Arena

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Just get on with it,’ Pavo said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Since Bucco does not have the money, I have seized his assets, as is my right as a debtor. Being a destitute gambler enrolled in a gladiator school with no property to speak of, he has only three saleable assets. Namely his wife and the two boys.’

  Pavo clenched his jaw and stepped into Carbo’s face. ‘Give him more time to pay. He’ll be fighting in the arena soon enough.’

  ‘Have you seen him with a sword?’ Carbo sniffed. ‘Bucco couldn’t fight his way out of a wet sack. His first fight will also be his last.’

  Pavo shook his head. ‘I’m not here to argue how much he owes,’ he said tersely, ‘or how he intends to pay you back. I’m here about his family. They’re innocent. Leave them out of your dispute.’

  ‘Or what?’ Carbo scoffed. ‘You’re not exactly in a position to issue threats, boy. You forget your station. You’re not the son of a respected legate any more. You’re just a high-born brat fallen into infamy. No better than a common slave.’

  Pavo glared at Carbo. He balled his hands into fists. ‘I’ll ask you one more time. Release his family at once,’ he seethed.

  ‘Let me see,’ Carbo replied scathingly as he stroked his drooping chin. He appeared remarkably calm, Pavo thought, given that he was facing a pair of gladiators. Even if one of them was Bucco. ‘My answer is no. Bucco cannot pay in coin, so he must pay in flesh. Those are the rules. Besides, Clodia will make a nice bit of cunny, and the boys will fetch a good price at market.’

  Carbo tried to push past Pavo. The young fighter blocked his way. Then the bookie flashed a sinister smile and levelled his eyes at a spot past Pavo’s shoulder. Footsteps sounded at his back. Pavo looked towards the door. A pair of tall, burly Spaniards blocked the doorway. Their shoulder and back muscles were so large they blotted out the light in the corridor. Both men bore the branded mark of the owner of another gladiator school.

  ‘Allow me to introduce Priscus and Verus,’ Carbo said. He nodded at the two men in turn. Priscus cracked his knuckles. ‘Formerly champions of the arena in Capua. Now my bodyguards.’

  A cold sweat gripped Pavo. He shot a withering look at Bucco as he backed away from the door. ‘You didn’t say anything about bodyguards,’ he muttered.

  ‘Sorry,’ Bucco replied quietly, lowering his chin an inch. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Priscus, Verus,’ Carbo ordered with a deft flick of his wrist. ‘Teach this brat a lesson.’

  Priscus came at Pavo first. He led with his right foot, shaping to unleash a devastating right hook. In a blur of motion Pavo ducked to his right and dropped his left shoulder, stepping out of the way of the balled fist arrowing towards his jaw. As Priscus swiped at thin air, the young man sank to his knees and grabbed the nearest stool with both hands, then sprang upright. At the same time he swung the stool with all his strength. There was a solid crunch as it crashed into Priscus’s chin. The Spaniard let out a low grunt, his jaw slamming into the roof of his skull.

  Priscus tottered backwards a step. He shook his head clear and charged at Pavo again. This time Pavo swung in the opposite direction, raising the stool from beside his left thigh up and across his right shoulder. Priscus stumbled into its path. His arms went limp by his sides as the edge of the stool thunked against his cheekbone. He fell away, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, and landed in a heap next to the door.

  Now Verus tried his luck. The second bodyguard had a gargantuan amount of muscle loaded on to his tall, wide frame. He charged over the body of his stricken comrade and bared his sharpened teeth at Pavo. With outstretched hands he lunged at the legate’s son and sent him tumbling to the ground, the stool dropping from his grasp. Pavo swiped a boot at Verus, stopping the bodyguard and giving himself time to scramble to his feet. He blinked and saw Verus tramping towards him. Bucco tried to block his path but the bodyguard roared hoarsely and elbowed him out of the way. Verus charged at Pavo, his gigantic fists swinging madly in front of him.

  The gladiator seized a broom from a rack on the wall next to the door. Then he whirled back around to face Verus. The ground shook with the thunderous pounding of the bodyguard’s boots. As a punch flew towards his exposed chest, Pavo dropped to a crouch and jabbed the shaft of the broom at Verus in a powerful thrust. The bodyguard had just enough time to register a look of horror as the blunt grip plunged towards his midriff and struck him on the groin. He keeled over, gasping in agony, his shovel-like hands pawing at his manhood. Without hesitation Pavo tilted the broom handle up a notch and swung it in a furious arc at the side of the bodyguard’s head. The sturdy wooden shaft cracked into his temple. The bodyguard’s head jolted sharply to the right, his neck muscles shuddering with tension. Then it snapped back to its natural position, and Verus fell to his knees, choking and gasping and groaning. Pavo tossed the broom aside and watched the second bodyguard slump to the ground. The blood was rushing in his ears, his heart tapping frantically against his breastplate.

  ‘Pavo, look out!’ Bucco shouted.

  As Pavo glanced across his shoulder at Bucco he caught something gleaming to his right. Spinning fully around, he came face to face with Carbo. He went very still as the bookie pressed the tip of a dagger to his throat. Carbo fumed at Pavo through his pinched nostrils. For a moment he looked poised to plunge the dagger into the young man’s neck. Then he smiled from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘You surprise me, young man,’ he said. ‘You may surprise someone else too.’

  Pavo glanced calmly at the dagger the bookie was holding. The tip glinted lethally in the murky gloom. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had dismissed you as a one-off, as Gurges and the doctore have done. Gods know, I’ve seen plenty of gladiators win a surprise victory and come unstuck on their second appearance.’ Carbo flicked his eyes to the pair of bodyguards groaning and writhing in pain on the ground. ‘But you just took out two of my best men.’

  ‘Gladiators get old very quickly,’ Pavo said.

  A smile swelled across the bookie’s flabby jowls as he went on, ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years watching men shed blood in the arena, it’s this. Being a gladiator isn’t just about physical strength. It’s about thinking on your feet. You, young man … you show admirable resourcefulness when your back is against the wall.’

  ‘Blame it on my childhood. I grew up in legionary camps,’ Pavo said. ‘I learned nothing from books or tutors. Soldiers taught me everything I know.’

  ‘Interesting.’ The bookie dragged the tip of the dagger up Pavo’s neck, as if giving him a shave. ‘However, some things cannot be taught. Such as fearlessness when faced with the sharp end of a blade.’ He traced the dagger up to Pavo’s Adam’s apple. ‘You didn’t flinch when you saw the dagger. You didn’t even blink. You cannot teach a man how to forget fear. It is a rare quality, and I have witnessed only one other man who never shuddered at the sight of raw steel. Perhaps you have heard of him? His name is Hermes.’

  Pavo stirred at the mention of his bitter enemy. His expression remained grim. ‘Tell me where you’re keeping the family.’

  Carbo laughed as he raised the dagger, the tip dancing between Pavo’s eyes. ‘It’s not that simple. I’m afraid your friend owes me a great deal of money. And he’s not the only one indebted to me. In order to run a profitable business, a bookmaker must strictly enforce the obligations of his clients, no?’

  ‘Get to your point,’ Pavo said.

  ‘I cannot release the family now, but nor will I sell them into slavery. Not yet, at least. Instead, I propose a deal.’

  ‘What kind of deal?’ Bucco asked.

  ‘Not with you,’ Carbo snapped. He winked at Pavo. ‘With the young hero of the arena. Seeing you dispose of Priscus and Verus makes me think you have a better chance against Denter than everyone else believes. Though the mob will back you, informed opinion suggests that Denter will carve you up like roast mutton.’

  Pavo grunted. ‘Denter is a
washed-up drunk.’

  ‘He used to be.’ Carbo admired his dagger for a moment. ‘But I have it on good authority that he is sober and clean and training hard in preparation for the fight. The man training him is a soldier, I believe.’ He shrugged. ‘And you fight with inferior weapons. Even half-fit, Denter would pose you serious problems.’

  ‘But you would back me to win?’

  Carbo let his smile melt into his sagging, porous cheeks. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. But I think you have a decent chance. Gurges, in particular, has staked heavily on a Denter victory.’

  ‘The lanista bet against me?’ Pavo said as a puzzled look unfolded on his face.

  ‘Rather the trend, it appears,’ Carbo replied acerbically. He glanced at Bucco. ‘You really ought to keep better company, young man. My point is, a lot of money has been placed on Denter. If you win, I will make myself a handsome margin.’ He placed a finger carefully to his bottom lip. ‘Perhaps then I could be persuaded to clear the debt with Bucco and release his family.’

  ‘Swear to the gods you’ll set them free,’ Pavo demanded.

  ‘We have a deal,’ Carbo replied, retracting the dagger and secreting it under his tunic. ‘You had better return to training. Take it from me, boy, there’s plenty of work for you to do. You might have raw talent, but Denter has never lost in his long career.’

  ‘There’s a first time for everything,’ Pavo said.

  Carbo responded with a snort. ‘Don’t get too cocky. You only have a matter of weeks before the fight.’ The bookie clamped his lips. ‘A final word of warning. Denter is notorious for using dirty tricks at the banquet for the gladiators the night before the games begin. The fool once ripped out a tooth in front of his opponent. To show the man he didn’t care about pain, you see. Whatever antics he tries against you at the banquet, don’t let him get to you.’

  With that, Carbo lumbered towards the door. He stopped by the prone bodies of his two guards and booted one of them in the stomach. ‘Priscus! Verus!’ he screeched, clapping his hands. ‘On your feet!’

  The two groggy bodyguards shot evil looks at Pavo as they picked themselves off the floor. They trailed behind Carbo as he lumbered out of the canteen and together they disappeared into the darkness of the corridor. As Pavo watched them slink away, Bucco appeared by his side.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He puffed his fat cheeks. ‘Denter sounds like a right vicious bastard.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Bucco.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. It just sounds like it’s going to be a seriously tough fight. I’m sorry, Pavo. If there was some other way I could get Clodia and the boys back, I’d do it.’

  In truth, nothing Bucco said could make Pavo feel more disheartened about his prospects against Denter than he already did. Thoughts of the looming fight filled him with a sense of dread. The previous night he’d believed his opponent would be a dishevelled former gladiator. Now he had to confront a different reality. He would be coming up against a highly motivated opponent with a string of notable victories under his belt. Worse, it wasn’t only his own life that depended on the outcome. The lives of Clodia and two boys were in his hands, and quite possibly Bucco’s as well. The responsibility weighed heavily on Pavo’s shoulders, and as he departed the canteen and headed back to the training ground, the words of the bookie resonated inside his head. A drunk, wild Denter would prove a tricky but beatable opponent, even though Pavo would be hampered by his weapons of a net and trident. But a sober Denter, motivated by rage and trained by a soldier, would be a formidable foe.

  Pavo prayed to the gods that Carbo was wrong.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Amild breeze drifted over the crowd as Pavo and the other recruits and veterans stood in a line at the southern end of the forum square under the watchful glare of a dozen heavily armed guards from the local barracks. The gladiators were bare-chested and wore plain linen loincloths. They would not have a chance to brandish their weapons and shields until they set foot in the arena. A flock of onlookers had crammed into the surrounding streets to inspect them at the open-air banquet.

  The crowd was far bigger than Pavo had expected. People peered out of the first-floor windows of the taverns and shops arranged to the north. Others jostled for the best view from the heightened steps of a nearby modest theatre. All of them looked at the gladiators with a mixture of fear and awe. Pavo had not ventured outside the ludus for six weeks, and had been shielded from the build-up to the games within the walls of the school. Now he witnessed first-hand the excitement trembling on the faces of the crowd. Women fanned themselves as they ogled the gladiators’ oiled, muscular torsos. Children fought with toy swords. Half a dozen stalls had been set up around the square for fans to purchase carved miniature statuettes of their favourite fighters, as well as necklaces and various trinkets. Another sold copies of the programme for the following afternoon’s bouts. All the while the smell of grilled pork wafted through the air as merchants hawked small sausages to the hungry, impatient crowd.

  Pavo watched the sun sink behind the horizon. In the middle distance he spotted the ludus, situated on rising ground amid the entertainment quarter to the north of the forum. The arena stood to the right. Its stone exterior glowed a pale hue in the dying embers of late autumn. A dozen silhouettes laboured near the top row of the seating area. They were busy mounting linen awnings in preparation for the following day. A cracking roar shook through the sky as the workers flogged the awning, flattening the linen sheet before attaching it to poles and crossbeams fixed to the top of the arena.

  ‘Look at that lot,’ said Bucco grimly. ‘There must be a thousand people come here to gawk at us. Maybe more.’ His usually cheerful voice was now stifled with fear and it provoked a pang of anxiety in Pavo. He had never attended a gladiatorial banquet before, but he understood that it was customary to host them in the open. Tradition dictated that it was a chance for the gladiators to publicly express their stoicism in the face of impending doom. The open-air feast also had the added effect of generating enthusiasm among the mob ahead of the fight. Pavo watched a crowd of men descend on Carbo to fritter away their hard-earned money.

  ‘At least we get some grub out of it,’ Bucco said sourly, pointing out the trestle tables being set up in the middle of the forum square. ‘Funnily enough, I don’t feel hungry.’

  His tone surprised Pavo. Normally Bucco would be licking his lips at the thought of a slap-up meal, but his appetite had deserted him at the thought that the fate of his family hung in the balance. Pavo glanced sympathetically at his friend. He was gripped by the same feeling, as if a horde of mice were scurrying around his guts.

  Pavo snorted as slaves laid out trays of food on the tables for all to see. There were countless bowls of freshly cut lettuce and plates of salted tuna garnished with quails’ eggs, along with lumps of ripened cheese and shellfish and raw vegetables. Silver goblets were topped up with sweetened wine from large jugs. Further trays of stuffed fowl, sow’s udders and ox tongues were also brought out. The feast made Pavo feel sick, despite the ravenous hunger in his belly. Such extravagant foods had been a staple of his childhood when his father had enjoyed the worship of the Fifth Legion, respected and feared in equal measure by the tight-lipped men of the Senate. Each tray of food reminded him of a happier time, of a life he would never be able to return to. He looked away before the rumbling in his stomach grew irresistible.

  ‘Makes you wonder why they’re laying on all this food,’ Bucco mused, scratching his elbow. ‘We have to train eight hours a day on a diet of stale bread and gruel, and now they decide to give us a proper feast.’ He shook his head at the logic.

  ‘They treat us well today because they expect us to perish tomorrow. Romans like their condemned men to die on a full belly,’ Pavo growled. He shook his head. ‘Anyway, you still haven’t told me about your role at the games.’

  The thought tickled Bucco and his mood lightened somewhat at the news he had kept back from his friend. He patt
ed his considerable paunch and a pained smile crossed his lips as he declared, ‘You’re looking at the new comedy act. The doctore reckons I’m a natural at making people laugh.’

  Seeing the look of dismay on Pavo’s face, he went on, ‘Oh, it’s not so bad. I get to provide a spot of light entertainment for the mob between fights. Better yet,’ the volunteer tapped the side of his nose, ‘I won’t get chopped up by some battle-hardened Syrian tomorrow.’

  Pavo studied his friend. ‘You’re in good cheer.’

  Bucco wedged his thumbs down the front of his loincloth and lifted his chin defiantly at the crowd. ‘Comes with the territory, my friend. When you’re born in the gutter, there’s no point bleating about your lot in life. You’ve just got to get on with it, haven’t you? Anyway, I wouldn’t change places with a high-born lad like you for all the Falernian in Campania. All that scheming and having to watch your back. From what I can tell, you posh lads get very rich, and then you end up exiled, condemned to a ludus or worse, butchered in some back alley in Rome by a squad of Praetorians. Give me the simple life any day.’

  ‘How very noble of you, Bucco. Perhaps you’d care to fight Denter yourself and use the winnings to pay off your debts to Carbo, Gurges and any other unfortunate soul you happen to owe money to.’

  Bucco fell silent.

  ‘No,’ Pavo went on. ‘I rather thought not.’

  With a heavy sigh, Pavo searched the forum for Gurges. He found the lanista mingling with the other dignitaries in attendance on the marble steps of the public hall to the rear of the square. Servants hovered around the area, presenting trays of figs, olives, dates and other appetisers. Gurges stood to the side of the main group of dignitaries, Pavo saw. He was in conference with a tall, dark man with sculpted cheekbones and smoothly shaven skin.

  ‘Who’s that good-looking bloke with Gurges?’ Bucco asked.