Arena

CHAPTER FIVE

‘About bloody time!’ Bucco announced to Pavo as half a dozen lightly armoured guards ushered the new recruits under the east-facing portico and down a gloomy corridor. From a room up ahead to the left, Pavo could hear the crackle of meat sizzling on a grill. Bucco patted his belly in anticipation and beamed at Pavo. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

Bucco licked his lips as he drew near to the cookhouse entrance. Pavo peered inside and looked on longingly as several slaves toiled over a side of pork hanging above a large grill. He feasted his eyes on bowls of sweet figs, grilled mushrooms layered with cheese, and a mouth-watering assortment of pickled fruit, all carefully arranged on silver trays, together with cakes dripping with honey and a large bunch of freshly picked grapes. His empty belly rumbled with hunger.

‘Let’s get stuck in,’ Bucco said.

‘Hold it.’ A guard gripped Bucco by the shoulder. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

‘To eat.’ Bucco gestured to the cookhouse. ‘What does it look like?’

The guard sniggered. ‘This isn’t for scum like you,’ he said. ‘That’s the lanista’s dinner they’re preparing.’

Before the men could protest, the guard brusquely shoved them beyond the cookhouse and further down the corridor. They passed a heavily guarded armoury sealed off with a wrought-iron gate. Armour and swords gleamed on wall racks. The guards stopped the recruits when they reached a dark, damp room at the end of the corridor, located next to the stairs that led up to the cells on the second storey of the ludus.

‘This is where you lot eat,’ the guard grinned as he waved a hand around the canteen.

A powerful stench of manure hit Pavo, and he realised the canteen was right next to the stables. Straw had been scattered across the floor, and from its damp, rotten texture, he guessed it had already been used for the horses. He spotted a cockroach scuttling across the floor. Blowflies buzzed in the air. The other recruits scuttled towards the far end of the canteen, where a cook with teeth like old tombs poured small rations of barley gruel into clay bowls.

Pavo felt his heart sink at the sight of the squalor. There were two trestle tables with a pair of benches either side taken up by the veterans. The recruits had to content themselves with squatting on the floor. Many seemed accustomed to their surroundings, ignoring the insects crawling over their legs, and the rancid smell. Pavo supposed these men had grown up as slaves and were familiar with such appalling living conditions. At the roll call that morning he’d been surprised to discover that Bucco was the only volunteer recruit. Eighteen of the other men were runaway slaves and four had been accused of murder. Laws introduced by Augustus and reinforced by subsequent emperors had attempted to rein in the number of volunteer gladiators, and the fact that most of the men around Pavo came from a much lower station only increased his sense of isolation.

A brief pang of nostalgia hit him as he remembered the feasts that had been laid on for his father at the imperial palace. Titus had been highly respected by Emperor Tiberius, Caligula’s predecessor and a military man to the bone. Titus and Tiberius would often relive past glories on the battlefield over jars of honeyed wine late into the evening, whilst Pavo played at gladiators with the other children in the palace gardens.

‘Here,’ Bucco said, snapping Pavo out of his daydream and handing him a small bowl of gruel. ‘Get stuck in before it’s all gone.’

Pavo looked despondently at his meagre ration. A maggot wriggled in the mixture. Pavo felt his stomach churn. ‘I’m not feeling hungry,’ he said, passing the bowl to Bucco, who accepted it with a shrug.

‘Fine by me. More for old Bucco.’

‘How do they expect us to live like this?’ Pavo said quietly.

‘Oh, it’s not all that bad,’ Bucco replied between greedy mouthfuls of gruel. ‘Three square meals a day, a bed to sleep in and the chance to earn a few sestertii. There’s plenty in Rome who’d give anything for that.’

Pavo threw up his hands. ‘You’re right,’ he announced drily. ‘What am I thinking? I should be grateful for being thrown into a ludus and forced to work myself to the bone every day, feeding on scraps and living with a bunch of criminals and the very dregs of society.’

Bucco looked hurt. Pavo offered a weak smile.

‘Present company excluded, of course,’ he said.

‘Well, you’d better get used to it.’ Bucco finished licking his bowl clean and stifled a belch. ‘Gurges has a reputation as a right vicious bastard. Step out of line and you’ll find yourself being crucified in the arena instead of fighting in it.’

Pavo fell quiet as he mulled over his conversation with the lanista. Gurges had dropped a hint that he might have some leverage with enticing Hermes into the arena. But only if Pavo was victorious against lesser opponents, he presumed. As he made a silent prayer to the gods that he would survive long enough to face Hermes, a grim thought occurred to Pavo. His greatest fear wasn’t dying in the arena. It was dying before he had a chance for revenge.

‘Anyway,’ Bucco said. ‘At least you can use a sword. You heard the doctore. I was bloody useless out there. Got the skills of a leper.’

‘Then why join a ludus? You must have had some other means of paying off your debts.’

Bucco harrumphed. ‘Don’t count on it. Ten thousand sestertii might not sound like so much to someone born into class, but that’s a lot of money for a man like me. It’d take a soldier the best part of twelve years to pay off that kind of sum. And I’m no soldier. I don’t have a brain for numbers, and I don’t fancy collecting piss for a living,’ he said, referring to the fullers who collected jugs filled with urine for cleaning togas. ‘On top of that, I’ve got a wife and two boys back in Ostia, so that’s three mouths to feed. All in all, I didn’t have a lot of options, all right?’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to judge.’

Bucco sighed. ‘Forget it. Not your fault I’m here, is it?’

‘Your sons — how old are they?’

‘Papirius is seven, Salonius is four.’ Bucco stared wistfully at his empty bowl, lost in thought. ‘They’re good boys. The little ’un wants to be a soldier when he grows up. Says he wants to conquer Britain all by himself.’

‘I have a son of my own,’ Pavo said. ‘Or I did,’ he added quietly. He moved on quickly, before Bucco could ask about Appius and open the still-sore wound. ‘It must be hard for them to see their father in a ludus.’

‘Well I don’t imagine I’ll be here for very long,’ Bucco replied casually.

‘Oh?’ Pavo raised his eyebrows. ‘I hate to point it out to you, Bucco, but it’ll take you a long time before you’ve got enough money to settle your debts in full. Even with the signing-on fee, that still leaves you short by six thousand sestertii.’

Bucco lowered his voice and tapped the side of his nose furtively. ‘Between you and me, I’ve got a plan for settling up sooner rather than later.’

Pavo puckered his brow. ‘What are you talking about?’

The volunteer leaned in to Pavo, a slovenly grin stretched across his flabby jowls. ‘There’s a bookmaker who visits the ludus every so often. You can place bets with him on the fights. The way I see it, being here I’ll be able to judge the form and ability of the gladiators: injuries, training, that sort of thing. I can’t lose! I’m going to use the money I received when signing my contract to buy my way out of here before the year is out.’

‘What if you get the bets wrong?’ the recruit asked.

‘I won’t. Come on, don’t give me that look! Can you honestly see me leaving the ludus in one piece? Look at the size of some of the veterans. Bloody beasts! What chance do I stand against any of that lot? This way I can make enough money to repay my debts and settle my contract with old Gurges. It’s got to be a better bet than bleeding to death in some godforsaken arena.’

Pavo was about to reply, but he was interrupted by a call from the doctore, ordering the recruits to their cells. Bucco grudgingly stood up. The others began to file out of the canteen. Pavo remained for a moment on the floor. He wanted a moment of peace to himself as he made a solemn vow to see his quest through to the bitter end. He wouldn’t stop before he had a chance to watch the life drain out of Hermes. Nothing would stand in his way. Opening his eyes, Pavo rose to his feet, suddenly alone. He turned towards the corridor and noticed someone blocking his path.

‘Going somewhere?’ Amadocus whispered.

Pavo froze as light from a nearby lamp illuminated the veteran’s features. Up close, Pavo could see that he had the bulbous nose and cauliflower ears of a man who had been in his fair share of brawls. He towered over Pavo, his eyes glinting. The recruit was dimly aware of three more veterans behind Amadocus. The Thracian stood his ground while the other men slowly circled Pavo, breathing heavily through their nostrils.

‘Let me through,’ Pavo said.

Amadocus stood his ground. Pavo could hear the three other men at his back. ‘Son of a legate, they say. Military tribune. Pah!’ He flicked his eyes up at Pavo. ‘I fucking hate Romans. And if there’s one thing I hate more than Romans, it’s Roman soldiers.’

Pavo looked around. The canteen was empty. The rest of the gladiators and the servants had left. There was no one to help him.

‘I saw you at the palus today, Roman. And I tell you, there’s only one thing worse than a Roman soldier. Any idea what that is?’

‘No.’ Pavo shrugged. He saw that Amadocus had balled his right hand into a fist. He took a step back from Pavo and grinned at the other three men.

‘He doesn’t know, lads,’ Amadocus said as his accomplices steered back behind the enlarged shoulders of the veteran. They laughed meanly and glared at Pavo, and the recruit craned his neck past Amadocus as he tried to catch sight of the guards. They had disappeared, and Pavo had an awful feeling that they had abandoned their post on purpose.

‘A Roman soldier who’s a show-off, that’s what,’ Amadocus went on, staring viciously at Pavo. ‘Just because you can hit a bit of wood, don’t go around thinking you’re a gladiator. You have to earn this in blood.’ The veteran raised his left wrist to reveal a reddish ‘G’, representing the house of Gurges, branded on his flesh. Pavo had noticed that all of the veteran gladiators sported the same brand. He had overheard another recruit explain that to receive a branding was an honour bestowed only when a trainee gladiator triumphed in the arena and became a veteran.

The recruit said nothing. Amadocus chuckled as he cupped his hand to his ear and turned it towards Pavo.

‘What’s that, Roman? Something to say?’

Pavo still said nothing.

‘That’s what I thought.’ Amadocus clucked as he stepped closer. Pavo could smell the foul breath coming off him. ‘A fucking coward. Just like your old man.’

A hot rage burst inside Pavo. He spat into Amadocus’s face, the thick globule catching him on the forehead, sliding down between his eyes and on to his nose. For a moment the veteran was stunned. He took a step back, his muscles palpitating with anger as he wiped the spit away from his face and studied it in the palm of his hand. His eyes were wide and his brow furrowed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

Then he punched Pavo in the stomach. The recruit doubled up in pain and fell forward. Amadocus grabbed him by the nape of his tunic and smashed a knee into his face, the dome of the bone slamming into the bridge of his nose. Agony shot through Pavo’s skull, and he lost his balance abruptly. He dropped to the ground, and a flurry of hard feet to his chest and abdomen winded him further. He rolled on to his front, curling up into a tight ball to shield himself from the repeated wave of blows. Each time he tried scrabbling to his feet, another hit thudded down on the small of his back and struck him like a hammer. His face was smeared with the foul hay that had been raked across the canteen floor. His nostrils were violated by the thick stench of sweat and piss.

‘Spit on me, will you!’ Amadocus fumed above the pounding between his temples. ‘I’ll teach you some manners, you little prick!’

Pavo tried crawling away from Amadocus and the other veterans, his face and hands tarnished with dirt, the salty taste of blood in his mouth. He clawed his way towards the far end of the canteen, towards the trestle tables and the cooking pots filled with gruel. Then a boot plummeted down on to his hand, and there was a sickening crunch as it crushed his fingers. Pavo winced in pain. The boot ground his fingers underfoot, as if crushing grapes in a wine vat. It rose suddenly, freeing his hand, but Pavo felt himself being lifted off the ground and thrown forward. There was a crashing din as he fell head-first into a stack of pans, pots and clay bowls. His skull jarred as he landed with a thud, and beyond the piercing sound in his ears he could faintly hear Amadocus stomping towards him. Pavo grabbed a bronze pot emptied of gruel and in the same blur of motion he rolled on to his right side and swung it at Amadocus just as the veteran reached down to grab him. Amadocus grunted as the pot clattered against the side of his skull with a hollow thud. He stumbled backwards, dazed and shocked. He shook his head clear and turned to his shocked accomplices.

‘Fucking get him!’

The three other men closed in on Pavo. The middle one rushed at him, a couple of steps ahead of the other two. He had a dense beard and a thickset frame. He swung a roundhouse punch which Pavo jerked away from, and as momentum carried the blow on its trajectory above his head, Pavo lunged at the man and butted him in the middle of his chest. He grunted as the force of the blow sent him stumbling backwards. His comrades stepped out of the way as he tripped over a bench and fell to the ground amid a cacophony of shattering cups and bowls. The man to the right, a gaunt-looking figure with an angular frame and gaps in his front teeth, spun around and grabbed Pavo from behind, wrapping a bony arm around his neck and clamping his other hand to the recruit’s forehead while the third man, a bear of a figure and a head taller than the others, made to unload a punch at his guts.

Pavo struck first, launching a high kick at the larger man, bending his leg at the knee and aiming at his chest. The man shrieked as the sole of the recruit’s foot thumped into his midriff, winding him and turning him purple in the face. Pavo jerked his shoulders to try and shake off the smaller man, who had him in a headlock, but his grip was surprisingly firm despite his bony physique. Pavo tried backtracking a few steps, building up momentum in his feet in a bid to slam his assailant into the canteen wall and wind him. He heard a crack at his back and the harsh exhalation of breath as his attacker crashed into the canteen wall. But still the man refused to relinquish his grip. Pavo felt himself going faint as the arm constricted his air passage. Ahead of him, the bear-like gang member had recovered from the brutal kick to the stomach and staggered towards him.

‘Now I’m going to make you fucking sorry.’

Then Pavo saw a flicker of movement behind the man.

‘That’s enough!’

Amadocus and his men spun around to see Gurges standing in the corridor, flanked by an exasperated Calamus and a third man Pavo didn’t recognise. This third man was stocky, a little shorter than the doctore, and wore a simple tunic with a pair of leather sandals and a red cloak. The clobber of an off-duty soldier, thought Pavo as he wiped blood from his mouth and eyed the lanista warily.

‘What’s going on here?’ Calamus demanded, baring his teeth. He locked his sunken eyes on Amadocus. ‘You. What are you doing out of your cell at this time of night? Explain yourself.’

Amadocus lowered his eyes deferentially. ‘Sir. I am sorry.’ He twisted his neck towards Pavo. ‘This recruit was causing a disturbance.’

‘Is this true, Pavo?’ The doctore turned to face him.

‘No!’ the recruit protested. ‘I didn’t-’

‘Forget it,’ Gurges interrupted. He gestured to Amadocus and the three other veterans, and shot them a final withering look. ‘Calamus. See these men to their cells. I’ll deal with them later. Pavo and I have a pressing matter to discuss.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the doctore replied. He marched the veterans through the door one by one. Amadocus was the last to leave. He flashed a fierce scowl at the recruit as he stormed out of the canteen. Pavo felt a cold tremor of fear shoot up his spine at the thought of having made an enemy of Amadocus and his thugs. He wondered how his day could get any worse.

Then the man in the military-issue clothing stepped out of the shadows. Pavo studied him. He had the grizzled look of a battle-hardened veteran and the scars to prove it, even though his eyes told Pavo that he couldn’t be much older than thirty. As a military tribune, Pavo had encountered dozens of men like this in the Sixth — career soldiers, men who’d signed away their lives at the age of eighteen, or earlier perhaps, lying to enlist as soon as they could. Men who made it their business to shed blood for Rome in far-flung corners of the Empire. A cause that Pavo had once believed in himself. Until Rome had sunk its teeth into his neck.

‘It appears your stay here is to be rather shorter than I had hoped,’ Gurges said, choosing his words carefully, glancing at the stocky man out of the corner of his eye. Pavo thought he detected a trace of resentment in the lanista’s voice.

‘What are you talking about?’ Pavo said, his voice barely a whisper. In the distance he could hear the roars and shouts of Amadocus and the other veterans being manhandled into their cells.

Gurges wrinkled his lips. He hesitated, gesturing to the scroll he held in his hands. He went on, ‘This man is a soldier, Pavo. Sent from Rome, on imperial orders, no less. You are to fight the barbarian Britomaris. To the death.’

Pavo looked stony-faced at the soldier. He knew the name Britomaris. At training that morning the recruits had been talking of his defeat of Capito. Rumours had swirled through the ludus: that Britomaris ate babies for breakfast, that he was born in the Underworld, that his manhood could snap a vestal virgin in half.

‘I understand the fight will be held at the Julian plaza in Rome. An impressive venue,’ Gurges said, drawing Pavo out of his stupor. The lanista frowned again. ‘A great pity that we won’t get the chance to see you in action here in Paestum. For your sake as well as mine.’

The soldier grunted. ‘If I may,’ he began gruffly. Gurges nodded jadedly and the soldier turned to Pavo. ‘My name is Lucius Cornelius Macro. I’m an optio in the Second Legion. I’m here to train you for the fight.’

‘Who sent you?’

Macro pursed his lips. ‘The order was signed by Marcus Antonius Pallas.’

Pavo laughed. ‘So it’s as good as from the Emperor himself, then.’

‘That’s about the size of it, lad.’ He narrowed his eyes at Pavo. ‘You’re familiar with the name?’

‘You could say that,’ the young recruit replied, his mood improving rapidly. ‘Pallas was the man who convinced the Emperor to condemn my father to death in the arena. I’ve heard that Claudius was set to spare his life until that arse-licking Greek swayed his decision. That aide of his does most of his bidding.’

‘Murena,’ Macro muttered.

‘That’s the one,’ Pavo nodded. ‘Thick as thieves, those two.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Macro cut himself short, aware of the political danger of criticising the imperial household in the presence of the lanista. Gurges struck Macro as an untrustworthy sort of fellow. ‘Enough talk. Let’s knuckle down to business. As you can see, I’ve already cleared this matter with your lanista. From what I’ve been told, you’re a natural with a sword, so we’re not totally fucked.’

Gurges cleared his throat. Macro shot a look at him.

‘About my compensation,’ the lanista said carefully. ‘This is a fine young specimen of a man. I won’t sell him off for less than the going rate.’

Macro produced a bag filled with coins from under his tunic and chucked it at the lanista, who caught it in his cupped hands and licked his lips as he peeked inside.

‘I suppose this looks to be an adequate level of compensation,’ he said greedily. ‘And I presume you’ll be staying with us, Optio?’

‘You must be joking,’ Macro said. ‘I’ll get myself a nice warm bed at a cosy inn in town.’ He watched a cockroach scuttle across the floor. ‘Although even a shit bed would be better than staying in this armpit of a house.’

Gurges grunted irritably and turned to leave. Macro watched him go, then frowned at the pots and cups scattered across the ground. He sized Pavo up, and the expression on his face suggested to the recruit that the soldier did not approve of what he saw.

‘It’s been a bloody long journey,’ he said finally. ‘We begin tomorrow at dawn. You’d better pray you’re more effective with a sword than you are with your fists, lad. For both our sakes.’