Arena
and T.J. Andrews
ARENA
Copyright © 2013 Simon Scarrow
The right of Simon Scarrow to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2013
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 0 7553 9824 9
Cover illustration by Nik Keevil
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
338 Euston Road
London
NW1 3BH
Table of Contents
It’s AD 41 in Rome, and the Empire is fraught with danger. Citizens live at the mercy of the newly crowned Emperor who is determined to assert his authority.
Recently decorated after a successful raid, Optio Macro of the Second Legion is preparing to return to his cohort. Instead, he is tasked by the imperial secretary with training Marcus Valerius Pavo, a young gladiatorial recruit.
Though fearless novice Pavo has fought for his life before, he has much to learn, and nothing in Ancient Rome is certain. For the upstart has a goal dearer than his own survival – to avenge his father’s death at the hands of a champion gladiator. Will he live to face his nemesis?
ARENA has previously been published as five separate ebook novellas. This print edition brings the complete series together.
Simon Scarrow’s passion for writing began at an early age. After a childhood spent travelling the world he pursued his great love of history as a teacher, before becoming a full-time writer in 2005. His Roman soldier heroes Cato and Macro first stormed the book shops in 2000 in UNDER THE EAGLE, and have subsequently appeared in a number of other bestsellers including CENTURION and THE GLADIATOR.
Simon Scarrow is also the author of a quartet of novels about the lives of the Duke of Wellington and Napoleon Bonaparte. YOUNG BLOODS, THE GENERALS, FIRE AND SWORD and THE FIELDS OF DEATH have been published to great acclaim. In addition, he writes and young adult Roman series and develops projects for television and film with his brother Alex.
To find out more about Simon Scarrow and his novels, visit
www.scarrow.co.uk
and
www.catoandmacro.com
.
T. J. Andrews was born near Barking Abbey and grew up in Essex, not far from the ancient Roman garrison at Colchester. After several years in publishing he became a full-time writer. He lives in London.
The
Roman
Series
Under the Eagle
The Eagle’s Conquest
When the Eagle Hunts
The Eagle and the Wolves
The Eagle’s Prey
The Eagle’s Prophecy
The Eagle in the Sand
Centurion
The Gladiator
The Legion
Praetorian
The
Wellington and Napoleon
Quartet
Young Bloods
The Generals
Fire and Sword
The Fields of Death
Sword and Scimitar
Arena
‘I really don’t need this kind of competition … It’s a great read’
Bernard Cornwell
‘Rollicking good fun’
Mail on Sunday
‘Scarrow’s [novels] rank with the best’
Independent
‘[Simon Scarrow] blends together the historical facts and characters to create a book that simply cannot be put down … Highly recommended’
Historical Novels Review
‘A satisfyingly bloodthirsty, bawdy romp … perfect for Bernard Cornwell addicts who will relish its historical detail and fast-paced action. Storming stuff!’
Good Book Guide
‘A fast-moving and exceptionally well-paced historical thriller’
BBC History Magazine
For John Bracey,
fearless warrior and middle-school teacher
Rome, late
AD
41
T
he imperial gladiator blinked sweat from his eyes and watched the stadium officials drag away the dead bodies carpeting the arena floor.
From his position in the shadows of the passageway, Gaius Naevius Capito had a panoramic view of the aftermath of the mock battle. A crude reconstruction of a Celtic settlement stood in the middle of the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre, which was littered with the dead. Capito lifted his eyes to the galleries. He could see the new Emperor at the podium, flanked by a cabal of freedmen jostling for attention, with the senators and imperial high priests seated at the periphery in their distinctive togas. Above the podium the crowd was squeezed shoulder to shoulder on the stone seats lining the upper galleries. Capito felt a shiver in his bones as the crowd roared. He looked on as a pair of officials prodded a slumped barbarian with a heated iron. The man jolted. The crowd jeered at his attempt to play dead and one of the officials signalled to a servant wielding a massive double-sided hammer. A second official finished sprinkling fresh white sand over the blood-flecked arena floor. Then they retreated to the passageway, resting in the shadows a few paces away from Capito.
‘Look at this shit,’ one of the officials moaned as he held up his blood-smeared hands. ‘It’ll take me bloody ages to clean this mess off.’
‘Gladiators,’ the other official grumbled. ‘Selfish buggers.’
Capito frowned at them as the servant with the hammer strode over to the Gaul and towered over the fallen man, smiling gleefully as he smashed the hammer into the barbarian’s skull. Capito heard the crack of shattering bone and grimaced. As the highest-ranked gladiator of the imperial ludus in Capua, he took great pride in his handiwork. But this spectacle had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d looked on from the passageway as gladiators dressed as legionaries had massacred their opponents – a mixture of condemned men and slaves armed with blunted instruments. There had been little skill involved. He considered it an affront to his profession.
An arena servant dragged away the last of the dead with a metal hook.
‘A bloodbath,’ Capito muttered to himself. ‘Just a bloodbath.’
‘What did you say?’ one of the officials demanded.
‘Nothing,’ Capito replied.
The official was about to speak again when the editor called out Capito’s name in a sonorous tone that soared up to the highest galleries. The crowd roared. The official jerked a thumb towards the blood-splattered sand.
‘You’re on,’ he growled. ‘Now remember. This is the showpiece event. Twenty thousand people have come here to see this. The Emperor is up there and he’s counting on you to give Britomaris a bloody good hiding. Don’t let him down.’
Capito nodded cautiously. His fight represented the main event of the first major spectacle given to the people by Emperor Claudius. The afternoon had seen a re-creation of a pitched battle involving hundreds of men, with the gladiators predictably triumphing over the ill-equipped barbaric horde. Now the pride of the imperial gladiators would fight a barbarian playing the chief of a Celtic tribe. But this was not any old barbarian. Britomaris had already notched up five victories in the arena, to the surprise of seasoned observers. Barbarians without any proper schooling in the way of the sword usually met a grisly demise on their debut, and Britomaris’s run of wins had unsettled the veterans at the imperial school. Capito dismissed such concerns and reassured himself that the men Britomaris had faced in previous bouts were lesser warriors than he. Capito was a legend of the arena. A bringer of death and winner of glory. He flexed his neck muscles as he swore to teach Britomaris a lesson. His confidence was further boosted by the fact that he wore the full complement of equipment, including leg greaves, arm manicas and a plate cuirass, as well as a long red cloak draped over his back. The armour was to guarantee victory. With the Emperor in attendance, the idea of a Roman – even a gladiator dressed as a Roman – losing to a barbarian was too much to stomach. But the armour had its drawbacks. With the heavily decorated helmet over his head, the complete panoply caused Capito to break out in a suffocating sweat.
The official handed him a short sword and a rectangular legionary shield. Capito gripped the sword in his right hand and took the shield with his left. He focused on the dark mouth of the passageway facing him from the opposite side of the arena floor and saw a figure slowly emerge from the shadows, head glancing left and right, as if bemused by his surroundings.
A barbarian who’d notched up a few fortuitous wins, Capito told himself. Armed with a blunted weapon. The gladiator vowed to put Britomaris in his place.
Capito stepped out into the arena and marched towards the centre, where the umpire stood tapping his wooden stick against the side of his right leg. The sun glared down and rendered the sand blisteringly hot under his bare feet. He glanced up at the crowd lining the galleries. Some were slaking their thirst from small wine jars, while others fanned themselves. A large group of legionaries packed into one corner of the gallery were in boisterous mood. There were women too, Capito thought with a lustful smile. He felt a pang of pride that so many people had come to see him, the great Capito.
The metallic stench of blood choked the air as Capito felt the full force of the heat rising from the ground. Right at the top of the arena, above the highest gallery, dozens of sailors manipulated vast awnings in an attempt to provide shade to the crowd. But the sun had shifted position and foiled their efforts. The freedmen in the upper galleries were in shade, while the dignitaries below had to suffer the heat.
Trumpets blasted. Capito tightened his grip on the sword. The crowd simultaneously craned their necks at the passageway opposite him. The gladiator shut out the noise of the arena and focused solely on the barbarian pacing heavily towards him.
