Arena (21 page)

Pavo pulled his net off Denter to allow his opponent to rise to his knees and accept his fate with a measure of dignity. But instead Denter hurled himself at Pavo. It was a desperate lunge, and Pavo cut him down with a stab to his right arm. The blade tore through his bicep and the pain threw Denter off balance and sent him stumbling to the ground. The spectators whistled and jeered at the outrageous behaviour of the veteran. Now Pavo stood over him and held the sword above his head, poised to plunge it into the back of Denter’s neck. His arm muscles tensed. He looked down and considered his defeated opponent with a mixture of pity and contempt.

‘Son of a fucking traitor,’ Denter sneered, his voice laced with venom. ‘Son of a cowardly, gutless—’

Pavo drove the sword down in a fell swoop. The tip pierced the back of Denter’s neck. The fallen gladiator briefly spasmed as the blade cut through his spine. Then he stilled, and the umpire raised Pavo’s wounded arm in victory. The crowd erupted with joy.

The dust had settled and Paestum brooded under a velvet night sky as Macro was escorted to the makeshift infirmary by guards from the local barracks. The arena was deserted now, as the supporters had flocked to the taverns and brothels to toast a local victory against their hated rivals from Pompeii. The town had been relatively peaceful, by all accounts, and Macro was greatly relieved to have escaped a riot. In his mind barbarians thirsting for your blood were one thing, but warring Romans unsettled him. The smell of death permeated the corridor leading towards the infirmary. Like mouldy cheese, thought the optio. Another reminder of why he avoided field hospitals at all costs.

He found Pavo lying on a straw mat, lost in thought as he stared at the ceiling. His right shoulder had been dressed by a nurse. The bowls of blood-tinged water and trays of used surgical instruments were all that remained of the day’s work, much to Macro’s relief. Pavo turned at the sight of the soldier entering the infirmary and smiled weakly through the throbbing pain of his wound.

‘That worked out all right in the end, then,’ Macro announced. He tried to sound cheerful but the words came out weary and flat. He was merely relieved to have avoided a grisly death at the hands of the imperial secretary and his aide. Gladiator bouts were a lot more difficult to watch when your own life rested on the outcome, Macro thought.

‘Oh yes,’ Pavo replied, affecting a mock-cheerful tone. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why I grumble about the life of a gladiator. You only have to avert widespread rioting and looting, save the skins of a couple of imperial rats and help free the family of a friend threatened with being sold into slavery. But other than that, this fighting business is easy.’

‘All right, it got a bit hairy out there, lad,’ Macro conceded. ‘But there is a bright side to your victory.’

Pavo screwed up his face at the optio. ‘Really? And what do you suppose that is?’ he asked coldy. ‘The noblemen of Paestum can sleep easily in their beds tonight, thankful that their fellow citizens haven’t ransacked the whole city? Or perhaps I should celebrate the fact that Pallas and Murena escaped causing the Emperor huge embarrassment by allowing a riot to break out at an event he sponsored?’

Something in the optio’s expression intrigued Pavo. Macro folded his arms across his chest. ‘There’s more, lad. You’re not a gladiator at the house of Gurges any longer.’

Pavo frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘He wagered a fortune on Denter winning today.’ Macro shook his head and grinned. ‘Placed it all with some bookie called Carbo. Gurges has lost everything. He’s bankrupt. He’s had to sell off his gladiators just to pay his other debts.’

‘Thank the gods …’ Pavo said, closing his eyes. His triumph had not been in vain. Newly enriched with the proceeds from Denter’s defeat, Carbo would release Clodia and the boys. And with the ludus being disbanded and only promising gladiators possessing any resale value, there was even a chance that Bucco might be reunited with his family after all. A smile was poised to break out on Pavo’s face when another thought nudged him. He opened his eyes and cocked his chin at Macro.

‘But if the gladiators have been sold off – who owns me now?’

‘I do,’ a sly voice behind them said.

Macro and Pavo turned their heads and saw Murena standing at the infirmary entrance. Pavo felt his muscles tense across his chest and tried to sit up on his straw mat to confront the imperial aide, but his wound flared and he leaned back again, wincing in pain.

‘What are you talking about?’ Macro snapped at Murena.

A flame flickered in the eyes of the freedman as he folded his hands behind his back. ‘Gurges has been forced to sell his assets to the highest bidder. In this case, the imperial palace.’ His thin lips strained into a grin. His eyes flicked from the enraged optio to the aghast gladiator. ‘Smile, Pavo. You’re now enrolled in the imperial ludus in Capua.’

For a moment Pavo lost the power of speech.

‘You’re probably wondering why.’

Macro and Pavo exchanged troubled glances. Murena stepped into the infirmary and brushed past the optio. He paced to a table and ran his hands over an array of blood-encrusted surgical instruments laid out on a tray.

‘It’s very simple,’ he said. ‘Today we saw the power of the mob. Thankfully, that uncouth multitude are too slow to grasp their own influence. Otherwise they might chase us out of the palace and run the place themselves.’ He picked up a pair of bronze forceps and admired them under the flicker of an oil lamp. ‘In the country of my birth, we would call that a democracy.’

‘Sounds shit,’ said Macro.

Murena gently reset the forceps on the tray. ‘For once, Optio, I find myself agreeing with you.’ His eyes lingered on the array of bone levers and tile cauteries and speculums in front of him. Then he sighed and turned away from the tray. ‘The plebs worship you, Pavo. And since we need the support of the mob to cement the regime of his imperial majesty, your sudden celebrity, distasteful though it may be, has given me an idea.’

‘What idea?’ Pavo felt a cold lump lodge at the back of his throat. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

‘In a moment.’ Murena fixed his ruthless gaze on Macro. ‘First, the optio and I must settle our affairs.’

‘About bloody time,’ Macro grumbled. ‘Let’s get this over with. I’ve put up with enough bollocks from you and Pallas. I’m actually starting to miss the Rhine.’

‘You’ll have to get used to the feeling,’ snapped Murena. ‘You have more pressing business to attend to, Optio.’

Macro folded his arms and snorted. ‘Such as?’

‘Such as preparing your papers for your journey to Capua,’ Murena retorted with barely disguised delight. ‘As you may or may not have heard, the imperial lanista met a rather gruesome end when his bodyguard crushed his skull. The price he had to pay for getting too big for his own boots. We need a lanista to administer the school.’ The aide raised a hand to Macro’s darkening face. ‘The position is not up for discussion, Optio. It’s only a temporary appointment, until we have a chance to find someone more, shall we say, palatable than the previous lanista. Besides, you seem to know your stuff. You’ve succeeded in guiding Pavo in two very different types of fighting.’

Anger tightened its grip around Macro’s neck. He felt his stomach muscles churn and his jaws harden. He was about to launch himself at the aide when a pair of hands clamped on either bicep. The optio resisted as two guards grappled with him and dragged him towards the exit.

‘What about my promotion?’ he thundered.

‘Off the table, I’m afraid. And the reward that goes with it. The riots have caused significant damage to the arena. It will cost the Emperor a great deal of money to repair. He will not be pleased with you, Optio. Consider yourself lucky to have avoided a long walk off the Tarpeian Rock.’

‘But the riots were your fault!’ Macro felt his pulse thumping at the side of his head, overcome with rage at the aide’s scheming. ‘I’m not to blame!’

Murena ignored him and with a dismissive wave of his hand gestured for the guards to haul Macro out of the infirmary. The aide sighed deeply as the soldier’s protests echoed down the corridor.

‘Now then, where were we?’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Ah, yes! Our plans for your glorious future in the arena.’

Pavo watched the guards drag Macro away and turned back to Murena. ‘Plans?’ he said pithily. ‘I thought you wanted me dead.’

The aide flashed a look of mock horror at Pavo, as if offended that the idea had ever crossed his mind. Then he folded his hands in front of his lap. ‘The mob has spared you, young man. That is a judgement that even the Emperor cannot overrule. We must not do anything to infuriate the mob during this delicate period.’

‘I’m done winning fights for Claudius,’ Pavo replied. ‘I don’t see why I should help the Emperor to keep the peace.’

Murena furrowed his brow. ‘This is what is going to happen. You will be branded with the mark of the imperial school. That mark will declare you to be the personal property of his imperial majesty, Emperor Claudius. It will be a tacit display of your support for our regime, and your rejection of Titus’s misguided principles. You shall wear it with pride.’

‘You must be joking!’ Pavo faltered. ‘I would never betray my father.’

‘Oh, but you will, my boy … if you want to fight Hermes.’

A triumphant smile threatened to cross the aide’s lips before he checked himself and cleared his throat. His eyes gleamed in the jittery reflection of the oil lamp. Pavo blinked at Murena. His pulse quickened at the thought of finally confronting his nemesis.

‘Hermes?’ he uttered uneasily.

‘Why, yes.’ Murena permitted himself to smile now. He appeared very pleased with himself, Pavo thought. ‘I believe it is your wish to fight the man who killed your father – or am I mistaken?’

‘No, no!’ Pavo replied, far too quickly. ‘I want nothing more than to see Hermes bleed.’ He looked at the ground and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. ‘But I thought he had retired?’

The aide grinned and shook his head. ‘Hermes has requested that he come out of retirement. The Emperor has agreed. It seems you shall have your wish at last.’

Capua, three weeks later

P
avo was awoken in the middle of the night by a swift kick to the ribs.

‘Get up, you worthless shit!’

The young gladiator winced as he stirred and rolled on to his back. Squinting in the gloom, he saw an armed guard towering over him, with a second guard stooped further back in the entrance to his cramped cell. Pavo touched a hand to his pained ribs and shook his head clear.

‘What’s going on?’ he croaked.

‘Murena wants a word,’ the nearest guard barked. ‘On your feet.’

‘That Greek snake,’ Pavo muttered darkly. ‘What does he want with me now?’

‘Fuck should I know?’ the guard snarled, seizing Pavo by the arm and yanking him to his feet. ‘Now hurry up! Murena doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

Pavo was too groggy and confused to protest. The guards manhandled him out of the dormitory and dragged him through the ludus gates. A wintry wind swept over the landscape as they marched the young gladiator down the road towards Capua and a cluster of lights flickered on a distant hill. Pavo made out the dim shape of a villa perched on the slope of the hill. The guards shoved him in the direction of the villa. The young gladiator moved awkwardly, his leg muscles aching under the leaden weight of the chains clamped to his wrists and ankles. The sutured wound on his left shoulder throbbed dully. The guards paced warily alongside him. He noted from their uniform of plain white togas over their tunics that they were Praetorian Guards.

‘So you’re the famous Marcus Valerius Pavo, eh?’ the guard to his left scoffed. ‘Champion of the arena. Hard to believe. Posh twat such as yourself.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Pavo replied drily. ‘Perhaps I am too high-born to be a champion gladiator. But you two seem to be scared of me, since you’re both keeping a hand on your swords, even though I’m unarmed and bound in chains.’

The guard scowled at him. ‘Think you’re tough? Bollocks!’ he spat. ‘Fucking gladiators, always showing off. Just you wait, lad. You’ll get cut down in the arena and slung into a grave pit like every gladiator with a big mouth. You won’t look so clever then.’

Pavo was too disheartened to reply. Quartz glinted between the stones lining the paved road, reflecting the pale moonlight. He felt a deep unease in his guts as they drew close to the villa. Ever since his transfer from Paestum to the imperial ludus, he had been living in fear that Murena and Pallas would seek to dispose of him sooner rather than later.

He feared that moment had now arrived.

The small party reached the villa as the night sky faded and dawn glimmered coolly on the horizon. The imposing structure was bordered by a sprawling olive grove. A train of luxury horse-drawn wagons rested in front of the entrance, slaves groaning as they carried baggage off the wagon beds and lugged the heavy loads towards the villa. Porticoes lined the front of the property, rising in tiers to an ornamental balcony two storeys above, where Pavo supposed wealthy guests might catch a gentle breeze on a hot summer’s night. Two Praetorians stood on duty at the entrance to the villa. One of them blocked the path of Pavo and the guards while his comrade stepped forward.

‘Password?’ the Praetorian asked.

‘Flamingo,’ Pavo’s guard replied.

‘What’s your business here?’

‘The aide to the imperial secretary sent for this one.’ The guard pointed to Pavo.

Stepping back, the Praetorian waved Pavo and his escort through.

Pavo baulked as he stepped into the villa. Memories of childhood summers spent at the family’s villa at Antium came flooding back to him as the guards led him down the entrance passage at a brisk pace. They hurried through a garishly coloured vestibule leading to a wide central hallway with elaborate frescoes decorating the walls and an intricate mosaic sparkling on the floor under the flicker of several ornate torches. Waves of heat rose up from the hypocaust floor, warming the gladiator’s frozen feet.