Barbarian

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, but close to Pallas and Murena. He flipped the seal ticket for his space up in the air 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 Macro’s blood cold. There was a bowl of vinegar and a bucket of fresh water with a set of white cloths and a row of wine goblets set to one side. Macro knew from previous spectacles that the goblets were used by surgeons to save the blood from a newly dead gladiator to sell on the black market. Gladiator blood fetched a high price, especially for those seeking a cure for epilepsy. Macro hurried on, confounded by the layout of the plaza. There had to be an entrance to the stands somewhere near, he thought, glancing left and right and trying to get his bearings.

He slowed his stride as he heard two voices coming from within a second room. Thank the gods for that, thought Macro. I can ask them for directions. The voices were hushed and hurried, the soldier realised as he drew to the door.

‘Hurry!’ one of the men implored angrily. Macro froze. He vaguely recognised the voice but couldn’t remember where he’d heard it. ‘It’s about to begin!’

‘Wait,’ the second man replied in a panicked tone. ‘I’ve got to get the mix right first. Too little poison and it won’t kill him!’

Intrigued, Macro poked his head inside. He saw a guard huddled over a gaunt older man who was pouring liquids into a bowl. With a start he recognised the guard as one of the Praetorians who had escorted him to the imperial palace a month ago. In addition to the sword he carried in a scabbard by his hip, the guard cradled a long spear of the type used by Britomaris in the arena. He carefully dipped the tip of the spear into the bowl.

‘What the bloody Hades is going on here?’ Macro barked.

The surgeon looked up in horror and jumped back from the table. The Praetorian guard looked up at Macro too. He gri

‘Hang on,’ said Macro. ‘Where’s your mate?’

The Praetorian gri

Pavo made his way under the temporary wooden stands into the main arena, his heart thumping against his breast bone, a rasping dryness in his throat. Britomaris had already entered the arena to a chorus of jeers as members of the crowd rained down obscenities on him. Britomaris seemed to be enjoying playing the role of villain, slowly turning to each quarter of the crowd in turn and raising a balled fist high above his head in a posture of defiance. His striped tunic and trousers had been replaced with a simple loincloth, so that just a cone-like helmet with a horse tail crest signified his Celtic origins. He carried a long, narrow leather-bound shield with a decorated ceremonial bronze boss and his hair had been dyed blue. Pavo could make out wild streaks of it as he reached the end of the corridor. A pair of officials stood guard at the entrance to the arena. The younger of the two held a convex shield fashioned in the style of a legionary’s, but without an emblem on the front.

The official handed Pavo his shield then placed the legionary helmet over his head. The trainee hefted his shield to chest-height as the crowd shouted impatiently for him to enter the arena.

‘Best of luck, eh,’ the older official said in a rough voice. He smirked at the trainee, revealing a set of rotten teeth with a gap at the front wide enough to push a thumb between. ‘Do us all a favour and try not to make too much of a mess. I don’t want to spend all bloody evening cleaning your guts off the sand.’

Pavo grunted. Then he burst out of the corridor and emerged to a wave of tumultuous cheers and applause. Adrenaline surged in his blood. He forgot about the nausea at the back of his throat and the fear in his bones. His muscles swelled and loosened. Riding a wave of euphoria, Pavo glanced up at the central portico on the west side of the arena. Above the ornamented balustrade stood the makeshift imperial box. The two Greek freedmen were positioned to the left of the Emperor. Pavo recognised the good-looking one as Pallas. The other had curly dark hair and slight features. Murena. Pallas looked anxious. Murena smiled thinly at Pavo, who felt the burning sensation in his throat boil up.

The next few moments passed in a blur. The master of ceremonies introduced the contenders to the crowd and reminded them that today would be a fight to the death. Trumpets blared. Drums beat an insistent rhythm. Another pair of servants entered the arena carrying the weapons. The servant on the left had a spear propped against his shoulder. The servant on the right carried a short sword sheathed in a scabbard which lay flat across his arms. The umpire — a stumpy man with a bald pate and a belly drooping over the belt of his tunic — ordered the servant to unsheathe the sword. He cursorily examined the tip of the blade to check its sharpness, then performed the same action with the spear. Pavo noted the spear’s wide iron head, with secondary tangs to inflict greater damage. An iron spike was attached to the base of the weathered ash shaft.

The umpire looked to Emperor Claudius and gave an approving nod to confirm the killing power of both weapons. The servants handed the spear to Britomaris and the sword to Pavo and hurried aside. Pavo gripped his double-edged short sword. He was still familiarising himself with the feel of his weapon when the Emperor gave the signal and the umpire shouted, ‘Engage!’

Pavo backtracked from Britomaris as soon as the words left the umpire’s mouth, just as Macro had instructed during those gruelling hours of training. The barbarian promptly charged at Pavo, again just as the optio had warned. Taking six swift steps back from the centre of the arena, Pavo raised his shield in a defensive posture as Britomaris stabbed angrily at thin air with his spear. Pavo caught sight of the tangs glinting six inches from his face. He retreated further. The plaza floor covered a sprawling rectangular space roughly twice the size of the amphitheatre at Paestum. Pavo quickly discovered that the enormous space was ideal for his evasive tactics, permitting him to continue to keep dropping away from Britomaris without the risk of being fatally cornered against a wall. Britomaris stormed after the recruit, his thickset legs bounding forward in big strides, his gargantuan torso already gleaming with sweat from his toil.

Pavo relaxed a little. Britomaris was straining with effort and working himself into a frenzy, exactly as he and Macro had pla

Then Britomaris surged forward with astonishing speed and slashed his spear in a downward arc at Pavo’s legs, as if meaning to sever his feet. The low attack caught Pavo by surprise, his shield raised high to protect his chest. In a heartbeat he corrected his stance by ramming the shield down. The metal trim smacked into the sand an inch ahead of his feet and there was a dull clunk as the spear struck the lower half. Britomaris bared his teeth in anger and with a brief flick of the wrist jabbed his spear up at Pavo’s upper torso. The recruit frantically jacked his shield up again and deflected the attack. The spear continued thrusting upwards above Pavo. Britomaris lurched forward as his spear-arm rose high above his head, putting him off-balance. With a rush of blood to his head, Pavo saw an opportunity for a counter-attack. He jerked his sword in a sharp upward thrust as he aimed for the barbarian’s neck. But Britomaris bewildered the recruit a second time with his reflexes, leaning back from the blow and withdrawing his spear arm while, in the same giddy motion, slamming his narrow shield into Pavo and catching him square in the face. His helmet clanged. The noise of the crowd dampened. A ti