Arena

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘There is one more thing, your majesty.’

  Claudius stopped and glanced back.

  ‘Y-y-yes?’ he asked curtly. There was a flicker of irritation in his eyes, and Pavo wondered whether he had pushed his luck too far. Claudius had already promised to spare Appius and grant him his fight against Hermes. ‘Well, w-w-what is it?’

  Pavo stiffened his neck muscles. ‘I want the right to choose my trainer for the fight.’

  Claudius gave the matter some thought for a moment, then nodded impatiently. ‘V-v-very well. My aide will sort out the d-details.’ He stared coldly at Murena. ‘Isn’t that so, Murena?’

  ‘Yes, your majesty.’

  The Emperor grunted a response and returned to his seat as the attendants finished clearing up the arena and the announcer introduced the next fighters. Murena glared at Pavo, his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed tight, trembling with outrage.

  ‘You will pay for this,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

  Pavo grinned. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? The man I want to be my trainer.’

  Murena shaded white with rage. A general cheer went up in the galleries as the next gladiators stepped out into the arena.

  ‘Give me the name,’ the aide seethed, his voice barely audible above the shouts of the crowd.

  Pavo nodded at the optio at his side.

  ‘I want Macro to train me,’ he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The next morning Pavo gazed across the Circus Maximus and waited to catch a glimpse of the man who had killed his father. Tens of thousands of spectators had braved the morning cold to fill the chariot-racing stadium situated between the Aventine and Palatine Hills, filtering out of the entrances leading up from the arcade of shops at street level and making their way along the tiers to their seats. Instead of arriving to watch the usual programme of chariot races, the spectators had descended on the Circus Maximus to watch a rare gladiator bout. The sun glimmered faintly above the Palatine Hill. Palls of smoke drifted up from hundreds of forges amid the distant tenement blocks as Rome stirred slowly into life. From his seat at the lowest tier, Pavo braced himself against the chill breeze sweeping across the stadium and tried to quell the dread coursing through his veins.

  ‘Where the hell is Hermes?’ Macro cursed in the seat next to Pavo. ‘I’m freezing my bollocks off out here.’

  Pavo turned to his older companion. Macro had been in a foul mood since the two men had arrived at the Circus Maximus earlier that morning to watch Hermes take part in a sparring match against a less well-known opponent. Pavo had awoken at dawn in his cell at the imperial ludus, where Macro had presented himself with orders to escort the young gladiator to the Circus Maximus. While the excursion ought to have been a welcome break from the drudgery of the ludus, Pavo felt a growing sense of unease building in his chest. In two months he would take to the sand against Hermes, his nemesis, in a fight to the death.

  ‘He must be appearing shortly,’ the young gladiator replied. ‘There’s a full programme of chariot races due to take place after this contest. The organisers can’t afford a lengthy delay.’

  Macro folded his arms across his stocky chest and grunted. ‘He’d better get a move on. It’s colder than a Vestal Virgin’s cunny this morning.’

  Pavo glanced quickly past his shoulder at the upper tiers and frowned. ‘What exactly are we doing here, Macro?’

  ‘I told you. Pallas and Murena ordered me to bring you here to watch some journeyman gladiator from Macedonia put the great Hermes through his paces. Seems they wanted you to see Hermes fight before you face him in the arena.’

  ‘Odd that they’d want me to observe my opponent,’ Pavo mused. ‘I’d have thought they would be doing everything in their power to sabotage my preparations for the fight.’

  Macro shrugged. ‘Who cares? This is a rare chance to see Hermes in action. If you ask me, it’s the first good idea Pallas has ever had.’

  Pavo frowned and rubbed the bristles on his jaw. He disliked his new beard, but shaving was a luxury that belonged to his former life. ‘Still, why hold a mere sparring contest in public at the Circus? A practice bout in front of such a crowd is unheard of.’

  Macro grunted. ‘Hermes is more of a showman than a gladiator these days. No doubt the organisers are keen to make a profit on the back of it. This lot are dying to see him in action,’ he added, jerking a thumb at the packed tiers.

  Pavo glanced up at the crowd. At least a hundred thousand spectators had crammed into the stadium. He could only dream about attracting such a crowd, especially for a practice match with blunted weapons.

  ‘Have you ever seen Hermes fight, Macro?’

  The optio shook his head. ‘Too busy carving up barbarians, lad. But I’ve heard plenty about him. Seems like every new recruit to the Second has seen him fight at one time or another. They can’t stop bloody talking about him in the mess room.’

  ‘I see,’ Pavo replied tersely.

  ‘Doubtless his wealth has something to do with it,’ Macro grumbled. ‘Your average gladiator being on a par with a runaway slave or a murderer, and all that. Most gladiators are lucky to last a year. Hermes has been fighting for twenty years – and he’s richer than half the old bastards in the Senate.’

  Pavo winced and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘We should be on the training ground, not watching Hermes go through the motions.’

  ‘Try to enjoy it, lad.’ Macro eased back and slapped his young charge on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, I don’t see what you’ve got to be so glum about. You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? A fight against Hermes and the chance to avenge your old man.’

  Pavo pursed his lips. He knew Macro was right. From the moment Hermes had beheaded his father, the young gladiator had burned with the compulsive desire for revenge. But he could not ignore the unease coiling in his guts.

  ‘Pallas and Murena are up to something,’ he reflected sourly. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘That’s life in Rome for you,’ Macro muttered. ‘Too many Greeks for my liking.’

  With a firm grunt Macro turned away from Pavo and narrowed his steely gaze at the racetrack, which had been transformed into a gladiator arena for the purposes of the morning display. A chalk-line ellipse had been marked out, stretching from the twelve starting gates at the western end to the second turning post at the near end of the dividing barrier running down the middle of the track, adorned with various monuments and statues of the gods on top of an ornate shrine. Guards from the urban cohort had been drafted to manage the crowds at the stadium. In the distance a scattering of men and women peered down from the tenement blocks teeming along the slopes of the Aventine Hill overlooking the stadium. This was Macro’s first visit to the Circus Maximus, and he found the experience a bittersweet one. As a boy he’d missed out on the excitement of the chariot races, since his father, Amatus, had taken a dim view of gambling. On race days Amatus used to keep his son busy cleaning cups and wiping down the tables in the dingy tavern he owned in the Aventine. Macro never imagined then that he would one day watch Hermes fight here.

  Earlier that morning the optio had attended a special announcement held in the Roman Forum. A huge crowd had gathered to hear official confirmation of the fight between Pavo and Hermes. Rumours had spread from the arena to the taverns in the immediate aftermath of the former’s triumph in the group fight. The air in the Forum had been drenched in the fragrant aroma of exotic spices from nearby market stalls while the sun burned in a clear sky as the speaker’s voice boomed off the surrounding porticoes. The two men would be competing as provocators – a type of heavily armoured combat that Pavo had never taken part in before. Only seasoned gladiators fought as provocators, Macro knew, due to the skill and muscle necessary to move about the arena.

  At the same time the sponsors had announced that the date of the fight had been pushed back two months to give both fighters ample time to prepare for the contest. Few among the crowd complained about th
is development. The tavern owners and merchants hawking memorabilia now had more time to make a healthy profit from the many thousands of gladiator fans who had descended on Rome, and the bookmakers stood to make a killing from cashing in on fervent speculation over the contest. The decision had puzzled Macro, who had assumed the imperial secretary would want to rush Pavo back into the arena as quickly as possible, giving him little time in which to rest and prepare for his fight. Coupled with the offer to watch Hermes in action at the Circus Maximus, Macro shared his young charge’s concerns. There was always some scheming motive behind everything that Pallas and Murena did, he knew.

  At that moment the central starting gate opened and a deafening roar went up in the stadium. Macro swivelled his gaze back to the track as the umpire emerged from the shadows with a pair of attendants following close behind him bearing a pair of blunted short swords. A few moments later a gladiator stumbled out of the same gate. A bronze helmet covered his head and the large rectangular shield in his left hand quivered as he trudged towards the officials gathered in the centre of the ellipse.

  ‘Who’s the poor fellow facing Hermes?’ Pavo wondered aloud.

  ‘Criton,’ a voice said to his right. ‘He’s going to get battered!’

  Pavo turned towards a spectator wearing a stained tunic. There was a glazed look in his eyes and he gripped a wineskin in his right hand.

  ‘Criton?’ Macro repeated. ‘Never heard of him.’

  The spectator grinned. ‘That’s because he’s a second-rate gladiator from Macedonia. Belongs to a travelling troupe. Hardly worthy of sharing the same arena as the colossus of Rhodes.’

  Macro glanced back at the track as Criton received his weapon from the attendant. ‘He is fortunate that this is just a sparring contest, then.’

  ‘Why is Hermes matched with such a lowly sparring partner?’ Pavo asked the spectator, ignoring Macro.

  ‘Simple. Hermes has only just come out of retirement. No doubt he would’ve returned sooner, if those bastards hadn’t ambushed him in the street and broken several of his bones. He’s recovered faster than anyone expected, but he’s still in need of a warm-up contest ahead of the big fight.’ The spectator nudged Pavo conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, that rich upstart Pavo is in for a nasty surprise.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’ Pavo briefly considered revealing his name to the spectator but decided against it. He was curious to find out more about Hermes from one of his adoring fans.

  The spectator paused and took a swig from his wineskin. Drops trickled down his chin and dripped on to his tunic as he continued.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I hear Pavo is handy with a sword. Especially for a rich boy. But Hermes is a completely different jug of garum to anything he will have faced so far. He is strong – and he’s quick on his feet for a big man.’

  Pavo shrugged. ‘There’s plenty of other gladiators that applies to equally.’

  The spectator leaned in. Pavo wrinkled his nose at the powerful whiff of wine on the man’s breath. ‘But you won’t find another gladiator who is also so good with a sword. The fifty bouts he’s won is ample proof of that.’

  Macro swung his gaze to the spectator with a sneer.

  ‘Load of bollocks! Everyone knows the lanistas protect their best gladiators to negotiate a better price when it comes to renting them out. I bet half the fights Hermes won were against a bunch of cooks and fullers.’

  ‘Obviously you’re not a fan.’ The spectator pulled a face at Macro. ‘You’ll change your mind when he gives Criton a proper thrashing.’

  ‘Why is Hermes coming out of retirement anyway?’ asked Pavo. ‘After all, he’s a freedman gladiator, not a condemned man. Whenever he’s fought in the past few years he’s been able to demand a fortune from the sponsors.’

  The spectator shrugged. ‘No one knows for certain. Plenty of sponsors have tried to coax him out since he announced his intention to retire for good. Emperor Caligula, among others.’

  ‘So why change his mind now?’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours that one of the Greeks working for Claudius had something to do with it,’ the spectator replied.

  Pavo was about to enquire further when a wild cheer erupted in the tiers. The stadium trembled. The sense of anticipation in the crowd was palpable as the spectators rose to their feet as one and directed their gaze towards the far end of the racetrack.

  ‘Look!’ the spectator exclaimed. ‘Here he comes!’

  Pavo and Macro followed his line of sight. A single gate stood at the eastern end of the track, beyond the bronze turning posts. A hushed silence swept over the stadium as the gate opened. Pavo felt the hairs bristle on the nape of his neck as a huge figure marched boldly out, his vast muscles glistening with sweat. The veins on his muscular arms bulged like tensed rope. The man was significantly bigger than his opponent. Pavo could not recall ever seeing a gladiator of such large proportions.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered, his blood chilling. ‘So that’s Hermes.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The champion of Rome entered the Circus Maximus to a burst of thunderous applause. Several spectators occupying one of the upper tiers unfurled a large banner proclaiming their support for Hermes. The spectator standing next to Pavo jumped to his feet and shouted himself hoarse as he joined in with the chants chorusing around the stadium.

  ‘He wins every fight, makes his rivals look shite! Hermes! Hermes!’ the fans sang.

  ‘Fuck off, Criton!’ a nearby spectator rasped above the general din.

  Pavo glanced at Criton. The Macedonian stood next to the umpire, his hands trembling with fear. The champion acknowledged his fans with a vigorous pump of his fist, drawing another round of fervent applause as he strutted towards the temporary arena, bowing to the section of the crowd displaying their banner.

  Macro snarled. ‘Look at this idiot, grandstanding to the mob. He wouldn’t last long in the Second. No place for showboats in the legions.’

  Pavo studied Hermes as the champion passed his seat. The gladiator was in tremendous shape, he thought. As well as the standard helmet, manica, leg greave and chest protector worn by the provocator type of gladiator, he also wore a leather belt, studded with gold, wrapped round his torso above his loincloth. The belt glimmered faintly in the pallid morning light as one of the attendants handed him his blunted sword, which he took in his right hand. He gripped his large shield in his left. An image of Cerberus, the three-headed dog who guarded the gates of the Underworld, had been painted in bright colours on the front of the shield.

  A short distance away Criton stood rooted to the spot, seemingly frozen in fear as the umpire went through the rules of engagement with the two gladiators, his voice almost drowned out by the crowd. When he had finished, he retreated to the chalk line and a cheer went up in the stadium as he gave the signal for the fight to begin. The spectator next to Pavo shouted deliriously as he urged Hermes to savage his opponent.

  ‘Show him no fucking mercy!’

  ‘Beat him senseless, Hermes!’ a woman close by shrieked.

  Criton immediately charged at Hermes, panicked into action by the heated fervour of the crowd and the scale of the occasion. With a lusty roar he planted his right foot on the ground and launched a quick thrust with his sword, aiming the smooth tip at his opponent’s armoured chest. Hermes immediately shifted to his right, evading the thrust and striking his sword against Criton in one smooth motion. His sword clattered on the side of his opponent’s helmet and the brittle clang of metal slamming against metal rang sharply around the stadium. Criton stumbled forward, his legs almost buckling as the impact momentarily disorientated him. Frantically shaking his head clear, he retreated from Hermes, repelling his foe by repeatedly thrusting his sword at him. But Hermes advanced steadily behind his shield, deftly deflecting each blow as he patiently let his opponent wear himself out.

  ‘Criton is in trouble,’ Macro remarked. ‘Hermes is toying with the wretch. If he isn’t careful, he’s going to get bad
ly roughed up.’

  Pavo didn’t reply. He was engrossed by the contest unfolding in the stadium. Still crouching behind his shield, Hermes closed in ominously on his opponent. Criton thrust his sword again. The colossus from Rhodes parried the attack. Frustrated by his inability to land a blow, Criton let out a full-blooded roar and lunged at Hermes. But the champion effortlessly parried his opponent’s sword thrust, swiping his shield arm in a wide arc and deflecting the weapon away from his chest with swift and brutal speed.

  In the next instant he dropped to a low crouch and shunted the bottom edge of his shield down at Criton’s bare feet. A sharp crack like wood snapping was followed by a howl of agony from the Macedonian as the shield rim crushed his toes. Criton dropped his shield. Bright red spots of blood stained the sand as he hobbled frantically away from Hermes, his movements clumsy and ragged with the heavy armour weighing down on him. Now Hermes pounded towards his stricken enemy, moving with greater speed and intent on striking the decisive blow. Criton looked up and saw Hermes bearing down on him. Roaring manically, the Macedonian gripped the sword with both hands and plunged it in a downward thrust that Hermes neatly parried. Then Hermes shot forward in a blur of motion and kicked the bottom of his opponent’s shield, tilting the top edge towards him. To gasps of disbelief from the audience, he slammed his sword down on top of the shield, wrenching it from Criton’s grip and battering the Macedonian with it. The blade fell from Criton’s hand as Hermes booted him backwards and sent him crashing to the sand. The gladiator towered over his soundly beaten foe. With a guttural roar he chucked his sword and shield aside in an arrogant gesture that Pavo found distasteful. Criton scrambled towards the chalk line, signalling to the umpire to end the fight. Nodding, the umpire raised his wooden stick.

  The decision provoked a raft of angry shouts from the spectators. The man next to Pavo was spitting with fury at the prospect of the fight being cut short. The attendants looked to the umpire as he shifted uncertainly on his feet. Doubtless the organisers had chosen a weak opponent to fight Hermes because they didn’t want to risk the champion suffering an injury a few days before the closing of the games. But clearly the short-lived contest had failed to satisfy the mob.