CHAPTER EIGHT
The crowd rumbled expectantly as Macro made a final check on Pavo’s equipment. The two men were in a small, dark room on the western side of the Julian plaza. A short corridor led towards colonnades that lined the arcades surrounding the roofed forum, which had been converted into an arena for the purposes of the day’s spectacle. Macro remembered his father taking him around the plaza as a boy. He recalled the rich smell of spices, cinnamon and incense that came from shops selling luxury goods on the walkways off the arcade, and the vast sculptures of the great Emperor Augustus and Julius Caesar mounted on plinths behind the travertine columns. The plaza looked very different now. Temporary wooden galleries had been erected in front of the colonnades, blocking out much of the sunlight. Through the corridor Macro could see the forum floor blanketed with bright white sand. He could hear the creak of the gallery walkways as the last members of the audience made their way to their allocated seating.
‘Nervous?’ the optio asked Pavo.
The trainee knitted his brow in the middle and stared defiantly at Macro. ‘I’m not afraid of dying, sir. I’m afraid of losing.’
The optio suddenly felt a pang of pity for his charge. He sympathised with Pavo. As a soldier Macro’s greatest fear in battle wasn’t dying, but letting down his comrades. But Macro had had the grain of comfort of knowing that he had seventy-nine men around him who were thinking the same thing. Pavo, however, was all on his own.
Pavo adjusted the metal guard on his right shoulder until it was secure. From the arena the master of ceremonies began his preamble, though his authoritative voice was lost in the din of the crowd. Pavo could barely make out his thanks to the Emperor on behalf of the audience for hosting the spectacle. His warning about throwing objects at the gladiators, jumping into the arena or otherwise interfering in the contest was also greeted roundly with boos and heckles. The mood among the mob was more rowdy than Pavo could ever remember hearing. Even the crowds at the chariot races seemed fairly hushed by comparison. The roar trembled in Pavo’s bones as Macro threw an arm over his shoulder and patted him on the back.
‘Cheer up, lad,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, if the worst happens out there, I’ll organise a whip-round with some of the lads in the Second. Buy you a decent burial spot. Can’t have the son of a legate being slung into a pit grave, can we?’
‘Great,’ Pavo replied.
Macro looked his charge in the eye. ‘Britomaris is scum. Back home he shags sheep and whores out his daughters. He probably even drinks milk. You’re not going to let an animal like that steal the glory of the arena, are you?’
‘No, sir!’ Pavo shouted, his voice trembling with adrenaline.
The master of ceremonies bellowed out the recruit’s name. Macro prodded Pavo in the chest. ‘Britomaris didn’t kill your old man, but I want you to go out there feeling like he did. Imagine he’s the one who stabbed Titus. The blood is on his hands, lad.’
A flicker of hatred glowed in Pavo’s eyes. The officer could tell he’d hit a raw nerve with talk of his father.
Macro gave his charge a final slap on the back. ‘You’re fighting for yourself. For your boy, Appius. But most of all you’re fighting for your father’s name.’ He thumbed the galleries. ‘This lot were probably cheering when your old man died. Why don’t you show them what a Valerius is really made of! Wherever Titus is, make him proud.’
He watched Pavo depart down the corridor towards the servants at the arena entrance. Macro had a space reserved for himself at the podium, not far from the Emperor, but close to Pallas and Murena. He flipped the seal ticket for his space up in the air as he made his way through the bowels of the plaza. He passed a hastily erected surgeon’s counter, where a set of instruments were laid out on a table: a sickening array of forceps, scalpels, catheters and bone saws that turned Macro’s blood cold. There was a bowl of vinegar and a bucket of fresh water with a set of white cloths and a row of wine goblets set to one side. Macro knew from previous spectacles that the goblets were used by surgeons to save the blood from a newly dead gladiator to sell on the black market. Gladiator blood fetched a high price, especially for those seeking a cure for epilepsy. Macro hurried on, confounded by the layout of the plaza. There had to be an entrance to the stands somewhere near, he thought, glancing left and right and trying to get his bearings.
He slowed his stride as he heard two voices coming from within a second room. Thank the gods for that, thought Macro. I can ask them for directions. The voices were hushed and hurried, the soldier realised as he drew to the door.
‘Hurry!’ one of the men implored angrily. Macro froze. He vaguely recognised the voice but couldn’t remember where he’d heard it. ‘It’s about to begin!’
‘Wait,’ the second man replied in a panicked tone. ‘I’ve got to get the mix right first. Too little poison and it won’t kill him!’
Intrigued, Macro poked his head inside. He saw a guard huddled over a gaunt older man who was pouring liquids into a bowl. With a start he recognised the guard as one of the Praetorians who had escorted him to the imperial palace a month ago. In addition to the sword he carried in a scabbard by his hip, the guard cradled a long spear of the type used by Britomaris in the arena. He carefully dipped the tip of the spear into the bowl.
‘What the bloody Hades is going on here?’ Macro barked.
The surgeon looked up in horror and jumped back from the table. The Praetorian guard looked up at Macro too. He grinned, seemingly unflustered by the optio’s sudden entrance.
‘Hang on,’ said Macro. ‘Where’s your mate?’
The Praetorian grinned still. Confusion clouded Macro. Then he heard footsteps behind him, too late for him to spin around. A dull thud crashed down on the optio’s skull. His world went black.
Pavo made his way under the temporary wooden stands into the main arena, his heart thumping against his breast bone, a rasping dryness in his throat. Britomaris had already entered the arena to a chorus of jeers as members of the crowd rained down obscenities on him. Britomaris seemed to be enjoying playing the role of villain, slowly turning to each quarter of the crowd in turn and raising a balled fist high above his head in a posture of defiance. His striped tunic and trousers had been replaced with a simple loincloth, so that just a cone-like helmet with a horse tail crest signified his Celtic origins. He carried a long, narrow leather-bound shield with a decorated ceremonial bronze boss and his hair had been dyed blue. Pavo could make out wild streaks of it as he reached the end of the corridor. A pair of officials stood guard at the entrance to the arena. The younger of the two held a convex shield fashioned in the style of a legionary’s, but without an emblem on the front.
The official handed Pavo his shield then placed the legionary helmet over his head. The trainee hefted his shield to chest-height as the crowd shouted impatiently for him to enter the arena.
‘Best of luck, eh,’ the older official said in a rough voice. He smirked at the trainee, revealing a set of rotten teeth with a gap at the front wide enough to push a thumb between. ‘Do us all a favour and try not to make too much of a mess. I don’t want to spend all bloody evening cleaning your guts off the sand.’
Pavo grunted. Then he burst out of the corridor and emerged to a wave of tumultuous cheers and applause. Adrenaline surged in his blood. He forgot about the nausea at the back of his throat and the fear in his bones. His muscles swelled and loosened. Riding a wave of euphoria, Pavo glanced up at the central portico on the west side of the arena. Above the ornamented balustrade stood the makeshift imperial box. The two Greek freedmen were positioned to the left of the Emperor. Pavo recognised the good-looking one as Pallas. The other had curly dark hair and slight features. Murena. Pallas looked anxious. Murena smiled thinly at Pavo, who felt the burning sensation in his throat boil up.