‘Where’s my son?’ Pavo asked Murena.
‘Appius? At the imperial palace. He won’t live to see his third birthday.’
‘You mean-’
Murena nodded. ‘Your son is to be killed tomorrow.’
Pavo stepped back from the aide. His flesh crawled with abject terror. ‘He’s just a child … an innocent child.’
The aide waved a hand. ‘I’m simply honouring the promise I made to you in Capua. You foolishly declined our offer and now Appius will be flung to the beasts. This time tomorrow, the entire Valerius family will be dead.’
Pavo was aghast. Tears welled in his eyes. Macro felt a stab of pity for the gladiator. The punishment might be excessive, he mused, but anyone who threatened the Empire had to suffer the consequences. Punishing a child, though? That was a step too far. He turned back to the aide. Pavo was speechless, overwhelmed with shock.
‘What about our weapons?’ Macro asked.
‘Ah, yes, about that.’ Murena shifted awkwardly. ‘There has been a slight change to the details of your bout … You will be entering the arena unarmed.’
Macro’s features darkened behind his visor. ‘That’s not a beast fight! That’s how condemned criminals are sent to die. We’re beast fighters. We should be equipped with spears and swords.’
The aide twitched with discomfort. ‘And you shall have them, Optio. Just not at the start of your bout. I have seen to it that weapons will be distributed around the arena.’
‘But that’s not on!’ Macro protested. ‘The lion will cut us down before we have a chance to arm ourselves.’
Murena frowned. ‘I don’t appreciate your tone of voice. The mob is bored of ordinary gladiator fights. They want something new. As the sponsor, Claudius is under tremendous pressure to conjure up new methods of killing. Death being the only sure way of keeping the mob entertained. We must satisfy their barbarous urges if we are to hold a successful games and shore up support for Claudius. Otherwise all the hard work we have put into enhancing the Emperor’s reputation will be wasted.’
‘Tragic,’ Macro replied sharply.
The aide appeared not to hear the optio. ‘Besides, you’re both wearing a full complement of armour rather than the standard tunic worn by the beast fighters. That should afford you plenty of protection.’
A roar sounded in the arena as the leopard finally overwhelmed the bull.
‘This can’t be happening,’ Pavo murmured, his voice stricken with grief.
‘Oh, but it is. Good luck,’ Murena replied. A cynical grin creased his face. ‘Or not.’
Pavo stared despondently at Murena as the aide turned his back on the two men and headed up the stone steps. A moment later two manacled beast fighters were herded towards Macro and Pavo by a handful of Praetorian Guards. Both fighters wore similar heavy armour and helmets. An excited murmur rippled through the crowd as the announcer dashed off the formalities ahead of the next bout. The guards grabbed Pavo and Macro by an arm each and shoved them towards the gate with the other pair of beast fighters.
An attendant gazed out across the arena, watching attentively for the signal from the umpire to usher the men on to the sand. The beast fighters huddled tightly together while one of the Praetorians unlocked their chains under the watchful eye of his comrades.
‘That Greek snake,’ Macro spat, soothing his reddened wrists once his chains were released. ‘And this bloody armour doesn’t help. I can hardly move.’
‘I suspect there’s a good reason for that,’ Pavo responded sourly. ‘Murena wants to get us both killed.’
‘Bollocks!’ Macro was incredulous. ‘I’m a decorated soldier, lad, personally awarded my medal by Emperor Claudius himself. The pride of the Second Legion. They’ve got no reason to want to kill me.’
Pavo considered. ‘You’re the only other credible witness to what really happened at Capua. The only one who can prove we’re both innocent. Murena said so himself. Could they trust you to hold your tongue?’
Macro snorted and snapped his gaze ahead as the attendants opened the gate. Nerva clapped impatiently at Macro and Pavo and the other beast fighters.
‘We’ve got a big crowd today and every single one of ’em wants to see some blood. So give them what they want. And remember, the Emperor has paid good money to put on this show. Don’t let him down by getting killed right away.’
‘Perish the thought,’ Pavo muttered drily.
Macro gripped Pavo by the arm. ‘Do me a favour, lad.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If by some fucking miracle we make it out of here alive, don’t ever tell anyone I had to fight as a bloody gladiator. It’ll be the ruin of me.’
Pavo nodded. Then the guards shoved the fighters in the back, thrusting them through the open gates and into the arena.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The beast fighters stepped out on to the sand. Grey clouds pressed low in the sky, carrying the threat of rain. Pavo glanced at the scene in front of him. Exotic trees and shrubs had been planted around the arena to recreate the look of a forest during an animal hunt. Several sword points and spear tips glinted amid the foliage close to the gate at the opposite end of the arena. Attendants frantically cleared up the mess from the animal fight, four of them dragging out the disembowelled bull while another pair hurriedly tended to the blood splatters, one sprinkling fresh sand over the blood and the second spraying rosewater on top. Two animal handlers had snared the leopard in a net and now dragged the beast back to the opened gate at the opposite side of the arena. Pavo glimpsed the lion in a steel cage in the mouth of the tunnel, its eyes glowing menacingly in the gloom. Once the leopard had been removed from the arena, the guards slammed the gate shut.
The four beast fighters were ushered towards the middle of the arena by the Praetorians, who accompanied them to make sure they didn’t rush for the scattered weapons before the lion was released into the arena. Pavo winced with pain. The wound on his left shoulder had formed a pinkish scar and had failed to heal properly in the weeks after the mutiny in Capua. His shoulder felt stiff and heavy. A cool breeze fluttered over the arena. Macro stared at the galleries through the eyeholes on his helmet.
‘Bloody hell,’ he sputtered. ‘I’ve never seen this place so full.’
Pavo raised his eyes. The optio was right, he conceded. The official capacity of the arena stood at twenty thousand, but many more spectators appeared to have crammed into the galleries for the opening of the games. Each of the four levels was packed, and even the walkways leading to the various exits were heaving with people eager for a glimpse of the fighters. The fifth tier of spectators was by far the most tightly packed, crammed shoulder to shoulder on the crumbling terraces above the more spacious galleries below. The mob swigged from jugs of wine which they passed to one another, their cheeks red from the close heat of so many bodies crammed together. The air was filled with the din of the crowd as they chanted about the sexual persuasions of the gladiators, to the mild irritation of the more privileged citizens seated on the lower tiers. The lowest was filled with magistrates and imperial high priests, with a parapet separating the spectators from the arena floor.
Above the gallery was the imperial box. Pavo spotted the Emperor seated in his ornately decorated chair, flanked by his German bodyguards, his distinctive purple toga draped across his frail shoulders. Pallas stood to the right of the Emperor and gazed down, grinning smugly. Murena stood at his side. He was frowning at the row of senators seated in the gallery above the imperial box. Pavo followed the direction of his gaze. One of the seats was unoccupied, he noticed. He spied the object of Murena’s irritation at the entrance to the gallery. A grey-haired figure strode gracefully towards the empty seat, his piercing gaze fixed ahead, seemingly oblivious of his fellow spectators, the stripes on his fine tunic distinguishing him as a senator. His companions stood up obediently to make way for him, and as he took up his seat, he turned and stared down at Pavo. There was a glint in his eyes that stayed with the young gladiator.