Barbarian

by Simon Scarrow

  Pavo grumbled as he broke into a lumbering trot towards the north portico.

  ‘I said run, not bloody crawl!’ Macro roared.

  ‘I am running!’

  ‘I am running, sir!’

  ‘Sir . . .’ Pavo grunted as he picked up the pace, his cheeks puffing and his face reddening with effort. He could feel his heart thumping inside his chest. Dry, hot air singed his throat. The yoke dug into his shoulder. In the army the young trainee had completed his fair share of marches with full equipment, but that had been at a steady pace. Now he was sprinting, and the exertion quickly took its toll. He broke out in a hot, salty sweat.

  ‘Now get back here!’ Macro barked.

  Pavo muttered curses under his breath as he lurched back to the line, sweat streaking down his back. As Pavo made to release the yoke, Macro dropped his left shoulder and thrust his sword at the recruit’s midriff. Pavo instinctively jerked his shield up to block the attack. The force of the blow took Pavo by surprise. He stumbled backwards, his toes digging into the sand as he scrambled for purchase, feeling a shuddering up his left forearm that reverberated through his bicep and shoulder muscles.

  ‘Again!’ Macro shouted. ‘And sprint both ways this time. I want to see you sweat.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Don’t answer me back, boy!’

  Pavo shuttled off.

  ‘Now!’ Macro roared. He hefted the pigskin and began jogging around the perimeter.

  By the eighth lap Pavo felt blisters forming on the soles of his feet. As he completed the twelfth lap his steady run had become staggered and frantic and his legs pleaded with him to stop. Nausea tickled the back of his throat. Still he ran. His feet ached. On the sixteenth lap his blisters burst and hot, gritty sand rubbed into the exposed sores, causing him great discomfort every time he planted his foot on the ground. He gritted his teeth and practically stumbled the final lap. At last he hit the portico steps with a thirsty sigh of relief and a painful stitch spearing his right side. He lifted his head up and vomited on the sand with a weak groan.

  ‘Get up!’ Macro boomed. Pavo tried to say something between snatches of breath but the soldier cut him short. ‘The first rule of fighting is you never fall over. If you’re on your arse, you’re good as dead.’

  Pavo wearily struggled to his feet.

  ‘Ten more laps,’ Macro said.

  ‘Ten?’ Pavo sputtered. ‘But—’

  ‘Faster this time! Put some bloody sweat into it.’

  Pavo keeled over, his hands on his knees and spittle dangling from his lips. His shield weighed heavily in his left hand while his right was burdened by the pigskin. His wrist tendons burned with the stress of holding both objects upright, and the pain twisted his shoulder muscles into excruciating knots.

  ‘We never trained like this in the legions, sir,’ he rasped. ‘Not with all this bloody kit.’

  ‘I didn’t learn this in the Second,’ Macro replied. ‘I learned it when I was a boy. Four or five years younger than you. I had the good fortune to be trained by a retired gladiator. He taught me a few tricks of the trade.’

  Pavo snatched at the air. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Draba of Ethiopia. Bloody good swordsman.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Pity. You could have learned a lot from that man. He’s not around anymore. But I am. I’m going to pass on to you what he told to me. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take every word to heart.’

  Between gasped breaths Pavo spat on the ground. ‘In case it escaped your notice, optio, I received plenty of sword training in my own youth, and from a gladiator far more famous than your Draba. Felix was one of the best fighters of his era. And he never had me running up and down, over and bloody over.’

  Macro shook his head patiently. ‘Whatever Felix taught you isn’t going to help in the arena. Capito fought like a true gladiator against Britomaris and lost. What you need is to forget the basic principles of gladiator combat. As I said, we have to work on a new way of winning against the barbarian. You see, Draba’s skill wasn’t just with a sword. It was with his feet. His movement meant that he’d tire his opponent before he stabbed them.’

  Pavo cocked his head inquisitively at Macro. ‘Why did you receive instruction from a gladiator?’

  ‘Let’s just say I had a score to settle, and Draba helped me do it. Now get a move on!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The trainee winced as he hauled himself upright and staggered down the training ground, his muscles sagging under the load of the marching yoke, shield and armour. But the fact he had addressed Macro as ‘sir’ told the optio he was getting somewhere with his young charge. Pavo was finally channelling his aggression into the training. Macro nodded to himself in satisfaction as Pavo set off on another lap, a grimly determined look stitched into his features.

  The rest of the morning passed in a blur of sweat and aggression for Pavo. After twenty laps of the training ground the optio got him to perform a set of nausea-inducing strength exercises beneath the unrelenting sun. Pavo carried out a hundred abdominal crunches and a series of hanging leg raises from wooden posts mounted at head-height at the porticoes on the west side of the training ground. He then practised lumbering two pigs’ bladders loaded with sand, one in each hand, from one end of the training ground to the other. Pavo could hardly move by the end of the session. His muscles were sore and stiff, his veins stretched out like tense rope. Life as a military tribune had been relatively soft on his body compared to the hardships the enlisted soldiers had to endure, and it had been a long time since Pavo had trained with such intensity. But with every drop of sweat and strain of sinew, he began to relish the challenge in front of him. News of Appius had refocused Pavo. Now he vowed to redouble his efforts. If he could not set himself free, he could at least see to it that his infant son avoided the same fate he had endured.

  For his part Macro was impressed and a little surprised by the determination and drive of his young charge. He’d never seen a man born into privilege throw himself so hungrily into his labours. The only concern picking away at the back of Macro’s head was Pavo’s damaged hand. The injury had deprived the officer of the chance to size up his charge’s skills at the palus and his natural ability with a sword. With a sigh he realised he’d have to take Murena’s word for it.

  ‘I swear to the gods, I’ll make a champion of him yet,’ Macro mumbled to himself.

  For the next nineteen days Macro worked tirelessly on Pavo’s fitness. During agonising sprint sessions, Macro instructed the trainee to practise dashing from one end of the training ground to the other, before counting to five, and sprinting back in the opposite direction. He ran until his legs could carry his body no further, and then ran some more. He ran with a constant feeling of sickness in his mouth and a stitch spearing his right side. Macro forced him to run until he could do a hundred laps without breaking into a sweat. He worked with Pavo on endless long jumps, high jumps and lunges to put some extra spring into his gangly legs. Gradually Pavo noticed his muscle ache was wearing off as he crawled out of his cell each morning and dragged himself to the training ground. By the end of the circuit programme he could feel his thighs and abdominal muscles becoming firmer and more supple. He had found his stride and was standing upright instead of spilling his guts on the floor. He felt leaner, faster and more agile. He was ready to face Britomaris.

  On the twentieth day, Macro made preparations for their return to Rome. Pavo’s hand had healed sufficiently for him to grasp a sword without too much pain, although he grimly understood that the injury would not be gone entirely by the time of his bout. He’d be taking on Britomaris with a damaged hand.

  Pavo arose with a feeling of dread in his guts that morning. Macro had arranged to meet him at dawn with a pair of horses at the ludus gates. Arising from his cell, he noticed Bucco watching him from the other side of the cell. On most mornings Bucco overslept, his loud snoring echoing through the barracks and incurring the wrath of the d
octore. This morning though, the volunteer was wide awake.

  ‘You’ll be off to Rome, then?’ he said, stretching his arms and legs. Bucco had already lost an alarming amount of weight since enlisting. The tortuously long hours spent at the palus, combined with the limited diet, had left him pale and lean. The palms of his hands were covered in calluses.

  Pavo nodded as he rolled up his cloak and tucked it under his arm. ‘It appears so.’

  ‘Never been there myself. What’s it like?’

  ‘Rome?’ Pavo chuckled. ‘The weather is stifling, the food is rubbish, the streets are filthy, everything is over-priced and everyone’s in a mad rush, but other than that, it’s fine.’

  ‘Oh,’ Bucco said with a frown. He stared out of the small window that afforded the men a view of Paestum’s dilapidated forum. ‘I rather thought it might be . . .’ he shrugged. ‘You know, centre of the world and all that.’

  ‘I’m being harsh. It’s a wonderful city, really. Just one full of bad memories for me.’

  Pavo ran a hand over his cloak. It was stained with the filth of the ludus and it reeked of sweat and urine. But he felt a strange attachment to it. It was, he reflected, his only worldly possession.

  Bucco rose to his feet. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

  Pavo nodded. ‘Thanks, Bucco.’

  A guard unlocked their cell and ushered Pavo towards the stone stairs that led to the ground floor. As they passed each of the other cells, veteran gladiators bellowed abuse at Pavo. The kinder ones wished him a quick death in the arena. The less kind ones he tried not to think about. He descended the stairs, the guard close behind with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword at all times in case Pavo tried to make a break for freedom. From the ground floor they passed down the corridor that led towards the training ground. The guard escorted Pavo around the perimeter towards the main building at the northern end which housed the servants’ quarters, medical facilities and the administrative offices. Daylight had not yet broken and a gritty, speckled darkness accompanied by an eerie silence hung like a veil over the empty ground. Not a soul in sight, Pavo realised.

  Then he saw a shadow skulking towards them from across the training ground. Pavo stopped in his tracks to focus on it. He smelled Amadocus before he recognised him. The trainee wrinkled his nose as the veteran drew nearer.

  ‘Pavo!’ Amadocus thundered. ‘I want a word with you.’

  Just my luck, thought Pavo through gritted teeth as Amadocus pounded across the training ground, his club-like feet thudding on the crisp sand with every giant stride. He halted at the verge of the ground.

  ‘Gurges has got me on latrine duty,’ Amadocus said, raising his shit-flecked palms at Pavo. ‘Four fucking weeks. This is your fault.’

  Pavo smiled to himself. ‘If I recall, you were the one who attacked me,’ he said.

  Amadocus snarled then spat on the ground. ‘You started it the moment you stepped into my ludus. Pissing about with your fancy handwork at the palus.’ He rubbed dirt out of his eye. ‘I hear you’re off to fight Britomaris.’

  Pavo felt his neck muscles stiffen. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.’

  Amadocus pulled an unpleasant face as he took a step closer to Pavo. ‘It should be me fighting in the arena. The great Amadocus! Champion of the house of Gurges! Not some woman born with a silver spoon in his mouth.’

  Amadocus went to take another step towards Pavo. But the guard began to unsheathe his sword and barked, ‘Back to work.’

  Amadocus smiled as he retreated across the ground, pointing a filthy finger at Pavo. ‘Better pray you die in Rome, rich boy,’ he said. ‘If I see you in this ludus again, I’ll rip your guts out.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The crowd rumbled expectantly as Macro made a final check on Pavo’s equipment. The two men were in a small, dark room on the western side of the Julian plaza. A short corridor led towards colonnades that lined the arcades surrounding the roofed forum, which had been converted into an arena for the purposes of the day’s spectacle. Macro remembered his father taking him around the plaza as a boy. He recalled the rich smell of spices, cinnamon and incense that came from shops selling luxury goods on the walkways off the arcade, and the vast sculptures of the great Emperor Augustus and Julius Caesar mounted on plinths behind the travertine columns. The plaza looked very different now. Temporary wooden galleries had been erected in front of the colonnades, blocking out much of the sunlight. Through the corridor Macro could see the forum floor blanketed with bright white sand. He could hear the creak of the gallery walkways as the last members of the audience made their way to their allocated seating.

  ‘Nervous?’ the optio asked Pavo.

  The trainee knitted his brow in the middle and stared defiantly at Macro. ‘I’m not afraid of dying, sir. I’m afraid of losing.’

  The optio suddenly felt a pang of pity for his charge. He sympathised with Pavo. As a soldier Macro’s greatest fear in battle wasn’t dying, but letting down his comrades. But Macro had had the grain of comfort of knowing that he had seventy-nine men around him who were thinking the same thing. Pavo, however, was all on his own.

  Pavo adjusted the metal guard on his right shoulder until it was secure. From the arena the master of ceremonies began his preamble, though his authoritative voice was lost in the din of the crowd. Pavo could barely make out his thanks to the Emperor on behalf of the audience for hosting the spectacle. His warning about throwing objects at the gladiators, jumping into the arena or otherwise interfering in the contest was also greeted roundly with boos and heckles. The mood among the mob was more rowdy than Pavo could ever remember hearing. Even the crowds at the chariot races seemed fairly hushed by comparison. The roar trembled in Pavo’s bones as Macro threw an arm over his shoulder and patted him on the back.

  ‘Cheer up, lad,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, if the worst happens out there, I’ll organise a whip-round with some of the lads in the Second. Buy you a decent burial spot. Can’t have the son of a legate being slung into a pit grave, can we?’

  ‘Great,’ Pavo replied.

  Macro looked his charge in the eye. ‘Britomaris is scum. Back home he shags sheep and whores out his daughters. He probably even drinks milk. You’re not going to let an animal like that steal the glory of the arena, are you?’

  ‘No, sir!’ Pavo shouted, his voice trembling with adrenaline.

  The master of ceremonies bellowed out the recruit’s name. Macro prodded Pavo in the chest. ‘Britomaris didn’t kill your old man, but I want you to go out there feeling like he did. Imagine he’s the one who stabbed Titus. The blood is on his hands, lad.’

  A flicker of hatred glowed in Pavo’s eyes. The officer could tell he’d hit a raw nerve with talk of his father.

  Macro gave his charge a final slap on the back. ‘You’re fighting for yourself. For your boy, Appius. But most of all you’re fighting for your father’s name.’ He thumbed the galleries. ‘This lot were probably cheering when your old man died. Why don’t you show them what a Valerius is really made of! Wherever Titus is, make him proud.’

  He watched Pavo depart down the corridor towards the servants at the arena entrance. Macro had a space reserved for himself at the podium, not far from the Emperor, but close to Pallas and Murena. He flipped the seal ticket for his space up in the air as he made his way through the bowels of the plaza. He passed a hastily erected surgeon’s counter, where a set of instruments were laid out on a table: a sickening array of forceps, scalpels, catheters and bone saws that turned Macro’s blood cold. There was a bowl of vinegar and a bucket of fresh water with a set of white cloths and a row of wine goblets set to one side. Macro knew from previous spectacles that the goblets were used by surgeons to save the blood from a newly dead gladiator to sell on the black market. Gladiator blood fetched a high price, especially for those seeking a cure for epilepsy. Macro hurried on, confounded by the layout of the plaza. There had to be an entrance to the stands somewhere near, he thought, glancing left
and right and trying to get his bearings.

  He slowed his stride as he heard two voices coming from within a second room. Thank the gods for that, thought Macro. I can ask them for directions. The voices were hushed and hurried, the soldier realised as he drew to the door.

  ‘Hurry!’ one of the men implored angrily. Macro froze. He vaguely recognised the voice but couldn’t remember where he’d heard it. ‘It’s about to begin!’

  ‘Wait,’ the second man replied in a panicked tone. ‘I’ve got to get the mix right first. Too little poison and it won’t kill him!’

  Intrigued, Macro poked his head inside. He saw a guard huddled over a gaunt older man who was pouring liquids into a bowl. With a start he recognised the guard as one of the Praetorians who had escorted him to the imperial palace a month ago. In addition to the sword he carried in a scabbard by his hip, the guard cradled a long spear of the type used by Britomaris in the arena. He carefully dipped the tip of the spear into the bowl.

  ‘What the bloody Hades is going on here?’ Macro barked.

  The surgeon looked up in horror and jumped back from the table. The Praetorian guard looked up at Macro too. He grinned, seemingly unflustered by the optio’s sudden entrance.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Macro. ‘Where’s your mate?’

  The Praetorian grinned still. Confusion clouded Macro. Then he heard footsteps behind him, too late for him to spin around. A dull thud crashed down on the optio’s skull. His world went black.

  Pavo made his way under the temporary wooden stands into the main arena, his heart thumping against his breast bone, a rasping dryness in his throat. Britomaris had already entered the arena to a chorus of jeers as members of the crowd rained down obscenities on him. Britomaris seemed to be enjoying playing the role of villain, slowly turning to each quarter of the crowd in turn and raising a balled fist high above his head in a posture of defiance. His striped tunic and trousers had been replaced with a simple loincloth, so that just a cone-like helmet with a horse tail crest signified his Celtic origins. He carried a long, narrow leather-bound shield with a decorated ceremonial bronze boss and his hair had been dyed blue. Pavo could make out wild streaks of it as he reached the end of the corridor. A pair of officials stood guard at the entrance to the arena. The younger of the two held a convex shield fashioned in the style of a legionary’s, but without an emblem on the front.