Simon Scarrow - Arena

Murena stared at him for a moment. His eyes smiled with intent. ‘Enter, young man. There’s a friend of yours in here.’

Something cold and sickening stirred inside Pavo. Reluctantly he stepped into the cell, anxiety tying knots in his stomach. Murena stood to one side. The cell was cramped — smaller than his own billeting at the imperial ludus, Pavo thought — and the instantly recognisable stench of blood and faecal matter lingered in the air. The flicker of oil lamps in the passageway cast a gloomy red hue. A series of torture instruments were laid out on the floor next to the door. Pavo felt his stomach churn as he spotted a patch of blood glistening on the stone next to his feet. Then he heard a timid groaning and his eyes were drawn to a crumpled figure slumped against the back wall. Manacles were clamped round his wrists and ankles. The man had been stripped down to his loincloth and on closer inspection Pavo realised that his fingernails and toenails had been ripped out. His torso was covered with burn marks and bruises. Murena clicked his fingers. The man wearily lifted his head and his dull eyes rested on Pavo. Blood dripped from his chin. His lips were purpled. The gladiator felt his entire body jolt.

‘Dear gods …’ he started.

‘Senator Numerius Porcius Lanatus,’ Murena cut in almost cheerfully, suppressing a smile. He glanced at Pavo. ‘An old friend of your father’s, I believe, in the days when Lanatus was the proconsular governor in Africa. Senator Lanatus also happens to be a Liberator. One of the leaders behind that shadowy network, no less.’ He stooped down beside the elderly senator and grinned. ‘Isn’t that right, Lanatus?’

The senator stared back defiantly.

‘Go to Hades, Murena,’ he croaked. Pavo recoiled in horror as he saw that Lanatus’s teeth had been ripped out of his mouth.

‘I rather think that is what you will soon be doing, my dear friend,’ Murena sneered. He ruffled the senator’s thin grey hair and turned back to Pavo. ‘One of the duty guards at the imperial ludus was exposed as a friend of the Liberators. We tortured him and he gave up the name of Lanatus easily enough.’

The senator winced, his chest heaving with pain. Standing upright, Murena turned to Pavo. ‘Do you know why I have brought you here?’ he asked evenly.

Pavo shook his head. The blood ran cold in his veins. Murena took a step closer to him and said softly, ‘We solicited a confession from Lanatus. The palace interrogators tortured the old fool to within a hair’s breadth of his life, but he eventually told us everything. They always do.’

The gladiator tried to feign ignorance. ‘What does any of this have to do with me?’

‘Don’t play games with me, Pavo. Lanatus confessed to his role in the conspiracy to assassinate the Emperor. He told us about the plan to slip you a weapon in the aftermath of your victory in the group fight. How you were supposed to slit the Emperor’s throat when you entered the imperial box to receive your award. I must admit, it was certainly an audacious plan.’

‘I had no choice! Lanatus told me that unless I helped, Appius would die-’

Murena raised a hand. ‘I’m not interested in your pathetic excuses,’ he snapped. ‘The only reason you’re not being nailed to a cross at this moment is because Pallas and I need you to win. The very fact that you chose not to go through with the conspiracy suggests you at least had some doubts about the wisdom of committing such a heinous act.’

‘What do you want?’ Pavo asked warily.

‘Victory, of course. I will not tolerate your defeat by Hermes.’

Pavo threw up his arms. ‘Hermes is the greatest gladiator who ever lived. Even at my best, I might lose.’

‘Then you will have to train harder. Win your fight, and no one else need ever learn of your part in the Liberators’ conspiracy. Lose, and I will make sure that all of Rome is made aware of your treachery. The mob will ridicule you as a Liberator, Pavo. Your family name will be irreparably sullied. And poor little Appius will suffer a fate worse than death: he’ll grow up as the disgraced son of a traitor.’

‘What was all that about?’ Macro growled irritably. Pavo had left Murena at the entrance to the underground tunnel and rejoined Macro outside the main gates of the imperial palace where he was pacing impatiently up and down. A chill wind picked up and fluttered through the alley.

‘Sir?’ Pavo said absently. His mind was still shaken by the sight of Lanatus in the cell. He shuddered at the thought of the unimaginable horrors the senator must have suffered at the hands of the imperial interrogators. Only the political aspirations of the imperial secretary and his aide had spared Pavo the same fate. But if there was one thing worse than death for a high-born Roman, it was the loss of prestige, and he felt his blood boil at the prospect of being exposed as a traitor. Murena was right. Appius would grow up in disgrace, the Valerius family name stained by his actions. Now, more than ever, he needed to win.

Macro frowned. ‘You look like you’ve just seen a cheap tart without her make-up on, lad. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Pavo replied. He looked carefully at his mentor, studying his face. He quickly decided that Macro was in the dark about his involvement in the conspiracy to assassinate Claudius. He breathed a sharp sigh of relief and forced a smile. ‘Murena merely wanted to remind me of the importance of the fight.’

‘Eh?’ Macro sputtered. He went on, ‘What’s with the long face, then? You should be kissing Fortuna’s arse, lad. Those bloody Greeks are on our side … for once.’

Pavo shrugged wearily. ‘Perhaps we’ve made a mistake.’

Macro grunted. He was still in a foul mood from the encounter with Murena and the painful reminder of his appearance in the beast fights. ‘You think too much. That’s what reading all those books does to you.’

Pavo pushed aside the appalling mental image of Lanatus in his cell and cocked his head at his mentor. ‘It doesn’t strike you as odd that Murena and Pallas are offering to help, sir?’

‘Gods know. They’re Greeks, after all. Buggers are raised at birth to be slippery. Right now they see Narcissus as the greater threat. That means they’re willing to work with you. My enemy’s enemy, as the saying goes.’

Pavo tilted his head to the side, conceding the point. ‘But they have spent the past several months trying to kill me. Surely they’d rather work with someone — anyone — else?’

‘Bloody hell!’ Macro threw up his arms in bewilderment. ‘You know what those freedmen are like. Pallas will do anything to hold on to his title as the Emperor’s chief arse-licker, even if it means cosying up to the disgraced aristocrat he’s been trying to kill. No offence.’

‘None taken,’ Pavo replied flatly.

Macro shook his head. ‘Anyway, you were the one who agreed to work with Murena.’

‘Fair enough. But I don’t believe his reason for wanting the defeat of Hermes. Pallas is a natural schemer. I’m sure he could think up a plan to undermine Narcissus that wouldn’t involve aiding the likes of us.’

‘None of our business, that. All we need to know is that Ruga has given Hermes a good run for his denarii in the past and he’ll know a thing or two about how to stop him. With a bit of luck you might stand a chance of actually winning.’

‘You’re forgetting one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘We only have a month in which to prepare for the fight, sir.’

Macro rubbed his hands. ‘Then we’d best knuckle down to training. Put some bulk on you, lad.’ He glanced down at Pavo’s lower half. ‘Especially those gangly legs of yours. I’ve seen more muscle on those bookish types who sit in the literary salons discussing poetry.’