Arena (51 page)

The attendants darted out of the tunnel entrance, eyes narrowed, jaws clamped tight and chins tucked to their chests as they braced themselves against the driving rain. Pavo could not hear a thing above the pinging sound of the heavy droplets striking his helmet. The arena guards looked on helplessly as hordes of spectators scurried towards the exits. The German bodyguards hurriedly led Claudius out of a separate exit. Pallas and Murena and the rest of the imperial staff followed closely behind. One of the attendants ushered Pavo out of the arena, rain drumming loudly against his armour, the wet sand squelching underfoot. As he dragged his exhausted body towards the tunnel, Pavo could barely lift his head. By the time he reached cover, he was drenched through to his loincloth. Turning back to the arena, he saw Hermes trudging towards the opposite entrance. The champion, still raging over the umpire’s decision, angrily shrugged off an attendant.

‘What the hell were you doing out there?’

Pavo turned and lifted his eyes to Macro. The soldier nodded towards the arena floor, a cold expression on his weathered face.

‘Sir?’ Pavo panted, breathing unevenly through the airholes in his helmet.

Macro thrust a scarred finger at his chest. ‘That performance was a joke! You almost handed victory to Hermes on a plate. If it hadn’t been for the umpire, you’d already be cut to pieces. I bet Hermes could hardly believe his luck.’

Pavo shook his head. ‘He’s too strong and fast. You saw how he knocked me down. There’s nothing I can do.’

Macro stepped into his charge’s face and looked him sharply in the eye. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I’ve been struck down a few times myself in skirmishes in the Second Legion. Do you know what I do when some German scum has me on the ground, eh?’

Pavo shrugged.

‘I get up again, lad. Then I let the bastard have it. A good Roman soldier would rather shag a pig than surrender to his enemy. He’s taught to fight to win or die trying. The same goes for you. So tell me, how badly do you want to beat Hermes?’

‘Badly,’ Pavo croaked.

‘I can’t hear you,’ Macro growled.

‘I want to beat Hermes, sir!’ Pavo shouted hoarsely as he struggled to catch his breath. ‘I want to kill the bastard!’

‘That’s better.’ Macro thumped his young charge on the shoulder while the rain continued to fall in shimmering rods of silver. He pointed to the sodden arena. ‘When you go back out there, you show Hermes what a real champion is made of. If he hits you, you hit him back twice as bloody hard, d’you hear? Make that bastard regret the day he chopped up your old man.’

Pavo nodded vigorously. He hesitated for a moment. Then he glanced tentatively back out at the arena, filled with a sudden doubt. ‘But how I am supposed to defeat him, sir? I’m doing exactly as you and Ruga taught me, but I still can’t get past his defences.’

Macro grunted and scratched his jaw. ‘Hermes is certainly a tough nut to crack. From watching the fight, I’d say the only way to beat him is by depriving the bastard of his most effective weapon.’

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘His shield.’

Pavo snorted. ‘And just how am I supposed to do that?’

Macro grinned. ‘You know how Ruga reckons Hermes has no weaknesses?’

Pavo nodded uncertainly. Attendants brushed past him, bearing buckets of sand to scatter over the arena floor as the rain started petering out. He turned back to Macro.

‘Well, I’ve been thinking about the way Hermes fought against Criton,’ the soldier went on. ‘And I think I’ve got an idea …’

T
he rain stopped a short while later. Puddles shone across the wet sand as Pavo and Hermes re-entered the arena. The spectators hurriedly resumed their seats, having sought refuge under the tall porticoes lining the Forum, and the Emperor and his entourage returned to the imperial box. There was no sign of Narcissus, Pavo noted. He turned to the umpire and watched him pacing impatiently up and down the sand while a pair of officials sprinkled chalk over the faintly visible marking. Wielding his shield and short sword, Pavo stepped inside the freshly drawn circle and prepared to face his opponent again, repeating to himself the plan Macro had explained to him in the tunnel. He closed his eyes and prayed to Jupiter that the soldier’s strategy would work.

Once the umpire had examined the chalk line, he paced back to the centre of the circle and gestured for the gladiators to approach and resume the bout. Hermes flexed his neck muscles and stared at Pavo as he warmed up.

‘The gods won’t save you a second time, traitor. It won’t matter where you fall, once I’ve buried my sword in your fucking neck.’

‘Go to Hades,’ Pavo said coldly.

Hermes held up his sword. The blade glinted under the clearing sky. He grunted. ‘Funny, that. Titus told me the same thing … right before I cut his head off.’

An almost inhuman anger took hold of Pavo. He saw red, his muscles twitching with hatred, his blood simmering as it ran hot through his veins. With steely resolve he took in a sharp draw of breath and firmed his core muscles as the umpire raised his stick and frenetic yells went up amid the crowd.

‘Fight!’ the umpire boomed.

There was a deafening roar from the crowd as Hermes sprang into a powerful attack, his sword point stabbing towards Pavo’s groin. But this time Pavo neatly thrust his shield out and deflected the tip, his heart beating wildly as he drew a lungful of air and lunged forward. Raising his right arm above his head, he twisted his wrist inward so that the tip of his sword was pointing down at the ground. In the blink of an eye he extended his sword arm beyond Hermes’s shield and stabbed at his opponent in a quick downward thrust, nicking him beneath the collarbone. Hermes howled in agony as the blade pierced his flesh. The champion responded by lifting up his shield to bat away Pavo’s sword and thrusting at his throat. Pavo instantly jerked his head to the side. A grating shriek filled the air as Hermes’s blade scraped along the surface of his helmet. The sound jarred shrilly between his ears and Pavo instantly jolted back from stabbing range and began manoeuvring round Hermes. The enraged champion pursued him round the circle, a bright red gash glistening on his neck.

Hermes went on the attack again, thrusting at Pavo as he drew within range. The young gladiator swung up his shield and deflected the blow, jabbing his sword at Hermes before the champion could recover to a defensive posture and nicking him on the shoulder. Pavo’s pulse quickened. The plan was working. He focused solely on his opponent, shutting out the noise of the crowd and ignoring the nerves jangling in his throat. His senses were heightened. He was keenly aware of his breathing and the dull weight of the sword and shield in his grip as he lunged at Hermes, feinting high this time. The champion raised his shield, enraged and bleeding. Pavo smashed his own shield down towards his opponent’s toes but Hermes nimbly backed off a pace and there was a muffled thump as the shield edge thwacked against the sand.

‘Is that the best you’ve got, traitor?’ Hermes sneered.

‘Why don’t you attack like a man?’ Pavo mocked. ‘Instead of hiding behind your shield like a coward.’

Hermes growled behind his visor. ‘I’ll cut you down now, scum! You’re going to lose.’

He charged at Pavo, muscles shaking with fury as he clattered into his opponent with his shield and launched a mad flurry of blows with his sword tip. Pavo spun round at the last moment. There was a shrill metallic ringing as Hermes’s sword repeatedly clashed against the shield boss. Adjusting his stance, Hermes instantly jabbed his sword low and slashed Pavo on the thigh. The younger gladiator dropped to his knee with a sharp cry of pain. Then Hermes thrust his shield out, smashing Pavo’s sword out of his hand. The weapon landed with a dull thud on the wet sand. Pavo crouched behind his shield, blood disgorging agonisingly from his thigh wound. He gripped the shield, which thrummed as Hermes battered and thwacked his sword against it relentlessly. Guttural shouts rang out through the crowd as they sensed the fight reaching its climax. Every nerve in Pavo’s body tensed with fear. With a fierce grunt Hermes kicked the bottom of Pavo’s shield, tipping the top edge towards him. Then he brought his sword arm hammering down like a fist, wrenching the shield free of Pavo’s weakening grip. It fell from his grasp. Hermes’s fans went wild as he kicked the shield away and Pavo sank to his knees at the edge of the circle. Now Hermes stood in front of his opponent, breathing hard. He chucked aside his own shield in a fit of arrogance and saluted his fans as Pavo knelt defenceless beneath him.

‘It’s over,’ Hermes gloated as he turned back to Pavo, a slight rasp to his voice. He tilted his head at the umpire. ‘That cheating bastard can’t save you now. You’re mine.’

Pavo coughed up blood and slowly raised his gaze to Hermes.

‘You’re forgetting one thing,’ he said weakly.

Hermes chuckled harshly. ‘What’s that, traitor?’

‘You dropped your shield.’

Hermes immediately froze in horror as he realised his mistake. Macro had anticipated that the champion would cast aside his shield only when he believed the fight was already won – just as he had done in his sparring match with Criton. Pavo rolled to his left, scooping up his discarded sword and springing up on his toes as he pointed the tip at the champion’s groin. Hermes’s swift reflexes allowed him to swivel towards the tip and bring his own weapon down across his chest. A faint metallic ring sounded as he parried the thrust. Pavo dug deep and summoned one last ounce of strength, swiping aside his opponent’s sword and shooting bolt upright before Hermes could recover, driving his sword tip at his opponent’s neck. There was a brief glimmer as the tip caught the glare of the sun breaking through the clouds, followed by an explosive gasp of air as the sword punctured Hermes’s throat and punched out of the nape of his neck. Hermes spasmed as Pavo drove the sword on until the pommel was almost touching his opponent’s helmet.

The champion of Rome swayed on the spot for a long moment. The crowd gasped in disbelief as he pawed at the blade jutting out of his neck and made a strange gurgling noise. Then Pavo wrenched the blade free. Hot blood gushed out of the wound, splashing down Hermes’s chest and staining the glittering belt wrapped round his waist. Hermes gave out a final wheezing grunt. Then he collapsed.

A stunned silence hung over the arena. Pavo looked on numbly for a moment, struggling to grasp that he had won. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and watched Hermes die, the wound in his neck disgorging a steady pump of blood that spilled on to the sand and formed a wide pool beneath his sprawled body. Then it hit him. The enormity of his achievement. He was overcome by waves of ecstasy and relief.

‘By the gods, I’ve done it,’ he whispered to himself, as if he could barely believe it was true. He closed his eyes and saw an image of his father flash in front of him. ‘I have avenged you, Father …’

He let his sword fall from his grasp to the sand. There was no hot pounding in his veins as he’d experienced in the wake of previous fights. He felt only immense satisfaction that he had accomplished what he had set out to achieve many months ago. All the depredations he had been forced to endure, the deep humiliations he had suffered, the narrow escapes in the arena against some of the most feared fighters in Rome – he had met them all. He didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. If someone had told him a year ago that he would be cast into a ludus, fight as a gladiator and return to Rome to defeat the great Hermes, he would have mocked them. Now, as he made a silent prayer to Fortuna and Mars, he was simply grateful that he was still alive.

Every muscle in his body throbbed with exhaustion and pain. He could hardly stand upright. The crowd erupted into a full-throated cheer. Even Hermes’s fans joined in in recognition of the stunning display of power, skill and determination from the victor. Soon every spectator was roaring his name. Pavo was indifferent to the praise of the mob. Tomorrow, he knew, they would be in awe of another gladiator.

There was a tumult in the mouth of the tunnel. Pavo turned and saw Murena striding out of the shadows accompanied by a large detachment of Praetorian Guards. The imperial aide pointed to the victorious gladiator.

‘Guards!’ he shouted, his smooth voice cracking with anger. ‘Arrest this man!’

Pavo was dumbfounded. Murena had betrayed him. A hot rage swept through his veins as the guards pushed forward, two of them grabbing him by the arms. Boos immediately chorused around the stands. Pavo was too weak to break free of the guards’ grip. He cast a panicked glance across the arena, looking for Macro. He glimpsed him in the tunnel, where a handful of Praetorians were struggling to restrain the optio from entering the arena. One of the guards lifted the helmet from Pavo’s head and the harsh light stung his eyes. He turned to face Murena. The aide to the imperial secretary approached him, an amused expression on his face. Pavo took a deep breath to compose himself.

‘Release me at once!’ he stuttered.

‘Not likely,’ Murena sneered, pulling a sour face at Hermes’s sprawled body. ‘Beating the colossus of Rhodes. I must say, that’s quite the achievement. I had my doubts. But once again you have proved us wrong. Sadly for you, instead of the Emperor proclaiming you Champion of the Arena, you’ll be hanging from a crucifix.’

Pavo felt the blood freeze in his veins. ‘We had a deal.’

Murena smiled and took a step closer to the young gladiator. ‘A deal?’ he said in a low, mocking voice, barely audible above the chorus of disapproval showering down from the stands. ‘Did you honestly think I would let you walk free, hailed as a champion, after you so nearly killed the Emperor? Of course not. You’re a traitor, Pavo. Just like your father. The mob may love you now, but once they hear the truth, your disgrace will be complete. The Emperor may have spared Appius, but I will make sure he grows up as lowly scum.’

Pavo convulsed with anger. ‘You bastard!’

Murena laughed. ‘Rant all you want, my dear boy. Now we will make you pay.’ He waved to the guards. ‘Get this miserable traitor out of my sight.’