Arena by Simon Scarrow Page A

at the ludus gates. As he rose, he noticed Bucco watching him from the other side of the cell. On most mornings Bucco overslept, his loud snoring echoing through the barracks and incurring the wrath of the doctore. This morning, though, the volunteer was wide awake.
    ‘You’ll be off to Rome, then?’ he said, stretching his arms and legs. Bucco had already lost an alarming amount of weight since enlisting. The tortuously long hours spent at the palus, combined with the limited diet, had left him pale and lean. The palms of his hands were covered in calluses.
    Pavo nodded as he rolled up his cloak and tucked it under his arm. ‘It appears so.’
    ‘Never been there myself. What’s it like?’
    ‘Rome?’ Pavo chuckled. ‘The weather is stifling, the food is rubbish, the streets are filthy, everything is overpriced and everyone’s in a mad rush, but other than that, it’s fine.’
    ‘Oh,’ Bucco said with a frown. He stared out of the small window that afforded the men a view of Paestum’s dilapidated forum. ‘I rather thought it might be …’ He shrugged. ‘You know, centre of the world and all that.’
    ‘I’m being harsh. It’s a wonderful city, really. Just one full of bad memories for me.’
    Pavo ran a hand over his cloak. It was stained with the filth of the ludus and it reeked of sweat and urine. But he felt a strange attachment to it. It was, he reflected, his only worldly possession.
    Bucco rose to his feet. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
    Pavo nodded. ‘Thanks, Bucco.’
    A guard unlocked their cell and ushered Pavo towards the stone stairs that led to the ground floor. As they passed each of the other cells, veteran gladiators bellowed abuse at Pavo. The kinder ones wished him a quick death in the arena. The less kind ones he tried not to think about. He descended the stairs, the guard close behind with one hand resting on the pommel of his sword at all times in case Pavo tried to make a break for freedom. From the ground floor they passed down the corridor that led towards the training ground. The guard escorted Pavo around the perimeter towards the main building at the northern end, which housed the servants’ quarters, medical facilities and the administrative offices. Daylight had not yet broken, and a gritty, speckled darkness accompanied by an eerie silence hung like a veil over the empty ground. Not a soul in sight, Pavo realised.
    Then he saw a shadow skulking towards them from across the training ground. Pavo stopped in his tracks to focus on it. He smelled Amadocus before he recognised him. The trainee wrinkled his nose as the veteran drew nearer.
    ‘Pavo!’ Amadocus thundered. ‘I want a word with you.’
    Just my luck, thought Pavo as Amadocus pounded across the training ground, his club-like feet thudding on the crisp sand with every giant stride. He halted at the verge of the ground.
    ‘Gurges has got me on latrine duty,’ Amadocus said, raising his shit-flecked palms at Pavo. ‘Four fucking weeks. This is your fault.’
    Pavo smiled to himself. ‘If I recall, you were the one who attacked me,’ he said.
    Amadocus snarled, then spat on the ground. ‘You started it the moment you stepped into this ludus. Pissing about with your fancy handiwork at the palus.’ He rubbed dirt out of his eye. ‘I hear you’re off to fight Britomaris.’
    Pavo felt his neck muscles stiffen. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.’
    Amadocus pulled an unpleasant face as he took a step closer to Pavo. ‘It should be me fighting in the arena. The great Amadocus! Champion of the house of Gurges! Not some woman born with a silver spoon in his mouth.’
    He went to take another step towards Pavo. But the guard began to unsheath his sword and barked, ‘Back to work.’
    Amadocus smiled as he retreated across the ground, pointing a filthy finger at Pavo. ‘Better pray you die in Rome, rich boy,’ he said. ‘If I see you in this ludus again, I’ll rip your guts out.’

CHAPTER