Barbarian - Scarrow Simon - Страница 18

Britomaris froze. Pavo ripped the sword across, the weapon making a tearing sound as if splitting open a sack of grain. The blade diced up the barbarian’s bowels and severed his femoral artery. Blood fountained out of the wound as Pavo withdrew his sword and collapsed on the ground. Ten thousand people rose to their feet around the Julian plaza, watching Britomaris. The barbarian was rooted to the spot and looked down dumbly at the blood spraying his feet. He stood defiantly for a few moments longer and ripped off his helmet, his eyes rolling into the backs of his sockets as he gasped for air. His face had turned pale, and he was shivering and foaming at the mouth. He looked feverish. His legs buckled. Then Britomaris collapsed onto the sand with a colossal thud.

Salty sweat dripped from Pavo’s brow into his eyes, blurring his vision. He tasted blood in his mouth. His heartbeat pulsed violently, the veins on his neck throbbing and echoing inside his head. Pavo could hear the ghoulish whimpers coming from Britomaris as he bled out on the sand, his helmet by his feet, vomit oozing from his slackened mouth.

There was a moment’s silence. Then the crowd broke into rapturous cheers. Pavo picked himself off the ground. He was so weary it took every last ounce of strength to stand tall. He wiped the sweat from his eyes.

‘Pavo! Pavo!’ the crowd chanted, over and over. The same people who had been roundly booing him only a short while earlier, the recruit thought. Up in the podium a Praetorian guard clumsily shuffled his way past the podgy imperial high priests and whispered something into Pallas’s ear. The Greek freedman furrowed his brow, then turned to Murena and muttered something. Abruptly the two men rose from their seats and followed the Praetorian out of the arena as the master of ceremonies handed Claudius a victory palm and box of coins to present to the victor. The Emperor accepted the coins with a cold and distant look in his greying eyes. He looked displeased. He scowled in disgust and looked in the direction of Pavo with stony-faced contempt as the chanting of the victor’s name swelled in the plaza.

Pavo stared defiantly back at the Emperor. He barely noticed the officials dragging Britomaris away with a meat hook, just as they had dragged away Titus months before. They left a streak of blood stretching like a tongue from the arena entrance to the place where the barbarian had fallen. His limbs were the same pale colour as his face. The feverish look in the barbarian’s eyes, and the way he had foamed at the mouth, troubled Pavo.

Then the pair of officials who had been stationed at the arena entrance grabbed Pavo and hurried him away from the floor towards the corridor and a flight of stairs leading up to the podium, where the trainee would accept his prize from the Emperor in person. Pavo was still running his eyes over the galleries as the officials hauled him down the corridor, the hoarse cheers of the crowd echoing off the dank walls, the air stifled with hot dust and sweat, the crowd shrinking from view.

‘Where the hell did he disappear to?’ Pavo wondered aloud of the optio.

‘You mean your friend? The soldier?’ the older official with the rotten teeth snarled. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get to see him soon enough. In fact, we’re taking you to see him as soon as you’ve collected your prize. .’

Macro awoke with the din of the crowd buzzing in his ears. The optio shook his groggy head and acquainted himself with his surroundings. He was back in the small room on the western side of the plaza he and Pavo had occupied in the build-up to the fight. But the two Praetorian guards now blocked the doorway, and Macro’s young charge was nowhere to be seen. A dim image came back to the optio through the haze. He recalled stumbling across the surgeon’s counter, and witnessing the Praetorian dipping Britomaris’s spear tip into a bowl of poison.

The image forced Macro to shoot upright. He rushed towards the door but the Praetorians blocked his path. ‘What in Hades’ name is going on?’ the optio rasped.

The Praetorians said nothing. Bot their expressions were tight and blank.

‘Did he win?’ Macro demanded.

‘Pavo? Oh, he won,’ a voice quivered from the corridor behind the guards. Macro’s joy was short-lived as the Praetorians stepped out of the way and four figures appeared from the shadows of the colonnades. Macro watched two stadium officials bundling an exhausted Pavo towards the room. Murena led the way, a stern expression plastered across his gaunt face. Pavo was too tired to try and wrench himself away. The freedman nodded at the guards as the officials slung Pavo into the room. The trainee dropped to his knees beside Macro, his exertion in the arena having drained his muscles and left him weary. In the background, Macro could hear the crowd roaring Pavo’s name. The soldier flicked his eyes to Murena, the Greek lingering in the doorway and smiling pityingly back at the optio.

‘You were going to poison Pavo,’ Macro growled.

‘Poison?’ Pavo whispered at Macro, a disbelieving look on his face.

The optio nodded grimly. He was conscious of blood flowing out of a wound at the back of his scalp, from when the second Praetorian had clobbered him earlier, matting his hair and dripping down his neck. ‘I caught these two fools in the act,’ he said, jerking his head furiously at the guards.

‘But I just saved the reputation of Rome,’ Pavo hissed as he glowered with rage at Murena. ‘The Emperor’s too. Not to mention your own and that of Pallas! And this is how you repay me?’

Murena chuckled weakly as he placed his hands behind his back. He kept his distance from Pavo, as if avoiding a rabid dog. ‘Our plan was simple,’ he said. ‘We needed to guarantee Rome victory. Even with someone as skilled with a sword as you, however, nothing in life is guaranteed. We poisoned the tips of both your weapons. That way Britomaris would perish in the arena, thus restoring the glory of Rome.’ Murena chuckled. ‘Why on earth do you think that our barbaric friend collapsed so easily at the end?’

‘But you were going to kill me too!’ Pavo roared, his face turning crimson with rage.

Murena knitted his wispy brow. ‘Two birds, one stone. Both Pallas and I knew that your victory, whilst necessary for his imperial majesty, would also make you a hero in the eyes of the mob. Listen to them,’ he grumbled scathingly as the crowd continued to roar in the background, ecstatic at the outcome of the fight. ‘They think you’re a legend, young man! We took a calculated risk in getting you to fight Britomaris. But we hoped to avoid the celebration of your name by arranging your death in the arena. There would have been some applause from the crowd for your efforts, of course. A few tawdry poems written to celebrate your feat. The odd inscription. But dead gladiators don’t live long in memory. By the following month you would have been forgotten.’ Murena sighed. ‘If only that idiot Britomaris had done his job, and stabbed you.’

Despite his ragged condition, Pavo mustered his precious last reserves of energy and lunged at Murena. The freedman took a frightened step back out of the doorway, his eyes widened with fear.

‘You tried to kill me, you bastard!’ Pavo roared.

The Praetorians jerked into action. One kicked Pavo in the midriff and sent him flying backwards, landing on the ground with a thud while the other guard glared at Macro, who had balled his hands into tight fists. The guard began to unsheathe his sword. Macro got the message and reluctantly loosened his fists.

‘What about my son?’ Pavo seethed. ‘I was told he would be released after I won.’

‘Appius?’ Murena asked, wearing an expression of feigned ignorance. ‘You must be mistaken, young man. The Emperor was to release him upon your glorious death in the arena. Since you failed to stick to your side of the bargain and die, I’m afraid the deal is off. Appius will remain the possession of the imperial palace. Of course, he won’t be a freedman. He’ll grow up with the other slave children, and when he’s old enough he’ll fetch grapes and figs for those who control the empire. Men like Pallas and me. In future generations the name of Valerius will be synonymous with slaves, not military heroes and victorious gladiators.’