‘Kill Claudius yourself, then.’
The senator looked coldly at Pavo, his lips clamped tightly shut.
‘My son,’ said Pavo.
‘The boy is safe.’
‘And on his way to Ostia?’
‘Not yet,’ Lanatus responded coolly, keeping his voice low. ‘Only once you fulfil your side of the deal. Kill the Emperor, then I’ll send Appius on his way with that friend of yours, Bucco.’
Pavo glared at the senator. ‘I’m not doing anything until Appius is safe.’
‘I will agree to no such thing,’ Lanatus hissed. ‘The important thing is your son is out of the Emperor’s clutches. He’s in a secure place. And I’ll honour my word, Pavo, despite your insinuation to the contrary. Appius will be removed from Rome the moment you spill the Emperor’s blood.’
A pair of orderlies entered the room bearing a stretcher. Pavo dimly recognised the wounded gladiator from the group fight. A deep gash was visible on the side of his stomach, glistening bright red like a pair of puckered lips. The wound looked fatal. The gladiator was delirious. Lanatus waited for the orderlies to lay down the stretcher in the corner of the room and roll the gladiator into one of the empty cots. Once they had exited, he turned back to Pavo.
‘You are in no position to argue with me. Either you kill the Emperor and Appius lives, or else you collect your reward and the boy dies.’
Pavo grimaced. Lanatus left him with no real choice. He gave a grudging nod. The senator sighed heavily through his nostrils.
‘Good! Smile, Pavo. You’re about to become the saviour of Rome.’ The flicker of the oil lamps illuminated his grey eyes as he reached under his tunic and discreetly removed a small dagger, which he grasped tightly in his right hand, keeping it hidden from view. His caution was unnecessary. The other men in the room were writhing in agony from their wounds. No one paid him any attention as he slipped the weapon to Pavo. The gladiator glanced at the dagger, the enormity of what he was about to do hitting him like a fist. He hurriedly tucked the weapon into the folds of his loincloth, making sure no one saw him. At that instant two guards entered the room. Lanatus quickly took a step back from Pavo and cleared his throat.
‘I’ve kept you far too long, my friend. You must be keen to collect your prize from the Emperor.’ His eyes glowered as he added, ‘Be sure to give his imperial majesty my best regards.’
With a quick smile of encouragement he turned on the spot and departed. The guards brushed past him, each grabbing Pavo by an arm and dragging him out of the room. They roughly shoved him down the passageway, passing several entrances to the galleries before arriving at a set of marble steps. The walls here were richly decorated with a stucco relief depicting the Emperor giving the sign of mercy to a vanquished gladiator. Four Praetorian Guards stood either side of the steps, and a familiar face was waiting to escort Pavo up to the imperial box.
‘Macro!’ Pavo sputtered.
‘Lad,’ Macro responded gruffly. ‘Still in one piece, I see.’
‘Barely.’
The optio grunted. ‘Not a bad performance. A bit of work needed on your movement, and some of your thrusting attacks were frankly pathetic. But overall, you did well.’ His expression softened as he spoke, and Pavo felt his chest swell with pride. A few words of modest praise from his former mentor counted for more than the acclaim of the mob. He cocked his head at Macro.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘And why are you dressed like that?’
‘Blame that bloody Greek snake,’ Macro snapped gruffly as he led Pavo up the marble steps. ‘Murena has got me posing as one of his clerks. I’ve been suffocating inside this fucking tunic all morning.’
‘But what for? I thought you were heading back to the Rhine?’
‘Me too,’ Macro growled. ‘And I would’ve left Rome by now if it hadn’t been for some bastards plotting against Claudius.’
‘Plotting to do what, exactly?’ Pavo said, feigning ignorance.
‘To assassinate him,’ Macro answered stonily. ‘Pallas and Murena reckon some traitor is planning to cut down the Emperor today, right here at the games.’ He squinted at the darkening clouds as they neared the imperial box. ‘If they are planning on giving Claudius the chop, then they’re leaving it late. There’s only a handful of bouts to go.’
Pavo felt the burning pain in his arm, the searing graze across his chest.
‘Tell you what,’ Macro added in a stern voice. ‘When the assassin reveals himself, he’s in a world of shit. We’ve got orders to take him to the imperial palace for questioning. With luck he’ll give up a few names before the torturers have finished with him.’
Pavo shuddered at the thought. The doubts swelling in his mind grew more insistent as he reached the top of the steps. Killing Claudius would not bring him peace, he realised. He would only achieve that with revenge over Hermes. But a voice in his head countered that he had no choice in the matter. Not if he wanted to save Appius.
‘I’ve come too far now,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘What was that, lad?’
Pavo quickly lowered his head. ‘Nothing.’
Shaking his own head, Macro ushered Pavo into the imperial box. Murena was waiting impatiently for them, his brow creased into a heavy frown.
‘Ah, Pavo! Come to collect your reward, I see.’ Murena lowered his voice. ‘Now remember, his imperial majesty has a stutter and a tendency to slobber at the mouth when he’s excited. Draw attention to neither.’
Pavo nodded. The smell of grilled meat tickled his nostrils and he noticed several imperial slaves gathered at the sides of the box bearing jugs of wine and trays of pork and honeyed figs, which members of the imperial household picked at. Across from the box he could see the arena floor below. Orderlies were still cleaning up the carnage from the group fight, raking the bloodied sand and scooping up discarded entrails. Pallas stood to the side of Claudius, who was seated in his ornate chair and flanked by a handful of clerks, with his German bodyguards standing guard at the sides of the box.
Twenty thousand spectators craned their necks to the imperial box to catch a glimpse of Claudius greeting the victorious gladiator. Pavo felt the sweat on his back freeze as the Emperor slowly rose from his chair and approached him. Pallas clicked his fingers at a nearby servant, who carried over a silver tray piled high with coins and a palm branch, the traditional gifts presented to the winner of a gladiatorial bout. Pavo took in a sharp draw of breath as he carefully slid his right hand down towards his loincloth. There was no going back now. He spotted Macro standing to one side, his eyes narrowed at the surrounding galleries, unaware that the assassin was standing a short distance from him.
Now Claudius stopped in front of Pavo. He wrinkled his nose at the stench of sweat and blood coming off the gladiator. Murena folded his hands behind his back. There was a gloating look in his eyes. Pavo could hear the blood rushing in his ears as he felt for the cold tip of the dagger.
Then Claudius opened his arms in joy and flashed a broad grin at Pavo. ‘W-w-what a s-s-show!’ he stammered. ‘That was a remarkable p-p-performance out there, y-y-young man!’
Pavo was momentarily taken aback by the Emperor’s good mood. He’d expected Claudius to be enraged by his victory. He noticed that the Emperor’s response prompted a puzzled reaction from Murena, too. At the same moment the servant presented the silver tray to the Emperor, so that he could personally hand Pavo his prize money and palm branch. The young gladiator gritted his teeth as his fingers closed round the handle of the dagger.
The Emperor waved the servant away. ‘Coins and p-p-palms are no fitting reward for a t-t-true champion!’ he declared to Pavo. His eyes suddenly lit up and he clapped his hands. ‘You d-deserve a proper reward. And I have just the thing. Your son shall be s-s-spared!’
Pavo froze with his fingers resting on the dagger.
‘My son?’ he asked numbly. His lips were cold. He was in a state of complete shock. ‘You mean he’s still … at the palace?’