‘Marcus Valerius Pavo,’ the gladiator responded.
‘And your comrade?’
‘Hilarus,’ Macro said, bristling with shame. He took scant consolation from the fact that by fighting under the assumed name of Duras, he would at least conceal his true identity, preventing his superiors in the Second Legion from ever discovering his shameful secret. Assuming he survived, that is. He watched the beleaguered official consult a wax tablet, tracing a finger down the list of names. Clearing his throat, Nerva tapped his finger at a pair of names near the bottom.
‘Wait here. Once you hear the command from the umpire, you’re on. You’re the second bout of the day, so make it look good, and whatever you do, don’t die too quickly, eh?’
Fear instantly gripped Pavo.
‘That can’t be right. There are several pairings ahead of us.’ The gladiator pointed at the list of names. ‘Check the programme. We’re the main draw. We’re supposed to come last.’
The order of the bouts had been a source of hot debate in the ludus canteen in Capua, with gladiators torn between appearing in a later bout, with the guarantee of a bigger crowd and a larger reward for victory, and fighting in a minor preliminary bout and getting their appearance in the arena over with. In keeping with tradition, the beast fights were scheduled for each morning of the games, followed by the crucifixions of criminals at midday, with the gladiator bouts listed for each afternoon of the ten-day celebration.
‘Change of plan,’ Nerva replied aloofly. ‘Sisinnes was scheduled to go first but he topped himself last night in his cell. The ungrateful sod bit off his own tongue and choked himself to death. Then we planned for Diodorus to make his debut, but he buggered off to the latrines and suffocated himself by thrusting a toilet brush down his throat. What a way to go.’
‘Gods!’ Pavo exclaimed.
Nerva shrugged. ‘The beast fights always turn a few of ’em suicidal. The thought of getting torn to shreds, I suppose. Last year we had a dozen fighters strangle each other before the start of the games. Buggers up the programme, I can tell you. Then there are the ones nursing injuries.’ He clicked his tongue, craning his neck at the arena. ‘By Jupiter, I hope the weather doesn’t turn foul. The schedule’s tight enough as it is without rain messing it up further.’
Macro shook his head. ‘A couple of beast fighters chickening out doesn’t explain why we’ve been bumped up the list. There were plenty more bouts scheduled ahead of ours.’
‘Orders of the imperial secretary,’ Nerva replied, rolling his eyes. ‘He’s organising the games on behalf of the sponsor, Emperor Claudius. If you’ve got a problem with the schedule, I suggest you take it up with him.’
Macro and Pavo exchanged a look behind their visors.
Nerva continued. ‘Once the procession is over, the Emperor will introduce the games and say a few words about the deification of his grandmother, Livia, then make some public pronouncements and give the obligatory thanks to the mob. We’ll begin with a leopard versus a bull. Then it’s your turn. Four of you will take to the sand.’
Macro slapped Pavo heartily on the back. ‘Did you hear that, lad? Four of us against one beast! That shouldn’t be too hard.’
Nerva chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up. You’re fighting a lion.’
Macro and Pavo both froze.
‘And not any old lion, but one specially trained for the arena,’ Nerva went on. ‘The handlers starve them for two days beforehand, then they’re branded with hot irons to make them really vicious. I’ve seen one of these lions rip half a dozen veteran gladiators limb from limb. Four of you won’t last long. Just try not to get too much blood over the place, eh? We’re low on fresh sand as it is.’
‘The men we’re fighting with,’ Pavo asked. ‘Who are they?’
‘What does it matter? You’ll die all the same.’
‘I want to know if they’re skilled with a sword.’
Nerva consulted his tablet again and hummed. ‘Late entrants, it says here. They’re in the holding cell at the moment. Probably a couple of murderers who are for the chop. Doubt they’ll increase your chances against the lion.’
He tucked his tablet under his arm and spun away down the passageway, whistling a tune to himself. Macro watched him depart.
‘Bastard!’ he growled, banging his fist against the wall in frustration.
‘Ah, Optio!’ a shrill voice cried from the shadows. ‘Getting used to your new surroundings, I see.’
Macro looked up as Murena descended a set of stone steps leading up to the galleries and approached the two men. The imperial aide stopped in front of the gladiators, a slight grin snaking across his thin lips. His eyes glowed like polished metal.
‘Cheer up, boy,’ he said to Pavo. ‘You’re about to join your father in the afterlife.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘What the hell do you want?’ Macro thundered at the aide.
‘Why, I’ve come to offer my wishes for your forthcoming bout, Optio,’ Murena replied in his arrogant voice. He paused before adding, ‘Or should I say … Hilarus.’
‘You’ll never get away with this!’
‘But we already have. Speaking of which, how do you like your new name? Hilarus has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’
Macro seethed behind his visor. A chorus of angry snarls emanated from further down the passageway, where the wild beasts were kept in cages ahead of their scheduled appearances in the arena. Macro and Pavo had passed the chambers earlier, and the stench of fear and shit filled the air.
‘Once the Emperor has finished addressing his loyal subjects,’ Murena continued, ‘the games will formally begin. Then you’re on. Of course, you are featuring in the beast fight, not the animal hunts. Cavorting after antelopes and chasing donkeys hardly befits two such talented swordsmen.’
‘This is a bloody insult!’ Macro thundered.
Murena laughed. Footsteps trampled towards the exit located on the other side of the arena as the acrobats, dwarves and gladiators retreated from public view.
He turned to Pavo. ‘As for you, gladiator — you will die. In this fight, or the next. Or the one after that. It makes no difference, I won’t make the same mistake twice. Your luck has run its course.’
‘You can’t kill me. Not in front of the mob. I’m a hero in their eyes. If they see me die at the hands of a wild beast, they’ll turn on Claudius.’
Murena chuckled harshly. ‘I don’t think so. You see, the mutiny in Capua has turned the mob against the gladiators. Nothing agitates them as much as fear of another Spartacus-style uprising.’ The aide looked casually at his manicured fingernails. ‘You were at Capua at the time of the mutiny, which marks you out for special treatment. Now every drunken fool in the Subura believes that you are a traitorous wretch. They’ll cheer your death.’
‘That’s a lie!’ Pavo bristled with rage. ‘The mutiny had nothing to do with me. The Thracians were to blame.’
‘Try explaining that to the mob. As far as they’re concerned, gladiators are all the same. Scum.’ There was a sinister gleam in the aide’s eyes as he went on. ‘Why else do you think we allowed you to fight under your own name? The mob has turned against you.’
Macro narrowed his eyes. ‘You bastard! You’ll pay for this.’
Murena laughed stolidly. ‘It’s a little late in the day for empty threats, Optio. Besides, should you ever dare to speak the truth about what happened in Capua, I’m afraid we will have to inform your superiors in the Second Legion that you participated in a beast fight. You don’t need me to remind you of the consequences should they learn of your scandalous participation in the gladiator trade.’
A shrill note pierced the air, signalling the start of the beast fight. Macro looked round briefly as a leopard clawed viciously at a wild bull. The two creatures were tied together by means of a chain wrapped around their torsos, forcing them to enter into a violent confrontation. The leopard clawed again. Now the bull scrabbled back to the arena wall, sounding ghastly bellows of pain as blood fountained out of a glistening wound on its flank.