Arena

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The next morning Pavo gazed across the Circus Maximus and waited to catch a glimpse of the man who had killed his father. Tens of thousands of spectators had braved the morning cold to fill the chariot-racing stadium situated between the Aventine and Palatine Hills, filtering out of the entrances leading up from the arcade of shops at street level and making their way along the tiers to their seats. Instead of arriving to watch the usual programme of chariot races, the spectators had descended on the Circus Maximus to watch a rare gladiator bout. The sun glimmered faintly above the Palatine Hill. Palls of smoke drifted up from hundreds of forges amid the distant tenement blocks as Rome stirred slowly into life. From his seat at the lowest tier, Pavo braced himself against the chill breeze sweeping across the stadium and tried to quell the dread coursing through his veins.

‘Where the hell is Hermes?’ Macro cursed in the seat next to Pavo. ‘I’m freezing my bollocks off out here.’

Pavo turned to his older companion. Macro had been in a foul mood since the two men had arrived at the Circus Maximus earlier that morning to watch Hermes take part in a sparring match against a less well-known opponent. Pavo had awoken at dawn in his cell at the imperial ludus, where Macro had presented himself with orders to escort the young gladiator to the Circus Maximus. While the excursion ought to have been a welcome break from the drudgery of the ludus, Pavo felt a growing sense of unease building in his chest. In two months he would take to the sand against Hermes, his nemesis, in a fight to the death.

‘He must be appearing shortly,’ the young gladiator replied. ‘There’s a full programme of chariot races due to take place after this contest. The organisers can’t afford a lengthy delay.’

Macro folded his arms across his stocky chest and grunted. ‘He’d better get a move on. It’s colder than a Vestal Virgin’s cunny this morning.’

Pavo glanced quickly past his shoulder at the upper tiers and frowned. ‘What exactly are we doing here, Macro?’

‘I told you. Pallas and Murena ordered me to bring you here to watch some journeyman gladiator from Macedonia put the great Hermes through his paces. Seems they wanted you to see Hermes fight before you face him in the arena.’

‘Odd that they’d want me to observe my opponent,’ Pavo mused. ‘I’d have thought they would be doing everything in their power to sabotage my preparations for the fight.’

Macro shrugged. ‘Who cares? This is a rare chance to see Hermes in action. If you ask me, it’s the first good idea Pallas has ever had.’

Pavo frowned and rubbed the bristles on his jaw. He disliked his new beard, but shaving was a luxury that belonged to his former life. ‘Still, why hold a mere sparring contest in public at the Circus? A practice bout in front of such a crowd is unheard of.’

Macro grunted. ‘Hermes is more of a showman than a gladiator these days. No doubt the organisers are keen to make a profit on the back of it. This lot are dying to see him in action,’ he added, jerking a thumb at the packed tiers.

Pavo glanced up at the crowd. At least a hundred thousand spectators had crammed into the stadium. He could only dream about attracting such a crowd, especially for a practice match with blunted weapons.

‘Have you ever seen Hermes fight, Macro?’

The optio shook his head. ‘Too busy carving up barbarians, lad. But I’ve heard plenty about him. Seems like every new recruit to the Second has seen him fight at one time or another. They can’t stop bloody talking about him in the mess room.’

‘I see,’ Pavo replied tersely.

‘Doubtless his wealth has something to do with it,’ Macro grumbled. ‘Your average gladiator being on a par with a runaway slave or a murderer, and all that. Most gladiators are lucky to last a year. Hermes has been fighting for twenty years — and he’s richer than half the old bastards in the Senate.’

Pavo winced and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘We should be on the training ground, not watching Hermes go through the motions.’

‘Try to enjoy it, lad.’ Macro eased back and slapped his young charge on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, I don’t see what you’ve got to be so glum about. You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? A fight against Hermes and the chance to avenge your old man.’

Pavo pursed his lips. He knew Macro was right. From the moment Hermes had beheaded his father, the young gladiator had burned with the compulsive desire for revenge. But he could not ignore the unease coiling in his guts.

‘Pallas and Murena are up to something,’ he reflected sourly. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘That’s life in Rome for you,’ Macro muttered. ‘Too many Greeks for my liking.’

With a firm grunt Macro turned away from Pavo and narrowed his steely gaze at the racetrack, which had been transformed into a gladiator arena for the purposes of the morning display. A chalk-line ellipse had been marked out, stretching from the twelve starting gates at the western end to the second turning post at the near end of the dividing barrier running down the middle of the track, adorned with various monuments and statues of the gods on top of an ornate shrine. Guards from the urban cohort had been drafted to manage the crowds at the stadium. In the distance a scattering of men and women peered down from the tenement blocks teeming along the slopes of the Aventine Hill overlooking the stadium. This was Macro’s first visit to the Circus Maximus, and he found the experience a bittersweet one. As a boy he’d missed out on the excitement of the chariot races, since his father, Amatus, had taken a dim view of gambling. On race days Amatus used to keep his son busy cleaning cups and wiping down the tables in the dingy tavern he owned in the Aventine. Macro never imagined then that he would one day watch Hermes fight here.

Earlier that morning the optio had attended a special announcement held in the Roman Forum. A huge crowd had gathered to hear official confirmation of the fight between Pavo and Hermes. Rumours had spread from the arena to the taverns in the immediate aftermath of the former’s triumph in the group fight. The air in the Forum had been drenched in the fragrant aroma of exotic spices from nearby market stalls while the sun burned in a clear sky as the speaker’s voice boomed off the surrounding porticoes. The two men would be competing as provocators — a type of heavily armoured combat that Pavo had never taken part in before. Only seasoned gladiators fought as provocators, Macro knew, due to the skill and muscle necessary to move about the arena.

At the same time the sponsors had announced that the date of the fight had been pushed back two months to give both fighters ample time to prepare for the contest. Few among the crowd complained about this development. The tavern owners and merchants hawking memorabilia now had more time to make a healthy profit from the many thousands of gladiator fans who had descended on Rome, and the bookmakers stood to make a killing from cashing in on fervent speculation over the contest. The decision had puzzled Macro, who had assumed the imperial secretary would want to rush Pavo back into the arena as quickly as possible, giving him little time in which to rest and prepare for his fight. Coupled with the offer to watch Hermes in action at the Circus Maximus, Macro shared his young charge’s concerns. There was always some scheming motive behind everything that Pallas and Murena did, he knew.

At that moment the central starting gate opened and a deafening roar went up in the stadium. Macro swivelled his gaze back to the track as the umpire emerged from the shadows with a pair of attendants following close behind him bearing a pair of blunted short swords. A few moments later a gladiator stumbled out of the same gate. A bronze helmet covered his head and the large rectangular shield in his left hand quivered as he trudged towards the officials gathered in the centre of the ellipse.

‘Who’s the poor fellow facing Hermes?’ Pavo wondered aloud.

‘Criton,’ a voice said to his right. ‘He’s going to get battered!’

Pavo turned towards a spectator wearing a stained tunic. There was a glazed look in his eyes and he gripped a wineskin in his right hand.

‘Criton?’ Macro repeated. ‘Never heard of him.’

The spectator grinned. ‘That’s because he’s a second-rate gladiator from Macedonia. Belongs to a travelling troupe. Hardly worthy of sharing the same arena as the colossus of Rhodes.’

Macro glanced back at the track as Criton received his weapon from the attendant. ‘He is fortunate that this is just a sparring contest, then.’

‘Why is Hermes matched with such a lowly sparring partner?’ Pavo asked the spectator, ignoring Macro.

‘Simple. Hermes has only just come out of retirement. No doubt he would’ve returned sooner, if those bastards hadn’t ambushed him in the street and broken several of his bones. He’s recovered faster than anyone expected, but he’s still in need of a warm-up contest ahead of the big fight.’ The spectator nudged Pavo conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, that rich upstart Pavo is in for a nasty surprise.’

‘Oh? How so?’ Pavo briefly considered revealing his name to the spectator but decided against it. He was curious to find out more about Hermes from one of his adoring fans.

The spectator paused and took a swig from his wineskin. Drops trickled down his chin and dripped on to his tunic as he continued.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I hear Pavo is handy with a sword. Especially for a rich boy. But Hermes is a completely different jug of garum to anything he will have faced so far. He is strong — and he’s quick on his feet for a big man.’

Pavo shrugged. ‘There’s plenty of other gladiators that applies to equally.’

The spectator leaned in. Pavo wrinkled his nose at the powerful whiff of wine on the man’s breath. ‘But you won’t find another gladiator who is also so good with a sword. The fifty bouts he’s won is ample proof of that.’

Macro swung his gaze to the spectator with a sneer.

‘Load of bollocks! Everyone knows the lanistas protect their best gladiators to negotiate a better price when it comes to renting them out. I bet half the fights Hermes won were against a bunch of cooks and fullers.’

‘Obviously you’re not a fan.’ The spectator pulled a face at Macro. ‘You’ll change your mind when he gives Criton a proper thrashing.’

‘Why is Hermes coming out of retirement anyway?’ asked Pavo. ‘After all, he’s a freedman gladiator, not a condemned man. Whenever he’s fought in the past few years he’s been able to demand a fortune from the sponsors.’

The spectator shrugged. ‘No one knows for certain. Plenty of sponsors have tried to coax him out since he announced his intention to retire for good. Emperor Caligula, among others.’

‘So why change his mind now?’

‘I’ve heard rumours that one of the Greeks working for Claudius had something to do with it,’ the spectator replied.

Pavo was about to enquire further when a wild cheer erupted in the tiers. The stadium trembled. The sense of anticipation in the crowd was palpable as the spectators rose to their feet as one and directed their gaze towards the far end of the racetrack.

‘Look!’ the spectator exclaimed. ‘Here he comes!’

Pavo and Macro followed his line of sight. A single gate stood at the eastern end of the track, beyond the bronze turning posts. A hushed silence swept over the stadium as the gate opened. Pavo felt the hairs bristle on the nape of his neck as a huge figure marched boldly out, his vast muscles glistening with sweat. The veins on his muscular arms bulged like tensed rope. The man was significantly bigger than his opponent. Pavo could not recall ever seeing a gladiator of such large proportions.

‘Shit,’ he whispered, his blood chilling. ‘So that’s Hermes.’