Arena

by Simon Scarrow

  Silence greeted his words.

  Then a thought struck Macro. His eyes glowed with grim determination. ‘While Bato and his men are busy carving up Celts for supper, we’ll burn the armoury down. Render the weapons useless.’

  ‘Crude but effective, sir,’ Pavo said. ‘Although I doubt the Emperor will be pleased about the damage to his ludus.’

  ‘He’ll be less pleased by the damage to his empire if we don’t,’ Macro countered.

  ‘You are forgetting one thing, sir,’ Pavo cautioned.

  Macro looked blankly at him. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’re trapped,’ Pavo answered simply. ‘As soon as you stick your head out of the door, a mob of angry gladiators will descend on you like dogs after scraps of meat. They’d rip us all limb from fucking limb. Pardon my Gallic, sir.’

  Bassus wagged his finger at the gladiator. ‘There is another way out. One that Bato and his followers won’t know about.’

  Macro turned to the guard. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We can use the drainage tunnel, sir. It runs under the perimeter of the ludus. One of the gladiators tried to escape through it once, so Corvus sealed it off at this end with a metal grille. But from this side, two or three of us ought to be able to follow the tunnel in the direction of the armoury.’

  Pavo raised an eyebrow. ‘The tunnel will take us all the way to the armoury?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Bassus responded with a frown. ‘There was no need for it to be accessible from the armoury. It does, however, link to the infirmary, which is next to the armoury. All we have to do is crawl into the tunnel through the reservoir in the cellar and follow it south, then climb up through the drain and make our way down the corridor.’

  ‘Then it’s settled,’ Macro decided. ‘We’ll use the drain tunnel.’

  He wheeled away from Pavo and carefully removed the bronze medals strapped across his chest. He handed them to an orderly. ‘Take care of these, eh? They were given to me by Claudius. I’ll need two good men to come with me. Bassus, you’ll do. That leaves one more …’

  The optio’s eyes settled on Pavo.

  ‘Me?’ The young gladiator snorted and shook his head. ‘Forget it. I’m in no fit state to fight.’

  ‘We’re in the middle of a crisis, Pavo.’

  Pavo looked unconvinced. ‘Even if I did help, what good would it do me? They’re going to crucify me at the games anyway, sir.’

  ‘Unless they can’t afford to.’

  Pavo scratched his elbow. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’

  ‘Think about it, lad. You have a chance to make yourself indispensable to those slippery Greeks. Once we’ve stopped the rebellion, Bato and his loyal followers will have to be executed. Set an example to the other men. The ludus is thin on gladiator numbers as it is. With Bato and the other Thracians out of the way, Pallas and Murena won’t dare try to bump you off. There’s no one to take your place at the games, and the mob in Rome won’t accept a second-rate gladiator as the main event.’

  Pavo clenched his teeth and bit back on the pain throbbing between his temples. The young gladiator hated the idea of being outwitted by the homespun soldier, but Macro had made a convincing argument.

  ‘Listen,’ Macro continued. ‘Every one of Bato’s followers that you cut down is one fewer gladiator to fight at the games. Help me put an end to the rebellion and you’ll have a fighting chance of staying alive and getting to face Hermes. You won’t just be a victorious gladiator. You’ll be the Roman fighter who helped crush another Spartacus.’ The optio shrugged. ‘Or you can give up, sit here stinking of shit and wait for the Greeks to kill you. Or Bato. Whoever gets to you first, I suppose.’

  Pavo felt the blood pound in his veins. He groaned in his throat as he stood fully upright, but the rage in his heart drowned out the chorus of pain. ‘I’ll join you, Optio.’

  Macro studied Pavo for a moment. Although Pavo was a high-born aristocrat, the worst kind of Roman in Macro’s eyes, there was something he warmed to in the lad. He was taciturn and occasionally naïve, but he was also surprisingly tough and bloody-minded, qualities that reminded Macro of himself as a young recruit to the Second Legion. He nodded his approval.

  ‘That’s more like it, lad. Glabrio!’ Macro yelled, turning away from the gladiator.

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘You’re in charge here. Whatever happens, you don’t let anyone through that door. If every slave in this room has to lay down his life defending this position, so be it. Once the Germans arrive, assemble the men at the main gate and post a lookout in the watchtower above. Wait for the first sign of smoke from the burning armoury. That’ll be the signal for you to attack.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Glabrio said sternly. ‘But what if the Germans don’t get here in time?’

  ‘I imagine Murena will be sweating out of his arse once he learns of Bato’s actions. He’ll send the men as soon as possible.’ Macro turned away from the guard and smiled at Pavo. ‘Now hurry up, lad. Bato and his mob might be leaving the dormitory at any moment. There’s no time to lose.’

  A short while later, Macro, Bassus and Pavo crept through the tunnel in near darkness. Pavo lit the way, carrying a lamp he had retrieved from the lanista’s quarters. Macro followed, with Bassus bringing up the rear, the men clasping their swords above their heads to protect their weapons from the sewage. The lamp cast eerie shadows across the curved stone walls, and Pavo tried hard to focus on the mouth of darkness ahead of him rather than look down at the foulness swirling at his feet.

  ‘How many times have I got to get covered in shit in one day?’ he grumbled to no one in particular.

  ‘Best get used to the feeling,’ Macro said. In the darkness his voice seemed very close. ‘If we somehow survive this rebellion, we’ll be up to our necks in it with that slimy pair of freedmen. Besides, from the look of you, I’d say you have plenty of experience of wading through shit.’

  ‘Such a refined sense of humour,’ Pavo replied drily.

  A wave of nausea tickled the back of the young gladiator’s throat. He caught a strong whiff of fresh faecal matter and felt his back spasm. He involuntarily dropped his head and emptied his guts. The sound of his retching travelled down the tunnel.

  ‘Better out than in, boy,’ Macro said.

  ‘Don’t know what you two are complaining about,’ Bassus added cheerily. ‘This isn’t so bad. You want to take a walk through the Subura at night. Shit all over the place, I tell you.’

  ‘Gah! Rome,’ Pavo uttered throatily, spitting out the bitter tang of vomit on his tongue. ‘If I never set foot in that city again, I’ll be a happy man. It’s a dangerous place to be rich, or notable.’

  He fell silent, staring ahead and trying to recall the distance between the lanista’s quarters and the armoury to the south, on the eastern side of the ludus. He suddenly stiffened at the sound of a distinct squeal emanating from further down the tunnel. The bristles stiffened on the back of his neck and he peered at the dense blackness ahead with a cold sense of foreboding stirring in his stomach.

  ‘What is it?’ Macro hissed from behind. ‘Why have we stopped?’

  ‘Rats!’ Pavo yelped. ‘I hate rats!’

  An instant later hundreds of the creatures burrowed out of the darkness and scurried through the sewage. Pavo quivered with disgust as the vermin scampered between his legs, scratching his knees. The young gladiator swept his hands in front of him, swiping them away. But they kept coming, scuttling up his hands and running along his back. In a blind panic he lowered the lamp and swept the flame back and forth across the rats, causing them to shriek and disperse.

  ‘Got you!’ he said as he sent another scorched rat darting away from the flame.

  As he lifted the lamp he noticed a rat creeping up his right arm. It squealed at him. Pavo flinched. The lamp fell from his grasp and plopped into the sewage, extinguishing the flame and plunging the tunnel into utter darkness.

  ‘What happened?’ Macro asked.

&nbs
p; ‘I dropped the lamp.’

  ‘Really?’ Macro gritted his teeth. ‘Why can’t you stop buggering things up, boy?’

  The young gladiator was still for a moment as he strained his eyes. ‘I can see something up ahead.’

  A sliver of light shone in front of him. He squinted, but in the subterranean darkness it was impossible to discern how far away it was. He crept towards it, a tingling sensation working down his spine. The thought of gaining revenge over Hermes kept him going. Pavo no longer felt offended by the misery of life as a gladiator, cheered in the arena and bullied in the ludus. He had plenty of high-born friends in Rome whose lives were equally treacherous and squalid. Only their surroundings differed. But he had a higher purpose: to honour his father’s name and restore it to its former glory. Only by killing Hermes could he achieve that. Yesterday, he reflected, his circumstances had seemed hopeless. Now his heart filled with steely determination. By defeating Bato and his thugs, he could save himself from crucifixion. He had a chance of staying alive long enough to win his fight against Hermes. He smiled in the pitted darkness at the thought that Bato’s mutiny might work in his favour.

  ‘Almost there,’ he said.

  The three men shuffled on in the pitch black, and the sliver of light swelled to reveal a drain set into the roof of the tunnel. Torchlight shimmered in the room above. Moving at a slow pace to keep his movements silent, Pavo finally stopped beneath the drain. He craned his neck up at the light and squinted.

  ‘What can you see?’ Macro whispered.

  ‘Shelves stacked with gauze dressings, sir.’

  ‘Yes! The infirmary!’ The optio shook his head. ‘Never thought I’d say that.’

  ‘What now?’ Bassus asked from the back.

  Macro jolted Pavo. ‘Go on, lad. Get up there. Quick, now. We don’t have much time. If I have to wallow in this filth much longer, I’m in danger of smelling as terrible as you.’

  Pavo gripped the sides of the drain and hauled himself up. It was a tight squeeze, and he had to strain to drag himself out on to the hay-strewn floor of the infirmary. Clasping his sword, he surveyed the infirmary as Macro and Bassus hauled themselves out of the drainage tunnel after him. The typical surgical instruments of hooks, bone drills, spatulas and saws had been looted by the earlier mob. A strong smell of garlic and sage hung in the air, mixing with the stench of human waste to form a putrid, sickly-sweet aroma.

  Pavo stilled his breath as he moved north down the corridor leading to the armoury, softening his step and keeping the tip of his sword pressed ahead of him at hip height. In the distance the heightened screams of men carried across the training ground as several unfortunate Celts underwent prolonged torture and suffering at the hands of their former comrades. A little way down the corridor Pavo spied the armoury, its iron bars glittering in the glow of a nearby torch. His heart thumped furiously in his chest, blood twisting in his veins at the thought of wrecking the plan of Bato and his followers. As he neared the gate, the thumping increased in pace and fear spread through his heart.

  Figures were pouring into the armoury. The lock had already been dismantled and the gates wrenched open. Pavo stopped dead in his tracks as Macro and Bassus drew alongside him. The three men looked on in dismay at the throng of gladiators, their broad shoulders and prominent chest muscles illuminated by the flicker of an oil lamp. The Thracians did not notice the small party further down the corridor.

  ‘Shit,’ Macro hissed under his breath. Pavo turned to him. Even in the intermittent glow of the lamps, the frustration was clear on the optio’s face. Macro tensed his muscles and drew his sword. ‘There’s only a few of them. Come on. We can take them down.’

  Pavo and Bassus gripped their own swords tightly. Once the last of the mob had entered the armoury, Macro raised his weapon.

  ‘Now!’

  With a terrifying roar he charged towards the armoury, with Pavo and Bassus at his sides. The gladiators pillaging the armoury turned as one to see the three men storming out of the shadows in the corridor and closing in on them. They were too late to react. Grabbing a shield from the armoury floor, Macro parried the thrust of the first gladiator he came upon. Then he slammed his shield into the man and knocked him back against two of his comrades. He stabbed the man in his groin before he could get to his feet, wrenching the sword free. Pavo and Bassus grabbed shields of their own and attacked the other gladiators.

  ‘Get stuck in!’ Macro laughed. ‘Don’t show them any mercy!’

  One of the Thracians hastily grabbed a spear from a rack on the wall and singled out Pavo, charging at him in a mad fury. The young gladiator tensed his strong muscles, his mind racing as the spear tip glanced off the shield braced in front of his chest. Pavo filled his lungs and charged the man, knocking aside the spear and then driving the tip of his sword into the rebel gladiator’s groin before cutting up into his stomach. The man spasmed furiously as blood cascaded out of his wound. Pavo gave the sword a twist for good measure, then wrenched his weapon free and watched the gladiator collapse to his knees. Glancing around, he saw Macro smashing his fist into another gladiator’s face. Grabbing the stunned gladiator by his throat, Macro hurled the man off his feet and sent him crashing into a rack of javelins arranged along the far wall. Behind the optio another gladiator seized a curved dagger and lunged at him, spitting with rage.

  ‘Macro, watch out!’

  Pavo raced towards the optio as he spun round to face the gladiator armed with the curved dagger. He slammed his right shoulder into the gladiator, knocking the blade away a moment before it slashed at Macro. The force of the blow dropped the gladiator to the ground. As he made to scrape himself off the ground, Pavo thrust his sword into the rebel’s exposed neck. The man rasped, his fingers clawing at the point sticking out of his throat. With a final grunt Pavo wrenched his blade free. Blood spurted out of the wound.

  ‘Learning a trick or two, I see.’ Macro nodded admiringly at the Thracian.

  Pavo shrugged casually. ‘I had a good teacher.’

  ‘That’s the last of that sorry mob,’ Macro said, gesturing at the sprawled gladiators. ‘But there’ll be plenty more of them on the way. The sooner we burn this place down, the better.’

  Pavo surveyed the armoury while Bassus fetched an oil lamp. He noticed something and turned to Macro, pointing out several empty racks. ‘It appears these gladiators were not the first to loot the armoury.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Macro asked.

  ‘There are weapons missing, sir.’

  Macro thumped his fist against the wall. ‘Fuck! Bato must have removed some of them first.’

  Pavo nodded. ‘They probably took as much as they could carry, and intended to come back for the rest.’

  ‘At least most of his men won’t be armed. Good job too. There’s enough weapons here to arm every one of the gladiators to the teeth.’ Macro indicated the array of swords, spears and shields on display in the armoury. Some were unfamiliar to the optio’s keen eye, and he supposed they had been modelled on the curved weapons preferred by armies in the east.

  ‘Burn it,’ he ordered.

  Gripping a bronze oil lamp by its handle, Bassus held the flame to the nearest wooden rack. The air was quickly choked with fumes and a few moments later the rack erupted into flames. Bassus applied the flame to another rack and retreated with Pavo and Macro to the gate as the flames licked at the swords and spears, burning the shafts and handles. The guard threw the oil lamp into the swelling flames and joined the two men in the corridor. Macro grunted in satisfaction, his blood stirring at the sight of the weapons going up in flames.

  ‘Sir!’ Pavo exclaimed, clasping Macro’s arm. ‘Look!’

  The optio followed the young gladiator’s gaze beyond the porticoes and across the training ground. In the soft twilight he spied a horde of gladiators disgorging from the dormitory block and charging towards the burning armoury.

  ‘The fire’s alerted them,’ Bassus observed. ‘Now we’re really in t
he shit.’

  Several of the men were equipped with shields and swords. Others carried thrusting spears and daggers. Bato led the gladiators from the front of the pack. The Thracian rebel wielded a curved bronze shield and a curious four-pronged dagger. The steel prongs were bunched tight and straight in the shape of a cross, and were roughly a foot in length. Duras marched by his side wearing leather gloves with iron spikes sewn into the material. A three-pronged bronze fork was studded to the knuckles.

  Bato grinned sadistically at Macro, his green eyes sparkling as they reflected the flames consuming the armoury. Smoke billowed out of the gates. The air was thick with the smell of charred wood. Beside the optio, Pavo clenched his fist round the handle of his sword in trepidation.

  ‘There’s got to be a hundred of them. They’ve got us trapped, sir.’

  ‘Hold your ground, lad,’ Macro said resolutely.

  Bato slowed his pace as he neared the men. The flames roared behind them. The Thracian was momentarily distracted by the fire raging in the armoury. He pulled a sour face at the scorched weapons, then looked back at Macro and pointed at him with the prongs of his dagger.

  ‘Ah, lanista! Trying to ruin my plan, I see. Sadly, you’re too late. We already looted some weapons from the armoury. Along with the swords and shields taken from the guards we’ve killed, enough of my men are armed to easily overthrow you and the remaining guards.’ He turned to Pavo. ‘And I see you’ve brought your friend along. How convenient. Now I shall have the pleasure of watching you both suffer.’

  ‘You might kill us, but your rebellion is doomed. You’ll all be crucified.’

  Bato laughed smugly. ‘I think not. By the time the legions get word of our uprising, we will have disappeared into the hills. A lifetime of looting and pillaging awaits me, Roman. The only thing you have to look forward to is an excruciatingly painful death.’

  ‘Go to Hades,’ Macro bellowed huskily.

  ‘You first,’ Bato rasped.

  As he made to charge at Macro, a sudden shout erupted from the south of the training ground, in the direction of the main entrance. The Romans and gladiators simultaneously turned towards the guttural cry. In the next instant the outer doors groaned open and a wave of shadows swarmed through the entrance and charged towards the gladiators gathered on the training ground. The look on Bato’s face shrivelled to abject horror at the sight of the onrushing force. The men wore the breeches familiar to German tribes, and were armed with two-metre-long spears with shafts made of weathered ash with iron shanks mounted on top. Their swords were considerably longer than the standard legionary type. The gladiators stood rooted to the spot, stunned by the sight.