‘Bloody hell!’ Macro threw up his arms in bewilderment. ‘You know what those freedmen are like. Pallas will do anything to hold on to his title as the Emperor’s chief arse-licker, even if it means cosying up to the disgraced aristocrat he’s been trying to kill. No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Pavo replied flatly.
Macro shook his head. ‘Anyway, you were the one who agreed to work with Murena.’
‘Fair enough. But I don’t believe his reason for wanting the defeat of Hermes. Pallas is a natural schemer. I’m sure he could think up a plan to undermine Narcissus that wouldn’t involve aiding the likes of us.’
‘None of our business, that. All we need to know is that Ruga has given Hermes a good run for his denarii in the past and he’ll know a thing or two about how to stop him. With a bit of luck you might stand a chance of actually winning.’
‘You’re forgetting one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We only have a month in which to prepare for the fight, sir.’
Macro rubbed his hands. ‘Then we’d best knuckle down to training. Put some bulk on you, lad.’ He glanced down at Pavo’s lower half. ‘Especially those gangly legs of yours. I’ve seen more muscle on those bookish types who sit in the literary salons discussing poetry.’
The streets were bustling and loud with the hubbub of traders’ voices as Macro and Pavo headed south from the imperial palace towards the Aventine Hill. Children’s voices rang out above the metallic clank of shopkeepers releasing bolt locks as they opened their shop fronts for the day. Macro moved at a brisk pace, thoughts weighing heavily on his mind. Although he did not share his concern with his young charge, he worried about the lack of time in which to prepare. Normally three to four months was required to properly train even a veteran gladiator for a fight against a fearsome opponent. Pavo had a mere four fights under his belt and would be facing a supremely fit champion.
Macro surprised himself with how badly he wanted to see Pavo triumph. Respect for high-born Romans did not come naturally to the optio, who had grown up in humble surroundings. But Pavo had proved himself not only a talented swordsman but a hard-working student who possessed an indomitable spirit. Even with the might of the imperial household against him, he had never buckled under pressure and his fighting qualities would make him a worthy officer in any legion. And as his mentor, Macro felt a certain sense of pride.
A short while later Macro and Pavo threaded their way through the seething mass of humanity crammed on to the Aventine Hill. Decrepit tenement blocks stood several storeys high, cutting out what little natural light there was and casting a fetid gloom over the downtrodden inhabitants. The air was filled with the dull hammering of coppersmiths hard at work and the occasional cry of crazed drunks coming from within the dimly lit taverns scattered throughout the district.
‘What in the name of the gods is this place?’ Pavo spluttered. ‘And what is that smell?’
Macro slapped a hand on the gladiator’s shoulder and gave him a hearty shake. ‘This is the Aventine Hill. The beating heart of Rome.’
There was a squelching sound as Pavo trod in something wet and slimy. Stopping in his tracks, he looked down in horror at a foul brown puddle. There were similar puddles all along the street. The young gladiator fought a strong urge to puke as he realised that a river of filth was literally running through the street. Macro chuckled at his companion.
‘Open sewer,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘The Aventine is riddled with ’em.’
Pavo looked for somewhere to wipe his fouled feet. ‘This is not the heart of the city, sir. It is a repugnant slum. How anyone can live like this is quite beyond me.’
Macro widened his eyes. ‘You’re one to talk, lad. The gladiator who lives in a rank cell, eating maggot-infested gruel twice a day.’
Pavo furrowed his brow at Macro. ‘My conditions are not out of choice, sir. They were imposed on me by Cornicen, as you well know. It’s not my fault the imperial lanista singled me out for special treatment.’
‘Always get on with the lanistas, don’t you, lad?’ Macro joked.
The younger man glared at the optio and waved a hand in front of him where men with dishevelled beards and wearing threadbare tunics shuffled solemnly through the streets. Babies wailed from within crumbling tenement blocks.
‘My point is that these people have chosen to wallow in their own filth.’
Macro cocked an eyebrow at Pavo. ‘Haven’t been to the Aventine before, have you?’
‘Never,’ the young gladiator replied proudly. ‘My family home was on the Appian Way. I rarely ventured within the city walls. Sometimes to attend processions in the Forum or listen to the debates going on in the Senate.’
Macro shook his head. ‘Lucky for you. I once lived in this pit. And I can assure you, I had no choice in the matter, like the rest of these poor devils.’
They passed a bakery. A crowd of stick-thin Romans meekly gathered outside, waiting to exchange their grain rations for loaves of bread. Pavo knew that millions across the Empire depended on the grain ration. Perhaps Macro was right, he considered. Perhaps these individuals weren’t scroungers on the grain dole, as he’d previously assumed. He fell quiet, lost in thought as they moved through the streets.
Macro stayed silent at his side. After his mother had run away from the family home when Macro was a child, he had moved with his father to the Aventine Hill to be closer to his uncle Sextus. The sprawling streets and angry shouts of mid-morning drunks were instantly familiar to the soldier.
At the end of the street they spotted a rundown tavern built into the ground floor of a four-storey block. A brightly painted sign hung from a wall outside. A chorus of loud belches and roaring laughs emanated from inside. Pavo frowned at the sign and read it out loud.
‘The Drunken Goat. Come thirsty, leave merry.’ He shrugged. ‘Has a certain ring to it.’
Macro nodded at an arch next to the tavern.
‘Must be this way.’
The two men passed under the arch and entered a courtyard at the back of the tenement block. The courtyard reminded Macro of the place where Draba had trained him many years ago. Refuse was piled in the corners and the air was thick with the stench of decay and damp. Two pairs of wicker shields and wooden swords were stacked against the wall. They were the same as the training weapons issued to new recruits in the legions, deliberately designed to be heavier than real weapons so that novice swordsmen developed their muscles as well as honing their sword-fighting techniques. High tenement blocks surrounded the courtyard, and even with the clouds clearing in the sky, the shafts of sunlight found it difficult to penetrate the gloom.
Macro looked around the courtyard and frowned.
‘Bastard is late,’ he muttered, kicking one of the training shields in frustration. ‘Typical gladiator. No discipline.’
At that moment a full-throated roar erupted from inside the tavern. The wooden door at the back crashed open and a huge figure staggered out. Pavo turned towards the man. His burly torso was heavily scarred, but the scars were nothing compared to the appalling injuries to his face. His muscles were slack with age and he had a large paunch. The man raised his small, dim eyes to Macro.
‘Publius Didius Ruga?’ Macro asked, taken aback by the sight in front of him.
‘That’s me.’ His voice was slurred. He thumped a mangled fist on his lacerated chest. ‘Finest fucking gladiator in the days of Emperor Tiberius, I’ll have you know.’ He burped.
At first Pavo could not believe that the maimed veteran in front of him had once proved himself the equal of Hermes. He studied Ruga as the man approached him, limping slightly. Ruga cocked his head at the young gladiator.
‘You must be the thick bastard Murena was telling me about,’ he said disdainfully.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Pavo replied with a start.
A cynical smile creased the veteran’s face. ‘Anyone who wishes to fight Hermes is a fool. As my scars should make clear. W
hat’s your excuse, boy?’
Pavo stared at Ruga. ‘I’m no fool. Hermes took the life of my father,’ he replied coldly. ‘And I don’t want to merely fight Hermes. I want to kill him.’
Ruga kept smiling. ‘I’m sure you do. But fifty or so gladiators have stepped out to face Hermes and not one of them has triumphed. What makes you think you can do any better?’
Pavo glanced at the optio. ‘I have the best trainer in Macro. He’s one of the finest soldiers in the legions. He knows more than anyone about handling a sword.’
Ruga bowed his head in the direction of the soldier. ‘With all due respect, Optio, your student’s past achievements in the arena count for nothing. Fighting Hermes is like taking on five gladiators at the same time.’
‘Bollocks to this. I don’t have to justify myself to some washed-up swordsman,’ Macro said impatiently. ‘Look here. We’ve got a month until the big fight. Now can you help us or not?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what? From what we’ve been told, you already struck a deal with Murena. Unless you train the lad, you can forget about returning to your old line of work as a bodyguard.’
Ruga glared at the soldier. Without replying, he paraded over to the training equipment stacked against the wall and picked up one of the wooden swords. He pointed the tip at Pavo and said, ‘Show me what you can do.’
‘You’re not serious,’ Pavo spluttered.
‘Defeating Hermes is about more than pure skill, boy. It’s about having the desire to win. More than that, it’s about not shitting your loincloth when Hermes is coming at your throat with a foot and a half of sharpened steel. Getting my old job back with Senator Macula is all well and good, but I’m not short of coin for the odd drink, and I’d rather walk away now unless you prove to me that you’ve got a hell’s chance of cutting down that fucking savage.’
‘You’re drunk,’ Pavo said in disgust.
‘I’ve still got what it takes, boy.’
Pavo raised an eyebrow. The retired gladiator paused for a moment as he reached down with his free hand and unsheathed a wooden dagger fixed to a leather strap fastened round his tunic. Several lines of text were engraved along the length of the blade. He held the dagger closer so that Pavo could read it. The retired gladiator’s name was engraved on a brass plate fixed to the blade. Next to it were the date and the name of the last opponent he faced in the arena.
‘Hermes,’ Pavo whispered as he read the name.
Ruga grunted. ‘My rudis of freedom, presented to me by Tiberius after I came closer than any man to overcoming the colossus from Rhodes. I may be worn as old boots now, but I can still teach you a trick or two.’
Sheathing his rudis, Ruga chucked the training sword at Pavo, scooped up the second sword and kicked off his sandals in readiness for combat.
‘Sir …?’ Pavo asked, glancing at Macro.
The optio shrugged. ‘You heard the man. Show him what you’ve got.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Pavo gulped.
He gripped the sword in his right hand. The lead weight in the pommel made the weapon heavier than a standard short sword, and he slowly adjusted to the increased weight as he turned to face Ruga. Macro clapped his hands to signal the start of the bout, but Pavo hesitated. Ruga bared his teeth at the young gladiator, seeing the uncertainty in his eyes.
‘Come on, boy!’ he growled. ‘Attack me!’
Pushing his concerns about injuring the retired gladiator to one side, Pavo inched towards his opponent. Ruga studied him intently as Pavo lunged at him, thrusting the tip of his sword at his exposed neck. In a lightning flash of movement Ruga leaned to his left and deflected the attack with a sudden flick of his sword before pushing forward on his right foot and cracking Pavo on the bridge of his nose with a deft upward thrust. Pavo saw white for an instant. Ruga took two steps back, his lips parted in a drunken grin.
The younger man tasted something salty in his mouth and put a hand to his face. Hot blood trickled out of his nose. Ruga moved with a litheness that belied his hefty physique. Shaking his head clear, Pavo filled his lungs and launched a low thrust at Ruga, driving the tip of his sword at his groin. Ruga jinked to the right this time, circling Pavo as momentum carried him forward. A jarring pain shuddered through the young gladiator as the veteran slammed the weighted pommel of his sword against his back. Clamping his jaws shut and fighting the nausea rising in his throat, Pavo spun raggedly round and staggered away from his opponent. Ruga was bustling with vigour now, his aged muscles pumping, his eyes wide with fury.
‘Come on!’ he goaded. ‘Surely you can do better than that?’
Enraged at having allowed himself to be caught out twice, Pavo charged at the retired gladiator with renewed determination. Ruga launched a stabbing move at his chest. Pavo quickly feinted and responded with a driving thrust that caught the veteran on the chin. Ruga hopped backwards. Pavo attacked him quickly a second time, his skill with a sword bewildering the retired gladiator. Ducking a solid thrust to the throat, Ruga jabbed his sword at Pavo’s midriff. The younger man quickly parried with a flick of his wrist, arcing his wooden blade across his chest.
Now Pavo snatched a breath and brought his sword crashing down towards his opponent’s temple. At the last moment Ruga jerked his sword up above his head and blocked the attack. Immediately the veteran cursed as he realised he’d left his torso exposed. Pavo punished him before he could backtrack, booting him in his paunch. Ruga staggered backwards. Pavo stormed forward and moved in for the decisive blow. He lunged at the veteran, aiming his training sword at his throat. But in a swift stroke Ruga dropped to a crouch and ducked the blow. Extending his right arm, he swiped his sword across the ground, knocking the younger man off balance. Pavo stumbled. Ruga followed up with a fist to the guts that sent his opponent tumbling to the ground with a desperate grunt. A sharp pain tremored down Pavo’s spine as he slammed against the flagstones.
Ruga was on to him in a flash, kicking away the sword that had fallen uselessly from his floored opponent’s grip. At the same time he pressed the tip of his own sword against the younger man’s neck. Out of the corner of his eye Pavo spied Macro shaking his head in dismay.
‘If you were fighting against Hermes, you’d be dead,’ Ruga croaked between snatched breaths. ‘Right now you couldn’t beat the champion of Rome if he was fighting blind.’
Pavo climbed awkwardly to his feet, furious with himself for losing to a retired gladiator – and one who was clearly the worse for wear. He shook his groggy head clear and gestured for his sword.
‘Again,’ he demanded. ‘I’ll beat you this time.’
Ruga clenched his hand into a fist. His eyes twinkled. ‘That’s more bloody like it, boy! Never give up. That’s the attitude you’ll need if you want to defeat Hermes.’ He scratched his straggly beard and considered Pavo. ‘You have excellent reactions. I can see the optio has trained you well. But there’s still plenty of work to be done with your movement and defence. With the right training, you may have a chance.’
‘We have a month until the fight,’ Macro cut in, quietly satisfied that Ruga could be of value during their training programme. ‘Do you think it’s possible to get him ready for Hermes by then?’
Ruga smiled. ‘Perhaps. But it’s going to be tough. From now until the day of the games we’ll need to work him harder and longer than any gladiator who has ever trained for a fight.’
‘I’ll do it!’ Pavo exclaimed defiantly. ‘Whatever it takes. Hermes will fall by my sword, I swear.’
‘Good. Then we begin immediately,’ Ruga said as Macro nodded his approval. ‘Just as soon as I’ve got my breath back and had another drink.’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
‘A provocator fights with thirty pounds of equipment,’ Ruga boomed, his hoarse voice echoing around the courtyard the following afternoon. He counted off the items on his scarred fingers. ‘Helmet, armour, sword, shield. He has to carry a much heavier load than any other gladiator type. And if you’re go
ing to defeat Hermes, you need to rethink the way you fight. You must learn how to move, how to defend, how to attack without tiring. One thing’s for sure. If you approach your fight the way you did yesterday, you’ll knacker yourself in next to no time, and Hermes will stick you like a pig.’
A mild breeze whipped up, swirling dust around their feet. Macro stood at the edge of the courtyard, his cloak draped across his muscular shoulders, squinting in the gloom as Ruga put the young gladiator through his paces. The optio had been present at the Forum the previous day, where an announcement had been made to the excited crowd gathered to hear details of the forthcoming bout. Instead of hosting the fight at the Statilius Taurus arena, the sponsors had declared that Hermes and Pavo would fight in a temporary wooden arena constructed in the Roman Forum. Macro knew enough about the history of gladiator combat to see that the decision was a masterstroke from Pallas. His old trainer, Draba, had regaled him with stories of how, in the days before a dedicated arena had been constructed, gladiator events were frequently staged in the Forum. Hosting a one-off fight there would conjure memories of the great gladiator bouts of the past. Macro had departed the Forum after the announcer revealed the details of the prize on offer for the victor, a new title never before bestowed on a gladiator: Champion of the Arena.
He touched a hand to his temple. His head throbbed dully from the effects of the jug of cheap wine he’d sunk the previous evening with Ruga at the Drunken Goat. The two men had worked into the night, drawing up a training schedule that would give Pavo a fighting chance against Hermes. With only four weeks to prepare, they had decided to divide the programme into morning and afternoon sessions, with the former focusing on strength and stamina and the latter dedicated to working on Pavo’s combat technique and strategies.
Training began shortly after dawn each day. There was a short break at midday for a simple meal at the Drunken Goat – boiled pork and root vegetables accompanied by a piece of stale bread. Pavo considered it a relative feast compared to the barley gruel and vinegary wine he’d been served in the imperial ludus. Although he now trained and ate outside the ludus, Cornicen still went to great lengths to make his life a misery, even removing the straw bedding in his cell. At night Pavo lay shivering, swearing to the gods that he would not allow such petty tactics to get in the way of his desire to beat Hermes and avenge his father. In the afternoons Ruga stirred from his drunken slumber and sparred with the young gladiator, teaching him the sword-fighting techniques he’d need to counter the astonishing speed and power of his nemesis.
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