Arena

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘But if the gladiators have been sold off – who owns me now?’

  ‘I do,’ a sly voice behind them said.

  Macro and Pavo turned their heads and saw Murena standing at the infirmary entrance. Pavo felt his muscles tense across his chest and tried to sit up on his straw mat to confront the imperial aide, but his wound flared and he leaned back again, wincing in pain.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Macro snapped at Murena.

  A flame flickered in the eyes of the freedman as he folded his hands behind his back. ‘Gurges has been forced to sell his assets to the highest bidder. In this case, the imperial palace.’ His thin lips strained into a grin. His eyes flicked from the enraged optio to the aghast gladiator. ‘Smile, Pavo. You’re now enrolled in the imperial ludus in Capua.’

  For a moment Pavo lost the power of speech.

  ‘You’re probably wondering why.’

  Macro and Pavo exchanged troubled glances. Murena stepped into the infirmary and brushed past the optio. He paced to a table and ran his hands over an array of blood-encrusted surgical instruments laid out on a tray.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ he said. ‘Today we saw the power of the mob. Thankfully, that uncouth multitude are too slow to grasp their own influence. Otherwise they might chase us out of the palace and run the place themselves.’ He picked up a pair of bronze forceps and admired them under the flicker of an oil lamp. ‘In the country of my birth, we would call that a democracy.’

  ‘Sounds shit,’ said Macro.

  Murena gently reset the forceps on the tray. ‘For once, Optio, I find myself agreeing with you.’ His eyes lingered on the array of bone levers and tile cauteries and speculums in front of him. Then he sighed and turned away from the tray. ‘The plebs worship you, Pavo. And since we need the support of the mob to cement the regime of his imperial majesty, your sudden celebrity, distasteful though it may be, has given me an idea.’

  ‘What idea?’ Pavo felt a cold lump lodge at the back of his throat. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

  ‘In a moment.’ Murena fixed his ruthless gaze on Macro. ‘First, the optio and I must settle our affairs.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ Macro grumbled. ‘Let’s get this over with. I’ve put up with enough bollocks from you and Pallas. I’m actually starting to miss the Rhine.’

  ‘You’ll have to get used to the feeling,’ snapped Murena. ‘You have more pressing business to attend to, Optio.’

  Macro folded his arms and snorted. ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as preparing your papers for your journey to Capua,’ Murena retorted with barely disguised delight. ‘As you may or may not have heard, the imperial lanista met a rather gruesome end when his bodyguard crushed his skull. The price he had to pay for getting too big for his own boots. We need a lanista to administer the school.’ The aide raised a hand to Macro’s darkening face. ‘The position is not up for discussion, Optio. It’s only a temporary appointment, until we have a chance to find someone more, shall we say, palatable than the previous lanista. Besides, you seem to know your stuff. You’ve succeeded in guiding Pavo in two very different types of fighting.’

  Anger tightened its grip around Macro’s neck. He felt his stomach muscles churn and his jaws harden. He was about to launch himself at the aide when a pair of hands clamped on either bicep. The optio resisted as two guards grappled with him and dragged him towards the exit.

  ‘What about my promotion?’ he thundered.

  ‘Off the table, I’m afraid. And the reward that goes with it. The riots have caused significant damage to the arena. It will cost the Emperor a great deal of money to repair. He will not be pleased with you, Optio. Consider yourself lucky to have avoided a long walk off the Tarpeian Rock.’

  ‘But the riots were your fault!’ Macro felt his pulse thumping at the side of his head, overcome with rage at the aide’s scheming. ‘I’m not to blame!’

  Murena ignored him and with a dismissive wave of his hand gestured for the guards to haul Macro out of the infirmary. The aide sighed deeply as the soldier’s protests echoed down the corridor.

  ‘Now then, where were we?’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Ah, yes! Our plans for your glorious future in the arena.’

  Pavo watched the guards drag Macro away and turned back to Murena. ‘Plans?’ he said pithily. ‘I thought you wanted me dead.’

  The aide flashed a look of mock horror at Pavo, as if offended that the idea had ever crossed his mind. Then he folded his hands in front of his lap. ‘The mob has spared you, young man. That is a judgement that even the Emperor cannot overrule. We must not do anything to infuriate the mob during this delicate period.’

  ‘I’m done winning fights for Claudius,’ Pavo replied. ‘I don’t see why I should help the Emperor to keep the peace.’

  Murena furrowed his brow. ‘This is what is going to happen. You will be branded with the mark of the imperial school. That mark will declare you to be the personal property of his imperial majesty, Emperor Claudius. It will be a tacit display of your support for our regime, and your rejection of Titus’s misguided principles. You shall wear it with pride.’

  ‘You must be joking!’ Pavo faltered. ‘I would never betray my father.’

  ‘Oh, but you will, my boy … if you want to fight Hermes.’

  A triumphant smile threatened to cross the aide’s lips before he checked himself and cleared his throat. His eyes gleamed in the jittery reflection of the oil lamp. Pavo blinked at Murena. His pulse quickened at the thought of finally confronting his nemesis.

  ‘Hermes?’ he uttered uneasily.

  ‘Why, yes.’ Murena permitted himself to smile now. He appeared very pleased with himself, Pavo thought. ‘I believe it is your wish to fight the man who killed your father – or am I mistaken?’

  ‘No, no!’ Pavo replied, far too quickly. ‘I want nothing more than to see Hermes bleed.’ He looked at the ground and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. ‘But I thought he had retired?’

  The aide grinned and shook his head. ‘Hermes has requested that he come out of retirement. The Emperor has agreed. It seems you shall have your wish at last.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Capua, three weeks later

  Pavo was awoken in the middle of the night by a swift kick to the ribs.

  ‘Get up, you worthless shit!’

  The young gladiator winced as he stirred and rolled on to his back. Squinting in the gloom, he saw an armed guard towering over him, with a second guard stooped further back in the entrance to his cramped cell. Pavo touched a hand to his pained ribs and shook his head clear.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he croaked.

  ‘Murena wants a word,’ the nearest guard barked. ‘On your feet.’

  ‘That Greek snake,’ Pavo muttered darkly. ‘What does he want with me now?’

  ‘Fuck should I know?’ the guard snarled, seizing Pavo by the arm and yanking him to his feet. ‘Now hurry up! Murena doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’

  Pavo was too groggy and confused to protest. The guards manhandled him out of the dormitory and dragged him through the ludus gates. A wintry wind swept over the landscape as they marched the young gladiator down the road towards Capua and a cluster of lights flickered on a distant hill. Pavo made out the dim shape of a villa perched on the slope of the hill. The guards shoved him in the direction of the villa. The young gladiator moved awkwardly, his leg muscles aching under the leaden weight of the chains clamped to his wrists and ankles. The sutured wound on his left shoulder throbbed dully. The guards paced warily alongside him. He noted from their uniform of plain white togas over their tunics that they were Praetorian Guards.

  ‘So you’re the famous Marcus Valerius Pavo, eh?’ the guard to his left scoffed. ‘Champion of the arena. Hard to believe. Posh twat such as yourself.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Pavo replied drily. ‘Perhaps I am too high-born to be a champion gladiator. But you two seem to be scared of me, since you’re both keepin
g a hand on your swords, even though I’m unarmed and bound in chains.’

  The guard scowled at him. ‘Think you’re tough? Bollocks!’ he spat. ‘Fucking gladiators, always showing off. Just you wait, lad. You’ll get cut down in the arena and slung into a grave pit like every gladiator with a big mouth. You won’t look so clever then.’

  Pavo was too disheartened to reply. Quartz glinted between the stones lining the paved road, reflecting the pale moonlight. He felt a deep unease in his guts as they drew close to the villa. Ever since his transfer from Paestum to the imperial ludus, he had been living in fear that Murena and Pallas would seek to dispose of him sooner rather than later.

  He feared that moment had now arrived.

  The small party reached the villa as the night sky faded and dawn glimmered coolly on the horizon. The imposing structure was bordered by a sprawling olive grove. A train of luxury horse-drawn wagons rested in front of the entrance, slaves groaning as they carried baggage off the wagon beds and lugged the heavy loads towards the villa. Porticoes lined the front of the property, rising in tiers to an ornamental balcony two storeys above, where Pavo supposed wealthy guests might catch a gentle breeze on a hot summer’s night. Two Praetorians stood on duty at the entrance to the villa. One of them blocked the path of Pavo and the guards while his comrade stepped forward.

  ‘Password?’ the Praetorian asked.

  ‘Flamingo,’ Pavo’s guard replied.

  ‘What’s your business here?’

  ‘The aide to the imperial secretary sent for this one.’ The guard pointed to Pavo.

  Stepping back, the Praetorian waved Pavo and his escort through.

  Pavo baulked as he stepped into the villa. Memories of childhood summers spent at the family’s villa at Antium came flooding back to him as the guards led him down the entrance passage at a brisk pace. They hurried through a garishly coloured vestibule leading to a wide central hallway with elaborate frescoes decorating the walls and an intricate mosaic sparkling on the floor under the flicker of several ornate torches. Waves of heat rose up from the hypocaust floor, warming the gladiator’s frozen feet.

  At the end of the hallway the guards ushered him into a large study. Scrolls and books were arranged on honeycombed shelves to the left. An oak desk littered with papyrus scrolls and wax tablets occupied the centre of the room, with a tall window behind it overlooking a sprawling vineyard. Murena sat behind the desk. The aide to the imperial secretary frowned in deep concentration at a scroll and for a moment appeared not to notice the prisoner and his escort. Finally he looked up at the young gladiator and grinned.

  ‘Ah! Marcus Valerius Pavo,’ he announced, setting aside the scroll and clasping his bony hands. ‘Tell me, how are you enjoying your new position as First Sword?’

  Pavo grunted. He’d been proclaimed First Sword upon his arrival at the imperial ludus in Capua. It was the title given to the leading fighter of the imperial gladiators, and the news had surprised him. A gladiator elevated to First Sword after just two fights was unheard of. But his shock quickly turned to unease. Although the title afforded him some privileges, such as having his own private cell and cooked meat and vegetables at mealtimes instead of the usual fare of barley gruel, it also made him a target for the other fighters. Many of the men in the ludus had been captured by legions in battle, or were impoverished slaves. As the son of a Roman nobleman and a former military tribune in the Sixth Legion, Pavo was already loathed by those same gladiators. Being named First Sword had only further estranged him from the brotherhood. He viewed the title as more of a curse than a blessing.

  Murena nodded to the guards. ‘You may go.’ He watched them retreat down the hall. Then he cleared his throat and looked back to the young gladiator. ‘I won’t keep you for long. I have several pressing matters to attend to before his imperial majesty arrives.’

  ‘Claudius is on his way here?’ Pavo asked, tension rising in his throat.

  ‘In a few days’ time. The Emperor is currently inspecting the naval base at Puteoli. Afterwards he wishes to cast his eye over his troupe of imperial gladiators ahead of the forthcoming games.’

  ‘Games?’ Pavo asked.

  ‘I will come to that shortly. Pallas has asked me to travel ahead of the Emperor and prepare the estate for his arrival, as well as sort through the affairs of the unfortunate previous owner of this quite splendid villa, a treacherous senator who thought he could outwit Claudius.’

  There was a sinister gleam in the aide’s eye that made Pavo shudder.

  ‘The senator paid the price for his treachery and his estate was confiscated after his death. The chap had rather a lot of properties and assets. I have to say, sorting through it all is rather tiresome.’

  ‘Just tell me what it is that you want,’ the young gladiator said through gritted teeth.

  Murena studied Pavo with a look of a hunter trapping a wild animal.

  ‘I wonder if you have reconsidered my generous offer?’

  Pavo instinctively balled his hands into fists. ‘There’s nothing to consider,’ he replied. ‘Claudius is my sworn enemy. As are you and that other backstabbing Greek bastard, Pallas.’

  Murena stared at Pavo with barely concealed rage.

  ‘Your insolence will not be tolerated! I purchased you from that spendthrift lanista in Paestum on behalf of the imperial treasury. You serve Claudius now. And as a representative of his imperial majesty, you will treat me with the same courtesy and respect as if you were speaking with the Emperor himself!’

  ‘I’ll regard you as exactly what you are,’ Pavo replied bitterly. ‘A devious Greek who does the bidding of a slobbering old fool in a purple toga.’

  The imperial freedman opened his mouth to respond, but quickly checked himself. ‘No, have your fun. Call me whatever names amuse you. Nothing changes the fact that you belong to me now, and shall do as I please.’

  Pavo stared silently at the aide.

  ‘There is another reason I sent for you,’ Murena continued. ‘Since we last spoke, the situation has changed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Pavo asked.

  ‘The Empire is in danger, and we need your help to save it.’

  The young gladiator looked puzzled as Murena went on.

  ‘What I am about to tell you is strictly between us. There is a secret network of traitors operating within the walls of Rome. Not the usual drooling old fools in the Senate. This is a much more dangerous group. They call themselves the Liberators. They are determined to overthrow Claudius and return Rome to the dark days of the Republic.’

  ‘Perish the thought,’ Pavo replied tonelessly.

  ‘More important things are at stake here than your disagreement with Claudius,’ Murena snapped. His voice was laced with fear, thought Pavo. ‘The Liberators pose a serious threat to the future stability of Rome. We must crush the group before they have a chance to establish a groundswell of support against the Emperor.’ The aide offered Pavo a terse smile. ‘Which brings me to the subject of the games to be held at the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre next month.’

  Pavo digested the news impassively. Announcing a spectacular series of games was nothing new. It had been something of a tradition for newly crowned emperors ever since Augustus had begun hosting gladiator fights purely for the purpose of entertaining the restless mob.

  ‘Claudius intends to make an announcement at the games. Livia is to be deified.’

  ‘She’s to become a god?’ Pavo muttered in astonishment.

  ‘Indeed. Claudius has wished for some time to deify his grandmother. Her deification will emphasise the divine lineage stretching from Augustus down to Tiberius and Claudius, arousing memories of the Golden Age.’

  ‘Sounds like a cynical tactic to win the approval of the mob.’

  ‘This is Rome. Of course it’s cynical.’ Murena looked pleased with himself. ‘Dignitaries from across the Empire will be in attendance to witness the chariot races at the Campus Martius and processions through the Forum. In the a
rena, a morning beast-hunt featuring elephants and tigers will be followed by the usual crucifixions and floggings. In the afternoon, you and the other imperial gladiators will take to the sand.’ He pursed his lips. ‘When you enter the arena, you are to bow before his imperial majesty in front of the mob and pledge your undying allegiance to the regime.’

  ‘Never!’ Pavo raged. ‘I won’t sully the legacy of my father. Besides, what difference would a public display from me make, if the Liberators are Hades-bent on overthrowing Claudius?’

  ‘You underestimate your reputation. The Liberators have big plans for you. They consider you well placed to be sympathetic to their aims.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We had a spy in their ranks. Sadly, his identity was unmasked, and the poor officer suffered a quite violent death.’ Murena rolled his tongue around his gums, as if trying to dislodge a scrap of food. ‘My point is, the Liberators need a spokesman. A role model, if you like. They admired Titus for his outspoken republican views, and as his only son and heir you represent the same sentiment. The Liberators are convinced that you are ripe to recruit to their cause – a popular figure to win over the common man.’

  The aide drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the desk.

  ‘We will beat the Liberators at their own game,’ he said. ‘They need the mob as badly as Claudius does, if they are serious in their intention to return Rome to a republic. With your show of support, the mob will back Claudius. Not even the Liberators are foolish enough to act against the wishes of the masses.’

  Pavo shook his head in protest. ‘I’m one man. There are countless other gladiators who have been more popular than me. Felix the Destroyer, Triumphus the Terrible … even Hermes.’ He clenched his jaw. ‘I don’t hold such sway over the mob.’