Arena (17 page)

The crowd was far bigger than Pavo had expected. People peered out of the first-floor windows of the taverns and shops arranged to the north. Others jostled for the best view from the heightened steps of a nearby modest theatre. All of them looked at the gladiators with a mixture of fear and awe. Pavo had not ventured outside the ludus for six weeks, and had been shielded from the build-up to the games within the walls of the school. Now he witnessed first-hand the excitement trembling on the faces of the crowd. Women fanned themselves as they ogled the gladiators’ oiled, muscular torsos. Children fought with toy swords. Half a dozen stalls had been set up around the square for fans to purchase carved miniature statuettes of their favourite fighters, as well as necklaces and various trinkets. Another sold copies of the programme for the following afternoon’s bouts. All the while the smell of grilled pork wafted through the air as merchants hawked small sausages to the hungry, impatient crowd.

Pavo watched the sun sink behind the horizon. In the middle distance he spotted the ludus, situated on rising ground amid the entertainment quarter to the north of the forum. The arena stood to the right. Its stone exterior glowed a pale hue in the dying embers of late autumn. A dozen silhouettes laboured near the top row of the seating area. They were busy mounting linen awnings in preparation for the following day. A cracking roar shook through the sky as the workers flogged the awning, flattening the linen sheet before attaching it to poles and crossbeams fixed to the top of the arena.

‘Look at that lot,’ said Bucco grimly. ‘There must be a thousand people come here to gawk at us. Maybe more.’ His usually cheerful voice was now stifled with fear and it provoked a pang of anxiety in Pavo. He had never attended a gladiatorial banquet before, but he understood that it was customary to host them in the open. Tradition dictated that it was a chance for the gladiators to publicly express their stoicism in the face of impending doom. The open-air feast also had the added effect of generating enthusiasm among the mob ahead of the fight. Pavo watched a crowd of men descend on Carbo to fritter away their hard-earned money.

‘At least we get some grub out of it,’ Bucco said sourly, pointing out the trestle tables being set up in the middle of the forum square. ‘Funnily enough, I don’t feel hungry.’

His tone surprised Pavo. Normally Bucco would be licking his lips at the thought of a slap-up meal, but his appetite had deserted him at the thought that the fate of his family hung in the balance. Pavo glanced sympathetically at his friend. He was gripped by the same feeling, as if a horde of mice were scurrying around his guts.

Pavo snorted as slaves laid out trays of food on the tables for all to see. There were countless bowls of freshly cut lettuce and plates of salted tuna garnished with quails’ eggs, along with lumps of ripened cheese and shellfish and raw vegetables. Silver goblets were topped up with sweetened wine from large jugs. Further trays of stuffed fowl, sow’s udders and ox tongues were also brought out. The feast made Pavo feel sick, despite the ravenous hunger in his belly. Such extravagant foods had been a staple of his childhood when his father had enjoyed the worship of the Fifth Legion, respected and feared in equal measure by the tight-lipped men of the Senate. Each tray of food reminded him of a happier time, of a life he would never be able to return to. He looked away before the rumbling in his stomach grew irresistible.

‘Makes you wonder why they’re laying on all this food,’ Bucco mused, scratching his elbow. ‘We have to train eight hours a day on a diet of stale bread and gruel, and
now
they decide to give us a proper feast.’ He shook his head at the logic.

‘They treat us well today because they expect us to perish tomorrow. Romans like their condemned men to die on a full belly,’ Pavo growled. He shook his head. ‘Anyway, you still haven’t told me about your role at the games.’

The thought tickled Bucco and his mood lightened somewhat at the news he had kept back from his friend. He patted his considerable paunch and a pained smile crossed his lips as he declared, ‘You’re looking at the new comedy act. The doctore reckons I’m a natural at making people laugh.’

Seeing the look of dismay on Pavo’s face, he went on, ‘Oh, it’s not so bad. I get to provide a spot of light entertainment for the mob between fights. Better yet,’ the volunteer tapped the side of his nose, ‘I won’t get chopped up by some battle-hardened Syrian tomorrow.’

Pavo studied his friend. ‘You’re in good cheer.’

Bucco wedged his thumbs down the front of his loincloth and lifted his chin defiantly at the crowd. ‘Comes with the territory, my friend. When you’re born in the gutter, there’s no point bleating about your lot in life. You’ve just got to get on with it, haven’t you? Anyway, I wouldn’t change places with a high-born lad like you for all the Falernian in Campania. All that scheming and having to watch your back. From what I can tell, you posh lads get very rich, and then you end up exiled, condemned to a ludus or worse, butchered in some back alley in Rome by a squad of Praetorians. Give me the simple life any day.’

‘How very noble of you, Bucco. Perhaps you’d care to fight Denter yourself and use the winnings to pay off your debts to Carbo, Gurges and any other unfortunate soul you happen to owe money to.’

Bucco fell silent.

‘No,’ Pavo went on. ‘I rather thought not.’

With a heavy sigh, Pavo searched the forum for Gurges. He found the lanista mingling with the other dignitaries in attendance on the marble steps of the public hall to the rear of the square. Servants hovered around the area, presenting trays of figs, olives, dates and other appetisers. Gurges stood to the side of the main group of dignitaries, Pavo saw. He was in conference with a tall, dark man with sculpted cheekbones and smoothly shaven skin.

‘Who’s that good-looking bloke with Gurges?’ Bucco asked.

‘Pallas,’ Pavo muttered darkly, recognising the man with a start.

The crowd hushed. Pavo and Bucco faced forward as a squat man stepped out in front of the trestle tables and climbed on to a temporary wooden platform that had been erected in the square. The man cleared his throat.

‘Gods, the herald,’ Bucco grumbled. ‘Let’s hope this old fool doesn’t blather on like the ones back in Ostia.’

Pavo glared at his friend. Men and women at the back of the crowd pricked their ears. Silence descended over the forum.

‘His imperial majesty, Emperor Claudius, is proud to announce a unique spectacle for the people of Paestum,’ the herald declared in a gravelly voice that carried over the heads of the crowd and resonated through the streets.

A cold sweat gripped Pavo as he realised that his victory over Britomaris had only helped consolidate Pallas’s position of trust within the imperial household. Claudius might hold the title of emperor, he reflected glumly, but the true power lay with Pallas and his lackey Murena. Typical of my luck, he thought bitterly. I’ve made enemies of the most powerful men in Rome.

The herald went on, ‘A day of spectacular gladiator fights will take place at the arena tomorrow, sponsored by the Emperor, represented in person by the imperial secretary, Marcus Antonius Pallas.’

Pavo looked back at the freedman. He waved at the crowd, milking the applause. Beside him Murena whispered something into his ear. Pallas sneered.

‘The morning will see executions!’

The crowd cheered as the herald gestured to a ragged line of condemned men standing to the right of the gladiators. Chains were clamped around their gaunt wrists and ankles. Their skeletal, bearded faces were shorn of hope. One or two of the simpler souls had ravenous looks in their eyes as they watched the slaves carry yet more trays of food over to the tables.

‘In the afternoon there will be twenty pairs of fights,’ the herald bellowed, to another raucous chorus of approval from the mob. ‘The main attraction will feature two legends of the arena fighting to the death.’ He gestured to Pavo and the doctore to step forward from the line of gladiators. ‘First, the challenger. I present to you the son of a treasonous legate and the gladiator who defeated the scourge of Rome, Britomaris … Marcus Valerius Pavo.’

The crowd erupted into riotous applause as Calamus escorted Pavo towards the middle of the square. He climbed on to the wooden platform, with the doctore, as his trainer, standing to one side. The cheers swelled. Men shouted themselves hoarse in celebration of their new hero. Women elbowed their way to the front of the crowd and ogled him. The scene momentarily overwhelmed Pavo before the nagging anxieties of his predicament returned to his thoughts. Despite his efforts to master the technique of a retiarius, he still felt far more confident with a sword in his hand. He was untested in combat with his new weapons. A pang of regret hit him, and he secretly wished that he had Optio Macro by his side for his match against Denter. Despite their differences, Pavo and Macro had shared a mutual understanding of swordsmanship and a common hatred for the bureaucracy and infighting that festered within the heart of Rome.

A gang of boisterous men loitering outside a tavern broke into drunken chants. ‘Meat hooks for Pavo!’ they sang, raising jugs of wine in the air. ‘Meat hooks for Pavo! Oh, they’ll be dragging you out with a meat hook!’

‘Charming folk,’ said Pavo.

‘Hooligans from Pompeii,’ Calamus retorted. ‘I’ve seen them in the arena down that way a few times. They worship Denter. Of course, they don’t really go to watch the fight. They just get pissed and beat up locals. Take no notice of them.’

Pavo looked back at the gladiators. Amadocus was working his bruised features into knots of rage at the adulation being bestowed on the younger fighter. Pavo looked ahead as the herald swept a hand in an arc in front of his chest. The mob hushed.

‘And who will Pavo face tomorrow?’ The herald projected his voice further to make himself heard above the hooligans. He left the question hanging on his lips for a moment, until he had whipped the crowd into a frenzy of anticipation. Then he continued: ‘Winner of forty-nine bouts in the arena. Conqueror of Felix the Fearless. Destroyer of Niger the Thracian. I give you the pride of Pompeii. Decimus … Cominius … Denter!’

The crowd parted to the west. Pavo focused on a figure disgorging from the mob and got his first look at Denter.

‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered under his breath.

One look at his opponent confirmed Carbo’s warning that Denter had been training flat out. Despite his relatively slender physique, he possessed sharply defined muscles on his arms and shoulders and a chiselled chest. Pavo had never seen Denter fight in the flesh, but from his body shape he supposed that the gladiator cut an agile figure on the sand.

He looked on intently as Denter pumped a clenched fist in the air and strode towards the platform. A chorus of boos and jeers greeted him, broken by delirious roars from the hooligans. Denter stopped. Turning to confront the crowd, he clutched his manhood and made a lewd gesture in their direction, prompting a frenzied wave of obscenities. A second figure shoved the gladiator through the baying crowd. Pavo presumed this was Denter’s trainer. He craned his neck to get a better look at the man. But his view was obscured by outstretched arms from the mob clawing angrily at Denter. The second figure hurried his charge to the platform just as the mood among the crowd started to turn poisonous. With a final shunt the gladiator stumbled forward, to the obvious displeasure of the herald, and clambered on to the platform to hoots of approval from the Pompeiians.

Up close Denter had an intimidating presence. Crazed eyes bore down on Pavo from above a thickly bearded face. Tattoos tapered from his neck down to his forearms. Breathing heavily through his nostrils, he closed in on Pavo so that the pair were standing toe to toe. Then the veteran lowered his chin an inch and stared at Pavo down the length of his thin nose. His breath reeked of sickly-sweet wine. Beyond his opponent’s shoulder, Pavo spotted one of the hooligans painting an offensive slogan across the front of a tavern.

‘So you’re the great Marcus Valerius Pavo,’ Denter slurred. ‘You don’t look like much.’ A grin broke out on his face. ‘Then again, your old man Titus was a fucking coward.’

‘He was a respected legate,’ Pavo stated proudly. ‘He was no coward.’

Denter screwed up his face in disgust. ‘He was a tight-fisted bastard! Never let us plunder anything worth a damn. I only joined the bloody legion so I could get some loot, murder a few Gauls and rape a few tarts. Then Titus came along lecturing us about honour and duty. Pah! All that talk didn’t stop your old man being gutted.’

‘He was murdered,’ Pavo said sullenly. ‘By Hermes. In the arena.’

‘I don’t care if Jupiter himself did the deed,’ Denter blasted. ‘I just wish I’d the chance to carve up the stuck-up old fool. Titus booted me out of the legion. He forced me into this career, living for years among slaves and foreign scum. I’d have loved to watch him die. When the Emperor asked me to butcher Titus’s son, I happily accepted. Get ready to join your gutless old man in the Underworld.’

Pavo looked away again and got a clear look at Denter’s trainer. A hot streak of anger pumped through his veins as Denter began flexing his muscles at the crowd.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Pavo seethed. ‘It can’t be him. It can’t be!’

‘Look at me, you little shit,’ Denter said.

But Pavo blanked Denter. He simply stared at the trainer stationed at the foot of the platform, muttering his name under his breath.

‘Macro …’

A
chill ran up Pavo’s spine at the sight of the soldier. A contrite expression flashed across the optio’s face. Then Macro shook his head firmly and resolved his features into a stern look, acknowledging Pavo with a brief nod. Pavo had not seen Macro since that fateful afternoon in the Julian plaza, and the sight of him now pricked the gladiator with a mixture of shock and suspicion.

‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.

‘What does it look like?’ The optio cocked his head at Denter. ‘Training this old sweat.’

‘You traitor!’ Pavo exploded with fury. ‘I trusted you to help me defeat Britomaris and now you conspire against me?’