Arena (31 page)

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.

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.

‘You must be the lanista,’ he said in heavily accented Latin to Macro.

The optio nodded stiffly at Bato and Duras. ‘Spread the word to your men. The ringleader and his bodyguard are dead. His followers are loyal but not completely thick. Once they hear Bato has been chopped up, they’ll lay down their arms.’

The German officer chuckled. ‘There won’t be any need for that, sir. The battle is almost over. Most of the gladiators have surrendered. A handful of Bato’s fanatical supporters have retreated into the dormitory block. We’re getting ready to move in and finish the job. Orders from the imperial secretary to kill them and stick their heads on spikes. Serve as a lesson for the rest of the gladiators, sir.’

The tone of his voice implied the German was not unhappy with this turn of events.

Macro said nothing. He felt no sympathy for the few gladiators trapped inside the dormitory. They had picked their side and lost, and now they would suffer the consequences. It was the same in the field of battle, and if the tables were turned and the Thracians had triumphed, he knew they would have spared no Roman lives.

The German officer cleared his throat. ‘Murena wishes to speak with you, sir.’

The optio clenched his teeth, grunting in his chest. ‘Murena is here?’

‘He arrived with us, sir. He’s waiting in the lanista’s quarters. Wants you to report to him after you’ve cleaned up.’

‘What does he want with us now?’ Macro wondered tetchily.

The aftermath of the battle had left the ludus in tatters. Bodies were strewn everywhere, so much so that Macro imagined it might be possible to walk from one side of the training ground to the other without ever touching the ground. Grey pillars of smoke seethed out of the armoury as the roof covering that portion of the corridor threatened to collapse, groaning under the strain. The smoke smothered the sky, reducing the stars to faintly glowing orbs.

The optio and the young gladiator grabbed welcome cups of water from an orderly attending to the wounded. Casting an eye across the training ground, Macro feared it would be a long time before the ludus returned to working order. The costs involved would be enormous. The rebellious gladiators had laid waste to every symbol of their imprisonment. The training posts had been uprooted and chopped to pieces. The sundial in the middle of the ground had been smashed apart. In a fit of rage, some of the Thracians had taken to operating on the ludus physician, Kallinos, with his own set of surgical instruments. A spatula protruded from his eye. His mouth was agape, his face locked in an expression of utter terror.

Passing under the porticoes, the German officer led Macro and Pavo up the blood-splashed marble steps to the lanista’s quarters. Dread tied knots around Macro’s bowels as he spotted the aide to the imperial secretary pacing up and down the main room. The damage to the ludus was the least of his worries. The loss of so many gladiators – more than half the strength of the school – would undoubtedly prohibit their participation at the forthcoming games. Not only would that be acutely embarrassing to the Emperor, it would threaten his ability to host imperial gladiator fights at all. Macro’s impending sense of dread was heightened when he noticed Macer standing smugly next to Murena, soothing his reddened wrists. Both men looked at the imperial lanista and the young gladiator at his side.

‘What in Hades is going on here?’ Murena hissed sharply, throwing his arms in the air. ‘Even a common soldier should be able to control a few gladiators. Letting the ludus fall into the hands of the Thracians is idiocy of the highest order! What will the mob say when they hear of this?’ He fought to control the rage in his trembling voice. ‘You have truly surpassed yourself, Optio. I am of a mind to have you banished to the mines for your stupidity.’

Macro shook his head angrily and glared at Macer. ‘This isn’t my fault, sir. This coward legged it at the first sign of rebellion and left his keys behind for the Thracians to grab. That allowed Bato and his mob to unlock every cell in the dormitory. If it hadn’t been for this joke of a Praetorian, we would have contained the gladiators before Bato had a chance to increase his numbers.’

‘Liar!’ Macer’s face exploded with fury. ‘Sir, I gave the optio repeated warnings about the dire consequences of rough-handling the gladiators. But he insisted on bludgeoning the men rather than treating them with respect.’

‘Respect?’ Macro repeated incredulously. ‘They’re gladiators! Lowest of the low.’

‘Thanks,’ Pavo muttered under his breath.

‘Enough!’ Murena bawled, glaring at the commander and the optio in turn. Snapping upright, the freedman straightened his ruffled tunic and nodded at the German officer. ‘This man tells me that by burning down the armoury you helped turn the tide in our favour.’

‘It’s true,’ Pavo said.

Murena regarded the young gladiator coldly. ‘That is not how the Emperor sees it. Nor is it how Pallas and myself view your conduct. You have damaged imperial property, both of you. That is a serious offence. Were it not for the fact that you have evidently helped fend off the rebellion by dispatching the ringleader, Pallas would be ordering you both to be nailed to a cross at dawn. You should consider yourselves highly fortunate.’

‘You must be joking,’ Macro said under his breath.

‘What was that?’ Murena snapped.

‘Nothing,’ Macro replied flatly.

The aide to the imperial secretary dismissed Macer with a curt wave of his slender hand. Once the commander was out of earshot, Murena sighed heavily and wrung his trembling hands as if trying to still his temper.

‘It’s true that Macer is an incompetent fool. We removed him from the Praetorian Guard after he almost got his men killed.’

‘I knew it!’ thundered Macro.

‘Nevertheless, while he’s not absolved of blame, it’s clear that your hot-headedness has cost us dear, Optio. This rebellion leaves us critically short of gladiators for the upcoming games. With the remaining Thracians condemned inside the dormitory block, this ludus will be at half-strength. Unfortunately, that means we will have to come to some arrangement with another lanista. No doubt they will charge a high price for the use of their fighters. Not to mention the extensive repairs needed to the ludus, and the cost of replacing the dead gladiators. The Emperor is facing a bill of hundreds of thousands of sestertii.’ The aide pivoted round. A contemptuous expression was etched on his face. ‘Pallas and I agree that you must both pay for this damage.’

‘What?’ Macro blurted. ‘You can’t do that!’

‘Oh, we can, Optio. We can do whatever we please. However, since it is abundantly clear that neither of you has the means to reimburse his imperial majesty, we must find some other way of settling your debts. I will have to discuss the matter with Pallas, but news of Bato’s death has given me an idea.’ The aide paused for breath. ‘You will take the place of the Thracian at the games.’

Macro gaped at him disbelievingly.

Murena smiled coldly. ‘You killed a man who was a central part of the entertainment at the games. I think it only appropriate that you take his place.’ The aide flashed a scornful glance at Pavo. ‘It was one of the most lucrative fights planned.’

Macro looked apoplectic with rage. ‘Fight as a gladiator? Me?’ He could think of no more shameful fate. He’d only ever heard of drunken former legionaries daring to debase themselves by fighting as gladiators. ‘But … we saved your bloody ludus!’

‘Calm down, Optio. Your identity will be disguised. Bato fought under a stage name. You shall adopt it, and wear the same helmet and clothing. That ought to do nicely in terms of convincing the mob. Bato was a big draw, and we don’t want to disappoint the mob, now do we?’

‘No, sir,’ Macro barely muttered, still in a state of shock at his fate.

‘Don’t look so downhearted, Optio. You will only be required to appear in one fight, alongside dear Pavo.’ He smiled wickedly at the gladiator. ‘No need to conceal your identity, young man. You’re already scum.’ Pavo bristled with rage as Murena looked back to Macro. ‘Should you survive, you can consider your debt to the Emperor wiped clean. You will then be free to return to the Second Legion. As an optio, I hasten to add.’

‘What?’ Macro growled. ‘But … my promotion to centurion … we had a deal.’

‘Consider yourself lucky to still hold the rank of optio. After your reckless approach to managing a ludus, I think it’s fair to say you have demonstrated that you are wholly unworthy of leading men.’

‘What about me?’ Pavo asked.

‘Pallas and I have decided not to crucify you, for the time being. But your fight with Hermes is off. We have arranged another opponent for the great man. The mob will be delighted that Hermes has at last recovered from his injuries and is back in training. Rest assured that for your part in this fiasco, Pavo, you will never see your son Appius again.’