Arena (46 page)

‘Now that we are alone, I have something I would like to show you.’

‘Appius?’ Pavo asked hopefully. ‘Do I get to see him at last?’

Murena answered with a note of pity. ‘Not yet, young man. Claudius promised to spare your son a gruesome death. He said nothing of releasing him from custody. However, should you defeat Hermes, I can personally assure you that Appius will be freed.’ There was a feverish glow to his eyes as he went on. ‘What I am going to show you will give you, shall we say, a little extra motivation for your fight. Follow me.’

Pavo frowned suspiciously as Murena paced round the desk and led him out into the corridor. Macro had already departed for the main gates and the clerk was still busy making notes on his tablet as Pavo followed Murena down the corridor. At the end, they descended several flights of stairs until they reached a narrow passageway at the bottom. Two Praetorians guarded the entrance to the passageway, the light from oil lamps dimly illuminating their features. Murena nodded at them and the guard on the left promptly stood aside while his comrade ushered them down the passageway. It was cold and clammy and dark, and the young gladiator shivered, a sinister chill sweeping through him. They were entering the underground tunnels built beneath the foundations of the imperial palace complex, he realised. He’d heard of the existence of such tunnels, used by the Emperor and his entourage to move between the palace complex and his other estates without risk of being assassinated on the streets of Rome. Caligula had been murdered in one such tunnel by several conspirators. A sudden fear gripped Pavo. Perhaps Murena intended to kill him after all, he thought. His legs trembled as he followed the Praetorian and Murena down the tunnel. They passed several cell doors. At length the guard stopped in front of one and unlocked it.

‘Leave us,’ Murena ordered the guard.

‘What’s going on?’ Pavo asked, panic creeping into his voice as he hesitated in the doorway.

Murena stared at him for a moment. His eyes smiled with intent. ‘Enter, young man. There’s a friend of yours in here.’

Something cold and sickening stirred inside Pavo. Reluctantly he stepped into the cell, anxiety tying knots in his stomach. Murena stood to one side. The cell was cramped – smaller than his own billeting at the imperial ludus, Pavo thought – and the instantly recognisable stench of blood and faecal matter lingered in the air. The flicker of oil lamps in the passageway cast a gloomy red hue. A series of torture instruments were laid out on the floor next to the door. Pavo felt his stomach churn as he spotted a patch of blood glistening on the stone next to his feet. Then he heard a timid groaning and his eyes were drawn to a crumpled figure slumped against the back wall. Manacles were clamped round his wrists and ankles. The man had been stripped down to his loincloth and on closer inspection Pavo realised that his fingernails and toenails had been ripped out. His torso was covered with burn marks and bruises. Murena clicked his fingers. The man wearily lifted his head and his dull eyes rested on Pavo. Blood dripped from his chin. His lips were purpled. The gladiator felt his entire body jolt.

‘Dear gods …’ he started.

‘Senator Numerius Porcius Lanatus,’ Murena cut in almost cheerfully, suppressing a smile. He glanced at Pavo. ‘An old friend of your father’s, I believe, in the days when Lanatus was the proconsular governor in Africa. Senator Lanatus also happens to be a Liberator. One of the leaders behind that shadowy network, no less.’ He stooped down beside the elderly senator and grinned. ‘Isn’t that right, Lanatus?’

The senator stared back defiantly.

‘Go to Hades, Murena,’ he croaked. Pavo recoiled in horror as he saw that Lanatus’s teeth had been ripped out of his mouth.

‘I rather think that is what you will soon be doing, my dear friend,’ Murena sneered. He ruffled the senator’s thin grey hair and turned back to Pavo. ‘One of the duty guards at the imperial ludus was exposed as a friend of the Liberators. We tortured him and he gave up the name of Lanatus easily enough.’

The senator winced, his chest heaving with pain. Standing upright, Murena turned to Pavo. ‘Do you know why I have brought you here?’ he asked evenly.

Pavo shook his head. The blood ran cold in his veins. Murena took a step closer to him and said softly, ‘We solicited a confession from Lanatus. The palace interrogators tortured the old fool to within a hair’s breadth of his life, but he eventually told us everything. They always do.’

The gladiator tried to feign ignorance. ‘What does any of this have to do with me?’

‘Don’t play games with me, Pavo. Lanatus confessed to his role in the conspiracy to assassinate the Emperor. He told us about the plan to slip you a weapon in the aftermath of your victory in the group fight. How you were supposed to slit the Emperor’s throat when you entered the imperial box to receive your award. I must admit, it was certainly an audacious plan.’

‘I had no choice! Lanatus told me that unless I helped, Appius would die—’

Murena raised a hand. ‘I’m not interested in your pathetic excuses,’ he snapped. ‘The only reason you’re not being nailed to a cross at this moment is because Pallas and I need you to win. The very fact that you chose not to go through with the conspiracy suggests you at least had some doubts about the wisdom of committing such a heinous act.’

‘What do you want?’ Pavo asked warily.

‘Victory, of course. I will not tolerate your defeat by Hermes.’

Pavo threw up his arms. ‘Hermes is the greatest gladiator who ever lived. Even at my best, I might lose.’

‘Then you will have to train harder. Win your fight, and no one else need ever learn of your part in the Liberators’ conspiracy. Lose, and I will make sure that all of Rome is made aware of your treachery. The mob will ridicule you as a Liberator, Pavo. Your family name will be irreparably sullied. And poor little Appius will suffer a fate worse than death: he’ll grow up as the disgraced son of a traitor.’

‘W
hat was all that about?’ Macro growled irritably. Pavo had left Murena at the entrance to the underground tunnel and rejoined Macro outside the main gates of the imperial palace where he was pacing impatiently up and down. A chill wind picked up and fluttered through the alley.

‘Sir?’ Pavo said absently. His mind was still shaken by the sight of Lanatus in the cell. He shuddered at the thought of the unimaginable horrors the senator must have suffered at the hands of the imperial interrogators. Only the political aspirations of the imperial secretary and his aide had spared Pavo the same fate. But if there was one thing worse than death for a high-born Roman, it was the loss of prestige, and he felt his blood boil at the prospect of being exposed as a traitor. Murena was right. Appius would grow up in disgrace, the Valerius family name stained by his actions. Now, more than ever, he needed to win.

Macro frowned. ‘You look like you’ve just seen a cheap tart without her make-up on, lad. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Pavo replied. He looked carefully at his mentor, studying his face. He quickly decided that Macro was in the dark about his involvement in the conspiracy to assassinate Claudius. He breathed a sharp sigh of relief and forced a smile. ‘Murena merely wanted to remind me of the importance of the fight.’

‘Eh?’ Macro sputtered. He went on, ‘What’s with the long face, then? You should be kissing Fortuna’s arse, lad. Those bloody Greeks are on our side … for once.’

Pavo shrugged wearily. ‘Perhaps we’ve made a mistake.’

Macro grunted. He was still in a foul mood from the encounter with Murena and the painful reminder of his appearance in the beast fights. ‘You think too much. That’s what reading all those books does to you.’

Pavo pushed aside the appalling mental image of Lanatus in his cell and cocked his head at his mentor. ‘It doesn’t strike you as odd that Murena and Pallas are offering to help, sir?’

‘Gods know. They’re Greeks, after all. Buggers are raised at birth to be slippery. Right now they see Narcissus as the greater threat. That means they’re willing to work with you. My enemy’s enemy, as the saying goes.’

Pavo tilted his head to the side, conceding the point. ‘But they have spent the past several months trying to kill me. Surely they’d rather work with someone – anyone – else?’

‘Bloody hell!’ Macro threw up his arms in bewilderment. ‘You know what those freedmen are like. Pallas will do anything to hold on to his title as the Emperor’s chief arse-licker, even if it means cosying up to the disgraced aristocrat he’s been trying to kill. No offence.’

‘None taken,’ Pavo replied flatly.

Macro shook his head. ‘Anyway, you were the one who agreed to work with Murena.’

‘Fair enough. But I don’t believe his reason for wanting the defeat of Hermes. Pallas is a natural schemer. I’m sure he could think up a plan to undermine Narcissus that wouldn’t involve aiding the likes of us.’

‘None of our business, that. All we need to know is that Ruga has given Hermes a good run for his denarii in the past and he’ll know a thing or two about how to stop him. With a bit of luck you might stand a chance of actually winning.’

‘You’re forgetting one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘We only have a month in which to prepare for the fight, sir.’

Macro rubbed his hands. ‘Then we’d best knuckle down to training. Put some bulk on you, lad.’ He glanced down at Pavo’s lower half. ‘Especially those gangly legs of yours. I’ve seen more muscle on those bookish types who sit in the literary salons discussing poetry.’

The streets were bustling and loud with the hubbub of traders’ voices as Macro and Pavo headed south from the imperial palace towards the Aventine Hill. Children’s voices rang out above the metallic clank of shopkeepers releasing bolt locks as they opened their shop fronts for the day. Macro moved at a brisk pace, thoughts weighing heavily on his mind. Although he did not share his concern with his young charge, he worried about the lack of time in which to prepare. Normally three to four months was required to properly train even a veteran gladiator for a fight against a fearsome opponent. Pavo had a mere four fights under his belt and would be facing a supremely fit champion.

Macro surprised himself with how badly he wanted to see Pavo triumph. Respect for high-born Romans did not come naturally to the optio, who had grown up in humble surroundings. But Pavo had proved himself not only a talented swordsman but a hard-working student who possessed an indomitable spirit. Even with the might of the imperial household against him, he had never buckled under pressure and his fighting qualities would make him a worthy officer in any legion. And as his mentor, Macro felt a certain sense of pride.

A short while later Macro and Pavo threaded their way through the seething mass of humanity crammed on to the Aventine Hill. Decrepit tenement blocks stood several storeys high, cutting out what little natural light there was and casting a fetid gloom over the downtrodden inhabitants. The air was filled with the dull hammering of coppersmiths hard at work and the occasional cry of crazed drunks coming from within the dimly lit taverns scattered throughout the district.

‘What in the name of the gods is this place?’ Pavo spluttered. ‘And what is that smell?’

Macro slapped a hand on the gladiator’s shoulder and gave him a hearty shake. ‘This is the Aventine Hill. The beating heart of Rome.’

There was a squelching sound as Pavo trod in something wet and slimy. Stopping in his tracks, he looked down in horror at a foul brown puddle. There were similar puddles all along the street. The young gladiator fought a strong urge to puke as he realised that a river of filth was literally running through the street. Macro chuckled at his companion.

‘Open sewer,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘The Aventine is riddled with ’em.’

Pavo looked for somewhere to wipe his fouled feet. ‘This is not the heart of the city, sir. It is a repugnant slum. How anyone can live like this is quite beyond me.’

Macro widened his eyes. ‘You’re one to talk, lad. The gladiator who lives in a rank cell, eating maggot-infested gruel twice a day.’

Pavo furrowed his brow at Macro. ‘My conditions are not out of choice, sir. They were imposed on me by Cornicen, as you well know. It’s not my fault the imperial lanista singled me out for special treatment.’

‘Always get on with the lanistas, don’t you, lad?’ Macro joked.

The younger man glared at the optio and waved a hand in front of him where men with dishevelled beards and wearing threadbare tunics shuffled solemnly through the streets. Babies wailed from within crumbling tenement blocks.

‘My point is that these people have chosen to wallow in their own filth.’

Macro cocked an eyebrow at Pavo. ‘Haven’t been to the Aventine before, have you?’

‘Never,’ the young gladiator replied proudly. ‘My family home was on the Appian Way. I rarely ventured within the city walls. Sometimes to attend processions in the Forum or listen to the debates going on in the Senate.’

Macro shook his head. ‘Lucky for you. I once lived in this pit. And I can assure you, I had no choice in the matter, like the rest of these poor devils.’

They passed a bakery. A crowd of stick-thin Romans meekly gathered outside, waiting to exchange their grain rations for loaves of bread. Pavo knew that millions across the Empire depended on the grain ration. Perhaps Macro was right, he considered. Perhaps these individuals weren’t scroungers on the grain dole, as he’d previously assumed. He fell quiet, lost in thought as they moved through the streets.

Macro stayed silent at his side. After his mother had run away from the family home when Macro was a child, he had moved with his father to the Aventine Hill to be closer to his uncle Sextus. The sprawling streets and angry shouts of mid-morning drunks were instantly familiar to the soldier.

At the end of the street they spotted a rundown tavern built into the ground floor of a four-storey block. A brightly painted sign hung from a wall outside. A chorus of loud belches and roaring laughs emanated from inside. Pavo frowned at the sign and read it out loud.