Pavo froze. His stomach clenched anxiously. ‘Appius …’ He looked frantically up and down the tunnel. ‘Where is he? Did you bring him with you? I must see my son before I face Hermes. I want to say goodbye to him, in case …’ He clenched his jaw, overcome with a bitter grief.
Bucco smiled weakly at his comrade. ‘I’ve been under strict orders not to bring him to you since I took him in from the palace. The aide, Murena, didn’t want to interfere with your training sessions. I had no choice but to agree.’
Pavo frowned. ‘Then where is he?’
‘With my wife, Clodia, at our lodgings in the Subura. I sent for my family after I decided to stay on in Rome and try my hand at acting.’ Bucco lowered his head. ‘Your son can speak now,’ he added quietly. ‘He has been saying a few words.’
An almost unbearable grief seized Pavo just then. He clenched his fists, his heart beating furiously inside his chest. There and then he vowed to defeat Hermes. He would not lose to his nemesis. The welfare of his son hinged on his winning the fight and saving the reputation of the Valerian family name. He clamped his eyes shut and mouthed a silent prayer to the gods to protect his son. He opened them when Macro placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
‘It’s time, lad.’
Pavo glanced at the soldier and nodded. Then he quickly turned to Bucco.
‘Can you promise me something?’
‘Name it.’
Pavo paused for a moment. He glanced away from Bucco towards the entrance to the arena and choked back tears. Lips trembling, he took a deep breath and turned back to his comrade. ‘If I die today, Appius is the last in the line of the Valerians. There is no other family to look after my son. Should I fall, raise Appius for me.’
Bucco forced a smile. ‘I shall,’ he promised.
Pavo nodded softly. ‘Thank you, Bucco.’
‘May the gods be with you, my friend.’
Pavo took a deep breath as the bucina players blared notes on their bass instruments and the feverish roar of the crowd filled the arena. Macro gave him a final pat on the back and a moment later a pair of officials thrust the young man down the short entrance tunnel. The ground shook underfoot with the rumbling anticipation of the crowd. Pavo felt a sick feeling in his guts. His armour weighed down heavily on him and his sweat flowed freely. He mopped his brow as he arrived at the entrance and took one last look over his shoulder. Macro nodded at him with a look of steely determination. Bucco stood by his shoulder and smiled faintly, his dim eyes filling with tears. Facing forward, Pavo grimly accepted his shield from one of the attendants. An image of Nemesis had been painted on the front. He smiled wryly. How appropriate, he thought. Then the second attendant slipped the full-face helmet over his head, dramatically reducing his field of vision.
Pavo swallowed hard. His neck muscles instinctively tensed. His breathing rasped inside the helmet as he sucked in cool air through the small airholes. The blood rushed in his head and he waited for the attendant to give the signal.
Then he marched into the arena to face his sworn enemy.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Grey clouds pressed heavily in the sky like grain sacks fit to burst at the seams as Pavo stepped out on to the sand. The visor on his helmet severely restricted his line of sight, cutting off his peripheral vision and forcing him to concentrate on the scene directly in front of him. As a consequence he could not see the ground at his feet and he shuffled tentatively at first as he approached the chalk line that marked the wide circle in the centre of the arena within which the gladiators were required to remain during their bout. This was a regular feature of fights to the death, forcing the competitors to remain in close proximity to each other instead of retreating to the sides of the square arena.
As he neared the circle Pavo lifted his gaze to the hastily constructed imperial box situated on the northern stand. The Emperor sat at the front, flanked by his German bodyguards and his entourage of imperial lackeys. The box was distinctly less impressive than the ornate structure at the Statilius Taurus arena, Pavo decided, and shorn of its elegance Claudius cut a rather sad and pathetic figure, smacking his lips as he sat in his chair, giddy with excitement at the prospect of the fight. A violent pressure pulsed behind Pavo’s eyes as he spotted Pallas and Murena to the left of the Emperor. To his right stood a middle-aged man with crow’s feet around his eyes, flashing a practised smile at Claudius. Pavo dimly recognised him.
‘That must be Narcissus,’ he muttered to himself.
He lowered his eyes to the mouth of the tunnel on the opposite side of the arena as two attendants filed out and approached the centre circle bearing the weapons to be used for the fight. As they reached it, the umpire pricked his thumb against the tips of the two swords in turn. Nodding to himself, he raised his thumb to the Emperor, confirming the weapons’ sharpness and drawing a crescendo of cheers from the mob. Pavo drew close to the umpire. A sick feeling gnawed at his guts as he realised he was standing on the same spot where his father’s severed head had been displayed to the mob. The thought filled him with anguish and anger.
A moment later Hermes stormed out of the same tunnel through which the attendants had emerged, into a deafening wall of noise. A section of the crowd rose to its feet, vocally clamouring for their hero to tear his opponent limb from limb.
‘There’s only one Hermes!’ his fans shouted, roaring themselves hoarse. ‘Only one Hermes!’
The very ground trembled as Hermes marched towards the circle. He was wearing the same body armour as Pavo, although his shield carried his signature image of Cerberus and his champion’s belt was wrapped round his waist above his loincloth. Pavo felt the sweat on his back turn cold with fear as Hermes approached him. The colossus from Rhodes appeared even more muscular than he remembered. His biceps were solid and smoothly curved, as if fashioned from marble. The veins on his forearms were like cords of rope. He paraded to the crowd, bowing to all four grandstands in turn. Pavo felt his heart briefly soar as he heard a number of spectators jeer Hermes and cheer his own name.
‘Pavo’s going to cut your head off!’ a voice bellowed clearly above the din.
Staring out of the grille that covered his face, Pavo glanced back past his shoulder and spied Macro looking on from the mouth of the tunnel. Bucco stood next to the soldier. Pavo drew strength from Macro’s presence. His gruff honesty and stubborn dedication to the task at hand put many of Pavo’s high-born friends to shame, and he had learned more from the soldier in a few months under his wing than the years spent studying the classics and observing the great debates in the Senate. He was sure that Macro would make a fine centurion one day.
The umpire gestured for both fighters to lean in as he explained the rules of the bout.
‘Now listen,’ he barked so that both gladiators could hear him above the noise of the crowd. ‘The rules are simple. It’s a fight to the death, which means there’s no mercy from the Emperor today. If neither of you is able to kill your opponent outright, I’ll call an end to the contest and the judges will declare a winner.’
He pointed to three magistrates wearing fine togas and seated on the bottom row along the northern stand, below the podium. Each gripped a wax tablet and a stylus, poised to make a mark whenever one of the participants landed a clear blow on his opponent. Pavo turned back to the umpire as he went on.
‘The loser must accept the judges’ decision with good grace. Whoever loses, I expect you to die like a true Roman. I want a fair fight, and that means no tugging at each other’s armour, no chucking sand and no stepping outside the chalk line. If you step over the line, you forfeit the match — and your life. Understood?’