Arena

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

A strange calm settled over Pavo as he paced down the corridor. The infirmary was overflowing with casualties and Nerva ushered him into an adjacent room sparsely furnished with stretchers and cots where the wounded could recuperate. Through the crumbling walls Pavo heard the anguished cries of stricken gladiators going under the surgeon’s scalpel. The flesh wounds on his arm and chest now throbbed painfully, but his mind was focused elsewhere. He closed his eyes and rehearsed his imminent attempt on the Emperor’s life. When he opened his eyes again he saw a spindly figure standing in the doorway. The deep lines of his face were illuminated by the soft twinkle of the oil lamps in the passageway.

‘Ah, gladiator! Congratulations on your victory!’ Lanatus announced grandly as he approached. There was a spring in the senator’s step and he was hardly able to contain his glee. ‘How refreshing it is to see a noble Roman emerge victorious in a gladiator bout. Not like those aristocratic wastrels we saw yesterday, chopping up hares and ostriches to massage their egos.’

Pavo looked blankly at the senator. ‘Where’s Appius?’

Lanatus glanced nervously around the room at the faces of the other wounded gladiators. He leaned forward and whispered into Pavo’s ear. ‘For gods’ sakes, man, keep your voice down! If anyone hears us, we’re done for. We can’t afford to slip up. Not now. The fate of Rome depends on us.’

‘For you, perhaps.’ Pavo wore a fierce expression. ‘I only care about my son. We had a deal.’

‘And it will be honoured,’ whispered Lanatus, composing his features. ‘You should be grateful for this opportunity, Pavo. You’re about to go down in history as the man who ended the life of a dictator and restored Rome to its true greatness. I’m somewhat envious of you, if you must know.’

‘Kill Claudius yourself, then.’

The senator looked coldly at Pavo, his lips clamped tightly shut.

‘My son,’ said Pavo.

‘The boy is safe.’

‘And on his way to Ostia?’

‘Not yet,’ Lanatus responded coolly, keeping his voice low. ‘Only once you fulfil your side of the deal. Kill the Emperor, then I’ll send Appius on his way with that friend of yours, Bucco.’

Pavo glared at the senator. ‘I’m not doing anything until Appius is safe.’

‘I will agree to no such thing,’ Lanatus hissed. ‘The important thing is your son is out of the Emperor’s clutches. He’s in a secure place. And I’ll honour my word, Pavo, despite your insinuation to the contrary. Appius will be removed from Rome the moment you spill the Emperor’s blood.’

A pair of orderlies entered the room bearing a stretcher. Pavo dimly recognised the wounded gladiator from the group fight. A deep gash was visible on the side of his stomach, glistening bright red like a pair of puckered lips. The wound looked fatal. The gladiator was delirious. Lanatus waited for the orderlies to lay down the stretcher in the corner of the room and roll the gladiator into one of the empty cots. Once they had exited, he turned back to Pavo.

‘You are in no position to argue with me. Either you kill the Emperor and Appius lives, or else you collect your reward and the boy dies.’

Pavo grimaced. Lanatus left him with no real choice. He gave a grudging nod. The senator sighed heavily through his nostrils.

‘Good! Smile, Pavo. You’re about to become the saviour of Rome.’ The flicker of the oil lamps illuminated his grey eyes as he reached under his tunic and discreetly removed a small dagger, which he grasped tightly in his right hand, keeping it hidden from view. His caution was unnecessary. The other men in the room were writhing in agony from their wounds. No one paid him any attention as he slipped the weapon to Pavo. The gladiator glanced at the dagger, the enormity of what he was about to do hitting him like a fist. He hurriedly tucked the weapon into the folds of his loincloth, making sure no one saw him. At that instant two guards entered the room. Lanatus quickly took a step back from Pavo and cleared his throat.

‘I’ve kept you far too long, my friend. You must be keen to collect your prize from the Emperor.’ His eyes glowered as he added, ‘Be sure to give his imperial majesty my best regards.’

With a quick smile of encouragement he turned on the spot and departed. The guards brushed past him, each grabbing Pavo by an arm and dragging him out of the room. They roughly shoved him down the passageway, passing several entrances to the galleries before arriving at a set of marble steps. The walls here were richly decorated with a stucco relief depicting the Emperor giving the sign of mercy to a vanquished gladiator. Four Praetorian Guards stood either side of the steps, and a familiar face was waiting to escort Pavo up to the imperial box.

‘Macro!’ Pavo sputtered.

‘Lad,’ Macro responded gruffly. ‘Still in one piece, I see.’

‘Barely.’

The optio grunted. ‘Not a bad performance. A bit of work needed on your movement, and some of your thrusting attacks were frankly pathetic. But overall, you did well.’ His expression softened as he spoke, and Pavo felt his chest swell with pride. A few words of modest praise from his former mentor counted for more than the acclaim of the mob. He cocked his head at Macro.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘And why are you dressed like that?’

‘Blame that bloody Greek snake,’ Macro snapped gruffly as he led Pavo up the marble steps. ‘Murena has got me posing as one of his clerks. I’ve been suffocating inside this fucking tunic all morning.’

‘But what for? I thought you were heading back to the Rhine?’

‘Me too,’ Macro growled. ‘And I would’ve left Rome by now if it hadn’t been for some bastards plotting against Claudius.’

‘Plotting to do what, exactly?’ Pavo said, feigning ignorance.

‘To assassinate him,’ Macro answered stonily. ‘Pallas and Murena reckon some traitor is planning to cut down the Emperor today, right here at the games.’ He squinted at the darkening clouds as they neared the imperial box. ‘If they are planning on giving Claudius the chop, then they’re leaving it late. There’s only a handful of bouts to go.’

Pavo felt the burning pain in his arm, the searing graze across his chest.

‘Tell you what,’ Macro added in a stern voice. ‘When the assassin reveals himself, he’s in a world of shit. We’ve got orders to take him to the imperial palace for questioning. With luck he’ll give up a few names before the torturers have finished with him.’

Pavo shuddered at the thought. The doubts swelling in his mind grew more insistent as he reached the top of the steps. Killing Claudius would not bring him peace, he realised. He would only achieve that with revenge over Hermes. But a voice in his head countered that he had no choice in the matter. Not if he wanted to save Appius.

‘I’ve come too far now,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘What was that, lad?’

Pavo quickly lowered his head. ‘Nothing.’

Shaking his own head, Macro ushered Pavo into the imperial box. Murena was waiting impatiently for them, his brow creased into a heavy frown.

‘Ah, Pavo! Come to collect your reward, I see.’ Murena lowered his voice. ‘Now remember, his imperial majesty has a stutter and a tendency to slobber at the mouth when he’s excited. Draw attention to neither.’

Pavo nodded. The smell of grilled meat tickled his nostrils and he noticed several imperial slaves gathered at the sides of the box bearing jugs of wine and trays of pork and honeyed figs, which members of the imperial household picked at. Across from the box he could see the arena floor below. Orderlies were still cleaning up the carnage from the group fight, raking the bloodied sand and scooping up discarded entrails. Pallas stood to the side of Claudius, who was seated in his ornate chair and flanked by a handful of clerks, with his German bodyguards standing guard at the sides of the box.

Twenty thousand spectators craned their necks to the imperial box to catch a glimpse of Claudius greeting the victorious gladiator. Pavo felt the sweat on his back freeze as the Emperor slowly rose from his chair and approached him. Pallas clicked his fingers at a nearby servant, who carried over a silver tray piled high with coins and a palm branch, the traditional gifts presented to the winner of a gladiatorial bout. Pavo took in a sharp draw of breath as he carefully slid his right hand down towards his loincloth. There was no going back now. He spotted Macro standing to one side, his eyes narrowed at the surrounding galleries, unaware that the assassin was standing a short distance from him.

Now Claudius stopped in front of Pavo. He wrinkled his nose at the stench of sweat and blood coming off the gladiator. Murena folded his hands behind his back. There was a gloating look in his eyes. Pavo could hear the blood rushing in his ears as he felt for the cold tip of the dagger.

Then Claudius opened his arms in joy and flashed a broad grin at Pavo. ‘W-w-what a s-s-show!’ he stammered. ‘That was a remarkable p-p-performance out there, y-y-young man!’

Pavo was momentarily taken aback by the Emperor’s good mood. He’d expected Claudius to be enraged by his victory. He noticed that the Emperor’s response prompted a puzzled reaction from Murena, too. At the same moment the servant presented the silver tray to the Emperor, so that he could personally hand Pavo his prize money and palm branch. The young gladiator gritted his teeth as his fingers closed round the handle of the dagger.

The Emperor waved the servant away. ‘Coins and p-p-palms are no fitting reward for a t-t-true champion!’ he declared to Pavo. His eyes suddenly lit up and he clapped his hands. ‘You d-deserve a proper reward. And I have just the thing. Your son shall be s-s-spared!’

Pavo froze with his fingers resting on the dagger.

‘My son?’ he asked numbly. His lips were cold. He was in a state of complete shock. ‘You mean he’s still … at the palace?’

Claudius frowned curiously. ‘Why, of c-c-course he is. Under the watch of the Praetorian G-G-Guard.’

Lanatus … the bastard, Pavo thought, realising that the senator had lied to him. He had never intended to save Appius. Relaxing his grip on the dagger, he subtly removed his hand from the folds of his loincloth, his muscles shaking with rage. He had come so close to killing Claudius — and it would all have been for nothing.

Murena looked bewildered. ‘Your majesty,’ he began humbly, ‘I must ask you to reconsider. Is it truly, ah, wise, to spare the life of this man’s son? This is Marcus Valerius Pavo, son of the traitorous legate Titus … the man guilty of attempting to return Rome to a republic.’

‘I k-k-know who he i-i-is!’ Claudius snapped without looking at the aide. ‘I am no f-fool.’

The aide smiled nervously. ‘I meant nothing of the sort, your highness.’

‘We must not m-m-make the same mistakes as our predecessors. We must l-listen to the mob.’ Claudius gestured to the galleries with an unsteady sweep of his hand. Murena and Pavo both looked up at the spectators. They were still cheering the gladiator’s name. ‘Romans know a h-h-hero when they see one. This young m-man’s father was a traitor, but the son has r-r-restored his reputation in the arena. He fought with great honour.’

‘But your majesty-’

Murena drew a stinging rebuke from the Emperor. He simmered in silence as Claudius turned back to Pavo.

‘Murena t-tells me you were condemned to d-d-die at these games.’ Pavo nodded. ‘Instead of money, I shall g-give you your f-f-freedom. No m-m-man who fights so hard should suffer an insulting death.’ There was a harsh glow to his eyes as he added, ‘Even the s-s-son of a traitor.’

The aide looked apoplectic. ‘I must protest-’

‘Enough!’ Claudius barked. ‘I have s-spoken, Murena. And you shall carry out my orders as my loyal s-s-servant.’

Murena looked sheepishly at his feet, unnerved by the abrupt show of authority from the Emperor. ‘Yes, your majesty.’

‘There is something else I desire … your majesty,’ Pavo said, addressing the Emperor. Claudius looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

‘Something other than f-freedom? S-s-speak of it.’

‘I wish to fight Hermes.’

Murena looked ready to explode. The muscles in his face twitched with an indescribable hatred for Pavo.

‘What a s-s-splendid idea!’ Claudius exclaimed, slobbering at the mouth with excitement. ‘The t-t-two greatest gladiators in Rome, pitched in a fight to the d-death! It sh-sh-shall be the perfect end to the games.’ He turned to Murena. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘As you wish, your majesty,’ Murena responded with ill grace.

Pavo felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Finally, his wish had been granted. He would have his fight against the gladiator who had killed his father in the arena and brought shame upon his family name. He choked back his emotion. It was hard to believe it was actually going to happen. Then he remembered something else as the Emperor turned away from him.

‘There is one more thing, your majesty.’

Claudius stopped and glanced back.

‘Y-y-yes?’ he asked curtly. There was a flicker of irritation in his eyes, and Pavo wondered whether he had pushed his luck too far. Claudius had already promised to spare Appius and grant him his fight against Hermes. ‘Well, w-w-what is it?’

Pavo stiffened his neck muscles. ‘I want the right to choose my trainer for the fight.’

Claudius gave the matter some thought for a moment, then nodded impatiently. ‘V-v-very well. My aide will sort out the d-details.’ He stared coldly at Murena. ‘Isn’t that so, Murena?’

‘Yes, your majesty.’

The Emperor grunted a response and returned to his seat as the attendants finished clearing up the arena and the announcer introduced the next fighters. Murena glared at Pavo, his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed tight, trembling with outrage.

‘You will pay for this,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

Pavo grinned. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? The man I want to be my trainer.’

Murena shaded white with rage. A general cheer went up in the galleries as the next gladiators stepped out into the arena.

‘Give me the name,’ the aide seethed, his voice barely audible above the shouts of the crowd.

Pavo nodded at the optio at his side.

‘I want Macro to train me,’ he said.