Arena

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Pavo watched the violence unfolding in the crowd as two orderlies dragged him towards the tunnel. The umpire thrust Denter back towards the opposite arena entrance as hordes of spectators left their seats in a desperate hurry, abandoning the cushions they had brought to make the stone seats more comfortable. They stampeded towards the exits leading down into the street, shoving fellow citizens to the floor in their mad rush to escape. But they found their progress blocked on the steps of the gallery exits by pockets of guards, who had panicked at the sudden mass of humanity surging towards them and had taken to randomly slashing at the civilians in front of them. The orderlies dumped Pavo in the mouth of the tunnel, and the gladiator experienced a chilling fear clamp around his neck as he realised it was only a matter of time before the guards were overwhelmed by the sheer size and desperation of the crowd.

A cloud of dust and mortar poured down from the arched ceiling and choked Pavo. He coughed violently. Tears welled in his eyes as he hacked up a lungful of hot dust and slumped against the wall. His hands and feet tingled as feeling slowly returned to his deadened limbs.

‘Hard to please, that lot,’ a gruff voice said. ‘The mob.’

Pavo was conscious of a form emerging from further down the corridor. The figure stopped next to him and crouched. Pavo adjusted his eyes to the dark and saw the grizzled features of Macro staring back at him.

‘What are you doing here?’ Pavo responded weakly. His throat felt as if it had shrunk to the width of a reed and he struggled to utter every word.

‘Orders of those two bloody freedmen.’ The optio jerked a thumb towards the galleries and sucked his teeth.

‘I suppose they ordered you to train Denter too,’ Pavo responded tartly.

‘They did, as it happens.’ Macro rose to his feet and frowned as the shouts of the Pompeiians spilled down from the galleries. ‘Roping you into a fight with that drunken madman was their brilliant idea. They only travelled down here to celebrate your death.’

‘I knew it!’ Pavo gritted his teeth. ‘They kitted me out as a retiarius and sent me to face a legend of the arena clad in armour from head to toe. I never had a chance.’

‘If it’s any consolation, the mob are just as pissed off. That’s what sparked the riot out there. Pallas had to interrupt the fight. If the violence spills into the streets, there’ll be blood on his hands. And the Emperor’s, since he’s sponsoring the event.’ Macro sighed as a spectator was hurled down from the upper gallery and crumpled into a heap on the arena floor. Servants rushed over to tend to the bloodied victim. ‘Tell you what,’ the optio grumbled. ‘If that pair are supposed to be the best advisers Claudius has got, then we’re all fucked.’

The comment drew the hint of a smile to Pavo’s lips. Macro glanced over his shoulder. Pavo suppressed his smile before the optio could see it. ‘Pallas and Murena are snakes, but they’re no more rotten than half the officials in Rome. They don’t give a shit about the mob. They’re only in it for themselves.’ He hardened his gaze at Macro. ‘And what about you, Optio? How did you stand to profit, if Denter won today?’

Macro looked with surprise at Pavo for a moment, then clamped his lips. ‘I had no choice, lad. Pallas and Murena forced me to do their bidding. If I refused, they would’ve thrown me from the Tarpeian Rock.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘All their scheming makes my bloody head reel.’

‘Business as usual in Rome, then.’ Pavo looked away from Macro. ‘You conspired against me.’

‘Bollocks, lad!’ Macro grunted testily. ‘I’m not your enemy here. It’s those stylus-pushing Greeks.’

Pavo turned back to the optio. Macro stared at him.

‘You’re not the only one getting shat on by the imperial household.’ The optio ground his right fist into the palm of his left hand. ‘I won a medal for killing a bunch of wild Germans, and what did I get in return? No tarts or gold. Just a back-handed thank you from an imperial arse-licker and a job trawling the taverns and brothels of Pompeii, keeping a drunken old gladiator out of trouble.’

‘Sounds like your ideal mission,’ Pavo snorted derisively.

‘Ideal pain in the arse, more like. Truth is, I’m glad to be out of Pompeii. It’s a pleasant little town but no place for a soldier. Nothing ever happens there and never will. I didn’t like the idea of helping a pair of imperial snakes plot against a decent lad.’

Pavo tilted his head in puzzlement at the optio. ‘You mean me?’

Macro nodded. ‘You’re quite the thorn in the Emperor’s side, boy. But you know what? As long as the crowd are chanting your name, Claudius and his freedmen can’t lay a finger on you.’

Pavo pursed his lips. ‘Pallas and Murena hold sway over the Emperor,’ he said softly. ‘They do as they please. No one is untouchable in Rome these days, Optio. Look how they’ve treated you, a newly decorated hero of the Empire.’

‘Don’t I bloody well know it.’ Macro considered the trident and net the orderlies had placed next to Pavo. ‘But you’re wrong about one thing. Pallas and Murena need the support of the mob. Murena said so himself. Without the people, Claudius’s regime won’t last long.’

Pavo blinked. ‘So?’

‘Listen to that lot.’ Macro rolled his eyes and nodded to the arena. The sound of the fighting had died away, drowned out by the rhythmic chant of Pavo’s name. ‘They’re not completely thick. They can see the odds have been stacked against you, and they don’t like to see Rome humiliate its heroes.’ The optio averted his gaze. ‘Not publicly, anyway. Your old man was guilty of treason. This is different. The mob’s on your side.’

Pavo grimaced. Macro had a point, he conceded. Control of the mob was more powerful than any ancestral tree or official title. Emperors since the days of Caesar had arranged gladiatorial combats to win the support of the mob, and now the same trick had come back to haunt Pallas and Murena. The young gladiator smiled at the thought of the freedmen breaking out in a cold sweat up in the podium. He now found he could move his legs, albeit clumsily.

‘Go out there and win,’ Macro urged.

‘Win?’ Pavo mumbled sarcastically. ‘I can hardly stand up!’

Macro cleared his throat and made a pained face. ‘They put something in your drink,’ he admitted. ‘Murena told me shortly before ordering me down here. He bribed Gurges. Achaeus added a potion to the usual brew to slow you down. The effects wear off quickly enough, I’m told. You’ll soon be back to your usual cheerful self.’

Pavo felt a surge of rage sweep through his veins as he thought back to the cup of foul liquid the doctore had forced him to swallow. ‘They have no shame, those Greeks … Bastards.’

‘Sod them,’ Macro snapped. ‘If you don’t go out there and sort out Denter, then we’re all in trouble. The guards are keeping the mob in check, but there’s only a few of them and they won’t hold for long. If they fall, we’re looking at a full-blown riot.’

Pavo growled through clenched teeth at his predicament. ‘So either I triumph over Denter and save the skins of the two men who ordered the death of my father and have conspired to kill me off, or I fail and cause their downfall, at the expense of countless lost lives and the ruin of an entire city.’

Macro nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it, lad.’ He pursed his lips and smiled stiffly. He had thought about informing Pavo that Pallas had threatened to execute both the optio and the gladiator if they failed to quell the growing public unrest. Macro had listened ashen-faced to Murena, stunned at how quickly and brutally the mood could change. Two months after being decorated a hero, he was facing the prospect of a crucifixion along the Appian Way. But he bit his tongue. Pavo had plenty on his plate already, he reminded himself. No point shovelling more worry on top. Besides, Macro wanted him to confront Denter with renewed purpose, not a bellyful of anxiety.

Pavo examined the ground. ‘Not much of a choice.’

‘It never is, in my experience,’ the optio replied grimly.

‘To Hades with Rome,’ Pavo grumbled darkly. ‘When this is all over, if I somehow manage to survive, I will leave the city and get as far away as possible from its dark soul.’ He stiffened his neck. ‘The frontier with Parthia, perhaps.’

‘Rather you than me,’ Macro replied sarcastically. ‘I hear that’s a proper shithole.’ He slapped Pavo heartily on the shoulder, quelling the sense of dread writhing in his bowels at the thought of being crucified. ‘Well, there’s nothing for it now but to knuckle down and get the job done. Come on, lad. On your feet.’

Pavo squinted at the arena. Servants worked quickly to clear away the debris that had been thrown into the grounds. ‘I’m not sure I can beat Denter,’ he said. ‘That man doesn’t know fear.’

‘Bollocks.’ Macro chuckled. ‘Denter isn’t a patch on you. He’s just a thug.’ He looked at Pavo with a glimmer in his eye. ‘Do you know why he won so many fights?’

Pavo shrugged. ‘Because he’s good with a sword?’

‘Because he’s already won the battle before he steps out on to the sand.’

Pavo looked at Macro quizzically. ‘How do you mean?’

‘He frightens his opponents. All that rubbish about ripping out his own teeth at the banquets? It’s scare tactics. The German tribes along the Rhine are the same. Soldiers in camp swap horror stories about them over supper. When the time comes to face them in battle, some of the lads have surrendered before the first arrow has been shot. Denter is just trying to bully you, lad.’

Pavo shrugged. He wanted to believe Macro, but the daunting record of his opponent made him hesitant.

The optio pressed on, his voice rising with conviction. ‘Think about it. Pallas and Murena clad Denter in armour from head to bloody toe. They’re scared of you, Pavo. And you know why?’ Pavo shook his head. Macro puffed out his chest in pride. ‘Because you have the ability to beat him. I know it. I’ve seen what you are capable of.’

Macro surprised himself with the compassion in his voice. He was an old-fashioned soldier at heart, not one given to moments of sympathy. He’d lived a hard life on the outposts of the Empire, keeping the barbarian hordes at bay, and kindness was in short supply. But Pavo had been through plenty, in his eyes. He did not deserve to fall to a thug like Denter.

‘With a sword, I might have a chance,’ Pavo conceded. ‘But with these …?’ He waved a hand at the trident and net, sighing wearily as his voice trailed with uncertainty.

‘Funny you should say that.’ The optio bent down to the net and pricked his thumb on the tip of a lead pellet, testing its sharpness. He looked back to Pavo and beamed. ‘I’ve been thinking about your weapons. And I’ve got a plan …’

Denter was already parading around the arena when Pavo emerged from the tunnel to a chaotic wave of noise. The servants had cleared the arena and the veteran stood freely in the middle, pumping his clenched fist at a section of the crowd in an effort to wind them up even more. Pavo looked up at the galleries. Guards stood menacingly at the exits, ready to pounce on any troublemakers trying to stir up further violence. Denter’s supporters and local people clutched their blood-streaked faces. Servants dragged the limp corpses of several men towards the gallery steps. Order was restored to the crowd as the herald announced the return of the two gladiators to the stage. Pavo swallowed hard and slogged towards his opponent with great difficulty. He still felt listless from the effects of the potion-laced drink. A thick fog had settled behind his eyes.

He stopped a short distance from Denter. He stared at his opponent and thought once more of the revenge he had vowed to take on Hermes.

‘Come back for more, have you?’ Denter growled through his helmet. ‘Ha! The crowd won’t save you this time, you spineless shit.’

The umpire signalled for the bout to resume.

Pavo tensed his muscles as Denter burst at him, a grating snarl sounding inside his brimless helmet. Jolted into action, Pavo hoisted his trident towards his opponent’s exposed mid-section and directed the tines towards his intricately detailed loincloth. But his movements were still slow and heavy and the trident felt unwieldy in his grasp. Denter batted it away with a quick downward thrust of his shield. Pavo felt his heart sink as the tines plunged into the sand. Now Denter hammered his shield into the ground, trapping the trident under its iron rim. Pavo unsuccessfully tried to wrench it free. Letting out a roar, Denter raised his sword high above his helmet and swung the blade down at the trident. With a distinct crack the sword hacked through the shaft, detaching the iron shank and tines from the splintered handle.

Pavo relinquished his grip on the broken weapon and backtracked away from the middle of the arena. Now Denter hefted up his shield and chased down his opponent. The veteran’s blood was up. Pavo could discern his heavy breathing through his helmet as he smelled the imminent defeat of the young challenger.

‘Stand your ground, you little shit!’ Denter rasped. ‘Victory is mine!’

Pavo edged back a little further. The local people in the crowd heckled Denter as he closed in on his opponent. Some of the spectators rose from their stone seats and waved strips of white cloth at their rivals from Pompeii. Pavo sensed the mood turning among the fractious mob. Denter charged at him, spurred on by the roars from the Pompeiians, and emboldened by the fact that his rival had lost his main weapon. He dropped his shield to his side and thrust his sword at Pavo’s bare chest. The younger gladiator lumbered to the left in a frantic bid to avoid being cut. But he was too slow and Denter caught him on the left shoulder, the tip of his sword skewering Pavo’s joint. Some of the spectators screamed as the blow struck. The Pompeiians whooped with delight. Pavo felt a burning pain explode in his shoulder muscles. Denter gave the sword a twist, dicing tendon and cartilage, sending another sickening wave of agony through Pavo. Nausea tickled his throat. He braced his jaws shut as Denter ripped the blade free. Hot blood gushed out of his wound and splattered the sand.

Clenching his teeth, Pavo resisted the urge to clamp a hand to his injured shoulder. Denter milked the applause from his supporters and prepared to cut down his opponent with another blow. The young man gasped. He shut out the noise and the pain and the looks of Pallas and Murena in the podium, and focused instead on the advice Macro had conveyed to him in the tunnel.

Gripping the bulk of the net in his trembling right hand, he wielded its coiled length in his left hand in the manner of a drill instructor preparing to mete out punishment with a whip. The lead pellets at the edges were bunched together at the end to form a series of sharp teeth. Pavo whirled his wrist in a circular motion, building up momentum in the coiled end of the rope. Denter paused, his sword hanging in front of him, blood dripping from the tip. Pavo flicked his wrist forward and lashed the net at his opponent. It arced in front of him below waist height and lacerated Denter’s right leg, the numerous lead pellets hooking into the ample flesh of his thigh. Then he ripped the net across and a hollow scream erupted from inside Denter’s helmet as the pellets ripped off chunks of flesh. The veteran stumbled back and dropped his sword as he struggled to retain his balance. Bright-red blood streamed thickly from the torn flesh of his leg.

Retrieving the coiled length of the net with a jerk of his pained right arm, Pavo lashed in the opposite direction. The pellets sank into Denter’s other leg, prompting another wild howl of agony as Pavo yanked it free, tearing off more strips of flesh. Denter sank to his knees on the sand. Both his legs were drenched in blood. The crowd roared Pavo on as he cast the net over Denter’s head and encircled the stricken veteran, wrapping it around him so that his arms were constricted. Then he released the net. Denter tried rolling towards his abandoned sword. But Pavo darted over to the weapon and scooped it up to another chorus of cheers from the spectators. The Pompeiians had fallen deadly silent. They looked sheepishly down at their fallen hero and shook their heads mournfully.

Pavo booted Denter in the back and sent him crashing to the ground. Then he glanced up at the podium. The imperial secretary and his aide looked profoundly relieved. Pallas straightened a wrinkle in his toga and gave Pavo the thumb. The crowd roared itself hoarse. In the gallery above the freedmen, Gurges stared at Denter with horror. Then he hurried out of his seat and bolted for the nearest exit, elbowing his way past the guards.

Pavo pulled his net off Denter to allow his opponent to rise to his knees and accept his fate with a measure of dignity. But instead Denter hurled himself at Pavo. It was a desperate lunge, and Pavo cut him down with a stab to his right arm. The blade tore through his bicep and the pain threw Denter off balance and sent him stumbling to the ground. The spectators whistled and jeered at the outrageous behaviour of the veteran. Now Pavo stood over him and held the sword above his head, poised to plunge it into the back of Denter’s neck. His arm muscles tensed. He looked down and considered his defeated opponent with a mixture of pity and contempt.

‘Son of a fucking traitor,’ Denter sneered, his voice laced with venom. ‘Son of a cowardly, gutless-’

Pavo drove the sword down in a fell swoop. The tip pierced the back of Denter’s neck. The fallen gladiator briefly spasmed as the blade cut through his spine. Then he stilled, and the umpire raised Pavo’s wounded arm in victory. The crowd erupted with joy.

The dust had settled and Paestum brooded under a velvet night sky as Macro was escorted to the makeshift infirmary by guards from the local barracks. The arena was deserted now, as the supporters had flocked to the taverns and brothels to toast a local victory against their hated rivals from Pompeii. The town had been relatively peaceful, by all accounts, and Macro was greatly relieved to have escaped a riot. In his mind barbarians thirsting for your blood were one thing, but warring Romans unsettled him. The smell of death permeated the corridor leading towards the infirmary. Like mouldy cheese, thought the optio. Another reminder of why he avoided field hospitals at all costs.

He found Pavo lying on a straw mat, lost in thought as he stared at the ceiling. His right shoulder had been dressed by a nurse. The bowls of blood-tinged water and trays of used surgical instruments were all that remained of the day’s work, much to Macro’s relief. Pavo turned at the sight of the soldier entering the infirmary and smiled weakly through the throbbing pain of his wound.

‘That worked out all right in the end, then,’ Macro announced. He tried to sound cheerful but the words came out weary and flat. He was merely relieved to have avoided a grisly death at the hands of the imperial secretary and his aide. Gladiator bouts were a lot more difficult to watch when your own life rested on the outcome, Macro thought.

‘Oh yes,’ Pavo replied, affecting a mock-cheerful tone. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why I grumble about the life of a gladiator. You only have to avert widespread rioting and looting, save the skins of a couple of imperial rats and help free the family of a friend threatened with being sold into slavery. But other than that, this fighting business is easy.’

‘All right, it got a bit hairy out there, lad,’ Macro conceded. ‘But there is a bright side to your victory.’

Pavo screwed up his face at the optio. ‘Really? And what do you suppose that is?’ he asked coldy. ‘The noblemen of Paestum can sleep easily in their beds tonight, thankful that their fellow citizens haven’t ransacked the whole city? Or perhaps I should celebrate the fact that Pallas and Murena escaped causing the Emperor huge embarrassment by allowing a riot to break out at an event he sponsored?’

Something in the optio’s expression intrigued Pavo. Macro folded his arms across his chest. ‘There’s more, lad. You’re not a gladiator at the house of Gurges any longer.’

Pavo frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘He wagered a fortune on Denter winning today.’ Macro shook his head and grinned. ‘Placed it all with some bookie called Carbo. Gurges has lost everything. He’s bankrupt. He’s had to sell off his gladiators just to pay his other debts.’

‘Thank the gods …’ Pavo said, closing his eyes. His triumph had not been in vain. Newly enriched with the proceeds from Denter’s defeat, Carbo would release Clodia and the boys. And with the ludus being disbanded and only promising gladiators possessing any resale value, there was even a chance that Bucco might be reunited with his family after all. A smile was poised to break out on Pavo’s face when another thought nudged him. He opened his eyes and cocked his chin at Macro.

‘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.’