Pavo fumed, his nostrils flaring with rage. ‘You can’t do this.’
‘Oh, but I can,’ Murena replied condescendingly. He began to turn away from the room. ‘I can do whatever I please. Your victory means that the Emperor is in debt to Pallas, and don’t forget that Pallas is my boss. It would’ve taken years for us to win the complete confidence of Claudius. You’ve helped us achieve it in a mere few months. Thank you, Pavo.’
Pavo simmered with rage. The freedman paused and rubbed his hands together, as if warming them on a cold winter’s night. ‘I suppose it’s all worked out rather well in the end,’ he went on. ‘All that remains is for me to take care of loose ends.’ He cast his eyes over Macro and Pavo in turn. ‘As I promised Pallas.’
‘What do you mean?’ Pavo snapped, narrowing his eyes at Murena.
‘The Emperor won’t tolerate the mob chanting the name of the son of a traitor.’ Murena barked at the Praetorians as he clicked his fingers: ‘Take him away.’
Pavo hung his head low as the guards hauled him to his feet, grabbing a weary arm each. The fight had dimmed in him, Macro noticed. Despair had doused the flames of rage burning inside his belly.
‘Appius … my boy …’ the trainee muttered under his breath, his dry lips cracking as the guards manhandled him out of the room and dragged him down the corridor. Away from the arena. Away from the noise and buzz of the crowd chanting his name.
‘Pavo was right,’ Macro growled at the smug Greek when they were left alone. ‘You are a bastard.’
Murena stroked his chin thoughtfully and smiled at Macro as if he had just given him a compliment.
‘What’s going to happen to him?’ the optio asked.
‘There’s a wagon waiting outside. He’s to return to the ludus in Paestum,’ Murena replied as he gazed down the corridor. ‘We’ll find another opponent for him to fight locally, in the more modest surroundings of Paestum’s amphitheatre. Someone with a poor reputation.’
Macro scoffed and folded his arms. ‘What for? Pavo’s a great fighter. Pair him with a low-ranking gladiator and he’ll carve up his opponent in a heartbeat. If you ask me, I say the lad’s been through enough.’
‘Pavo’s survival is an embarrassment to Claudius. He must die,’ Murena said icily. ‘He must die in disgrace, in a way that leaves his reputation in tatters. And you are going to help me achieve that.’
The optio shifted on the balls of his feet and felt his pulse quicken with fear. ‘Why the bloody hell would I do that? I’ve already honoured my end of the deal. I trained Pavo. He won. Now I’m due my promotion, as promised.’
Murena looked back at Macro.
‘It’s not that simple, Optio. You know our dirty little secret. And if the mob discover that Claudius tried to poison the new hero of the arena, well …’ Murena frowned at his feet, as if a snake was crawling up his leg. ‘Let’s just say they wouldn’t be too happy. Our problem is, can we trust you? Luckily for you, Pallas and I are giving you a chance to prove your loyalty to Claudius.’
‘How do you mean?’ Macro asked, his voice low and uncertain.
Murena grinned as the sound of the crowd slowly died away and the heavy drum roll of footsteps echoed through the plaza as people made their way to the exits and flooded out into the streets. The freedman said, ‘Since you appear to be a rather effective gladiator trainer, you’re going to train Pavo’s next opponent. You know the young man’s weaknesses. You will train your man to exploit them, so that the mob will see Pavo humiliated …’
CHAPTER TEN
A short while later, Macro watched the workers dismantling the temporary stands in the fading light. He shook his head as a cold knot of fear tightened in his guts. Train the next opponent to face Pavo? The notion left a bitter taste in his mouth. Surely the young lad had been through enough, Macro told himself. He gritted his teeth as he watched two slaves struggle to heave the body of Britomaris on to a handcart.
The clean-up operation at the Julian plaza was under way. Groups of servants swept away chipped clay tickets and shards of shattered wine jugs. The crowd had quickly emptied from the stands after the gladiator fight, pouring out into the streets of the Campus Martius. Emperor Claudius and his retinue had swiftly departed and Murena had followed in their wake to tend to official business, detaining the optio at the arena while he made up his mind whether to help the aide to the imperial secretary. Pavo’s victory over Britomaris ought to have been a moment of personal pride for Macro. Instead, by defeating Britomaris, he had helped Murena and Pallas, sealing Pavo’s fate.
‘Bollocks to this,’ the optio muttered to himself, kicking a wine cup away in frustration. ‘I should be in Germany right now, not bloody Rome.’
‘Pah! You ought to be thanking the gods, not cursing them!’ announced a Praetorian Guard standing at the entrance to the arena. His comrade to his left smiled thinly. The pair of them had been detailed to keep an eye on Macro until the aide to the imperial secretary returned from his business at the palace. ‘You ask me, I reckon you’re lucky to have avoided the chop. That’s the usual fate for anyone who pisses off an emperor. Claudius is no exception.’ He winked at his comrade. ‘That reminds me. How’s the head?’
Macro reached a hand to the welt at the back of his scalp and snorted in disgust. Blood had matted his hair together in dry clumps. Knocked unconscious by a sodding Praetorian, he thought. A deep sense of humiliation brewed in the pit of his stomach.
‘No hard feelings,’ the guard chortled. ‘Serves you right for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.’
‘You’re a disgrace to any uniform, my friend. Same as that slippery Greek turd Murena.’
‘What did you say, Optio?’ a silvery voice snapped at his back.
Macro spun around. Murena materialised from the shadows of the corridor leading under the western portico and paced slowly towards him, carefully measuring each cautious step as he cast his eyes left and right.
‘Nothing,’ Macro replied bluntly as Murena stopped and studied his face. The freedman acknowledged the soldier with a polite smile. Then he glared at the amused Praetorians and nodded towards the arena. ‘You two. Give the servants a hand.’
The guard on the right looked incredulous. ‘That’s slaves’ work. Not for Praetorians.’
‘Your job here is done, soldier. I just gave you both an order.’
‘But-’
‘Do it, or I’ll have you transferred to the Rhine Frontier.’
The guard grunted to his comrade. The pair of them reluctantly shuffled down the corridor towards the arena, grumbling to each other under their breath. Murena calmly swivelled his gaze towards Macro. The imperial aide’s curly black hair was ruffled. His grey eyes were bloodshot. A deep frown ran like a ridge across his forehead. He looked stressed, the optio thought.
‘This should have been a day to celebrate,’ the aide lamented. ‘The day that a Roman put an end to that Gallic thug Britomaris.’ He shot a disapproving look at the body sprawled on the bed of the handcart. ‘Instead Pallas has me running around putting out fires.’
‘Spare me the sob story,’ the optio replied. ‘You’ve got what you wanted. Pavo won, didn’t he? Britomaris is dead. You and Pallas have your precious victory. Old Claudius must be delighted with the pair of you. You don’t need me here now.’
Murena wrung his hands. He gave the impression of a man wrestling with a terrible dilemma. ‘Pavo is still alive, Optio. And he’s celebrated by the mob, no less! Gods, some of them are even declaring him to be a true Roman hero!’ He wore a pained expression as he went on. ‘Can you imagine what Emperor Claudius will think if he hears of Pavo’s new fame?’