Panic gripped Pavo as Amadocus growled and pushed the dagger tip towards his throat. He felt his muscles weaken from the weight of his rival pressing down on him. A great pressure built up in his chest and his ribcage throbbed with pain. Now the dagger tip pricked his flesh. Grief coursed through Pavo’s veins at the fate of his son.
Swallowing hard, he summoned a final reserve of strength. The intense training under Macro flooded back to him. He pushed out his arms in an explosive thrust and shoved the dagger up and away from his neck. Amadocus briefly looked startled, unable to comprehend how the once slender recruit now possessed the raw strength and power to match him. Clenching his jaw tightly, Pavo locked his arm muscles and forced the dagger up inch by inch until the tip hovered a hair’s breadth from Amadocus.
‘You can’t kill me! I’m the rightful champion, not you!’
‘Say hello to Spartacus in the afterlife.’
The Thracian’s eyes widened as Pavo pushed up with one last defiant effort and the dagger plunged into his throat, punching out of the nape of his neck, immediately reducing his grunt to a gurgle. A slight tinge of regret struck Pavo at the moment of his foe’s death. Despite being sworn enemies, he retained a degree of respect for Amadocus. His rival had proved himself a fearless warrior, making up in sheer tenacity and fighting spirit what he lacked in skill. He watched as the rage in the Thracian’s eyes dimmed and his mouth slackened, blood trickling from the corners of his lips. Then he rolled Amadocus aside.
A stunned silence gripped the arena, as if the spectators were unsure how to greet the result of the bout. Pavo prepared for another torrent of vitriol from the mob. Instead, loud cheers broke the silence.
‘He’s defeated Amadocus!’ a spectator roared.
‘Fuck the Thracian! Up with Pavo!’ another shouted.
The applause spread through the galleries until every spectator was chanting his name. Pavo was filled with contempt at the fickle nature of the mob. He stared down at Amadocus, blinking blood out of his eyes, barely able to believe that he’d triumphed. He’d survived the beast fights and now the group fight — an achievement few other gladiators could lay claim to. At the end of his previous bouts he had felt uncomfortable about the fawning adulation of the mob, but now, having defeated Amadocus, he felt he richly deserved their praise. He reflected for a moment on his long journey from a scrawny recruit in Paestum to one of the titans of the arena in Rome.
Now there was only one thing left for him to do.
His sword felt heavy in his weary grip. He tossed it aside. He scanned the galleries, looking for Lanatus. There was no sign of him in the row of senators gazing down at the bloodied sand. By now Appius would have been removed from the imperial household and escorted towards Ostia and a new life with Bucco. Pavo experienced a pang of sadness at the thought that he would never see his son again. Strange, but now he was so close to completing his mission and killing Claudius, he was suddenly seized by doubt. He wondered whether he could trust Lanatus to fulfil his end of the deal.
He quickly dismissed the thought. He was too close to give up now. The life of his son depended upon him striking down the Emperor.
The sound of the gate creaking open broke his daze. Pavo lifted his gaze in the direction of the eastern gate and slowly scanned the scene in front of him. Utter carnage confronted the young gladiator. A tangle of limbs and torsos. Shafts of sunlight pierced the grey clouds, warming the cold sand, glimmering over the corpses and the bloodied sword points. The powdered chalk line was scarcely visible amid the debris of battle. The stench of blood choked the air, mingling with sweat and the piss and shit of evacuated bowels. Pavo stood still, numb with shock at how much blood had been spilled in the name of Emperor Claudius.
‘Utter madness,’ he muttered to himself.
He shook his head bitterly. Once more he found himself disgusted with the mob. They had revelled in the group fight. Undoubtedly their cheers would lead to many similar events in forthcoming spectacles. He wondered where it would all end.
Nerva stepped out of the gate and trudged towards Pavo. He looked upset as he picked his way around the mass of dead gladiators. Attendants and guards followed him out of the passageway. The attendants began prising the swords and shields from deadened grips while the guards checked for any signs of life among the bodies, prodding at them with the tips of their swords. They moved swiftly from one slumped gladiator to the next. Behind them the two German fighters were piled on top of one another on a wooden cart.
‘Look at this mess,’ Nerva grumbled. He kicked away a severed hand in dismay. ‘It’ll take us bloody ages to clean this lot up.’
‘What will happen to them?’ Pavo asked softly.
‘These worthless scum? Slung into a grave pit, most of ’em. The surgeon tries to save as much blood from these corpses as possible. To sell on, of course. What do you care?’
Pavo pointed to Amadocus. A large puddle of blood had formed under the Thracian. ‘I want my winnings to pay for his funeral. At the very least he deserves a fitting memorial stone.’
Nerva arched an eyebrow at Pavo, sighing. ‘Gladiators! You lot never cease to surprise me. Cutting each other to pieces one moment and buying each other gravestones the next. I’ll never understand it.’
That’s because you’ve never had to face raw steel in front of a baying mob, Pavo thought to himself, resisting the temptation to add the official to the sprawl of corpses in the arena. Nerva cast an eye over the gladiator and sucked his gums.
‘You’ll have to get that cleaned up.’ He pointed to Pavo’s chest wound.
Pavo lowered his gaze. The cut was not deep, but blood from the wound was streaming down his front. There was no pain. His mind was still racing with thoughts of victory, and the dangerous task that lay ahead of him.
Nerva nodded at the eastern gate. ‘Make it quick. The Emperor is waiting.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A strange calm settled over Pavo as he paced down the corridor. The infirmary was overflowing with casualties and Nerva ushered him into an adjacent room sparsely furnished with stretchers and cots where the wounded could recuperate. Through the crumbling walls Pavo heard the anguished cries of stricken gladiators going under the surgeon’s scalpel. The flesh wounds on his arm and chest now throbbed painfully, but his mind was focused elsewhere. He closed his eyes and rehearsed his imminent attempt on the Emperor’s life. When he opened his eyes again he saw a spindly figure standing in the doorway. The deep lines of his face were illuminated by the soft twinkle of the oil lamps in the passageway.
‘Ah, gladiator! Congratulations on your victory!’ Lanatus announced grandly as he approached. There was a spring in the senator’s step and he was hardly able to contain his glee. ‘How refreshing it is to see a noble Roman emerge victorious in a gladiator bout. Not like those aristocratic wastrels we saw yesterday, chopping up hares and ostriches to massage their egos.’
Pavo looked blankly at the senator. ‘Where’s Appius?’
Lanatus glanced nervously around the room at the faces of the other wounded gladiators. He leaned forward and whispered into Pavo’s ear. ‘For gods’ sakes, man, keep your voice down! If anyone hears us, we’re done for. We can’t afford to slip up. Not now. The fate of Rome depends on us.’
‘For you, perhaps.’ Pavo wore a fierce expression. ‘I only care about my son. We had a deal.’
‘And it will be honoured,’ whispered Lanatus, composing his features. ‘You should be grateful for this opportunity, Pavo. You’re about to go down in history as the man who ended the life of a dictator and restored Rome to its true greatness. I’m somewhat envious of you, if you must know.’