Arena by Simon Scarrow Page B

EIGHT
     
    T he crowd rumbled expectantly as Macro made a final check on Pavo’s equipment. The two men were in a small, dark room on the western side of the Julian plaza. A short corridor led towards the colonnades that lined the arcades surrounding the roofed forum, which had been converted into an arena for the purposes of the day’s spectacle. Macro remembered his father taking him around the plaza as a boy. He recalled the rich smell of spices, cinnamon and incense that came from shops selling luxury goods on the walkways off the arcade, and the vast sculptures of the great Emperor Augustus and Julius Caesar mounted on plinths behind the travertine columns. The plaza looked very different now. Temporary wooden galleries had been erected in front of the colonnades, blocking out much of the sunlight. Through the corridor Macro could see the forum floor blanketed with bright white sand. He could hear the creak of the gallery walkways as the last members of the audience made their way to their allocated seating.
    ‘Nervous?’ the optio asked Pavo.
    The trainee knitted his brow in the middle and stared defiantly at Macro. ‘I’m not afraid of dying, sir. I’m afraid of losing.’
    The optio suddenly felt a pang of pity for his charge. He sympathised with Pavo. As a soldier, Macro’s greatest fear in battle wasn’t dying, but letting down his comrades. But he had had the grain of comfort of knowing that he had seventy-nine men around him who were thinking the same thing. Pavo, however, was all on his own.
    Pavo adjusted the metal guard on his right shoulder until it was secure. From the arena the master of ceremonies began his preamble, though his authoritative voice was lost in the din of the crowd. Pavo could barely make out his thanks to the Emperor on behalf of the audience for hosting the spectacle. His warning about throwing objects at the gladiators, jumping into the arena or otherwise interfering in the contest was also greeted roundly with boos and heckles. The mood among the mob was more rowdy than Pavo could ever remember hearing. Even the crowds at the chariot races seemed fairly hushed by comparison. The roar trembled in his bones as Macro threw an arm over his shoulder and patted him on the back.
    ‘Cheer up, lad,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, if the worst happens out there, I’ll organise a whip-round with some of the lads in the Second. Buy you a decent burial spot. Can’t have the son of a legate being slung into a pit grave, can we?’
    ‘Great,’ Pavo replied.
    Macro looked his charge in the eye. ‘Britomaris is scum. Back home he shags sheep and whores out his daughters. He probably even drinks milk. You’re not going to let an animal like that steal the glory of the arena, are you?’
    ‘No, sir!’ Pavo shouted, his voice trembling with adrenalin.
    The master of ceremonies bellowed out the recruit’s name. Macro prodded Pavo in the chest. ‘Britomaris didn’t kill your old man, but I want you to go out there feeling like he did. Imagine he’s the one who stabbed Titus. The blood is on his hands, lad.’
    A flicker of hatred glowed in Pavo’s eyes. The officer could tell he’d hit a raw nerve with talk of his father.
    Macro gave his charge a final slap on the back. ‘You’re fighting for yourself. For your boy, Appius. But most of all you’re fighting for your father’s name.’ He thumbed at the galleries. ‘This lot were probably cheering when your old man died. Why don’t you show them what a Valerius is really made of! Wherever Titus is, make him proud.’
    He watched Pavo depart down the corridor towards the servants at the arena entrance. Macro had a space reserved for himself at the podium, not far from the Emperor, and close to Pallas and Murena. As he made his way through the bowels of the plaza he passed a hastily erected surgeon’s counter, where a set of instruments were laid out on a table: a sickening array of forceps, scalpels, catheters and bone saws that turned