Arena (22 page)

At the end of the hallway the guards ushered him into a large study. Scrolls and books were arranged on honeycombed shelves to the left. An oak desk littered with papyrus scrolls and wax tablets occupied the centre of the room, with a tall window behind it overlooking a sprawling vineyard. Murena sat behind the desk. The aide to the imperial secretary frowned in deep concentration at a scroll and for a moment appeared not to notice the prisoner and his escort. Finally he looked up at the young gladiator and grinned.

‘Ah! Marcus Valerius Pavo,’ he announced, setting aside the scroll and clasping his bony hands. ‘Tell me, how are you enjoying your new position as First Sword?’

Pavo grunted. He’d been proclaimed First Sword upon his arrival at the imperial ludus in Capua. It was the title given to the leading fighter of the imperial gladiators, and the news had surprised him. A gladiator elevated to First Sword after just two fights was unheard of. But his shock quickly turned to unease. Although the title afforded him some privileges, such as having his own private cell and cooked meat and vegetables at mealtimes instead of the usual fare of barley gruel, it also made him a target for the other fighters. Many of the men in the ludus had been captured by legions in battle, or were impoverished slaves. As the son of a Roman nobleman and a former military tribune in the Sixth Legion, Pavo was already loathed by those same gladiators. Being named First Sword had only further estranged him from the brotherhood. He viewed the title as more of a curse than a blessing.

Murena nodded to the guards. ‘You may go.’ He watched them retreat down the hall. Then he cleared his throat and looked back to the young gladiator. ‘I won’t keep you for long. I have several pressing matters to attend to before his imperial majesty arrives.’

‘Claudius is on his way here?’ Pavo asked, tension rising in his throat.

‘In a few days’ time. The Emperor is currently inspecting the naval base at Puteoli. Afterwards he wishes to cast his eye over his troupe of imperial gladiators ahead of the forthcoming games.’

‘Games?’ Pavo asked.

‘I will come to that shortly. Pallas has asked me to travel ahead of the Emperor and prepare the estate for his arrival, as well as sort through the affairs of the unfortunate previous owner of this quite splendid villa, a treacherous senator who thought he could outwit Claudius.’

There was a sinister gleam in the aide’s eye that made Pavo shudder.

‘The senator paid the price for his treachery and his estate was confiscated after his death. The chap had rather a lot of properties and assets. I have to say, sorting through it all is rather tiresome.’

‘Just tell me what it is that you want,’ the young gladiator said through gritted teeth.

Murena studied Pavo with a look of a hunter trapping a wild animal.

‘I wonder if you have reconsidered my generous offer?’

Pavo instinctively balled his hands into fists. ‘There’s nothing to consider,’ he replied. ‘Claudius is my sworn enemy. As are you and that other backstabbing Greek bastard, Pallas.’

Murena stared at Pavo with barely concealed rage.

‘Your insolence will not be tolerated! I purchased you from that spendthrift lanista in Paestum on behalf of the imperial treasury. You serve Claudius now. And as a representative of his imperial majesty, you will treat me with the same courtesy and respect as if you were speaking with the Emperor himself!’

‘I’ll regard you as exactly what you are,’ Pavo replied bitterly. ‘A devious Greek who does the bidding of a slobbering old fool in a purple toga.’

The imperial freedman opened his mouth to respond, but quickly checked himself. ‘No, have your fun. Call me whatever names amuse you. Nothing changes the fact that you belong to me now, and shall do as I please.’

Pavo stared silently at the aide.

‘There is another reason I sent for you,’ Murena continued. ‘Since we last spoke, the situation has changed.’

‘What do you mean?’ Pavo asked.

‘The Empire is in danger, and we need your help to save it.’

The young gladiator looked puzzled as Murena went on.

‘What I am about to tell you is strictly between us. There is a secret network of traitors operating within the walls of Rome. Not the usual drooling old fools in the Senate. This is a much more dangerous group. They call themselves the Liberators. They are determined to overthrow Claudius and return Rome to the dark days of the Republic.’

‘Perish the thought,’ Pavo replied tonelessly.

‘More important things are at stake here than your disagreement with Claudius,’ Murena snapped. His voice was laced with fear, thought Pavo. ‘The Liberators pose a serious threat to the future stability of Rome. We must crush the group before they have a chance to establish a groundswell of support against the Emperor.’ The aide offered Pavo a terse smile. ‘Which brings me to the subject of the games to be held at the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre next month.’

Pavo digested the news impassively. Announcing a spectacular series of games was nothing new. It had been something of a tradition for newly crowned emperors ever since Augustus had begun hosting gladiator fights purely for the purpose of entertaining the restless mob.

‘Claudius intends to make an announcement at the games. Livia is to be deified.’

‘She’s to become a god?’ Pavo muttered in astonishment.

‘Indeed. Claudius has wished for some time to deify his grandmother. Her deification will emphasise the divine lineage stretching from Augustus down to Tiberius and Claudius, arousing memories of the Golden Age.’

‘Sounds like a cynical tactic to win the approval of the mob.’

‘This is Rome. Of course it’s cynical.’ Murena looked pleased with himself. ‘Dignitaries from across the Empire will be in attendance to witness the chariot races at the Campus Martius and processions through the Forum. In the arena, a morning beast-hunt featuring elephants and tigers will be followed by the usual crucifixions and floggings. In the afternoon, you and the other imperial gladiators will take to the sand.’ He pursed his lips. ‘When you enter the arena, you are to bow before his imperial majesty in front of the mob and pledge your undying allegiance to the regime.’

‘Never!’ Pavo raged. ‘I won’t sully the legacy of my father. Besides, what difference would a public display from me make, if the Liberators are Hades-bent on overthrowing Claudius?’

‘You underestimate your reputation. The Liberators have big plans for you. They consider you well placed to be sympathetic to their aims.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We had a spy in their ranks. Sadly, his identity was unmasked, and the poor officer suffered a quite violent death.’ Murena rolled his tongue around his gums, as if trying to dislodge a scrap of food. ‘My point is, the Liberators need a spokesman. A role model, if you like. They admired Titus for his outspoken republican views, and as his only son and heir you represent the same sentiment. The Liberators are convinced that you are ripe to recruit to their cause – a popular figure to win over the common man.’

The aide drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the desk.

‘We will beat the Liberators at their own game,’ he said. ‘They need the mob as badly as Claudius does, if they are serious in their intention to return Rome to a republic. With your show of support, the mob will back Claudius. Not even the Liberators are foolish enough to act against the wishes of the masses.’

Pavo shook his head in protest. ‘I’m one man. There are countless other gladiators who have been more popular than me. Felix the Destroyer, Triumphus the Terrible … even Hermes.’ He clenched his jaw. ‘I don’t hold such sway over the mob.’

Murena raised an eyebrow. ‘Not yet, perhaps.’

An icy feeling struck the young gladiator on the nape of his neck.

‘Why else do you think I promoted you to First Sword?’ asked Murena.

Pavo shrugged.

‘Because you’re a class apart from the likes of Felix and Triumphus. You’re the classic Roman hero and son of a successful military leader. Not some barbaric milk-drinking Thracian who barely speaks a word of Latin. You’re the first home-grown champion of the arena. And as First Sword, you are well on your way to becoming the most celebrated gladiator Rome has ever seen, with the power to influence the mob more than anyone other than the Emperor.’

Pavo folded his arms across his chest. ‘My decision is final. I won’t help you.’

Murena studied the gladiator. A pallid smile crept across his thin lips. ‘Endorse the Emperor, and I’ll ensure that your next fight is the one you have waited for all this time. Your match in the arena will be against Hermes.’

‘So you say,’ Pavo sniffed. ‘What’s to stop you from simply bumping me off once I throw my weight behind Claudius?’

The aide feigned a look of surprise. ‘You will have to trust me.’

Pavo was incredulous. ‘First you tried to poison me. Then you had me drugged for my fight against Denter. Now you expect me to believe that you and Pallas would honour any sort of deal?’

Murena compressed his lips.

‘No,’ Pavo said through gritted teeth. ‘I won’t endorse the Emperor, no matter how much you might try to sway me.’

‘As you wish,’ Murena replied, breathing loudly through his nostrils. ‘Then I suggest you return to the ludus and prepare for the games. If you won’t help us defeat the Liberators, then you leave me no choice but to make an example of you to the mob. You will be crucified upon the charge of treachery to Rome … after Appius is thrown to the beasts before your eyes.’

Pavo squeezed his eyes shut and mouthed a silent prayer to Fortuna and Jupiter that he would one day get his chance for vengeance on Pallas and Murena.

The aide clapped his hands loudly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to the business at hand. Guards!’

He waved Pavo away and returned his attention to the stack of scrolls and wax tablets. Footsteps echoed down the corridor as the guards returned to the study. They were about to haul Pavo outside when Murena suddenly remembered something and motioned for them to halt.

‘Oh, and before I forget,’ he said to Pavo, ‘send my regards to your lanista, won’t you?’ He smiled faintly. ‘I’m sure Macro will have whipped the men into good shape by the time Claudius arrives.’

M
acro settled his piercing gaze over the ludus training ground and shook his head in disgust.

‘Lanista of a bloody ludus,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I’ll never live this day down with the boys in the Second Legion.’

He grunted as the gladiators trudged towards him at the end of their afternoon training session at the wooden training posts in the shadow of the two-storey dormitory block that dominated the ludus, and prepared to deliver his first address to the gladiators as the new imperial lanista. It was not a task he approached with much enthusiasm. Macro had arrived at the ludus earlier that morning in a foul mood. He had reacted badly to news of his appointment as the temporary lanista. Although he enjoyed a good gladiator show as much as the next Roman, he held a dim view of the gladiators themselves. His estimation of lanistas was even poorer. At least the gladiators fought with honest steel, Macro privately conceded, whereas the lanistas were greedy profiteers who grew wealthy from the killing of slaves and condemned criminals.

A burly, squat man with a heavily scarred leg stood at his shoulder, tightly gripping a short leather whip.

‘It’s not all bad, sir. At least we get to beat the shit out of scum.’

Manius Ovidius Aculeo held the title of newly appointed gladiator trainer to the ludus. Macro had been introduced to him after arriving at dawn in Capua. The optio’s departure from Paestum had been delayed whilst he waited for his papers to be drawn up. Plenty of work required his attention upon his arrival, and the morning had been a blur of introductions followed by a meeting with the clerks and a review of the parlous financial state of the ludus. He had barely had time to pause and catch his breath.

‘There are worse jobs to have,’ Aculeo went on. ‘Imperial lanista is a bloody big deal. You’re in charge of Claudius’s personal troupe of gladiators. There’s plenty in Rome who’d scratch their eyes out to be in your boots.’

Macro shook his head. ‘I wasn’t born to nursemaid a bunch of muscle-bound glory-hunters.’

‘
Imperial
gladiators, sir,’ Aculeo pointed out. ‘Hand-picked by the Emperor from the thousands of fighters from across the length and breadth of the Empire.’ The doctore waved a hand at the men forming a thin line across the training-ground sand, under the watchful eyes of a handful of armed guards. ‘This lot are the best swordsmen around. Apart from the gladiators at the main imperial ludus in Rome, I suppose.’

‘Bollocks!’ Macro spat. ‘These men might work the crowd up with all their chest-thumping and swashbuckling, but stick ’em on the Rhine Frontier to face a horde of barbarians foaming at the mouth and they’d soon come unstuck.’

The doctore chuckled and shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir, but I beg to disagree. The legions ain’t what they used to be. I was a drill instructor in the Thirteenth once. When I joined up, a man would be flogged for so much as looking at some Syrian tart. Times have changed. The legions are too soft these days by half.’

Macro bit his tongue, resisting the temptation to remind Aculeo that there was a world of difference between the Thirteenth Legion and the Second. Murena had briefed the optio on the new doctore shortly before he departed Paestum. He’d been told that Aculeo had been discharged from the military after acquiring a reputation for being rather too enthusiastic with the application of his vine stick, provoking the men almost to the point of mutiny. Macro made a mental note to keep a close eye on the new doctore. The last thing he needed was a vindictive trainer venting his frustrations on the gladiators. There were more than enough problems to keep him busy as things stood. The previous lanista, Gaius Salonius Corvus, had been more interested in the trappings of wealth than managing a ludus, and training under his leadership had been lax. Macro felt the burden of the task ahead weighing on his shoulders like a heavy marching yoke.