Simon Scarrow - Arena

‘He’s waiting for you,’ he said brusquely.

The servant opened the door and ushered Macro and Pavo inside. Then he turned and departed down the corridor, leaving the optio and the gladiator to consider the splendour of the office. A high window overlooked the Forum. Animal skins trapped the heat rising from the hypocaust floor, warming Pavo’s numbed feet. In the middle of the room stood a large oak desk overflowing with scrolls and wax tablets. Murena stood up from the chair behind the desk and greeted his guests with a smile, his teeth gleaming like marble in the sunlight streaming through the window.

‘Greetings, Macro,’ he announced grandly. ‘You haven’t been in the office of the imperial secretary before, have you?’

‘The gods have spared me that particular delight until now.’ The optio cast his eyes over the furnishings and grunted. ‘This is where you and Pallas scheme and plot against your enemies, is it?’

Murena laughed weakly and flicked his gaze towards Pavo, his thin lips curling at the corners. There was a gleam in his eyes as he studied the gladiator. ‘You’re looking well, young man.’

‘What the hell do you want?’ Macro spat, his chest swelling with fury.

‘That’s no way to greet a friend,’ Murena replied with fake cordiality as he calmly folded his hands behind his back. ‘Really, Macro, your manners are rather boorish, even for a man of the legions. No wonder that promotion to centurion has proved so elusive. You appear to lack the necessary political skills.’

Macro looked stonily at the aide. ‘To Hades with your politics. I’m a soldier, not a fucking senator.’

‘Eloquently put. As ever.’ Murena paced round the desk and considered his feet, a deep frown creasing his face. ‘Tell me, how did our esteemed champion, the pride of Rome, perform at the Circus Maximus yesterday morning?’

‘You mean Hermes?’ Macro clenched his jaw. He preferred the economical language of the legions to the flowery prose employed by the imperial aide. ‘He beat Criton to a pulp and then snapped his neck. Not that Criton tested him. I reckon your average Praetorian would have put up a better fight.’

‘I see,’ Murena responded quietly. ‘A pity. I had rather hoped Criton would provide a more thorough examination of Hermes’s abilities.’ The aide paused for a moment, his lips pressed tight as he continued to stare at his feet. Murena had changed, thought Pavo. Perhaps it was the stress of organising the games for the Emperor that had taken its toll. The aide seemed frail and visibly drained. His hair was unkempt and the arrogant glint in his eyes had dimmed.

‘What the hell is this about?’ Macro demanded. ‘If you’re hoping to rope us into another of your schemes, forget it.’

Murena feigned innocence. ‘Calm down, Optio. I have come here with the blessing of the imperial secretary — to offer our assistance in your endeavour.’

Macro frowned. ‘Eh? Get to the point. We’ve got a fight to train for.’

Murena stared at him for a moment. ‘I’m glad you mentioned the fight. That is precisely the purpose of this meeting. It concerns our mutual foe.’

Macro’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘What the fuck do you mean?’

Murena smiled wanly. ‘I’m here as a friend … to help you beat Hermes.’

For a moment both Macro and Pavo were too stunned to reply. A frigid silence hung over the men as Murena allowed his words to sink in. At length Macro spoke.

‘You must be joking,’ he growled. ‘You’d rather lick a latrine clean than offer to help us.’

Murena stared at Macro but disguised his irritation. ‘I am quite serious,’ he replied evenly. ‘Both Pallas and I have our reasons for wanting to ensure the death of Rome’s most treasured gladiator.’

‘You’re wasting your breath,’ Macro replied harshly. ‘We’ve nothing to say to you.’

Murena made a considerable effort to suppress his hatred of the soldier. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘I appreciate that we have had our differences in the past, Optio. I was hoping that we could set those differences aside and discuss our common cause.’

‘Bollocks! A Gaul will become emperor before I have anything more to do with the likes of you. Now, if you’re finished, we have to return to training.’

Macro turned to leave the office. Pavo clasped a hand round his wrist and leaned in to his ear while the imperial aide stood glowering at the two men.

‘Is this wise?’ Pavo asked, lowering his voice so that the aide could not hear them.

Macro pulled a face. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting we listen to what this bastard has to say — after everything he’s done to you?’

Pavo shrugged. ‘He might be able to help.’

Macro looked apoplectic. ‘Good gods, lad!’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Two days ago they tried to send you to the afterlife in the group fight!’

‘I know,’ Pavo replied, biting back on his hatred towards the aide. ‘But what choice do we have? We both saw Hermes beat Criton senseless yesterday. We need all the help we can get.’ He tipped his head in the direction of the aide. ‘Even if it’s from a back-stabbing Greek.’

Macro clicked his tongue and thought for a moment.

‘Shit. You’re right.’ Fuming through his nostrils, the soldier turned back to Murena. ‘All right. We’ll hear you out.’

Murena stared coldly at Macro. ‘Everything Pallas and I have done was on the orders of Emperor Claudius. I hope you appreciate that there was nothing personal in our actions.’

‘Just tell us how you plan to help,’ Pavo intervened.

A smile flickered across the aide’s lips. ‘I know how badly you wish to see Hermes fall in the arena.’

Pavo clamped his eyes shut, remembering the vow he had made not to rest until he had avenged his father’s death. Anger pounded in his veins as he considered his predicament. On the one hand, he hated Pallas and Murena. They were at least partly to blame for his fall from grace, and the thought briefly occurred to him that they might have been responsible for the sickening display of his father’s severed head. But on the other hand, Pavo was utterly determined to kill the champion of Rome, even if it meant seeking a truce with the freedman who had conspired to dishonour the Valerian family. As much as the notion rankled, he privately conceded that he had no alternative if he wished to defeat Hermes.

He opened his eyes and nodded. ‘More than anything else.’

Murena smiled mischievously at Pavo and inspected his fingernails. ‘If those lowlife bookmakers scraping out a living around the Circus Maximus are to be believed, Hermes is the overwhelming favourite for the fight.’

‘That’s true enough,’ Macro intervened. He nodded gruffly at his young charge. ‘We’ll do our best to prove those greedy bastards wrong, won’t we?’

Pavo winced at the show of defiance from Macro. He admired the optio for his courage and steely resolve in the face of death. But a sick sensation gnawed in his guts as he faced the prospect of a grisly downfall in the arena. Even Macro’s show of support could not mask the awful truth. Defeating Hermes was almost impossible.

Murena clasped his hands beneath his chin and gazed out of the window. After a long moment he said, ‘Pallas and I have ways of, shall we say, levelling the odds.’

Pavo leaned forward. ‘Why do you want to help? If Hermes wins our fight, I shall die. Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to achieve these past months?’

Turning sharply from the window, Murena looked at the gladiator for a moment. ‘You may not be aware of it, young man, and I am sure the optio is entirely ignorant of such things, but within these walls a vicious struggle for power is unfolding as we speak. A struggle as desperate as any gladiator combat taking place in the arena.’