Pavo prayed to the gods that Carbo was wrong.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Amild breeze drifted over the crowd as Pavo and the other recruits and veterans stood in a line at the southern end of the forum square under the watchful glare of a dozen heavily armed guards from the local barracks. The gladiators were bare-chested and wore plain linen loincloths. They would not have a chance to brandish their weapons and shields until they set foot in the arena. A flock of onlookers had crammed into the surrounding streets to inspect them at the open-air banquet.
The crowd was far bigger than Pavo had expected. People peered out of the first-floor windows of the taverns and shops arranged to the north. Others jostled for the best view from the heightened steps of a nearby modest theatre. All of them looked at the gladiators with a mixture of fear and awe. Pavo had not ventured outside the ludus for six weeks, and had been shielded from the build-up to the games within the walls of the school. Now he witnessed first-hand the excitement trembling on the faces of the crowd. Women fanned themselves as they ogled the gladiators’ oiled, muscular torsos. Children fought with toy swords. Half a dozen stalls had been set up around the square for fans to purchase carved miniature statuettes of their favourite fighters, as well as necklaces and various trinkets. Another sold copies of the programme for the following afternoon’s bouts. All the while the smell of grilled pork wafted through the air as merchants hawked small sausages to the hungry, impatient crowd.
Pavo watched the sun sink behind the horizon. In the middle distance he spotted the ludus, situated on rising ground amid the entertainment quarter to the north of the forum. The arena stood to the right. Its stone exterior glowed a pale hue in the dying embers of late autumn. A dozen silhouettes laboured near the top row of the seating area. They were busy mounting linen awnings in preparation for the following day. A cracking roar shook through the sky as the workers flogged the awning, flattening the linen sheet before attaching it to poles and crossbeams fixed to the top of the arena.
‘Look at that lot,’ said Bucco grimly. ‘There must be a thousand people come here to gawk at us. Maybe more.’ His usually cheerful voice was now stifled with fear and it provoked a pang of anxiety in Pavo. He had never attended a gladiatorial banquet before, but he understood that it was customary to host them in the open. Tradition dictated that it was a chance for the gladiators to publicly express their stoicism in the face of impending doom. The open-air feast also had the added effect of generating enthusiasm among the mob ahead of the fight. Pavo watched a crowd of men descend on Carbo to fritter away their hard-earned money.
‘At least we get some grub out of it,’ Bucco said sourly, pointing out the trestle tables being set up in the middle of the forum square. ‘Funnily enough, I don’t feel hungry.’
His tone surprised Pavo. Normally Bucco would be licking his lips at the thought of a slap-up meal, but his appetite had deserted him at the thought that the fate of his family hung in the balance. Pavo glanced sympathetically at his friend. He was gripped by the same feeling, as if a horde of mice were scurrying around his guts.
Pavo snorted as slaves laid out trays of food on the tables for all to see. There were countless bowls of freshly cut lettuce and plates of salted tuna garnished with quails’ eggs, along with lumps of ripened cheese and shellfish and raw vegetables. Silver goblets were topped up with sweetened wine from large jugs. Further trays of stuffed fowl, sow’s udders and ox tongues were also brought out. The feast made Pavo feel sick, despite the ravenous hunger in his belly. Such extravagant foods had been a staple of his childhood when his father had enjoyed the worship of the Fifth Legion, respected and feared in equal measure by the tight-lipped men of the Senate. Each tray of food reminded him of a happier time, of a life he would never be able to return to. He looked away before the rumbling in his stomach grew irresistible.
‘Makes you wonder why they’re laying on all this food,’ Bucco mused, scratching his elbow. ‘We have to train eight hours a day on a diet of stale bread and gruel, and now they decide to give us a proper feast.’ He shook his head at the logic.
‘They treat us well today because they expect us to perish tomorrow. Romans like their condemned men to die on a full belly,’ Pavo growled. He shook his head. ‘Anyway, you still haven’t told me about your role at the games.’
The thought tickled Bucco and his mood lightened somewhat at the news he had kept back from his friend. He patted his considerable paunch and a pained smile crossed his lips as he declared, ‘You’re looking at the new comedy act. The doctore reckons I’m a natural at making people laugh.’
Seeing the look of dismay on Pavo’s face, he went on, ‘Oh, it’s not so bad. I get to provide a spot of light entertainment for the mob between fights. Better yet,’ the volunteer tapped the side of his nose, ‘I won’t get chopped up by some battle-hardened Syrian tomorrow.’
Pavo studied his friend. ‘You’re in good cheer.’
Bucco wedged his thumbs down the front of his loincloth and lifted his chin defiantly at the crowd. ‘Comes with the territory, my friend. When you’re born in the gutter, there’s no point bleating about your lot in life. You’ve just got to get on with it, haven’t you? Anyway, I wouldn’t change places with a high-born lad like you for all the Falernian in Campania. All that scheming and having to watch your back. From what I can tell, you posh lads get very rich, and then you end up exiled, condemned to a ludus or worse, butchered in some back alley in Rome by a squad of Praetorians. Give me the simple life any day.’
‘How very noble of you, Bucco. Perhaps you’d care to fight Denter yourself and use the winnings to pay off your debts to Carbo, Gurges and any other unfortunate soul you happen to owe money to.’
Bucco fell silent.
‘No,’ Pavo went on. ‘I rather thought not.’
With a heavy sigh, Pavo searched the forum for Gurges. He found the lanista mingling with the other dignitaries in attendance on the marble steps of the public hall to the rear of the square. Servants hovered around the area, presenting trays of figs, olives, dates and other appetisers. Gurges stood to the side of the main group of dignitaries, Pavo saw. He was in conference with a tall, dark man with sculpted cheekbones and smoothly shaven skin.
‘Who’s that good-looking bloke with Gurges?’ Bucco asked.
‘Pallas,’ Pavo muttered darkly, recognising the man with a start.
The crowd hushed. Pavo and Bucco faced forward as a squat man stepped out in front of the trestle tables and climbed on to a temporary wooden platform that had been erected in the square. The man cleared his throat.
‘Gods, the herald,’ Bucco grumbled. ‘Let’s hope this old fool doesn’t blather on like the ones back in Ostia.’
Pavo glared at his friend. Men and women at the back of the crowd pricked their ears. Silence descended over the forum.
‘His imperial majesty, Emperor Claudius, is proud to announce a unique spectacle for the people of Paestum,’ the herald declared in a gravelly voice that carried over the heads of the crowd and resonated through the streets.
A cold sweat gripped Pavo as he realised that his victory over Britomaris had only helped consolidate Pallas’s position of trust within the imperial household. Claudius might hold the title of emperor, he reflected glumly, but the true power lay with Pallas and his lackey Murena. Typical of my luck, he thought bitterly. I’ve made enemies of the most powerful men in Rome.