‘Calm down, Optio. Your identity will be disguised. Bato fought under a stage name. You shall adopt it, and wear the same helmet and clothing. That ought to do nicely in terms of convincing the mob. Bato was a big draw, and we don’t want to disappoint the mob, now do we?’
‘No, sir,’ Macro barely muttered, still in a state of shock at his fate.
‘Don’t look so downhearted, Optio. You will only be required to appear in one fight, alongside dear Pavo.’ He smiled wickedly at the gladiator. ‘No need to conceal your identity, young man. You’re already scum.’ Pavo bristled with rage as Murena looked back to Macro. ‘Should you survive, you can consider your debt to the Emperor wiped clean. You will then be free to return to the Second Legion. As an optio, I hasten to add.’
‘What?’ Macro growled. ‘But … my promotion to centurion … we had a deal.’
‘Consider yourself lucky to still hold the rank of optio. After your reckless approach to managing a ludus, I think it’s fair to say you have demonstrated that you are wholly unworthy of leading men.’
‘What about me?’ Pavo asked.
‘Pallas and I have decided not to crucify you, for the time being. But your fight with Hermes is off. We have arranged another opponent for the great man. The mob will be delighted that Hermes has at last recovered from his injuries and is back in training. Rest assured that for your part in this fiasco, Pavo, you will never see your son Appius again.’
Pavo’s shoulders slumped. ‘Well, who are we fighting?’ he asked. ‘A couple of lads from the imperial ludus in Rome, I suppose.’
Murena chuckled. ‘No. You’ll be pitted against rather more untamed creatures.’
‘Gauls?’ Macro asked.
‘Animals, Optio. You’re going to feature in the beast fights.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Macro muttered a curse under his breath as the roar of the crowd echoed through the passageway of the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre. Almost a month had passed since the day of the mutiny in Capua and now the gladiators had arrived in Rome for the opening day of the games. From his position under the galleries Macro could see a vast column of gladiators, condemned criminals and comic performers stretched out in front of him in the passageway, trembling with anticipation as they waited for the signal from the arena attendant. In keeping with the tradition of the games, the procession would emerge on to the sand in full view of the spectators. Then Claudius would declare the games open. Macro remembered the order of the procession well. He’d witnessed several gladiator spectacles during his childhood. But he’d never imagined that he might one day enter the arena as a participant. He tasted something bitter on his mouth as the trumpeters blared and the attendants gave the signal and the head of the procession shuffled forward. The blood boiled in his veins as he neared the entrance.
‘Condemned to fight wild beasts,’ he growled. ‘I’ll never live down the shame.’
‘Could be worse,’ Pavo replied, nodding at a line of bedraggled prisoners of war directly ahead of them, their heads lowered and their shoulders emphatically slumped. ‘One of the guards reckons that unfortunate lot are to be wrapped in animal skins, tied to wooden posts and ripped apart by panthers.’
‘This is no time for splitting fucking hairs,’ Macro snapped. ‘I’m taking part in the games, lad. Me, a hero of Rome! I shouldn’t be here.’
‘Nor should I,’ Pavo replied bitterly. ‘At least you only have to get through this one bout. This is the third time I’ve had to fight. You should consider yourself lucky.’
Macro glared at the young gladiator. A thunderous cheer erupted from the packed galleries, cutting off his reply. Now the front of the procession slowly emerged on to the sands. Macro grudgingly faced forward, sweat trickling down his back in the fetid heat of the tunnel. As well as their suffocating helmets, the two men wore bronze cuirasses, leg greaves and protective arm padding. The armour weighed heavily on their muscular frames and merely shuffling along was enough to make them both break out in a sweat in spite of the cold. At the head of the procession the optio glimpsed the lictors, their bundles of wooden rods fixed with axes mounted above their shoulders. Behind the lictors was a colourful array of acrobats, dwarves and actors for the comic interludes, followed by a throng of arena attendants. The gladiators themselves were the last to emerge. The condemned men among them cut a depressing presence at the rear of the procession, staring ahead with deadened expressions. Other gladiators, champions of the provincial arenas, marched purposefully towards the entrance, eager to get the preliminaries over with so they could return to training ahead of their fights. All the men had chains clamped around their ankles and wrists. They were flanked by a large detachment of the Praetorian Guard.
‘I can’t see a bloody thing wearing this,’ Macro fumed, fiddling with the visor on his helmet. ‘How the fuck are we supposed to win our bout if we’re half blind?’
‘I suspect that is rather the point,’ Pavo replied tersely. ‘Beast fighters aren’t the main attraction at the games, after all.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘If we can’t see properly, it adds to the crowd’s amusement.’
Macro glowered at the young man at his side, his rage evident even through the restrictive eyeholes in his visor. The indignity of taking part in the games burned in his chest, testing his patience.
‘Shut up,’ he muttered. ‘It’s your fault I’m in this mess in the first place.’
‘What?’ Pavo responded indignantly as the acrobats cartwheeled into the arena to a round of polite cheers. ‘The imperial secretary to the Emperor was the one who condemned you to fight today. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Bollocks, lad! The only reason I’m here is because the secretary held me responsible for the gladiator mutiny at Capua.’
A sea of bobbing heads swarmed ahead of Macro as the two men drew near to the mouth of the tunnel. Pavo heard the faint din of musicians playing the flute and water organs out in the arena. Their delicate notes were abruptly drowned out by the shrieks and grunts of exotic animals transported on wagons being wheeled out to whet the spectators’ appetite ahead of the beast fights and animal hunts. A few moments later there was a collective rumble as the spectators surged to their feet in eager anticipation.
‘Claudius must have arrived,’ said Macro.
‘Gods, listen to that!’ Pavo exclaimed as the mass of gladiators entered the arena to an earth-shuddering crescendo of noise. ‘The galleries must be heaving with spectators.’
‘Rather be up there than down here with this scum,’ Macro retorted.
Privately he conceded that the mob had good reason to be out in force at the opening of the games. The Emperor had spared no expense to put on a stunning spectacle to win over the mob. Macro had spotted several posters advertising the event on the walls of taverns and merchant stores lining the path of the procession. Chariot races were being held at the Campus Martius, and earlier that morning an elephant-drawn chariot had conveyed Livia’s image past a crowd lining the streets. As sponsor of the games, Claudius had brought together the pick of the gladiators and beast fighters from the imperial ludus in Rome and the smaller ludus in Capua. Macro shuddered at the vast cost of the event, which was rumoured to have run into several hundred thousand denarii.
Macro and Pavo were about to enter the arena when a voice shouted, ‘You two! Stop there!’
The two men turned simultaneously as an arena official hurried towards them, his brow heavily furrowed.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Macro demanded.
‘Sextus Hostilius Nerva,’ the official announced curtly. ‘I’m in charge of the schedule. It’s my job to make sure these games run smoothly and without any hiccups. You.’ He pointed at Pavo. ‘Name?’