Free Arena by Simon Scarrow Page B

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