum, near the Danube, as soon as I’ve put my affairs in order.’

‘Tribune, eh?’ Macro raised an eyebrow. ‘Not bad … even if it is with those slackers in the Fifteenth. And the Danube is supposed to be the armpit of the Empire. The Rhine is almost civilised by comparison.’

‘So I hear,’ Pavo replied sourly. He glanced back at the imperial palace. ‘I’m sure one of those slippery Greeks is behind all this. The imperial household seems rather keen on hastening my departure from Rome.’

‘Give you your moment in the sun, then post you to some filthy backwater where you won’t pose a threat to the Emperor, eh?’ Macro shook his head, glad that he no longer had to deal with the politics and scheming of Rome. He nodded at Appius. ‘What about your son?’

Pavo turned back to the boy and ruffled his hair. ‘Appius will join me. As I travelled with my father across the Empire before him.’

Macro scratched his jaw. ‘Fair enough. I suppose there are worse postings than the Danube. Judaea, perhaps. At least you’ll have a chance to cut down more scum like Hermes. You seem to have a knack for chopping up barbarians.’

Pavo smiled. The two men clasped hands. Of one thing the new Champion of the Arena was certain. He would not forget Macro in a hurry.

‘Look after yourself, lad,’ the soldier said as he made to leave.

‘And you too … Centurion.’

Macro turned his back. Pavo watched him trudge off. After a couple of steps he stopped and turned back to the former gladiator. ‘One more thing, Pavo.’

‘Yes, sir?’

The centurion cleared his throat as a pained expression crossed his weathered face. ‘That business about me having to appear in the beast fights last month. We’ll keep that to ourselves, eh? Not a word to anyone.’

Pavo smiled softly. ‘Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘Where have you been all these fucking months?’ Centurion Lucius Batiacus Bestia barked as he rolled up Macro’s travel warrant.

A chilly wind carried through the Second Legion fortress on the banks of the River Rhine, stirring Macro’s cloak as he stood stiffly in front of the gate at the southern end of the camp. The sentries had not been expecting any arrivals, and having been away from the camp, Macro did not know the password. After a sharp exchange of words, a message was sent to Bestia, the veteran centurion in the Second and Macro’s superior. It was only when Bestia laid eyes on his comrade that the gate was opened. The sky was grey and the ground was a sea of churned mud as winter slowly gave way to spring.