Pavo shook his head. The blood ran cold in his veins. Murena took a step closer to him and said softly, ‘We solicited a confession from Lanatus. The palace interrogators tortured the old fool to within a hair’s breadth of his life, but he eventually told us everything. They always do.’
The gladiator tried to feign ignorance. ‘What does any of this have to do with me?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Pavo. Lanatus confessed to his role in the conspiracy to assassinate the Emperor. He told us about the plan to slip you a weapon in the aftermath of your victory in the group fight. How you were supposed to slit the Emperor’s throat when you entered the imperial box to receive your award. I must admit, it was certainly an audacious plan.’
‘I had no choice! Lanatus told me that unless I helped, Appius would die-’
Murena raised a hand. ‘I’m not interested in your pathetic excuses,’ he snapped. ‘The only reason you’re not being nailed to a cross at this moment is because Pallas and I need you to win. The very fact that you chose not to go through with the conspiracy suggests you at least had some doubts about the wisdom of committing such a heinous act.’
‘What do you want?’ Pavo asked warily.
‘Victory, of course. I will not tolerate your defeat by Hermes.’
Pavo threw up his arms. ‘Hermes is the greatest gladiator who ever lived. Even at my best, I might lose.’
‘Then you will have to train harder. Win your fight, and no one else need ever learn of your part in the Liberators’ conspiracy. Lose, and I will make sure that all of Rome is made aware of your treachery. The mob will ridicule you as a Liberator, Pavo. Your family name will be irreparably sullied. And poor little Appius will suffer a fate worse than death: he’ll grow up as the disgraced son of a traitor.’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
‘What was all that about?’ Macro growled irritably. Pavo had left Murena at the entrance to the underground tunnel and rejoined Macro outside the main gates of the imperial palace where he was pacing impatiently up and down. A chill wind picked up and fluttered through the alley.
‘Sir?’ Pavo said absently. His mind was still shaken by the sight of Lanatus in the cell. He shuddered at the thought of the unimaginable horrors the senator must have suffered at the hands of the imperial interrogators. Only the political aspirations of the imperial secretary and his aide had spared Pavo the same fate. But if there was one thing worse than death for a high-born Roman, it was the loss of prestige, and he felt his blood boil at the prospect of being exposed as a traitor. Murena was right. Appius would grow up in disgrace, the Valerius family name stained by his actions. Now, more than ever, he needed to win.
Macro frowned. ‘You look like you’ve just seen a cheap tart without her make-up on, lad. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ Pavo replied. He looked carefully at his mentor, studying his face. He quickly decided that Macro was in the dark about his involvement in the conspiracy to assassinate Claudius. He breathed a sharp sigh of relief and forced a smile. ‘Murena merely wanted to remind me of the importance of the fight.’
‘Eh?’ Macro sputtered. He went on, ‘What’s with the long face, then? You should be kissing Fortuna’s arse, lad. Those bloody Greeks are on our side … for once.’
Pavo shrugged wearily. ‘Perhaps we’ve made a mistake.’
Macro grunted. He was still in a foul mood from the encounter with Murena and the painful reminder of his appearance in the beast fights. ‘You think too much. That’s what reading all those books does to you.’
Pavo pushed aside the appalling mental image of Lanatus in his cell and cocked his head at his mentor. ‘It doesn’t strike you as odd that Murena and Pallas are offering to help, sir?’
‘Gods know. They’re Greeks, after all. Buggers are raised at birth to be slippery. Right now they see Narcissus as the greater threat. That means they’re willing to work with you. My enemy’s enemy, as the saying goes.’
Pavo tilted his head to the side, conceding the point. ‘But they have spent the past several months trying to kill me. Surely they’d rather work with someone — anyone — else?’
‘Bloody hell!’ Macro threw up his arms in bewilderment. ‘You know what those freedmen are like. Pallas will do anything to hold on to his title as the Emperor’s chief arse-licker, even if it means cosying up to the disgraced aristocrat he’s been trying to kill. No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Pavo replied flatly.
Macro shook his head. ‘Anyway, you were the one who agreed to work with Murena.’
‘Fair enough. But I don’t believe his reason for wanting the defeat of Hermes. Pallas is a natural schemer. I’m sure he could think up a plan to undermine Narcissus that wouldn’t involve aiding the likes of us.’
‘None of our business, that. All we need to know is that Ruga has given Hermes a good run for his denarii in the past and he’ll know a thing or two about how to stop him. With a bit of luck you might stand a chance of actually winning.’
‘You’re forgetting one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We only have a month in which to prepare for the fight, sir.’
Macro rubbed his hands. ‘Then we’d best knuckle down to training. Put some bulk on you, lad.’ He glanced down at Pavo’s lower half. ‘Especially those gangly legs of yours. I’ve seen more muscle on those bookish types who sit in the literary salons discussing poetry.’
The streets were bustling and loud with the hubbub of traders’ voices as Macro and Pavo headed south from the imperial palace towards the Aventine Hill. Children’s voices rang out above the metallic clank of shopkeepers releasing bolt locks as they opened their shop fronts for the day. Macro moved at a brisk pace, thoughts weighing heavily on his mind. Although he did not share his concern with his young charge, he worried about the lack of time in which to prepare. Normally three to four months was required to properly train even a veteran gladiator for a fight against a fearsome opponent. Pavo had a mere four fights under his belt and would be facing a supremely fit champion.
Macro surprised himself with how badly he wanted to see Pavo triumph. Respect for high-born Romans did not come naturally to the optio, who had grown up in humble surroundings. But Pavo had proved himself not only a talented swordsman but a hard-working student who possessed an indomitable spirit. Even with the might of the imperial household against him, he had never buckled under pressure and his fighting qualities would make him a worthy officer in any legion. And as his mentor, Macro felt a certain sense of pride.
A short while later Macro and Pavo threaded their way through the seething mass of humanity crammed on to the Aventine Hill. Decrepit tenement blocks stood several storeys high, cutting out what little natural light there was and casting a fetid gloom over the downtrodden inhabitants. The air was filled with the dull hammering of coppersmiths hard at work and the occasional cry of crazed drunks coming from within the dimly lit taverns scattered throughout the district.
‘What in the name of the gods is this place?’ Pavo spluttered. ‘And what is that smell?’
Macro slapped a hand on the gladiator’s shoulder and gave him a hearty shake. ‘This is the Aventine Hill. The beating heart of Rome.’
There was a squelching sound as Pavo trod in something wet and slimy. Stopping in his tracks, he looked down in horror at a foul brown puddle. There were similar puddles all along the street. The young gladiator fought a strong urge to puke as he realised that a river of filth was literally running through the street. Macro chuckled at his companion.
‘Open sewer,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘The Aventine is riddled with ’em.’
Pavo looked for somewhere to wipe his fouled feet. ‘This is not the heart of the city, sir. It is a repugnant slum. How anyone can live like this is quite beyond me.’
Macro widened his eyes. ‘You’re one to talk, lad. The gladiator who lives in a rank cell, eating maggot-infested gruel twice a day.’