Many of the gladiators were still armed with only clay shards or sticks, but the Germans showed no mercy, slashing at them with savage force. One gladiator charged at the Germans, swinging a wooden stake. He managed to jab one in the stomach and stunned a second with a sharp blow to his jaw. The gladiator let out a defiant roar as several more Germans descended on him, pounding him with their fists and thrusting ruthlessly at his prone figure. The man made a gurgling noise. A moment later one of the Germans hoisted the gladiator’s decapitated head above the battle, the mouth slack and the eyes popped wide in a picture of mortal terror, a loose knot of veins and sinew dangling underneath it. Macro recognised the gladiator as one of Bato’s loyal followers. With an animal roar the German struck another gladiator with the severed head, knocking him to the ground. Then he hurled the head through the air before continuing the attack against the remaining gladiators.
From the rear of the gladiator mob Bato watched the German advance unfold, his face a picture of mortal terror. Macro spied Duras tugging at his leader, imploring him to leave the fight as the Germans slashed their way through the defenceless gladiators. The Thracian pumped his fist at the optio. Then the two gladiators began picking their way out of the melee. Macro watched them flee and felt his pulse quicken. He gestured to Pavo and Bassus.
‘Follow me!’
He raced ahead of the men, weaving through the gladiators engulfed in the relentless German onslaught. Ahead of him a burly Thracian swung round, blocking his path. Adjusting his stance at the last possible moment, Macro thrust his blade at the man, aiming for the lower chest. The blade juddered in his grip as the tip glanced off the gladiator’s ribcage and pierced his vital organs. The gladiator mouthed a silent scream, his limbs trembling in agony as he stumbled backwards. Macro raced on. But the gladiators were being pushed back by the sheer ferocity of the enemy attack and he kept losing sight of his prey amid the crushing chaos.
At last he spotted two German guards who had cornered Duras and Bato as they attempted to flee. One of the Germans thrust his spear at Duras. The bodyguard gripped the shaft before the tip could nick his flesh, and snapped the spear in two. He swung at the German and floored him with one blow to the chin, then pummelled the floored German into submission with his spiked gloves. At the same time Bato avoided the thrust from the second German’s long sword, his lightning-quick reflexes allowing him to duck and attack in the same move, plunging the four-pronged dagger into the man’s groin. The German gasped. Bato twisted his wrist, shredding the guard’s manhood, grinning as he watched him fall to the ground. Then he pulled Duras away from the fight, leaving the savagely beaten German on the sand, his face caved in, his eyes, nose and teeth reduced to a glistening, bloodied pulp. They continued ducking and diving through the swarm of gladiators, heading towards the practice arena. Macro struggled to contain the rage building inside him.
‘Bastards!’ he snarled. ‘Don’t let them get away!’
Pavo caught up with Macro and surveyed the training ground. The sand had darkened. Puddles of blood glistened. Pockets of gladiators were fleeing the battle and heading for the sanctuary of the dormitory in a ragged retreat. The Germans hunted them down, bellowing their barbaric delight to a chorus of frenzied stabbing and thrusting.
Bassus pointed ahead. ‘Look, sir!’
At the far end of the training ground a pair of silhouettes reached the western wall. Bato and Duras looked frantically around them. To the north, the Germans swarmed round the dormitory, cutting down even those gladiators who raised their hands in surrender, mutilating their corpses. One gladiator begged for mercy as the Germans booted him to the ground and plunged a spear into his guts. The man’s eyes bulged in his sockets as the spear bored into his stomach. To the east, the battle raged. The two Thracians realised their only way of retreat was south.
Bassus squinted. ‘They’re heading to the practice arena.’
Macro growled in his throat. ‘Good. Nowhere for them to run. Let’s finish this.’
The three men broke across the training ground, stepping between the slain gladiators and Germans. Darkness had now settled over the horizon and a full moon shimmered in the sky, washing the ludus in a pale light. The screams and clangs of the raging battle faded as they swept through the arched entrance leading to the arena and stopped in the centre, running their eyes across the wooden galleries.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ Macro whispered. ‘Pavo, secure the gallery. Bassus, stay here. Guard the entrance.’
Macro and Pavo separated, cautiously searching the small arena for any sign of their prey. Then a scream pierced the air and Pavo swivelled his gaze away from the galleries and looked towards Macro. The optio stood unhurt. Pavo glanced towards the entrance just in time to see Bassus staggering under the arch, croaking with pain. Four prong tips jutted out of his throat. He shuddered, then fell limp. Bato stood past his shoulder, grinning feverishly. He yanked his dagger out of Bassus’s throat and booted the dead guard to the ground, stepping through the arena entrance. At the same time Duras charged across the sand, his arms spread wide, his head lowered in a bull-charge posture, his features twisted into an almost inhuman look of hate. The bodyguard knocked the sword out of Macro’s grip before he could thrust at him, clamped his hands on the stunned optio’s shoulders and wrestled him to the ground.
Pavo spun back towards Bato. The Thracian toyed with his dagger.
‘Your friend can’t save you this time, Roman,’ he seethed. ‘Now I’ll show you how a true First Sword fights.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Thracian leapt at Pavo in a blur of motion. The young gladiator had never seen a fighter move with such stunning speed and precision, his shoulders hunched, springing forward on the balls of his feet, so light and fast that he almost seemed to fly across the sand. He was upon Pavo in the blink of an eye, driving the dagger at his opponent’s stomach. Pavo jumped back awkwardly. The prong tips scratched his flesh and a hot flush of blood trickled down the bronze First Sword belt wrapped round his loincloth. Spitting mad, Bato drove at Pavo again, giving the young gladiator no time to correct his stance. Grimacing through the waves of pain, Pavo batted away the dagger with his shield. The prongs gashed the shield, and the Thracian abruptly followed through with a stamp on Pavo’s ankle, sending him reeling backwards, the shield wrenched from his left hand. Pavo dropped to the sand, a grim voice at the back of his head telling him that he could not defeat Bato, not with his injuries, not against such an agile and ruthless opponent. He glimpsed Macro a short distance away. Duras had the optio pinned to the ground, his spiked glove raised high, ready to strike a killer blow. But Macro thrust out a hand above his head, parrying the glove then headbutting Duras on the bridge of his nose. The young gladiator took heart from the optio’s mettle.
‘You’re mine, Roman scum!’ Bato jeered.
Pavo swung his eyes back to the Thracian. In a flash Bato plunged his dagger at the young gladiator, who turned cold at the sight of the prongs angling at his throat. Deprived of his shield, he thrust his sword above his chest, jamming his legionary blade between the steel prongs. There was an ear-piercing screech as metal scraped against metal, Bato driving the dagger down the length of the blade until the prongs struck the pommel of the sword. Then Pavo rolled to his left, wrenching his shoulder and releasing his grip on his weapon. The sword flew through the air, ripping the dagger from Bato’s hand, and the two weapons clattered to the sand by the arena entrance. Pavo’s heart was pounding and his breathing was hard. Seeing that his opponent had lost both his sword and his shield, the Thracian snarled with excitement and surged towards him. Ignoring the swelling pain in his ribs, Pavo launched himself to his feet with such speed that even the agile Thracian was caught unawares, and drove his fist into the rebel gladiator’s stomach. A keening sound came from Bato’s throat as he doubled over in pain. The shield dropped from his grip and hit the sand. Sucking in the pain, he straightened and parried another blow from the young gladiator. Then he balled his hands into fists and adopted a fighting stance.