The herald went on, ‘A day of spectacular gladiator fights will take place at the arena tomorrow, sponsored by the Emperor, represented in person by the imperial secretary, Marcus Antonius Pallas.’
Pavo looked back at the freedman. He waved at the crowd, milking the applause. Beside him Murena whispered something into his ear. Pallas sneered.
‘The morning will see executions!’
The crowd cheered as the herald gestured to a ragged line of condemned men standing to the right of the gladiators. Chains were clamped around their gaunt wrists and ankles. Their skeletal, bearded faces were shorn of hope. One or two of the simpler souls had ravenous looks in their eyes as they watched the slaves carry yet more trays of food over to the tables.
‘In the afternoon there will be twenty pairs of fights,’ the herald bellowed, to another raucous chorus of approval from the mob. ‘The main attraction will feature two legends of the arena fighting to the death.’ He gestured to Pavo and the doctore to step forward from the line of gladiators. ‘First, the challenger. I present to you the son of a treasonous legate and the gladiator who defeated the scourge of Rome, Britomaris … Marcus Valerius Pavo.’
The crowd erupted into riotous applause as Calamus escorted Pavo towards the middle of the square. He climbed on to the wooden platform, with the doctore, as his trainer, standing to one side. The cheers swelled. Men shouted themselves hoarse in celebration of their new hero. Women elbowed their way to the front of the crowd and ogled him. The scene momentarily overwhelmed Pavo before the nagging anxieties of his predicament returned to his thoughts. Despite his efforts to master the technique of a retiarius, he still felt far more confident with a sword in his hand. He was untested in combat with his new weapons. A pang of regret hit him, and he secretly wished that he had Optio Macro by his side for his match against Denter. Despite their differences, Pavo and Macro had shared a mutual understanding of swordsmanship and a common hatred for the bureaucracy and infighting that festered within the heart of Rome.
A gang of boisterous men loitering outside a tavern broke into drunken chants. ‘Meat hooks for Pavo!’ they sang, raising jugs of wine in the air. ‘Meat hooks for Pavo! Oh, they’ll be dragging you out with a meat hook!’
‘Charming folk,’ said Pavo.
‘Hooligans from Pompeii,’ Calamus retorted. ‘I’ve seen them in the arena down that way a few times. They worship Denter. Of course, they don’t really go to watch the fight. They just get pissed and beat up locals. Take no notice of them.’
Pavo looked back at the gladiators. Amadocus was working his bruised features into knots of rage at the adulation being bestowed on the younger fighter. Pavo looked ahead as the herald swept a hand in an arc in front of his chest. The mob hushed.
‘And who will Pavo face tomorrow?’ The herald projected his voice further to make himself heard above the hooligans. He left the question hanging on his lips for a moment, until he had whipped the crowd into a frenzy of anticipation. Then he continued: ‘Winner of forty-nine bouts in the arena. Conqueror of Felix the Fearless. Destroyer of Niger the Thracian. I give you the pride of Pompeii. Decimus … Cominius … Denter!’
The crowd parted to the west. Pavo focused on a figure disgorging from the mob and got his first look at Denter.
‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered under his breath.
One look at his opponent confirmed Carbo’s warning that Denter had been training flat out. Despite his relatively slender physique, he possessed sharply defined muscles on his arms and shoulders and a chiselled chest. Pavo had never seen Denter fight in the flesh, but from his body shape he supposed that the gladiator cut an agile figure on the sand.
He looked on intently as Denter pumped a clenched fist in the air and strode towards the platform. A chorus of boos and jeers greeted him, broken by delirious roars from the hooligans. Denter stopped. Turning to confront the crowd, he clutched his manhood and made a lewd gesture in their direction, prompting a frenzied wave of obscenities. A second figure shoved the gladiator through the baying crowd. Pavo presumed this was Denter’s trainer. He craned his neck to get a better look at the man. But his view was obscured by outstretched arms from the mob clawing angrily at Denter. The second figure hurried his charge to the platform just as the mood among the crowd started to turn poisonous. With a final shunt the gladiator stumbled forward, to the obvious displeasure of the herald, and clambered on to the platform to hoots of approval from the Pompeiians.
Up close Denter had an intimidating presence. Crazed eyes bore down on Pavo from above a thickly bearded face. Tattoos tapered from his neck down to his forearms. Breathing heavily through his nostrils, he closed in on Pavo so that the pair were standing toe to toe. Then the veteran lowered his chin an inch and stared at Pavo down the length of his thin nose. His breath reeked of sickly-sweet wine. Beyond his opponent’s shoulder, Pavo spotted one of the hooligans painting an offensive slogan across the front of a tavern.
‘So you’re the great Marcus Valerius Pavo,’ Denter slurred. ‘You don’t look like much.’ A grin broke out on his face. ‘Then again, your old man Titus was a fucking coward.’
‘He was a respected legate,’ Pavo stated proudly. ‘He was no coward.’
Denter screwed up his face in disgust. ‘He was a tight-fisted bastard! Never let us plunder anything worth a damn. I only joined the bloody legion so I could get some loot, murder a few Gauls and rape a few tarts. Then Titus came along lecturing us about honour and duty. Pah! All that talk didn’t stop your old man being gutted.’
‘He was murdered,’ Pavo said sullenly. ‘By Hermes. In the arena.’
‘I don’t care if Jupiter himself did the deed,’ Denter blasted. ‘I just wish I’d the chance to carve up the stuck-up old fool. Titus booted me out of the legion. He forced me into this career, living for years among slaves and foreign scum. I’d have loved to watch him die. When the Emperor asked me to butcher Titus’s son, I happily accepted. Get ready to join your gutless old man in the Underworld.’
Pavo looked away again and got a clear look at Denter’s trainer. A hot streak of anger pumped through his veins as Denter began flexing his muscles at the crowd.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Pavo seethed. ‘It can’t be him. It can’t be!’
‘Look at me, you little shit,’ Denter said.
But Pavo blanked Denter. He simply stared at the trainer stationed at the foot of the platform, muttering his name under his breath.
‘Macro …’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A chill ran up Pavo’s spine at the sight of the soldier. A contrite expression flashed across the optio’s face. Then Macro shook his head firmly and resolved his features into a stern look, acknowledging Pavo with a brief nod. Pavo had not seen Macro since that fateful afternoon in the Julian plaza, and the sight of him now pricked the gladiator with a mixture of shock and suspicion.
‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed.
‘What does it look like?’ The optio cocked his head at Denter. ‘Training this old sweat.’
‘You traitor!’ Pavo exploded with fury. ‘I trusted you to help me defeat Britomaris and now you conspire against me?’
Macro started to protest. He was cut short by a scuffle breaking out in the crowd as the hooligans and local supporters of Pavo clashed outside the tavern. There was the piercing sound of clay shattering when one of the Pompeiians threw a jug at the mob. The herald raced through the rest of his announcement, striving to make himself heard above the fracas. Some of the Pompeiians traded punches with the crowd. Their comrades hooted and hollered. A flustered Pallas signalled to the sparse number of men from the urban watch, who quickly intervened, separating the fighters and moving the Pompeiians on.