Barbarian by Simon Scarrow Page B

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