and the Emperor. No one else.’
The freedman laughed and inspected his fingernails. ‘I hear you haven’t set foot in this city for a while?’
‘Thirteen years or so.’
‘Then I will give you the benefit of the doubt just this once. Rome is different now. I may be a simple freedman, but you would do well to treat me with respect. I have a certain influence within these walls. Enough to rescind your decoration. . and your promotion to centurion.’
‘Centurion?’ Macro repeated with a start. ‘What are you talking about?’
Murena produced a scroll, and Macro noticed the imperial seal on the wax. The freedman opened it and read aloud, ‘
Macro frowned at Murena.
‘Sadly, I cannot dispatch the letter until you carry out a certain task for the Emperor,’ Murena explained.
‘What kind of task?’ Macro said uneasily.
Murena smiled wanly. ‘Permit me to elaborate. You were there at the arena earlier today to receive your decoration. A proud moment, sadly marred by the defeat of our dear Capito.’ The freedman tutted. ‘Highly embarrassing for the Emperor. Capito was not only the finest fighter in the imperial school and therefore the personal property of Claudius himself, he was the sixth imperial gladiator to fall at the hands of Britomaris.’
Murena circled the officer. Macro eyed him warily. ‘These are stressful days for the new Emperor,’ the freedman continued. ‘There are many doubters in Rome. Some of them are openly hostile to Claudius. Not just men of the Senate, but in the Forum and the taverns too. I speak frankly now. The Emperor was not a unanimous choice. The vagaries of bloodline and birth-right mean that no man can wear the laurel crown without facing nefarious challenges to his supremacy. You heard the rumbles of discontent in the crowd after Capito died. A defeat like this threatens to undermine our regime in its infancy. We must demonstrate to the mob that Claudius is the strong, decisive leader we have craved since the golden age of Augustus.’
‘So invade somewhere,’ Macro said with a shrug. ‘That usually does the trick.’
Murena laughed like a tutor humouring a brash student. ‘Thank you for that truly enlightening insight, optio. Your genius makes me wonder why you haven’t elevated yourself higher up the ranks.’
Macro fought a powerful urge to punch Murena in the face.
‘Rest assured, plans are afoot for the near future,’ the freedman went on. ‘But the more pressing problem is Britomaris. Six gladiators defeated! That is more than a stain on the Emperor’s name, it is a veritable boil: one we must lance before it overwhelms us. We cannot afford any more defeats by this barbarian. Whoever faces him next must triumph, demonstrating to all that no one defies the Emperor, and that Claudius is the right man to occupy the throne.’
Macro said, ‘What about getting Hermes to fight him? He’s just about the toughest gladiator there’s ever been. He’d chop up a thug like Britomaris as quick as boiling asparagus.’
‘Out of the question,’ Murena said flatly.
‘Why?’
A pained expression wrinkled unpleasantly across the freedman’s bony face. As if he were chewing on a mouthful of rotten fish guts, thought Macro.
‘I must confess, I am not a fan of Hermes. Neither is Pallas. We find him somewhat brutish. However, the problem with Hermes is not one of style. Indeed, in the event Capito died, another of the Emperor’s advisers — a wretched, snivelling fellow by the name of Narcissus — had arranged for Hermes to fight Britomaris next.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ Macro asked.
‘This morning, Hermes suffered a. . a rather unfortunate accident.’
‘Accident?’ Macro repeated.
‘He was robbed in the street, would you believe.’ Murena shook his head. ‘Thugs broke several of his bones. The man’s in no condition to fight. But we cannot wait for Hermes to recover from his inconvenient beating. We need a substitute urgently.’
Murena finished circling Macro, stopping directly in front of him.
‘You will train a substitute gladiator to fight Britomaris,’ he said.
Macro looked quizzically at him. ‘Why me?’ he stuttered. ‘I’ve never worked at a ludus. You’ve more than enough doctores at the imperial establishment for the job.’
‘Ordinarily, yes. But this is no ordinary fight. We must send a powerful message to the mob, and what better way to do that than by having a hero of the Empire employ his military know-how to destroy a barbarian like Britomaris?’ Murena teased out a twisted smile.
Macro shook his head firmly.
‘It’s too risky,’ he said, ‘training someone up, I mean. You’re better off just picking one of the gladiators from the imperial school. That lot are supposed to be the best swordsmen in Capua. You’d have far better odds on one of them defeating Britomaris than some wet-behind-the-ears recruit.’
Murena sucked his teeth. ‘Unfortunately the imperial school is severely depleted. Caligula has used most of the best men up in the arena. He’s left us with just a few stragglers, none of whom would be fit for this purpose.’
The imperial aide folded his hands behind his back and walked the width of the central aisle, his gait slow and methodical, as if pacing out the perimeter of a building. The sound of his sandals against the floor echoed throughout the hall.
‘Happily, Fortuna smiles on us.’
Macro clicked his tongue. ‘Hard to believe.’
A flicker of a smile crossed Murena’s face before he continued. ‘It appears we have a ready-made candidate. A young man with military experience who was instructed by a gladiator as a boy. A man who, I am reliably informed, demonstrates utter fearlessness when facing raw steel. A rare quality, as I’m sure a man of violence such as yourself will appreciate. With the right guidance, he could be just the ticket.’
‘A soldier, eh?’ Macro said. ‘What’s the lad’s name?’
Murena looked down. ‘Marcus Valerius Pavo.’ He pulled a face at his sandal, as if he had trodden in a puddle of sewage. ‘Although you may well be more familiar with his father’s name, Titus?’
Macro felt his guts tie themselves into a knot. ‘The Legate of the Fifth Legion?’
‘Formerly, the Legate,’ Murena corrected icily. ‘Latterly, rotting in an unmarked grave on the Appian Way. The predictable consequence of Titus trying to return Rome to a republic. We’re still debating whether to decimate the Fifth, since his men appeared so eager to support him in his treachery.’
A cold shiver crawled down Macro’s spine. News of the execution of the Fifth’s legate had not yet reached the Rhine, but the more the officer heard about how the imperial palace now dealt with its enemies, the less he liked the sound of it. Bashing up barbarians in Germany and Gaul was all well and good, but the thought of Romans stabbing each other in the back reminded him of the civil wars that had dogged Rome during the days of the Republic.
‘Dissent in the ranks cannot be tolerated,’ Murena said, as if reading Macro’s mind. ‘We had to set an example.’
‘But you let the son live?’
‘He wasn’t in Rome at the time. Pavo was a military tribune in the Sixth Legion. We had him placed under arrest and returned to Rome. The Emperor had planned to execute the young man in the arena, and to that end we slung him into a gladiator school in Paestum. The lanista has promised to see to it that Pavo dies in the arena within the year.’
Macro curled up his lips in thought. ‘And now you want Pavo to save the honour of Rome?’
‘These are desperate times. With Hermes out of the picture, we need Pavo. At least for the time being. Training him, however, may not be so straightforward. The young man is rather upset about the whole business of his father being killed.’
‘How did he die?’ Macro asked cautiously.
Murena chuckled to himself and shook his head. ‘Condemned to death in the arena. The Emperor paired him with Hermes, no less. Titus put up rather a good show. I’m surprised he had a drop of blood left him in when the time came for Hermes to finish him off.’
‘No bloody wonder the lad is angry,’ Macro murmured, in a voice low enough that his words evaded Murena’s
