Arena by Simon Scarrow Page B

a fierce scowl at the recruit as he stormed out of the canteen. Pavo felt a cold tremor of fear shoot up his spine at the thought of having made an enemy of Amadocus and his thugs. He wondered how his day could get any worse.
    Then the man in the military-issue clothing stepped out of the shadows. Pavo studied him. He had the grizzled look of a battle-hardened veteran and the scars to prove it, even though his eyes told Pavo that he couldn’t be much older than thirty. As a military tribune, Pavo had encountered dozens of men like this in the Sixth – career soldiers, men who’d signed away their lives at the age of eighteen, or earlier perhaps, lying to enlist as soon as they could. Men who made it their business to shed blood for Rome in far-flung corners of the Empire. A cause that Pavo had once believed in himself. Until Rome had sunk its teeth into his neck.
    ‘It appears your stay here is to be rather shorter than I had hoped,’ Gurges said, choosing his words carefully, glancing at the stocky man out of the corner of his eye. Pavo thought he detected a trace of resentment in the lanista’s voice.
    ‘What are you talking about?’ Pavo said, his voice barely a whisper. In the distance he could hear the roars and shouts of Amadocus and the other veterans being manhandled into their cells.
    Gurges wrinkled his lips. He hesitated, gesturing to the scroll he held in his hands. He went on, ‘This man is a soldier, Pavo. Sent from Rome, on imperial orders, no less. You are to fight the barbarian Britomaris. To the death.’
    Pavo looked stony-faced at the soldier. He knew the name Britomaris. At training that morning the recruits had been talking of his defeat of Capito. Rumours had swirled through the ludus: that Britomaris ate babies for breakfast, that he was born in the Underworld, that his manhood could snap a vestal virgin in half.
    ‘I understand the fight will be held at the Julian plaza in Rome. An impressive venue,’ Gurges said, drawing Pavo out of his stupor. The lanista frowned again. ‘A great pity that we won’t get the chance to see you in action here in Paestum. For your sake as well as mine.’
    The soldier grunted. ‘If I may,’ he began gruffly. Gurges nodded jadedly and the soldier turned to Pavo. ‘My name is Lucius Cornelius Macro. I’m an optio in the Second Legion. I’m here to train you for the fight.’
    ‘Who sent you?’
    Macro pursed his lips. ‘The order was signed by Marcus Antonius Pallas.’
    Pavo laughed. ‘So it’s as good as from the Emperor himself, then.’
    ‘That’s about the size of it, lad.’ He narrowed his eyes at Pavo. ‘You’re familiar with the name?’
    ‘You could say that,’ the young recruit replied, his mood improving rapidly. ‘Pallas was the man who convinced the Emperor to condemn my father to death in the arena. I’ve heard that Claudius was set to spare his life until that arse-licking Greek swayed his decision. That aide of his does most of his bidding.’
    ‘Murena,’ Macro muttered.
    ‘That’s the one,’ Pavo nodded. ‘Thick as thieves, those two.’
    ‘Tell me about it.’ Macro cut himself short, aware of the political danger of criticising the imperial household in the presence of the lanista. Gurges struck Macro as an untrustworthy sort of fellow. ‘Enough talk. Let’s knuckle down to business. As you can see, I’ve already cleared this matter with your lanista. From what I’ve been told, you’re a natural with a sword, so we’re not totally fucked.’
    Gurges cleared his throat. Macro shot a look at him.
    ‘About my compensation,’ the lanista said carefully. ‘This is a fine young specimen of a man. I won’t sell him off for less than the going rate.’
    Macro produced a bag filled with coins from under his tunic and chucked it at the lanista, who caught it in his cupped hands and licked his lips as he peeked inside.
    ‘I suppose this looks to be an adequate level of compensation,’ he said greedily. ‘And I