‘That’s what they tell you in the field hospitals.’
The surgeon smiled sagely as he drew up a wooden bench next to the operating table. Taking a deep breath, Macro sat down, his stomach churning as the surgeon prepared his instruments.
The surgeon cocked an eyebrow. ‘I assume that you were once a soldier.’
Macro was about to remind him that he was a serving optio in the Second Legion when he remembered that he was still in the role of Hilarus. He bit his tongue and nodded.
‘I’ve seen plenty of ex-soldiers grace my infirmary down the years. Some of them fallen into debt. Others discharged from the legions.’
‘How long have you worked at the arena?’
The surgeon was lost in thought for a moment. ‘Twenty years, give or take.’
Macro pulled a face. ‘I wonder how men like you sleep.’
‘Quite soundly, as a matter of fact. You get used to all the corpses and dismembered limbs after a while. The endless screams, too. The only problem is where to stock all the blood.’
Macro frowned at the surgeon as the latter cheerfully continued. ‘Oh yes, gladiator blood is in big demand these days. Weddings, healing potions, ointments. Personally I think it’s down to Pavo. After he defeated that barbaric Celt, Britomaris, children started playing at gladiators in the street. And the women.’ The surgeon grinned at the soldier. ‘They’re practically fighting over which ones to shag.’
‘Rome’s changed a lot while I’ve been away,’ Macro remarked with a rueful shake of the head. He reflected for a moment before continuing. ‘You must be in for a busy day, what with all the beast fights.’
‘I doubt it. In my experience, the beasts make quick work of the fighters. You should consider yourself fortunate to have survived. It’s an extremely rare occurrence. Once the beast fighters are done, all that’s left are the comedy interludes, followed by a few relatively minor bouts this afternoon. Tomorrow, however, we are expecting to be very busy.’
‘Why? What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow is the day of the group fight.’
Macro looked up in puzzlement at the surgeon. He had heard of the relatively new notion of packs of doomed gladiators fighting one another until only one man was left standing. But he had never seen such a fight in the flesh.
‘Oh yes,’ the surgeon went on. ‘The group fight is very popular now, especially with the rising cost of the games. The men who compete naturally come very cheap, as they’re not professional gladiators but prisoners of war, murderers and thieves. Normally the sponsor would have to pay several thousand sestertii in compensation for a gladiator killed during the games. With the group fighters, it’s a fraction of that. But, of course, such men are not properly trained and lack the appropriate skill with the sword. You should see the way those idiots blindly hack at each other. The wounds on their bodies are frankly appalling. Limbs hanging off, mutilated genitalia, all sorts.’
An orderly removed Macro’s helmet, padding and leg greaves. He stared ahead as the surgeon tended to his wound, cleaning away the blood and sand with a damp rag before suturing the gash with a needle and twine. He was putting the finishing touches to the sutures when Murena appeared in the doorway.
‘At bloody last!’ Macro exclaimed. ‘I’ve fulfilled my side of the deal. Now get me out of here and back where I belong.’
The aide ignored Macro and waved at the surgeon.
‘Leave us,’ he ordered.
After tying the end of the stitches into a knot, the surgeon rose from the bench and hurried out of the room, wiping his bloodstained hands on his tunic. Murena waited for him to leave, then spun back to face Macro. He looked flustered.
‘How’s the injury?’ he asked.
Macro grunted. ‘I’ve had worse. You get plenty of injuries serving on the Rhine. Speaking of which, when do I get to leave Rome? I’ve had enough of this place. Too many crafty sorts for my liking.’
‘I presume you’re making a thinly veiled reference to me,’ Murena responded. ‘Subtlety is not one of your strong points, Macro. It requires a certain degree of wit to properly articulate.’
‘Articulate this. You’re a crooked shit, and the same goes for that snake Pallas. Now give me my travel authorisation. I’d best be on my way. If I stick around here much longer, I’ll end up punching you in the face.’
Murena pressed his lips together. ‘You can’t leave. Your services are still required here in Rome.’
Something snapped inside Macro. He shot to his feet and marched up to the aide, temporarily forgetting the dull ache in his thigh, his features dark with fury. ‘We had a deal. One fight, then I’d be free to go. You’d damn well better honour it, or else. I don’t give a shit how close you are to the Emperor.’
‘Calm down, Optio. Our deal stands, as soon as you have completed a final task — one of grave importance to the Empire.’
There was an anxious look on Murena’s face, and Macro was momentarily intrigued, wondering why he and Pallas were so eager to keep him in service. Then he came to his senses, recalling his disgraceful participation in the beast fight, and shook his head.
‘Forget it. I’m not interested. Rope some other poor bastard into your scheming.’
Murena moved to block his path as Macro headed for the doorway. The aide’s eyes were laced with menace and his lips twisted at the corners. ‘I’m afraid you can’t return to the Rhine until you have completed this task. Then you are free to go. You have my word.’
‘Your word is a load of crap. I trust you about as much as I trust a tart in the Subura.’
Murena stared back at Macro, his eyes twitching, nostrils flaring. He stepped aside from the door. ‘Have it your way then, Optio. You may leave of your own accord and return to the legion, though why you find that freezing wilderness on the Rhine so alluring is quite beyond me.’
‘Cold it may be, but at least it’s clear who your enemies are. You carry on butchering anyone who pisses off Claudius or whatever it is that scum like you do. I’m off.’
‘A final word of warning,’ Murena called out. ‘If you do decide to turn your back on me, I’ll see to it that word reaches your precious Second Legion about your activities in the arena.’
Macro slowly turned. A cold sensation travelled from his head to his toes. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Really? Then you underestimate me, Optio. Needless to say, once Vespasian learns of your secret, your service in the military will come to a swift end. Rome frowns on men disgracing themselves in the arena. If you’re lucky, some gang leader in the Subura might find you a place in his menagerie of thugs.’
Macro was torn. He desperately wanted to turn his back on Murena, but knowing that to do so would spell the end of his career in the Second Legion, and the loss of the hard-won respect of his comrades, appalled him.
‘Fine,’ he said finally through gritted teeth. ‘But this is the last thing I ever do for you and Pallas. After this, we’re finished. And if I never see another Greek for the rest of my life, it won’t be too soon.’
Murena looked relieved. ‘A wise choice, Optio. I knew you’d come round to our way of thinking eventually.’
He sat down at the wooden bench and planted his smooth hands on his knees, drumming his fingers as if deciding how best to proceed.
‘What do you know about the Liberators?’
Macro shrugged. ‘Sounds like the name of one of those fancy plays all the posh types go and watch.’
‘I thought as much. A common soldier such as yourself is interested only in getting outlandishly drunk on cheap wine and engaging in acts of mindless violence with his fellow creatures. The politics of Rome probably mean nothing to you.’
Macro glared at Murena, impatient at being detained by the freedman. ‘Get on with it.’
‘There are men in Rome, some of them quite senior officials in positions of power, who are desperate to eliminate Claudius and return Rome to a republic. It seems these individuals remain committed to their cause despite the fate suffered by others who harboured republican ambitions. I am talking of men like Scribonianus and, of course, Titus, Pavo’s father.’