He lowered his gaze to the fighters on the other side of the chalk line and felt his blood run cold. The gladiators armed with two legionary swords looked confident, gripping their weapons in the manner of seasoned fighters. The short, stocky man trembling beside Pavo was in keeping with the general demeanour of the rest of his companions. They were nervous and gripped their weapons clumsily. Gritting his teeth, Pavo realised that he’d need to call on all his experience and fighting skills in order to survive — and save his son.
‘Prepare to die, Roman.’
Amadocus took a step towards Pavo, his neck muscles bulging as he drew the sword in his right hand level with his chin and pointed the tip at the young gladiator.
‘We’re on different teams, thank the gods.’ The Thracian grinned cruelly. ‘Now I’ll get a chance to show everyone I’m the real champion of the arena. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time.’
Pavo shook his head. ‘You don’t scare me. I’ve beaten better men than you.’
‘Bullshit! I’m a champion of the arena. Not like those drunks and barbarians you’ve fought. As for this lot,’ he ran his eyes across the gladiators around Pavo, ‘I’ll cut these useless shits down before the Emperor warms his arse on his cushion. Once they’re out of the way, I’ll hack you to pieces. Then I’ll collect my reward.’
A shout from the eastern gate cut Pavo off before he could reply as Nerva ordered the attendants and guards towards the passageway. The gate clanged shut behind the last guard. Now every pair of eyes in the arena fixed on the umpire, and the same cold chill coursed through Pavo’s veins that he always felt before a fight. Spectators heckled the umpire, urging him to give the signal so that the fight could begin. The umpire ignored the calls, waiting until all the weapons and equipment had been checked and the gates were secure. Satisfied that the preparations were complete, he at last removed himself to a safe distance from the fighters and raised his wooden stick high above his head. The crowd hushed. No one moved.
There was a dull thwack as the umpire beat his stick against the sand.
‘Gladiators … FIGHT!’
At once the opposing group of gladiators charged towards the line, the Germans’ full-throated war cries echoing above the roar of the crowd. Some of the fighters on Pavo’s side froze with fear at the sight of dozens of sharp sword tips glinting at them. The stocky man to Pavo’s right hurled his sword and shield at the onrushing opponents and turned on the spot, sprinting towards the eastern gate. Another fighter let his shield fall and, clasping both hands around the sword grip, turned the blade inward and jerked it up into the roof of his mouth, preferring to take his own life than suffer a grisly death at the hands of the veteran gladiators. The powdered chalk line quickly disappeared under the feet of the onrushing fighters.
A gaunt-looking man charged at Pavo. A grim determination swept through the young gladiator at the moment of battle. The life of his son was in his hands. He would not let Appius down. He tucked his shield tight to his chest and focused on the gladiator racing towards him. The man screamed manically at the top of his voice as he slashed at Pavo, bringing both swords above his head in a wide arc. The weapons trembled in his grip. Pavo sidestepped sharply to his left, avoiding the blow as momentum carried the ragged man forward, the two swords dragging his scrawny frame down and presenting his neck to Pavo. In a burst of motion the young gladiator thrust his sword at his opponent. The gaunt fighter had enough time to register a look of dumb surprise on his face before the curved blade plunged into his neck. He gasped in agony as it punched through his throat. Pavo wrestled his sword free of his opponent. Blood flowed freely from the wound. The man sank to his knees, gurgling curses at the young gladiator as he pawed at his gashed throat.
Pavo glimpsed a blur of movement in the corner of his eye. He spun round just in time to see two blade tips flashing in the air and slashing towards his throat as a burly, thickly bearded gladiator lunged at him. He jerked his head back with lightning reflexes, his muscles reaping the benefit of the hours of training under Macro in the ludus. His opponent jerked his shoulder, angling the blade up at the last moment. The blade tip nicked the young gladiator on the cheek. Pavo felt a hot pain flare on the side of his face and warm blood trickle down his neck. He shook his head clear as the bearded gladiator aimed his second sword at him. Now Pavo punched out with his small shield. There was a brittle clatter as the sword glanced off the metal boss, and a powerful shudder stung his forearm muscles. Then he pushed forward, crashing into his opponent with his shield clasped tight to his shoulder. The shield juddered as Pavo struck his opponent on the jaw, following up with a quick jab of his sword tip at the fighter’s midriff. The man spasmed wildly as the curved blade sank into his bowels. Pavo flicked his wrist, angling the blade up into his opponent’s chest and puncturing his vitals. The man clawed at Pavo, trying to gouge his eyes out. Pavo ripped his sword free and watched the man fall away, his heart pounding inside his chest like a beating drum. Each slain fighter brought him a step closer to securing the safe passage of his son out of Rome.
He glanced around him at the unfolding battle. The groans of the dying mingled with the relentless wet slap of metal slamming against flesh. The group fight had descended into a mass brawl and any pretence of organised combat between the rival groups was quickly abandoned as the mostly inexperienced fighters on Pavo’s side were overwhelmed by the superior skills of their opponents. The crowd let out cries of delight as the two Germans tore into a handful of Pavo’s terrified companions, some of whom hacked in an uncoordinated frenzy at their opponents while others tried to flee. One fighter threw his sword at one of the Germans in desperation. His opponent parried the makeshift missile and pounded towards his foe. Gripped by terror, the fighter ripped off his shield and chucked it at the German. The enormous gladiator brushed aside the shield and buried a sword in his enemy’s groin. Pavo’s companion howled in agony and keeled over, both hands clasped despairingly around the pommel of the sword protruding from his midriff. At least half of the fighters were now strewn across the sand, Pavo noticed. The survivors on his side were fighting for their lives in isolated pairs, hacking and slashing at their powerful opponents with increasingly desperate attacks.
‘Roman! You’re mine!’
Glancing across the corpse-strewn arena floor, Pavo glimpsed Amadocus limping towards him, his eyes burning with hatred, blood dripping from his mane of long hair. His jaws were clamped shut as he fought through the pain of several cuts. A heavily scarred man blocked his path towards Pavo. The man unwisely stood his ground, crouching behind his shield and blindly thrusting his blade at his Thracian opponent. Amadocus bared his teeth and stabbed at the man, who hefted up his shield at the last moment. The sword tip rang as it glanced off the boss. Losing patience, Amadocus cast aside one of his two swords, reached out and grasped the edge of his opponent’s shield. The man tried to pull it back. But Amadocus was more than a match for him, even with an injured leg and missing fingers, and he proceeded to smash the shield against the man’s face with brute strength. The man let out a nasal groan as the blow shattered his nose. He stumbled away from Amadocus, cupping his hands to his face. Amadocus thrust his sword at him with such force that the blade buried itself in his stomach up to the pommel. He wasted no time in kicking his stricken opponent aside, then he retrieved his discarded sword and hurried on towards his rival.