Arena

by Simon Scarrow

  Hearing the cries of displeasure from his fans, Hermes paced over to Criton as he lay prone and defeated on the ground. The umpire attempted to block his path. Hermes shoved him out of the way and stooped down beside Criton, tearing off his opponent’s helmet to howls of delight from the spectators. Before Criton could crawl out of danger, Hermes grabbed the floored gladiator and pummelled him repeatedly in the face. Then he lifted Criton to his knees. Clamping one hand over the Macedonian’s mouth, he grabbed the back of his skull with his free hand and let out a savage grunt as he snapped his opponent’s neck with a violent jerk of his arms. Criton spasmed as he uttered an agonising cry of despair. Then he went limp and Hermes released his grip. A frenzied cheer rose from the crowd as Criton slumped to the ground.

  The spectator shook Pavo by the shoulder. ‘I told you! Best gladiator ever, is Hermes.’

  Pavo forced a smile. A dreadful feeling stirred inside him. He had never witnessed such a ruthless combination of brute strength and skill. He watched Hermes make a series of bows to his fans before strutting towards the gate at the eastern end of the stadium and leaving the startled attendants to drag away the lifeless corpse of his vanquished opponent. As soon as Hermes had disappeared, two more gladiators staggered blindly into the makeshift arena to continue the pre-chariot race entertainment. They were wearing full-face helmets without eyeholes in the visors, to the mild amusement of the audience. The spectator sitting next to Pavo and Macro abruptly rose from his seat and departed in search of more wine from one of the taverns located outside the stadium. Macro saw that the colour had drained from Pavo’s face and slapped his thigh.

  ‘Come on, lad. Let’s get out of here. We’ll head to the ludus and start training. In two months’ time we’ll have whipped you into decent fighting shape.’

  They shuffled past the spectators and headed for the nearest exit leading from the tier to the arcade. Pavo moved slowly. He felt as if a great weight was pressing down on him. Based on what he had just seen, defeating Hermes seemed an impossible task, even allowing for time to recover from his injuries and properly train under the optio. As they descended the steps leading out of the Circus Maximus, he felt certain his journey as a gladiator would end in defeat. The champion was too powerful. Hermes would kill him in front of the Emperor. Just as he had killed his father a year ago, Pavo reflected gloomily.

  The sun had brought some warmth to the street outside. Brothel touts and bookmakers loitered around the arcade, scavenging for business from the spectators disgorging from the numerous exits. Pavo noticed a gaunt-faced woman curled up at the side of the arcade with her infant child. The baby wailed, its screams piercing the air as the mother begged Pavo to spare a few coins. Anguish swept through him and his mind wandered back to thoughts of his own child, followed by an immediate sense of relief.

  ‘Soon Appius will be free,’ he reminded himself, blood pounding between his temples. ‘Even if I fail to beat Hermes, my victories haven’t been in vain. I saved my son.’

  ‘Maybe. Then again, maybe not.’

  ‘The Emperor gave his word – Appius has been spared.’

  ‘You’d do well not to trust anything he says,’ Macro responded flatly. ‘Especially with those Greeks persuading him to do as they say. Back-stabbers in the imperial household are like whores in the Subura. Bloody everywhere.’

  Pavo glared tetchily at his mentor. Just then a blunt force thumped him in the small of his back and sent him crashing to the ground. He landed in the filth that covered every inch of the street.

  ‘Out of the way, scum,’ a gruff voice shouted. ‘Make way for Hermes!’

  Pavo glanced up and saw a burly man with mean eyes like the pointed tips of a sword elbowing his way past, kicking and punching a path through the crowd. The champion of Rome followed closely behind as the burly man ahead of him fended off the enthusiastic supporters eager to catch a glimpse of their hero. One of them pointed at Pavo.

  ‘Look!’ he exclaimed noisily. ‘It’s him … Pavo!’

  ‘We saw him at the group fight!’ the man next to the supporter shouted.

  Pavo stood up, wiping the palms of his filthy hands on his loincloth as Hermes and his companion stopped in their tracks. Both men slowly turned to face him. The burly man scowled at Macro while Hermes, his helmet removed after his fight, glowered at Pavo. A prominent scar was visible on his upper lip which twisted his expression into a vicious snarl. His eyes burned brightly at Pavo, as if a fire was raging in their sockets. The cries and shrieks of the crowd around the champion of Rome abruptly faded and a tense silence settled over the street as hundreds of spectators simultaneously turned towards the confrontation. Hermes bared his teeth at his future opponent. Pavo noticed splashes of blood across his wide chest from his fight against Criton.

  ‘Well, well,’ he hissed in a grating voice. ‘Look who it is. The traitor’s son … and the next man to die by my sword.’

  Pavo stood his ground but swallowed nervously as Hermes marched towards him. Every inch of the champion’s body rippled with muscle. He was aware of Macro standing by his side. The expression on his face was hard and menacing.

  ‘I’m told you asked to fight me instead of accepting your freedom,’ Hermes demanded. ‘Is it true?’

  Pavo flushed angrily. He nodded. ‘I’ve wanted to fight you for a long time. Since the day you killed my father, Titus.’

  ‘Titus?’ Hermes repeated, cocking an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I remember the man well. You know what else I remember? How that old fool squealed like a baby as I went to cut his fucking head off.’

  Rage coursed through Pavo’s veins as Hermes burst into laughter. The burly man at his side laughed too. Some of the spectators joined in. Hermes cracked his knuckles.

  ‘I had the privilege of honouring the Emperor’s wishes and killing a traitorous general,’ he added menacingly. The laughter quickly died out. ‘Now I get to carve up his son in the same arena. Killing you will be a pleasure. Truly, the gods are generous.’

  Pavo struggled to contain his rage. ‘My father was a good man.’

  Hermes laughed cruelly. ‘Titus was a treacherous cunt. He deserved to die. As do you, for taking the foolish decision to fight me. A mistake that I will make you pay for in blood, rich boy.’

  He took a step closer to Pavo. The two men stood face to face. Pavo could smell the rank breath and the foul sweat coming off his father’s killer. Hermes stared at his opponent. Pavo held his gaze, ignoring the anxiety pulsing in his throat. The crowd pressed around the two gladiators.

  Pavo balled his hands into fists. Macro darted towards him and clamped a hand round his wrist. ‘Save it, lad,’ he growled. ‘Take out your anger on the training ground.’

  Hermes looked amused. ‘Who is this?’

  Macro stepped forward. ‘Lucius Cornelius Macro, optio of the Second Legion.’

  Hermes stifled a laugh in his throat. ‘You’re being trained by a soldier from the legions?’ He slapped his thigh and shared a chuckle with his companion.

  ‘Macro was personally decorated by Emperor Claudius,’ Pavo replied through gritted teeth.

  The champion turned to Macro. ‘What did you do, bribe a few high-ranking officials?’

  Macro hardened his gaze. ‘I earned it in blood. Chopped up a load of angry Germans and led an expedition back across the River Rhine after our centurion was killed in a raid.’

  Hermes paused for a moment, narrowing his eyes at Macro. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Fuck me, a proper Roman hero.’ He turned to the burly man at his side and smiled wanly. ‘Did you hear that, Cursor?’

  His companion laughed and shook his head. Hermes returned his gaze to Pavo.

  ‘This is why you’re going to lose, traitor. You have some grizzled veteran of the legions to mentor you, whereas I have the best gladiator trainer in the empire.’ He gestured to the burly man. ‘Gaius Calpurnius Cursor.’

  Pavo frowned. He recalled the name from a distant gladiator fight. ‘The former ch
ampion who defeated Tetraites, the Butcher of Bithynia?’

  Hermes nodded triumphantly. ‘The same. With his knowledge and my skill, I’m going to crush you.’ He glanced at Macro, a menacing gleam twinkling in his eye. ‘Perhaps you would care to join Pavo and his father in the afterlife, soldier.’

  Macro stepped towards Hermes, bristling with anger. ‘I don’t have to listen to scum like you.’ He tipped his head in the direction of the crowd. ‘Now piss off back to whatever hole you and that fat trainer of yours crawled out of.’

  Cursor thrust himself forward and jabbed a finger at Macro. ‘You can’t talk to Hermes like that. He’s the champion of Rome and a freedman. Show him the proper respect.’

  ‘Champion my arse,’ Macro hissed. Cursor glowered at him with brutal intent. ‘Hermes is a six-foot-tall sack of shit who cuts down anyone the Emperor sticks in front of him for a few cheap laughs from the mob. Freedman or not, he’s lower than a fucking slave. By the look of him, I’d say his trainer is even lower.’

  Cursor drew a lungful of air and launched himself at Macro. At the same time, Hermes dropped his shoulder to unleash a punch at Pavo. Reading the move, the young gladiator leaped at the champion, half mad with rage, filled with a manic desire to kill the man here on the street in full view of his adoring fans. But Hermes thrust out his arms and grabbed hold of him, lifting him off his feet. The champion let out a deep explosive grunt and hurled Pavo into a nearby market stall. A jarring pain shuddered down his spine as he fell on top of a row of trinkets. Statuettes and cheap bracelets scattered across the flagstones. The crowd parted around the two gladiators with shrill cries of alarm. Pavo struggled to rise from the shattered ruins of the stall, but Hermes was on him in a flash, kicking him in the side of his torso. Hot pain flared across his ribs.

  ‘Get away from him!’ Macro thundered as he threw off Cursor and rushed towards Hermes, tackling him to the ground with a savage roar. Temporarily stunned by the attack, Hermes writhed underneath the weight of the stocky soldier. At the same time Pavo scrambled clear of the debris and put a hand to his head, feeling something hot and sticky matting his hair. He pulled away his hand and saw blood smearing his palm. He looked up just in time to see Cursor charging at Macro, his eyes wide with hatred.

  ‘Macro, look out!’

  As Macro glanced up, Cursor locked his arm round the soldier’s neck, wrenching him off Hermes. Gasping for breath, Macro kicked out at the gladiator trainer, slamming his foot back into the man’s groin. Cursor doubled up in agony, releasing Macro. The optio spun round and unleashed an uppercut that caught Cursor clean on the jaw. The gladiator trainer grunted. There was a dull crack as his jawbone shattered. His mouth went slack and his eyes rolled back. Without pausing for breath, Macro lowered his head and charged at his stricken opponent, burying him under a mad flurry of blows. In the meantime, Hermes had picked himself up. He spat out blood and set his piercing gaze on Pavo.

  ‘Got you now, traitor,’ he growled.

  A sudden cry went up from somewhere in the crowd, distracting the two gladiators. Fighting back the burning pain on top of his skull, Pavo glanced past Hermes and saw a handful of men from the urban cohort barging through the crowd. They used their heavy wooden staves to clear a path and surrounded the gladiators and their trainers. A moment later the officer in charge of the cohort emerged from the heaving throng.

  ‘That’s enough!’ he fumed as his men hauled Macro off a bewildered Cursor whilst two more seized Hermes and dragged him away from Pavo. When the officer saw Hermes, he was speechless for a moment, staring in obvious admiration at the gladiator.

  ‘Why, I’ve seen you fight before … You’re Hermes!’ he exclaimed.

  The gladiator nodded. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I was in the crowd when you defeated that Illyrian scum Demetrius. Best swordsmanship I ever saw, that.’ Remembering his duties, the officer quickly composed his face and snapped his fingers at the two soldiers holding Hermes. ‘Release this man at once. That’s no way to treat a legend of the arena.’

  His men did as ordered. Turning away from the gladiator, the officer searched for someone else to blame for the fracas and his eyes settled on Macro. ‘You. Take your gladiator and clear off to the imperial ludus. We don’t want your kind making trouble here.’

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ Macro boomed, pulling himself free of the men holding him. His nostrils flared with rage as he glowered at the officer. ‘These bastards waded in with their fists.’ He gestured at Hermes and Cursor. ‘The lad and I gave them what they deserved.’

  ‘Liar!’ a voice cried from the crowd. ‘The stout bastard started it.’

  Other fans of Hermes shouted their agreement. The officer glanced at them before turning back to Macro and screwing up his face.

  ‘From where I’m standing, it appears that you’re the one who attacked first. As for the merchant, I’ll see to it that a bill for damages is drawn up. It’ll be docked from your pay.’

  ‘Hermes started it!’

  ‘I don’t give a shit,’ the officer retorted. ‘Now get out of here or I’ll have the pair of you thrown in the Mamertine and you can spend the night in that festering hole with the rats.’

  Macro shuddered at the thought. Muttering curses to the gods under his breath, he brushed past Cursor and waved for his young charge to follow as the guards set about dispersing the crowd. Some spectators flocked to the nearby taverns built into the ground floor of the arcade to refill the jars of wine they had brought with them for the day. Others sought out bookmakers to place bets on rival teams ahead of the scheduled chariot races. Pavo tenderly placed a hand on his seeping head wound and winced with pain. As he made to follow Macro, Hermes stepped forward and blocked his path, contorting his snarl into a grotesque grin.

  ‘Do you remember what happened to your old man after I butchered him?’

  Pavo gritted his teeth and made no reply. A sharp memory flashed before him as Hermes leaned in and dropped his voice to a scratched whisper.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, boy?’ Hermes smirked. ‘Allow me to remind you. His head was piked on a stake and put on display in the Senate House, to serve as a warning to others of the perils of conspiring against Rome.’

  There was a flash of anger in Pavo’s eyes. He clamped them shut and clenched his jaws. He had tried to forget the bitter memory of the day he had learned of the final indignity suffered by his father. Now a flood of rage ran through the young gladiator and every muscle in his body immediately tensed.

  ‘They left his head on display for days,’ Hermes went on. ‘Birds picked at it. Eventually the smell got so bad they had to take it away. I hear one of the imperial servants dumped it in the River Tiber.’

  ‘I will kill you,’ Pavo hissed, ‘for what you’ve done to my family, I swear to the gods.’

  Hermes sneered at him. ‘I don’t think so, traitor. The gods always favour me. In two months’ time, the next head on a stake will be yours.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ‘Slow down, lad!’ Macro bellowed at training the following morning in the grounds of the imperial ludus. ‘You’re supposed to attack the palus. Not chop the fucking thing in half.’

  Pavo appeared not to hear his mentor. He thrust his training sword manically at the wooden post, gripped by an uncontrollable rage as he mentally imposed the face of Hermes on top of it. There was a dull thwack as the tip of his sword struck the palus at the point of an imaginary neck. Beads of sweat flowed freely down his back. He had been hacking and stabbing aggressively at the palus since Macro arrived at the ludus at dawn to commence the day’s training. He’d worked up a fierce sweat despite the bleak winter chill. His muscles were still sore from participating in the group fight and the flesh wound on his chest had formed a lumpy scab. But the dull throb of his injuries was nothing compared to the leaden feeling in his guts. Pavo had not been able to sleep the previous evening, tossing and turning in his cell as he pictured his father’s severed head on a stake, mock
ed by his enemies. His desire for revenge had twisted into something darker, an unspeakable urge to maim Hermes. He did not merely want to kill the champion of Rome. He wanted to make him suffer, as he himself had suffered these past months. Snarling through his gritted teeth, he slammed the blade of his sword against the heavily scored palus, as if hacking through Hermes’s neck, his muscles tensed with rage. The sword splintered down the blade as it clattered into the training post. Macro immediately snatched it from Pavo’s grasp.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at, lad?’ he bellowed impatiently.

  Pavo glared back, chest heaving. ‘Training, sir. As per your instructions,’ he replied bitterly. ‘You did order me to take out my anger on the training ground.’

  Macro snorted and shook his head. ‘I told you to use your rage as a motivation, lad. All you’re doing is blindly hacking at the palus. Good gods, you’re not even practising the moves I taught you. If you try hacking at Hermes like this in the arena, he’ll cut you down before you’ve broken into a sweat.’

  Grief and frustration overwhelmed Pavo. He lowered his head and his shoulders slumped heavily. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he panted. ‘But Hermes is a step too far. He’s unstoppable.’

  Macro seized Pavo by the shoulders and looked him hard in the eye. ‘Hermes isn’t a god, he’s a scum gladiator. He’ll have a weakness. We’ve just got to work out what it is.’

  ‘You saw the fight against Criton,’ Pavo protested. ‘He didn’t seem to have any weaknesses that I saw.’

  ‘Criton hardly launched an attack worthy of the name,’ Macro countered sternly. ‘We’ll make a better fist of it. And look at it this way: if you lose, at least you’ll go down fighting. Do your old man proud, eh?’