Ruga pursed his lips. ‘A few. Those who pay their dues to the gladiator guild mostly.’
‘And they are looking for work?’
‘Some of them. Why?’
Murena smiled thinly. ‘Good. Now listen carefully …’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The crowd packed into the temporary arena rumbled and then burst into spontaneous cheers as another gladiator was cut down on the sands. A chill ran down Pavo’s spine as he waited in the gloomy tunnel alongside Macro for his turn in the arena, the scaffolding directly above him shuddering as if with fear at the howls of pain coming from the butchery. Through the entrance to the arena he glimpsed the frantic glimmer of steel as a scrawny man armed with a short sword and a small round shield but no armour hacked madly at his elderly opponent.
This was the pre-match entertainment Murena had mentioned. It involved the guilty Liberators behind the conspiracy to assassinate the Emperor fighting to the death. The sight of a dozen public officials stabbing and slicing at each other in front of the baying mob made Pavo sick to the pit of his stomach. He frowned as the frail gladiator, Senator Lanatus, struggled to raise his shield to defend himself and stumbled frantically backwards from his opponent, begging for mercy.
‘Looks like the magistrate is about to gut the senator,’ Macro remarked as he narrowed his gaze towards the arena entrance. ‘Not long now, lad. As soon as this scrap is over it’ll be your turn to take to the sand.’
Pavo felt a cold tremor of dread tremble down his spine. ‘What will become of the winner of this fight?’ he wondered aloud.
Macro shrugged. ‘Crucifixion, perhaps. If he’s lucky the guards will execute him.’
‘Gods.’ Pavo shuddered and shook his head. He thought again of his agreement with Murena and Pallas. He secretly feared that the imperial secretary would reveal the truth of his involvement with the Liberators whether or not he won, but he knew he had no choice but to trust the two freedmen to keep their word.
In the next instant a shriek rang out as the magistrate plunged his sword into Lanatus’s exposed chest. The senator convulsed on the spot. Blood spewed out of his mouth as he sank to his knees on the sand. The crowd cheered the death of another Liberator. Some spat at the dying senator. Others shouted obscenities at him as a pair of guards rushed out of the tunnel and seized the magistrate.
Macro clapped his hands. ‘Right, lad. You’re up next.’
Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, Pavo forced his tensed muscles to relax and nervously counted down the moments until he stepped out into the arena. The air was dense and cold and felt icy in his lungs. This was it, he thought. The moment he’d been training for since he had been thrown into the ludus in Paestum, stricken with grief over the brutal murder of his parents, his son taken as a hostage and the ruin of his reputation and that of his family.
Revenge.
The tunnel he waited in was situated directly beneath the groaning wooden grandstands of the temporary arena, constructed in the centre of the Roman Forum on the same spot where the gladiator games were hosted in the time of Julius Caesar. The guards had arrived at the imperial ludus at dawn to escort him to the arena. A stab of fear had stirred in his veins at the sight of it. Although it was considerably smaller than the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre, the setting was infinitely more spectacular. The grandstands were flanked by a pair of marbled basilicas whose long porticoes and intricately decorated bas-reliefs glowed weakly in the pallid morning light. Beyond the arena Pavo had spotted the Arch of Augustus looming over the Forum, a symbol of imperial prestige. Macro had greeted him at the tunnel entrance. As Pavo made his final preparations, he had the strange sensation that even the gods were gazing down on Rome that day, eagerly awaiting the fight.
‘Now remember what we discussed,’ Macro said calmly, shaking Pavo out of his anxious stupor. The guards dragged the surviving magistrate out of the arena to a chorus of jeers and the optio had to raise his voice to make himself heard. ‘Don’t stay still for an instant. Keep moving. You don’t want to give that bastard a chance to corner you. Make him work, lad. Move, parry, attack. Just like we said, eh?’
‘Move, parry, attack,’ Pavo recited tonelessly.
Macro nodded. He gripped Pavo by the shoulders and stared him dead in the eyes. ‘I won’t lie to you, lad. Fighting Hermes is going to be bloody hard work. Ignore the pain and focus on your task. The same as they teach you in the legions.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ Pavo replied. ‘You’re not the one fighting a legend.’
Macro shook his head. ‘My neck is on the line, lad. Same as yours.’
A sudden despair overcame the young gladiator, his fists trembling with utter rage. ‘Those Greek bastards! Roping us into their scheming. I hope they both rot in the Underworld.’
‘No worries there,’ Macro hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Best thing for it is to make sure Hermes is waiting for them when they get there, eh?’
Pavo glanced up and down the tunnel. ‘Why isn’t Ruga here?’
Macro shrugged. ‘Gods know. Probably getting pissed in some dubious watering hole.’
Pavo nodded distractedly. Behind the anxious thrill of his imminent appearance in the arena, a hot panic flared between his temples. Hermes was the favourite for the fight, and through the creaking grandstands he could hear the chants of the mob cheering his opponent’s name. He felt as if all of Rome was against him then.
An attendant stooped at his feet to fasten the straps on the metal greave round his leg, pulling them tight so that the cloth padding was pressed against his shin. That was the last of the armour he had been issued. His bronze body armour was wrapped tight round his chest, causing him to sweat profusely in spite of the chill. The crowd quietened as the announcer ran through the formalities. Pavo listened. A sudden wave of nausea lodged in his throat.
A mild cheer rang out as Pavo’s name was announced.
Macro said quietly, ‘It’s almost time.’
Pavo nodded. ‘It’s been an honour, sir.’
‘Likewise, lad. Even if you were sometimes a prickly shit.’
A pattering of hurried footsteps echoed further down the tunnel. Pavo instantly spun round and squinted in the gloom at a figure hurrying towards him. He stood sharply upright as the figure neared and he recognised the short, portly man with the plump face. His cheeks were shaded red with exertion and beads of sweat glistened on the folds of his neck. Pavo blinked as he stood rooted to the spot, as if not believing the face staring back at him.
‘Bucco …?’ he spluttered at last. ‘By the gods, what are you doing here?’
Pavo had not seen his comrade in many months — not since he’d transferred to the imperial ludus in Capua. Now the sight of a friendly face in Rome warmed his heart and steadied his nerves. The two men clasped arms. Attendants brushed past, bearing buckets filled with sand to sprinkle over the bloodstains.
Bucco caught his breath. ‘I came as quick as I could,’ he said. ‘Some imperial aide called Murena told me I could find you here. It’s good to see you, friend.’
‘Murena?’ Pavo looked at Bucco in surprise. ‘He sent you?’
Bucco nodded. ‘Woke me up this morning at my lodgings in the Subura.’
‘You mean to say you’ve been in Rome all this time?’
‘A month or so. A man came looking for me in Ostia claiming to be a servant of Senator Lanatus. He told me to come to Rome to take your son.’
‘Another lie,’ Pavo muttered icily.
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied quickly. ‘What happened when you arrived in Rome?’
‘The senator refused to see me.’ Bucco scratched his elbow. ‘After I was turned away from his house, a couple of Praetorians grabbed me and hauled me off to the imperial palace. They asked me what my business was with Lanatus. I explained everything, and the next thing I knew, some greasy official handed me your son.’