Arena by Simon Scarrow

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.
    ‘I swear to the gods I’ll make a champion of him yet,’ Macro mumbled to himself.
     
    For the next nineteen days Macro worked tirelessly on Pavo’s fitness. During agonising sprint sessions he instructed the trainee to practise dashing from one end of the training ground to the other, before counting to five and sprinting back in the opposite direction. Pavo ran until his legs could carry his body no further, and then ran some more. He ran with a constant feeling of sickness in his mouth and a stitch spearing his right side. Macro forced him to run until he could do a hundred laps without breaking into a sweat. He worked with Pavo on endless long jumps, high jumps and lunges to put some extra spring into his gangly legs. Gradually Pavo noticed that his muscle ache was wearing off as he crawled out of his cell each morning and dragged himself to the training ground. By the end of the circuit programme he could feel his thighs and abdominal muscles becoming firmer and more supple. He had found his stride and was standing upright instead of spilling his guts on the floor. He felt leaner, faster and more agile. He was ready to face Britomaris.
    On the twentieth day, Macro made preparations for their return to Rome. Pavo’s hand had healed sufficiently for him to grasp a sword without too much pain, although he grimly understood that the injury would not be gone entirely by the time of his bout. He’d be taking on Britomaris with a damaged hand.
    Pavo awoke with a feeling of dread in his guts that morning. Macro had arranged to meet him at dawn with a pair of horses