Murena looked down. ‘Marcus Valerius Pavo.’ He pulled a face at his sandal, as if he had trodden in a puddle of sewage. ‘Although you may well be more familiar with his father’s name, Titus?’
Macro felt his guts tie themselves into a knot. ‘The Legate of the Fifth Legion?’
‘Formerly, the Legate,’ Murena corrected icily. ‘Latterly, rotting in an unmarked grave on the Appian Way. The predictable consequence of Titus trying to return Rome to a republic. We’re still debating whether to decimate the Fifth, since his men appeared so eager to support him in his treachery.’
A cold shiver crawled down Macro’s spine. News of the execution of the Fifth’s legate had not yet reached the Rhine, but the more the officer heard about how the imperial palace now dealt with its enemies, the less he liked the sound of it. Bashing up barbarians in Germany and Gaul was all well and good, but the thought of Romans stabbing each other in the back reminded him of the civil wars that had dogged Rome during the days of the Republic.
‘Dissent in the ranks cannot be tolerated,’ Murena said, as if reading Macro’s mind. ‘We had to set an example.’
‘But you let the son live?’
‘He wasn’t in Rome at the time. Pavo was a military tribune in the Sixth Legion. We had him placed under arrest and returned to Rome. The Emperor had planned to execute the young man in the arena, and to that end we slung him into a gladiator school in Paestum. The lanista has promised to see to it that Pavo dies in the arena within the year.’
Macro curled up his lips in thought. ‘And now you want Pavo to save the honour of Rome?’
‘These are desperate times. With Hermes out of the picture, we need Pavo. At least for the time being. Training him, however, may not be so straightforward. The young man is rather upset about the whole business of his father being killed.’
‘How did he die?’ Macro asked cautiously.
Murena chuckled to himself and shook his head. ‘Condemned to death in the arena. The Emperor paired him with Hermes, no less. Titus put up rather a good show. I’m surprised he had a drop of blood left him in when the time came for Hermes to finish him off.’
‘No bloody wonder the lad is angry,’ Macro murmured, in a voice low enough that his words evaded Murena’s ear.
‘I’m told that you have soldierly qualities in abundance, Macro. I believe you’re just the right man to whip him into shape. You’re to head to Paestum, train your charge and escort him to Rome for the fight. You have one month.’
‘A month?’ Macro cried. ‘You must be joking!’
‘On the contrary,’ Murena replied. ‘I’m deadly serious.’
‘But. . A month! That’s nowhere near enough time to prepare for battle.’
‘It’s not a battle. Just a fight in the arena.’
‘Just a fight?’ Macro shook his head wearily. ‘I have plenty of experiene in training legionaries. Even the best take months to whip into any kind of shape, and the worst can take three or four times that.’
‘Pavo is different. His natural talent with the sword is exceptional.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ said Macro.
‘Well this is no mere boast. The gladiator who first trained Pavo happens to be the doctore at one of the imperial schools. He claims he has never known a boy with such prodigious skill. And by all accounts the men in the Sixth haven’t seen a tribune handle a sword so well.’ Murena sighed as he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. ‘It’s his temperament that is the problem.’
‘What about the Emperor? He’s happy to have his skin saved by the son of a traitor?’
‘In the current climate, we can’t afford to be picky,’ Murena replied sourly. ‘Domestic squabbles have to be set to one side, for we cannot allow this barbarian to hang over us for any longer.’ Murena inspected the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Besides, I have reassured the Emperor that it is he, and not Pavo, who will bask in the glory of Rome’s honour being restored.’
As will you, no doubt, Macro thought. For once he managed to keep his opinion to himself. Macro’s tongue was his worst enemy at times. His lack of diplomacy was part of the reason why it had taken him so long to be in contention for promotion to centurion. He didn’t want to let the opportunity slip through his fingers now. Even if it meant working for a snake like Murena.
‘You could push the fight back a month or two,’ he offered. ‘Give me some more time with the lad.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible,’ Murena sniffed. ‘Announcements have already been made and the wheels have been put in motion for the fight. We cannot backtrack and we cannot tolerate any challenge to the Emperor’s authority. You must appreciate the precariousness of our situation.’
Macro cursed the gods under his breath. A short while ago he’d been licking his lips at the thought of indulging himself for a few days before returning to the Rhine and enjoying his new status as the toast of the Second. Now he was looking at a month in a backwater training a troubled gladiator in a ludus whilst surrounded by prisoners of war, errant slaves and wastrels. And the cost of losing to Britomaris and heaping further embarrassment on the Emperor didn’t bear thinking about.
‘I’ve dispatched a messenger by horse with instructions for the lanista at the ludus in Paestum. He’ll be expecting you. We’ll be hosting the match at the Julian plaza. The plaza is a somewhat more intimate venue than the amphitheatre, but it’s the perfect setting: rich and full of history. Caesar built it and Augustus hosted gladiator fights in it. Now the Emperor will assert his credentials there.’
The freedman called over the two Praetorian guards. ‘You are to leave immediately,’ he said without looking at Macro. ‘A horse has been saddled for you, and I’ll have my clerks draft an imperial warrant to give you the necessary authority to do as you need at the school. It is a five-day journey to Paestum I believe. Five days there and the same back leaves you with twenty days of training with your charge. Use it wisely. Questions?’
‘Just one,’ Macro said. ‘What if this Pavo doesn’t want to fight? I mean, if he bears a grudge against the Emperor for what happened to his family, he’s not exactly going to be enthusiastic about helping him out, is he? Especially since you’ve already condemned him to death.’
Murena smiled cruelly as he said, ‘I’ve got something that should provide him with a strong incentive to fight. .’
CHAPTER THREE
Paestum
The doctore cracked his short leather whip on the blistering sand and glared at the new recruits. ‘Straighten your backs!’ he growled. ‘Raise your heads you worthless buggers!’
The men shuffled into the training ground and arranged themselves in a rough line in front of Calamus. The doctore cast his eye over the men the way a butcher inspects cattle at a market. He’d have his work cut out getting this lot into shape, he thought grimly. Calamus knew from experience how hard the training regime was, and how few men made it through the selection process. He’d once fought as a gladiator himself, yet all he had to show for it was a noticeable limp and a face lacerated with scars.
‘You’re here because you’re the lowest of the low,’ the doctore said. ‘Common criminals look down on you. Whores wouldn’t sleep with you. Even bloody slaves laugh at you. Rome shits on each and every one of you daily and if I had my way, I’d pack the lot of you off to the mines. But today is your lucky day, ladies. Our master is in a generous mood for a change. He’s given you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make something of your pathetic little lives.’
A silence fell across the training ground. The doctore looked for someone to make an example of and fixed his piercing eyes on a young man at the end of the line. He had an angular and awkward physique, and appeared somehow shorter than his actual height. His eyes radiated a defiance of everything around him and he wore an intricately decorated pallium cloak over his tunic. The mere sight of the cloak caused Calamus to blaze with anger.