Arena (38 page)

‘I’ve befriended one of the household slaves at the palace, an interesting young chap by the name of Quintus Licinius Cato. I’m a frequent visitor to the palace, and I had heard that young Cato was fond of poetry. I dabble in verse myself, so today I stopped by and offered to lend Cato a few scrolls from my collection. Some Catullus, and a few lines of Propertius.’

‘What does this have to do with Appius?’

The elderly senator lowered his voice. ‘Appius was there, Pavo. He’s still under the care of the imperial slaves. I saw your son with my own eyes. He was wearing his locket around his neck. I took it from him so I could give you proof that I am a man of my word. Cato seemed quite attached to young Appius. The poor chap was clearly upset when he informed me that Appius will no longer be with us tomorrow.’

Pavo thumped his fist into his palm. ‘Then there’s still a chance to save my son.’

Lanatus glanced over his shoulder, and when he turned back to Pavo and spoke again, it was in a barely audible whisper. ‘I have a plan. The imperial palace is almost empty while the games are being held. The Emperor, his imperial staff and freedmen are all in attendance and many of the slaves have been detailed for arena duty. All that’s left are a few household slaves and a small detachment of the Praetorian Guard.’

‘What’s the plan?’ Pavo asked rapidly, his pulse quickening, his mind racing.

‘I’ll make my way to the imperial palace during the fight tomorrow to lend Cato my poetry. I’m a familiar enough face at the palace. No one will refuse my entry. Once inside, I’ll find Appius and pass him to one of my slaves at the entrance to the kitchen, which is unguarded during the games. From there he will be spirited away.’

A thought struck Pavo. ‘Where will he go? He can’t stay in Rome. Once Claudius is dead, there’ll be reprisals against every gladiator in the land. Think of what Pallas and Murena will do if they catch Appius …’ He found it too distressing to go on. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the thought.

‘I’ve already considered that problem,’ said Lanatus after a pause. Pavo opened his eyes and watched the senator scratch his cheek as he continued. ‘There’s a friend of yours, I believe. A heavyset chap named Manius Salvius Bucco.’

Pavo blinked in amazement. ‘Bucco was a fellow recruit during my time at the ludus in Paestum. But how did you find out about him?’

‘The network of Liberators is far more extensive than you might imagine, Pavo. A bodyguard of one of my friends used to be a gladiator at Paestum. He mentioned that you and Bucco were quite close. Apparently he had something of a gambling habit and owes you a debt.’

Pavo nodded. ‘I got him out of a tight spot with a creditor.’

Lanatus smiled weakly. ‘I sent one of my servants to Ostia to explain the situation to Bucco. He’s on his way to Rome as we speak. He has agreed to take Appius in. My slave will meet him on the road and hand Appius over as soon as Claudius falls. He’ll be in Ostia, safe and sound, before the authorities realise he’s missing. His every need will be taken care of.’

Pavo was silent. He was apprehensive about placing his trust in Lanatus. But the alternative was to submit to a gruesome death in the arena. Murena had promised him that he would perish at the games one way or another, and Pavo knew he couldn’t survive much longer.

‘How am I supposed to kill Claudius? The attendants will take away my sword as soon as the fight is over. That’s assuming I manage to survive the fight.’

‘I’ve studied the programme in detail. The victor from the group fight will be taken to the infirmary immediately after the fight to be cleaned up and made presentable to the Emperor. When you arrive, I’ll make my way down to the infirmary to offer my congratulations. Then I’ll slip you a dagger, short enough to conceal in the folds of your loincloth. When you are escorted up the steps to the imperial box, you will simply reach for the dagger and end Claudius’s evil reign.’

A cold fear worked its way through Pavo. He stared wide-eyed at Lanatus.

‘How do I escape?’

‘You don’t,’ Lanatus said simply. ‘I thought you would realise that.’

‘But the Germans will tear me to pieces!’

‘Of course,’ Lanatus responded gravely. ‘But by then it will be too late. The Emperor will already be dead.’

The gladiator felt a cold tremor on his lips. ‘I have to die to save my son?’

The senator’s eyes burned brightly. ‘Not just to save Appius, my boy. To save Rome. Think of the legacy you will leave. The Valerius name will be restored to its former glory, and you will be hailed as the Liberator who sacrificed his life in order to save Rome from ruin. Once Claudius is dead, I’ll put forward an emergency vote to return Rome to a republic. This is your chance to be a hero, Pavo!’

The young gladiator fell quiet. He was aware of an enormous weight bearing down on his shoulders, and a wave of exhaustion washed over him. Turning away from Lanatus, he rose wearily to his feet and peered out of the narrow slit in his cell wall. The view overlooked the Campus Martius, stretching south towards the city walls. He glimpsed the outlines of grandiose baths and temples in the distance, their ornate marbled facades glowing under the pale moonlight, testament to the might of imperial Rome. The carcasses of several beasts lined the side of the Flaminian Way, the creatures dumped outside the arena after each fight. Now a small crowd of gaunt men in threadbare tunics gleaned what meat they could from the little that remained.

‘Well?’ Lanatus called from the other side of the cell. ‘What’s your answer?’

Pavo sighed. He was in an impossible position. If he accepted, his chance of gaining revenge over Hermes would be gone for ever. If he rejected the senator’s offer, his son would die. At last he turned back to face Lanatus and said, ‘I’m only doing this for my son.’

‘A wise choice, my boy.’ The senator straightened up, a relieved expression on his face, a fierce fire still burning in his eyes. Almost absently, he realised he was still clutching the locket. He chucked it to Pavo. ‘Keep it. Perhaps it will bring you some luck. Now, it’s late. I suggest you get some rest ahead of the group fight. Tomorrow you will take the life of the Emperor.’

T
he sun glowed weakly behind the clouds the next morning as Macro took up his position close to the imperial box, trying to get comfortable in his freedman’s tunic and failing. The belt fastened around his waist was too tight, and his stocky chest bulged inside his ill-fitting tunic. He cut a faintly ridiculous figure and he drew perplexed looks from the spectators seated in the nearby galleries.

‘First a bloody gladiator, now a fucking clerk,’ he muttered irritably. ‘At this rate I’ll be dressed up as a slave before the day is out.’

He shook off his anger and turned towards the arena floor. Half a dozen attendants were hurriedly raking the sand in preparation for the forthcoming bout. The galleries had gradually filled with spectators as the moment of the group fight drew closer. Now the arena heaved with the noise and bustle of a packed crowd, the smell of grilled meat wafting in from the street stalls. Macro gritted his teeth as spectators brushed past him in a mad dash for the few remaining seats.

The Praetorian at his shoulder noticed the sour look on Macro’s face and grunted. ‘Cheer up, mate. This is one of the perks of the job.’

Macro shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough of gladiator spectacles …’

Turning away from the arena floor in disgust, he directed his gaze towards the imperial box. The puzzle of where the assassin might strike at the Emperor had stalked the optio all morning. He’d risen at dawn, making his way straight to the empty arena to explore its tangled warren of passageways. At the end of his inspection he had concluded that although there were plenty of exits the killer could use to escape into the streets, the Emperor and his retinue were well protected. The ornately decorated box was situated on a raised platform on the north side of the arena, affording a prime view of the gladiator bouts. The box featured its own private steps leading down to a guarded passageway that had a separate entrance also manned by a section of Praetorians. Getting near to the Emperor would be incredibly difficult. Macro had considered the possibility that one of the senators or foreign dignitaries immediately behind the box might be the assassin. But he doubted that any of them were physically capable of breaking through the party of German bodyguards, grabbing the Emperor and plunging a blade into his neck. There had to be some other approach where the assassin would be lying in wait. But for the life of him Macro couldn’t figure out where.

‘This isn’t soldier’s work,’ he quietly seethed. ‘I should be training men, not helping out those Greek tossers.’

‘Oi! Get your hands off me!’ a voice cried above the general murmur of the mob.

Swivelling his steely gaze to the right of the exit, Macro spotted two spectators quarrelling over a seat at the edge of the gallery. One of the men had grabbed a seated spectator by a fold of his weather-beaten toga. The seated man shrugged off the hand and shot to his feet. Macro rounded on them both in a flash ahead of the Praetorian Guard, pulling the spectators apart.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded.

‘This man stole my seat!’ the first spectator protested.

‘Piss off, I was here before you!’ the second spectator snarled throatily. He smoothed out the fold in his toga, glaring at the first spectator through glazed eyes.

The first man glowered. ‘This seating is reserved for the equites. If you’re one of us then show me your ring.’

Macro raised an eyebrow at the second man. ‘Well?’

The spectator looked away guiltily. ‘I don’t have it,’ he slurred. ‘I lost it in the tavern.’

‘Another lie!’ the first man fumed. He raised his finger and showed his ring to Macro. ‘The man’s an impostor. A pleb trying to pass himself off as one of his betters.’

Macro frowned at the second man. ‘It appears you’re in the wrong seating section, friend.’

The man flashed a withering look of contempt at him. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Fucking freedmen,’ he added bitterly. ‘Bloody everywhere these days.’

Macro’s temper snapped. He reached out and grabbed the man by the neck, forcing him to face forward and look towards the arena floor. A comedy troupe was entering from the east portal, acrobats juggling balls and midgets dressed up in costume. The spectator recoiled in shock as Macro whispered into his ear, ‘Address me like that again and you’ll have the best view in the arena. D’you hear?’

The man gulped loudly and raised his palms in mock surrender. ‘Fair enough, mate. I’m sorry. You know how it is. Everyone’s trying to get a seat for the games this morning. The group fight is the talk of the taverns. It’s not every day you get two legends slogging it out in a free-for-all.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Macro hissed.

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard! There was an announcement in the Forum first thing this morning. A message from the sponsor. All those gladiators who were supposed to get ripped to pieces by wild beasts have been drafted into the group fight … including that treacherous shit Marcus Valerius Pavo.’

‘Stop spouting bollocks. I’ve heard about these group fights. They’re just a cheap way of getting rid of the scum. Dozens of murderers and fugitive slaves carving each other up with about as much skill as a blind Gaul after a skinful of wine. The organisers would never risk a proper swordsman in that chaos.’

Macro released his grip on the man before he could reply. Down on the arena floor the comedy routine was trudging off and an umpire marched purposefully out of the eastern gate, followed by a procession of lightly armoured gladiators. Macro spied Pavo at the front of the column, staring rigidly ahead as the crowd hurled abuse at him.

‘Gods, you’re right!’ he muttered. He experienced an acute stab of sympathy for his former pupil.

‘Told you,’ the spectator replied with a sneer. ‘Tell you what, I don’t fancy Pavo’s chances in this fight.’

Macro rounded on the spectator. ‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s quite a few who are handy with a sword who’ve been added to the programme. You’ve got your Egyptian swordsmen and your German barbarians. Amadocus is competing too.’

Macro felt his blood run cold. ‘Bloody hell.’

The spectator nodded. ‘Pavo being the champion gladiator, the other men will be desperate to give him the chop. I don’t care how well he fared against the wild beasts; he’s going to get slaughtered down there this morning.’

‘Right, you bastards!’ the umpire called out to the fighters as they wearily tramped out of the eastern and western gates and took up their positions either side of a chalk mark running across the sand. ‘Nobody moves a bloody finger until I give the word. If I catch anyone trying to get stuck in too early, they’ll be nailed to a cross before the day is out. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir!’ the gladiators chorused.

Pavo had awoken that morning Hades-bent on sparing his son from the same traitor’s fate he’d suffered, and his father Titus before him. Entering the arena to a wall of noise, he recalled the gladiator tactics he’d learnt under Macro. The men slowly assembled on the sand, sixty in total. Some grimly resigned themselves to their fate. Others shook their fists at the crowd in postures of tragic defiance. A short, stocky gladiator stood to the right of Pavo, visibly trembling with fear.

‘This is it,’ he croaked. The man had no teeth, Pavo noticed, and a branding mark on his forehead marked him out as a fugitive slave. ‘We’re bloody done for.’

‘First fight?’ Pavo asked.

‘And last,’ the man replied bitterly. ‘I shouldn’t be here. I’ve never wielded a sword in my life.’

Pavo felt his muscles tense as attendants distributed the weapons to the men, steeling himself for the imminent fight. Accompanied by a line of Praetorian Guards, the umpire made his way around the fighters in turn, pausing in front of each man to personally inspect the sharpness of his weapon. In an attempt to bring some order to the group fight, which often descended into a chaotic brawl, the men had been arranged into two teams of thirty apiece, with the teams distinguished by their weaponry. Each fighter on Pavo’s team was handed a curved sword two feet in length and a small round shield. The shield was smaller than the one he was used to in the legions and offered much less protection, and he was unfamiliar with the blade.