‘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.
T
he next morning Pavo gazed across the Circus Maximus and waited to catch a glimpse of the man who had killed his father. Tens of thousands of spectators had braved the morning cold to fill the chariot-racing stadium situated between the Aventine and Palatine Hills, filtering out of the entrances leading up from the arcade of shops at street level and making their way along the tiers to their seats. Instead of arriving to watch the usual programme of chariot races, the spectators had descended on the Circus Maximus to watch a rare gladiator bout. The sun glimmered faintly above the Palatine Hill. Palls of smoke drifted up from hundreds of forges amid the distant tenement blocks as Rome stirred slowly into life. From his seat at the lowest tier, Pavo braced himself against the chill breeze sweeping across the stadium and tried to quell the dread coursing through his veins.
‘Where the hell is Hermes?’ Macro cursed in the seat next to Pavo. ‘I’m freezing my bollocks off out here.’
Pavo turned to his older companion. Macro had been in a foul mood since the two men had arrived at the Circus Maximus earlier that morning to watch Hermes take part in a sparring match against a less well-known opponent. Pavo had awoken at dawn in his cell at the imperial ludus, where Macro had presented himself with orders to escort the young gladiator to the Circus Maximus. While the excursion ought to have been a welcome break from the drudgery of the ludus, Pavo felt a growing sense of unease building in his chest. In two months he would take to the sand against Hermes, his nemesis, in a fight to the death.
‘He must be appearing shortly,’ the young gladiator replied. ‘There’s a full programme of chariot races due to take place after this contest. The organisers can’t afford a lengthy delay.’
Macro folded his arms across his stocky chest and grunted. ‘He’d better get a move on. It’s colder than a Vestal Virgin’s cunny this morning.’
Pavo glanced quickly past his shoulder at the upper tiers and frowned. ‘What exactly are we doing here, Macro?’
‘I told you. Pallas and Murena ordered me to bring you here to watch some journeyman gladiator from Macedonia put the great Hermes through his paces. Seems they wanted you to see Hermes fight before you face him in the arena.’
‘Odd that they’d want me to observe my opponent,’ Pavo mused. ‘I’d have thought they would be doing everything in their power to sabotage my preparations for the fight.’
Macro shrugged. ‘Who cares? This is a rare chance to see Hermes in action. If you ask me, it’s the first good idea Pallas has ever had.’
Pavo frowned and rubbed the bristles on his jaw. He disliked his new beard, but shaving was a luxury that belonged to his former life. ‘Still, why hold a mere sparring contest in public at the Circus? A practice bout in front of such a crowd is unheard of.’
Macro grunted. ‘Hermes is more of a showman than a gladiator these days. No doubt the organisers are keen to make a profit on the back of it. This lot are dying to see him in action,’ he added, jerking a thumb at the packed tiers.
Pavo glanced up at the crowd. At least a hundred thousand spectators had crammed into the stadium. He could only dream about attracting such a crowd, especially for a practice match with blunted weapons.
‘Have you ever seen Hermes fight, Macro?’
The optio shook his head. ‘Too busy carving up barbarians, lad. But I’ve heard plenty about him. Seems like every new recruit to the Second has seen him fight at one time or another. They can’t stop bloody talking about him in the mess room.’
‘I see,’ Pavo replied tersely.
‘Doubtless his wealth has something to do with it,’ Macro grumbled. ‘Your average gladiator being on a par with a runaway slave or a murderer, and all that. Most gladiators are lucky to last a year. Hermes has been fighting for twenty years – and he’s richer than half the old bastards in the Senate.’
Pavo winced and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘We should be on the training ground, not watching Hermes go through the motions.’
‘Try to enjoy it, lad.’ Macro eased back and slapped his young charge on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, I don’t see what you’ve got to be so glum about. You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? A fight against Hermes and the chance to avenge your old man.’
Pavo pursed his lips. He knew Macro was right. From the moment Hermes had beheaded his father, the young gladiator had burned with the compulsive desire for revenge. But he could not ignore the unease coiling in his guts.
‘Pallas and Murena are up to something,’ he reflected sourly. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘That’s life in Rome for you,’ Macro muttered. ‘Too many Greeks for my liking.’
With a firm grunt Macro turned away from Pavo and narrowed his steely gaze at the racetrack, which had been transformed into a gladiator arena for the purposes of the morning display. A chalk-line ellipse had been marked out, stretching from the twelve starting gates at the western end to the second turning post at the near end of the dividing barrier running down the middle of the track, adorned with various monuments and statues of the gods on top of an ornate shrine. Guards from the urban cohort had been drafted to manage the crowds at the stadium. In the distance a scattering of men and women peered down from the tenement blocks teeming along the slopes of the Aventine Hill overlooking the stadium. This was Macro’s first visit to the Circus Maximus, and he found the experience a bittersweet one. As a boy he’d missed out on the excitement of the chariot races, since his father, Amatus, had taken a dim view of gambling. On race days Amatus used to keep his son busy cleaning cups and wiping down the tables in the dingy tavern he owned in the Aventine. Macro never imagined then that he would one day watch Hermes fight here.