Arena (49 page)

Ruga shook his head firmly. ‘I’m training the boy, just as you demanded. That was our deal. One month with the lad and I’d be free to return to my old job as bodyguard to Senator Macula.’

Murena weighed up his response as he led Ruga into the courtyard, away from the bustle and noise of the street. ‘Pallas and I must take into account the possibility that Pavo might lose tomorrow.’

‘There’s always a possibility of defeat,’ Ruga conceded. ‘But he has a better chance of victory against Hermes than most. What else could you possibly want?’

‘A contingency plan.’

Ruga hesitated and glanced back to the street. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘I’m not asking for your approval, gladiator,’ Murena snapped. ‘You will do as I say, whether you like it or not.’ Composing himself, the aide lowered his voice. ‘Tell me, are you friends with any other retired gladiators?’

Ruga pursed his lips. ‘A few. Those who pay their dues to the gladiator guild mostly.’

‘And they are looking for work?’

‘Some of them. Why?’

Murena smiled thinly. ‘Good. Now listen carefully …’

T
he crowd packed into the temporary arena rumbled and then burst into spontaneous cheers as another gladiator was cut down on the sands. A chill ran down Pavo’s spine as he waited in the gloomy tunnel alongside Macro for his turn in the arena, the scaffolding directly above him shuddering as if with fear at the howls of pain coming from the butchery. Through the entrance to the arena he glimpsed the frantic glimmer of steel as a scrawny man armed with a short sword and a small round shield but no armour hacked madly at his elderly opponent.

This was the pre-match entertainment Murena had mentioned. It involved the guilty Liberators behind the conspiracy to assassinate the Emperor fighting to the death. The sight of a dozen public officials stabbing and slicing at each other in front of the baying mob made Pavo sick to the pit of his stomach. He frowned as the frail gladiator, Senator Lanatus, struggled to raise his shield to defend himself and stumbled frantically backwards from his opponent, begging for mercy.

‘Looks like the magistrate is about to gut the senator,’ Macro remarked as he narrowed his gaze towards the arena entrance. ‘Not long now, lad. As soon as this scrap is over it’ll be your turn to take to the sand.’

Pavo felt a cold tremor of dread tremble down his spine. ‘What will become of the winner of this fight?’ he wondered aloud.

Macro shrugged. ‘Crucifixion, perhaps. If he’s lucky the guards will execute him.’

‘Gods.’ Pavo shuddered and shook his head. He thought again of his agreement with Murena and Pallas. He secretly feared that the imperial secretary would reveal the truth of his involvement with the Liberators whether or not he won, but he knew he had no choice but to trust the two freedmen to keep their word.

In the next instant a shriek rang out as the magistrate plunged his sword into Lanatus’s exposed chest. The senator convulsed on the spot. Blood spewed out of his mouth as he sank to his knees on the sand. The crowd cheered the death of another Liberator. Some spat at the dying senator. Others shouted obscenities at him as a pair of guards rushed out of the tunnel and seized the magistrate.

Macro clapped his hands. ‘Right, lad. You’re up next.’

Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Pavo forced his tensed muscles to relax and nervously counted down the moments until he stepped out into the arena. The air was dense and cold and felt icy in his lungs. This was it, he thought. The moment he’d been training for since he had been thrown into the ludus in Paestum, stricken with grief over the brutal murder of his parents, his son taken as a hostage and the ruin of his reputation and that of his family.

Revenge.

The tunnel he waited in was situated directly beneath the groaning wooden grandstands of the temporary arena, constructed in the centre of the Roman Forum on the same spot where the gladiator games were hosted in the time of Julius Caesar. The guards had arrived at the imperial ludus at dawn to escort him to the arena. A stab of fear had stirred in his veins at the sight of it. Although it was considerably smaller than the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre, the setting was infinitely more spectacular. The grandstands were flanked by a pair of marbled basilicas whose long porticoes and intricately decorated bas-reliefs glowed weakly in the pallid morning light. Beyond the arena Pavo had spotted the Arch of Augustus looming over the Forum, a symbol of imperial prestige. Macro had greeted him at the tunnel entrance. As Pavo made his final preparations, he had the strange sensation that even the gods were gazing down on Rome that day, eagerly awaiting the fight.

‘Now remember what we discussed,’ Macro said calmly, shaking Pavo out of his anxious stupor. The guards dragged the surviving magistrate out of the arena to a chorus of jeers and the optio had to raise his voice to make himself heard. ‘Don’t stay still for an instant. Keep moving. You don’t want to give that bastard a chance to corner you. Make him work, lad. Move, parry, attack. Just like we said, eh?’

‘Move, parry, attack,’ Pavo recited tonelessly.

Macro nodded. He gripped Pavo by the shoulders and stared him dead in the eyes. ‘I won’t lie to you, lad. Fighting Hermes is going to be bloody hard work. Ignore the pain and focus on your task. The same as they teach you in the legions.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ Pavo replied. ‘You’re not the one fighting a legend.’

Macro shook his head. ‘My neck is on the line, lad. Same as yours.’

A sudden despair overcame the young gladiator, his fists trembling with utter rage. ‘Those Greek bastards! Roping us into their scheming. I hope they both rot in the Underworld.’

‘No worries there,’ Macro hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Best thing for it is to make sure Hermes is waiting for them when they get there, eh?’

Pavo glanced up and down the tunnel. ‘Why isn’t Ruga here?’

Macro shrugged. ‘Gods know. Probably getting pissed in some dubious watering hole.’

Pavo nodded distractedly. Behind the anxious thrill of his imminent appearance in the arena, a hot panic flared between his temples. Hermes was the favourite for the fight, and through the creaking grandstands he could hear the chants of the mob cheering his opponent’s name. He felt as if all of Rome was against him then.

An attendant stooped at his feet to fasten the straps on the metal greave round his leg, pulling them tight so that the cloth padding was pressed against his shin. That was the last of the armour he had been issued. His bronze body armour was wrapped tight round his chest, causing him to sweat profusely in spite of the chill. The crowd quietened as the announcer ran through the formalities. Pavo listened. A sudden wave of nausea lodged in his throat.

A mild cheer rang out as Pavo’s name was announced.

Macro said quietly, ‘It’s almost time.’

Pavo nodded. ‘It’s been an honour, sir.’

‘Likewise, lad. Even if you were sometimes a prickly shit.’

A pattering of hurried footsteps echoed further down the tunnel. Pavo instantly spun round and squinted in the gloom at a figure hurrying towards him. He stood sharply upright as the figure neared and he recognised the short, portly man with the plump face. His cheeks were shaded red with exertion and beads of sweat glistened on the folds of his neck. Pavo blinked as he stood rooted to the spot, as if not believing the face staring back at him.

‘Bucco …?’ he spluttered at last. ‘By the gods, what are you doing here?’

Pavo had not seen his comrade in many months – not since he’d transferred to the imperial ludus in Capua. Now the sight of a friendly face in Rome warmed his heart and steadied his nerves. The two men clasped arms. Attendants brushed past, bearing buckets filled with sand to sprinkle over the bloodstains.

Bucco caught his breath. ‘I came as quick as I could,’ he said. ‘Some imperial aide called Murena told me I could find you here. It’s good to see you, friend.’

‘Murena?’ Pavo looked at Bucco in surprise. ‘He sent you?’

Bucco nodded. ‘Woke me up this morning at my lodgings in the Subura.’

‘You mean to say you’ve been in Rome all this time?’

‘A month or so. A man came looking for me in Ostia claiming to be a servant of Senator Lanatus. He told me to come to Rome to take your son.’

‘Another lie,’ Pavo muttered icily.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing,’ he replied quickly. ‘What happened when you arrived in Rome?’

‘The senator refused to see me.’ Bucco scratched his elbow. ‘After I was turned away from his house, a couple of Praetorians grabbed me and hauled me off to the imperial palace. They asked me what my business was with Lanatus. I explained everything, and the next thing I knew, some greasy official handed me your son.’

Pavo froze. His stomach clenched anxiously. ‘Appius …’ He looked frantically up and down the tunnel. ‘Where is he? Did you bring him with you? I must see my son before I face Hermes. I want to say goodbye to him, in case …’ He clenched his jaw, overcome with a bitter grief.

Bucco smiled weakly at his comrade. ‘I’ve been under strict orders not to bring him to you since I took him in from the palace. The aide, Murena, didn’t want to interfere with your training sessions. I had no choice but to agree.’

Pavo frowned. ‘Then where is he?’

‘With my wife, Clodia, at our lodgings in the Subura. I sent for my family after I decided to stay on in Rome and try my hand at acting.’ Bucco lowered his head. ‘Your son can speak now,’ he added quietly. ‘He has been saying a few words.’

An almost unbearable grief seized Pavo just then. He clenched his fists, his heart beating furiously inside his chest. There and then he vowed to defeat Hermes. He would not lose to his nemesis. The welfare of his son hinged on his winning the fight and saving the reputation of the Valerian family name. He clamped his eyes shut and mouthed a silent prayer to the gods to protect his son. He opened them when Macro placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

‘It’s time, lad.’

Pavo glanced at the soldier and nodded. Then he quickly turned to Bucco.

‘Can you promise me something?’

‘Name it.’

Pavo paused for a moment. He glanced away from Bucco towards the entrance to the arena and choked back tears. Lips trembling, he took a deep breath and turned back to his comrade. ‘If I die today, Appius is the last in the line of the Valerians. There is no other family to look after my son. Should I fall, raise Appius for me.’

Bucco forced a smile. ‘I shall,’ he promised.

Pavo nodded softly. ‘Thank you, Bucco.’

‘May the gods be with you, my friend.’

Pavo took a deep breath as the bucina players blared notes on their bass instruments and the feverish roar of the crowd filled the arena. Macro gave him a final pat on the back and a moment later a pair of officials thrust the young man down the short entrance tunnel. The ground shook underfoot with the rumbling anticipation of the crowd. Pavo felt a sick feeling in his guts. His armour weighed down heavily on him and his sweat flowed freely. He mopped his brow as he arrived at the entrance and took one last look over his shoulder. Macro nodded at him with a look of steely determination. Bucco stood by his shoulder and smiled faintly, his dim eyes filling with tears. Facing forward, Pavo grimly accepted his shield from one of the attendants. An image of Nemesis had been painted on the front. He smiled wryly. How appropriate, he thought. Then the second attendant slipped the full-face helmet over his head, dramatically reducing his field of vision.

Pavo swallowed hard. His neck muscles instinctively tensed. His breathing rasped inside the helmet as he sucked in cool air through the small airholes. The blood rushed in his head and he waited for the attendant to give the signal.

Then he marched into the arena to face his sworn enemy.

G
rey clouds pressed heavily in the sky like grain sacks fit to burst at the seams as Pavo stepped out on to the sand. The visor on his helmet severely restricted his line of sight, cutting off his peripheral vision and forcing him to concentrate on the scene directly in front of him. As a consequence he could not see the ground at his feet and he shuffled tentatively at first as he approached the chalk line that marked the wide circle in the centre of the arena within which the gladiators were required to remain during their bout. This was a regular feature of fights to the death, forcing the competitors to remain in close proximity to each other instead of retreating to the sides of the square arena.

As he neared the circle Pavo lifted his gaze to the hastily constructed imperial box situated on the northern stand. The Emperor sat at the front, flanked by his German bodyguards and his entourage of imperial lackeys. The box was distinctly less impressive than the ornate structure at the Statilius Taurus arena, Pavo decided, and shorn of its elegance Claudius cut a rather sad and pathetic figure, smacking his lips as he sat in his chair, giddy with excitement at the prospect of the fight. A violent pressure pulsed behind Pavo’s eyes as he spotted Pallas and Murena to the left of the Emperor. To his right stood a middle-aged man with crow’s feet around his eyes, flashing a practised smile at Claudius. Pavo dimly recognised him.

‘That must be Narcissus,’ he muttered to himself.

He lowered his eyes to the mouth of the tunnel on the opposite side of the arena as two attendants filed out and approached the centre circle bearing the weapons to be used for the fight. As they reached it, the umpire pricked his thumb against the tips of the two swords in turn. Nodding to himself, he raised his thumb to the Emperor, confirming the weapons’ sharpness and drawing a crescendo of cheers from the mob. Pavo drew close to the umpire. A sick feeling gnawed at his guts as he realised he was standing on the same spot where his father’s severed head had been displayed to the mob. The thought filled him with anguish and anger.

A moment later Hermes stormed out of the same tunnel through which the attendants had emerged, into a deafening wall of noise. A section of the crowd rose to its feet, vocally clamouring for their hero to tear his opponent limb from limb.