Arena by Simon Scarrow

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, he thought. I can ask them for directions. The voices were hushed and hurried, the soldier realised as he drew close 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 was carefully dipping 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 grinned, seemingly unflustered by the optio’s sudden entrance.
    ‘Hang on,’ said Macro. ‘Where’s your mate?’
    The Praetorian grinned still. Confusion clouded Macro. Then he heard footsteps behind him, too late for him to spin around. A dull thud crashed down on the optio’s skull. His world went black.
     
    Pavo made his way under the temporary wooden stands into the main arena, his heart thumping against his breastbone, 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 the 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 the shield, then placed a 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. Adrenalin 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, he 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