Arena (12 page)

‘Should never have left the Rhine …’

The aide hurried after Macro, his shuffling footsteps echoing off the high ceiling. ‘If only that fool Britomaris had stabbed Pavo and succeeded in poisoning him!’ He threw his hands up in anguish. ‘Now I’m afraid you must remain here and help me correct this unfortunate problem.’

‘Get someone else to do your dirty work. I’m not interested.’

Murena raised a bushy eyebrow. ‘What about that promotion to centurion?’

Macro shrugged. ‘I’d rather be an optio on the Rhine than a centurion in Rome.’

‘Emperors come and go,’ the freedman said. ‘Soldiers too. Even men like Pallas and myself must pass on one day. But Rome is permanent. It is here for ever.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake …’ Macro growled wearily. ‘Spare me the patriotism. You’re in it for the power and the money. Don’t even try and pretend otherwise.’

Murena puffed out his thin chest. ‘Whatever you may think, it is the duty of each and every man to serve Rome as best he can. You might disagree, but every decision Pallas and I make is for the greater good.’

‘What about Pavo?’

‘What about him?’

‘It’s hardly his fault his father was condemned as a traitor.’

‘Titus committed an unforgivable betrayal. Pavo must pay for the crimes of his father. Being lenient on him would merely encourage others to challenge the Emperor’s authority. Pallas and I have gone to great lengths to ensure that the new Emperor does not make the same mistakes as his unfortunate nephew Caligula. That includes rooting out enemies of the imperial palace and seeing them punished. Every new dawn that Pavo draws breath insults the Emperor and gives fresh hope to those who would seek to oust Claudius.’

‘But you disgraced Titus and dragged his name through the mud,’ Macro replied angrily. ‘You’ve condemned his son to death one way or the other. If I were a conspirator, I’d think twice before having a pop at Claudius.’

‘It’s not as simple as that. Before he was a traitor, Titus was a hero of the legions. His son served as military tribune in the Sixth and was held in high esteem by his men. Father and son come from a proud military tradition. Claudius, on the other hand, has never wielded a sword in his life. He looks weak by comparison.’

Macro said nothing. His darkening expression and clenched jaw spoke volumes.

‘I understand you are a little, shall we say, sore about Pavo’s fate,’ Murena went on. ‘But I can assure you he will be properly rewarded for his victory over Britomaris.’

‘How so?’

‘His son will be spared.’

‘Gods! What would you have done if he had lost?’

‘Flung Appius off the Tarpeian Rock, naturally.’

Macro shivered. Being hurled from the Tarpeian Rock was a fate traditionally reserved for traitors. But executing entire generations of a family was taking things a little too far, even by Rome’s murderous standards. The optio tried to disguise his unease, but Murena saw it immediately and shot him a scathing look. Very little went unnoticed by the aide to the imperial secretary, Macro noted sourly. His slit-like eyes were always on the prowl, his ears always pricked, alert to the slightest detail.

Murena paused for a moment and stared at the optio. ‘The Emperor intends to usher in a new Golden Age, stirring memories of the days of Augustus. But first we must stamp out our enemies within Rome itself.’

‘Assuming there are any left,’ Macro responded drily. ‘I’d have thought you would’ve bumped them all off by now.’

A pained expression slid across the aide’s face. ‘There will always be enemies. The Emperor is the most powerful person in the world, and a great number of men covet the purple toga and the glory of Rome. Men who are motivated by greed and wealth, rather than the good of the Empire.’

‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ Macro replied.

‘You are implying that Pallas and I do not bear the Emperor’s best interests at heart. If that is your attempt at subtlety, Optio, I shudder to think what you consider to be blunt. But you are mistaken. I, like the imperial secretary, am a freedman. We are simply glad to be free of the shackles of servitude. Our gratitude to his imperial majesty should not be underestimated. The real threat is young Pavo.’

‘Pavo?’ Macro sputtered. ‘How in the name of the gods is he a threat? He’s been condemned to a ludus!’

‘He is a hero to the mob,’ Murena countered impatiently. ‘In case you are not aware, the Emperor’s regime will fall unless he wins the support of the mob. It is no great secret that the man on the street sees Claudius as somewhat distant and aloof. Now they have Pavo to cheer. His growing popularity is … maleficent.’

‘Maleficent?’ Macro frowned.

The aide rolled his eyes. ‘Portentous.’ Still confronted with a blank look from the optio, Murena tried again. ‘I mean threatening.’ He sighed. ‘My point is, the mob have fond memories of Tiberius, and Titus was well known as Tiberius’s right-hand man. Now we have young Pavo reminding people of the Valerius name. His popularity is an insult and, worse, a threat to the Emperor.’

‘As I recall, you were the one who wanted Pavo to fight Britomaris. You must have known the mob would celebrate his good fortune if he triumphed.’

‘An outcome we had planned to cut off as soon as it sprouted,’ Murena replied with a glare. ‘Our error was to trust that hare-brained lout Britomaris to wound Pavo. We do not intend to make the same mistake twice.’

‘I’m just a soldier,’ Macro protested. ‘I kill the enemies of Rome for a living, not its citizens. You want someone to dispose of Pavo in a dark alley, you’re better off talking to those idiots.’

He pointed at the pair of Praetorians pottering about in the bowels of the arena, grumbling to each other and shaking their heads. One of the guards nudged his comrade in the chest and they quickly set about looking busy, picking up wine jugs and trinkets and lugging them out of the arena. Murena turned back to Macro.

‘You won’t escape your obligation to me that easily, Macro. You’ll see to it that Pavo is humiliated in the arena – or you’ll be enjoying a fine view of the Tarpeian Rock, on the way down …’

A
frosty silence hovered between the aide and the soldier. In the weeks he had spent training Pavo at the ludus in Paestum, Macro had developed a fondness for the high-born young gladiator. Although he’d never have admitted it to Pavo, in Macro’s opinion the lad had suffered a great deal under the new regime. He felt compelled to plead his case.

‘You don’t need to murder the boy,’ Macro said cagily. ‘He’s in a ludus, remember. He’ll probably be butchered in a year or two anyway. That’s how long most fighters last. Even the lucky ones. He can’t do you any harm.’

Murena opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated as four servants emerged from the plaza, carrying equipment towards a waiting wagon to be transported back inside the city gates. One of the servants cradled the sword used by Pavo in the fight. Dried blood lacquered the length of the blade. The servant laboured under the weight. Murena waited until the group had paced beyond the steps and reached the wagon before continuing.

‘That is not how I see it, Macro. Or indeed Pallas, for that matter. The imperial secretary has decreed that Pavo must die. Which means the order is as good as from Claudius himself. Killing Pavo will leave the Emperor free to focus on rebuilding Rome.’ Murena clicked his tongue. He stared at Macro out of the corner of his eye. He had an unsettling habit of studying people in that way, Macro thought to himself.

‘Just between you and me,’ Murena continued, ‘the Emperor’s programme of public works will represent a pleasant change of duty. All this shoring up of the new regime is getting rather tiresome.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Macro grumbled. ‘You’re forgetting something, though. Pavo is a natural with a sword. The way he saw off Britomaris wasn’t just down to training. It takes skill and courage to fight under pressure. Plenty of soldiers are bloody good at the palus but shit themselves at the first sight of a barbarian foaming at the mouth. Pavo didn’t. The lad is made of strong stuff.’

‘Perhaps. But you know his weaknesses. You can train someone to exploit them.’

‘You’ll still have to find an opponent,’ Macro said. ‘Pavo could win against most of the imperial gladiators when the mood suits him.’

‘We have already chosen our man,’ Murena replied. He paused, and a knowing smile played out across his thin lips. ‘Decimus Cominius Denter.’

‘Denter?’ Macro repeated disbelievingly.

‘You’re familiar with the name?’

‘Who isn’t? Denter is a fucking lunatic! Pardon my Gallic. He once bit the nose off his opponent. Beat another gladiator to death with his bare hands. Drinks the blood of his enemies once he’s killed them. At least he did while he still fought. He retired ages ago. Bought his freedom after the last spectacle under Caligula.’ The soldier shrugged. ‘That’s what I heard.’

‘Pallas has a plan for enticing him out of retirement.’

‘Money, I suppose? Great big bloody bags of it.’

Murena glanced up at the sky. Dusk was closing over Rome. ‘Time for me to return to the palace. Walk with me, Macro.’

Carefully tended fires were being lit as the frigid night wind buffeted the city. Braziers and torches in the open public spaces bathed the temples and forum in orange. Elsewhere the tiny twinkles of oil lamps pricked out from the gloomy mass of tenement blocks and private villas. Trekking through the streets of Rome at night only reminded the optio of why he hated the place. Beggars and thieves lurked in the shadows, bucketfuls of slops were tossed from tenement windows, and the endless din of drunks shouting and brawling and the cry of hungry infants made a good night’s sleep impossible. Give me the Rhine any day of the week, he thought.

Murena grimaced. ‘Denter may well have been one of the finest fighters to grace the arena, but retired gladiators are not the most upstanding of Roman citizens. To be frank, he has squandered his substantial earnings on drink and tarts.’

‘Sounds like a man after my own heart,’ Macro replied with a grin. ‘Where is the old boy now? Travelling with some second-rate troupe of gladiators for a few denarii, I suppose?’

‘Pompeii, actually. He does the odd bit of training. The lanista of the local gladiator school will help you to find him.’

‘Pompeii?’ Macro stuck out his bottom lip approvingly. ‘I hear the Falernian is the best in all Italia there. Good tarts, too. Don’t rip you off. Wouldn’t mind living there myself, when I retire.’

‘Be careful what you wish for, Optio.’ Murena’s eyes glowered at the soldier. ‘You are to travel there at once and train Denter.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Although “train” might be putting it rather strongly. Denter was undefeated in over thirty bouts. I doubt there is much you could teach him. Think of yourself as less of a gladiator trainer and more of a minder. Ensuring Denter stays out of the taverns will keep you busy enough. He is one of those degenerate brutes who fritters away his money on drink and the races by day and degrades himself with nightly visits to the brothels. And that’s when he isn’t getting into scraps with the locals. Your job will be to keep him sober and whip him into shape.’

‘Great,’ said Macro sullenly. ‘So I’m reduced to looking after a drunk.’

‘Denter will be suitably motivated to stay clean. His reward will be five thousand sestertii.’

‘Five thousand sestertii?’ Macro sputtered disbelievingly. ‘Why on earth would he fight for that stingy sum? Unless he plans on killing Pavo out of the kindness of his heart.’

Although the amount Murena had mentioned was more than five times the standard legionary pay of nine hundred sestertii a year, Macro was familiar enough with the workings of the arena business to know that it was considerably less than the usual amount used to lure a gladiator out of retirement.

‘These are austere times,’ Murena said. ‘Caligula emptied the imperial coffers. The Emperor does not have a bottomless bag of coins to hand out to scum like Denter.’

‘The amount you’re offering him is an insult,’ Macro countered. ‘You know what these gladiators are like. Greedy buggers. Piss money away as fast as they can earn it. Denter would have to be mad to accept.’

Murena shrugged. ‘Denter will agree to our terms. Especially when he learns that his opponent is a Valerius.’

‘Why? What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Before Denter was a gladiator, he was a legionary in the Fifth. It seems he had some minor disagreement with a comrade over accusations of stolen rations. Denter stabbed him twice with his sword. The poor chap was lucky to survive. His cohort was notoriously undisciplined and the commanding officer sentenced him to six lashes of the whip. But Titus had just assumed the role of legate of the Fifth and brought with him grand ideas of Roman nobility and grace. He ordered that Denter be dishonourably discharged as an example to the other men.’

Macro thumped his chest. ‘Denter’s a lucky boy. You get caught doing that in the Second and you’re for the chop.’

‘Nevertheless, his misfortune is a gift from the gods. He understandably bears a serious grudge towards Titus. His old lanista said he constantly spoke of his hatred for the man. He will jump at the chance for revenge over the son.’

‘Where’s the fight taking place?’

‘The amphitheatre in Paestum. In six weeks’ time. The local council were already in the midst of preparing a pitiful spectacle. We will simply take over the administration and bump Pavo to the top of the bill.’

‘A nice long time to get him ready, then. No rush at all,’ the optio noted wryly. He paused as a thought unravelled itself in his head. ‘But why Paestum? Why not Rome? I’d have thought you would want as big an audience as possible to see Pavo stuck like a pig.’

Murena shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet.

‘Seeing the crowd chant Pavo’s name in the Campus Martius is not something we wish to repeat. Far better to risk hosting the spectacle in a sweaty backwater like Paestum. Just get Denter fighting fit, so that he will be certain to triumph over that brat. With the young man dead, the mob will soon forget his name, and any doubts over Emperor Claudius will be silenced. Cheer up,’ Murena added, seeing the dour look on the face of the optio. ‘Succeed and you’ll get your promotion to centurion.’