Arena

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

A tense mood hung over the ludus as the gladiators toiled at the training posts. Pavo practised with his sword, a lead weight in his heart. Six days had passed since his meeting with Murena, and the young gladiator had sunk deeper into a pit of anguish with each passing day. His journey had come to a premature end, he reflected. There would be no vengeance over Hermes. No freedom for his son Appius. The humiliation and sense of injustice at his misfortune burned deeply in his heart, and for a fleeting moment he wished he had lost against Denter and perished in the arena, bringing an end to his misery.

He shook his head, angry with himself for permitting such black thoughts. The compulsive desire for revenge pounded between his temples. He thought of the promise he had made on his father’s grave to kill Hermes. He’d sworn that he would not rest until the blood flowed freely from Hermes’s neck. But unless he agreed to publicly support Claudius, he would not have the chance to fight his nemesis. In his weaker moments, Pavo weighed up the notion of offering his endorsement to the Emperor and asking Murena to overturn his decision. No, he told himself with a firm shake of his head. He would not give in. If he had to be executed in order to save the name of his family, so be it. Better to die with his pride and dignity intact than live a life of disgrace and condemn his son to a pitiful existence as a slave.

He stopped to catch his breath, muttering under his breath at the harsh training regime Aculeo had forced upon the men. They were not allowed to stop even for a brief moment during the earlier runs. Some had collapsed with exhaustion at the end. Blinking sweat out of his eyes, Pavo noticed Bato speaking furtively to several of his fellow Thracians.

‘Pavo! What in the name of the gods are you doing?’ The doctore stomped over to the young gladiator and prodded him in the stomach with his whip. ‘This is a ludus for gladiators, not Greeks! If you wanted to stand around all day gazing into thin air, you should’ve gone to Athens.’

‘Sir, I was just-’

‘Shut up!’ The veins on the doctore’s thick neck protruded like tensed rope. His eyes bulged with hatred. ‘Just because you’re First Sword doesn’t mean you can slack off in training. You’re no different to everyone else in this ludus. You might think you’re special, but to me you’re just a slave with a fucking sword.’

‘I meant no offence.’

‘You offended me the moment you were born.’ Pavo raised his eyes to meet the doctore’s bone-chilling glare. ‘I hate high-born officers almost as much as I hate showboating gladiators. And you are unfortunate enough to be both. You know what that means?’

‘No, sir.’

‘It means I hate you twice as much as any of the other scum in this ludus.’

‘Permission to speak freely, sir.’

‘No. You’re a gladiator, Pavo. You don’t speak freely. You do as you’re bloody well told. You shit when I say you shit and you speak when I tell you to speak. Are we clear?’

Pavo bit his tongue. ‘Yes … sir.’

‘Right.’ Aculeo took a breath and bellowed, ‘Take a break! Make it quick! I want to see every sorry one of you back on the sand at the double-quick!’

Pavo fell into line with the other men pacing towards the canteen, his mood bleak. He was surprised to find himself yearning for his old ludus in Paestum. At least there he’d had a friend in Bucco. Now his premature appointment to First Sword had incurred the wrath of the other gladiators, and no one wanted to be associated with him. Even Macro, his former mentor, had distanced himself.

Entering the canteen at the southern end of the ludus, Pavo joined the orderly queue under the watchful eye of the guards. The gladiators lined up broodingly, accepting their bowls of gruel mixed with animal fat and gristle. Pavo received a plate of grilled sausages and steamed vegetables, as was his privilege as First Sword. He searched for a free place at one of the trestle tables. But the gladiators already seated at the table eyed him as he drew near and began shuffling along the wooden bench, filling up the empty space.

‘This one’s taken, Roman,’ one of the men said sourly.

Pavo turned to another free spot at the end of a table. A gladiator at the next seat placed his hand on the spot and stared coldly at Pavo.

‘Taken,’ he said.

Sighing, the young gladiator turned to a table located at the far end of the canteen. A veteran sat alone, stirring his gruel with a craggy finger. He offered no protest as Pavo eased on to the bench on the opposite side of the trestle table. The wizened old fighter merely raised his bowl to his lips and sipped his gruel.

‘By the gods, this is revolting!’ He grimaced. ‘It’s bad enough they don’t pay us the bounty we are due and take away our wine and whores. Now they insist on feeding us slops unfit for animals!’ He pushed his bowl away despondently, then looked up at Pavo and considered the young gladiator. ‘So you’re the new First Sword, eh?’

Pavo nodded.

‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’ the veteran said. ‘I was a young champion like you once. Had the world at my feet. Gladiators feared my name. Women promised me every sexual favour under the sun during my fights. Some of the men too. Greeks, usually. I had it all.’

‘What happened?’ Pavo asked.

‘That bastard Corvus told me he’d give me my freedom after I turned thirty. He went back on his word and I tried to escape. But Corvus got wind of the plan and the guards caught me crawling through the sewers.’

‘Isn’t that normally an offence punishable by death?’

The veteran grunted. ‘Corvus was a greedy shit. He wouldn’t kill a gladiator he could still make a few denarii off of. He condemned me to life in the ludus.’

Pavo felt a pang of pity for the veteran. He slid his plate across.

‘Here. Have mine.’

The veteran ogled the feast of cooked meat and vegetables. He smacked his lips and reached out to grab a sausage smeared with honey, then hesitated. ‘Are you sure, lad?’

Pavo nodded. ‘I’m not hungry.’

The veteran shrugged and started to shovel food into his mouth, making appreciative noises as he washed the sausages down with a thirsty slurp of vinegared wine. After wolfing down the vegetables, he let out a loud belch. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and glanced furtively over his shoulder.

‘A word to the wise. Watch your back. There’s trouble brewing, and you’d do well not to be caught up in it.’

‘What do you mean?’ Pavo asked cautiously.

‘The ludus is split down the middle.’ The veteran pointed with a greasy finger to the two sets of gladiators sitting at the trestle tables either side of the canteen. ‘On the left, you have the Thracians, under Bato. He’s pissed off with you being named First Sword. That used to be his title.’

‘Great,’ Pavo noted wryly. ‘I seem to be in the habit of making enemies of late.’

The veteran shook his head. ‘On the right, you’ve got your Celts. Fucking animals. They have a long-standing feud with the Thracians. The two tribes sit at separate tables and train separately. They even sleep in separate parts of the cell block.’

‘They hate each other?’

‘Hate is putting it mildly.’ The veteran scratched his cheek. ‘They’d rip each other’s throats out if they were given half a bloody chance. One of the Celts butchered Bato’s brother in training a while back. The Celts claimed it was accidental. Bato believes they deliberately set out to murder his brother. There’s been bad blood between the two camps ever since.’

A powerful feeling of loneliness struck Pavo. As First Sword and a fallen aristocrat, he had been shunned by the other gladiators. The rivalries bubbling under the surface of the ludus, so obvious to the veteran, were a surprise to the young gladiator.

‘You spoke of trouble. What do you think is going to happen?’ he asked.

The veteran leaned across the table and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I’ve heard rumours that Bato is planning something big. Whatever it is, he’d want to take revenge on the Celts first. Carve the lot of them up. You know what Thracians are like. Long memories. But if Bato sees fit to stir things up round here, most of the men in the ludus will follow his lead.’

He became silent as a shadow fell across the trestle table.

‘Well, well! Look who’s decided to grace us with his presence.’

The veteran lowered his head at the voice coming from behind Pavo. The young gladiator turned casually. Bato glowered at him, his nostrils flared with anger.

‘Do me a favour. Two fights, and you get awarded First Sword? That’s bollocks, that is.’

A gigantic gladiator towered by his side. He was shaven-headed and pale as chalk, with a reddish scar running down his chest to his groin. Bato noticed Pavo staring at the man at his side and laughed.

‘This is my bodyguard, Duras. He has the hardest punch in all of Thrace. Duras used to kill Roman scum with his bare hands. Once punched a man so hard his head exploded. Isn’t that right, Duras?’

The bodyguard grunted his assent.

Bato looked with contempt at Pavo. ‘You might carry the title of First Sword, but every man in this ludus knows I’m the true champion. I should be the one getting all the glory and the fame. Tarts screaming my name. The only reason you’re even here is because the Emperor appointed that short-arsed army officer, your pal, as lanista.’

‘He’s not my friend,’ Pavo muttered.

‘You’re both Romans. That makes you both enemies of mine.’

Pavo stood up to leave the canteen. Duras thrust his palm at the young gladiator, shoving him back against the table edge. Something snapped inside Pavo. He grabbed the empty clay plate to his side and shot forward, swinging it at the bodyguard. Duras grunted as it shattered against the side of his skull. Bato leapt back as clay shards clattered across the canteen floor. Duras bared his teeth. Working his thick fingers into a bunched fist, the bodyguard punched Pavo in the solar plexus. The blow stunned the young gladiator and sent him stumbling back.

Catching his breath as he regained his balance, Pavo bolted forward in a flash, slamming into Bato head first. Duras looked on in disbelief as Bato gasped, his face purpling as a rush of air shot out of his mouth. He fell backwards, tripping over an upturned bench and collapsing on his back with Pavo on top of him. The other gladiators watched with stunned looks on their faces as Pavo slammed his knuckles against Bato’s nose. He shaped to punch again. This time a pair of hands clasped his wrists, wrenching him away from Bato. The young gladiator spun round, ready to punch the bodyguard. Then he saw the face staring back at him and reluctantly relaxed his fist.

‘What’s going on here?’ Macro boomed.

Pavo grimaced. ‘Sir, I can explain-’

‘I’ve had enough of you, rich boy! You’re nothing but trouble. It follows you around like a bad smell.’ The optio looked at Bato. The floored Thracian cupped his blood-spattered nose and groaned.

Just then the doctore came crashing into the canteen. Beads of sweat lined his brow and he gripped the short whip in both hands. He flicked his menacing eyes from Bato to Pavo.

‘Making new friends, are we?’

‘That Roman shit hit me first,’ Bato said in a nasal tone. ‘Came at me for no good reason.’

‘True?’ Macro asked Pavo.

Before the young gladiator could reply, Bato waved a hand at Duras and the other Thracians. ‘Ask any of them.’

The men conversed in their native tongue, then looked to Macro and nodded in broad agreement. The optio stiffened his lips.

‘Well that settles it, Pavo. You’ll have to be disciplined.’

‘But Macro — I mean, sir …’

‘No buts! As First Sword you’re expected to set an example to the other men.’ Macro jerked his head at the imperial gladiators. ‘What do you think that lot will do if they see you escaping punishment? It’ll damage morale. And we can’t have that, now can we?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Those are the rules. There can be no exceptions. Aculeo?’

‘Sir?’ the doctore answered.

‘Punish this man as you see fit.’

The doctore flashed a cruel grin at Macro. ‘With pleasure, sir.’

Macro glowered at Pavo. ‘Now piss off out of my sight.’

A deep resentment stirred in the young gladiator towards Macro. Despite their differences, he had developed a close bond with the optio. The two men had both fought for Rome with distinction, and had an appreciation of the fine art of soldiering. They were united by their shared hatred for Pallas and Murena. Now the optio was treating him like an errant slave, cold and distant and aloof. Stung by a sense of betrayal, Pavo followed Aculeo out of the canteen. He began trudging towards the training posts, bracing himself for the terrible pain that awaited him at the end of the doctore’s whip. Aculeo stopped in his tracks and planted his hands on his hips.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he asked.

Pavo frowned. ‘To the palus, sir. To be lashed.’

‘I’m not going to lash you,’ Aculeo replied with a hearty chuckle. ‘That’d be far too easy! No. A high-born lad such as yourself deserves a special punishment.’ He pointed to a building situated at the north-east corner of the ludus. ‘You’re on latrine duty, Pavo. The drains are blocked again, thanks to bloody Corvus. Do what you can to unblock them, eh?’

‘I shall do no such thing!’ Pavo retorted indignantly. ‘That’s slave’s work.’

Aculeo cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Hear that, Pavo?’

‘Hear what?’

The doctore grinned. ‘That’s the sound of me giving a shit.’

Still grinning, he turned away and began marching towards the latrines. Pavo glumly followed him under the porticoes and down a dimly lit corridor, simmering with outrage at having to do a job he considered beneath him. The whiff of perfumed oil wicks coming from the baths could not stifle the fetid smell of human waste emanating from the latrines. The two smells merged into a pungent, putrid stench that violated Pavo’s nostrils and had him fighting his gag reflex.

Aculeo paused by the entrance to the latrines, blocking Pavo’s route.

‘Not yet, lad,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some business to take care of first.’

He winked at Pavo and ducked inside, leaving the young gladiator to loiter amid the shadows, listening to the strains and groans of the doctore as he relieved himself. A short while later Aculeo emerged, hefting up the belt strapped above his loincloth. A noxious stench followed him like a cloud. Pavo pinched his nostrils in disgust.

‘Ahhh!’ Aculeo patted his belly. ‘That was a particularly good shit. Happy Saturnalia, Pavo.’

The paved floor of the filthy latrine was soiled with faeces and the doctore had been careful to foul the water trench cut into the foot of the toilet bench, dirtying the only source of clean water. Aculeo whistled as he set off down the corridor. After a few paces he stopped and turned back to Pavo.

‘It, ah, got a bit hairy in there. Must have been all that cake and wine I had for dessert last night. Make sure you give everything a hard scrub, there’s a good lad. I want to see that latrine spotless when you’re done. Brush and all.’

Pavo gritted his teeth. ‘Yes … sir.’

It was late afternoon by the time Pavo finished cleaning the latrine. He staggered out with his hands caked in foulness, his stomach heaving and his head ringing with anger at his treatment. Never in all his life had he felt so insulted. He cursed Macro too, and Murena for condemning him to live among barbarians and slaves. He lumbered down the long corridor towards the baths, a leaden despair clouding his thoughts. Cleaning out latrines was in some ways a greater shame than his imminent crucifixion. It served as a painful reminder of the utter depths to which he had sunk.

He entered the changing room, grateful for a few moments’ peace. The distant shouts of the doctore resonated from the training ground, ordering the men to retire to their cells after the end of their afternoon training programme. Pavo decided to remain alone with his melancholic thoughts. He had no wish to surround himself with rowdy gladiators. Setting his loincloth and belt in a neatly folded pile, he crossed under the ornate stucco reliefs and headed towards the hot room. A wave of heat washed over him as he approached the entrance, warming his skin.

A voice pricked his ears.

‘We need more weapons. This isn’t enough.’

The voice came from inside the hot room. Pavo crept towards the doorway, trapping his breath in his throat. He craned his neck and peeked round the entrance. Inside he spied half a dozen gladiators standing soberly in a semicircle in the middle of the room. He had seen the men before, seated among the Thracians in the canteen. To his astonishment, he spotted an array of makeshift weapons arranged on the mosaic floor at their feet. There were clay shards taken from shattered plates and cups, wooden training swords which had been sharpened at the tips in the fashion of palisade stakes, and a collection of short sticks with rusted nails hammered through them.

‘What about the infirmary?’ another gladiator suggested.

‘Scalpels and needles?’ a third asked. ‘Against guards armed with swords and spears?’

‘We only need to rush ’em and get the keys,’ the first gladiator countered. He rubbed his hands in anticipation. ‘Once we’ve released the other men from the cells, getting our hands on some proper weapons won’t be a problem. Then we’ll overpower the guards, loot the ludus and make our escape.’ The man had a sinister gleam in his eyes as he added, ‘Not before we’ve taken care of those bloody Celts, of course.’

‘Once we’re in the hills, those Roman fucks will never catch us,’ the second gladiator said. ‘We’ll be free to take what we want. There’ll be wine and cunny for us all!’

The first gladiator thumped his fist against the wall. ‘Bato is right. That bloody lanista reckons he has the run of the ludus. Well he’s wrong. He’s denied us our bounty and privileges. If we aren’t given what we’re owed, there’s nothing for it but to take it ourselves. Tell you what, boys. We’ll earn more working as a brigand unit than we have ever done fighting in the arena!’

The gladiators growled in excitable agreement. The first man nodded to one of his comrades. ‘Go to the infirmary. Pretend to Kallinos you have some vague illness. Steal what you can. Go now. We don’t have much time. Bato says we must act today.’

The gladiator hurried towards the door. In a blind panic, Pavo spun round to escape from the baths.

‘Going somewhere, Roman?’ Duras asked in a thick, slow voice, his stale breath filling Pavo’s nostrils.

Pavo stood rooted to the spot, his path blocked by the giant bodyguard, fear burning in his throat as the blood drained from his head. Despite the heat emanating from the hot room behind him, he was suddenly very cold.

‘You’re plotting to escape,’ he said quietly.

Duras laughed deep in his chest. His colossal pectoral muscles rippled as he leaned in to Pavo and narrowed his pit-like eyes to slits. ‘Suppose we are, Roman. What are you going to do about it? Report us to the fucking lanista?’

‘You mean Macro? If you have a legitimate grievance, I suggest you discuss the matter with him.’

‘He’s a Roman cunt, just like you. I have a better idea. When we’ve finished cutting up the guards, and those fucking Celts, we’ll sling you and the lanista in the same grave.’

Pavo took a deep breath. He heard the patter of footsteps at his back. He turned to see the six gladiators from the hot room closing round him. The man in the middle brandished one of the sticks covered in rusty nails, tapping the tip of the weapon against the palm of his hand. Pavo realised he had no way of escaping the Thracians. They had him cornered. He turned back to Duras.

‘Perhaps I can join your rebellion?’ He struggled to sound convincing.

Duras smirked as he glanced at the other men. ‘A stuck-up Roman siding with us Thracians? Bato would never stand for it. Nah! Far better to beat you to death right now. Bato planned on killing you anyway.’

‘You don’t have to do this. I won’t betray you.’ Pavo felt anxiety rise in his throat.

Duras cracked his knuckles. ‘We have a problem. You overheard our plan. We can’t trust you not to go running to the lanista, and there’s no place in our ranks for a fucking Roman …’

Pavo’s bowels knotted and he took a step back from Duras, only to bump into the other Thracian gladiators. He tried to duck away to the side, but the bodyguard reacted quickly, wrapping his arms round him and locking his hands round his wrists, gripping the young gladiator in a suffocating hold. Pavo writhed free as the gladiator wielding the stick lifted his weapon above his head, bringing it crashing down against the side of his skull. A piercing sound rang through his ears as the stick clattered into his jaw, drawing hot blood from his cheek. The gladiator swung at him again, disorientating him, while the other gladiators swooped over him, raining a flurry of punches and kicks down on him. He felt sick. Pain burst through his chest as an attacker drove his fist into him. He stopped struggling. Duras released his grip. Pavo collapsed. His face slapped painfully against the marble floor. He was dimly conscious of Duras kneeling beside him, smiling manically from ear to ear. Pavo tried to scrape himself off the floor. A sharp pain flared between his ribs, forcing him to abandon the attempt. Then the giant Thracian placed a bare foot on his chest, pinning him to the ground. The other gladiators surrounded him.

‘Got you now, rich boy,’ Duras hissed.

Pavo closed his eyes and prepared to die.