Arena

by Simon Scarrow

  Murena raised an eyebrow. ‘Not yet, perhaps.’

  An icy feeling struck the young gladiator on the nape of his neck.

  ‘Why else do you think I promoted you to First Sword?’ asked Murena.

  Pavo shrugged.

  ‘Because you’re a class apart from the likes of Felix and Triumphus. You’re the classic Roman hero and son of a successful military leader. Not some barbaric milk-drinking Thracian who barely speaks a word of Latin. You’re the first home-grown champion of the arena. And as First Sword, you are well on your way to becoming the most celebrated gladiator Rome has ever seen, with the power to influence the mob more than anyone other than the Emperor.’

  Pavo folded his arms across his chest. ‘My decision is final. I won’t help you.’

  Murena studied the gladiator. A pallid smile crept across his thin lips. ‘Endorse the Emperor, and I’ll ensure that your next fight is the one you have waited for all this time. Your match in the arena will be against Hermes.’

  ‘So you say,’ Pavo sniffed. ‘What’s to stop you from simply bumping me off once I throw my weight behind Claudius?’

  The aide feigned a look of surprise. ‘You will have to trust me.’

  Pavo was incredulous. ‘First you tried to poison me. Then you had me drugged for my fight against Denter. Now you expect me to believe that you and Pallas would honour any sort of deal?’

  Murena compressed his lips.

  ‘No,’ Pavo said through gritted teeth. ‘I won’t endorse the Emperor, no matter how much you might try to sway me.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Murena replied, breathing loudly through his nostrils. ‘Then I suggest you return to the ludus and prepare for the games. If you won’t help us defeat the Liberators, then you leave me no choice but to make an example of you to the mob. You will be crucified upon the charge of treachery to Rome … after Appius is thrown to the beasts before your eyes.’

  Pavo squeezed his eyes shut and mouthed a silent prayer to Fortuna and Jupiter that he would one day get his chance for vengeance on Pallas and Murena.

  The aide clapped his hands loudly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to the business at hand. Guards!’

  He waved Pavo away and returned his attention to the stack of scrolls and wax tablets. Footsteps echoed down the corridor as the guards returned to the study. They were about to haul Pavo outside when Murena suddenly remembered something and motioned for them to halt.

  ‘Oh, and before I forget,’ he said to Pavo, ‘send my regards to your lanista, won’t you?’ He smiled faintly. ‘I’m sure Macro will have whipped the men into good shape by the time Claudius arrives.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Macro settled his piercing gaze over the ludus training ground and shook his head in disgust.

  ‘Lanista of a bloody ludus,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I’ll never live this day down with the boys in the Second Legion.’

  He grunted as the gladiators trudged towards him at the end of their afternoon training session at the wooden training posts in the shadow of the two-storey dormitory block that dominated the ludus, and prepared to deliver his first address to the gladiators as the new imperial lanista. It was not a task he approached with much enthusiasm. Macro had arrived at the ludus earlier that morning in a foul mood. He had reacted badly to news of his appointment as the temporary lanista. Although he enjoyed a good gladiator show as much as the next Roman, he held a dim view of the gladiators themselves. His estimation of lanistas was even poorer. At least the gladiators fought with honest steel, Macro privately conceded, whereas the lanistas were greedy profiteers who grew wealthy from the killing of slaves and condemned criminals.

  A burly, squat man with a heavily scarred leg stood at his shoulder, tightly gripping a short leather whip.

  ‘It’s not all bad, sir. At least we get to beat the shit out of scum.’

  Manius Ovidius Aculeo held the title of newly appointed gladiator trainer to the ludus. Macro had been introduced to him after arriving at dawn in Capua. The optio’s departure from Paestum had been delayed whilst he waited for his papers to be drawn up. Plenty of work required his attention upon his arrival, and the morning had been a blur of introductions followed by a meeting with the clerks and a review of the parlous financial state of the ludus. He had barely had time to pause and catch his breath.

  ‘There are worse jobs to have,’ Aculeo went on. ‘Imperial lanista is a bloody big deal. You’re in charge of Claudius’s personal troupe of gladiators. There’s plenty in Rome who’d scratch their eyes out to be in your boots.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘I wasn’t born to nursemaid a bunch of muscle-bound glory-hunters.’

  ‘Imperial gladiators, sir,’ Aculeo pointed out. ‘Hand-picked by the Emperor from the thousands of fighters from across the length and breadth of the Empire.’ The doctore waved a hand at the men forming a thin line across the training-ground sand, under the watchful eyes of a handful of armed guards. ‘This lot are the best swordsmen around. Apart from the gladiators at the main imperial ludus in Rome, I suppose.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Macro spat. ‘These men might work the crowd up with all their chest-thumping and swashbuckling, but stick ’em on the Rhine Frontier to face a horde of barbarians foaming at the mouth and they’d soon come unstuck.’

  The doctore chuckled and shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir, but I beg to disagree. The legions ain’t what they used to be. I was a drill instructor in the Thirteenth once. When I joined up, a man would be flogged for so much as looking at some Syrian tart. Times have changed. The legions are too soft these days by half.’

  Macro bit his tongue, resisting the temptation to remind Aculeo that there was a world of difference between the Thirteenth Legion and the Second. Murena had briefed the optio on the new doctore shortly before he departed Paestum. He’d been told that Aculeo had been discharged from the military after acquiring a reputation for being rather too enthusiastic with the application of his vine stick, provoking the men almost to the point of mutiny. Macro made a mental note to keep a close eye on the new doctore. The last thing he needed was a vindictive trainer venting his frustrations on the gladiators. There were more than enough problems to keep him busy as things stood. The previous lanista, Gaius Salonius Corvus, had been more interested in the trappings of wealth than managing a ludus, and training under his leadership had been lax. Macro felt the burden of the task ahead weighing on his shoulders like a heavy marching yoke.

  Now the last of the gladiators assembled. Macro cast his eyes over the ludus as Aculeo ordered the men into formation. To his left stood the wooden training posts. On his right was the practice arena, a replica of the much larger arena in Capua, constructed from wood and with galleries capable of seating an audience of over two hundred. Two guards were stationed at a guard post south of the training arena, to the side of the main entrance to the ludus, an impressive structure with an intricately decorated arch above the gate bearing the reassuring symbol of the god Securitas. A series of guardrooms were built either side of the arch, along with solitary confinement cells for ill-disciplined gladiators. A portcullis sealed the mouth of the gate, along with an outer door which had a locking bar on the outside. Two additional guards were stationed by the outer door at all times. They were only permitted to open the door when the regular supply wagons arrived bearing food and wine for the ludus. The only other entrance was through the main doors at the front of the lanista’s quarters. If nothing else, the place seemed reasonably secure.

  Aculeo called the men to attention. The gladiators slowly formed into ten fairly orderly lines of twelve. Stiffening his neck, the optio reasoned that since he was in charge for the foreseeable future, he may as well make a good fist of his command. If nothing else, it might sharpen his leadership skills.

  Taking a deep breath, he addressed the men.

  ‘I am Lucius Cornelius Macro, optio of the Second Legion, decorated hero of Rome!’ His naturally gruff voice boomed across the training gro
und. ‘Ladies, I am your new lanista. You will all address me as “sir”, understand?’

  The gladiators stared at Macro in leaden silence.

  ‘I can’t hear you!’ the optio thundered. ‘I said, do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the gladiators replied meekly.

  ‘Louder!’

  ‘YES, SIR!’ they bellowed in unison.

  Macro nodded. ‘That’s better.’

  He surveyed the gladiators with a sinking feeling in his guts. Many of the men were in poor condition. Some were slack-muscled and overweight. Quite a few sported prominent paunches or double chins. Not for the first time, Macro found himself cursing the prized decoration he’d been awarded. That decoration had brought him nothing but trouble. Biting back on his unease, he went on.

  ‘Your previous lanista, Gaius Salonius Corvus, left this ludus in a right bloody mess. It’s up to me to sort it out. That includes you lot. And speaking frankly, what I am looking at now makes me want to vomit.’

  The gladiators looked surly.

  ‘You’re supposed to be the most feared swordsmen in the Empire. But an Egyptian beggar would strike more fear into the heart of a Roman soldier than any of you miserable bastards. If I had things my way, I’d pack the lot of you off to the mines. Unfortunately, I’m stuck with you. A great festival of games is scheduled to take place a month from now, when you will be pitted against your comrades from the imperial ludus in Rome.’

  Macro paused as the gladiators absorbed the news with a degree of unrest. The announcement of forthcoming games always prompted a mixed response, he reflected, in a way that reminded him of soldiers greeting news of an imminent battle. There was excitement at a welcome break in the monotonous routine of training and drills, but also despair that some of them would soon shuffle over to the afterlife.

  ‘As imperial gladiators, I expect you to put on a good show for the Emperor. Corvus might have been happy to let you lose against the boys from Rome. But I didn’t travel all the way up here just to watch you be defeated. Lads, we are going to beat those noisy upstarts from the Roman ludus. If we want to win, there’s going to have to be some big changes around here.’

  Macro paused again. Many of the veteran gladiators appeared unconvinced by his bold words. While the gladiators bore plenty of scars from the arena, they had grown attached to the comforts of life under their old master, and were understandably apprehensive about the prospect of hard training.

  ‘I have personally slaughtered enough barbarians to half fill this ludus. The secret to Roman warfare isn’t our weapons or the so-called leadership skills of our generals, thank the gods. It’s our drills.’ Macro thumped a fist against his chest. ‘We drill day and night. We drill until our arms ache and we can hardly stand. We drill in our fucking sleep. That’s what we’re going to do, ladies. From now until the day of the games there will be twice-daily training sessions.’ He gestured to Aculeo. ‘This is your new doctore. He’s also a military man through and through. He will help to instil legionary discipline in each and every one of you.’

  There were grumbles from the throng of gladiators. Several directed evil glares at the doctore. Aculeo merely puffed out his chest in pride, oblivious of the venomous reception from the men.

  ‘The doctore will take training from dawn until noon,’ Macro continued. ‘After a short rest you’ll work at the paluses with the specialist coaches. By the end of each day you will be hurting worse than you have ever done in your pathetic lives. By the end of the month, you’ll have muscles in places you didn’t even know you had places. Then you’ll train some more. Am I understood?’

  ‘Here, what about our bounty?’ one of the men asked.

  ‘Too bloody right!’ another added. ‘We still haven’t received our share of the winnings from the previous fights! Some of us have wives and children to feed on the outside.’

  Macro knitted his brow. ‘Blame that selfish turd Corvus. He left this ludus without an amphora to piss in. There’s no money to be had, so you’ll have to make do without the bounty for a while.’

  Groans and murmurs of discontent erupted among the gladiators.

  ‘That can’t be true,’ the first gladiator insisted. He was a pale man whose upper body was covered in tattoos. ‘Corvus rented us out as bodyguards. He was raking it in. There must be some money to share around.’

  ‘Corvus rented you out to pay his debts,’ Macro replied coldly. ‘That’s why the Emperor had him bumped off. He left the ludus penniless. End of discussion.’

  The gladiators exchanged angry looks. Macro sympathised with their grievance up to a point. Comparatively few gladiators achieved freedom by winning the rudis, the wooden sword awarded for triumphant gladiators at spectacular events. For most, their only real hope was to earn enough prize money to eventually buy out their contract with the lanista. A lower share of the winnings meant that a gladiator would need to survive more fights in order to purchase his freedom. Macro sensed the mood turning ugly. He silenced the protests with an abrupt wave of his hand. What he had to say next would undoubtedly provoke an acrimonious reaction.

  ‘While we’re on the subject of Corvus, I understand he permitted you lot cheap wine at supper and, gods forbid, even let you entertain tarts at night. Under my leadership, army rules will apply. No more wine. Anyone trying to smuggle a tart into their cells will be taken out to the training ground and given thirty lashes.’

  ‘No wine?’ one gladiator asked despairingly.

  ‘Not even a bit of fresh cunny?’ another shouted.

  ‘Plenty of that waiting for you in the afterlife,’ Macro replied.

  ‘That’s not fair! You can’t just take away our privileges like that. We’re imperial fighters, us lot. We deserve what Corvus promised us.’

  ‘Corvus is dead!’ Macro thundered. ‘I’m the lanista. And you had better fall into line. That goes for each and every one of you miserable bastards. The next man to speak out will get twenty lashes.’

  Satisfied that he had settled the argument, Macro wheeled away, gesturing to Aculeo to begin the day’s training-ground exercises – twenty laps of the ludus followed by excruciating sets of press-ups, sit-ups and star jumps. He stopped dead at the sound of applause coming from somewhere within the massed ranks of gladiators.

  ‘What a fine speech, Roman,’ a voice rasped.

  ‘Who said that?’ Macro bellowed, turning back to the men.

  The line of gladiators slowly parted to reveal a tall, well-built man with enlarged chest and shoulder muscles. He looked to be fitter than most of his peers. He struck Macro as a disciplined but serious sort of fellow. Judging from his straggly beard and the loose, flowing dark hair hanging down past his shoulders, Macro presumed he hailed from the barbaric lands to the east of Rome. A scar on his upper lip locked his mouth into a permanent scowl.

  ‘You!’ Macro shouted. ‘Name!’

  ‘Bato.’ The gladiator smirked at Macro. The men around him looked at him with a mixture of awe and fear. ‘I know your kind, Roman. I killed many soldiers like you on the field of battle in Thrace.’

  Macro chuckled. ‘Didn’t stop you from getting captured and thrown into a ludus, I see.’

  Bato glared back. ‘How perceptive of you. True, I am in bondage, with many of my brothers.’ He acknowledged a group of men standing at his broad shoulders. ‘But I fought bravely, as an honourable warrior and the proud leader of my tribe. Not like you Romans, hiding behind your shields like women.’

  Macro stared hard at the gladiator. ‘You can comfort yourself with that thought tonight while you’re picking cockroaches out of your gruel and I’m treating myself to a cup of Falernian.’

  The gladiator scowled. Macro balled his right hand into a fist and punched the man in the guts. There was a sharp draw of breath as the blow winded Bato and he doubled up in agony.

  ‘Speak out of turn again and I’ll have you on half-rations for a month.’

  Macro turned to leave.

  ‘That’s rig
ht,’ said the gladiator, fighting to catch his breath. ‘Walk away.’

  The optio spun back round. Bato flashed an evil stare and addressed the other gladiators between sharp breaths.

  ‘We didn’t triumph in the arena, defeat countless opponents, spill blood and fight our way to become imperial gladiators just so this halfwit soldier could push us around. Down with the lanista! I say we take what is rightfully ours!’

  A pocket of the men cheered Bato. In a burst of anger, Aculeo lashed out with his whip, striking the sand at the feet of the gladiator. Bato stared back at him, his face shading white with rage.

  ‘Doctore,’ Macro ordered. ‘Lash this man at the post.’

  ‘Roman scum!’ Bato roared. The cheers among the other gladiators swelled.

  ‘Make it thirty lashes.’

  ‘I spit on you!’

  ‘Forty!’ Macro boomed above a deafening chorus of support.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Aculeo stepped forward, smacking his lips at the prospect of inflicting severe pain on the Thracian. He grabbed hold of Bato with a firm grip and started dragging him away. The armed guards scattered around the training ground exchanged anxious looks, their lack of training and battle experience telling in their hesitant faces and the nervous twitches of their hands. Macro knew a poor soldier when he saw one, and a brief look at the garrison guards told him that they were no match for the men of the Second Legion. The guards watched the Thracian uneasily as he screamed his defiance, echoed by his comrades.

  ‘You haven’t heard the last of me, Roman!’ Bato roared as two more guards rushed to the doctore’s aid in an attempt to subdue him. ‘I’ll make you regret the day you set foot in this ludus!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A tense mood hung over the ludus as the gladiators toiled at the training posts. Pavo practised with his sword, a lead weight in his heart. Six days had passed since his meeting with Murena, and the young gladiator had sunk deeper into a pit of anguish with each passing day. His journey had come to a premature end, he reflected. There would be no vengeance over Hermes. No freedom for his son Appius. The humiliation and sense of injustice at his misfortune burned deeply in his heart, and for a fleeting moment he wished he had lost against Denter and perished in the arena, bringing an end to his misery.