Arena: Champion

by Simon Scarrow, T.J. Andrews

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Fiction; Ancient; War & Military; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

The fifth and final instalment in Simon Scarrow's electrifying Arena series sees gladiator Pavo face his most gruelling battle yet as he strives to avenge his father's death.

From the moment his father was executed in the arena for an act of treason, former military tribune and condemned gladiator Marcus Valerius Pavo has burned with the desire for revenge. Now all that stands between Pavo and victory is a man considered by many to be the greatest gladiator to have ever lived: Hermes. But even with Optio Macro as his trainer and the help of the snakish imperial secretary, defeating Hermes appears an impossible task.

With a conspiracy unfolding within the walls of the palace and a storm gathering over Rome, Pavo will have to call on everything he has learned under Macro if he is to his triumph over his father's killer — and become the champion of the arena....

Release date: July 18, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 300

Sample

Marcus Valerius Pavo gazed across the Circus Maximus and waited to catch a glimpse of the man who had killed his father. Tens of thousands of spectators had braved the morning cold to fill the chariot-racing stadium situated between the Aventine and Palatine Hills, filtering out of the entrances leading up from the arcade of shops at street level and making their way along the tiers to their seats. Instead of arriving to watch the usual programme of chariot races, the spectators had descended on the Circus Maximus to watch a rare gladiator bout. The sun glimmered faintly above the Palatine Hill. Palls of smoke drifted up from hundreds of forges amid the distant tenement blocks as Rome stirred slowly into life. From his seat at the lowest tier, Pavo braced himself against the chill breeze sweeping across the stadium and tried to quell the dread coursing through his veins.

‘Where the hell is Hermes?’ the soldier sitting to the right of the young gladiator cursed. ‘I’m freezing my bollocks off out here.’

Pavo turned to his older companion and mentor. Optio Lucius Cornelius Macro had been in a foul mood since the two men had arrived at the Circus Maximus earlier that morning to watch Hermes, the leading gladiator in Rome, in a sparring match against a less well-known opponent. Pavo had awoken at dawn in his cell at the imperial ludus, where he and the other gladiators were imprisoned for the duration of the games, a ten-day celebration of the deification of the Emperor Claudius’s grandmother, Livia. Macro had presented himself at the ludus with orders to escort Pavo to the Circus Maximus. While the excursion ought to have been a welcome break in routine from the drudgery of training, Pavo felt a growing sense of unease building in his chest. In two months he would take to the sand against Hermes, his nemesis, in a fight to the death.

‘Hermes must be appearing shortly,’ Pavo replied. ‘There’s a full programme of chariot races due to take place after this contest. The organisers can’t afford a lengthy delay.’

Macro folded his arms across his stocky chest and grunted. ‘Wherever he is, he’d better get a move on. It’s colder than a Vestal Virgin’s cunny this morning.’

Pavo glanced quickly past his shoulder at the upper tiers and frowned. ‘What exactly are we doing here, Macro?’

‘I told you. Pallas and Murena ordered me to bring you here to watch some journeyman gladiator from Macedonia put the great Hermes through his paces. Seems they wanted you to see Hermes fight before you face him in the arena.’

‘Odd that they’d want me to observe my opponent,’ Pavo mused. ‘I’d have thought those two Greek freedmen would be doing everything in their power to sabotage my preparations for the fight.’

Macro shrugged. ‘Who cares? This is a rare chance to see Hermes in action. If you ask me, it’s the first good idea Pallas has ever had.’

Pavo shuddered at the memory of the imperial secretary, Marcus Antonius Pallas, and his aide, Servius Ulpius Murena. The two freedmen were close advisers to Emperor Claudius, scheming and plotting on his behalf to ruthlessly eliminate anyone who posed a threat to his nascent reign. As the son of Titus, the Legate of the Fifth Legion who had sought to return Rome to a republic in the chaotic days after the assassination of the late Emperor Caligula, Pavo had been regarded as an enemy of the Emperor and a symbol of defiance. Pallas and Murena had attempted to get rid of Pavo by condemning him to the pitiable existence of a gladiator, then by pitting him against a succession of vicious opponents. So far Pavo had defied the odds. And now he was on the verge of realising his revenge.

Pavo frowned and rubbed the bristles on his jaw. He disliked his new beard, but shaving was a luxury that belonged to his former life. ‘Why hold a mere sparring contest in public at the Circus? A practise bout in front of such a crowd is unheard of.’

Macro grunted. ‘Hermes is more of a showman than a gladiator these days. No doubt the organisers are keen to make a profit on the back of it. This lot are dying to see him in action,’ he added, jerking a thumb at the packed tiers.

Pavo glanced up at the crowd. At least a hundred thousand spectators had crammed into the stadium. He could only dream about attracting such a crowd, especially for a practise match with blunted weapons.

‘Have you ever seen Hermes fight, Macro?’

The optio shook his head. ‘Too busy carving up barbarians, lad. But I’ve heard plenty about him. Seems like every new recruit to the Second has seen Hermes fight at one time or another. They can’t stop bloody talking about him in the mess room.’

‘I see,’ Pavo replied tersely.

‘Doubtless his wealth has something to do with it,’ Macro grumbled. ‘Your average gladiator being on a par with a runaway slave or a murderer, and all that. Most gladiators are lucky to last a year. Hermes has been fighting for twenty years – and he’s richer than half the old bastards in the Senate.’

Pavo winced at the thought of the fate awaiting most men in his profession. It was one he hoped to avoid. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he looked at Macro. ‘We should be on the training ground, not watching Hermes go through the motions.’

‘Try to enjoy it, lad.’ Macro eased back and slapped his young charge on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, I don’t see what you’ve got to be so glum about. You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? A fight against Hermes and the chance to avenge your old man.’

Pavo pursed his lips. He knew Macro was right. From the moment Hermes had beheaded his father, the young gladiator had burned with the compulsive desire for revenge. His entire family had suffered at the hands of Claudius. His mother, Drusilla, had been murdered at the family home and his son Appius imprisoned at the imperial palace. Pavo had been stripped of his rank as a military tribune in the Sixth Legion, condemned to the ludus and the shamed life of a gladiator.

‘Pallas and Murena are up to something,’ he reflected sourly. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘That’s life in Rome for you,’ Macro muttered. ‘Too many Greeks for my liking.’ His mood abruptly brightened. ‘Still, once your fight is over I’ll be free to head back to my men on the Rhine frontier. I can’t wait.’

With a firm grunt Macro turned away from Pavo and narrowed his steely gaze at the racetrack, which had been transformed into a gladiator arena for the purpose of the morning display. A chalk-line ellipse had been marked out, stretching from the twelve starting gates at the western end of the track to the second turning post at the near end of the dividing barrier running down the middle of the track, adorned with various monuments and statues of the gods on top of an ornate shrine. Guards from the urban cohort had been drafted to manage the crowds at the stadium. In the distance a scattering of men and women peered down at the track from the tenement blocks teeming along the slopes of the Aventine Hill overlooking the stadium. This was Macro’s first visit to the Circus Maximus and the soldier found the experience a bittersweet one. As a boy he’d missed out on the excitement of the chariot races since his father, Amatus, had taken a dim view of gambling. On race days Amatus used to keep his son busy cleaning cups and wiping down the tables in the dingy tavern he owned in the Aventine. Macro never imagined then that he would one day watch Hermes fight here.

Earlier that morning Macro had attended a special announcement held in the Roman Forum. A huge crowd had gathered to hear official confirmation of the fight between Pavo and Hermes. Rumours had been swirling through the taverns and bathhouses since the young gladiator’s triumph in the group fight the previous day, when his request to face Hermes had been approved by Emperor Claudius. The air in the Forum had been drenched in the fragrant aroma of exotic spices from nearby market stalls while the sun burned in a clear sky as the speaker’s voice boomed off the surrounding porticoes. The two men would be competing as provocators – a type of heavily armoured gladiator that Pavo had never fought before. Only seasoned gladiators fought as provocators, Macro knew, due to the skill and muscle necessary to move about the arena.

At the same time the sponsors had announced that the date of the fight, originally scheduled for the tenth and final day of the games, had been pushed back two months to give both fighters ample time to prepare for the contest. Few among the crowd complained about this development. The tavern owners and merchants hawking memorabilia now had more time to make a healthy profit from the many thousands of gladiator fans who had descended on Rome, and the bookmakers stood to make a killing from cashing in on fervent speculation over the contest. The decision had puzzled Macro, who had assumed the imperial secretary would want to rush Pavo back into the arena as quickly as possible, giving him little time in which to rest and prepare for his fight. Coupled with the offer to watch Hermes in action at the Circus Maximus, Macro shared his young charge’s concerns. There was always some scheming motive behind everything that Pallas and Murena did, he knew.

At that moment the central starting ga. . .