Arena (11 page)

Pavo stared defiantly back at the Emperor. He barely noticed the officials dragging Britomaris away with a meat hook, just as they had dragged away Titus months before. They left a streak of blood stretching like a tongue from the arena entrance to the place where the barbarian had fallen. His limbs were the same pale colour as his face. The feverish look in the barbarian’s eyes, and the way he had foamed at the mouth, troubled Pavo.

Then the pair of officials who had been stationed at the arena entrance grabbed Pavo and hurried him away from the floor towards the corridor and a flight of stairs leading up to the podium, where the trainee would accept his prize from the Emperor in person. Pavo was still running his eyes over the galleries as the officials hauled him down the corridor, the hoarse cheers of the crowd echoing off the dank walls, the air stifled with hot dust and sweat, the crowd shrinking from view.

‘Where the hell did he disappear to?’ Pavo wondered aloud.

‘You mean your friend? The soldier?’ snarled the older official with the rotten teeth. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get to see him soon enough. In fact, we’re taking you to him as soon as you’ve collected your prize …’

Macro awoke with the din of the crowd buzzing in his ears. The optio shook his groggy head and acquainted himself with his surroundings. He was back in the small room on the western side of the plaza that he and Pavo had occupied in the build-up to the fight. But the two Praetorian Guards now blocked the doorway, and Macro’s young charge was nowhere to be seen. A dim image came back to the optio through the haze. He recalled stumbling across the surgeon’s counter, and witnessing the Praetorian dipping Britomaris’s spear tip into a bowl of poison.

The image forced Macro to shoot upright. He rushed towards the door but the Praetorians blocked his path. ‘What in Hades’ name is going on?’ the optio rasped.

The Praetorians said nothing. Both their expressions were tight and blank.

‘Did he win?’ Macro demanded.

‘Pavo? Oh, he won,’ a voice quivered from the corridor behind the guards. Macro’s joy was short-lived as the Praetorians stepped out of the way and four figures appeared from the shadows of the colonnades. Macro watched two stadium officials bundling an exhausted Pavo towards the room. Murena led the way, a stern expression plastered across his gaunt face. Pavo was too tired to try and wrench himself away. The freedman nodded at the guards as the officials slung Pavo into the room. The trainee dropped to his knees beside Macro, his exertion in the arena having drained his muscles and left him weary. In the background, Macro could hear the crowd roaring Pavo’s name. He flicked his eyes to Murena lingering in the doorway; the Greek smiled pityingly back at the optio.

‘You were going to poison Pavo,’ Macro growled.

‘Poison?’ Pavo whispered, a disbelieving look on his face.

The optio nodded grimly. He was conscious of blood flowing out of a wound at the back of his scalp, from when the second Praetorian had clobbered him earlier, matting his hair and dripping down his neck. ‘I caught these two fools in the act,’ he said, jerking his head furiously at the guards.

‘But I just saved the reputation of Rome,’ Pavo hissed as he glowered with rage at Murena. ‘The Emperor’s too. Not to mention your own and that of Pallas! And this is how you repay me?’

Murena chuckled weakly as he placed his hands behind his back. He kept his distance from Pavo, as if avoiding a rabid dog. ‘Our plan was simple,’ he said. ‘We needed to guarantee victory. Even with someone as skilled with a sword as you, however, nothing in life is guaranteed. We poisoned the tips of both your weapons. That way Britomaris would perish in the arena, thus restoring the glory of Rome.’ Murena chuckled. ‘Why on earth do you think our barbaric friend collapsed so easily at the end?’

‘But you were going to kill me too!’ Pavo roared, his face turning crimson with rage.

Murena knitted his wispy brow. ‘Two birds, one stone. Both Pallas and I knew that your victory, whilst necessary for his imperial majesty, would also make you a hero in the eyes of the mob. Listen to them,’ he grumbled scathingly as the crowd continued to roar in the background, ecstatic at the outcome of the fight. ‘They think you’re a legend, young man! We took a calculated risk in getting you to fight Britomaris. But we hoped to avoid the celebration of your name by arranging your death in the arena. There would have been some applause from the crowd for your efforts, of course. A few tawdry poems written to celebrate your feat. The odd inscription. But dead gladiators don’t live long in memory. By the following month you would have been forgotten.’ Murena sighed. ‘If only that idiot Britomaris had done his job, and stabbed you.’

Despite his ragged condition, Pavo mustered his precious last reserves of energy and lunged at Murena. The freedman took a frightened step back out of the doorway, his eyes wide with fear.

‘You tried to kill me, you bastard!’ Pavo roared.

The Praetorians jerked into action. One kicked Pavo in the midriff and sent him flying backwards, landing on the ground with a thud, while the other guard glared at Macro, who had balled his hands into tight fists. The guard began to unsheathe his sword. Macro got the message and reluctantly loosened his fists.

‘What about my son?’ Pavo seethed. ‘I was told he would be released after I won.’

‘Appius?’ Murena asked, wearing an expression of feigned ignorance. ‘You must be mistaken, young man. The Emperor was to release him upon your glorious death in the arena. Since you failed to stick to your side of the bargain and die, I’m afraid the deal is off. Appius will remain the possession of the imperial palace. He’ll grow up with the other slave children, and when he’s old enough he’ll fetch grapes and figs for those who control the Empire. Men like Pallas and me. In future generations the name of Valerius will be synonymous with slaves, not military heroes and victorious gladiators.’

Pavo fumed, his nostrils flaring with rage. ‘You can’t do this.’

‘Oh, but I can,’ Murena replied condescendingly. He began to turn away from the room. ‘I can do whatever I please. Your victory means that the Emperor is in debt to Pallas, and don’t forget that Pallas is my boss. It would’ve taken years for us to win the complete confidence of Claudius. You’ve helped us achieve it in a mere few months. Thank you, Pavo.’

Pavo simmered with rage. The freedman paused and rubbed his hands together, as if warming them on a cold winter’s night. ‘I suppose it’s all worked out rather well in the end,’ he went on. ‘All that remains is for me to take care of loose ends.’ He cast his eyes over Macro and Pavo in turn. ‘As I promised Pallas.’

‘What do you mean?’ Pavo snapped, narrowing his eyes at Murena.

‘The Emperor won’t tolerate the mob chanting the name of the son of a traitor.’ Murena barked at the Praetorians as he clicked his fingers: ‘Take him away.’

Pavo hung his head low as the guards hauled him to his feet, grabbing a weary arm each. The fight had dimmed in him, Macro noticed. Despair had doused the flames of rage burning inside his belly.

‘Appius … my boy …’ the trainee muttered under his breath, his dry lips cracking as the guards manhandled him out of the room and dragged him down the corridor. Away from the arena. Away from the noise and buzz of the crowd chanting his name.

‘Pavo was right,’ Macro growled at the smug Greek when they were left alone. ‘You are a bastard.’

Murena stroked his chin thoughtfully and smiled at Macro as if he had just given him a compliment.

‘What’s going to happen to him?’ the optio asked.

‘There’s a wagon waiting outside. He’s to return to the ludus in Paestum,’ Murena replied as he gazed down the corridor. ‘We’ll find another opponent for him to fight locally, in the more modest surroundings of Paestum’s amphitheatre. Someone with a poor reputation.’

Macro scoffed and folded his arms. ‘What for? Pavo’s a great fighter. Pair him with a low-ranking gladiator and he’ll carve up his opponent in a heartbeat. If you ask me, I say the lad’s been through enough.’

‘Pavo’s survival is an embarrassment to Claudius. He must die,’ Murena said icily. ‘He must die in disgrace, in a way that leaves his reputation in tatters. And you are going to help me achieve that.’

The optio shifted on the balls of his feet and felt his pulse quicken with fear. ‘Why the bloody hell would I do that? I’ve already honoured my end of the deal. I trained Pavo. He won. Now I’m due my promotion, as promised.’

Murena looked back at Macro.

‘It’s not that simple, Optio. You know our dirty little secret. And if the mob discover that Claudius tried to poison the new hero of the arena, well …’ Murena frowned at his feet, as if a snake was crawling up his leg. ‘Let’s just say they wouldn’t be too happy. Our problem is, can we trust you? Luckily for you, Pallas and I are giving you a chance to prove your loyalty to Claudius.’

‘How do you mean?’ Macro asked, his voice low and uncertain.

Murena grinned as the sound of the crowd slowly died away and the heavy drum roll of footsteps echoed through the plaza as people made their way to the exits and flooded out into the streets. The freedman said, ‘Since you appear to be a rather effective gladiator trainer, you’re going to train Pavo’s next opponent. You know the young man’s weaknesses. You will train your man to exploit them, so that the mob will see Pavo humiliated …’

A
short while later, Macro watched the workers dismantling the temporary stands in the fading light. He shook his head as a cold knot of fear tightened in his guts. Train the next opponent to face Pavo? The notion left a bitter taste in his mouth. Surely the young lad had been through enough, Macro told himself. He gritted his teeth as he watched two slaves struggle to heave the body of Britomaris on to a handcart.

The clean-up operation at the Julian plaza was under way. Groups of servants swept away chipped clay tickets and shards of shattered wine jugs. The crowd had quickly emptied from the stands after the gladiator fight, pouring out into the streets of the Campus Martius. Emperor Claudius and his retinue had swiftly departed and Murena had followed in their wake to tend to official business, detaining the optio at the arena while he made up his mind whether to help the aide to the imperial secretary. Pavo’s victory over Britomaris ought to have been a moment of personal pride for Macro. Instead, by defeating Britomaris, he had helped Murena and Pallas, sealing Pavo’s fate.

‘Bollocks to this,’ the optio muttered to himself, kicking a wine cup away in frustration. ‘I should be in Germany right now, not bloody Rome.’

‘Pah! You ought to be thanking the gods, not cursing them!’ announced a Praetorian Guard standing at the entrance to the arena. His comrade to his left smiled thinly. The pair of them had been detailed to keep an eye on Macro until the aide to the imperial secretary returned from his business at the palace. ‘You ask me, I reckon you’re lucky to have avoided the chop. That’s the usual fate for anyone who pisses off an emperor. Claudius is no exception.’ He winked at his comrade. ‘That reminds me. How’s the head?’

Macro reached a hand to the welt at the back of his scalp and snorted in disgust. Blood had matted his hair together in dry clumps. Knocked unconscious by a sodding Praetorian, he thought. A deep sense of humiliation brewed in the pit of his stomach.

‘No hard feelings,’ the guard chortled. ‘Serves you right for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.’

‘You’re a disgrace to any uniform, my friend. Same as that slippery Greek turd Murena.’

‘What did you say, Optio?’ a silvery voice snapped at his back.

Macro spun around. Murena materialised from the shadows of the corridor leading under the western portico and paced slowly towards him, carefully measuring each cautious step as he cast his eyes left and right.

‘Nothing,’ Macro replied bluntly as Murena stopped and studied his face. The freedman acknowledged the soldier with a polite smile. Then he glared at the amused Praetorians and nodded towards the arena. ‘You two. Give the servants a hand.’

The guard on the right looked incredulous. ‘That’s slaves’ work. Not for Praetorians.’

‘Your job here is done, soldier. I just gave you both an order.’

‘But—’

‘Do it, or I’ll have you transferred to the Rhine Frontier.’

The guard grunted to his comrade. The pair of them reluctantly shuffled down the corridor towards the arena, grumbling to each other under their breath. Murena calmly swivelled his gaze towards Macro. The imperial aide’s curly black hair was ruffled. His grey eyes were bloodshot. A deep frown ran like a ridge across his forehead. He looked stressed, the optio thought.

‘This should have been a day to celebrate,’ the aide lamented. ‘The day that a Roman put an end to that Gallic thug Britomaris.’ He shot a disapproving look at the body sprawled on the bed of the handcart. ‘Instead Pallas has me running around putting out fires.’

‘Spare me the sob story,’ the optio replied. ‘You’ve got what you wanted. Pavo won, didn’t he? Britomaris is dead. You and Pallas have your precious victory. Old Claudius must be delighted with the pair of you. You don’t need me here now.’

Murena wrung his hands. He gave the impression of a man wrestling with a terrible dilemma. ‘Pavo is still alive, Optio. And he’s celebrated by the mob, no less! Gods, some of them are even declaring him to be a true Roman hero!’ He wore a pained expression as he went on. ‘Can you imagine what Emperor Claudius will think if he hears of Pavo’s new fame?’

‘I’d have thought it was pretty obvious from the crowds chanting his name,’ Macro said. He turned away from the arena and brushed past Murena.

‘Where in Hades do you think you’re going?’ Murena cried.

‘The nearest inn,’ the soldier thundered as he paced down the corridor towards the marble steps leading out to the street. ‘To get blind drunk. I’ve had enough of your shit for one day.’

‘You can’t walk away!’ Murena barked. ‘Not while your work for me is still unfinished.’

Macro felt an icy sweat slither like a snake down his back. Unfinished? Taking orders once from the scheming freedman Murena and the imperial secretary had been bad enough. The prospect of undertaking a second mission for the Greeks filled him with dread.