Arena: Barbarian (Book One of the Roman Arena Series)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘You’re late,’ Macro growled, gesturing up at the sun gleaming over the roof tiles.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Pavo.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Macro corrected him.

  Pavo glared at the officer. ‘You’re forgetting who you’re talking to, optio. You’re a mere drill-instructor. I’m a military tribune, second in command of the Sixth Legion. Address me correctly in the future.’

  ‘And you’re forgetting that you’re in a fucking ludus,’ Macro thundered, his face darkening, his blood boiling between his temples. ‘You’re not a tribune any more. And frankly I don’t care much for some privileged broad-striper talking down to Rome’s newest hero.’

  ‘Hero?’

  Macro nodded curtly. ‘Decorated by the Emperor himself.’

  Pavo dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands, sealing his lips tightly shut. Much as he hated to admit it, Macro was right. He was the man in charge. He had imperial authority. Pavo had been stripped of his rights and condemned to the arena. According to the strict social mores of Rome, he was no better than a common slave.

  ‘Question my authority again, and I’ll have Calamus thrash you. Understood?’

  ‘Yes . . . sir,’ Pavo said through clenched jaws.

  Macro was in a foul mood. The only inn that had any rooms available in the middle of the night had been the Drunken Goat, a stinking cesspit on the outskirts of Paestum. The wine had tasted like donkey piss and the bill had been eye-watering. He’d spent the night on an uncomfortable hay mattress and had been awoken by the innkeeper’s wife kicking him out an hour before dawn. That morning Macro had made his way to the ludus bleary-eyed and ferociously hungry, and to his shock found himself regretting the day he’d been decorated. What should have been the proudest moment of his life had quickly descended into a nightmare. Not only did he have precious little time before the fight, but his charge was a belligerent brat.

  Macro stepped closer to Pavo. He eyed him from head to toe, the way an officer instructor inspects his men on parade.

  ‘Your face is covered in bruises,’ he said. ‘A bit of advice for you, Pavo. Next time you’re trading punches with someone much bigger than you, learn how to block.’ The officer caught sight of the recruit’s right hand and gestured towards it. ‘What in Hades’ name happened there?’

  Pavo glanced down. His fingers had swollen to twice their size and his palm was badly purpled. Pavo hadn’t noticed the injury last night. He’d gone to sleep with his mind reeling at the idea of saving the reputation of the very man who’d ordered his father to fight in the arena. But when Pavo had woken up he’d felt a dull ache spreading up his forearm, and at breakfast he could barely flex his fingers.

  ‘That rat Amadocus did it,’ he said with a snarl, ‘When he cornered me last night in the canteen. Can’t hold a sword, thanks to that bastard.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘Never mind. You’re not going to be using a sword much.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Pavo.

  Macro grinned. ‘You’re not going to fight like a gladiator, boy. Capito has tried that against Britomaris already and you know the result. Trading blows with that barbarian is suicide. You’re bound to lose.’

  Pavo huffed. ‘You’re implying that I’ve agreed to fight Britomaris.’

  ‘You don’t have a choice,’ said Macro. ‘You’re a trainee gladiator now, not a citizen.’

  ‘I could lose to Britomaris. Heap further shame on the Emperor. I’m sentenced to die anyway in this bloody ludus. I’ve nothing to lose by letting Britomaris kill me. My old life has been taken away.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ the officer said, kneeling down and clutching a fistful of sand. He met the trainee’s eye. ‘You do have something to lose.’

  Pavo cocked his head at Macro. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You have a son, yes?’

  ‘Appius,’ Pavo nodded. ‘He’s a year old. His mother died during childbirth. My father Titus and mother Drusilla raised him. Until they were murdered.’

  ‘I have good news for you. Well, good and bad,’ Macro said, weighing up a thought with his head. ‘Appius is alive. He’s being held at the imperial palace. Win, and the Emperor has promised to release him.’

  A tingle of cold dread flared at the back of Pavo’s scalp. His muscles went numb with rage and shock. His son. Alive. At the mercy of that snake Pallas and his lackey Murena. Pavo booted the foot of the palus and belted out an explosive roar of anger. Macro backed off a step.

  ‘Is there no end to Pallas and his cruelty?’ Pavo growled bitterly. ‘First he takes my father away from me. Then he dangles my only son before me like a carrot in front of a donkey.’

  Macro watched Pavo wrestle with his rage. Taming this lad would be tricky, he thought to himself. The trainee paced up and down the ground furiously, his muscles trembling, his fists clenched, a ball of uncontrollable rage gripping him. Then he stopped, took a deep breath, and glanced at Macro.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll fight Britomaris. But I don’t need advice from a mere optio. I’m good with a sword. I can take that barbarian perfectly well on my own. Be on your way.’

  Macro sucked in a deep breath and folded his arms across his barrel-like chest. ‘Have you seen Britomaris fight?’

  ‘No . . . Sir,’ Pavo said hesitantly.

  ‘Well, it just so happens that I have. And I can tell you a couple of things about our barbarian friend. One: he’s big. Much bigger than you. Two: he’s bloody strong. Same as any barbarian. They grow up in a cruel world. There are none of life’s little luxuries for these monsters. You could be Hercules himself with a sword, it wouldn’t matter. He’d knock you down just by breathing on you.’

  Pavo visibly deflated. He felt a cold knot of fear in the pit of his stomach as the scale of the task in front of him grew more ominous. He’d been cocky about his chances against Hermes in a fight. Perhaps too cocky, the trainee reflected. Now, as he was forced to confront the reality of an actual fight to the death, he found his confidence rapidly draining.

  ‘Cheer up,’ Macro said, patting Pavo on the back. ‘You’re going to fight in front of the Emperor, for the glory of Rome, in front of thousands of people. Fights don’t get much bigger. And this is only your first fight, you lucky bugger. You should be kissing Fortuna’s arse.’

  Pavo shrugged off Macro. ‘You have a perverse idea of luck.’

  ‘Just trying to put some fire in your belly,’ Macro said, furrowing his brow at his student’s prickly nature. ‘Look, there’s no point moping about feeling sorry for yourself. If you go into the arena with that kind of attitude, you’ll stand no chance.’

  Pavo shrugged as the sun simmered and swelled on the horizon.

  ‘I don’t deserve this,’ Pavo said, turning away from Macro. ‘Everything that’s happened to me. To my family. First my father. Then me. Now they’ve made a prisoner out of my son Appius. How much more suffering does that wretch Pallas wish to inflict? It’s not fair.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Macro barked with such venom that it send a jolt quivering like an arrow up Pavo’s spine. ‘This is Rome, lad. There’s no such thing as fair. Even a high-born boy like you must know that. And yes, I know all about your family squabble. I’m sorry about what happened with Titus. He had respect, even from us hard-to-please men in the Second. But that’s all in the past now, lad. You have to focus on Britomaris.’

  Pavo closed his eyes and sighed.

  ‘Do you know how my father died?’ he asked Macro, keeping his eyes closed, as if he was trying to seek peace in the dark. ‘Did that rat Murena tell you about how Rome treated a man who sacrificed everything to the city, optio?’

  Macro cleared his throat. ‘He told me that Hermes killed your old man in the arena.’

  ‘Killing is putting it rather mildly,’ Pavo muttered. ‘Hermes gutted him like a pig. Cut off his head. When he was done, Claudius had his servants drag my father’s body out of the arena on a hook and dump it in the street ou
tside, as if he were some common thief.’

  Macro cleared his throat again, but said nothing. An awkward silence lingered between the two men. At the far end of the training ground Pavo caught sight of Amadocus leaning against a palus, his hands choking the post as Calamus flogged him repeatedly on his back with his short whip. The other veterans looked on blankly, suggesting that such brutality was commonplace. Amadocus stole a sideways glance at Pavo. He winced as Calamus lashed his back again and drew blood. Then he grinned at the recruit. Pavo gulped and turned back to Macro.

  ‘Everything has been taken away from me, optio. My old life is gone for ever. But there is one thing I want before I die, and that’s a chance to face Hermes in the arena.’ He turned stiffly away from Macro. ‘I have no quarrel with Britomaris. If he’s giving Murena and Pallas sleepless nights, so much the better. I don’t see why I should help out that pair of devious Greeks.’

  ‘Sod Pallas. Sod Murena. Sod them all. Do this for yourself and for your son.’

  Pavo said nothing. But Macro thought he spotted some weakening in the lad’s hostile stance. He drew closer to Pavo and gripped him by the shoulders.

  ‘Whatever you think, we don’t have time to sit around and talk.’

  Pavo frowned and stepped back from Macro. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Patience is in short supply at the imperial household,’ the optio replied. ‘The Emperor wishes to see Britomaris lose before the month is out.’ He raised a hand to stifle the trainee’s protest. ‘Now I know what you’re thinking. Normally it takes at least six months to prepare a gladiator to fight in the arena, and that’s just so you can face some Egyptian armpit-plucker with a blunted sword, not a vicious bastard like Britomaris. Nevertheless, that’s the way the dice have fallen. Besides, you’ve got the talent, from what I’ve been told by the doctore. We can skip the basics and knuckle down to the strategy for beating Britomaris. It’s no different to sorting out your tactics before going into battle. So let’s just get on with it, eh?’

  Pavo fell quiet. Macro weighed up his young charge. Pavo lacked the build of a gladiator. He looked more like a clerk – you’d think a gust of wind might break every bone in his body. But Macro detected some sliver of inner steel in the lad that reminded him a little of himself as a fresh-faced recruit. He thought briefly back to his own harsh treatment at the hands of Bestia, the legion’s legendary drill instructor.

  But Macro could never recall being as difficult as Pavo. Then again, he had never been cast into a ludus in the knowledge that he’d soon be dead.

  Macro said, ‘You may not like the Emperor—’

  ‘That’s a rather mild way of putting it,’ Pavo interrupted.

  ‘But you’d do well to remember that it’s not only your neck on the line. Mine is too.’

  Pavo blinked. ‘How so?’

  Macro scowled at the clear morning sky. ‘Our good friend Murena made a not-so-subtle suggestion that if you lost, I’d be equally culpable.’

  A sudden feeling of guilt swept over Pavo. ‘Sir. I’m sorry you got dragged into this.’

  ‘That makes two of us. But sorry gets us nowhere. The only thing for it is to teach this Britomaris a sharp, bloody lesson. One that ends with him on his knees, cradling his guts and begging for a quick death.’

  The recruit flashed a pained expression at the ground. Three weeks. No time at all before he would be confronting Britomaris, the barbarian who had dispatched the best of the imperial school with consummate ease.

  ‘If you win,’ Macro went on, ‘you’ll be a hero, like me.’ The officer thumped a fist against his chest with unconcealed pride. ‘Rome doesn’t kill its heroes. Not if it can help it, anyway. Get one over on old Britomaris and your name will be in graffiti on the walls of every inn across the empire. You’ll have prize money, tarts, fame.’ Macro counted the rewards off his fingers one by one. ‘And you know what? That’ll piss old Hermes off no end.’

  Pavo glanced up at Macro. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Of course!’ Macro snorted, warming to his theme. ‘Hermes may be a legend, but at the end of the day he’s a glory-seeking tosser just like every other gladiator. You win and he’ll see you as a threat to his status. You’ll be one step closer to having your showdown.’

  Pavo paced a few steps away from Macro and stared up at the porticoes. Gurges had left the balcony and made his way down to the training ground, where the veterans had gathered around him in a semi-circle. The lanista was waving a hand at Amadocus’s grossly lacerated back as he boomed a warning at them. Pavo couldn’t quite hear the lanista but he got the gist of the message. Anyone stepping out of line would suffer similar treatment. At least I won’t have to worry about being jumped in the canteen for a while, Pavo thought.

  ‘Beating Britomaris is the best way to honour your old man’s name,’ Macro said.

  Pavo laughed nervously. ‘Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s got to fight him to the death. With a crocked hand.’

  Macro grinned slyly as he replied, ‘I have a secret plan.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Come on,’ Pavo snapped impatiently. ‘Let’s hear it.’ Macro looked rather too pleased with himself, the trainee thought.

  ‘Britomaris has a weakness,’ the optio announced.

  ‘What is it?’

  Casting glances from the corner of his eye, Macro leaned in to Pavo as if to whisper in his ear. ‘His stamina,’ the optio said in a low voice. ‘It’s shit.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Pavo replied as he pulled away from Macro. ‘What a pity I’m not challenging him to a marathon race instead of a fight to the death.’

  The optio wagged a finger at Pavo. ‘You’re not following me, lad. I saw it after Capito had a sword plunged into his heart at the amphitheatre. Everyone else was too shocked to notice, but the barbarian was sweating out of his arse. I’m telling you, he could barely stand on his feet by the end of the contest. And that was just a short fight. Think about what would happen if you really made the bastard work!’

  Pavo raised a sceptical eyebrow at Macro.

  ‘Hide and seek. That’s how you’re going to beat Britomaris.’

  ‘Hide . . . and . . . seek?’ Pavo repeated doubtfully. ‘It sounds rather defensive, sir.’

  Macro stared at him for a moment. ‘Stubborn bastard, aren’t you?’

  Pavo shrugged. ‘Runs in the family. And I may be the one calling you “sir”, but that doesn’t mean I can’t question your tactics. It seems to me that the trick is to go in hard and fast against Britomaris and overwhelm him with speed.’

  ‘Won’t work,’ Macro said with an abrupt shake of his head. ‘Britomaris is big but from what I’ve seen, he’s deceptively light on his toes. Capito lost because he thought he was facing a big, slow lump. You won’t make the same mistake. You’ll fight on the back foot. Let Britomaris come forward and attack you. Every time he thrusts, you take a step back. Each missed thrust is wasted energy on his part. Eventually he’ll tire. When he does, that’s when you strike.’

  ‘And what if Britomaris doesn’t tire? What if I tire first?’

  Macro shrugged. ‘Then you’re fucked.’

  ‘Great.’ The recruit clapped his hands sardonically. Macro ignored him, content to indulge Pavo in his tantrum. As far as the officer was concerned, anger was good, so long as it was directed towards the opponent. He knew that from experience. Throughout his career as a soldier Macro had frequently let his temper get the better of him, which had landed him in hot water more than once. He was sure it was one of the reasons he still hadn’t made the step up from optio to centurion. That, and his woeful reading and writing ability. But in the ferocity of battle, that same inner rage kept him alive and helped him to fend off the enemy, even when his body screamed with agony and fear. The angrier Pavo was at Britomaris, the better his chance of winning. But as things stood, Pavo was angry with the whole world. And that was a problem.

  Macro nodded towards a sand-filled pigskin. ‘Let’s start off w
ith twenty circuits. Fast as you can.’

  ‘Twenty? Is that it?’ Pavo scoffed. ‘I thought you’re supposed to be training me for the fight of my life, sir, not ordering me to go on a light jog.’

  ‘I wasn’t finished,’ Macro growled, his expression turning a darker shade of black. He kicked the legionary armour with a sandalled foot. ‘Twenty circuits, in full kit, shield in one hand, marching yoke in the other. That little lot should weigh you down a bit, lad. Make you put a bit of effort into it, eh?’

  Pavo watched speechlessly as Macro drew a line in the sand with the tip of a wooden sword roughly in the middle of the training ground. Then the optio stuffed two of the sand-filled pigs’ bladders onto a legionary marching yoke. Pavo reluctantly strapped on the cuirass and helmet and picked up the shield.

  ‘You’ll remember from your basic training,’ Macro said as he hefted the yoke off the ground and laid it out on Pavo’s shoulder, ‘that the first thing a legionary is taught to do is march with a full complement of equipment.’

  ‘But, sir, this is too much,’ Pavo said glumly, his legs nearly buckling under the weight.

  ‘Britomaris is going to make you sweat like never before. He will come at you like a bull. You can’t do anything about that. But you can prepare for when the going gets tough.’ Macro pointed with his wooden sword to the porticoes at the north and south ends of the training ground. ‘First circuit: run the length of the ground and back.’