‘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.’