Arena (3 page)

‘Not sure I like the sound of that,’ Macro said tersely. ‘Soldiers shouldn’t get involved in politics.’

The guard raised a hand in mock surrender. ‘Hey, don’t look at me. You know how it is. Orders are orders. If you ask me, it’s those freedmen the Emperor has been surrounding himself with we need to watch. You should see the way they talk to us. But they’ve got his ear.’

The guard straightened his back and approached a set of wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the imperial palace complex. A blast of cool evening air swept through the street as the guards ushered Macro up a wide staircase leading into a dimly lit hall with marbled walls and a bas-relief frieze depicting the famous battle of Zama, the decisive victory against Carthage masterminded by Publius Cornelius Scipio, the great reformer of the Roman military. They swept along a vast corridor and cut through a lavish garden adorned with fountains and statues and surrounded by marble arcades. Beyond, Macro could see the rooftops of the Forum and the columns of the Temple of Castor and Pollux. Arriving at the opposite side of the garden, they climbed a flight of stone stairs and entered a large hall with an apse at the far end. The guards escorted Macro across the hall to where a shadowed figure stood at the step of a raised dais used by the Emperor when he was holding court.

The man at the dais was not the Emperor. He had the dark curly hair and sloping nose of a Greek. His smooth skin and willowy physique suggested he had never done a day’s hard labour. He wore the simple tunic of a freedman, although Macro noted that it appeared to be made of fine-spun wool. His eyes were black like the holes in a stage mask.

‘Ah, the famous Macro!’ the freedman said with an exaggerated tone of praise. ‘A true Roman hero!’

He approached Macro, his thin lips twisted into a smile.

‘Leave us,’ he ordered the guards in a sharp, shrill voice. The Praetorians nodded and paced back down the centre of the hall. The freedman followed them with his dark eyes until they were out of earshot.

‘You have to be careful who you speak around these days,’ he said. ‘Particularly the Praetorians. They have the misguided impression that his imperial majesty owes them an eternal debt. What is the world coming to when the guards think they hold sway over the most powerful man in the world?’

Macro bit his tongue. He’d heard that after Caligula had been assassinated, Claudius had been discovered hiding in the imperial palace by members of the Praetorian Guard. Desperate for stability, the Praetorians had promptly acclaimed as emperor a fifty-year-old man with practically no experience of government and who, if the rumours were to be believed, didn’t even want the job. Without the backing of the Praetorians, there might have been another face stamped on every coin in the Empire. No wonder the freedman felt so threatened by their presence, thought Macro.

The freedman said, ‘My name is Servius Ulpius Murena. I report to the imperial secretary, Marcus Antonius Pallas. I presume you’re familiar with the name?’

‘Sorry, but no,’ Macro replied with a shrug. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve been around polite society. I’ve spent the last few years chopping down Germans.’

Murena grunted. ‘I’m aware of your background, officer. As a matter of fact, that’s why you’re here. Pallas is a secretary to his imperial majesty. He helps the Emperor administer Rome and her provinces. As do I. Tell me, how many Germans do you think you’ve killed during your time at the Rhine?’

Macro shrugged. ‘Depends.’

‘On what?’ Murena said, cocking his head at the officer.

‘Your average German takes a number of cuts before he drops,’ Macro said. ‘Sometimes you’ll give one a good few stabs and he’ll still be charging at you and foaming at the mouth. You don’t actually see them shuffle off to the Underworld. They drag themselves away to die somewhere nice and quiet. But they die all the same. We have a saying in the Second: swords can’t tell the difference between Germans and Greeks.’

‘I see.’ The freedman shifted awkwardly on his feet, clearly unsettled by the violent turn the conversation had taken. ‘And what precisely does that mean?’

‘A stab’s a stab,’ said Macro. ‘Give a man a good twist in the guts and he’s done for, whether he’s a whacking great barbarian or a skinny little toga-lifter.’

Murena wrung his hands as he turned away from Macro towards the gardens and the pair of Praetorian Guards hovering under the arched walkway. ‘What a pity the great Capito did not heed such sagacious advice.’

‘Sagacious?’

‘Yes, almost synonymous with judicious.’ Seeing the quizzical look on Macro’s face, the freedman rolled his eyes. ‘Never mind,’ he went on. ‘My point is, you have lots of experience of slaying the barbaric enemies of Rome.’

‘More than most, I’d say,’ Macro said, puffing out his chest.

‘Good. Because I have a task for you.’

Macro frowned as anxiety spilled through his guts. ‘Task?’

‘Yes. A task. For me.’

Macro gritted his teeth. ‘Find someone else to do your dirty work. I take orders from my centurion, my legate and the Emperor. No one else.’

The freedman laughed and inspected his fingernails. ‘I hear you haven’t set foot in this city for a while?’

‘Thirteen years or so.’

‘Then I will give you the benefit of the doubt just this once. Rome is different now. I may be a simple freedman, but you would do well to treat me with respect. I have a certain influence within these walls. Enough to rescind your decoration … and your promotion to centurion.’

‘Centurion?’ Macro repeated with a start. ‘What are you talking about?’

Murena produced a scroll, and Macro noticed the imperial seal on the wax. The freedman opened it and read aloud, ‘“Orders from his imperial majesty to the legate of the Second Legion, instructing the immediate promotion to centurion of Optio Lucius Cornelius Macro.” A position that interests you, I believe?’

Macro frowned at Murena.

‘Sadly, I cannot dispatch the letter until you carry out a certain task for the Emperor,’ Murena explained.

‘What kind of task?’ Macro said uneasily.

Murena smiled wanly. ‘Permit me to elaborate. You were there at the arena earlier today to receive your decoration. A proud moment, sadly marred by the defeat of our dear Capito.’ The freedman tutted. ‘Highly embarrassing for the Emperor. Capito was not only the finest fighter in the imperial school and therefore the personal property of Claudius himself, he was the sixth imperial gladiator to fall at the hands of Britomaris.’

Murena circled the officer. Macro eyed him warily. ‘These are stressful days for the new Emperor,’ the freedman continued. ‘There are many doubters in Rome. Some of them are openly hostile to Claudius. Not just men of the Senate, but in the Forum and the taverns too. I speak frankly now. The Emperor was not a unanimous choice. The vagaries of bloodline and birthright mean that no man can wear the laurel crown without facing nefarious challenges to his supremacy. You heard the rumbles of discontent in the crowd after Capito died. A defeat like this threatens to undermine our regime in its infancy. We must demonstrate to the mob that Claudius is the strong, decisive leader we have craved since the golden age of Augustus.’

‘So invade somewhere,’ Macro said with a shrug. ‘That usually does the trick.’

Murena laughed like a tutor humouring a brash student. ‘Thank you for that truly enlightening insight, Optio. Your genius makes me wonder why you haven’t elevated yourself higher up the ranks.’

Macro fought a powerful urge to punch Murena in the face.

‘Rest assured, plans are afoot for the near future,’ the freedman went on. ‘But the more pressing problem is Britomaris. Six gladiators defeated! That is more than a stain on the Emperor’s name; it is a veritable boil, one we must lance before it overwhelms us. We cannot afford any more defeats by this barbarian. Whoever faces him next must triumph, demonstrating to all that no one defies the Emperor, and that Claudius is the right man to occupy the throne.’

Macro said, ‘What about getting Hermes to fight him? He’s just about the toughest gladiator there’s ever been. He’d chop up a thug like Britomaris as quick as boiling asparagus.’

‘Out of the question,’ Murena said flatly.

‘Why?’

A pained expression wrinkled unpleasantly across the freedman’s bony face. As if he were chewing on a mouthful of rotten fish guts, thought Macro.

‘I must confess, I am not a fan of Hermes. Neither is Pallas. We find him somewhat brutish. However, the problem with Hermes is not one of style. Indeed, in the event of Capito dying, another of the Emperor’s advisers – a wretched, snivelling fellow by the name of Narcissus – had arranged for Hermes to fight Britomaris next.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ Macro asked.

‘This morning, Hermes suffered a … a rather unfortunate accident.’

‘Accident?’ Macro repeated.

‘He was robbed in the street, would you believe.’ Murena shook his head. ‘Thugs broke several of his bones. The man could be out for months. But we cannot wait for him to recover from his inconvenient beating. We need a substitute urgently.’

Murena finished circling Macro, stopping directly in front of him.

‘You will train a substitute gladiator to fight Britomaris,’ he said.

Macro looked quizzically at him. ‘Why me?’ he stuttered. ‘I’ve never worked at a ludus. You’ve more than enough doctores at the imperial establishment for the job.’

‘Ordinarily, yes. But this is no ordinary fight. We must send a powerful message to the mob, and what better way to do that than by having a hero of the Empire employ his military know-how to destroy a barbarian like Britomaris?’ Murena teased out a twisted smile.

Macro shook his head firmly.

‘It’s too risky,’ he said. ‘Training someone up, I mean. You’re better off just picking one of the gladiators from the imperial school. That lot are supposed to be the best swordsmen in Capua. You’d have far better odds on one of them defeating Britomaris than some wet-behind-the-ears recruit.’

Murena sucked his teeth. ‘Unfortunately the imperial school is severely depleted. Caligula has used most of the best men up in the arena. He’s left us with just a few stragglers, none of whom would be fit for this purpose.’

The imperial aide folded his hands behind his back and walked the width of the central aisle, his gait slow and methodical, as if pacing out the perimeter of a building. The sound of his sandals against the floor echoed throughout the hall.

‘Happily, Fortuna smiles on us.’

Macro clicked his tongue. ‘Hard to believe.’

A flicker of a smile crossed Murena’s face before he continued. ‘It appears we have a ready-made candidate. A young man with military experience who was instructed by a gladiator as a boy. A man who, I am reliably informed, demonstrates utter fearlessness when facing raw steel. A rare quality, as I’m sure a man of violence such as yourself will appreciate. With the right guidance, he could be just the ticket.’

‘A soldier, eh?’ Macro said. ‘What’s the lad’s name?’

Murena looked down. ‘Marcus Valerius Pavo.’ He pulled a face at his sandal, as if he had trodden in a puddle of sewage. ‘Although you may well be more familiar with his father’s name. Titus?’

‘The legate of the Fifth Legion?’

‘Formerly the legate,’ Murena corrected icily. ‘Latterly rotting in an unmarked grave on the Appian Way. The predictable consequence of trying to return Rome to a republic. We’re still debating whether to decimate the Fifth, since his men appeared so eager to support him in his treachery.’

A cold shiver crawled down Macro’s spine. News of the execution of the Fifth’s legate had not yet reached the Rhine, but the more the officer heard about how the imperial palace now dealt with its enemies, the less he liked the sound of it. Bashing up barbarians in Germany and Gaul was all well and good, but the thought of Romans stabbing each other in the back reminded him of the civil wars that had dogged Rome during the darkest days of the Republic.

‘Dissent in the ranks cannot be tolerated,’ Murena said, as if reading Macro’s mind. ‘We had to set an example.’

‘But you let the son live?’

‘He wasn’t in Rome at the time. Pavo was a military tribune in the Sixth Legion. We had him placed under arrest and returned to Rome. The Emperor had planned to execute the young man in the arena, and to that end we slung him into a ludus in Paestum. The lanista has promised to see to it that he dies in the arena within the year.’

Macro curled up his lips in thought. ‘And now you want him to save the honour of Rome?’

‘These are desperate times. With Hermes out of the picture, we need Pavo. At least for the time being. Training him, however, may not be so straightforward. The young man is rather upset about the whole business of his father being killed.’

‘How did he die?’ Macro asked cautiously.

Murena chuckled to himself and shook his head. ‘Condemned to death in the arena. The Emperor paired him with Hermes, no less. Titus put up rather a good show. I’m surprised he had a drop of blood left him in when the time came for Hermes to finish him off.’

‘No bloody wonder the lad is angry,’ Macro murmured, in a voice low enough that his words evaded Murena’s ear.

‘I’m told that you have soldierly qualities in abundance, Macro. I believe you’re just the right man to whip him into shape. You’re to head to Paestum, train your charge and escort him to Rome for the fight. You have one month.’

‘A month?’ Macro cried. ‘You must be joking!’

‘On the contrary,’ Murena replied. ‘I’m deadly serious.’

‘But … a month! That’s nowhere near enough time to prepare for battle.’

‘It’s not a battle. Just a fight in the arena.’

‘Just a fight?’ Macro shook his head wearily. ‘I have plenty of experience in training legionaries. Even the best take months to whip into any kind of shape, and the worst can take three or four times that.’

‘Pavo is different. His natural talent with the sword is exceptional.’

‘I’ve heard that before,’ said Macro.

‘Well this is no mere boast. The gladiator who first trained him happens to be the doctore at the imperial ludus. He claims he has never known a boy with such prodigious skill. And by all accounts the men of the Sixth haven’t seen a tribune handle a sword so well.’ Murena sighed as he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. ‘It’s his temperament that is the problem.’