‘Pallas,’ Pavo muttered darkly, recognising the man with a start.
The crowd hushed. Pavo and Bucco faced forward as a squat man stepped out in front of the trestle tables and climbed on to a temporary wooden platform that had been erected in the square. The man cleared his throat.
‘Gods, the herald,’ Bucco grumbled. ‘Let’s hope this old fool doesn’t blather on like the ones back in Ostia.’
Pavo glared at his friend. Men and women at the back of the crowd pricked their ears. Silence descended over the forum.
‘His imperial majesty, Emperor Claudius, is proud to announce a unique spectacle for the people of Paestum,’ the herald declared in a gravelly voice that carried over the heads of the crowd and resonated through the streets.
A cold sweat gripped Pavo as he realised that his victory over Britomaris had only helped consolidate Pallas’s position of trust within the imperial household. Claudius might hold the title of emperor, he reflected glumly, but the true power lay with Pallas and his lackey Murena. Typical of my luck, he thought bitterly. I’ve made enemies of the most powerful men in Rome.
The herald went on, ‘A day of spectacular gladiator fights will take place at the arena tomorrow, sponsored by the Emperor, represented in person by the imperial secretary, Marcus Antonius Pallas.’
Pavo looked back at the freedman. He waved at the crowd, milking the applause. Beside him Murena whispered something into his ear. Pallas sneered.
‘The morning will see executions!’
The crowd cheered as the herald gestured to a ragged line of condemned men standing to the right of the gladiators. Chains were clamped around their gaunt wrists and ankles. Their skeletal, bearded faces were shorn of hope. One or two of the simpler souls had ravenous looks in their eyes as they watched the slaves carry yet more trays of food over to the tables.
‘In the afternoon there will be twenty pairs of fights,’ the herald bellowed, to another raucous chorus of approval from the mob. ‘The main attraction will feature two legends of the arena fighting to the death.’ He gestured to Pavo and the doctore to step forward from the line of gladiators. ‘First, the challenger. I present to you the son of a treasonous legate and the gladiator who defeated the scourge of Rome, Britomaris … Marcus Valerius Pavo.’
The crowd erupted into riotous applause as Calamus escorted Pavo towards the middle of the square. He climbed on to the wooden platform, with the doctore, as his trainer, standing to one side. The cheers swelled. Men shouted themselves hoarse in celebration of their new hero. Women elbowed their way to the front of the crowd and ogled him. The scene momentarily overwhelmed Pavo before the nagging anxieties of his predicament returned to his thoughts. Despite his efforts to master the technique of a retiarius, he still felt far more confident with a sword in his hand. He was untested in combat with his new weapons. A pang of regret hit him, and he secretly wished that he had Optio Macro by his side for his match against Denter. Despite their differences, Pavo and Macro had shared a mutual understanding of swordsmanship and a common hatred for the bureaucracy and infighting that festered within the heart of Rome.
A gang of boisterous men loitering outside a tavern broke into drunken chants. ‘Meat hooks for Pavo!’ they sang, raising jugs of wine in the air. ‘Meat hooks for Pavo! Oh, they’ll be dragging you out with a meat hook!’
‘Charming folk,’ said Pavo.
‘Hooligans from Pompeii,’ Calamus retorted. ‘I’ve seen them in the arena down that way a few times. They worship Denter. Of course, they don’t really go to watch the fight. They just get pissed and beat up locals. Take no notice of them.’
Pavo looked back at the gladiators. Amadocus was working his bruised features into knots of rage at the adulation being bestowed on the younger fighter. Pavo looked ahead as the herald swept a hand in an arc in front of his chest. The mob hushed.
‘And who will Pavo face tomorrow?’ The herald projected his voice further to make himself heard above the hooligans. He left the question hanging on his lips for a moment, until he had whipped the crowd into a frenzy of anticipation. Then he continued: ‘Winner of forty-nine bouts in the arena. Conqueror of Felix the Fearless. Destroyer of Niger the Thracian. I give you the pride of Pompeii. Decimus … Cominius … Denter!’
The crowd parted to the west. Pavo focused on a figure disgorging from the mob and got his first look at Denter.
‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered under his breath.
One look at his opponent confirmed Carbo’s warning that Denter had been training flat out. Despite his relatively slender physique, he possessed sharply defined muscles on his arms and shoulders and a chiselled chest. Pavo had never seen Denter fight in the flesh, but from his body shape he supposed that the gladiator cut an agile figure on the sand.
He looked on intently as Denter pumped a clenched fist in the air and strode towards the platform. A chorus of boos and jeers greeted him, broken by delirious roars from the hooligans. Denter stopped. Turning to confront the crowd, he clutched his manhood and made a lewd gesture in their direction, prompting a frenzied wave of obscenities. A second figure shoved the gladiator through the baying crowd. Pavo presumed this was Denter’s trainer. He craned his neck to get a better look at the man. But his view was obscured by outstretched arms from the mob clawing angrily at Denter. The second figure hurried his charge to the platform just as the mood among the crowd started to turn poisonous. With a final shunt the gladiator stumbled forward, to the obvious displeasure of the herald, and clambered on to the platform to hoots of approval from the Pompeiians.
Up close Denter had an intimidating presence. Crazed eyes bore down on Pavo from above a thickly bearded face. Tattoos tapered from his neck down to his forearms. Breathing heavily through his nostrils, he closed in on Pavo so that the pair were standing toe to toe. Then the veteran lowered his chin an inch and stared at Pavo down the length of his thin nose. His breath reeked of sickly-sweet wine. Beyond his opponent’s shoulder, Pavo spotted one of the hooligans painting an offensive slogan across the front of a tavern.
‘So you’re the great Marcus Valerius Pavo,’ Denter slurred. ‘You don’t look like much.’ A grin broke out on his face. ‘Then again, your old man Titus was a fucking coward.’
‘He was a respected legate,’ Pavo stated proudly. ‘He was no coward.’
Denter screwed up his face in disgust. ‘He was a tight-fisted bastard! Never let us plunder anything worth a damn. I only joined the bloody legion so I could get some loot, murder a few Gauls and rape a few tarts. Then Titus came along lecturing us about honour and duty. Pah! All that talk didn’t stop your old man being gutted.’
‘He was murdered,’ Pavo said sullenly. ‘By Hermes. In the arena.’
‘I don’t care if Jupiter himself did the deed,’ Denter blasted. ‘I just wish I’d the chance to carve up the stuck-up old fool. Titus booted me out of the legion. He forced me into this career, living for years among slaves and foreign scum. I’d have loved to watch him die. When the Emperor asked me to butcher Titus’s son, I happily accepted. Get ready to join your gutless old man in the Underworld.’
Pavo looked away again and got a clear look at Denter’s trainer. A hot streak of anger pumped through his veins as Denter began flexing his muscles at the crowd.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Pavo seethed. ‘It can’t be him. It can’t be!’
‘Look at me, you little shit,’ Denter said.
But Pavo blanked Denter. He simply stared at the trainer stationed at the foot of the platform, muttering his name under his breath.
‘Macro …’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A chill ran up Pavo’s spine at the sight of the soldier. A contrite expression flashed across the optio’s face. Then Macro shook his head firmly and resolved his features into a stern look, acknowledging Pavo with a brief nod. Pavo had not seen Macro since that fateful afternoon in the Julian plaza, and the sight of him now pricked the gladiator with a mixture of shock and suspicion.
&nbs
p; ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.
‘What does it look like?’ The optio cocked his head at Denter. ‘Training this old sweat.’
‘You traitor!’ Pavo exploded with fury. ‘I trusted you to help me defeat Britomaris and now you conspire against me?’
Macro started to protest. He was cut short by a scuffle breaking out in the crowd as the hooligans and local supporters of Pavo clashed outside the tavern. There was the piercing sound of clay shattering when one of the Pompeiians threw a jug at the mob. The herald raced through the rest of his announcement, striving to make himself heard above the fracas. Some of the Pompeiians traded punches with the crowd. Their comrades hooted and hollered. A flustered Pallas signalled to the sparse number of men from the urban watch, who quickly intervened, separating the fighters and moving the Pompeiians on.
The doctore marched to the front of the line of gladiators and clapped his hands.
‘Right, then, ladies,’ he said. ‘Time to eat.’
The men began hurrying towards the benches. Calamus immediately raised a palm. Groaning, they halted.
‘Now remember what I said. Don’t go stuffing your bellies. Eat a little, not a lot. I don’t want to see any of you shitting out your guts when you step on to the sand.’ Calamus shot a look of contempt at the condemned criminals. ‘Leave the pigging out to those sorry bastards. It’s their last night before they tramp off to the Underworld. The rest of you have a chance of walking out alive. Some of you, anyway.’ Calamus looked at Pavo as he uttered the last words, and laughed.
Pavo took up his spot on the bench in a daze. The condemned men gathered meekly around a separate table, their chins tucked closely to their chests as they picked at the food on their plates in morbid silence. Half of the crowd stayed to watch the gladiators eat what would for some be their last meal. Others turned their attention to the goods on offer at the stalls, or departed to debate the upcoming games over a jug of cheap wine in the nearest tavern. Bucco plonked himself next to Pavo and looked half-heartedly at a tray of dainty pastries. His normally voracious appetite had deserted him. He slid a tray of shellfish across to his companion.
‘You’d better eat something,’ he implored. ‘You don’t want to fight Denter on an empty stomach.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Pavo replied pithily.
‘Makes two of us, then,’ Bucco muttered as he stared at his feet.
‘What’s the matter, Roman?’ a glottal voice spat from further down the table. Pavo leaned forward to see Amadocus gorging on a bowl of sausages. Morsels of meat spilled down his front. He jerked his head in the direction of Macro. ‘Upset that your boyfriend has found a new lover?’
Pavo did not reply. Privately he was crestfallen at the thought of Macro training Denter. He struggled to fathom why the optio would help seal the fate of someone who had been wronged by the imperial palace. He made a silent plea to the gods to curse Macro.
A sudden burst of angry shouts broke out at the next table. Pavo awoke from his daydream and looked across to see Denter throwing Orodes to the ground and casually dropping into his spot at the bench. The other gladiators at the table stared at him in silence.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Orodes snapped as he scraped himself off the ground.
Denter grabbed a fistful of shellfish and shovelled them ravenously into his mouth. He washed down the mouthful with a loud slurp of wine and let out a monstrous belch. ‘You were in my seat, Persian.’
Anger rumbled in Orodes’s throat. He stood behind Denter and waited for him to move. But the veteran kept piling more food on his plate and swigging from the wine. Orodes stared coldly at the back of Denter’s head. Denter polished off the wine and slammed the cup on the table. In a blink, Orodes snatched the cup, hoisting it like a trophy above his head, and brought it crashing down on top of Denter’s skull. The sound of shattering pottery pierced the air. Denter froze. A wild smile formed on his lips as wine mixed with blood from his head wound and soaked his beard. He licked the mixture off his bottom lip. Then he slowly rose from the bench and turned to face Orodes. The Persian gulped with abject fear. His eyes widened with the realisation that striking Denter had been a terrible mistake.
In a sudden burst of anger, Denter charged at Orodes and wrapped his long arms around his neck. The other gladiators looked on in shock as Denter twisted the Persian’s head at an angle and clamped his teeth around his ear. Orodes howled in agony. Denter chewed on the ear for several painful moments. Then he ripped his head away in a furious grunt. Orodes squealed like a boiled rat as the ear was torn from his head. Blood sprayed the trays of food on the table. Denter spat mangled skin and cartilage from his mouth, his chin awash with blood, and let out a chilling roar.
‘Carbo was right,’ Bucco said. ‘Denter really is crazy.’
Two guards stormed towards Denter. A savage grin formed on the gladiator’s lips. The others shuffled back as Denter lowered to a crouch in front of the abandoned table, securing his palms against the edge. Springing upright, he tipped the table on to its side, then released his grip so it came crashing down at the onrushing guards. There was a cacophony of noise as an assortment of jugs and cups and trays smashed on the ground. The two guards scrambled to get out of the way as the table pounded down on top of them. The thud of wood against the paved ground was accompanied by the distinct crack of shattering ribcages. A third guard attacked Denter from across the forum, slashing his sword wildly. The blade hacked across Denter’s back and drew a howl of pain from the veteran. He clasped a hand to his back as another six guards swooped over their fallen comrades and surrounded him. Denter pumped a fist defiantly at the sky, much to the delight of the hooligans being marched away from the square. Then he disappeared behind a whirlwind of armour and swords. After a brief struggle, the guards wrestled him to the ground.
‘That’s it!’ Gurges fumed, his face stitched with rage. ‘The banquet is over! You!’ The lanista jabbed a bony finger at the chest of the nearest guard. ‘Round up the gladiators. I want them escorted back to the ludus at once. Condemned criminals are to return to jail for the night.’
The guards snapped into action, roughly hauling the gladiators to their bare feet and marching them into a ragged line. Bucco staggered into place as Pavo spied Gurges returning to the imperial secretary, his head hung low and his palms clasped humbly in front of him. Although Pavo was out of earshot, the tone of the lanista’s voice told the young gladiator that he was in the middle of a grovelling apology. The freedman looked unimpressed. Murena, Pavo noticed, had quietly slipped away from Pallas’s side to seek out Macro.
A guard grasped Pavo by the forearm and shifted him into line behind Bucco. The volunteer cast a final despondent look at the feast left on the trestle tables. Then the guards marched the gladiators out of the square and back to the ludus.
Macro watched Pavo and the other gladiators tramp out of the forum. The mob lingered, captivated by the abrupt outbreak of violence. The optio stared at Denter. His charge remained pinned to the ground by the guards. A pair of servants helped Orodes to his feet. Gurges instructed them to escort the wounded Persian to the ludus infirmary. The optio stared at the severed ear lying on the ground amid the scattered olives and breads and shards of shattered clay cups. He looked up to see Murena picking his way across the carnage.
‘What in Hades was that about?’ the aide rasped. His eyes were narrow and sharp like the teeth of a wolf. ‘We had a deal, Optio. You were supposed to keep Denter sober until after his fight with Pavo.’
‘And I would have kept my word if you hadn’t invited him along to the banquet,’ Macro countered with a snort and a hard glare. ‘I’ve been minding that lunatic for six long weeks, but I can’t watch him every hour of the day. My back was turned for a minute. Next thing I know, some lads are buying him rounds in the tavern. If we hadn’t had to bother with all this pomp and ceremony, Denter would be tucked up in bed now, sober as a state funeral.’
Murena flashed a scolding lo
ok at the soldier.
‘I don’t tell you how to do your job, Optio. Don’t tell me how to do mine.’
Macro shrugged. ‘Just saying.’
Two guards dragged Denter to his feet and slipped their arms across his shoulders. His eyes were glazed and heavily lidded. Drool slobbered from his slack lips and dribbled down his chest. He mumbled something incoherent about Titus. Macro and Murena watched the guards manhandle him away from the square. Macro yawned.
‘Well, that’s his chances of winning fucked,’ the optio announced.
‘Not necessarily,’ Murena replied.
‘What do you mean?’ Macro scoffed. ‘The man’s out of his skull. He’ll not recover in time for tomorrow. And look at that.’ He pointed to the injury inflicted by the guard. Blood puckered out of a crescent-shaped gash running the length of his back. Macro had seen plenty of wounds in his years in the Second Legion, and he could instantly discern that it was not deep enough to be fatal. Which is why we stab instead of slash in the military, he reminded himself. But it would still require treatment, and in the meantime Denter would find his movement severely restricted.
‘The idiot will be lucky if he can hold his bloody sword straight,’ the optio concluded.
Murena laughed. It was a cagey laugh and one that Macro had heard before, shortly after Pavo had conquered Britomaris, when the optio had learned of the plot by the aide to poison the young man. Now the hairs on Macro’s neck bristled.
‘It’s taken care of, Optio.’
‘What have you done?’ Macro hissed at the aide, fighting an urge to break his spindly neck.
Murena waved a hand at Gurges. The lanista nodded and scurried towards his waiting litter. ‘Let’s just say that Denter won’t be the only one finding it difficult in the arena tomorrow.’
Macro frowned. ‘Suit yourself. But I’d be wary of Pavo losing, if I were you.’
Murena looked sharply at the soldier. ‘Why?’
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