‘Well, that’s his chances of winning fucked,’ the optio announced.
‘Not necessarily,’ Murena replied.
‘What do you mean?’ Macro scoffed. ‘The man’s out of his skull. He’ll not recover in time for tomorrow. And look at that.’ He pointed to the injury inflicted by the guard. Blood puckered out of a crescent-shaped gash running the length of his back. Macro had seen plenty of wounds in his years in the Second Legion, and he could instantly discern that it was not deep enough to be fatal. Which is why we stab instead of slash in the military, he reminded himself. But it would still require treatment, and in the meantime Denter would find his movement severely restricted.
‘The idiot will be lucky if he can hold his bloody sword straight,’ the optio concluded.
Murena laughed. It was a cagey laugh and one that Macro had heard before, shortly after Pavo had conquered Britomaris, when the optio had learned of the plot by the aide to poison the young man. Now the hairs on Macro’s neck bristled.
‘It’s taken care of, Optio.’
‘What have you done?’ Macro hissed at the aide, fighting an urge to break his spindly neck.
Murena waved a hand at Gurges. The lanista nodded and scurried towards his waiting litter. ‘Let’s just say that Denter won’t be the only one finding it difficult in the arena tomorrow.’
Macro frowned. ‘Suit yourself. But I’d be wary of Pavo losing, if I were you.’
Murena looked sharply at the soldier. ‘Why?’
‘That lot, for starters.’ Macro jerked a thumb at the Pompeiians. The thinly spread guards were struggling to move the gang on. Their number had doubled in size and their mood had grown openly hostile. ‘More of them are on the way. From what I hear, the fans from Pompeii travel in large numbers.’
Murena smiled weakly at the hooligans. ‘I hardly think a few fist fights between rival gladiator fans are cause for concern, Optio.’
‘It’s not them you should be worried about.’ Macro folded his arms stiffly across his chest and nodded at the overturned trestle table. ‘The mob loves Pavo. They won’t want to see their hero getting chopped down, and they won’t like a bunch of nutters from Pompeii crowing about it. You think the mood was ugly today, wait until you see what they’re like tomorrow.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The roar of the crowd trembled through the arena and shook the building to its foundations.
‘No mercy for Mesonius!’ the crowd yelled in unison. ‘Kill the murmillo!’
The arena shuddered again as the crowd gave full throat to its bloodlust. Pavo felt sick. The air in the tunnel was laden with the stench of sweat and vomit. Hysterical screams emanated from the makeshift infirmary. Since Pavo topped the programme, his fight against Denter would be the last contest of the day’s schedule. He had spent the afternoon listening to the shrill clash of metal, the roar of the mob and the howls of men being operated on by Achaeus. The closer he edged towards his fight, the more the passage of time seemed to stretch out, straining his nerves to the limit.
He steadied his breathing and focused on the task in front of him. He watched Calamus and waited for the signal to enter the arena. The doctore stood with his back to Pavo as he looked on at the action unfolding beyond the gates at the mouth of the tunnel. Two guards manned either side of the gates, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords. Six more were positioned at equal intervals down the length of the tunnel. They had kept a watchful eye over the men throughout the day. With good reason, Pavo thought. The moment before he stepped out to face death was the only time when Rome trusted a gladiator with a sharpened blade.
The crowd hushed. The herald’s voice resonated through the passageways as he formally announced the next pairing of gladiators.
‘It’s time,’ Calamus growled.
A chill clamped around the back of Pavo’s neck. Two orderlies hurried down the tunnel from the armoury. One of them clutched Pavo’s weapons, the net slung over his shoulder while his hands gripped the trident and dagger. The second orderly carried the keys to the armoury, as well as a large clay cup. Accepting the weapons, Pavo dumped the net by his feet, tied the dagger to his belt, and concentrated on testing the balance of the trident.
Calamus turned away from the gate. He seemed amused at Pavo’s tense expression. ‘Don’t look so glum, boy. Most of the recruits die on first appearance. You did well to make it this far.’
Pavo clamped his jaws shut and turned his attention to the net. The rope was made of soft flax fibres spun together in yarn and twisted into thin strands. It was round and wide enough to trap a large man underneath, with small meshes to make it harder for the ensnared gladiator to escape. Sharpened lead pellets were fixed to the edges of the net to make it easier to cast. Although Pavo felt terribly naked without a helmet or a shield, he would not be hampered by the weight of the equipment. Aside from the trident and net, he wore guards on his left arm and leg, with a shoulder guard mounted above his right arm padding to provide extra protection to his net-throwing arm and a flared tip on the shoulder guard for shielding his head behind should Denter aim for the jugular.
Pavo was securing the loop on the corner of the net around his left wrist when an orderly shoved the clay cup in front of his face. He lowered his gaze and a felt an instant wave of nausea hit him. The cup was brimming with a lumpy liquid the colour of coal and sprinkled with grey flakes. The smell clogged Pavo’s nostrils. He choked back the nausea rising in his throat.
‘Gods!’ He looked horrified. ‘What foul brew is this?’
‘Standard pre-fight concoction, courtesy of Achaeus,’ Calamus answered matter-of-factly for the orderly. ‘It’s got a secret ingredient in it. Helps you keep your nerves in the arena. Drink up, lad.’
Pavo frowned at the cup. ‘I’d rather not.’
The doctore turned to face Pavo. ‘You little shit,’ he said, his voice coarse and sharp, like a blade slicing through fabric. ‘Still think there’s one set of rules for you and one for everyone else, eh? Give me that!’ He snatched the cup from the orderly. Drops of the liquid spilled over the rim and slopped on to his fingers.
‘Drink!’ he insisted.
Pavo wrinkled his nose. Just looking at the cup made him queasy. ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’
‘Drink. That’s an order!’ Calamus snapped. Spittle flecked Pavo across the cheek. The doctore snatched the trident and thrust the cup at the gladiator. Pavo took a deep breath, clamped his eyes shut and poured the mixture into his mouth. He swallowed nervously. He could feel his stomach squirming with the inclination to retch. As the liquid slithered down his throat, he was left with an acrid taste in his mouth. Then he leaned forward, pressing his palms against the wall, and dry-heaved as he fought his desire to puke. The wall shuddered with the movements of the crowd above. Pavo could hear the doctore’s laugh ringing in his ears as he spat out bitter lumps of the drink. Wiping his mouth clean, he stood upright and flashed a look of withering contempt at Calamus. He could feel the concoction sloshing around in his guts.
‘How’s that?’ The doctore grinned. ‘Better?’
‘Worse,’ Pavo groaned. ‘What in Hades is in it?’
‘Animal ashes, charred roots and fish guts mixed with vinegared water.’ Calamus grinned broadly. ‘The taste of victory, that is.’
The orderlies slipped away. The screams abated. Pavo looked back down the tunnel and searched for a friendly face. But Bucco had retired to the ludus after his lunchtime comedy fight with a dwarf, together with the victorious gladiators. Even though he had the doctore and half a dozen others for company, Pavo felt very alone.
‘Right then.’ Calamus slapped his charge on the shoulder. ‘Off you go.’
The doctore shoved the trident at Pavo’s chest. The young man clasped it in his right hand, with his left gripping the rolled-up net. Behind Calamus the gates creaked as the guards cranked them open to a terrific wall of noise from the crowd. Pavo brushed past the doctore and strode up the passage towards Denter, thinking that Calamus would not be shedding any tears if he died.