‘Thank fuck for Murena!’ Bassus cried. ‘The Germans are here!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Macro faced forward, his heart warming at the sight of ever more Germans pouring into the training ground.
‘NOW!’ he roared. ‘Come on, lads! Let’s stick it to ’em!’
The optio led with his sword towards the line of gladiators as Bato bellowed orders for his men to confront the advancing Germans. The spell broken, the Thracians slowly turned as one to face the Germans racing across the training ground. Several gladiators on the front line who were fortunate enough to be armed raised their pilfered shields to brace themselves against the impending attack. But the men were shaken by the bloodcurdling roars from the Germans and seemed hesitant to charge. Bato booted one gladiator in the small of his back, kicking him towards the oncoming shadows.
‘Run at them, you dogs! Cut them down!’
His words were silenced as the Germans tore into the gladiators, thrusting their spears. The Thracian front line stood firm, planting their feet in the sand as the spear tips pierced their shields. Their unarmed comrades howled in agony as the tips punched through muscle and bone, impaling the gladiators and driving them back, pressing against their comrades to the rear. One of the men gave out a bloody gurgle as a German plunged his spear at him with such power that the tip exploded out of his muscular back. Undeterred, the gladiator began furiously hacking at the staff jutting out of his chest with his short sword. His German opponent snarled and thrust his spear in an upward motion, sweeping the gladiator off his feet and piking him in the air. Around him there was a blazing shimmer of steel as his comrades brought their long swords to bear and proceeded to cut down the enemy in a manic hail of stabs and thrusts.
Many of the gladiators were still armed with only clay shards or sticks, but the Germans showed no mercy, slashing at them with savage force. One gladiator charged at the Germans, swinging a wooden stake. He managed to jab one in the stomach and stunned a second with a sharp blow to his jaw. The gladiator let out a defiant roar as several more Germans descended on him, pounding him with their fists and thrusting ruthlessly at his prone figure. The man made a gurgling noise. A moment later one of the Germans hoisted the gladiator’s decapitated head above the battle, the mouth slack and the eyes popped wide in a picture of mortal terror, a loose knot of veins and sinew dangling underneath it. Macro recognised the gladiator as one of Bato’s loyal followers. With an animal roar the German struck another gladiator with the severed head, knocking him to the ground. Then he hurled the head through the air before continuing the attack against the remaining gladiators.
From the rear of the gladiator mob Bato watched the German advance unfold, his face a picture of mortal terror. Macro spied Duras tugging at his leader, imploring him to leave the fight as the Germans slashed their way through the defenceless gladiators. The Thracian pumped his fist at the optio. Then the two gladiators began picking their way out of the melee. Macro watched them flee and felt his pulse quicken. He gestured to Pavo and Bassus.
‘Follow me!’
He raced ahead of the men, weaving through the gladiators engulfed in the relentless German onslaught. Ahead of him a burly Thracian swung round, blocking his path. Adjusting his stance at the last possible moment, Macro thrust his blade at the man, aiming for the lower chest. The blade juddered in his grip as the tip glanced off the gladiator’s ribcage and pierced his vital organs. The gladiator mouthed a silent scream, his limbs trembling in agony as he stumbled backwards. Macro raced on. But the gladiators were being pushed back by the sheer ferocity of the enemy attack and he kept losing sight of his prey amid the crushing chaos.
At last he spotted two German guards who had cornered Duras and Bato as they attempted to flee. One of the Germans thrust his spear at Duras. The bodyguard gripped the shaft before the tip could nick his flesh, and snapped the spear in two. He swung at the German and floored him with one blow to the chin, then pummelled the floored German into submission with his spiked gloves. At the same time Bato avoided the thrust from the second German’s long sword, his lightning-quick reflexes allowing him to duck and attack in the same move, plunging the four-pronged dagger into the man’s groin. The German gasped. Bato twisted his wrist, shredding the guard’s manhood, grinning as he watched him fall to the ground. Then he pulled Duras away from the fight, leaving the savagely beaten German on the sand, his face caved in, his eyes, nose and teeth reduced to a glistening, bloodied pulp. They continued ducking and diving through the swarm of gladiators, heading towards the practice arena. Macro struggled to contain the rage building inside him.
‘Bastards!’ he snarled. ‘Don’t let them get away!’
Pavo caught up with Macro and surveyed the training ground. The sand had darkened. Puddles of blood glistened. Pockets of gladiators were fleeing the battle and heading for the sanctuary of the dormitory in a ragged retreat. The Germans hunted them down, bellowing their barbaric delight to a chorus of frenzied stabbing and thrusting.
Bassus pointed ahead. ‘Look, sir!’
At the far end of the training ground a pair of silhouettes reached the western wall. Bato and Duras looked frantically around them. To the north, the Germans swarmed round the dormitory, cutting down even those gladiators who raised their hands in surrender, mutilating their corpses. One gladiator begged for mercy as the Germans booted him to the ground and plunged a spear into his guts. The man’s eyes bulged in his sockets as the spear bored into his stomach. To the east, the battle raged. The two Thracians realised their only way of retreat was south.
Bassus squinted. ‘They’re heading to the practice arena.’
Macro growled in his throat. ‘Good. Nowhere for them to run. Let’s finish this.’
The three men broke across the training ground, stepping between the slain gladiators and Germans. Darkness had now settled over the horizon and a full moon shimmered in the sky, washing the ludus in a pale light. The screams and clangs of the raging battle faded as they swept through the arched entrance leading to the arena and stopped in the centre, running their eyes across the wooden galleries.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ Macro whispered. ‘Pavo, secure the gallery. Bassus, stay here. Guard the entrance.’
Macro and Pavo separated, cautiously searching the small arena for any sign of their prey. Then a scream pierced the air and Pavo swivelled his gaze away from the galleries and looked towards Macro. The optio stood unhurt. Pavo glanced towards the entrance just in time to see Bassus staggering under the arch, croaking with pain. Four prong tips jutted out of his throat. He shuddered, then fell limp. Bato stood past his shoulder, grinning feverishly. He yanked his dagger out of Bassus’s throat and booted the dead guard to the ground, stepping through the arena entrance. At the same time Duras charged across the sand, his arms spread wide, his head lowered in a bull-charge posture, his features twisted into an almost inhuman look of hate. The bodyguard knocked the sword out of Macro’s grip before he could thrust at him, clamped his hands on the stunned optio’s shoulders and wrestled him to the ground.
Pavo spun back towards Bato. The Thracian toyed with his dagger.
‘Your friend can’t save you this time, Roman,’ he seethed. ‘Now I’ll show you how a true First Sword fights.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Thracian leapt at Pavo in a blur of motion. The young gladiator had never seen a fighter move with such stunning speed and precision, his shoulders hunched, springing forward on the balls of his feet, so light and fast that he almost seemed to fly across the sand. He was upon Pavo in the blink of an eye, driving the dagger at his opponent’s stomach. Pavo jumped back awkwardly. The prong tips scratched his flesh and a hot flush of blood trickled down the bronze First Sword belt wrapped round his loincloth. Spitting mad, Bato drove at Pavo again, giving the young gladiator no time to correct his stance. Grimacing through the waves of pain, Pavo batted away the dagger with his shield. The prongs gashed the shield, and the Thracian abruptly f
ollowed through with a stamp on Pavo’s ankle, sending him reeling backwards, the shield wrenched from his left hand. Pavo dropped to the sand, a grim voice at the back of his head telling him that he could not defeat Bato, not with his injuries, not against such an agile and ruthless opponent. He glimpsed Macro a short distance away. Duras had the optio pinned to the ground, his spiked glove raised high, ready to strike a killer blow. But Macro thrust out a hand above his head, parrying the glove then headbutting Duras on the bridge of his nose. The young gladiator took heart from the optio’s mettle.
‘You’re mine, Roman scum!’ Bato jeered.
Pavo swung his eyes back to the Thracian. In a flash Bato plunged his dagger at the young gladiator, who turned cold at the sight of the prongs angling at his throat. Deprived of his shield, he thrust his sword above his chest, jamming his legionary blade between the steel prongs. There was an ear-piercing screech as metal scraped against metal, Bato driving the dagger down the length of the blade until the prongs struck the pommel of the sword. Then Pavo rolled to his left, wrenching his shoulder and releasing his grip on his weapon. The sword flew through the air, ripping the dagger from Bato’s hand, and the two weapons clattered to the sand by the arena entrance. Pavo’s heart was pounding and his breathing was hard. Seeing that his opponent had lost both his sword and his shield, the Thracian snarled with excitement and surged towards him. Ignoring the swelling pain in his ribs, Pavo launched himself to his feet with such speed that even the agile Thracian was caught unawares, and drove his fist into the rebel gladiator’s stomach. A keening sound came from Bato’s throat as he doubled over in pain. The shield dropped from his grip and hit the sand. Sucking in the pain, he straightened and parried another blow from the young gladiator. Then he balled his hands into fists and adopted a fighting stance.
‘Come on, rich boy. Take your punishment,’ he spat, a crafty smile tickling his upper lip.
Pavo shook his foggy head clear. Away to the side of the arena he spotted Duras, his hulking silhouette framed like a mountain against the moonlight. The bodyguard had locked his arms round Macro’s neck, pulling tight. It was too dark for Pavo to see the expression on Macro’s face, but the gargling sound of the optio struggling for air carried sharply across the arena.
Pavo turned his eyes on Bato, hatred for the Thracian raging inside his heart. He hefted his hands a few inches in front of his chin to protect his face. Bato pounced forward, but instead of swinging at Pavo’s face he launched a devastating low punch that the younger man moved too late to parry. Fierce agony exploded in his guts as Bato hammered him in the side of his stomach, forcing him to stoop forward and lower his guard. Now Bato smacked Pavo on the jaw. The blow sent him reeling. A deafening crunch reverberated through the young gladiator’s skull. White spots danced across his vision. His legs felt detached from his body. He could hardly stand.
‘Get it over with,’ he muttered grimly.
Bato chuckled cruelly. ‘I’m not going to kill you, Roman. I’m going to take you and the lanista hostage.’ He smacked his lips as a pleasing thought played out in his head. ‘A decorated military hero and the imperial First Sword will do nicely when it comes to bartering for our lives.’
‘Pallas will never negotiate with you,’ Pavo said. A needling agony flared in his ribs. He gritted his teeth and fought down the pain. ‘The Emperor would lose face by ceding to a mere Thracian. Your situation is hopeless. The battle is over. Surrender now and the rest of your men might be spared.’
‘Fool,’ Bato sneered. ‘On your feet.’
Pavo glimpsed Macro in his peripheral vision. The stocky soldier was still trying to prise free of Duras’s suffocating chokehold. Pavo boiled with rage at the thought of Bato triumphing. He had come too far, overcome too many obstacles. He had made a vow to Titus, and he wouldn’t see it broken by this barbarian, or the two Greek freedmen, or anyone else who stood in his way.
With a burst of anger he stepped forward and launched a series of quick jabs aimed at Bato’s midriff. His muscles, honed during the months of rigorous training under Macro’s tutelage, found a hidden strength the young gladiator did not know he had. He had been transformed from a gaunt, angular young recruit into a well-developed fighter, and now his reserves of strength enabled him to take the fight to Bato. The Thracian lowered his hands to block the strikes, the speed and suddenness of the attack catching him off guard. With a swift push forward Pavo headbutted Bato. There was a dull crunch as the blow struck his jawbone, and Bato groaned in agony as his head snapped backwards. He stumbled away from Pavo but the young gladiator kept on coming, the blood pumping between his temples, his taut muscles shimmering with each blow he struck. Bato swung a desperate left hook, dazed by the onslaught. Now Pavo sidestepped the Thracian’s sluggish fist and launched a powerful uppercut. His knuckles struck his groggy opponent clean on the chin, slamming the jawbone against the roof of his skull. Bato’s eyes rolled into the back of his head as he fell away. In the same moment Pavo leapt at him, roaring at the top of his voice. The Thracian grunted as Pavo tackled him to the ground.
But Bato was not finished. Spitting out blood, he crawled towards the sword and dagger, their tips glinting in the moonlight. Pavo rolled away and darted ahead of him, his lungs burning with exhaustion. He seized the four-pronged dagger before his opponent could snatch it and crunched the Thracian’s fingers under his foot, grinding up knuckle joints. Bato looked up at him. He bared his bloodstained teeth at the young gladiator.
‘You can’t kill me. My followers will take revenge on you. They’ll hunt you down.’
‘Wrong,’ Pavo replied. ‘Most of your men have been routed by the Germans.’
There was a look of outright hatred on the face of the Thracian as Pavo thrust the dagger at him. Bato let out a throaty cry as the prongs pierced the nape of his neck. His neck muscles spasmed as the prongs tore through flesh and muscle and tissue, his legs and arms flailing in pangs of wild agony. He took one final glance at Pavo, cursing the young gladiator as he died.
A deep grunt snapped Pavo’s attention towards Macro. The optio had sunk his teeth into Duras’s forearm. Blood oozed. Jerking his head up, Macro spat out a chunk of flesh and wriggled free of the howling bodyguard. Duras clutched his bitten arm. Leaping to his feet, he dismissed the injury and swung wildly at the optio, swivelling at the hips, dropping his shoulders and launching punch after punch. Macro desperately tried to sidestep the blows.
‘Macro!’
Pavo chucked the sword towards the optio, who caught it in both hands and spun back to Duras. In the same smooth arc of motion he plunged the sword into the bodyguard’s abdomen. Duras’s giant frame shuddered. His eyes bulged with fury as he clawed at his opponent. Macro snarled back, burying the weapon almost up to the handle. The bodyguard gave out a final anguished groan. Then he sank to his knees, blood pooling around him. Macro stepped back from the gutted bodyguard, breathing heavily.
Silence lingered over the practice arena for a drawn-out moment. Pavo heard the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, loud as a thunderstorm. His pulse thumped furiously between his temples; his body was racked with tension. He stood rooted to the spot, blinking at Bato’s sprawled figure, barely able to believe that the ringleader of the ludus rebellion was now dead. A sharp pang of pity hit him. In his previous life as a respected military tribune, he would have been quick to congratulate himself on slaying Bato. But in the past few months he had been subjected to the same living conditions and the same appalling treatment as Bato and his followers. The lot of a gladiator was, in his opinion, even worse than that of a common slave. At least slaves nurtured hope that their master might set them free. The most a gladiator could reasonably hope for was a quick and noble death in the arena, with the crowd screaming his name. It was a cruel and miserable existence, and Pavo could understand why men would seek to remove themselves from its yoke, even if he disagreed with the vicious acts of persecution and revenge adopted by Bato and his fellow Thracians.
&nb
sp; A loud roar erupted to the north, shaking Pavo out of his stupor. He and Macro shared a glance.
‘The Germans,’ Macro reported.
Pavo raised an eyebrow at the optio.
‘I’ve heard that battle cry a hundred times on the Rhine Frontier.’
Pavo fell quiet for a moment. ‘I suppose it won’t be long before they have the ludus back under control.’
Macro approached the young gladiator and gave him a pat on the back. ‘Close call, that.’
‘Quite. I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime, sir.’
‘All in a day’s work in the Second, lad. Not for nothing are we the hardest bastards in all the legions.’
Pavo smiled weakly. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, you’d be dead.’
‘Bollocks! I had Duras right where I wanted him.’
Pavo shrugged. ‘Well, by my reckoning we’re even now.’
Macro clasped the young gladiator’s forearm. ‘Thanks,’ he said grudgingly.
At that moment a German officer stampeded through the arena entrance, his footsteps making a dull thud on the sand. His arms were covered with blood and his chest was heaving from exertion. He paused and looked at the two slain Thracians, then paced over to Macro and Pavo.
Arena Page 24
