The next few moments passed in a blur. The master of ceremonies introduced the contenders to the crowd and reminded them that today would be a fight to the death. Trumpets blared. Drums beat an insistent rhythm. Another pair of servants entered the arena carrying the weapons. The servant on the left had a spear propped against his shoulder. The servant on the right carried a short sword sheathed in a scabbard which lay flat across his arms. The umpire — a stumpy man with a bald pate and a belly drooping over the belt of his tunic — ordered the servant to unsheathe the sword. He cursorily examined the tip of the blade to check its sharpness, then performed the same action with the spear. Pavo noted the spear’s wide iron head, with secondary tangs to inflict greater damage. An iron spike was attached to the base of the weathered ash shaft.
The umpire looked to Emperor Claudius and gave an approving nod to confirm the killing power of both weapons. The servants handed the spear to Britomaris and the sword to Pavo and hurried aside. Pavo gripped his double-edged short sword. He was still familiarising himself with the feel of his weapon when the Emperor gave the signal and the umpire shouted, ‘Engage!’
Pavo backtracked from Britomaris as soon as the words left the umpire’s mouth, just as Macro had instructed during those gruelling hours of training. The barbarian promptly charged at Pavo, again just as the optio had warned. Taking six swift steps back from the centre of the arena, Pavo raised his shield in a defensive posture as Britomaris stabbed angrily at thin air with his spear. Pavo caught sight of the tangs glinting six inches from his face. He retreated further. The plaza floor covered a sprawling rectangular space roughly twice the size of the amphitheatre at Paestum. Pavo quickly discovered that the enormous space was ideal for his evasive tactics, permitting him to continue to keep dropping away from Britomaris without the risk of being fatally cornered against a wall. Britomaris stormed after the recruit, his thickset legs bounding forward in big strides, his gargantuan torso already gleaming with sweat from his toil.
Pavo relaxed a little. Britomaris was straining with effort and working himself into a frenzy, exactly as he and Macro had planned.
Then Britomaris surged forward with astonishing speed and slashed his spear in a downward arc at Pavo’s legs, as if meaning to sever his feet. The low attack caught Pavo by surprise, his shield raised high to protect his chest. In a heartbeat he corrected his stance by ramming the shield down. The metal trim smacked into the sand an inch ahead of his feet and there was a dull clunk as the spear struck the lower half. Britomaris bared his teeth in anger and with a brief flick of the wrist jabbed his spear up at Pavo’s upper torso. The recruit frantically jacked his shield up again and deflected the attack. The spear continued thrusting upwards above Pavo. Britomaris lurched forward as his spear-arm rose high above his head, putting him off-balance. With a rush of blood to his head, Pavo saw an opportunity for a counter-attack. He jerked his sword in a sharp upward thrust as he aimed for the barbarian’s neck. But Britomaris bewildered the recruit a second time with his reflexes, leaning back from the blow and withdrawing his spear arm while, in the same giddy motion, slamming his narrow shield into Pavo and catching him square in the face. His helmet clanged. The noise of the crowd dampened. A tinny, high-pitched note squealed between his temples. His world blurred for a moment. Then he saw the iron tangs of the spear rushing towards him. Pavo yanked his head back and to the side just in time, the tip of the spear screeching across the metal plate of his helmet.
Pavo backed away from Britomaris in a daze. A groggy fog settled behind his eyelids as the enormity of the task in front of him finally began to set in. Macro had been correct in his tactical assessment, but Pavo knew from his days as a military tribune that there was a world of difference between giving orders and having the blood, sweat and toil to physically carry them out. Britomaris bided his time several paces away from Pavo, a thirsty grin visible under his beard. He was happy to let Pavo retreat, comfortable in the knowledge that he had the upper hand. The crowd implored Pavo to attack the barbarian again. A feeling of outrage welled up inside him as he observed the thousands of faces lining the galleries. They had come here to see blood. To them it didn’t matter whose blood was spilled. Pavo searched the crowd for Macro. He couldn’t see the optio anywhere.
Where is he?Pavo thought. Then he looked ahead as the barbarian clumped towards him once more.
Shaking his groggy head clear, Pavo recalled Macro’s instructions and quickly abandoned any thought of attacking Britomaris. He staggered backwards, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see how much space he had left between himself and the wall. Britomaris chased him down, thrusting his spear to gauge the state of his opponent and see how much fight he had left in him. As Pavo neared the wall he switched his stance and began circling Britomaris, careful to remain two spears’ lengths from the barbarian. He moved nimbly on his feet. His arms were aching from wielding the sword and shield, but his legs were strong and willing. Britomaris roared with anger at this new tactic. The crowd seemed to agree with the barbarian. Shouts of ‘Coward!’ and ‘Shame!’ rained down from the galleries and swelled to a deafening chorus of boos. As Pavo finished his first circuit of the arena he noticed one or two spectators leaving their seats in disgust. But he ignored them. Macro’s strategy was paying off. Pavo wasn’t here to please the mob. He was here to win a fight. Spurred on by the heavy breathing coming from the barbarian and his blundering strides, Pavo backtracked as Britomaris laboured to keep up his relentless pursuit.
‘Stand and fight!’ a voice shouted from the lower galleries.
‘Get stuck into him!’ another boomed.
Pavo noticed Pallas and his fellow Greek freedman squirming in their seats, desperate for victory, barely able to watch. The Emperor seemed oblivious both to his freedmen and the intimidating mood among the crowd, as he shouted with childlike excitement at the fighters. Pavo quickly reset his gaze to Britomaris as the barbarian carted towards him. His gait was heavier as he tucked his right elbow tight to his side and drew the tip of his spear level with the cusp of his shield. Then he lunged at Pavo, thrusting his spear at the recruit’s jugular. Pavo hurried backwards as fast as he could, narrowly avoiding the spear but losing his footing and almost slipping to the arena floor.
Britomaris flew at him, with a sudden urgency to his movements, breathing heavily as he sensed the tide of the battle turning in his favour. Pavo scrambled back in a frantic stoop. Despite his stamina training, the recruit was short of breath and sweating heavily. The stress of facing raw steel was taking its toll. Britomaris kept swiping, Pavo kept scrabbling clear. Several members of the crowd chucked their tickets into the arena in disgust, pelleting Pavo with the numbered clay chips. One spectator lobbed his wine jug at the youth. It shattered a foot away from the gladiators, dyeing the sand deep red. A couple of stadium officials dragged the man responsible kicking and screaming towards the nearest exit. Britomaris slashed at Pavo. The recruit jumped clear and felt a thud against his spine as he backed up against the wall.
Pavo was cornered.
CHAPTER NINE
Towering over Pavo, Britomaris jabbed his spear at Pavo’s upper chest. With his muscles screaming and the blood pounding in his ears, Pavo hefted his shield upwards. There was a nerve-jangling clang as the spear tip clattered into the centre of the shield, iron hammering into bronze. The barbarian howled a Celtic war cry that sent cold shivers down his opponent’s spine. Then he unleashed a torrent of thrusts and slashes at Pavo, forcing him to shelter behind his shield. The force the barbarian summoned for each attack stunned Pavo. He gripped the handle for dear life and muttered a prayer to Fortuna to save him as a second thrust of the spear split through the leathered surface of the shield above the boss, showering splinters of wood at his face. Tugging back on the spear, Britomaris kicked the bottom of Pavo’s shield and wrenched his weapon free. The crowd roared in murderous expectation. Out of the corner of his eye Pavo could see the Emperor rising gawkily to his feet, his mouth agape. Pallas wrung his hands, shooting agitated glances across the Emperor to an older freedman sitting opposite.