The aide drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the desk.
‘We will beat the Liberators at their own game,’ he said. ‘They need the mob as badly as Claudius does, if they are serious in their intention to return Rome to a republic. With your show of support, the mob will back Claudius. Not even the Liberators are foolish enough to act against the wishes of the masses.’
Pavo shook his head in protest. ‘I’m one man. There are countless other gladiators who have been more popular than me. Felix the Destroyer, Triumphus the Terrible … even Hermes.’ He clenched his jaw. ‘I don’t hold such sway over the mob.’
Murena raised an eyebrow. ‘Not yet, perhaps.’
An icy feeling struck the young gladiator on the nape of his neck.
‘Why else do you think I promoted you to First Sword?’ asked Murena.
Pavo shrugged.
‘Because you’re a class apart from the likes of Felix and Triumphus. You’re the classic Roman hero and son of a successful military leader. Not some barbaric milk-drinking Thracian who barely speaks a word of Latin. You’re the first home-grown champion of the arena. And as First Sword, you are well on your way to becoming the most celebrated gladiator Rome has ever seen, with the power to influence the mob more than anyone other than the Emperor.’
Pavo folded his arms across his chest. ‘My decision is final. I won’t help you.’
Murena studied the gladiator. A pallid smile crept across his thin lips. ‘Endorse the Emperor, and I’ll ensure that your next fight is the one you have waited for all this time. Your match in the arena will be against Hermes.’
‘So you say,’ Pavo sniffed. ‘What’s to stop you from simply bumping me off once I throw my weight behind Claudius?’
The aide feigned a look of surprise. ‘You will have to trust me.’
Pavo was incredulous. ‘First you tried to poison me. Then you had me drugged for my fight against Denter. Now you expect me to believe that you and Pallas would honour any sort of deal?’
Murena compressed his lips.
‘No,’ Pavo said through gritted teeth. ‘I won’t endorse the Emperor, no matter how much you might try to sway me.’
‘As you wish,’ Murena replied, breathing loudly through his nostrils. ‘Then I suggest you return to the ludus and prepare for the games. If you won’t help us defeat the Liberators, then you leave me no choice but to make an example of you to the mob. You will be crucified upon the charge of treachery to Rome … after Appius is thrown to the beasts before your eyes.’
Pavo squeezed his eyes shut and mouthed a silent prayer to Fortuna and Jupiter that he would one day get his chance for vengeance on Pallas and Murena.
The aide clapped his hands loudly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to the business at hand. Guards!’
He waved Pavo away and returned his attention to the stack of scrolls and wax tablets. Footsteps echoed down the corridor as the guards returned to the study. They were about to haul Pavo outside when Murena suddenly remembered something and motioned for them to halt.
‘Oh, and before I forget,’ he said to Pavo, ‘send my regards to your lanista, won’t you?’ He smiled faintly. ‘I’m sure Macro will have whipped the men into good shape by the time Claudius arrives.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Macro settled his piercing gaze over the ludus training ground and shook his head in disgust.
‘Lanista of a bloody ludus,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I’ll never live this day down with the boys in the Second Legion.’
He grunted as the gladiators trudged towards him at the end of their afternoon training session at the wooden training posts in the shadow of the two-storey dormitory block that dominated the ludus, and prepared to deliver his first address to the gladiators as the new imperial lanista. It was not a task he approached with much enthusiasm. Macro had arrived at the ludus earlier that morning in a foul mood. He had reacted badly to news of his appointment as the temporary lanista. Although he enjoyed a good gladiator show as much as the next Roman, he held a dim view of the gladiators themselves. His estimation of lanistas was even poorer. At least the gladiators fought with honest steel, Macro privately conceded, whereas the lanistas were greedy profiteers who grew wealthy from the killing of slaves and condemned criminals.
A burly, squat man with a heavily scarred leg stood at his shoulder, tightly gripping a short leather whip.
‘It’s not all bad, sir. At least we get to beat the shit out of scum.’
Manius Ovidius Aculeo held the title of newly appointed gladiator trainer to the ludus. Macro had been introduced to him after arriving at dawn in Capua. The optio’s departure from Paestum had been delayed whilst he waited for his papers to be drawn up. Plenty of work required his attention upon his arrival, and the morning had been a blur of introductions followed by a meeting with the clerks and a review of the parlous financial state of the ludus. He had barely had time to pause and catch his breath.
‘There are worse jobs to have,’ Aculeo went on. ‘Imperial lanista is a bloody big deal. You’re in charge of Claudius’s personal troupe of gladiators. There’s plenty in Rome who’d scratch their eyes out to be in your boots.’
Macro shook his head. ‘I wasn’t born to nursemaid a bunch of muscle-bound glory-hunters.’
‘Imperial gladiators, sir,’ Aculeo pointed out. ‘Hand-picked by the Emperor from the thousands of fighters from across the length and breadth of the Empire.’ The doctore waved a hand at the men forming a thin line across the training-ground sand, under the watchful eyes of a handful of armed guards. ‘This lot are the best swordsmen around. Apart from the gladiators at the main imperial ludus in Rome, I suppose.’
‘Bollocks!’ Macro spat. ‘These men might work the crowd up with all their chest-thumping and swashbuckling, but stick ’em on the Rhine Frontier to face a horde of barbarians foaming at the mouth and they’d soon come unstuck.’
The doctore chuckled and shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir, but I beg to disagree. The legions ain’t what they used to be. I was a drill instructor in the Thirteenth once. When I joined up, a man would be flogged for so much as looking at some Syrian tart. Times have changed. The legions are too soft these days by half.’
Macro bit his tongue, resisting the temptation to remind Aculeo that there was a world of difference between the Thirteenth Legion and the Second. Murena had briefed the optio on the new doctore shortly before he departed Paestum. He’d been told that Aculeo had been discharged from the military after acquiring a reputation for being rather too enthusiastic with the application of his vine stick, provoking the men almost to the point of mutiny. Macro made a mental note to keep a close eye on the new doctore. The last thing he needed was a vindictive trainer venting his frustrations on the gladiators. There were more than enough problems to keep him busy as things stood. The previous lanista, Gaius Salonius Corvus, had been more interested in the trappings of wealth than managing a ludus, and training under his leadership had been lax. Macro felt the burden of the task ahead weighing on his shoulders like a heavy marching yoke.
Now the last of the gladiators assembled. Macro cast his eyes over the ludus as Aculeo ordered the men into formation. To his left stood the wooden training posts. On his right was the practice arena, a replica of the much larger arena in Capua, constructed from wood and with galleries capable of seating an audience of over two hundred. Two guards were stationed at a guard post south of the training arena, to the side of the main entrance to the ludus, an impressive structure with an intricately decorated arch above the gate bearing the reassuring symbol of the god Securitas. A series of guardrooms were built either side of the arch, along with solitary confinement cells for ill-disciplined gladiators. A portcullis sealed the mouth of the gate, along with an outer door which had a locking bar on the outside. Two additional guards were stationed by the outer door at all times. They were only permitted to open the door when the regular supply wagons arrived bearing food and wine for the ludus. The only other entrance was through the main doors at the front of the lanista’s quarters. If nothing else, the place seemed reasonably secure.