Free Barbarian by Simon Scarrow Page A

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