Arena

by Simon Scarrow

  Macro shrugged. ‘Sounds like the name of one of those fancy plays all the posh types go and watch.’

  ‘I thought as much. A common soldier such as yourself is interested only in getting outlandishly drunk on cheap wine and engaging in acts of mindless violence with his fellow creatures. The politics of Rome probably mean nothing to you.’

  Macro glared at Murena, impatient at being detained by the freedman. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘There are men in Rome, some of them quite senior officials in positions of power, who are desperate to eliminate Claudius and return Rome to a republic. It seems these individuals remain committed to their cause despite the fate suffered by others who harboured republican ambitions. I am talking of men like Scribonianus and, of course, Titus, Pavo’s father.’

  Macro shrugged. ‘So Claudius has a few enemies in the Senate. Even I know that’s nothing new, and I couldn’t give a shit about politics. Besides, when did Claudius start giving a toss about a bunch of old farts in togas?’

  ‘Eloquently put, Macro. However, the Liberators are not to be taken lightly. They’re highly organised, secretive and enjoy a significant level of support among the senators and dissenters opposed to the Emperor. We believe they are planning a fresh conspiracy.’

  ‘Bloody Greeks,’ the optio grumbled. ‘Have to see a conspiracy in everything.’

  Murena did not appear to hear him. He brushed a smudge of dirt off his tunic and said, ‘Claudius is not short of enemies, both here and beyond the frontiers. It’s the nature of the job. But information has come to the attention of the imperial secretary, and as loyal servants of the Emperor, we must act on it.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  Murena pursed his lips. ‘We fear that the Liberators plan to assassinate the Emperor at the games.’

  At first Macro was too stunned to reply. Then he puffed out his cheeks, releasing all the pent-up tension in his muscles. ‘There must be hundreds, if not thousands, of idiots talking about having a pop at Claudius. I’m no expert, but planning to give the Emperor the good news in front of the mob is about the stupidest plan I ever heard.’

  ‘This plan is no idle threat, Macro.’

  ‘Really? How do you know? Got some poor sod tied up and being tortured in the Mamertine, have you?’

  Murena flashed a dark look at the optio. ‘You’re probably aware that we tried to enlist Pavo to help undermine the Liberators. We made him an offer in Capua. In exchange for bowing before Claudius in a public display of support for the new Emperor, we would spare his son. Pavo, of course, declined. He’s quite the petulant brat, that one. Inherited his father’s anti-authoritarian streak.’

  ‘Get to your point,’ Macro replied, injustice surging in his chest.

  ‘After Pavo refused our offer, Pallas and myself had to resort to other means to move against the Liberators. Unfortunately, we can’t detain every senator in Rome and torture the truth out of them, much as we would like to. It would not go down well with the mob. However, Fortuna has blessed us in the shape of a defector from the Liberators’ ranks.’

  ‘And why would such a man come over to you?’

  Murena smiled thinly. ‘We made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. The defector, a trivial local magistrate, told us of the plan to assassinate Claudius at the games.’

  ‘Sounds unlikely, if you ask me,’ Macro responded tartly.

  ‘The plan is certainly bold. But considering the success they have had so far in evading capture and undermining the Emperor’s authority, we must presume that the threat is genuine.’

  A distant cheer erupted above the infirmary. The ceiling shook, the walls groaning under the sheer mass of humanity bearing down on top of the arena. Murena frowned upwards.

  ‘This place is falling apart,’ he observed.

  ‘Build a new one, then,’ Macro responded gruffly.

  ‘Oh, we shall. Perhaps not for a few years … but in time we’ll build an arena like no other. We’ll hold gladiator spectacles on an unimaginable scale, and our grip over the mob will be complete.’ The aide stopped frowning and looked down at his feet. ‘It’s the most remarkable thing. Pallas and I were quite indifferent to the gladiator games at first. But now we see that they are truly a blessing from Jupiter. We’ll have to host more of them in the future to keep the mob content and, more to the point, on our side.’

  ‘Can’t wait. Next time you arrange one of these fucking events, leave me out of it.’

  The aide lifted his gaze to Macro. A hostile look flared in his eyes. ‘According to the magistrate, the attempt on Claudius’s life will take place tomorrow. And you are going to help us foil the plot.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By stopping the assassin before he can kill the Emperor.’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t Claudius have bodyguards for that sort of thing?’

  Murena made a pained expression. ‘The loyalty of his German knuckle-draggers is not in question. But they’re likely to cut the would-be assassin to pieces, and it is essential that we take him alive. Capturing the traitor is our best chance of uncovering the names of the rest of the Liberators. If we get their names, we put an end to that nest of vipers at one stroke.’

  Macro nodded in agreement. The German bodyguards were ferociously loyal to the Emperor and unlikely to show mercy to anyone who dared make an attempt on his life.

  ‘At any rate, we could do with an extra pair of hands. The Germans sustained a significant number of casualties quashing the mutiny at the ludus in Capua, leaving the unit thinly stretched. There’s also the fact that Claudius can’t be seen to have too many bodyguards around him during the games. We’re striving to portray the Emperor as a strong, fearless leader. It would not look good to have him seen in public hiding behind a mass of Germans.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Macro replied drily.

  Murena cleared his throat. ‘Your orders are to patrol the galleries and observe the spectators. Once the assassin reveals himself, apprehend him and take him to the imperial palace for questioning.’ The aide’s lips curled at the edges as he forced a smile. ‘Then you will be free to go.’

  Macro touched the stitches on his thigh. ‘How do you know the attack is taking place tomorrow?’

  Murena picked dirt off his shoulder. ‘The magistrate told us.’

  ‘He could be lying.’

  ‘Unlikely. The imperial interrogators know what they’re about. If he’s lying, he’ll be for the chop. But he had only limited involvement with the conspiracy. We don’t know who else is involved, or for that matter who intends to strike the blow. And as I said earlier, it’s politically impractical to round up every high-ranking public official and question them.’

  ‘Why do you need me?’ Macro asked, a deep frown weighing on his grizzled features. ‘Why not use one of those lackeys in the Praetorian Guard?’

  It was Murena’s turn to frown now. ‘We suspect that some of the Praetorians are part of the Liberators’ conspiracy,’ he said. He began pacing up and down the room. ‘If you haven’t already noticed, the guards have been relegated to arena duty. They are being kept as far away from the Emperor as possible without arousing suspicion in their ranks.’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ Macro remarked in a low voice. ‘Not that they’d be much use in any event. Bunch of overpaid amateurs playing at soldiers.’

  Murena appeared not to hear him. ‘This task requires someone with a good eye for danger and whose loyalty to Rome is unswerving. You have both qualities in abundance. The fact that you are a decorated soldier has persuaded Pallas that you are the ideal man for the task.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘It’s an impossible job. There are more than twenty thousand spectators in the arena. How the hell am I going to keep an eye on all of them?’

  ‘You won’t have to,’ Murena responded coolly. ‘Pallas and I have given the matter some thought. We can rule out the assassin coming from the mob.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

&
nbsp; ‘He must come from the higher ranks because they are the ones seated closest to the imperial box. It’s plausible that one of the senators might thrust a blade at the Emperor and strike a decisive blow before anyone could intervene. Any attempt on the Emperor’s life from further away is laden with difficulties. One of the guards stationed at the exits would intervene before the killer had a chance to strike.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the conspiracy earlier?’

  ‘The magistrate only spoke up this morning.’

  Macro took a deep breath and fought a compulsive urge to snap the aide’s neck.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he said after a pause. ‘But after this, I’m pissing off back to the Second. No ifs or buts.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Murena nodded. ‘This is your big chance to impress the Emperor. After the mutiny in Capua, he was inclined to have you crucified for carelessly destroying his personal property. You’re highly fortunate that he has decided to place his faith in you.’

  Macro was about to protest. But he reminded himself that the sooner he completed his task, the sooner he could return to the legion. He swallowed, pushing his rising anger into the pit of his stomach. ‘When do I start?’

  ‘Straight away.’ The aide hesitated and stared intently at Macro. ‘There is one more thing. It’s vital that your presence around the Emperor is discreet. A Roman soldier by the Emperor’s side might dissuade the assassin. Thankfully, I have the perfect cover for you.’

  ‘A guard?’ Macro asked.

  Murena shook his head. ‘As I mentioned, the guards are being kept at a safe distance from Claudius. No, you will pass yourself off as a freedman clerk working for me.’

  ‘A bloody freedman!’

  ‘It’s the only convenient way of getting you close to the Emperor without arousing suspicion.’ Murena narrowed his gaze. ‘If you prefer, you can rejoin the beast fights.’

  Macro clenched his jaw, bristling at the thought of having to endure further disgrace in the arena. His return to the Second Legion seemed more distant than ever.

  Murena patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. One of the other clerks will be along shortly to furnish you with the appropriate outfit. If you need me, I’ll be in the imperial box.’

  He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway and turned back to Macro, a cold look in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t let us down,’ he warned. ‘I’m relying on you to help me crush the Liberators once and for all. They may believe that by removing Claudius they’ll usher in a brave new era of republicanism. They couldn’t be more wrong. It is known that the legates of several of the legions are already positioning themselves to seize the throne should Claudius die. If the Liberators succeed, there won’t be peace, but a bloodthirsty struggle for power.’

  ‘Politicians stabbing each other in the back and seizing what they can?’ Macro couldn’t help sneering. ‘If you ask me, that sounds exactly how things are now.’

  Murena looked sternly at him. ‘You may find the present situation in Rome disagreeable, but I assure you it would be far worse without the Emperor to maintain the status quo. If Claudius falls, Rome will descend into chaos.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Pavo peered through the small barred window at the far end of the antechamber, gazing out across the sand. Fear made him tremble and feel sick as the moment of his bout against the Atlas bear drew closer. He was still exhausted from his efforts in defeating the lion, worsening his sense of dread at the impending confrontation. Even if he was fully fit, he stood little chance against a savage bear. But with tired limbs and sapped strength, he grimly acknowledged that his situation was hopeless.

  At least a dozen beast fighters were crowded into the antechamber situated a short distance from the passageway where Macro and Pavo had first entered the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre earlier that morning. A cloud of tension hung over them as they waited for their names to be called. Some passed the time by dictating their paltry wills to an official from the gladiator guild. Those with modest savings pressed coins into the hands of an opportunistic gravedigger in exchange for a burial plot beyond the city walls, rather than the usual grave pit that awaited most gladiators. The anxiety proved too much for one fighter, who retched on to the floor. The sour tang of vomit mingled with the fetid aroma from the makeshift latrine, simply a bucket in one corner of the pen filled to the brim with faeces and urine.

  Fighting the urge to puke, Pavo focused on the animal hunt taking place on the arena floor. A fighter dressed in a tunic and armed with a short sword emerged from the tunnel, the attendants having already cleared away the lion and the dead beast fighter, along with the trees and vegetation. The man wasn’t wearing a helmet. He turned to wave to the mob. Pavo caught a glimpse of his face and shook with disbelief.

  The announcer read out the name of the animal hunter, but Pavo already knew it well enough – Quintus Marcius Atellus. Pavo and Atellus had been childhood friends; they had studied Greek together and had played games in the streets. Atellus was the son of a wealthy landowner and, Pavo recalled, something of a spoilt brat, with his father keen to indulge his every whim.

  Out in the arena there was a chorus of terrified squeals as a drove of hares and several ostriches were released on to the sand. Atellus laughed wildly, quickly cornering an ostrich. He plunged his sword into the panicked bird. Blood squirted out of its long neck and splattered his tunic. The ostrich flapped its wings erratically, shrieking in agony. Atellus then chopped up some hares with his sword as boos rang out across the arena.

  ‘Why is Atellus competing in the games, I wonder?’ Pavo mused.

  ‘What did you say, Roman?’ Amadocus barked at him.

  Pavo half turned to the Thracian. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you!’

  Pavo turned round. Amadocus stood in front of him with his armour removed, and Pavo now saw the full extent of his earlier injuries. A ragged gash ran diagonally down his chest and a wound to his left leg forced him to move with a slight limp.

  ‘Not so high and mighty now, are you, rich boy?’ Amadocus hissed, jabbing a finger at Pavo. ‘This is what being a gladiator is all about. Rotting in a cell while you Romans walk around thinking your shit smells better than everyone else’s. Now I’m going to make you suffer.’

  An acute feeling of bitterness stung Pavo as he spoke. ‘You have a short memory, Thracian. I saved you from the lion.’

  Amadocus balled his callused hands into fists. ‘And why the hell was I fighting against a wild beast in the first place? Because you came along and took my place in the arena against Britomaris. It should’ve been me matched against that barbarian. I would’ve won, too. I’d be the toast of Rome by now. Not sitting on my arse in this pit, waiting to die.’

  ‘That had nothing to do with me. Blame those damned Greek freedmen of Claudius’s.’

  ‘I’m a true champion!’ Amadocus thumped his fist against his chest. His facial muscles shook with rage, his thick accent mangling each word of Latin. ‘I waited years for a chance to prove myself against the best in the arena and be numbered among the greats, slogging it out in the provinces, fighting the scum of the earth and patiently biding my time, just like the lanista instructed me to. Then you showed up and in a matter of weeks you’re the people’s champion. You bastard!’

  Pavo pulled a sour face at his Thracian rival. ‘The sword doesn’t lie. You had your chances in the arena, you just didn’t take them. The only difference between me and you is that I’m better with a sword and shield. Anyway, none of this matters. We’re both about to be sent out to be slaughtered.’

  The Thracian exploded with rage and lunged at Pavo. The gladiator backed away, trying to avoid being drawn into a fight, wanting to preserve his remaining strength for the beast fight. But Amadocus surged towards him. His outstretched hands grabbed Pavo by the neck and shoved him against the wall. A clamour erupted in the antechamber as some of the other bea
st fighters formed a semicircle around the men, fists pumping, cheering them on. The Thracian delivered a swift fist to the gladiator’s groin. Pavo doubled up in agony and Amadocus launched a boot at his side and sent him crashing into the huddle of beast fighters. The fighters shuffled frantically away from the scrap as Amadocus hurled himself at the prone gladiator, pressing down on his opponent’s arms with his knees, pinning Pavo to the ground.

  ‘Roman scum! I’ll make you pay!’

  Pavo struggled to writhe free as Amadocus fastened his grip around his neck and squeezed his throat. His eyes bulged in their sockets. He couldn’t breathe. The Thracian’s fingers pressed hard against his throat cartilage. His brain felt as if it was swelling inside his skull.

  ‘Die, Roman!’ Amadocus bellowed.

  Pavo fought off the aching tiredness in his limbs. He refused to die at the hands of the Thracian, even if meant exhausting his body ahead of the fight with the bear. He tensed his shoulder muscles and jerked to the side, pushing up on Amadocus with his palms as he turned. His strength caught the Thracian off guard. He let out a sharp cry as Pavo threw him off and sent him tumbling head first against the latrine bucket. The other fighters jumped back as its contents spilled on to the floor and drenched Amadocus in foul excrement. The Thracian spat waste out of his mouth and staggered to his feet. At that instant several guards thrust open the door and grabbed Amadocus before he could strike another blow at Pavo. Four of them clamped their hands around his arms. He tried in vain to wrestle free from the guards, snarling at Pavo the whole time, his hair dripping with filth.

  At that moment Nerva burst in. The harassed arena official stepped around the stinking puddle as the guards restrained Amadocus.

  ‘I’ll kill you, Pavo!’ the Thracian spat. ‘This I swear!’

  ‘I think the Atlas bear might have something to say about that,’ Nerva declared as he glanced disapprovingly at Amadocus. ‘It’s time. Both of you. You’re on.’

  Pavo and Amadocus were manhandled towards the antechamber door by the guards. The other fighters stared silently at the men, painfully aware that they would soon be treading the same path.