Simon Scarrow - Arena

Macro nodded towards a sand-filled pigskin. ‘Let’s start off with twenty circuits. Fast as you can.’

‘Twenty? Is that it?’ Pavo scoffed. ‘I thought you’re supposed to be training me for the fight of my life, sir, not ordering me to go on a light jog.’

‘I wasn’t finished,’ Macro growled, his expression turning a darker shade of black. He kicked the legionary armour with a sandalled foot. ‘Twenty circuits, in full kit, shield in one hand, marching yoke in the other. That little lot should weigh you down a bit, lad. Make you put a bit of effort into it, eh?’

Pavo watched speechlessly as Macro drew a line in the sand with the tip of a wooden sword, roughly in the middle of the training ground. Then the optio stuffed two of the sand-filled pigs’ bladders on to a legionary marching yoke. Pavo reluctantly strapped on the cuirass and helmet and picked up the shield.

‘You’ll remember from your basic training,’ Macro said as he hefted the yoke off the ground and laid it out on Pavo’s shoulder, ‘that the first thing a legionary is taught to do is march with a full complement of equipment.’

‘But sir, this is too much,’ Pavo said glumly, his legs nearly buckling under the weight.

‘Britomaris is going to make you sweat like never before. He will come at you like a bull. You can’t do anything about that. But you can prepare for when the going gets tough.’ Macro pointed with his wooden sword to the porticoes at the north and south ends of the training ground. ‘First circuit: run the length of the ground and back.’

Pavo grumbled as he broke into a lumbering trot towards the north portico.

‘I said run, not bloody crawl!’ Macro roared.

‘I am running!’

‘I am running, sir !’

‘Sir …’ Pavo grunted as he picked up the pace, his cheeks puffing and his face reddening with effort. He could feel his heart thumping inside his chest. Dry, hot air singed his throat. The yoke dug into his shoulder. In the army, the young trainee had completed his fair share of marches with full equipment, but that had been at a steady pace. Now he was sprinting, and the exertion quickly took its toll. He broke out in a hot, salty sweat.

‘Now get back here!’ Macro barked.

Pavo muttered curses under his breath as he lurched back to the line, sweat streaking down his back. As he made to release the yoke, Macro dropped his left shoulder and thrust his sword at the recruit’s midriff. Pavo instinctively jerked his shield up to block the attack. The force of the blow took him by surprise. He stumbled backwards, his toes digging into the sand as he scrambled for purchase, feeling a shuddering up his left forearm that reverberated through his bicep and shoulder muscles.

‘Again!’ Macro shouted. ‘And sprint both ways this time. I want to see you sweat.’

‘But-’

‘Don’t answer me back, boy!’

Pavo shuttled off.

‘Now!’ Macro roared. Pavo hefted the pigskin and began jogging around the perimeter.

By the eighth lap he could feel blisters forming on the soles of his feet. As he completed the twelfth lap his steady run had become staggered and frantic and his legs pleaded with him to stop. Nausea tickled the back of his throat. Still he ran. His feet ached. On the sixteenth lap his blisters burst and hot sand rubbed into the exposed sores, causing him great discomfort every time he planted his foot on the ground. He gritted his teeth and practically stumbled the final lap. At last he hit the portico steps with a thirsty sigh of relief and a painful stitch spearing his right side. He lifted his head up and vomited on the sand with a weak groan.

‘Get up!’ Macro boomed. Pavo tried to say something between snatches of breath but the soldier cut him short. ‘The first rule of fighting is you never fall over. If you’re on your arse, you’re as good as dead.’

Pavo struggled wearily to his feet.

‘Ten more laps,’ Macro said.

‘Ten?’ Pavo sputtered. ‘But-’

‘Faster this time! Put some bloody sweat into it.’

Pavo bent over, his hands on his knees and spittle dangling from his lips. His shield weighed heavily in his left hand, while his right was burdened by the pigskin. His wrist tendons burned with the stress of holding both objects upright, and the pain twisted his shoulder muscles into excruciating knots.

‘We never trained like this in the legions, sir,’ he rasped. ‘Not with all this bloody kit.’

‘I didn’t learn this in the Second,’ Macro replied. ‘I learned it when I was a boy. Four or five years younger than you. I had the good fortune to be trained by a retired gladiator. He taught me a few tricks of the trade.’

Pavo snatched at the air. ‘What was his name?’

‘Draba of Ethiopia. Bloody good swordsman.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Pity. You could have learned a lot from that man. He’s not around any more. But I am, and I’m going to pass on to you what he told me. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take every word to heart.’

Between gasped breaths, Pavo spat on the ground. ‘In case it escaped your notice, Optio, I received plenty of sword training in my own youth, and from a gladiator far more famous than your Draba. Felix was one of the best fighters of his era. And he never had me running up and down, over and bloody over.’

Macro shook his head patiently. ‘Whatever Felix taught you isn’t going to help in the arena. Capito fought like a true gladiator against Britomaris and lost. What you need is to forget the basic principles of gladiator combat. As I said, we have to work on a new way of winning against the barbarian. You see, Draba’s skill wasn’t just with a sword. It was with his feet. His movement meant that he’d tire his opponent before he stabbed them.’

Pavo cocked his head inquisitively at Macro. ‘Why did you receive instruction from a gladiator?’

‘Let’s just say I had a score to settle, and Draba helped me do it. Now get a move on!’

‘Yes, sir.’ The trainee winced as he hauled himself upright and staggered down the training ground, his muscles sagging under the load of the marching yoke, shield and armour. But the fact that he had addressed Macro as ‘sir’ told the optio he was getting somewhere with his young charge. Pavo was finally channelling his aggression into the training. Macro nodded to himself in satisfaction as Pavo set off on another lap, a grimly determined look stitched into his features.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of sweat and aggression for Pavo. After twenty laps of the training ground the optio got him to perform a set of nausea-inducing strength exercises under the unseasonably hot sun. Pavo carried out a hundred abdominal crunches and a series of hanging leg raises from wooden posts mounted at head-height at the porticoes on the west side of the training ground. He then practised lumbering two pigs’ bladders loaded with sand, one in each hand, from one end of the training ground to the other. By the end of the session he could hardly move. His muscles were sore and stiff, his veins stretched out like tense rope. Life as a military tribune had been relatively soft on his body compared to the hardships the enlisted soldiers had to endure, and it had been a long time since he had trained with such intensity. But with every drop of sweat and strain of sinew, he began to relish the challenge in front of him. News of Appius had refocused him. Now he vowed to redouble his efforts. If he could not set himself free, he could at least see to it that his son avoided the same fate he had endured.

For his part Macro was impressed and a little surprised by the determination and drive of his young charge. He’d never seen a man born into privilege throw himself so hungrily into his labours. The only concern picking away at the back of Macro’s head was Pavo’s damaged hand. The injury had deprived the officer of the chance to size up his charge’s skills at the palus and his natural ability with a sword. With a sigh, he realised he’d have to take Murena’s word for it.