Arena

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Fighting through the burning pain in his chest, Pavo staggered backwards from Amadocus as his great rival lunged at him. The umpire waved his wooden stick at the Thracian, demanding that he give Pavo a chance to arm himself to make it a fair contest. Amadocus seized the umpire by his shoulder and stabbed the man in his stomach with a single clean blow. The crowd cheered, revelling in the sight of the official meeting a grisly end. Amadocus retrieved his blade and the umpire dropped to the sand, clutching his bowels to stop them spilling out.

Then the Thracian filled his lungs and resumed his charge at the young gladiator. Pavo quickly darted to his side and grabbed the two swords lying beside the gutted German. He looked up and glimpsed the gleam of a sword tip plunging down towards him. In a flashing blur he hefted the two swords as he twisted round, slamming them lengthways against the blade thrusting towards him. The rasping clash of steel against steel rang shrilly around the arena. Amadocus growled as Pavo pushed up on the balls of his feet and shoved the Thracian back a step. Amadocus came at him again but Pavo adjusted his stance and held both swords up in front of him, the blades close together, blocking the repeated thrusts. Amadocus breathed heavily, sweat running down his torso as the effort of his relentless attacks took its toll. But Pavo refused to get drawn into a slogging match. He knew that if he was to win against his old rival, he’d have to fight on his own terms, using his swordsmanship to overcome his more powerful opponent.

Amadocus attacked again, making a low keening sound in his throat. ‘Fight, you Roman shit! Don’t retreat like a woman.’

‘Is that the best you can do?’ Pavo taunted.

Amadocus snarled as he swung his blade. He stopped mid-swing, a cruel smile trembling on his lips as he spotted the flesh wound across Pavo’s chest. ‘You’re bleeding, Roman. It’s a sign. The gods must favour me.’

Pavo smiled. ‘Fighting a wounded aristocrat and you’re still struggling. You must be losing your touch, Thracian.’

Snarling madly, Amadocus stabbed at Pavo again, jerking his sword at the young gladiator in brutal thrusts. Pavo pushed out with his swords and deflected the attack. But he was beginning to tire. He could feel his muscles aching from the strain of keeping the swords raised. His breathing became increasingly ragged. Amadocus grinned as he sensed blood. He thrust his blade at Pavo, aiming for his torso. But at the last moment he jerked his wrist up and angled the blade at his rival’s arm. Pavo twisted away from the thrust but the sword tip pricked his flesh and sent a stinging pain running down the length of his arm. He gasped for breath. His fingers spasmed and the sword tumbled helplessly from his grip.

‘Got you now, Roman!’ Amadocus sneered.

Pavo staggered backwards, his muscles palpitating with adrenalin and fear. Mocking taunts rained down on him from the galleries above the parapet. Now Amadocus reached down and grabbed the dropped sword before Pavo could reach for it. Armed with two weapons, his eyes full of savage intent, the Thracian jerked his arms back, tucking his elbows tight to his sides then thrusting both swords at Pavo’s neck with immense force. For a brief moment the gladiator saw the life of his son hanging in the balance. Then, with one last burst of his failing strength, he dived to the right, evading the thrusts, and cut upwards with his remaining sword, stabbing Amadocus in his armpit.

The Thracian glanced down, stunned by the blade piercing his flesh, hot blood gushing down his torso and spattering the sand. Convulsing with anger, he lunged at Pavo. The gladiator winced in pain as Amadocus landed on top of him and the two men crashed to the ground. Pavo kicked out at Amadocus in a desperate attempt to throw him off. The Thracian punched him on the jaw. Pavo saw white. His vision cleared as Amadocus grabbed a curved dagger glinting on the sand. Now the audience shrieked with joy as the Thracian plunged the dagger towards Pavo’s throat. Pavo threw his hands above his head to shield himself from the blow. His forearms were locked in a brace across the Thracian’s forearm.

‘It’s over, Roman,’ Amadocus rasped, pressing the dagger mercilessly towards his opponent. ‘At last you die. Or beg for your life!’

Panic gripped Pavo as Amadocus growled and pushed the dagger tip towards his throat. He felt his muscles weaken from the weight of his rival pressing down on him. A great pressure built up in his chest and his ribcage throbbed with pain. Now the dagger tip pricked his flesh. Grief coursed through Pavo’s veins at the fate of his son.

Swallowing hard, he summoned a final reserve of strength. The intense training under Macro flooded back to him. He pushed out his arms in an explosive thrust and shoved the dagger up and away from his neck. Amadocus briefly looked startled, unable to comprehend how the once slender recruit now possessed the raw strength and power to match him. Clenching his jaw tightly, Pavo locked his arm muscles and forced the dagger up inch by inch until the tip hovered a hair’s breadth from Amadocus.

‘You can’t kill me! I’m the rightful champion, not you!’

‘Say hello to Spartacus in the afterlife.’

The Thracian’s eyes widened as Pavo pushed up with one last defiant effort and the dagger plunged into his throat, punching out of the nape of his neck, immediately reducing his grunt to a gurgle. A slight tinge of regret struck Pavo at the moment of his foe’s death. Despite being sworn enemies, he retained a degree of respect for Amadocus. His rival had proved himself a fearless warrior, making up in sheer tenacity and fighting spirit what he lacked in skill. He watched as the rage in the Thracian’s eyes dimmed and his mouth slackened, blood trickling from the corners of his lips. Then he rolled Amadocus aside.

A stunned silence gripped the arena, as if the spectators were unsure how to greet the result of the bout. Pavo prepared for another torrent of vitriol from the mob. Instead, loud cheers broke the silence.

‘He’s defeated Amadocus!’ a spectator roared.

‘Fuck the Thracian! Up with Pavo!’ another shouted.

The applause spread through the galleries until every spectator was chanting his name. Pavo was filled with contempt at the fickle nature of the mob. He stared down at Amadocus, blinking blood out of his eyes, barely able to believe that he’d triumphed. He’d survived the beast fights and now the group fight — an achievement few other gladiators could lay claim to. At the end of his previous bouts he had felt uncomfortable about the fawning adulation of the mob, but now, having defeated Amadocus, he felt he richly deserved their praise. He reflected for a moment on his long journey from a scrawny recruit in Paestum to one of the titans of the arena in Rome.

Now there was only one thing left for him to do.

His sword felt heavy in his weary grip. He tossed it aside. He scanned the galleries, looking for Lanatus. There was no sign of him in the row of senators gazing down at the bloodied sand. By now Appius would have been removed from the imperial household and escorted towards Ostia and a new life with Bucco. Pavo experienced a pang of sadness at the thought that he would never see his son again. Strange, but now he was so close to completing his mission and killing Claudius, he was suddenly seized by doubt. He wondered whether he could trust Lanatus to fulfil his end of the deal.

He quickly dismissed the thought. He was too close to give up now. The life of his son depended upon him striking down the Emperor.

The sound of the gate creaking open broke his daze. Pavo lifted his gaze in the direction of the eastern gate and slowly scanned the scene in front of him. Utter carnage confronted the young gladiator. A tangle of limbs and torsos. Shafts of sunlight pierced the grey clouds, warming the cold sand, glimmering over the corpses and the bloodied sword points. The powdered chalk line was scarcely visible amid the debris of battle. The stench of blood choked the air, mingling with sweat and the piss and shit of evacuated bowels. Pavo stood still, numb with shock at how much blood had been spilled in the name of Emperor Claudius.

‘Utter madness,’ he muttered to himself.

He shook his head bitterly. Once more he found himself disgusted with the mob. They had revelled in the group fight. Undoubtedly their cheers would lead to many similar events in forthcoming spectacles. He wondered where it would all end.

Nerva stepped out of the gate and trudged towards Pavo. He looked upset as he picked his way around the mass of dead gladiators. Attendants and guards followed him out of the passageway. The attendants began prising the swords and shields from deadened grips while the guards checked for any signs of life among the bodies, prodding at them with the tips of their swords. They moved swiftly from one slumped gladiator to the next. Behind them the two German fighters were piled on top of one another on a wooden cart.

‘Look at this mess,’ Nerva grumbled. He kicked away a severed hand in dismay. ‘It’ll take us bloody ages to clean this lot up.’

‘What will happen to them?’ Pavo asked softly.

‘These worthless scum? Slung into a grave pit, most of ’em. The surgeon tries to save as much blood from these corpses as possible. To sell on, of course. What do you care?’

Pavo pointed to Amadocus. A large puddle of blood had formed under the Thracian. ‘I want my winnings to pay for his funeral. At the very least he deserves a fitting memorial stone.’

Nerva arched an eyebrow at Pavo, sighing. ‘Gladiators! You lot never cease to surprise me. Cutting each other to pieces one moment and buying each other gravestones the next. I’ll never understand it.’

That’s because you’ve never had to face raw steel in front of a baying mob, Pavo thought to himself, resisting the temptation to add the official to the sprawl of corpses in the arena. Nerva cast an eye over the gladiator and sucked his gums.

‘You’ll have to get that cleaned up.’ He pointed to Pavo’s chest wound.

Pavo lowered his gaze. The cut was not deep, but blood from the wound was streaming down his front. There was no pain. His mind was still racing with thoughts of victory, and the dangerous task that lay ahead of him.

Nerva nodded at the eastern gate. ‘Make it quick. The Emperor is waiting.’