The sun had brought some warmth to the street outside. Brothel touts and bookmakers loitered around the arcade, scavenging for business from the spectators disgorging from the numerous exits. Pavo noticed a gaunt-faced woman curled up at the side of the arcade with her infant child. The baby wailed, its screams piercing the air as the mother begged Pavo to spare a few coins. Anguish swept through him and his mind wandered back to thoughts of his own child, followed by an immediate sense of relief.
‘Soon Appius will be free,’ he reminded himself, blood pounding between his temples. ‘Even if I fail to beat Hermes, my victories haven’t been in vain. I saved my son.’
‘Maybe. Then again, maybe not.’
‘The Emperor gave his word — Appius has been spared.’
‘You’d do well not to trust anything he says,’ Macro responded flatly. ‘Especially with those Greeks persuading him to do as they say. Back-stabbers in the imperial household are like whores in the Subura. Bloody everywhere.’
Pavo glared tetchily at his mentor. Just then a blunt force thumped him in the small of his back and sent him crashing to the ground. He landed in the filth that covered every inch of the street.
‘Out of the way, scum,’ a gruff voice shouted. ‘Make way for Hermes!’
Pavo glanced up and saw a burly man with mean eyes like the pointed tips of a sword elbowing his way past, kicking and punching a path through the crowd. The champion of Rome followed closely behind as the burly man ahead of him fended off the enthusiastic supporters eager to catch a glimpse of their hero. One of them pointed at Pavo.
‘Look!’ he exclaimed noisily. ‘It’s him … Pavo!’
‘We saw him at the group fight!’ the man next to the supporter shouted.
Pavo stood up, wiping the palms of his filthy hands on his loincloth as Hermes and his companion stopped in their tracks. Both men slowly turned to face him. The burly man scowled at Macro while Hermes, his helmet removed after his fight, glowered at Pavo. A prominent scar was visible on his upper lip which twisted his expression into a vicious snarl. His eyes burned brightly at Pavo, as if a fire was raging in their sockets. The cries and shrieks of the crowd around the champion of Rome abruptly faded and a tense silence settled over the street as hundreds of spectators simultaneously turned towards the confrontation. Hermes bared his teeth at his future opponent. Pavo noticed splashes of blood across his wide chest from his fight against Criton.
‘Well, well,’ he hissed in a grating voice. ‘Look who it is. The traitor’s son … and the next man to die by my sword.’
Pavo stood his ground but swallowed nervously as Hermes marched towards him. Every inch of the champion’s body rippled with muscle. He was aware of Macro standing by his side. The expression on his face was hard and menacing.
‘I’m told you asked to fight me instead of accepting your freedom,’ Hermes demanded. ‘Is it true?’
Pavo flushed angrily. He nodded. ‘I’ve wanted to fight you for a long time. Since the day you killed my father, Titus.’
‘Titus?’ Hermes repeated, cocking an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I remember the man well. You know what else I remember? How that old fool squealed like a baby as I went to cut his fucking head off.’
Rage coursed through Pavo’s veins as Hermes burst into laughter. The burly man at his side laughed too. Some of the spectators joined in. Hermes cracked his knuckles.
‘I had the privilege of honouring the Emperor’s wishes and killing a traitorous general,’ he added menacingly. The laughter quickly died out. ‘Now I get to carve up his son in the same arena. Killing you will be a pleasure. Truly, the gods are generous.’
Pavo struggled to contain his rage. ‘My father was a good man.’
Hermes laughed cruelly. ‘Titus was a treacherous cunt. He deserved to die. As do you, for taking the foolish decision to fight me. A mistake that I will make you pay for in blood, rich boy.’
He took a step closer to Pavo. The two men stood face to face. Pavo could smell the rank breath and the foul sweat coming off his father’s killer. Hermes stared at his opponent. Pavo held his gaze, ignoring the anxiety pulsing in his throat. The crowd pressed around the two gladiators.
Pavo balled his hands into fists. Macro darted towards him and clamped a hand round his wrist. ‘Save it, lad,’ he growled. ‘Take out your anger on the training ground.’
Hermes looked amused. ‘Who is this?’
Macro stepped forward. ‘Lucius Cornelius Macro, optio of the Second Legion.’
Hermes stifled a laugh in his throat. ‘You’re being trained by a soldier from the legions?’ He slapped his thigh and shared a chuckle with his companion.
‘Macro was personally decorated by Emperor Claudius,’ Pavo replied through gritted teeth.
The champion turned to Macro. ‘What did you do, bribe a few high-ranking officials?’
Macro hardened his gaze. ‘I earned it in blood. Chopped up a load of angry Germans and led an expedition back across the River Rhine after our centurion was killed in a raid.’
Hermes paused for a moment, narrowing his eyes at Macro. Then he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘Fuck me, a proper Roman hero.’ He turned to the burly man at his side and smiled wanly. ‘Did you hear that, Cursor?’
His companion laughed and shook his head. Hermes returned his gaze to Pavo.
‘This is why you’re going to lose, traitor. You have some grizzled veteran of the legions to mentor you, whereas I have the best gladiator trainer in the empire.’ He gestured to the burly man. ‘Gaius Calpurnius Cursor.’
Pavo frowned. He recalled the name from a distant gladiator fight. ‘The former champion who defeated Tetraites, the Butcher of Bithynia?’
Hermes nodded triumphantly. ‘The same. With his knowledge and my skill, I’m going to crush you.’ He glanced at Macro, a menacing gleam twinkling in his eye. ‘Perhaps you would care to join Pavo and his father in the afterlife, soldier.’
Macro stepped towards Hermes, bristling with anger. ‘I don’t have to listen to scum like you.’ He tipped his head in the direction of the crowd. ‘Now piss off back to whatever hole you and that fat trainer of yours crawled out of.’
Cursor thrust himself forward and jabbed a finger at Macro. ‘You can’t talk to Hermes like that. He’s the champion of Rome and a freedman. Show him the proper respect.’
‘Champion my arse,’ Macro hissed. Cursor glowered at him with brutal intent. ‘Hermes is a six-foot-tall sack of shit who cuts down anyone the Emperor sticks in front of him for a few cheap laughs from the mob. Freedman or not, he’s lower than a fucking slave. By the look of him, I’d say his trainer is even lower.’
Cursor drew a lungful of air and launched himself at Macro. At the same time, Hermes dropped his shoulder to unleash a punch at Pavo. Reading the move, the young gladiator leaped at the champion, half mad with rage, filled with a manic desire to kill the man here on the street in full view of his adoring fans. But Hermes thrust out his arms and grabbed hold of him, lifting him off his feet. The champion let out a deep explosive grunt and hurled Pavo into a nearby market stall. A jarring pain shuddered down his spine as he fell on top of a row of trinkets. Statuettes and cheap bracelets scattered across the flagstones. The crowd parted around the two gladiators with shrill cries of alarm. Pavo struggled to rise from the shattered ruins of the stall, but Hermes was on him in a flash, kicking him in the side of his torso. Hot pain flared across his ribs.
‘Get away from him!’ Macro thundered as he threw off Cursor and rushed towards Hermes, tackling him to the ground with a savage roar. Temporarily stunned by the attack, Hermes writhed underneath the weight of the stocky soldier. At the same time Pavo scrambled clear of the debris and put a hand to his head, feeling something hot and sticky matting his hair. He pulled away his hand and saw blood smearing his palm. He looked up just in time to see Cursor charging at Macro, his eyes wide with hatred.