Arena

by Simon Scarrow

‘You must be the lanista,’ he said in heavily accented Latin to Macro.

  The optio nodded stiffly at Bato and Duras. ‘Spread the word to your men. The ringleader and his bodyguard are dead. His followers are loyal but not completely thick. Once they hear Bato has been chopped up, they’ll lay down their arms.’

  The German officer chuckled. ‘There won’t be any need for that, sir. The battle is almost over. Most of the gladiators have surrendered. A handful of Bato’s fanatical supporters have retreated into the dormitory block. We’re getting ready to move in and finish the job. Orders from the imperial secretary to kill them and stick their heads on spikes. Serve as a lesson for the rest of the gladiators, sir.’

  The tone of his voice implied the German was not unhappy with this turn of events.

  Macro said nothing. He felt no sympathy for the few gladiators trapped inside the dormitory. They had picked their side and lost, and now they would suffer the consequences. It was the same in the field of battle, and if the tables were turned and the Thracians had triumphed, he knew they would have spared no Roman lives.

  The German officer cleared his throat. ‘Murena wishes to speak with you, sir.’

  The optio clenched his teeth, grunting in his chest. ‘Murena is here?’

  ‘He arrived with us, sir. He’s waiting in the lanista’s quarters. Wants you to report to him after you’ve cleaned up.’

  ‘What does he want with us now?’ Macro wondered tetchily.

  The aftermath of the battle had left the ludus in tatters. Bodies were strewn everywhere, so much so that Macro imagined it might be possible to walk from one side of the training ground to the other without ever touching the ground. Grey pillars of smoke seethed out of the armoury as the roof covering that portion of the corridor threatened to collapse, groaning under the strain. The smoke smothered the sky, reducing the stars to faintly glowing orbs.

  The optio and the young gladiator grabbed welcome cups of water from an orderly attending to the wounded. Casting an eye across the training ground, Macro feared it would be a long time before the ludus returned to working order. The costs involved would be enormous. The rebellious gladiators had laid waste to every symbol of their imprisonment. The training posts had been uprooted and chopped to pieces. The sundial in the middle of the ground had been smashed apart. In a fit of rage, some of the Thracians had taken to operating on the ludus physician, Kallinos, with his own set of surgical instruments. A spatula protruded from his eye. His mouth was agape, his face locked in an expression of utter terror.

  Passing under the porticoes, the German officer led Macro and Pavo up the blood-splashed marble steps to the lanista’s quarters. Dread tied knots around Macro’s bowels as he spotted the aide to the imperial secretary pacing up and down the main room. The damage to the ludus was the least of his worries. The loss of so many gladiators – more than half the strength of the school – would undoubtedly prohibit their participation at the forthcoming games. Not only would that be acutely embarrassing to the Emperor, it would threaten his ability to host imperial gladiator fights at all. Macro’s impending sense of dread was heightened when he noticed Macer standing smugly next to Murena, soothing his reddened wrists. Both men looked at the imperial lanista and the young gladiator at his side.

  ‘What in Hades is going on here?’ Murena hissed sharply, throwing his arms in the air. ‘Even a common soldier should be able to control a few gladiators. Letting the ludus fall into the hands of the Thracians is idiocy of the highest order! What will the mob say when they hear of this?’ He fought to control the rage in his trembling voice. ‘You have truly surpassed yourself, Optio. I am of a mind to have you banished to the mines for your stupidity.’

  Macro shook his head angrily and glared at Macer. ‘This isn’t my fault, sir. This coward legged it at the first sign of rebellion and left his keys behind for the Thracians to grab. That allowed Bato and his mob to unlock every cell in the dormitory. If it hadn’t been for this joke of a Praetorian, we would have contained the gladiators before Bato had a chance to increase his numbers.’

  ‘Liar!’ Macer’s face exploded with fury. ‘Sir, I gave the optio repeated warnings about the dire consequences of rough-handling the gladiators. But he insisted on bludgeoning the men rather than treating them with respect.’

  ‘Respect?’ Macro repeated incredulously. ‘They’re gladiators! Lowest of the low.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Pavo muttered under his breath.

  ‘Enough!’ Murena bawled, glaring at the commander and the optio in turn. Snapping upright, the freedman straightened his ruffled tunic and nodded at the German officer. ‘This man tells me that by burning down the armoury you helped turn the tide in our favour.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Pavo said.

  Murena regarded the young gladiator coldly. ‘That is not how the Emperor sees it. Nor is it how Pallas and myself view your conduct. You have damaged imperial property, both of you. That is a serious offence. Were it not for the fact that you have evidently helped fend off the rebellion by dispatching the ringleader, Pallas would be ordering you both to be nailed to a cross at dawn. You should consider yourselves highly fortunate.’

  ‘You must be joking,’ Macro said under his breath.

  ‘What was that?’ Murena snapped.

  ‘Nothing,’ Macro replied flatly.

  The aide to the imperial secretary dismissed Macer with a curt wave of his slender hand. Once the commander was out of earshot, Murena sighed heavily and wrung his trembling hands as if trying to still his temper.

  ‘It’s true that Macer is an incompetent fool. We removed him from the Praetorian Guard after he almost got his men killed.’

  ‘I knew it!’ thundered Macro.

  ‘Nevertheless, while he’s not absolved of blame, it’s clear that your hot-headedness has cost us dear, Optio. This rebellion leaves us critically short of gladiators for the upcoming games. With the remaining Thracians condemned inside the dormitory block, this ludus will be at half-strength. Unfortunately, that means we will have to come to some arrangement with another lanista. No doubt they will charge a high price for the use of their fighters. Not to mention the extensive repairs needed to the ludus, and the cost of replacing the dead gladiators. The Emperor is facing a bill of hundreds of thousands of sestertii.’ The aide pivoted round. A contemptuous expression was etched on his face. ‘Pallas and I agree that you must both pay for this damage.’

  ‘What?’ Macro blurted. ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘Oh, we can, Optio. We can do whatever we please. However, since it is abundantly clear that neither of you has the means to reimburse his imperial majesty, we must find some other way of settling your debts. I will have to discuss the matter with Pallas, but news of Bato’s death has given me an idea.’ The aide paused for breath. ‘You will take the place of the Thracian at the games.’

  Macro gaped at him disbelievingly.

  Murena smiled coldly. ‘You killed a man who was a central part of the entertainment at the games. I think it only appropriate that you take his place.’ The aide flashed a scornful glance at Pavo. ‘It was one of the most lucrative fights planned.’

  Macro looked apoplectic with rage. ‘Fight as a gladiator? Me?’ He could think of no more shameful fate. He’d only ever heard of drunken former legionaries daring to debase themselves by fighting as gladiators. ‘But … we saved your bloody ludus!’

  ‘Calm down, Optio. Your identity will be disguised. Bato fought under a stage name. You shall adopt it, and wear the same helmet and clothing. That ought to do nicely in terms of convincing the mob. Bato was a big draw, and we don’t want to disappoint the mob, now do we?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Macro barely muttered, still in a state of shock at his fate.

  ‘Don’t look so downhearted, Optio. You will only be required to appear in one fight, alongside dear Pavo.’ He smiled wickedly at the gladiator. ‘No need to conceal your identity, young man. You’re already scum.’ Pavo bristled with rage as Murena looked back
to Macro. ‘Should you survive, you can consider your debt to the Emperor wiped clean. You will then be free to return to the Second Legion. As an optio, I hasten to add.’

  ‘What?’ Macro growled. ‘But … my promotion to centurion … we had a deal.’

  ‘Consider yourself lucky to still hold the rank of optio. After your reckless approach to managing a ludus, I think it’s fair to say you have demonstrated that you are wholly unworthy of leading men.’

  ‘What about me?’ Pavo asked.

  ‘Pallas and I have decided not to crucify you, for the time being. But your fight with Hermes is off. We have arranged another opponent for the great man. The mob will be delighted that Hermes has at last recovered from his injuries and is back in training. Rest assured that for your part in this fiasco, Pavo, you will never see your son Appius again.’

  Pavo’s shoulders slumped. ‘Well, who are we fighting?’ he asked. ‘A couple of lads from the imperial ludus in Rome, I suppose.’

  Murena chuckled. ‘No. You’ll be pitted against rather more untamed creatures.’

  ‘Gauls?’ Macro asked.

  ‘Animals, Optio. You’re going to feature in the beast fights.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Macro muttered a curse under his breath as the roar of the crowd echoed through the passageway of the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre. Almost a month had passed since the day of the mutiny in Capua and now the gladiators had arrived in Rome for the opening day of the games. From his position under the galleries Macro could see a vast column of gladiators, condemned criminals and comic performers stretched out in front of him in the passageway, trembling with anticipation as they waited for the signal from the arena attendant. In keeping with the tradition of the games, the procession would emerge on to the sand in full view of the spectators. Then Claudius would declare the games open. Macro remembered the order of the procession well. He’d witnessed several gladiator spectacles during his childhood. But he’d never imagined that he might one day enter the arena as a participant. He tasted something bitter on his mouth as the trumpeters blared and the attendants gave the signal and the head of the procession shuffled forward. The blood boiled in his veins as he neared the entrance.

  ‘Condemned to fight wild beasts,’ he growled. ‘I’ll never live down the shame.’

  ‘Could be worse,’ Pavo replied, nodding at a line of bedraggled prisoners of war directly ahead of them, their heads lowered and their shoulders emphatically slumped. ‘One of the guards reckons that unfortunate lot are to be wrapped in animal skins, tied to wooden posts and ripped apart by panthers.’

  ‘This is no time for splitting fucking hairs,’ Macro snapped. ‘I’m taking part in the games, lad. Me, a hero of Rome! I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Nor should I,’ Pavo replied bitterly. ‘At least you only have to get through this one bout. This is the third time I’ve had to fight. You should consider yourself lucky.’

  Macro glared at the young gladiator. A thunderous cheer erupted from the packed galleries, cutting off his reply. Now the front of the procession slowly emerged on to the sands. Macro grudgingly faced forward, sweat trickling down his back in the fetid heat of the tunnel. As well as their suffocating helmets, the two men wore bronze cuirasses, leg greaves and protective arm padding. The armour weighed heavily on their muscular frames and merely shuffling along was enough to make them both break out in a sweat in spite of the cold. At the head of the procession the optio glimpsed the lictors, their bundles of wooden rods fixed with axes mounted above their shoulders. Behind the lictors was a colourful array of acrobats, dwarves and actors for the comic interludes, followed by a throng of arena attendants. The gladiators themselves were the last to emerge. The condemned men among them cut a depressing presence at the rear of the procession, staring ahead with deadened expressions. Other gladiators, champions of the provincial arenas, marched purposefully towards the entrance, eager to get the preliminaries over with so they could return to training ahead of their fights. All the men had chains clamped around their ankles and wrists. They were flanked by a large detachment of the Praetorian Guard.

  ‘I can’t see a bloody thing wearing this,’ Macro fumed, fiddling with the visor on his helmet. ‘How the fuck are we supposed to win our bout if we’re half blind?’

  ‘I suspect that is rather the point,’ Pavo replied tersely. ‘Beast fighters aren’t the main attraction at the games, after all.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘If we can’t see properly, it adds to the crowd’s amusement.’

  Macro glowered at the young man at his side, his rage evident even through the restrictive eyeholes in his visor. The indignity of taking part in the games burned in his chest, testing his patience.

  ‘Shut up,’ he muttered. ‘It’s your fault I’m in this mess in the first place.’

  ‘What?’ Pavo responded indignantly as the acrobats cartwheeled into the arena to a round of polite cheers. ‘The imperial secretary to the Emperor was the one who condemned you to fight today. I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Bollocks, lad! The only reason I’m here is because the secretary held me responsible for the gladiator mutiny at Capua.’

  A sea of bobbing heads swarmed ahead of Macro as the two men drew near to the mouth of the tunnel. Pavo heard the faint din of musicians playing the flute and water organs out in the arena. Their delicate notes were abruptly drowned out by the shrieks and grunts of exotic animals transported on wagons being wheeled out to whet the spectators’ appetite ahead of the beast fights and animal hunts. A few moments later there was a collective rumble as the spectators surged to their feet in eager anticipation.

  ‘Claudius must have arrived,’ said Macro.

  ‘Gods, listen to that!’ Pavo exclaimed as the mass of gladiators entered the arena to an earth-shuddering crescendo of noise. ‘The galleries must be heaving with spectators.’

  ‘Rather be up there than down here with this scum,’ Macro retorted.

  Privately he conceded that the mob had good reason to be out in force at the opening of the games. The Emperor had spared no expense to put on a stunning spectacle to win over the mob. Macro had spotted several posters advertising the event on the walls of taverns and merchant stores lining the path of the procession. Chariot races were being held at the Campus Martius, and earlier that morning an elephant-drawn chariot had conveyed Livia’s image past a crowd lining the streets. As sponsor of the games, Claudius had brought together the pick of the gladiators and beast fighters from the imperial ludus in Rome and the smaller ludus in Capua. Macro shuddered at the vast cost of the event, which was rumoured to have run into several hundred thousand denarii.

  Macro and Pavo were about to enter the arena when a voice shouted, ‘You two! Stop there!’

  The two men turned simultaneously as an arena official hurried towards them, his brow heavily furrowed.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Macro demanded.

  ‘Sextus Hostilius Nerva,’ the official announced curtly. ‘I’m in charge of the schedule. It’s my job to make sure these games run smoothly and without any hiccups. You.’ He pointed at Pavo. ‘Name?’

  ‘Marcus Valerius Pavo,’ the gladiator responded.

  ‘And your comrade?’

  ‘Hilarus,’ Macro said, bristling with shame. He took scant consolation from the fact that by fighting under the assumed name of Duras, he would at least conceal his true identity, preventing his superiors in the Second Legion from ever discovering his shameful secret. Assuming he survived, that is. He watched the beleaguered official consult a wax tablet, tracing a finger down the list of names. Clearing his throat, Nerva tapped his finger at a pair of names near the bottom.

  ‘Wait here. Once you hear the command from the umpire, you’re on. You’re the second bout of the day, so make it look good, and whatever you do, don’t die too quickly, eh?’

  Fear instantly gripped Pavo.

  ‘That can’t be right. There are several pairin
gs ahead of us.’ The gladiator pointed at the list of names. ‘Check the programme. We’re the main draw. We’re supposed to come last.’

  The order of the bouts had been a source of hot debate in the ludus canteen in Capua, with gladiators torn between appearing in a later bout, with the guarantee of a bigger crowd and a larger reward for victory, and fighting in a minor preliminary bout and getting their appearance in the arena over with. In keeping with tradition, the beast fights were scheduled for each morning of the games, followed by the crucifixions of criminals at midday, with the gladiator bouts listed for each afternoon of the ten-day celebration.

  ‘Change of plan,’ Nerva replied aloofly. ‘Sisinnes was scheduled to go first but he topped himself last night in his cell. The ungrateful sod bit off his own tongue and choked himself to death. Then we planned for Diodorus to make his debut, but he buggered off to the latrines and suffocated himself by thrusting a toilet brush down his throat. What a way to go.’

  ‘Gods!’ Pavo exclaimed.

  Nerva shrugged. ‘The beast fights always turn a few of ’em suicidal. The thought of getting torn to shreds, I suppose. Last year we had a dozen fighters strangle each other before the start of the games. Buggers up the programme, I can tell you. Then there are the ones nursing injuries.’ He clicked his tongue, craning his neck at the arena. ‘By Jupiter, I hope the weather doesn’t turn foul. The schedule’s tight enough as it is without rain messing it up further.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘A couple of beast fighters chickening out doesn’t explain why we’ve been bumped up the list. There were plenty more bouts scheduled ahead of ours.’

  ‘Orders of the imperial secretary,’ Nerva replied, rolling his eyes. ‘He’s organising the games on behalf of the sponsor, Emperor Claudius. If you’ve got a problem with the schedule, I suggest you take it up with him.’

  Macro and Pavo exchanged a look behind their visors.

  Nerva continued. ‘Once the procession is over, the Emperor will introduce the games and say a few words about the deification of his grandmother, Livia, then make some public pronouncements and give the obligatory thanks to the mob. We’ll begin with a leopard versus a bull. Then it’s your turn. Four of you will take to the sand.’