Arena (32 page)

Pavo’s shoulders slumped. ‘Well, who are we fighting?’ he asked. ‘A couple of lads from the imperial ludus in Rome, I suppose.’

Murena chuckled. ‘No. You’ll be pitted against rather more untamed creatures.’

‘Gauls?’ Macro asked.

‘Animals, Optio. You’re going to feature in the beast fights.’

M
acro muttered a curse under his breath as the roar of the crowd echoed through the passageway of the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre. Almost a month had passed since the day of the mutiny in Capua and now the gladiators had arrived in Rome for the opening day of the games. From his position under the galleries Macro could see a vast column of gladiators, condemned criminals and comic performers stretched out in front of him in the passageway, trembling with anticipation as they waited for the signal from the arena attendant. In keeping with the tradition of the games, the procession would emerge on to the sand in full view of the spectators. Then Claudius would declare the games open. Macro remembered the order of the procession well. He’d witnessed several gladiator spectacles during his childhood. But he’d never imagined that he might one day enter the arena as a participant. He tasted something bitter on his mouth as the trumpeters blared and the attendants gave the signal and the head of the procession shuffled forward. The blood boiled in his veins as he neared the entrance.

‘Condemned to fight wild beasts,’ he growled. ‘I’ll never live down the shame.’

‘Could be worse,’ Pavo replied, nodding at a line of bedraggled prisoners of war directly ahead of them, their heads lowered and their shoulders emphatically slumped. ‘One of the guards reckons that unfortunate lot are to be wrapped in animal skins, tied to wooden posts and ripped apart by panthers.’

‘This is no time for splitting fucking hairs,’ Macro snapped. ‘I’m taking part in the games, lad. Me, a hero of Rome! I shouldn’t be here.’

‘Nor should I,’ Pavo replied bitterly. ‘At least you only have to get through this one bout. This is the third time I’ve had to fight. You should consider yourself lucky.’

Macro glared at the young gladiator. A thunderous cheer erupted from the packed galleries, cutting off his reply. Now the front of the procession slowly emerged on to the sands. Macro grudgingly faced forward, sweat trickling down his back in the fetid heat of the tunnel. As well as their suffocating helmets, the two men wore bronze cuirasses, leg greaves and protective arm padding. The armour weighed heavily on their muscular frames and merely shuffling along was enough to make them both break out in a sweat in spite of the cold. At the head of the procession the optio glimpsed the lictors, their bundles of wooden rods fixed with axes mounted above their shoulders. Behind the lictors was a colourful array of acrobats, dwarves and actors for the comic interludes, followed by a throng of arena attendants. The gladiators themselves were the last to emerge. The condemned men among them cut a depressing presence at the rear of the procession, staring ahead with deadened expressions. Other gladiators, champions of the provincial arenas, marched purposefully towards the entrance, eager to get the preliminaries over with so they could return to training ahead of their fights. All the men had chains clamped around their ankles and wrists. They were flanked by a large detachment of the Praetorian Guard.

‘I can’t see a bloody thing wearing this,’ Macro fumed, fiddling with the visor on his helmet. ‘How the fuck are we supposed to win our bout if we’re half blind?’

‘I suspect that is rather the point,’ Pavo replied tersely. ‘Beast fighters aren’t the main attraction at the games, after all.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘If we can’t see properly, it adds to the crowd’s amusement.’

Macro glowered at the young man at his side, his rage evident even through the restrictive eyeholes in his visor. The indignity of taking part in the games burned in his chest, testing his patience.

‘Shut up,’ he muttered. ‘It’s your fault I’m in this mess in the first place.’

‘What?’ Pavo responded indignantly as the acrobats cartwheeled into the arena to a round of polite cheers. ‘The imperial secretary to the Emperor was the one who condemned you to fight today. I had nothing to do with it.’

‘Bollocks, lad! The only reason I’m here is because the secretary held me responsible for the gladiator mutiny at Capua.’

A sea of bobbing heads swarmed ahead of Macro as the two men drew near to the mouth of the tunnel. Pavo heard the faint din of musicians playing the flute and water organs out in the arena. Their delicate notes were abruptly drowned out by the shrieks and grunts of exotic animals transported on wagons being wheeled out to whet the spectators’ appetite ahead of the beast fights and animal hunts. A few moments later there was a collective rumble as the spectators surged to their feet in eager anticipation.

‘Claudius must have arrived,’ said Macro.

‘Gods, listen to that!’ Pavo exclaimed as the mass of gladiators entered the arena to an earth-shuddering crescendo of noise. ‘The galleries must be heaving with spectators.’

‘Rather be up there than down here with this scum,’ Macro retorted.

Privately he conceded that the mob had good reason to be out in force at the opening of the games. The Emperor had spared no expense to put on a stunning spectacle to win over the mob. Macro had spotted several posters advertising the event on the walls of taverns and merchant stores lining the path of the procession. Chariot races were being held at the Campus Martius, and earlier that morning an elephant-drawn chariot had conveyed Livia’s image past a crowd lining the streets. As sponsor of the games, Claudius had brought together the pick of the gladiators and beast fighters from the imperial ludus in Rome and the smaller ludus in Capua. Macro shuddered at the vast cost of the event, which was rumoured to have run into several hundred thousand denarii.

Macro and Pavo were about to enter the arena when a voice shouted, ‘You two! Stop there!’

The two men turned simultaneously as an arena official hurried towards them, his brow heavily furrowed.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Macro demanded.

‘Sextus Hostilius Nerva,’ the official announced curtly. ‘I’m in charge of the schedule. It’s my job to make sure these games run smoothly and without any hiccups. You.’ He pointed at Pavo. ‘Name?’

‘Marcus Valerius Pavo,’ the gladiator responded.

‘And your comrade?’

‘Hilarus,’ Macro said, bristling with shame. He took scant consolation from the fact that by fighting under the assumed name of Duras, he would at least conceal his true identity, preventing his superiors in the Second Legion from ever discovering his shameful secret. Assuming he survived, that is. He watched the beleaguered official consult a wax tablet, tracing a finger down the list of names. Clearing his throat, Nerva tapped his finger at a pair of names near the bottom.

‘Wait here. Once you hear the command from the umpire, you’re on. You’re the second bout of the day, so make it look good, and whatever you do, don’t die too quickly, eh?’

Fear instantly gripped Pavo.

‘That can’t be right. There are several pairings ahead of us.’ The gladiator pointed at the list of names. ‘Check the programme. We’re the main draw. We’re supposed to come last.’

The order of the bouts had been a source of hot debate in the ludus canteen in Capua, with gladiators torn between appearing in a later bout, with the guarantee of a bigger crowd and a larger reward for victory, and fighting in a minor preliminary bout and getting their appearance in the arena over with. In keeping with tradition, the beast fights were scheduled for each morning of the games, followed by the crucifixions of criminals at midday, with the gladiator bouts listed for each afternoon of the ten-day celebration.

‘Change of plan,’ Nerva replied aloofly. ‘Sisinnes was scheduled to go first but he topped himself last night in his cell. The ungrateful sod bit off his own tongue and choked himself to death. Then we planned for Diodorus to make his debut, but he buggered off to the latrines and suffocated himself by thrusting a toilet brush down his throat. What a way to go.’

‘Gods!’ Pavo exclaimed.

Nerva shrugged. ‘The beast fights always turn a few of ’em suicidal. The thought of getting torn to shreds, I suppose. Last year we had a dozen fighters strangle each other before the start of the games. Buggers up the programme, I can tell you. Then there are the ones nursing injuries.’ He clicked his tongue, craning his neck at the arena. ‘By Jupiter, I hope the weather doesn’t turn foul. The schedule’s tight enough as it is without rain messing it up further.’

Macro shook his head. ‘A couple of beast fighters chickening out doesn’t explain why we’ve been bumped up the list. There were plenty more bouts scheduled ahead of ours.’

‘Orders of the imperial secretary,’ Nerva replied, rolling his eyes. ‘He’s organising the games on behalf of the sponsor, Emperor Claudius. If you’ve got a problem with the schedule, I suggest you take it up with him.’

Macro and Pavo exchanged a look behind their visors.

Nerva continued. ‘Once the procession is over, the Emperor will introduce the games and say a few words about the deification of his grandmother, Livia, then make some public pronouncements and give the obligatory thanks to the mob. We’ll begin with a leopard versus a bull. Then it’s your turn. Four of you will take to the sand.’

Macro slapped Pavo heartily on the back. ‘Did you hear that, lad? Four of us against one beast! That shouldn’t be too hard.’

Nerva chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up. You’re fighting a lion.’

Macro and Pavo both froze.

‘And not any old lion, but one specially trained for the arena,’ Nerva went on. ‘The handlers starve them for two days beforehand, then they’re branded with hot irons to make them really vicious. I’ve seen one of these lions rip half a dozen veteran gladiators limb from limb. Four of you won’t last long. Just try not to get too much blood over the place, eh? We’re low on fresh sand as it is.’

‘The men we’re fighting with,’ Pavo asked. ‘Who are they?’

‘What does it matter? You’ll die all the same.’

‘I want to know if they’re skilled with a sword.’

Nerva consulted his tablet again and hummed. ‘Late entrants, it says here. They’re in the holding cell at the moment. Probably a couple of murderers who are for the chop. Doubt they’ll increase your chances against the lion.’

He tucked his tablet under his arm and spun away down the passageway, whistling a tune to himself. Macro watched him depart.

‘Bastard!’ he growled, banging his fist against the wall in frustration.

‘Ah, Optio!’ a shrill voice cried from the shadows. ‘Getting used to your new surroundings, I see.’

Macro looked up as Murena descended a set of stone steps leading up to the galleries and approached the two men. The imperial aide stopped in front of the gladiators, a slight grin snaking across his thin lips. His eyes glowed like polished metal.

‘Cheer up, boy,’ he said to Pavo. ‘You’re about to join your father in the afterlife.’

‘W
hat the hell do you want?’ Macro thundered at the aide.

‘Why, I’ve come to offer my wishes for your forthcoming bout, Optio,’ Murena replied in his arrogant voice. He paused before adding, ‘Or should I say … Hilarus.’

‘You’ll never get away with this!’

‘But we already have. Speaking of which, how do you like your new name? Hilarus has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’

Macro seethed behind his visor. A chorus of angry snarls emanated from further down the passageway, where the wild beasts were kept in cages ahead of their scheduled appearances in the arena. Macro and Pavo had passed the chambers earlier, and the stench of fear and shit filled the air.

‘Once the Emperor has finished addressing his loyal subjects,’ Murena continued, ‘the games will formally begin. Then you’re on. Of course, you are featuring in the beast fight, not the animal hunts. Cavorting after antelopes and chasing donkeys hardly befits two such talented swordsmen.’

‘This is a bloody insult!’ Macro thundered.

Murena laughed. Footsteps trampled towards the exit located on the other side of the arena as the acrobats, dwarves and gladiators retreated from public view.

He turned to Pavo. ‘As for you, gladiator – you will die. In this fight, or the next. Or the one after that. It makes no difference, I won’t make the same mistake twice. Your luck has run its course.’

‘You can’t kill me. Not in front of the mob. I’m a hero in their eyes. If they see me die at the hands of a wild beast, they’ll turn on Claudius.’

Murena chuckled harshly. ‘I don’t think so. You see, the mutiny in Capua has turned the mob against the gladiators. Nothing agitates them as much as fear of another Spartacus-style uprising.’ The aide looked casually at his manicured fingernails. ‘You were at Capua at the time of the mutiny, which marks you out for special treatment. Now every drunken fool in the Subura believes that you are a traitorous wretch. They’ll cheer your death.’

‘That’s a lie!’ Pavo bristled with rage. ‘The mutiny had nothing to do with me. The Thracians were to blame.’

‘Try explaining that to the mob. As far as they’re concerned, gladiators are all the same. Scum.’ There was a sinister gleam in the aide’s eyes as he went on. ‘Why else do you think we allowed you to fight under your own name? The mob has turned against you.’

Macro narrowed his eyes. ‘You bastard! You’ll pay for this.’

Murena laughed stolidly. ‘It’s a little late in the day for empty threats, Optio. Besides, should you ever dare to speak the truth about what happened in Capua, I’m afraid we will have to inform your superiors in the Second Legion that you participated in a beast fight. You don’t need me to remind you of the consequences should they learn of your scandalous participation in the gladiator trade.’

A shrill note pierced the air, signalling the start of the beast fight. Macro looked round briefly as a leopard clawed viciously at a wild bull. The two creatures were tied together by means of a chain wrapped around their torsos, forcing them to enter into a violent confrontation. The leopard clawed again. Now the bull scrabbled back to the arena wall, sounding ghastly bellows of pain as blood fountained out of a glistening wound on its flank.