Arena by Simon Scarrow Page B

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. Both 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. He flicked his eyes to Murena lingering in the doorway; the Greek smiled pityingly back at the optio.
    ‘You were going to poison Pavo,’ Macro growled.
    ‘Poison?’ Pavo whispered, 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 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 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 wide 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