‘Well, boy?’ he rasped. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Pavo forced his tensed muscles to relax and held his ground for a moment. He studied Ruga carefully, determined not to get caught out this time. His opponent had no sword to attack with, so it ought to be relatively simple to rout him. Ruga held the shield in a sturdy grip, with his elbow tucked tight to his chest, the top edge level with his chin and the bottom edge reaching down to his knee. The shield thus covered the main part of his body.
Taking a deep breath, Pavo surged at Ruga and plunged the wooden tip of his sword down at his shins, hoping to draw the veteran into lowering his shield and exposing his chest to attack. In a blur of motion Ruga twisted at the waist and parried the blade with an outward sweep of his shield. Pain exploded in Pavo’s forearm as the shield edge slammed into him. He fought to stop himself involuntarily releasing his grip on the sword. Now Ruga pushed forward on the balls of his feet and charged at him, tucking his shield close to his left shoulder.
Pavo gasped as the shield clattered into his chest, badly winding him. The force of the impact knocked him backwards. In the same instant Ruga hoisted the shield up above his head, angling his forearm so that it lay flat. Then he jerked his arm forward, thrusting the edge at Pavo. The younger man’s head snapped back as the leather trim slammed into his chin and sent a burst of hot pain screaming through his skull. His legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. He tasted vomit in his mouth. Ruga stood above him and dropped the shield to his side, patting the top edge, his glazed eyes as wide and bright as polished coins. He grinned at Pavo.
‘A provocator’s main offensive weapon is not his sword, but his shield. Hermes knows this better than anyone. The mistake Criton made was the same as nearly every other gladiator has made against Hermes.’
‘They attack with their sword!’ Pavo realised, thumping his fist against his thigh as he got to his feet. ‘As soon as they thrust at Hermes, he retreats behind his shield and picks them off at range.’
Ruga nodded. ‘Your sword is a foot and a half long. Using it brings you into thrusting range. Your shield is twice that length. Forget about trying to impale the bastard on the point of your sword like they teach you in the ludus.’
A thought struck Macro. ‘Good advice for staying out of trouble, I suppose. Keeping range and all that. But it doesn’t solve the problem of how Pavo is supposed to cut the bastard down.’
Ruga frowned at the optio. ‘How do you mean?’
Macro picked up the shield, testing its weight and strength, his face furrowed in deep concentration. ‘Normally a gladiator can get a good thrust between the ribs. Smoothly push the blade up until it nicks the heart and lungs.’
Ruga nodded again. ‘Go on.’
‘As far as I can see, a provocator is armoured from head to bloody toe. Leg greaves, arm manicas, full-face helmet, chest protector, the lot. They’ve got more protection than a decent fort.’
‘It’s true,’ Pavo added, stemming the blood trickling out of his nose. ‘We saw how Hermes hid behind his shield against Criton. He presented a solid wall of armour to his opponent.’
Macro scratched the back of his head and puffed out his cheeks. ‘The trick is how to break through that armoured front. There’s only one obvious striking point on the body … the throat.’
Pavo turned to Ruga. ‘How am I supposed to get past his shield and armour?’
Ruga snorted. ‘Many opponents have asked themselves the same question. That’s why Hermes is regarded as the finest gladiator ever to grace the arena. Stopping him is hard enough. Defeating him is almost impossible.’
‘Then how did you come so close?’ Pavo asked.
There was a pause as Ruga glanced away. At length the retired gladiator limped over to a stone step at the side of the courtyard and sat down. He sighed wearily, a distant look in his eyes as he spoke.
‘We were fighting in front of Emperor Tiberius. The closing fight of the games at the Festival of Saturnalia. Thirty thousand spectators had flocked into the arena to see us fight. They certainly got their money’s worth. Our match seemed to last for ever. Neither of us could find a way through the other’s defences. By the end of it, we were both bloodied, bruised and exhausted. I thought I had done enough to just shade it and win on a decision. Sure enough, the umpire raised his stick to indicate the victor … me.’
Pavo and Macro shared a disbelieving look. ‘You actually beat Hermes?’
Ruga laughed bitterly. ‘I thought so. That’s why I took off my helmet, to receive the adulation of the crowd. Then Hermes charged at me. Bastard hacked at my face and left me with this.’ He pointed to the scars.
‘But what about the umpire calling an end to the fight?’
‘He reckoned I misunderstood his signal. Pah! Load of bollocks.’
Ruga fell silent. Pavo glanced up at the darkening skies, anger pounding in his veins, his hands balling into tight fists until his fingers almost drew blood from his clammy palms.
‘I swear to Jupiter, I won’t fall for the same trick. Hermes is mine.’
That provoked a cynical laugh from the retired gladiator, and as he lifted his head, there was a cold and sober look in his eyes. ‘Don’t you see, boy? The fight was fixed so that Hermes wouldn’t lose. He’s the Emperor’s favourite gladiator. When you step out into that arena, you won’t just be facing another gladiator. You’ll be taking on the Emperor’s chosen man.’
‘Harder!’ Macro yelled. ‘Put your back into it, lad!’
Grinding his teeth and tensing his muscles, Pavo struggled to lift the weight of the four-wheeled wagon in the street outside the Drunken Goat. Macro stood under the arch leading to the courtyard and watched as he gripped the front edge of the platform and attempted to lift the wagon a second time. Ruga looked on from the courtyard. Pavo’s arm muscles burned and he bent slightly at the knees as his legs strained with the enormous weight. The baskets filled with stones loaded on to the oak platform trembled as the wagon slowly tilted off the ground. Pavo held it there for a moment. Every fibre of his being screamed with pain and told him to drop it. But he clamped his eyes tightly shut and thought of Hermes, and the suffering he had endured to arrive at this point. He had come a long way to gain his revenge. He would not give up now.
‘Release!’ Macro barked.
With a pained roar Pavo snatched his hands away from the underside of the platform and jolted back a step. The wagon juddered as the front end crashed down. Macro stepped forward and counted the baskets.
‘Fourteen. Not bad. We’ll make a champion out of you yet, sunshine.’
Pavo winced in pain but felt pride burning inside him. ‘Champion of the Arena,’ he mused before glancing at Macro. ‘Do you really think I can do it?’
‘Not if you sit on your arse daydreaming I don’t. Now give me another set … with more weight this time.’
Pavo’s heart sank and Ruga laughed heartily. Macro waved at the tavern owner to add another basket to the load. The wheels groaned under the extra weight.
‘But sir-’
Macro cut him off with a wave of his hand. ‘Not a word, lad. You want to beat Hermes, you’ll have to be strong enough to move around the arena with that armour bearing down on you. Got it?’
‘Yes … sir,’ Pavo mumbled, momentarily regretting his decision to appoint Macro as his trainer.
The optio had pushed him harder than ever before in the four weeks since he began training for the fight. The first week had been torturous, and Pavo barely had the strength to walk as he returned to the imperial ludus each evening after training and slumped on to the freezing floor of his cell. But by the end of the second week he had grown visibly stronger. At the start of training he’d struggled to wield the larger shield used by the provocator gladiators, his bicep stinging under the strain. Now his enlarged muscles allowed him to effortlessly grip the shield as he practised his attacking moves with Ruga each afternoon. With just one day left until he confronted his sworn enemy, Pavo dared to believe that victory might be within his grasp.