Arena: Barbarian (Book One of the Roman Arena Series) Read online

  Arena: Barbarian

  Simon Scarrow

  Copyright © 2012 Simon Scarrow

  The right of Simon Scarrow to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 9817 1

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Also by Simon Scarrow

  About the Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Glossary

  Author’s Note

  Praetorian Extract

  About the Author

  Simon Scarrow taught history before becoming a full-time writer in 2005. His Roman soldier heroes Cato and Macro first stormed the book shops in 2000 in UNDER THE EAGLE, and have subsequently appeared in other bestsellers including THE GLADIATOR and THE LEGION (see inside for a full list of titles in Simon’s Roman series). His 400-year-old house in Norfolk is in an area colonised by the Romans in the first century AD, and home to the rebellious tribal leader Boudica. The inspiration for his books comes when walking his dogs around the ruins of a Roman town just outside Norwich.

  Simon has many other literary projects in hand including a young adult Roman series. He also develops projects for television and film with his brother Alex.

  To find out more about Simon Scarrow and his novels, visit www.catoandmacro.com and www.scarrow.co.uk.

  Also by Simon Scarrow

  The Roman Series

  Under the Eagle

  The Eagle’s Conquest

  When the Eagle Hunts

  The Eagle and the Wolves

  The Eagle’s Prey

  The Eagle’s Prophecy

  The Eagle in the Sand

  Centurion

  The Gladiator

  The Legion

  Praetorian

  The Wellington and Napoleon Quartet

  Young Bloods

  The Generals

  Fire and Sword

  The Fields of Death

  The Roman Arena Series

  Arena: Barbarian

  Sword and Scimitar

  About the Book

  The first in an ebook-exclusive series of action-packed novellas set in Ancient Rome introducing Pavo, a novice gladiator, and featuring Simon Scarrow’s ongoing soldier character Optio Macro.

  It is AD 41. The savage Gaul Britomaris has defeated the best of the Roman gladiators in the arena. Now a young trainee, Marcus Valerius Pavo, the son of a murdered general, has been given a month to prepare to face Britomaris in a fight which only one man can survive. He is to be trained by veteran soldier Macro, who fears for his young trainee’s chances. But Pavo is motivated by more than a simple desire for victory or survival, and Britomaris may yet be facing his most dangerous opponent . . .

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rome, late 41 AD

  The imperial gladiator blinked sweat from his eyes and watched the stadium officials drag away the dead bodies carpeting the arena floor.

  From his position in the shadows of the passageway, Gaius Naevius Capito had a panoramic view of the aftermath of the mock battle. A crude reconstruction of a Celtic settlement stood in the middle of the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre, which was littered with the dead. Capito lifted his eyes to the galleries. He could see the new Emperor at the podium, flanked by a cabal of freedmen jostling for attention, with the senators and imperial high priests seated at the periphery in their distinctive togas. Above the podium the crowd was squeezed shoulder to shoulder on the stone seats lining the upper galleries. Capito felt a shiver in his bones as the crowd roared. He looked on as a pair of officials prodded a slumped barbarian with a heated iron. The man jolted. The crowd jeered at his attempt to play dead and one of the officials signalled to a servant wielding a massive double-sided hammer. A second official finished sprinkling fresh white sand over the blood-flecked arena floor. Then they retreated to the passageway, resting in the shadows a few paces away from Capito.

  ‘Look at this shit,’ one of the officials moaned as he held up his blood-smeared hands. ‘It’ll take me bloody ages to clean this mess off.’

  ‘Gladiators,’ the other official grumbled. ‘Selfish buggers.’

  Capito frowned at them as the servant with the hammer strode over to the Gaul and towered over the fallen man, smiling gleefully as he smashed the hammer into the barbarian’s skull. Capito heard the crack of shattering bone and grimaced. As the highest-ranked gladiator of the Julian school in Capua, he took great pride in his handiwork. But this spectacle had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d looked on from the passageway as gladiators dressed as legionaries had massacred their opponents – a mixture of condemned men and slaves armed with blunted instruments. There had been little skill involved. He considered it an affront to his profession.

  An official dragged away the last of the dead with a metal hook.

  ‘A bloodbath,’ Capito muttered to himself. ‘Just a bloodbath.’

  ‘What did you just say?’ one of the officials demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ Capito replied.

  The official was about to speak again when the editor called out Capito’s name in a sonorous tone that soared up to the highest galleries. The crowd roared. The official jerked a thumb towards the blood-splattered sand.

  ‘You’re on,’ he growled. ‘Now remember. This is the showpiece event. Twenty thousand people have come here to see this. The Emperor is up there and he’s counting on you to give Britomaris a bloody good hiding. Don’t let him down.’

  Capito nodded cautiously. His fight represented the main event of the first major spectacle given to the people by Emperor Claudius. The afternoon had seen a recreation of a pitched battle involving hundreds of men, with the gladiators predictably triumphing over the ill-equipped barbaric horde. Now the pride of the imperial gladiators would fight a barbarian playing the chief of a Celtic tribe. But this was not any old barbarian. Britomaris had already notched up five victories in the arena, to the surprise of seasoned observers. Barbarians without any proper schooling in the way of the sword usually met a grisly demise on their debut, and Britomaris’s run of wins had unsettled the veterans at the imperial school. Capito dismissed such concerns and reassured himself that the men Britomaris had faced in previous bouts were lesser warriors than he. Capito was a legend of the arena. A bringer of death and winner of glory. He flexed his neck muscles as he swore to teach Britomaris a lesson. His confidence was further boosted by the fact that he wore the full complement of equipment, including leg greaves, arm manicas and a plate cuirass, as well
as a long red cloak draped over his back. The armour was to guarantee victory. With the Emperor in attendance the idea of a Roman – even a gladiator dressed as a Roman – losing to a barbarian was too much to stomach. But the heavy armour had its drawbacks. With the heavily decorated helmet over his head, the complete panoply caused Capito to break out in a suffocating sweat.

  The official handed him a short sword and a rectangular legionary shield. Capito gripped the sword in his right hand and took the shield with his left. He focused on the dark mouth of the passageway facing him from the opposite side of the arena floor. The gladiator watched a figure slowly emerge from the shadows, head glancing left and right, as if bemused by his surroundings.

  A barbarian who’d notched up a few fortuitous wins, Capito told himself. Armed with a blunted weapon. The gladiator vowed to put Britomaris in his place.

  Capito stepped out into the arena and marched towards the centre where the umpire stood, tapping his wooden stick against the side of his right leg. The sun glared down and rendered the sand blisteringly hot under his bare feet. He glanced up at the crowd lining the galleries. Some were slaking their thirst from small wine jars, while others fanned themselves. A large group of legionaries packed into one corner of the gallery were in boisterous mood. There were women too, Capito thought with a lustful smile. He felt a pang of pride that so many people had come to see him, the great Capito.

  The metallic stench of blood choked the air as Capito felt the full force of the heat rising from the ground. Right at the top of the arena, above the highest gallery, dozens of sailors manipulated vast awnings in an attempt to provide shade to the crowd. But the sun had shifted position and foiled their efforts. The freedmen in the upper galleries were in shade, while the dignitaries below had to suffer the heat.

  Trumpets blasted. Capito tightened his grip on the sword. The crowd simultaneously craned their necks at the passageway opposite him. The gladiator shut out the noise of the arena and focused solely on the barbarian pacing heavily towards him.

  Capito suppressed a smile. Britomaris looked almost too big for his own good. His legs were wide as tree trunks at the thigh and his arm- and shoulder-muscles were buried under a layer of fat. He tramped ponderously into the centre of the arena, as if every step required great exertion. Capito couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that Britomaris had won five fights. His opponents must have been even worse than he had first imagined. The barbarian wore a pair of brightly coloured trousers and a sleeveless woollen tunic fastened at the waist with a belt. He had no armour. No leg greaves or manicas or helmet. His weapons consisted of a leather-covered wooden shield with a metal boss and a spear with a blunted tip. The umpire motioned with his stick for the gladiators to stop, face to face. The men stood two sword-lengths apart.

  ‘All right, lads,’ the umpire said. ‘I want a fair and clean fight. Now remember, this is a fight to the death. There will be no mercy, so don’t waste your time begging the Emperor. Accept your fate with honour. Understood?’

  Capito nodded. Britomaris showed no reaction. He probably didn’t even speak Latin, thought the imperial gladiator with a sneer. The umpire looked to the editor in the podium, seated not far from the Emperor himself. The editor gave the sign.

  ‘Engage!’ the umpire bellowed, and with a swoosh of his stick the fight began.

  The barbarian immediately lumbered towards Capito.

  His swift attack caught the imperial gladiator by surprise. But Capito read the jerk of his opponent’s elbow as he made to thrust his spear and quickly sidestepped, dropping his right shoulder and leaving the barbarian stabbing at thin air. The barbarian lurched forward as momentum carried his cumbersome frame beyond Capito, and now the imperial gladiator angled his torso at his rival and slashed at his right calf. Britomaris let out an animal howl of agony as the blade cut into his flesh. The crowd appreciated the move, cheering at the sight of blood flowing freely from the calf wound and spattering the white sand.

  Capito revelled in the roar of the mob.

  The barbarian staggered and launched his spear at the gladiator. Capito anticipated the move and ducked. The spear hurtled over him and thwacked uselessly into the sand to his rear. Fuming, Britomaris charged towards Capito, bellowing with pain, rage and fear. Capito calmly jerked his shield up sharply – a carefully rehearsed move practised many times before on the ludus training ground. There was a sudden thud as the iron edge of the shield crashed into the underside of Britomaris’s jaw bone. The barbarian grunted. The cheers in the crowd grew feverish and amid the din the gladiator could hear individual voices. Men and women shrieking his name. Down in the blood-soaked arena, the barbarian hobbled backwards. Blood oozed from his nose and mouth. Sweat flowed freely down his neck. He could hardly stand.

  A voice in the lower galleries shouted at Capito, ‘Finish him!’

  ‘Don’t show the bastard any mercy!’

  ‘Go for the throat!’ a woman screamed.

  Capito didn’t care if the spectacle was a little short. The crowd wanted blood, and he would provide it. He moved in for the kill and stepped towards the barbarian, his shield hoisted and his sword elbow tucked tightly to his side. The barbarian raised his fists, making one last stand as the gladiator closed in. Advancing swiftly, Capito thrust his sword at his opponent and stabbed at an upward angle, aiming just above the ribcage.

  But the barbarian stunned Capito by kicking the bottom of his shield. As he did so, the top tilted forward and in a flash the barbarian wrenched it down at the gladiator’s feet. Capito grunted as the metal rim crushed the toes of his left foot. The barbarian ripped the shield away from Capito and kicked him in the groin. Capito staggered backwards, dazed by what had happened, rattled by the same thought as the five gladiators who had faced Britomaris previously. How could such a large man move so quickly?

  The barbarian followed up with a weighted punch that struck Capito on the shoulder and shuddered through his bones. He collapsed onto the sand and in a flash Britomaris threw himself forward. The two men rolled in the sand, exchanging blows while the umpire stood a few paces away and ordered them both to their feet. But he was powerless to intervene. Capito tried to scrabble clear but the barbarian smashed a fist into him and sent the gladiator crashing face down into the sand. The blow stunned Capito. He lay there for a moment in dumb shock and wondered what had happened to his sword. Then he felt a powerful blow like teeth sinking into his flesh strike him on the back. Something warm and wet was draining out of his back and down his legs. He rolled onto his side and saw Britomaris towering over him and grasping a sword. It was Capito’s sword.

  Capito became conscious of blood pooling around him, gushing out of his back. ‘What?’ he said disbelievingly. ‘But . . . how . . .?’

  The crowd went deadly quiet. Capito felt sick. His mouth was suddenly very dry. Blotches bubbled across his vision. The crowd implored him to get up and fight, but he couldn’t. The blow had struck deep. He could feel blood filling his lungs.

  ‘I call on you, gods,’ he gasped. ‘Save me.’

  He glanced up at the podium in despair. The Emperor stared down with cold disapproval. Capito knew he could expect no mercy. None of the gladiators could be granted a reprieve – not even the highest-ranking imperial warrior. His reputation demanded that he accept death fearlessly.

  Capito trembled as he struggled onto his knees, clamped his hands around the solid legs of Britomaris and bowed deeply, presenting himself for execution. He stared hopelessly at the bloodied sand as he silently cursed himself for underestimating his opponent. He prayed that whoever faced Britomaris next would not make the same mistake.

  His limbs spasmed as the sword plunged into his neck behind his collarbone, and tore deep into his heart.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The officer raised his head slowly from his cup of wine and focused on the two Praetorian guards standing in front of him, dimly lit by the dull glow of a single oil lamp. Outside the inn, the street was pitch-black.


  ‘Lucius Cornelius Macro, optio of the Second Legion?’ the guard on the left barked. The officer nodded with pride and raised his cup to the guards. They wore plain white togas over their tunics, he noticed, which was the distinctive garb of the Praetorian Guard.

  ‘That’s me,’ Macro slurred. ‘Come to hear the story behind my decoration too, I suppose. Well, take a seat, lads, and I’ll give you every grisly detail. But it’ll cost you a jug of wine. None of that Gallic swill though, eh?’

  The guard stared humourlessly at Macro. ‘You’re required to come with us.’

  ‘What, right now?’ Macro looked at the young guard on the right. ‘Isn’t it past your bedtime, lad?’

  The young Praetorian glared with outrage at the officer. The guard on the left cleared his throat and said, ‘We are here on orders from the imperial palace.’

  Macro sobered up. A summons to the imperial household, well after dusk? He shook his head.

  ‘You must be mistaken. I’ve already collected my award.’ He proudly tapped the bronze medals strapped across his chest, which he’d been presented with by the Emperor before the festivities at the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre earlier that day. The defeat of Capito had cast a cloud over proceedings and Macro had left his seat as soon as the gladiator had fallen, sensing the mood of the crowd was about to turn ugly. He’d sunk a skinful of wine at the Sword and Shield tavern not far from the amphitheatre. It was a stinking hovel with foul wine, redeemed by the fact that the owner was an old sweat from the Second Legion who insisted on plying Macro with free drinks in recognition of his decoration.

  ‘The Praetorian Guard doesn’t make mistakes,’ the guard said bluntly. ‘Now come with us.’

  ‘No use arguing with you boys, is there?’ Macro slid out of his bench and reluctantly followed the guards outside.

  The crowds had taken their anger out on everything in the streets. Market stalls had been overthrown. Carved miniature statuettes of Capito with their heads smashed off littered the ground, and Macro had to watch his step as he ambled down the covered portico of the Flaminian Way towards the Fontinalian Gate. The Julian plaza stood at his right, its ornate marble façade commemorating Caesar. To his left stood rows of extravagant private residences.