He emerged into the arena, blinking in the glare of the late autumn sun. His ears were assaulted by the terrible din echoing from all sides. A faintly stale stench of spilled blood lingered in the air. Dark stains tarnished the glittering sand. Pavo shielded his eyes. Yesterday’s gently fluttering breeze had dissipated. Now the atmosphere in the arena was muggy, with the massed ranks of spectators packed tightly inside the amphitheatre and the air thick with blood and sweat. Cold beads of sweat trickled down Pavo’s back. The heat of the arena smothered him. His mouth was salty from the charcoal drink and he craved a sip of water.
Trumpets blared. The roar of the crowd reached a new crescendo and Pavo sensed ten thousand necks craning to get a look at him as he paced towards the middle of the arena. Spectators had squeezed in shoulder to shoulder. The capacity crowd throbbed with excitement and anticipation. Pavo ran his eyes across the galleries. The arena in Paestum had four levels, with a steep balbic set at the foot of the lowest gallery to act as a parapet and protect the aristocrats from the bloodletting that took place in the arena. A short step up from the balbic stood the podium. The place reserved for the Emperor had been left unoccupied in a nod to his ultimate sponsorship of the spectacle. Murena and Pallas sat either side of the empty seat. Gurges had managed to secure a place in the gallery immediately behind the freedmen. The lanista was dressed in his ceremonial outfit of an off-white woollen toga cumbersomely draped over his slight figure. Shadows wavered across the dignitaries from the awnings flapping above the arena. Gurges had skimped on the size of the awnings, Pavo realised. The sheets provided relief only for the dignitaries assembled at the podium and the surrounding galleries.
‘Oi, fisherman! Catch me a sardine!’ a voice shouted from a section of the gallery above the tunnel. A chorus of laughter rippled through the crowd. Pavo turned to face the spectator. He was a savagely fat man. His face was blasted red by the sun and the jug of wine in his hands. He stood up from his seat and shook his fist at Pavo. ‘Denter is going to have your guts for supper.’
Pavo recognised the man from the gang of Pompeiians at the banquet the previous day. With a start he realised that entire galleries were taken up by Denter’s supporters. Their number had swelled to fill a quarter of the arena. Despite being outnumbered, they quickly set about stoking tension between the rival supporters, drowning out the locals with a string of rhyming chants that detailed the sexual proclivities of Paestum’s women. Towards the highest tier of seats several drunken Pompeiians stood up and bared their hairy backsides to Pavo in unison.
The umpire tapped his foot impatiently in the middle of the arena. Gritting his teeth, Pavo tried to clear his mind of all distractions. An image of Hermes loomed large in his mind, reminding him of his purpose. He paced towards the umpire with renewed vigour, determined to triumph over Denter.
A wave of boos from three-quarters of the arena announced the entrance of his opponent. Denter stormed out of the opposite tunnel and half ran across the sand towards Pavo and the umpire. Boisterous cheers erupted from the hooligans. Pavo focused on the veteran as he drew nearer. Then Denter lowered his legionary shield a notch and Pavo felt the blood freeze in his veins as he saw a coat of ringmail protecting his opponent’s torso. Gasps broke out among the mob. Pavo had been to many fights at the Statilius Taurus arena in Rome, but he had never heard of a gladiator fighting with such heavy protection. He lifted his eyes to the podium. Pallas and Murena swapped knowing glances. Gurges smirked. Around them dignitaries squirmed in their seats at this crude manipulation of the odds in favour of Denter.
‘Those filthy Greeks,’ Pavo muttered under his breath. ‘They deceived me.’
The umpire signalled with his stick for the fight to commence.
Both men held their ground for a moment. Denter carried the weight of his armour easily. As well as the ringmail coat, he had been equipped with metal arm and leg greaves supported with padded guards, and his head was completely encased inside a smooth, brimless metal helmet. A pair of small eyeholes afforded him a limited view of the arena. The helmet gave the veteran a terrifying appearance. Both men breathed hard in the sweltering heat. Pavo was already drenched in sweat and he had yet to launch an attack.
The umpire scampered out of the way as Denter made the first move, hoisting his large rectangular shield to his chest and edging towards Pavo. A symbol of Fortuna had been painted on the calfskin cover of the shield. The gladiators were separated by a distance a little greater than the length of a legionary javelin. Pavo kept his opponent at bay by holding the trident in an underarm grip with the weathered-ash shaft resting on the underside of his forearm. He would have preferred a two-handed grip to put more force into each thrust, but the coiled net in his left hand forced him to fight one-handed. He kept the tines angled at waist height, allowing him to attack Denter’s upper torso or legs in rapid succession. He continued patiently circling his opponent. The Pompeiians urged Denter to attack. He snarled his rage and with a fierce snort charged at Pavo, shifting his weight on to his right foot and angling the point of his short sword at his opponent’s bare chest.
Pavo jumped back from the attack and in a beat sidestepped to the left, swiftly circling his opponent and thrusting his trident at Denter’s exposed groin. At the very last moment the veteran swung around and became aware of the tines driving at his mid-section. He let out a harsh roar as he deflected the trident with a rugged swipe of his shield. Pavo felt his elbow lock into position as the weapon arrowed harmlessly towards the sky. The weight and momentum of the trident dragged on Pavo and he lurched forward and abruptly found himself within range of Denter’s short sword. With a neat flick of the wrist the veteran jerked his arm up and slammed the base of his sword into Pavo’s temple. An ear-shattering noise ripped through his skull and a burst of white flashed before his eyes.
Denter came at Pavo again. The young gladiator stumbled backwards, his head ringing and his legs swaying. Blotches of colour floated across his line of sight. He moved away from his opponent as swiftly as he could, thankful that he wasn’t bogged down under a full complement of armour like Denter. For every one step his opponent took, Pavo took two. He rapidly retreated and in four steps had cleared himself out of stabbing range. Denter held back, gathering his breath for a renewed attack. Pavo shaped to manoeuvre to the side.
‘What the …’
Pavo froze in horror. He looked down at his feet as the feeling drained from his legs. It was as if someone had severed him at the torso. For a moment he faltered on the spot, clinging to his trident for support. His lips tingled. His cheeks numbed. The blotches in his vision multiplied. Gradually he felt a loss of sensation in every part of his body. To audible gasps among the crowd, he sank despairingly to his knees. The umpire flashed a questioning glance at the young fighter. Gripping his trident for dear life, Pavo tried to utter a warning of distress, begging the umpire to call off the fight. But an invisible noose had tightened around his neck. His breath felt as if it was trapped in his throat, and when he tried to speak, only a croak escaped from his cold lips.
A chill disquiet descended over the arena. The crowd became openly hostile as they realised that their hero was doomed. Pavo collapsed on to his front, dimly aware of the murmurs of discontent spreading like a fire through the upper galleries. Enfeebled, he lifted his eyes to see Denter charging at him, dragging his sword by his side, the tip cutting a line through the hot sand.