Arena

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Macro faced forward, his heart warming at the sight of ever more Germans pouring into the training ground.

‘NOW!’ he roared. ‘Come on, lads! Let’s stick it to ’em!’

The optio led with his sword towards the line of gladiators as Bato bellowed orders for his men to confront the advancing Germans. The spell broken, the Thracians slowly turned as one to face the Germans racing across the training ground. Several gladiators on the front line who were fortunate enough to be armed raised their pilfered shields to brace themselves against the impending attack. But the men were shaken by the bloodcurdling roars from the Germans and seemed hesitant to charge. Bato booted one gladiator in the small of his back, kicking him towards the oncoming shadows.

‘Run at them, you dogs! Cut them down!’

His words were silenced as the Germans tore into the gladiators, thrusting their spears. The Thracian front line stood firm, planting their feet in the sand as the spear tips pierced their shields. Their unarmed comrades howled in agony as the tips punched through muscle and bone, impaling the gladiators and driving them back, pressing against their comrades to the rear. One of the men gave out a bloody gurgle as a German plunged his spear at him with such power that the tip exploded out of his muscular back. Undeterred, the gladiator began furiously hacking at the staff jutting out of his chest with his short sword. His German opponent snarled and thrust his spear in an upward motion, sweeping the gladiator off his feet and piking him in the air. Around him there was a blazing shimmer of steel as his comrades brought their long swords to bear and proceeded to cut down the enemy in a manic hail of stabs and thrusts.

Many of the gladiators were still armed with only clay shards or sticks, but the Germans showed no mercy, slashing at them with savage force. One gladiator charged at the Germans, swinging a wooden stake. He managed to jab one in the stomach and stunned a second with a sharp blow to his jaw. The gladiator let out a defiant roar as several more Germans descended on him, pounding him with their fists and thrusting ruthlessly at his prone figure. The man made a gurgling noise. A moment later one of the Germans hoisted the gladiator’s decapitated head above the battle, the mouth slack and the eyes popped wide in a picture of mortal terror, a loose knot of veins and sinew dangling underneath it. Macro recognised the gladiator as one of Bato’s loyal followers. With an animal roar the German struck another gladiator with the severed head, knocking him to the ground. Then he hurled the head through the air before continuing the attack against the remaining gladiators.

From the rear of the gladiator mob Bato watched the German advance unfold, his face a picture of mortal terror. Macro spied Duras tugging at his leader, imploring him to leave the fight as the Germans slashed their way through the defenceless gladiators. The Thracian pumped his fist at the optio. Then the two gladiators began picking their way out of the melee. Macro watched them flee and felt his pulse quicken. He gestured to Pavo and Bassus.

‘Follow me!’

He raced ahead of the men, weaving through the gladiators engulfed in the relentless German onslaught. Ahead of him a burly Thracian swung round, blocking his path. Adjusting his stance at the last possible moment, Macro thrust his blade at the man, aiming for the lower chest. The blade juddered in his grip as the tip glanced off the gladiator’s ribcage and pierced his vital organs. The gladiator mouthed a silent scream, his limbs trembling in agony as he stumbled backwards. Macro raced on. But the gladiators were being pushed back by the sheer ferocity of the enemy attack and he kept losing sight of his prey amid the crushing chaos.

At last he spotted two German guards who had cornered Duras and Bato as they attempted to flee. One of the Germans thrust his spear at Duras. The bodyguard gripped the shaft before the tip could nick his flesh, and snapped the spear in two. He swung at the German and floored him with one blow to the chin, then pummelled the floored German into submission with his spiked gloves. At the same time Bato avoided the thrust from the second German’s long sword, his lightning-quick reflexes allowing him to duck and attack in the same move, plunging the four-pronged dagger into the man’s groin. The German gasped. Bato twisted his wrist, shredding the guard’s manhood, grinning as he watched him fall to the ground. Then he pulled Duras away from the fight, leaving the savagely beaten German on the sand, his face caved in, his eyes, nose and teeth reduced to a glistening, bloodied pulp. They continued ducking and diving through the swarm of gladiators, heading towards the practice arena. Macro struggled to contain the rage building inside him.

‘Bastards!’ he snarled. ‘Don’t let them get away!’

Pavo caught up with Macro and surveyed the training ground. The sand had darkened. Puddles of blood glistened. Pockets of gladiators were fleeing the battle and heading for the sanctuary of the dormitory in a ragged retreat. The Germans hunted them down, bellowing their barbaric delight to a chorus of frenzied stabbing and thrusting.

Bassus pointed ahead. ‘Look, sir!’

At the far end of the training ground a pair of silhouettes reached the western wall. Bato and Duras looked frantically around them. To the north, the Germans swarmed round the dormitory, cutting down even those gladiators who raised their hands in surrender, mutilating their corpses. One gladiator begged for mercy as the Germans booted him to the ground and plunged a spear into his guts. The man’s eyes bulged in his sockets as the spear bored into his stomach. To the east, the battle raged. The two Thracians realised their only way of retreat was south.

Bassus squinted. ‘They’re heading to the practice arena.’

Macro growled in his throat. ‘Good. Nowhere for them to run. Let’s finish this.’

The three men broke across the training ground, stepping between the slain gladiators and Germans. Darkness had now settled over the horizon and a full moon shimmered in the sky, washing the ludus in a pale light. The screams and clangs of the raging battle faded as they swept through the arched entrance leading to the arena and stopped in the centre, running their eyes across the wooden galleries.

‘Where the fuck are they?’ Macro whispered. ‘Pavo, secure the gallery. Bassus, stay here. Guard the entrance.’

Macro and Pavo separated, cautiously searching the small arena for any sign of their prey. Then a scream pierced the air and Pavo swivelled his gaze away from the galleries and looked towards Macro. The optio stood unhurt. Pavo glanced towards the entrance just in time to see Bassus staggering under the arch, croaking with pain. Four prong tips jutted out of his throat. He shuddered, then fell limp. Bato stood past his shoulder, grinning feverishly. He yanked his dagger out of Bassus’s throat and booted the dead guard to the ground, stepping through the arena entrance. At the same time Duras charged across the sand, his arms spread wide, his head lowered in a bull-charge posture, his features twisted into an almost inhuman look of hate. The bodyguard knocked the sword out of Macro’s grip before he could thrust at him, clamped his hands on the stunned optio’s shoulders and wrestled him to the ground.

Pavo spun back towards Bato. The Thracian toyed with his dagger.

‘Your friend can’t save you this time, Roman,’ he seethed. ‘Now I’ll show you how a true First Sword fights.’