‘As I recall, you were the one who wanted Pavo to fight Britomaris. You must have known the mob would celebrate his good fortune if he triumphed.’
‘An outcome we had planned to cut off as soon as it sprouted,’ Murena replied with a glare. ‘Our error was to trust that hare-brained lout Britomaris to wound Pavo. We do not intend to make the same mistake twice.’
‘I’m just a soldier,’ Macro protested. ‘I kill the enemies of Rome for a living, not its citizens. You want someone to dispose of Pavo in a dark alley, you’re better off talking to those idiots.’
He pointed at the pair of Praetorians pottering about in the bowels of the arena, grumbling to each other and shaking their heads. One of the guards nudged his comrade in the chest and they quickly set about looking busy, picking up wine jugs and trinkets and lugging them out of the arena. Murena turned back to Macro.
‘You won’t escape your obligation to me that easily, Macro. You’ll see to it that Pavo is humiliated in the arena – or you’ll be enjoying a fine view of the Tarpeian Rock, on the way down …’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A frosty silence hovered between the aide and the soldier. In the weeks he had spent training Pavo at the ludus in Paestum, Macro had developed a fondness for the high-born young gladiator. Although he’d never have admitted it to Pavo, in Macro’s opinion the lad had suffered a great deal under the new regime. He felt compelled to plead his case.
‘You don’t need to murder the boy,’ Macro said cagily. ‘He’s in a ludus, remember. He’ll probably be butchered in a year or two anyway. That’s how long most fighters last. Even the lucky ones. He can’t do you any harm.’
Murena opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated as four servants emerged from the plaza, carrying equipment towards a waiting wagon to be transported back inside the city gates. One of the servants cradled the sword used by Pavo in the fight. Dried blood lacquered the length of the blade. The servant laboured under the weight. Murena waited until the group had paced beyond the steps and reached the wagon before continuing.
‘That is not how I see it, Macro. Or indeed Pallas, for that matter. The imperial secretary has decreed that Pavo must die. Which means the order is as good as from Claudius himself. Killing Pavo will leave the Emperor free to focus on rebuilding Rome.’ Murena clicked his tongue. He stared at Macro out of the corner of his eye. He had an unsettling habit of studying people in that way, Macro thought to himself.
‘Just between you and me,’ Murena continued, ‘the Emperor’s programme of public works will represent a pleasant change of duty. All this shoring up of the new regime is getting rather tiresome.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Macro grumbled. ‘You’re forgetting something, though. Pavo is a natural with a sword. The way he saw off Britomaris wasn’t just down to training. It takes skill and courage to fight under pressure. Plenty of soldiers are bloody good at the palus but shit themselves at the first sight of a barbarian foaming at the mouth. Pavo didn’t. The lad is made of strong stuff.’
‘Perhaps. But you know his weaknesses. You can train someone to exploit them.’
‘You’ll still have to find an opponent,’ Macro said. ‘Pavo could win against most of the imperial gladiators when the mood suits him.’
‘We have already chosen our man,’ Murena replied. He paused, and a knowing smile played out across his thin lips. ‘Decimus Cominius Denter.’
‘Denter?’ Macro repeated disbelievingly.
‘You’re familiar with the name?’
‘Who isn’t? Denter is a fucking lunatic! Pardon my Gallic. He once bit the nose off his opponent. Beat another gladiator to death with his bare hands. Drinks the blood of his enemies once he’s killed them. At least he did while he still fought. He retired ages ago. Bought his freedom after the last spectacle under Caligula.’ The soldier shrugged. ‘That’s what I heard.’
‘Pallas has a plan for enticing him out of retirement.’
‘Money, I suppose? Great big bloody bags of it.’
Murena glanced up at the sky. Dusk was closing over Rome. ‘Time for me to return to the palace. Walk with me, Macro.’
Carefully tended fires were being lit as the frigid night wind buffeted the city. Braziers and torches in the open public spaces bathed the temples and forum in orange. Elsewhere the tiny twinkles of oil lamps pricked out from the gloomy mass of tenement blocks and private villas. Trekking through the streets of Rome at night only reminded the optio of why he hated the place. Beggars and thieves lurked in the shadows, bucketfuls of slops were tossed from tenement windows, and the endless din of drunks shouting and brawling and the cry of hungry infants made a good night’s sleep impossible. Give me the Rhine any day of the week, he thought.
Murena grimaced. ‘Denter may well have been one of the finest fighters to grace the arena, but retired gladiators are not the most upstanding of Roman citizens. To be frank, he has squandered his substantial earnings on drink and tarts.’
‘Sounds like a man after my own heart,’ Macro replied with a grin. ‘Where is the old boy now? Travelling with some second-rate troupe of gladiators for a few denarii, I suppose?’
‘Pompeii, actually. He does the odd bit of training. The lanista of the local gladiator school will help you to find him.’
‘Pompeii?’ Macro stuck out his bottom lip approvingly. ‘I hear the Falernian is the best in all Italia there. Good tarts, too. Don’t rip you off. Wouldn’t mind living there myself, when I retire.’
‘Be careful what you wish for, Optio.’ Murena’s eyes glowered at the soldier. ‘You are to travel there at once and train Denter.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Although “train” might be putting it rather strongly. Denter was undefeated in over thirty bouts. I doubt there is much you could teach him. Think of yourself as less of a gladiator trainer and more of a minder. Ensuring Denter stays out of the taverns will keep you busy enough. He is one of those degenerate brutes who fritters away his money on drink and the races by day and degrades himself with nightly visits to the brothels. And that’s when he isn’t getting into scraps with the locals. Your job will be to keep him sober and whip him into shape.’
‘Great,’ said Macro sullenly. ‘So I’m reduced to looking after a drunk.’
‘Denter will be suitably motivated to stay clean. His reward will be five thousand sestertii.’
‘Five thousand sestertii?’ Macro sputtered disbelievingly. ‘Why on earth would he fight for that stingy sum? Unless he plans on killing Pavo out of the kindness of his heart.’
Although the amount Murena had mentioned was more than five times the standard legionary pay of nine hundred sestertii a year, Macro was familiar enough with the workings of the arena business to know that it was considerably less than the usual amount used to lure a gladiator out of retirement.
‘These are austere times,’ Murena said. ‘Caligula emptied the imperial coffers. The Emperor does not have a bottomless bag of coins to hand out to scum like Denter.’
‘The amount you’re offering him is an insult,’ Macro countered. ‘You know what these gladiators are like. Greedy buggers. Piss money away as fast as they can earn it. Denter would have to be mad to accept.’
Murena shrugged. ‘Denter will agree to our terms. Especially when he learns that his opponent is a Valerius.’
‘Why? What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Before Denter was a gladiator, he was a legionary in the Fifth. It seems he had some minor disagreement with a comrade over accusations of stolen rations. Denter stabbed him twice with his sword. The poor chap was lucky to survive. His cohort was notoriously undisciplined and the commanding officer sentenced him to six lashes of the whip. But Titus had just assumed the role of legate of the Fifth and brought with him grand ideas of Roman nobility and grace. He ordered that Denter be dishonourably discharged as an example to the other men.’
Macro thumped his chest. ‘Denter’s a lucky boy. You get caught doing that in the Second and you’re for the chop.’
&nb
sp; ‘Nevertheless, his misfortune is a gift from the gods. He understandably bears a serious grudge towards Titus. His old lanista said he constantly spoke of his hatred for the man. He will jump at the chance for revenge over the son.’
‘Where’s the fight taking place?’
‘The amphitheatre in Paestum. In six weeks’ time. The local council were already in the midst of preparing a pitiful spectacle. We will simply take over the administration and bump Pavo to the top of the bill.’
‘A nice long time to get him ready, then. No rush at all,’ the optio noted wryly. He paused as a thought unravelled itself in his head. ‘But why Paestum? Why not Rome? I’d have thought you would want as big an audience as possible to see Pavo stuck like a pig.’
Murena shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet.
‘Seeing the crowd chant Pavo’s name in the Campus Martius is not something we wish to repeat. Far better to risk hosting the spectacle in a sweaty backwater like Paestum. Just get Denter fighting fit, so that he will be certain to triumph over that brat. With the young man dead, the mob will soon forget his name, and any doubts over Emperor Claudius will be silenced. Cheer up,’ Murena added, seeing the dour look on the face of the optio. ‘Succeed and you’ll get your promotion to centurion.’
‘Great,’ Macro grumbled. ‘But if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to leg it back to Germania. There are plenty of good gladiator trainers kicking their heels in the imperial ludus. Get one of them to work with your man Denter.’ Underneath his desire to return to action, the idea of conspiring against Pavo left a sour taste in the optio’s mouth. Even if he couldn’t spare Pavo a grisly death, he didn’t have to hasten it by teaching another man his weak points.
‘Nonsense,’ Murena replied with a dismissive wave of his slender hand. ‘Pallas and I consider you the perfect choice to train Denter. You tamed Pavo – a tempestuous young man. I think it highly unlikely that your new charge will be any worse.’
Macro choked on a laugh. The aide went on regardless.
‘I’ve arranged for a horse and the appropriate documents for your journey to Pompeii tomorrow at dawn, as well as a modest sum of expenses for your stay in the town. The lanista of the local ludus has organised your accommodation, and you will be permitted use of the training ground next to the barracks to work with Denter.’ They had reached a side entrance to the imperial palace and Murena stopped and turned to Macro. ‘Now, you must excuse me. There is much planning to do ahead of the fight. Paestum is a rather small arena and a great many dignitaries will wish to be in attendance.’
With that, he turned to leave. He paused when he spotted Macro pursing his lips. ‘Something the matter, Optio?’
Macro hesitated briefly. ‘I don’t understand how you’re so sure that Pavo will be humiliated,’ he said cautiously. ‘I mean, the mob are fawning over the lad. What happens if he puts up a good fight, and the crowd beg for mercy to be shown? I’ve seen it happen. If the Emperor gives the signal for death, the mood could turn ugly.’
Murena smiled knowingly. ‘You say that Pavo is skilled with a sword.’
‘Not just skilled,’ Macro replied, with a pang of pride in his chest. He had, after all, been the one who’d turned Pavo from a fearless but volatile trainee into an indomitable swordsman. ‘He is one of the best I’ve ever seen.’
‘Then the answer is simple. We will take his sword away from him.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Paestum
‘On your feet, you bloody wretch!’
Pavo shook his head as his opponent tapped his wooden sword against the base of his wicker shield. A moment earlier the same sword had thwacked Pavo on the side of his skull and sent him crashing to his hands and knees on the floor of the ludus training ground. Now the metallic taste of blood was fresh in his mouth and a ringing noise filled his ears. He felt the callused palms of his hands scalding against the sun-baked sand. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, he lifted his eyes to his opponent. Amadocus towered over him. From his position on the ground, the young man could see only a pair of gnarled feet with blackened toenails, and bulging veins stretching up the length of his wide legs like the twisted fibres of a catapult. Pavo shook his dazed head clear and made to scrape himself off the ground. The veteran booted sand at his face.
‘You fight like a woman, Roman!’ Amadocus snarled in a guttural tone that mangled each word of Latin. Pavo blinked the sand out of his eyes as the Thracian snorted. ‘Think you’re special because you defeated that good-for-nothing Gaul? Fortuna was kissing your arse that day.’ He kicked another cloud of sand at Pavo. ‘Get up, damn you!’
‘Amadocus!’ a voice barked from behind Pavo. The veterans and recruits who were huddled in a tight circle around the fighters abruptly stopped cheering and listened to the gladiator instructor. ‘This is a training bout, not a fight to the death.’ The instructor’s lips curled into a cruel smile. ‘Let the young man get to his feet, so he may be given a proper beating.’
‘Yes, Doctore,’ Amadocus grumbled, while fuming through his nostrils. Pavo lifted his eyes a little higher and saw his opponent’s giant pectoral muscles heaving up and down, his blistered hand gripping the base of his training sword. Then the Thracian scowled and took a step back. His vast shadow slipped off the young gladiator like a cloak. Amadocus tapped his sword against his wicker shield again.
‘Hurry up, Roman,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ve been waiting for this chance to humble you ever since you were chosen to fight Britomaris.’
Pavo slowly picked himself off the ground. His leg muscles were taut and stressed from the morning’s yard exercises and he fought hard to steady himself. Amadocus stood two paces back, his shield resting at hip height and the tip of his sword pointing at his opponent’s throat. His pale face was locked into a scowl. Pavo stole a glance at the gladiator instructor past his shoulder. Calamus stood at the front of the circle of spectators, his arms folded across his bare chest, a withering expression etched across his lacerated face.
‘Come on then, you posh little prick!’ he sneered. ‘What are you waiting for? You slew Britomaris with a single stab. Surely you can stand up to a couple of light knocks from Amadocus.’
Pavo turned back to his opponent. Training-ground fights were normally timid affairs, he reminded himself. Neither gladiator wanted to get injured and risk their shot of glory in the arena. But the Thracian had attacked with a ferocious intensity, and now Pavo felt the hard stares from the twenty volunteers and forty-two veterans of the gladiator school of the house of Gurges as they willed him to lose.
A week had passed since Pavo had returned to Paestum, but already his victory over Britomaris seemed distant. He had returned not to a hero’s welcome – as befitted a man who had spared Emperor Claudius’s blushes – but to the filthy reality of life in the ludus. The veterans boiled with resentment at his surprise victory, while most of the new recruits loathed him for his privileged background.
Ignoring the hatred swirling around him, Pavo adjusted his stance and edged cautiously towards Amadocus. His wooden training sword felt heavy in his hand. When he was almost a sword’s length from the Thracian, he pushed forward on his right foot, bending his leg at the knee as he lunged at his opponent jerking his training sword upwards. Amadocus had been schooled as a Thracian class of gladiator and used a small curved training shield made of thickly thatched willow stem. It was much smaller than the standard legionary shield and the Thracian had it raised at chest height, leaving his neck exposed. His eyes widened in surprise as he saw the tip of Pavo’s sword darting towards his neck. The Thracian twisted sideways to evade the blow. He was too late. There was the dense clunk of weathered ash slamming into human bone as the sword struck Amadocus on the sternum and glanced up and off his collarbone. Badly winded, gasping for air, he bent forward and presented the back of his exposed head to his opponent.
Now Pavo drew a half-step closer. A pained retching sound escaped the Thracian’s slack mouth. Pavo hoisted his sword over his p
rone opponent. With a wrench of his torso, he plunged the sword down at the back of Amadocus’s head. The Thracian snarled and in a sharp jolt of movement jerked his shield up to block Pavo’s sword. A violent blow shuddered through Pavo’s wrist and echoed up his forearm as the Thracian’s shield swung in a wide arc, swatting the sword away. Amadocus rumbled with anger as Pavo lost his footing, the momentum of his attack sending him staggering to his left while Amadocus deflected his sword arm to the right. Pavo’s shoulder muscles were ripped in opposite directions. He cursed himself for launching a rash attack rather than retreating for cover behind his shield. Then Amadocus slashed his foot-long curved dagger upward. The edge of the wooden blade struck Pavo on his outstretched forearm. Pain flared in his wrist and his fingers eased their grip on his own sword. It dropped to the ground with a heavy thud. As he stooped down to pick it up, Amadocus cut him off with another swipe of his dagger, this time directed at Pavo’s stomach. The blow knocked the young gladiator off balance and he stumbled backwards, clutching his guts as nausea swelled in his throat. He looked up and saw Amadocus charging towards him, his deep-set eyes almost popping out of their sockets with rage.
Pavo shrunk his torso behind his three-foot-long oval shield just as Amadocus jabbed his blade in a quick thrust at his opponent. The shield juddered as the dagger pounded like a hammer on its wooden frame. The veteran started raining down a torrent of hefty blows, grunting with each big swipe of his weapon. There were gasps from the spectators at the ferocity of his attack. Pavo glanced in despair at his discarded sword. He pricked his ears, waiting for the inevitable call from Calamus to stop the fight. But the doctore remained silent. Amadocus struck again, and this time the shield cracked down the middle on impact, spattering Pavo’s face with splinters. Pavo retreated towards the edge of the circle. Around the two men a chorus of roars erupted from veterans and recruits, goading the Thracian on.
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