Arena

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The sun glowed weakly behind the clouds the next morning as Macro took up his position close to the imperial box, trying to get comfortable in his freedman’s tunic and failing. The belt fastened around his waist was too tight, and his stocky chest bulged inside his ill-fitting tunic. He cut a faintly ridiculous figure and he drew perplexed looks from the spectators seated in the nearby galleries.

‘First a bloody gladiator, now a fucking clerk,’ he muttered irritably. ‘At this rate I’ll be dressed up as a slave before the day is out.’

He shook off his anger and turned towards the arena floor. Half a dozen attendants were hurriedly raking the sand in preparation for the forthcoming bout. The galleries had gradually filled with spectators as the moment of the group fight drew closer. Now the arena heaved with the noise and bustle of a packed crowd, the smell of grilled meat wafting in from the street stalls. Macro gritted his teeth as spectators brushed past him in a mad dash for the few remaining seats.

The Praetorian at his shoulder noticed the sour look on Macro’s face and grunted. ‘Cheer up, mate. This is one of the perks of the job.’

Macro shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough of gladiator spectacles …’

Turning away from the arena floor in disgust, he directed his gaze towards the imperial box. The puzzle of where the assassin might strike at the Emperor had stalked the optio all morning. He’d risen at dawn, making his way straight to the empty arena to explore its tangled warren of passageways. At the end of his inspection he had concluded that although there were plenty of exits the killer could use to escape into the streets, the Emperor and his retinue were well protected. The ornately decorated box was situated on a raised platform on the north side of the arena, affording a prime view of the gladiator bouts. The box featured its own private steps leading down to a guarded passageway that had a separate entrance also manned by a section of Praetorians. Getting near to the Emperor would be incredibly difficult. Macro had considered the possibility that one of the senators or foreign dignitaries immediately behind the box might be the assassin. But he doubted that any of them were physically capable of breaking through the party of German bodyguards, grabbing the Emperor and plunging a blade into his neck. There had to be some other approach where the assassin would be lying in wait. But for the life of him Macro couldn’t figure out where.

‘This isn’t soldier’s work,’ he quietly seethed. ‘I should be training men, not helping out those Greek tossers.’

‘Oi! Get your hands off me!’ a voice cried above the general murmur of the mob.

Swivelling his steely gaze to the right of the exit, Macro spotted two spectators quarrelling over a seat at the edge of the gallery. One of the men had grabbed a seated spectator by a fold of his weather-beaten toga. The seated man shrugged off the hand and shot to his feet. Macro rounded on them both in a flash ahead of the Praetorian Guard, pulling the spectators apart.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded.

‘This man stole my seat!’ the first spectator protested.

‘Piss off, I was here before you!’ the second spectator snarled throatily. He smoothed out the fold in his toga, glaring at the first spectator through glazed eyes.

The first man glowered. ‘This seating is reserved for the equites. If you’re one of us then show me your ring.’

Macro raised an eyebrow at the second man. ‘Well?’

The spectator looked away guiltily. ‘I don’t have it,’ he slurred. ‘I lost it in the tavern.’

‘Another lie!’ the first man fumed. He raised his finger and showed his ring to Macro. ‘The man’s an impostor. A pleb trying to pass himself off as one of his betters.’

Macro frowned at the second man. ‘It appears you’re in the wrong seating section, friend.’

The man flashed a withering look of contempt at him. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Fucking freedmen,’ he added bitterly. ‘Bloody everywhere these days.’

Macro’s temper snapped. He reached out and grabbed the man by the neck, forcing him to face forward and look towards the arena floor. A comedy troupe was entering from the east portal, acrobats juggling balls and midgets dressed up in costume. The spectator recoiled in shock as Macro whispered into his ear, ‘Address me like that again and you’ll have the best view in the arena. D’you hear?’

The man gulped loudly and raised his palms in mock surrender. ‘Fair enough, mate. I’m sorry. You know how it is. Everyone’s trying to get a seat for the games this morning. The group fight is the talk of the taverns. It’s not every day you get two legends slogging it out in a free-for-all.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Macro hissed.

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard! There was an announcement in the Forum first thing this morning. A message from the sponsor. All those gladiators who were supposed to get ripped to pieces by wild beasts have been drafted into the group fight … including that treacherous shit Marcus Valerius Pavo.’

‘Stop spouting bollocks. I’ve heard about these group fights. They’re just a cheap way of getting rid of the scum. Dozens of murderers and fugitive slaves carving each other up with about as much skill as a blind Gaul after a skinful of wine. The organisers would never risk a proper swordsman in that chaos.’

Macro released his grip on the man before he could reply. Down on the arena floor the comedy routine was trudging off and an umpire marched purposefully out of the eastern gate, followed by a procession of lightly armoured gladiators. Macro spied Pavo at the front of the column, staring rigidly ahead as the crowd hurled abuse at him.

‘Gods, you’re right!’ he muttered. He experienced an acute stab of sympathy for his former pupil.

‘Told you,’ the spectator replied with a sneer. ‘Tell you what, I don’t fancy Pavo’s chances in this fight.’

Macro rounded on the spectator. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s quite a few who are handy with a sword who’ve been added to the programme. You’ve got your Egyptian swordsmen and your German barbarians. Amadocus is competing too.’

Macro felt his blood run cold. ‘Bloody hell.’

The spectator nodded. ‘Pavo being the champion gladiator, the other men will be desperate to give him the chop. I don’t care how well he fared against the wild beasts; he’s going to get slaughtered down there this morning.’

‘Right, you bastards!’ the umpire called out to the fighters as they wearily tramped out of the eastern and western gates and took up their positions either side of a chalk mark running across the sand. ‘Nobody moves a bloody finger until I give the word. If I catch anyone trying to get stuck in too early, they’ll be nailed to a cross before the day is out. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir!’ the gladiators chorused.

Pavo had awoken that morning Hades-bent on sparing his son from the same traitor’s fate he’d suffered, and his father Titus before him. Entering the arena to a wall of noise, he recalled the gladiator tactics he’d learnt under Macro. The men slowly assembled on the sand, sixty in total. Some grimly resigned themselves to their fate. Others shook their fists at the crowd in postures of tragic defiance. A short, stocky gladiator stood to the right of Pavo, visibly trembling with fear.

‘This is it,’ he croaked. The man had no teeth, Pavo noticed, and a branding mark on his forehead marked him out as a fugitive slave. ‘We’re bloody done for.’

‘First fight?’ Pavo asked.

‘And last,’ the man replied bitterly. ‘I shouldn’t be here. I’ve never wielded a sword in my life.’

Pavo felt his muscles tense as attendants distributed the weapons to the men, steeling himself for the imminent fight. Accompanied by a line of Praetorian Guards, the umpire made his way around the fighters in turn, pausing in front of each man to personally inspect the sharpness of his weapon. In an attempt to bring some order to the group fight, which often descended into a chaotic brawl, the men had been arranged into two teams of thirty apiece, with the teams distinguished by their weaponry. Each fighter on Pavo’s team was handed a curved sword two feet in length and a small round shield. The shield was smaller than the one he was used to in the legions and offered much less protection, and he was unfamiliar with the blade.

Their opponents on the other side of the powdered chalk line were equipped with two legionary swords but no shield. Both sets of fighters lacked body armour and protective helmets, wearing only their loincloths. He supposed the idea of the groups having contrasting weaponry was to force the gladiators with two swords, deprived of shields, to attack their opponents. Gripping his sword, Pavo noted a pair of German combatants on the opposite side of the chalk line conversing in their native tongue, their giant figures towering a full head over the other men, the swords looking ridiculously small in their hands.

The young fighter glanced in the direction of the imperial box. He saw Macro staring down at him from one of the exits, dressed in the manner of a simple freedman. The soldier nodded slightly at Pavo, who was struck by a sudden sadness that the veteran wasn’t fighting at his side today. Across from the optio a line of foreign dignitaries and imperial staff filtered into the imperial box through the private entrance and made their way to their cushioned seats. A black rage ran through Pavo as he spotted Murena and Pallas taking their places beside the Emperor. The imperial secretary sipped wine from a silver goblet while he stared impassively down at the young gladiator, his skin pulled tight across his face, his lips thin as if they had been carved out with the tip of a knife. Pavo’s heart burned with desire for revenge over the two freedmen.

He lowered his gaze to the fighters on the other side of the chalk line and felt his blood run cold. The gladiators armed with two legionary swords looked confident, gripping their weapons in the manner of seasoned fighters. The short, stocky man trembling beside Pavo was in keeping with the general demeanour of the rest of his companions. They were nervous and gripped their weapons clumsily. Gritting his teeth, Pavo realised that he’d need to call on all his experience and fighting skills in order to survive — and save his son.

‘Prepare to die, Roman.’

Amadocus took a step towards Pavo, his neck muscles bulging as he drew the sword in his right hand level with his chin and pointed the tip at the young gladiator.

‘We’re on different teams, thank the gods.’ The Thracian grinned cruelly. ‘Now I’ll get a chance to show everyone I’m the real champion of the arena. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.’

Pavo shook his head. ‘You don’t scare me. I’ve beaten better men than you.’

‘Bullshit! I’m a champion of the arena. Not like those drunks and barbarians you’ve fought. As for this lot,’ he ran his eyes across the gladiators around Pavo, ‘I’ll cut these useless shits down before the Emperor warms his arse on his cushion. Once they’re out of the way, I’ll hack you to pieces. Then I’ll collect my reward.’

A shout from the eastern gate cut Pavo off before he could reply as Nerva ordered the attendants and guards towards the passageway. The gate clanged shut behind the last guard. Now every pair of eyes in the arena fixed on the umpire, and the same cold chill coursed through Pavo’s veins that he always felt before a fight. Spectators heckled the umpire, urging him to give the signal so that the fight could begin. The umpire ignored the calls, waiting until all the weapons and equipment had been checked and the gates were secure. Satisfied that the preparations were complete, he at last removed himself to a safe distance from the fighters and raised his wooden stick high above his head. The crowd hushed. No one moved.

There was a dull thwack as the umpire beat his stick against the sand.

‘Gladiators … FIGHT!’

At once the opposing group of gladiators charged towards the line, the Germans’ full-throated war cries echoing above the roar of the crowd. Some of the fighters on Pavo’s side froze with fear at the sight of dozens of sharp sword tips glinting at them. The stocky man to Pavo’s right hurled his sword and shield at the onrushing opponents and turned on the spot, sprinting towards the eastern gate. Another fighter let his shield fall and, clasping both hands around the sword grip, turned the blade inward and jerked it up into the roof of his mouth, preferring to take his own life than suffer a grisly death at the hands of the veteran gladiators. The powdered chalk line quickly disappeared under the feet of the onrushing fighters.

A gaunt-looking man charged at Pavo. A grim determination swept through the young gladiator at the moment of battle. The life of his son was in his hands. He would not let Appius down. He tucked his shield tight to his chest and focused on the gladiator racing towards him. The man screamed manically at the top of his voice as he slashed at Pavo, bringing both swords above his head in a wide arc. The weapons trembled in his grip. Pavo sidestepped sharply to his left, avoiding the blow as momentum carried the ragged man forward, the two swords dragging his scrawny frame down and presenting his neck to Pavo. In a burst of motion the young gladiator thrust his sword at his opponent. The gaunt fighter had enough time to register a look of dumb surprise on his face before the curved blade plunged into his neck. He gasped in agony as it punched through his throat. Pavo wrestled his sword free of his opponent. Blood flowed freely from the wound. The man sank to his knees, gurgling curses at the young gladiator as he pawed at his gashed throat.

Pavo glimpsed a blur of movement in the corner of his eye. He spun round just in time to see two blade tips flashing in the air and slashing towards his throat as a burly, thickly bearded gladiator lunged at him. He jerked his head back with lightning reflexes, his muscles reaping the benefit of the hours of training under Macro in the ludus. His opponent jerked his shoulder, angling the blade up at the last moment. The blade tip nicked the young gladiator on the cheek. Pavo felt a hot pain flare on the side of his face and warm blood trickle down his neck. He shook his head clear as the bearded gladiator aimed his second sword at him. Now Pavo punched out with his small shield. There was a brittle clatter as the sword glanced off the metal boss, and a powerful shudder stung his forearm muscles. Then he pushed forward, crashing into his opponent with his shield clasped tight to his shoulder. The shield juddered as Pavo struck his opponent on the jaw, following up with a quick jab of his sword tip at the fighter’s midriff. The man spasmed wildly as the curved blade sank into his bowels. Pavo flicked his wrist, angling the blade up into his opponent’s chest and puncturing his vitals. The man clawed at Pavo, trying to gouge his eyes out. Pavo ripped his sword free and watched the man fall away, his heart pounding inside his chest like a beating drum. Each slain fighter brought him a step closer to securing the safe passage of his son out of Rome.

He glanced around him at the unfolding battle. The groans of the dying mingled with the relentless wet slap of metal slamming against flesh. The group fight had descended into a mass brawl and any pretence of organised combat between the rival groups was quickly abandoned as the mostly inexperienced fighters on Pavo’s side were overwhelmed by the superior skills of their opponents. The crowd let out cries of delight as the two Germans tore into a handful of Pavo’s terrified companions, some of whom hacked in an uncoordinated frenzy at their opponents while others tried to flee. One fighter threw his sword at one of the Germans in desperation. His opponent parried the makeshift missile and pounded towards his foe. Gripped by terror, the fighter ripped off his shield and chucked it at the German. The enormous gladiator brushed aside the shield and buried a sword in his enemy’s groin. Pavo’s companion howled in agony and keeled over, both hands clasped despairingly around the pommel of the sword protruding from his midriff. At least half of the fighters were now strewn across the sand, Pavo noticed. The survivors on his side were fighting for their lives in isolated pairs, hacking and slashing at their powerful opponents with increasingly desperate attacks.

‘Roman! You’re mine!’

Glancing across the corpse-strewn arena floor, Pavo glimpsed Amadocus limping towards him, his eyes burning with hatred, blood dripping from his mane of long hair. His jaws were clamped shut as he fought through the pain of several cuts. A heavily scarred man blocked his path towards Pavo. The man unwisely stood his ground, crouching behind his shield and blindly thrusting his blade at his Thracian opponent. Amadocus bared his teeth and stabbed at the man, who hefted up his shield at the last moment. The sword tip rang as it glanced off the boss. Losing patience, Amadocus cast aside one of his two swords, reached out and grasped the edge of his opponent’s shield. The man tried to pull it back. But Amadocus was more than a match for him, even with an injured leg and missing fingers, and he proceeded to smash the shield against the man’s face with brute strength. The man let out a nasal groan as the blow shattered his nose. He stumbled away from Amadocus, cupping his hands to his face. Amadocus thrust his sword at him with such force that the blade buried itself in his stomach up to the pommel. He wasted no time in kicking his stricken opponent aside, then he retrieved his discarded sword and hurried on towards his rival.

A full-blooded roar snapped Pavo’s gaze back to the pair of Germans. They had finished picking off their hapless opponents, leaving Pavo as the last surviving fighter from his side.

‘Don’t stop fighting!’ the umpire thundered. ‘Only the last man standing wins!’

Now the two Germans turned on their comrades. Fewer than a dozen men were still standing. The Germans made short work of them, slashing through them with a series of coordinated attacks, severing spinal columns and punching through the napes of exposed necks. The bodies quickly piled up around their feet. The Germans looked around for another opponent and, spotting Pavo, simultaneously charged at the young gladiator to a rasping cheer from the mob, who were desperate to see their former hero cut down.

The man on the right lunged at Pavo first, the sharp points of his swords glinting in the light. Pavo bent at the knees and pushed out with his shield, meeting the attack head on. There was a jarring clang as the sword tips glanced off his shield boss and carried towards the sky. Now Pavo leaned forward and jerked his sword down at an angle, piking his opponent through his leading foot, slicing through tendon and bone. Blood spurted out of the wound and the German immediately tensed up with pain. He reached down to his impaled foot. Pavo retracted his arm and swept his shield in front of him in a wide horizontal arc, smashing into his opponent’s jaw with the iron rim. The German’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he crashed to the sand.

‘Scum, that’s my brother!’ the second German growled in broken Latin.

In the same draw of breath he launched at Pavo and slashed at him with the sword in his left hand. Pavo jumped back but the sword tip grazed across his front. A searing pain exploded in his chest as the tip pierced his flesh. His nerves screamed in agony and his fingers instinctively unclenched, releasing the sword from his grip. The German kicked his shield away as Pavo dropped to his knees, and shaped to plunge both swords at his felled opponent’s neck.

‘No! He’s mine!’ Amadocus bellowed savagely as he charged at the two gladiators.

The German spun towards the onrushing Thracian. Pavo glanced past his shoulder. He saw Amadocus stampeding towards the German, his eyes burning fiercely as he cut down his opponent with a stab to the abdomen. The German’s eyes widened with shock as the blade sliced through his vitals. He gripped the blade, trying to prise it out of his torso, but Amadocus had a firm grip and quickly twisted it, churning up the German’s bowels. In the same instant Pavo bolted upright and backed away from Amadocus. The German gasped in agony and fell away to the sand, landing in front of Pavo. His eyes went dim and a gurgling sound came from his chest.

The Thracian pulled his sword out of the fallen German and glanced across the corpse-strewn sand.

‘Just you and me left, rich boy,’ he chuckled as he looked back at Pavo. ‘Guess what? This time tomorrow, it’ll be me who’ll be rich. Murena visited me last night in my cell. Promised me ten thousand sestertii, a farm in Brindisium, and all the cunny I could ever wish for in return for making sure you die.’

‘And you believe a word that Greek rat says? You’re even more stupid than you look.’

‘You think you’re so clever, Roman. You won’t look so smart when my blade rips through your throat!’

Pavo stood frozen to the spot as the Thracian advanced on him, lips bared in a triumphant snarl.