Arena

by Simon Scarrow

  Macro shook his head. ‘Sounds like an idiotic plan to me.’

  ‘If you’ve got a better one, feel free to share it.’

  ‘He knows what he’s talking about,’ the third gladiator said. ‘We should do as the Roman says.’

  Pavo glanced at the third fighter. That voice again. Where had he heard it before? He dismissed the thought as the lion tossed aside what was left of the beast fighter and set its piercing gaze on the other men in the arena. Pavo crept towards the discarded metal chain, careful not to make any sudden movements that would attract the lion’s attention.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re doing, but for gods’ sakes make it quick, lad!’ Macro said, keeping his voice as low as possible. ‘This bastard looks hungry.’

  Pavo grabbed hold of the bull innards and smeared blood over his arms and legs. The strong smell choked him. Then he heaved the chain off the sand as the lion prowled towards the fighters, flicking its eyes from one to the next, as if deciding which would provide it with the heartiest meal. Filling his lungs, Pavo shouted at the lion and whipped the end of the chain towards it. There was a dull clank as the chain struck the lion on the side of its face. The blow temporarily stunned the beast. It half turned and snarled aggressively at Pavo, lifting its muzzle to sniff the air and licking its lips at the smell of blood clinging to the gladiator. Now it turned fully from Macro and the third beast fighter, narrowing its eyes at Pavo.

  ‘Now!’ he shouted to the two men.

  In a swift motion Macro and the third fighter sprinted around the rear of the lion and raced towards the weapons scattered at the far side of the arena. Sensing movement behind it, the lion let out a full-throated roar and swung away from Pavo and back towards Macro and the third fighter. Pavo lashed out at the beast a second time. The lion roared as it spun back around. The dark slits of its eyes narrowed with animal rage as it hunched low, its tail beating on the sand in anger. Then it burst forward at Pavo, kicking up a cloud of sand as it pounded across the arena at a frightening speed. His throat constricting with fear, Pavo cast the chain aside, turned on the spot and ran as fast as he could away from the beast. He glimpsed Macro and the third fighter drawing near to the scattered weapons.

  Even though Pavo was a natural athlete, and had practised sprint sessions under Macro’s tutelage in Paestum, the body armour weighed down on him and hindered his pace, as if he was wading through mud. He could feel the ground trembling underfoot as the beast hurtled towards him. Its snorts and snarls reverberated inside his helmet. He spied Macro directly ahead of him picking up a spear and turning towards the lion. He glanced back and saw that the beast was leaping at him, its claws extended, its teeth bared.

  ‘Do it!’ he cried.

  In the same breath he dived out of the way and Macro launched his spear at the lion. Pavo rolled on to his side as the lion gave out a deafening roar that sent fear trembling down his spine. Looking up, he saw the beast land with a dense thud directly in front of Macro. There was a hollow crack as the spear sticking out of its belly clattered against the sand and snapped in half under its collapsing weight.

  ‘Yes!’ Macro said, thumping a fist against his thigh.

  His triumph was cut short as the lion spasmed briefly before lurching to its feet, roaring defiantly in spite of the splintered shaft protruding from its belly. Pavo looked on disbelievingly as the lion struck out at Macro, swatting the stocky optio aside with ease. He tumbled to the ground next to Pavo, a large gash visible across his thigh. The younger man glanced up as the lion drew close to the two fighters, groaning in pain.

  ‘Shit,’ Pavo muttered darkly. ‘We’ve had it.’

  A cold dread gripped him as the beast moved in for the kill. The thought of being ripped apart by the lion froze the blood in his veins. The arena trembled, the crowd rising as one to catch a glimpse of the gladiators on the verge of death.

  ‘Come on, you bastard!’ the third fighter yelled, jabbing a spear tip into the lion’s back.

  The lion jerked its head from side to side in an effort to shrug off the spear. The third fighter ripped the weapon out of the beast as it spun away from Macro and Pavo. Fresh blood dripped from the spear tip and a bright red gash streaked the lion’s back. In the next instant the lion sprang forward at the fighter. The man grunted as the beast clawed at his chest, its massive weight pressing down on top of him. He fell back against the sand and the spear was wrenched from his grasp. Now the lion let out a deep roar as it angled its jaws at the prone fighter’s neck. The fighter stretched his arm towards the spear, but the weapon lay tantalisingly out of reach.

  ‘Kill it!’ the third fighter begged his companions.

  Pavo knew he had no more than a moment to act. He scraped himself off the ground and snatched up a spear lying on the sand close by. A short distance in front of him, the lion opened its jaws wide as it prepared to make its second kill. Planting his feet firmly, Pavo trained the spear point at the beast. His senses were heightened. He was keenly aware of the venomous pitch of the crowd, the shimmer of the sand under his feet. He flooded his lungs with air and launched the spear. The lion jolted upright in pain as the tip plunged into its back, blood splattering its golden mane. There were audible gasps of disbelief from the spectators as the animal rolled on to its back and pawed at the air, panting irregularly as it died.

  Relief flushed through Pavo. The feeling quickly faded as discontented murmurs spread through the crowd. The spectators were furious that the fighters had survived, denying them the spectacle of the lion ripping the rest of the men apart. Conflicting emotions stirred inside Pavo, his elation at defeating the lion tempered by the grim certainty that he had succeeded only in delaying his own death. He glanced up at the imperial box, where Pallas and Murena shifted uncomfortably on their feet. Pavo couldn’t help but notice that the stern-faced senator who’d arrived late seemed pleased with the result. Below the senator Pallas muttered discreetly to his aide. Nodding promptly, Murena shot up from his seat and disappeared down the nearest set of steps leading from the galleries.

  ‘Get this fucking thing off me!’

  Pavo snapped his eyes back to the third beast fighter. He was waving his arms and legs for help, pinned beneath the dead weight of the lion. Pavo hurried over to the man and rolled the lion off his chest. He offered his hand. The fighter brushed it away.

  ‘Don’t expect me to thank you for saving my life, Roman,’ he growled scornfully. ‘The only reason I agreed to help defeat that beast is because I didn’t want it to kill you … I wanted to save that pleasure for myself.’

  Pavo went white behind his visor as he noticed the familiar brand scarring the man’s forearm: the mark of the house of Gurges. At last he placed the dull, heavily accented voice of the beast fighter.

  ‘Amadocus …?’ he said falteringly. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Who the fuck else?’

  The gate crashed open behind Pavo. Several guards poured out of the passageway. Nerva followed them, the official marching purposefully towards the beast fighters. He was stopped in his tracks by Murena calling out his name from the passageway. The aide pulled Nerva aside and began issuing orders to him.

  Pavo looked back to Amadocus. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘Fighting in the games, what does it fucking look like? No thanks to you, Roman. Gurges went bankrupt after you beat Denter. I was sold to a lanista who owned a travelling troupe. Greedy bastard couldn’t wait to get rich off my back. He threw me into the arena while I was still injured. I lost my bout, nearly paid with my life, too.’

  Several attendants dragged the lion towards the opposite gate. Macro clamped a hand over the wound on his thigh, blood trickling between his fingers.

  ‘My injuries ended my career as a champion of the arena.’ The Thracian shook his head at his missing fingers. ‘The lanista sold me off to participate in the beast fights. Told me it was that or the mines. You’re the reason I ended up here, Roman. I swear as soon as I get the chance, I’m going
to kill you.’

  Murena waved Nerva away. The official hurried over to the beast fighters and nodded impatiently at Macro.

  ‘Hilarus! Present yourself to the infirmary and get that wound cleaned up. The imperial aide will be along shortly. He wants a word with you.’

  ‘Great,’ Macro muttered under his breath. ‘Just what I need.’

  ‘What about me?’ Pavo asked.

  Nerva flashed a sinister grin at Pavo and Amadocus in turn. ‘You two are to return to the antechamber with the other gladiators. You can watch the animal hunts while you’re there. If I were you, I’d enjoy the show. Once those idiots are done prancing about, we’ve got a treat in store for the crowd. You’ve killed the lion – now let’s see if you can do the same to an Atlas bear.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A pair of guards escorted Macro down a series of corridors towards the infirmary. At this early hour the cots were empty. The medical orderlies diligently checked the equipment, preparing the stretchers and surgical instruments for the inevitable stream of patients that would follow. A strong scent of garlic lingered in the air as Macro entered the infirmary. He grimaced as he thought of the carnage that would soon overwhelm the orderlies. Memories rushed back to him of the field hospitals in battles along the Rhine, the stench of torn bowels, the rags soaked in fresh blood, the bodies piled high.

  A wizened surgeon with grey eyes greeted Macro with a weary smile. ‘It seems we have our first patient of the day. Step forward, gladiator.’

  Macro remained at the door. He didn’t like the tone of the surgeon’s voice. ‘It’s just a flesh wound. I’ll be fine.’

  The surgeon craned his neck at Macro’s gashed thigh and clicked his tongue. ‘No such thing as flesh wounds when it comes to wild beasts, my boy. I’ve seen their cuts turn a gladiator half mad before he died. Allow me to have a closer look.’

  Macro gritted his teeth as the surgeon prodded at his wound, inspecting it with his bony index finger. A wave of nausea washed over the optio. After what felt like a long time, the surgeon withdrew his finger and washed his hands in a bowl of water.

  ‘You should live, provided we clean it out and suture it,’ he announced, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘Otherwise you might die in a day or two. Come with me.’

  Macro reluctantly followed the surgeon into an adjoining room. He hesitated in the doorway as he caught sight of several needles, scalpels and saws arranged on a wooden table, their pointed tips shining in the wan candlelight. The surgeon turned to him.

  ‘It won’t hurt. A little pain when the needle pricks the skin, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s what they tell you in the field hospitals.’

  The surgeon smiled sagely as he drew up a wooden bench next to the operating table. Taking a deep breath, Macro sat down, his stomach churning as the surgeon prepared his instruments.

  The surgeon cocked an eyebrow. ‘I assume that you were once a soldier.’

  Macro was about to remind him that he was a serving optio in the Second Legion when he remembered that he was still in the role of Hilarus. He bit his tongue and nodded.

  ‘I’ve seen plenty of ex-soldiers grace my infirmary down the years. Some of them fallen into debt. Others discharged from the legions.’

  ‘How long have you worked at the arena?’

  The surgeon was lost in thought for a moment. ‘Twenty years, give or take.’

  Macro pulled a face. ‘I wonder how men like you sleep.’

  ‘Quite soundly, as a matter of fact. You get used to all the corpses and dismembered limbs after a while. The endless screams, too. The only problem is where to stock all the blood.’

  Macro frowned at the surgeon as the latter cheerfully continued. ‘Oh yes, gladiator blood is in big demand these days. Weddings, healing potions, ointments. Personally I think it’s down to Pavo. After he defeated that barbaric Celt, Britomaris, children started playing at gladiators in the street. And the women.’ The surgeon grinned at the soldier. ‘They’re practically fighting over which ones to shag.’

  ‘Rome’s changed a lot while I’ve been away,’ Macro remarked with a rueful shake of the head. He reflected for a moment before continuing. ‘You must be in for a busy day, what with all the beast fights.’

  ‘I doubt it. In my experience, the beasts make quick work of the fighters. You should consider yourself fortunate to have survived. It’s an extremely rare occurrence. Once the beast fighters are done, all that’s left are the comedy interludes, followed by a few relatively minor bouts this afternoon. Tomorrow, however, we are expecting to be very busy.’

  ‘Why? What’s happening tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow is the day of the group fight.’

  Macro looked up in puzzlement at the surgeon. He had heard of the relatively new notion of packs of doomed gladiators fighting one another until only one man was left standing. But he had never seen such a fight in the flesh.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the surgeon went on. ‘The group fight is very popular now, especially with the rising cost of the games. The men who compete naturally come very cheap, as they’re not professional gladiators but prisoners of war, murderers and thieves. Normally the sponsor would have to pay several thousand sestertii in compensation for a gladiator killed during the games. With the group fighters, it’s a fraction of that. But, of course, such men are not properly trained and lack the appropriate skill with the sword. You should see the way those idiots blindly hack at each other. The wounds on their bodies are frankly appalling. Limbs hanging off, mutilated genitalia, all sorts.’

  An orderly removed Macro’s helmet, padding and leg greaves. He stared ahead as the surgeon tended to his wound, cleaning away the blood and sand with a damp rag before suturing the gash with a needle and twine. He was putting the finishing touches to the sutures when Murena appeared in the doorway.

  ‘At bloody last!’ Macro exclaimed. ‘I’ve fulfilled my side of the deal. Now get me out of here and back where I belong.’

  The aide ignored Macro and waved at the surgeon.

  ‘Leave us,’ he ordered.

  After tying the end of the stitches into a knot, the surgeon rose from the bench and hurried out of the room, wiping his bloodstained hands on his tunic. Murena waited for him to leave, then spun back to face Macro. He looked flustered.

  ‘How’s the injury?’ he asked.

  Macro grunted. ‘I’ve had worse. You get plenty of injuries serving on the Rhine. Speaking of which, when do I get to leave Rome? I’ve had enough of this place. Too many crafty sorts for my liking.’

  ‘I presume you’re making a thinly veiled reference to me,’ Murena responded. ‘Subtlety is not one of your strong points, Macro. It requires a certain degree of wit to properly articulate.’

  ‘Articulate this. You’re a crooked shit, and the same goes for that snake Pallas. Now give me my travel authorisation. I’d best be on my way. If I stick around here much longer, I’ll end up punching you in the face.’

  Murena pressed his lips together. ‘You can’t leave. Your services are still required here in Rome.’

  Something snapped inside Macro. He shot to his feet and marched up to the aide, temporarily forgetting the dull ache in his thigh, his features dark with fury. ‘We had a deal. One fight, then I’d be free to go. You’d damn well better honour it, or else. I don’t give a shit how close you are to the Emperor.’

  ‘Calm down, Optio. Our deal stands, as soon as you have completed a final task – one of grave importance to the Empire.’

  There was an anxious look on Murena’s face, and Macro was momentarily intrigued, wondering why he and Pallas were so eager to keep him in service. Then he came to his senses, recalling his disgraceful participation in the beast fight, and shook his head.

  ‘Forget it. I’m not interested. Rope some other poor bastard into your scheming.’

  Murena moved to block his path as Macro headed for the doorway. The aide’s eyes were laced with menace and his lips twisted at the corners. ‘I’m afraid y
ou can’t return to the Rhine until you have completed this task. Then you are free to go. You have my word.’

  ‘Your word is a load of crap. I trust you about as much as I trust a tart in the Subura.’

  Murena stared back at Macro, his eyes twitching, nostrils flaring. He stepped aside from the door. ‘Have it your way then, Optio. You may leave of your own accord and return to the legion, though why you find that freezing wilderness on the Rhine so alluring is quite beyond me.’

  ‘Cold it may be, but at least it’s clear who your enemies are. You carry on butchering anyone who pisses off Claudius or whatever it is that scum like you do. I’m off.’

  ‘A final word of warning,’ Murena called out. ‘If you do decide to turn your back on me, I’ll see to it that word reaches your precious Second Legion about your activities in the arena.’

  Macro slowly turned. A cold sensation travelled from his head to his toes. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Really? Then you underestimate me, Optio. Needless to say, once Vespasian learns of your secret, your service in the military will come to a swift end. Rome frowns on men disgracing themselves in the arena. If you’re lucky, some gang leader in the Subura might find you a place in his menagerie of thugs.’

  Macro was torn. He desperately wanted to turn his back on Murena, but knowing that to do so would spell the end of his career in the Second Legion, and the loss of the hard-won respect of his comrades, appalled him.

  ‘Fine,’ he said finally through gritted teeth. ‘But this is the last thing I ever do for you and Pallas. After this, we’re finished. And if I never see another Greek for the rest of my life, it won’t be too soon.’

  Murena looked relieved. ‘A wise choice, Optio. I knew you’d come round to our way of thinking eventually.’

  He sat down at the wooden bench and planted his smooth hands on his knees, drumming his fingers as if deciding how best to proceed.

  ‘What do you know about the Liberators?’