‘Agreed.’ Murena nodded. ‘This is your big chance to impress the Emperor. After the mutiny in Capua, he was inclined to have you crucified for carelessly destroying his personal property. You’re highly fortunate that he has decided to place his faith in you.’
Macro was about to protest. But he reminded himself that the sooner he completed his task, the sooner he could return to the legion. He swallowed, pushing his rising anger into the pit of his stomach. ‘When do I start?’
‘Straight away.’ The aide hesitated and stared intently at Macro. ‘There is one more thing. It’s vital that your presence around the Emperor is discreet. A Roman soldier by the Emperor’s side might dissuade the assassin. Thankfully, I have the perfect cover for you.’
‘A guard?’ Macro asked.
Murena shook his head. ‘As I mentioned, the guards are being kept at a safe distance from Claudius. No, you will pass yourself off as a freedman clerk working for me.’
‘A bloody freedman!’
‘It’s the only convenient way of getting you close to the Emperor without arousing suspicion.’ Murena narrowed his gaze. ‘If you prefer, you can rejoin the beast fights.’
Macro clenched his jaw, bristling at the thought of having to endure further disgrace in the arena. His return to the Second Legion seemed more distant than ever.
Murena patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. One of the other clerks will be along shortly to furnish you with the appropriate outfit. If you need me, I’ll be in the imperial box.’
He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway and turned back to Macro, a cold look in his eyes.
‘Don’t let us down,’ he warned. ‘I’m relying on you to help me crush the Liberators once and for all. They may believe that by removing Claudius they’ll usher in a brave new era of republicanism. They couldn’t be more wrong. It is known that the legates of several of the legions are already positioning themselves to seize the throne should Claudius die. If the Liberators succeed, there won’t be peace, but a bloodthirsty struggle for power.’
‘Politicians stabbing each other in the back and seizing what they can?’ Macro couldn’t help sneering. ‘If you ask me, that sounds exactly how things are now.’
Murena looked sternly at him. ‘You may find the present situation in Rome disagreeable, but I assure you it would be far worse without the Emperor to maintain the status quo. If Claudius falls, Rome will descend into chaos.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Pavo peered through the small barred window at the far end of the antechamber, gazing out across the sand. Fear made him tremble and feel sick as the moment of his bout against the Atlas bear drew closer. He was still exhausted from his efforts in defeating the lion, worsening his sense of dread at the impending confrontation. Even if he was fully fit, he stood little chance against a savage bear. But with tired limbs and sapped strength, he grimly acknowledged that his situation was hopeless.
At least a dozen beast fighters were crowded into the antechamber situated a short distance from the passageway where Macro and Pavo had first entered the Statilius Taurus amphitheatre earlier that morning. A cloud of tension hung over them as they waited for their names to be called. Some passed the time by dictating their paltry wills to an official from the gladiator guild. Those with modest savings pressed coins into the hands of an opportunistic gravedigger in exchange for a burial plot beyond the city walls, rather than the usual grave pit that awaited most gladiators. The anxiety proved too much for one fighter, who retched on to the floor. The sour tang of vomit mingled with the fetid aroma from the makeshift latrine, simply a bucket in one corner of the pen filled to the brim with faeces and urine.
Fighting the urge to puke, Pavo focused on the animal hunt taking place on the arena floor. A fighter dressed in a tunic and armed with a short sword emerged from the tunnel, the attendants having already cleared away the lion and the dead beast fighter, along with the trees and vegetation. The man wasn’t wearing a helmet. He turned to wave to the mob. Pavo caught a glimpse of his face and shook with disbelief.
The announcer read out the name of the animal hunter, but Pavo already knew it well enough — Quintus Marcius Atellus. Pavo and Atellus had been childhood friends; they had studied Greek together and had played games in the streets. Atellus was the son of a wealthy landowner and, Pavo recalled, something of a spoilt brat, with his father keen to indulge his every whim.
Out in the arena there was a chorus of terrified squeals as a drove of hares and several ostriches were released on to the sand. Atellus laughed wildly, quickly cornering an ostrich. He plunged his sword into the panicked bird. Blood squirted out of its long neck and splattered his tunic. The ostrich flapped its wings erratically, shrieking in agony. Atellus then chopped up some hares with his sword as boos rang out across the arena.
‘Why is Atellus competing in the games, I wonder?’ Pavo mused.
‘What did you say, Roman?’ Amadocus barked at him.
Pavo half turned to the Thracian. ‘Nothing.’
‘Look at me when I’m talking to you!’
Pavo turned round. Amadocus stood in front of him with his armour removed, and Pavo now saw the full extent of his earlier injuries. A ragged gash ran diagonally down his chest and a wound to his left leg forced him to move with a slight limp.
‘Not so high and mighty now, are you, rich boy?’ Amadocus hissed, jabbing a finger at Pavo. ‘This is what being a gladiator is all about. Rotting in a cell while you Romans walk around thinking your shit smells better than everyone else’s. Now I’m going to make you suffer.’
An acute feeling of bitterness stung Pavo as he spoke. ‘You have a short memory, Thracian. I saved you from the lion.’
Amadocus balled his callused hands into fists. ‘And why the hell was I fighting against a wild beast in the first place? Because you came along and took my place in the arena against Britomaris. It should’ve been me matched against that barbarian. I would’ve won, too. I’d be the toast of Rome by now. Not sitting on my arse in this pit, waiting to die.’
‘That had nothing to do with me. Blame those damned Greek freedmen of Claudius’s.’
‘I’m a true champion!’ Amadocus thumped his fist against his chest. His facial muscles shook with rage, his thick accent mangling each word of Latin. ‘I waited years for a chance to prove myself against the best in the arena and be numbered among the greats, slogging it out in the provinces, fighting the scum of the earth and patiently biding my time, just like the lanista instructed me to. Then you showed up and in a matter of weeks you’re the people’s champion. You bastard!’
Pavo pulled a sour face at his Thracian rival. ‘The sword doesn’t lie. You had your chances in the arena, you just didn’t take them. The only difference between me and you is that I’m better with a sword and shield. Anyway, none of this matters. We’re both about to be sent out to be slaughtered.’
The Thracian exploded with rage and lunged at Pavo. The gladiator backed away, trying to avoid being drawn into a fight, wanting to preserve his remaining strength for the beast fight. But Amadocus surged towards him. His outstretched hands grabbed Pavo by the neck and shoved him against the wall. A clamour erupted in the antechamber as some of the other beast fighters formed a semicircle around the men, fists pumping, cheering them on. The Thracian delivered a swift fist to the gladiator’s groin. Pavo doubled up in agony and Amadocus launched a boot at his side and sent him crashing into the huddle of beast fighters. The fighters shuffled frantically away from the scrap as Amadocus hurled himself at the prone gladiator, pressing down on his opponent’s arms with his knees, pinning Pavo to the ground.
‘Roman scum! I’ll make you pay!’