Barbarian (8 page)

Macro cleared his throat again, but said nothing. An awkward silence lingered between the two men. At the far end of the training ground Pavo caught sight of Amadocus leaning against a palus, his hands choking the post as Calamus flogged him repeatedly on his back with his short whip. The other veterans looked on blankly, suggesting that such brutality was commonplace. Amadocus stole a sideways glance at Pavo. He winced as Calamus lashed his back again and drew blood. Then he grinned at the recruit. Pavo gulped and turned back to Macro.

‘Everything has been taken away from me, optio. My old life is gone for ever. But there is one thing I want before I die, and that’s a chance to face Hermes in the arena.’ He turned stiffly away from Macro. ‘I have no quarrel with Britomaris. If he’s giving Murena and Pallas sleepless nights, so much the better. I don’t see why I should help out that pair of devious Greeks.’

‘Sod Pallas. Sod Murena. Sod them all. Do this for yourself and for your son.’

Pavo said nothing. But Macro thought he spotted some weakening in the lad’s hostile stance. He drew closer to Pavo and gripped him by the shoulders.

‘Whatever you think, we don’t have time to sit around and talk.’

Pavo frowned and stepped back from Macro. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Patience is in short supply at the imperial household,’ the optio replied. ‘The Emperor wishes to see Britomaris lose before the month is out.’ He raised a hand to stifle the trainee’s protest. ‘Now I know what you’re thinking. Normally it takes at least six months to prepare a gladiator to fight in the arena, and that’s just so you can face some Egyptian armpit-plucker with a blunted sword, not a vicious bastard like Britomaris. Nevertheless, that’s the way the dice have fallen. Besides, you’ve got the talent, from what I’ve been told by the doctore. We can skip the basics and knuckle down to the strategy for beating Britomaris. It’s no different to sorting out your tactics before going into battle. So let’s just get on with it, eh?’

Pavo fell quiet. Macro weighed up his young charge. Pavo lacked the build of a gladiator. He looked more like a clerk – you’d think a gust of wind might break every bone in his body. But Macro detected some sliver of inner steel in the lad that reminded him a little of himself as a fresh-faced recruit. He thought briefly back to his own harsh treatment at the hands of Bestia, the legion’s legendary drill instructor.

But Macro could never recall being as difficult as Pavo. Then again, he had never been cast into a ludus in the knowledge that he’d soon be dead.

Macro said, ‘You may not like the Emperor—’

‘That’s a rather mild way of putting it,’ Pavo interrupted.

‘But you’d do well to remember that it’s not only your neck on the line. Mine is too.’

Pavo blinked. ‘How so?’

Macro scowled at the clear morning sky. ‘Our good friend Murena made a not-so-subtle suggestion that if you lost, I’d be equally culpable.’

A sudden feeling of guilt swept over Pavo. ‘Sir. I’m sorry you got dragged into this.’

‘That makes two of us. But sorry gets us nowhere. The only thing for it is to teach this Britomaris a sharp, bloody lesson. One that ends with him on his knees, cradling his guts and begging for a quick death.’

The recruit flashed a pained expression at the ground. Three weeks. No time at all before he would be confronting Britomaris, the barbarian who had dispatched the best of the imperial school with consummate ease.

‘If you win,’ Macro went on, ‘you’ll be a hero, like me.’ The officer thumped a fist against his chest with unconcealed pride. ‘Rome doesn’t kill its heroes. Not if it can help it, anyway. Get one over on old Britomaris and your name will be in graffiti on the walls of every inn across the empire. You’ll have prize money, tarts, fame.’ Macro counted the rewards off his fingers one by one. ‘And you know what? That’ll piss old Hermes off no end.’

Pavo glanced up at Macro. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course!’ Macro snorted, warming to his theme. ‘Hermes may be a legend, but at the end of the day he’s a glory-seeking tosser just like every other gladiator. You win and he’ll see you as a threat to his status. You’ll be one step closer to having your showdown.’

Pavo paced a few steps away from Macro and stared up at the porticoes. Gurges had left the balcony and made his way down to the training ground, where the veterans had gathered around him in a semi-circle. The lanista was waving a hand at Amadocus’s grossly lacerated back as he boomed a warning at them. Pavo couldn’t quite hear the lanista but he got the gist of the message. Anyone stepping out of line would suffer similar treatment. At least I won’t have to worry about being jumped in the canteen for a while, Pavo thought.

‘Beating Britomaris is the best way to honour your old man’s name,’ Macro said.

Pavo laughed nervously. ‘Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s got to fight him to the death. With a crocked hand.’

Macro grinned slyly as he replied, ‘I have a secret plan.’

‘Come on,’ Pavo snapped impatiently. ‘Let’s hear it.’ Macro looked rather too pleased with himself, the trainee thought.

‘Britomaris has a weakness,’ the optio announced.

‘What is it?’

Casting glances from the corner of his eye, Macro leaned in to Pavo as if to whisper in his ear. ‘His stamina,’ the optio said in a low voice. ‘It’s shit.’

‘Wonderful,’ Pavo replied as he pulled away from Macro. ‘What a pity I’m not challenging him to a marathon race instead of a fight to the death.’

The optio wagged a finger at Pavo. ‘You’re not following me, lad. I saw it after Capito had a sword plunged into his heart at the amphitheatre. Everyone else was too shocked to notice, but the barbarian was sweating out of his arse. I’m telling you, he could barely stand on his feet by the end of the contest. And that was just a short fight. Think about what would happen if you really made the bastard work!’

Pavo raised a sceptical eyebrow at Macro.

‘Hide and seek. That’s how you’re going to beat Britomaris.’

‘Hide . . . and . . . seek?’ Pavo repeated doubtfully. ‘It sounds rather defensive, sir.’

Macro stared at him for a moment. ‘Stubborn bastard, aren’t you?’

Pavo shrugged. ‘Runs in the family. And I may be the one calling you “sir”, but that doesn’t mean I can’t question your tactics. It seems to me that the trick is to go in hard and fast against Britomaris and overwhelm him with speed.’

‘Won’t work,’ Macro said with an abrupt shake of his head. ‘Britomaris is big but from what I’ve seen, he’s deceptively light on his toes. Capito lost because he thought he was facing a big, slow lump. You won’t make the same mistake. You’ll fight on the back foot. Let Britomaris come forward and attack you. Every time he thrusts, you take a step back. Each missed thrust is wasted energy on his part. Eventually he’ll tire. When he does, that’s when you strike.’

‘And what if Britomaris doesn’t tire? What if I tire first?’

Macro shrugged. ‘Then you’re fucked.’

‘Great.’ The recruit clapped his hands sardonically. Macro ignored him, content to indulge Pavo in his tantrum. As far as the officer was concerned, anger was good, so long as it was directed towards the opponent. He knew that from experience. Throughout his career as a soldier Macro had frequently let his temper get the better of him, which had landed him in hot water more than once. He was sure it was one of the reasons he still hadn’t made the step up from optio to centurion. That, and his woeful reading and writing ability. But in the ferocity of battle, that same inner rage kept him alive and helped him to fend off the enemy, even when his body screamed with agony and fear. The angrier Pavo was at Britomaris, the better his chance of winning. But as things stood, Pavo was angry with the whole world. And that was a problem.

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 onto 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 Pavo 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 Pavo 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. He hefted the pigskin and began jogging around the perimeter.

By the eighth lap Pavo felt 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, gritty 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 good as dead.’

Pavo wearily struggled to his feet.

‘Ten more laps,’ Macro said.

‘Ten?’ Pavo sputtered. ‘But—’

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

Pavo keeled 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 anymore. But I am. I’m going to pass on to you what he told to 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 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 beneath the unrelenting 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. Pavo could hardly move by the end of the session. 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 Pavo 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 Pavo. Now he vowed to redouble his efforts. If he could not set himself free, he could at least see to it that his infant son avoided the same fate he had endured.