Arena

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘That lot, for starters.’ Macro jerked a thumb at the Pompeiians. The thinly spread guards were struggling to move the gang on. Their number had doubled in size and their mood had grown openly hostile. ‘More of them are on the way. From what I hear, the fans from Pompeii travel in large numbers.’

  Murena smiled weakly at the hooligans. ‘I hardly think a few fist fights between rival gladiator fans are cause for concern, Optio.’

  ‘It’s not them you should be worried about.’ Macro folded his arms stiffly across his chest and nodded at the overturned trestle table. ‘The mob loves Pavo. They won’t want to see their hero getting chopped down, and they won’t like a bunch of nutters from Pompeii crowing about it. You think the mood was ugly today, wait until you see what they’re like tomorrow.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The roar of the crowd trembled through the arena and shook the building to its foundations.

  ‘No mercy for Mesonius!’ the crowd yelled in unison. ‘Kill the murmillo!’

  The arena shuddered again as the crowd gave full throat to its bloodlust. Pavo felt sick. The air in the tunnel was laden with the stench of sweat and vomit. Hysterical screams emanated from the makeshift infirmary. Since Pavo topped the programme, his fight against Denter would be the last contest of the day’s schedule. He had spent the afternoon listening to the shrill clash of metal, the roar of the mob and the howls of men being operated on by Achaeus. The closer he edged towards his fight, the more the passage of time seemed to stretch out, straining his nerves to the limit.

  He steadied his breathing and focused on the task in front of him. He watched Calamus and waited for the signal to enter the arena. The doctore stood with his back to Pavo as he looked on at the action unfolding beyond the gates at the mouth of the tunnel. Two guards manned either side of the gates, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. Six more were positioned at equal intervals down the length of the tunnel. They had kept a watchful eye over the men throughout the day. With good reason, Pavo thought. The moment before he stepped out to face death was the only time when Rome trusted a gladiator with a sharpened blade.

  The crowd hushed. The herald’s voice resonated through the passageways as he formally announced the next pairing of gladiators.

  ‘It’s time,’ Calamus growled.

  A chill clamped around the back of Pavo’s neck. Two orderlies hurried down the tunnel from the armoury. One of them clutched Pavo’s weapons, the net slung over his shoulder while his hands gripped the trident and dagger. The second orderly carried the keys to the armoury, as well as a large clay cup. Accepting the weapons, Pavo dumped the net by his feet, tied the dagger to his belt, and concentrated on testing the balance of the trident.

  Calamus turned away from the gate. He seemed amused at Pavo’s tense expression. ‘Don’t look so glum, boy. Most of the recruits die on first appearance. You did well to make it this far.’

  Pavo clamped his jaws shut and turned his attention to the net. The rope was made of soft flax fibres spun together in yarn and twisted into thin strands. It was round and wide enough to trap a large man underneath, with small meshes to make it harder for the ensnared gladiator to escape. Sharpened lead pellets were fixed to the edges of the net to make it easier to cast. Although Pavo felt terribly naked without a helmet or a shield, he would not be hampered by the weight of the equipment. Aside from the trident and net, he wore guards on his left arm and leg, with a shoulder guard mounted above his right arm padding to provide extra protection to his net-throwing arm and a flared tip on the shoulder guard for shielding his head behind should Denter aim for the jugular.

  Pavo was securing the loop on the corner of the net around his left wrist when an orderly shoved the clay cup in front of his face. He lowered his gaze and a felt an instant wave of nausea hit him. The cup was brimming with a lumpy liquid the colour of coal and sprinkled with grey flakes. The smell clogged Pavo’s nostrils. He choked back the nausea rising in his throat.

  ‘Gods!’ He looked horrified. ‘What foul brew is this?’

  ‘Standard pre-fight concoction, courtesy of Achaeus,’ Calamus answered matter-of-factly for the orderly. ‘It’s got a secret ingredient in it. Helps you keep your nerves in the arena. Drink up, lad.’

  Pavo frowned at the cup. ‘I’d rather not.’

  The doctore turned to face Pavo. ‘You little shit,’ he said, his voice coarse and sharp, like a blade slicing through fabric. ‘Still think there’s one set of rules for you and one for everyone else, eh? Give me that!’ He snatched the cup from the orderly. Drops of the liquid spilled over the rim and slopped on to his fingers.

  ‘Drink!’ he insisted.

  Pavo wrinkled his nose. Just looking at the cup made him queasy. ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’

  ‘Drink. That’s an order!’ Calamus snapped. Spittle flecked Pavo across the cheek. The doctore snatched the trident and thrust the cup at the gladiator. Pavo took a deep breath, clamped his eyes shut and poured the mixture into his mouth. He swallowed nervously. He could feel his stomach squirming with the inclination to retch. As the liquid slithered down his throat, he was left with an acrid taste in his mouth. Then he leaned forward, pressing his palms against the wall, and dry-heaved as he fought his desire to puke. The wall shuddered with the movements of the crowd above. Pavo could hear the doctore’s laugh ringing in his ears as he spat out bitter lumps of the drink. Wiping his mouth clean, he stood upright and flashed a look of withering contempt at Calamus. He could feel the concoction sloshing around in his guts.

  ‘How’s that?’ The doctore grinned. ‘Better?’

  ‘Worse,’ Pavo groaned. ‘What in Hades is in it?’

  ‘Animal ashes, charred roots and fish guts mixed with vinegared water.’ Calamus grinned broadly. ‘The taste of victory, that is.’

  The orderlies slipped away. The screams abated. Pavo looked back down the tunnel and searched for a friendly face. But Bucco had retired to the ludus after his lunchtime comedy fight with a dwarf, together with the victorious gladiators. Even though he had the doctore and half a dozen others for company, Pavo felt very alone.

  ‘Right then.’ Calamus slapped his charge on the shoulder. ‘Off you go.’

  The doctore shoved the trident at Pavo’s chest. The young man clasped it in his right hand, with his left gripping the rolled-up net. Behind Calamus the gates creaked as the guards cranked them open to a terrific wall of noise from the crowd. Pavo brushed past the doctore and strode up the passage towards Denter, thinking that Calamus would not be shedding any tears if he died.

  He emerged into the arena, blinking in the glare of the late autumn sun. His ears were assaulted by the terrible din echoing from all sides. A faintly stale stench of spilled blood lingered in the air. Dark stains tarnished the glittering sand. Pavo shielded his eyes. Yesterday’s gently fluttering breeze had dissipated. Now the atmosphere in the arena was muggy, with the massed ranks of spectators packed tightly inside the amphitheatre and the air thick with blood and sweat. Cold beads of sweat trickled down Pavo’s back. The heat of the arena smothered him. His mouth was salty from the charcoal drink and he craved a sip of water.

  Trumpets blared. The roar of the crowd reached a new crescendo and Pavo sensed ten thousand necks craning to get a look at him as he paced towards the middle of the arena. Spectators had squeezed in shoulder to shoulder. The capacity crowd throbbed with excitement and anticipation. Pavo ran his eyes across the galleries. The arena in Paestum had four levels, with a steep balbic set at the foot of the lowest gallery to act as a parapet and protect the aristocrats from the bloodletting that took place in the arena. A short step up from the balbic stood the podium. The place reserved for the Emperor had been left unoccupied in a nod to his ultimate sponsorship of the spectacle. Murena and Pallas sat either side of the empty seat. Gurges had managed to secure a place in the gallery immediately behind the freedmen. The lanista was dressed in his ceremonial outfit of an off-white woollen toga cumbersomely draped over his sli
ght figure. Shadows wavered across the dignitaries from the awnings flapping above the arena. Gurges had skimped on the size of the awnings, Pavo realised. The sheets provided relief only for the dignitaries assembled at the podium and the surrounding galleries.

  ‘Oi, fisherman! Catch me a sardine!’ a voice shouted from a section of the gallery above the tunnel. A chorus of laughter rippled through the crowd. Pavo turned to face the spectator. He was a savagely fat man. His face was blasted red by the sun and the jug of wine in his hands. He stood up from his seat and shook his fist at Pavo. ‘Denter is going to have your guts for supper.’

  Pavo recognised the man from the gang of Pompeiians at the banquet the previous day. With a start he realised that entire galleries were taken up by Denter’s supporters. Their number had swelled to fill a quarter of the arena. Despite being outnumbered, they quickly set about stoking tension between the rival supporters, drowning out the locals with a string of rhyming chants that detailed the sexual proclivities of Paestum’s women. Towards the highest tier of seats several drunken Pompeiians stood up and bared their hairy backsides to Pavo in unison.

  The umpire tapped his foot impatiently in the middle of the arena. Gritting his teeth, Pavo tried to clear his mind of all distractions. An image of Hermes loomed large in his mind, reminding him of his purpose. He paced towards the umpire with renewed vigour, determined to triumph over Denter.

  A wave of boos from three-quarters of the arena announced the entrance of his opponent. Denter stormed out of the opposite tunnel and half ran across the sand towards Pavo and the umpire. Boisterous cheers erupted from the hooligans. Pavo focused on the veteran as he drew nearer. Then Denter lowered his legionary shield a notch and Pavo felt the blood freeze in his veins as he saw a coat of ringmail protecting his opponent’s torso. Gasps broke out among the mob. Pavo had been to many fights at the Statilius Taurus arena in Rome, but he had never heard of a gladiator fighting with such heavy protection. He lifted his eyes to the podium. Pallas and Murena swapped knowing glances. Gurges smirked. Around them dignitaries squirmed in their seats at this crude manipulation of the odds in favour of Denter.

  ‘Those filthy Greeks,’ Pavo muttered under his breath. ‘They deceived me.’

  The umpire signalled with his stick for the fight to commence.

  Both men held their ground for a moment. Denter carried the weight of his armour easily. As well as the ringmail coat, he had been equipped with metal arm and leg greaves supported with padded guards, and his head was completely encased inside a smooth, brimless metal helmet. A pair of small eyeholes afforded him a limited view of the arena. The helmet gave the veteran a terrifying appearance. Both men breathed hard in the sweltering heat. Pavo was already drenched in sweat and he had yet to launch an attack.

  The umpire scampered out of the way as Denter made the first move, hoisting his large rectangular shield to his chest and edging towards Pavo. A symbol of Fortuna had been painted on the calfskin cover of the shield. The gladiators were separated by a distance a little greater than the length of a legionary javelin. Pavo kept his opponent at bay by holding the trident in an underarm grip with the weathered-ash shaft resting on the underside of his forearm. He would have preferred a two-handed grip to put more force into each thrust, but the coiled net in his left hand forced him to fight one-handed. He kept the tines angled at waist height, allowing him to attack Denter’s upper torso or legs in rapid succession. He continued patiently circling his opponent. The Pompeiians urged Denter to attack. He snarled his rage and with a fierce snort charged at Pavo, shifting his weight on to his right foot and angling the point of his short sword at his opponent’s bare chest.

  Pavo jumped back from the attack and in a beat sidestepped to the left, swiftly circling his opponent and thrusting his trident at Denter’s exposed groin. At the very last moment the veteran swung around and became aware of the tines driving at his mid-section. He let out a harsh roar as he deflected the trident with a rugged swipe of his shield. Pavo felt his elbow lock into position as the weapon arrowed harmlessly towards the sky. The weight and momentum of the trident dragged on Pavo and he lurched forward and abruptly found himself within range of Denter’s short sword. With a neat flick of the wrist the veteran jerked his arm up and slammed the base of his sword into Pavo’s temple. An ear-shattering noise ripped through his skull and a burst of white flashed before his eyes.

  Denter came at Pavo again. The young gladiator stumbled backwards, his head ringing and his legs swaying. Blotches of colour floated across his line of sight. He moved away from his opponent as swiftly as he could, thankful that he wasn’t bogged down under a full complement of armour like Denter. For every one step his opponent took, Pavo took two. He rapidly retreated and in four steps had cleared himself out of stabbing range. Denter held back, gathering his breath for a renewed attack. Pavo shaped to manoeuvre to the side.

  ‘What the …’

  Pavo froze in horror. He looked down at his feet as the feeling drained from his legs. It was as if someone had severed him at the torso. For a moment he faltered on the spot, clinging to his trident for support. His lips tingled. His cheeks numbed. The blotches in his vision multiplied. Gradually he felt a loss of sensation in every part of his body. To audible gasps among the crowd, he sank despairingly to his knees. The umpire flashed a questioning glance at the young fighter. Gripping his trident for dear life, Pavo tried to utter a warning of distress, begging the umpire to call off the fight. But an invisible noose had tightened around his neck. His breath felt as if it was trapped in his throat, and when he tried to speak, only a croak escaped from his cold lips.

  A chill disquiet descended over the arena. The crowd became openly hostile as they realised that their hero was doomed. Pavo collapsed on to his front, dimly aware of the murmurs of discontent spreading like a fire through the upper galleries. Enfeebled, he lifted his eyes to see Denter charging at him, dragging his sword by his side, the tip cutting a line through the hot sand.

  Denter angled his head at the podium for the signal to execute his vanquished rival. Pavo couldn’t make out Pallas and Murena. Everything had blurred. The crowd was a smudge of coloured tunics. The men at the podium were a row of white blotches. Spectators pleaded for Pavo to be spared. The hooligans cheered for him to be put to the sword.

  ‘Time to die,’ Denter said, his voice muffled behind the metal of his helmet. The black, dull eyeholes stared cruelly at Pavo. ‘I’m going to cut off your head. Just like Hermes did to your father.’

  ‘Go to Hades,’ Pavo whispered.

  Denter raised the sword above his head with both hands wrapped around the pommel.

  But at the last minute he hesitated. Pavo glanced up, wondering why Pallas had not given the signal. Something had caught the attention of both Denter and the umpire. Pavo rolled his eyes in the same direction. He was stunned to see spectators clashing in the galleries. Pompeiians and locals traded blows, hurling cups and jugs at each other. A darkly featured youngster grappled with an elderly local and tipped him over the side of the gallery. The man crashed amid the dignitaries, whose wives shrieked at the tops of their voices. More Pompeiians began clambering into adjacent sections populated by local supporters loyal to Pavo. The Pompeiians laid into the crowd with their fists. A few of the guards attempted to intervene but they were brushed aside by locals and Pompeiians alike, and soon the violence had spilled across to every part of the arena. Pavo’s vision slowly returned. He caught sight of Pallas shooting to his feet, his lips pressed together in a thin line as he chopped his hand at the umpire.

  ‘Oh gods,’ said the umpire, inserting himself between Pavo and a livid Denter. ‘The fight is postponed! Orders of the sponsor. Return to the tunnels.’ He flinched as a shower of jugs and cups rained down on the gladiators and shattered on the ground. ‘Now!’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Pavo watched the violence unfolding in the crowd as two orderlies dragged him towards the tunnel. The umpire thrust Denter back towards the
opposite arena entrance as hordes of spectators left their seats in a desperate hurry, abandoning the cushions they had brought to make the stone seats more comfortable. They stampeded towards the exits leading down into the street, shoving fellow citizens to the floor in their mad rush to escape. But they found their progress blocked on the steps of the gallery exits by pockets of guards, who had panicked at the sudden mass of humanity surging towards them and had taken to randomly slashing at the civilians in front of them. The orderlies dumped Pavo in the mouth of the tunnel, and the gladiator experienced a chilling fear clamp around his neck as he realised it was only a matter of time before the guards were overwhelmed by the sheer size and desperation of the crowd.

  A cloud of dust and mortar poured down from the arched ceiling and choked Pavo. He coughed violently. Tears welled in his eyes as he hacked up a lungful of hot dust and slumped against the wall. His hands and feet tingled as feeling slowly returned to his deadened limbs.

  ‘Hard to please, that lot,’ a gruff voice said. ‘The mob.’

  Pavo was conscious of a form emerging from further down the corridor. The figure stopped next to him and crouched. Pavo adjusted his eyes to the dark and saw the grizzled features of Macro staring back at him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Pavo responded weakly. His throat felt as if it had shrunk to the width of a reed and he struggled to utter every word.

  ‘Orders of those two bloody freedmen.’ The optio jerked a thumb towards the galleries and sucked his teeth.

  ‘I suppose they ordered you to train Denter too,’ Pavo responded tartly.

  ‘They did, as it happens.’ Macro rose to his feet and frowned as the shouts of the Pompeiians spilled down from the galleries. ‘Roping you into a fight with that drunken madman was their brilliant idea. They only travelled down here to celebrate your death.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Pavo gritted his teeth. ‘They kitted me out as a retiarius and sent me to face a legend of the arena clad in armour from head to toe. I never had a chance.’