Legionary by Gordon Doherty Page A

problem was, there had to be an end to this.
    Snorting, he launched himself at the dummy, crashing the side of the sword into the imaginary Spurius’ midriff. He ducked under the would-be counter swing and then attempted to spring round to his opponents’ flank, but his legs betrayed him, tangling and casting him rather ungraciously in the dust. He sat up and wrung his hands across his stubbled scalp.
    ‘Idiot!’ He cursed, spitting dust.
    ‘Well done. Made a good job of defeating yourself there,’ a voice called out from the side of the yard. Pavo looked up, startled. Leaning on the short wooden fence was Centurion Brutus.
    ‘I’ve done my share of the latrine detail,’ Pavo stammered. ‘I was just trying to put in some extra practice.’
    Brutus snorted, strolling around the fence and onto the yard. ‘I don’t remember giving you a set number of latrines each to slop out?’
    Pavo reddened, his tongue welded to the roof of his mouth.
    ‘At ease, lad.’ Brutus spoke gently. ‘Numerius Vitellius Pavo, from the streets of Constantinople I believe. A freedman, too?’ Brutus cocked an eyebrow.
    Pavo still felt surprise when someone or something reminded him of his freedom, and the hot shame and invisible shackles of slavery still cuffed his mind. ‘Freed only so I could come here and be killed,’ Pavo sighed. ‘My father was a legionary, though,’ he added, puffing his chest out.
    ‘My father was a slave,’ Brutus stated, his face stern. ‘Worked himself to death, he did — bought freedom for my mother and I with his death payout.’
    Pavo gulped, scared to speak.
    Brutus pulled a one-sided grin. ‘You want to learn how to look after yourself properly, right?’
    ‘Right. I mean, yes, sir,’ Pavo replied, his mind spinning — the sadist wore just a hint of warmth on his craggy face.
    ‘I’ve served for over twenty years in the XI Claudia, each and every one of the battles I’ve fought in, I’ve survived, and the poor sods that have faced me have died. D’you know why?’ Brutus asked. Pavo shook his head. Brutus took his training sword from his scabbard.
    ‘Because I know how to use this, and, more importantly, I know
when
to use it.’ Brutus looked Pavo up and down, and then pointed over to the training dummy with his sword. He picked up Pavo’s shield and approached the beleaguered effigy. ‘You’ve got brains, lad, more than most of this lot,’ he swiped his sword over the barrack buildings. Then his face wrinkled a little, ‘going by that stunt you pulled when you nicked my sword…well…it’s either brains or stupidity.’
    Pavo felt his face flush.
    ‘But chucking yourself desperately at an opponent says a lot. It says you’re brave, maybe, but it tells your opponent you’ve run out of ideas. The barbarians of Germania and the tribes across the river — they all used to fight like that, and they’ve all been beaten…well it’s a different story now they’ve learnt!’ Brutus chuckled, stalking around the dummy, shimmying behind his shield. ‘Swinging your sword about like you’ve sunk a bath of ale shows an easy pick of kill points for me to exploit. I just need to bide my time,’ he grunted, ‘and while you’re all arms and legs, I can just strike decisively…once!’ Brutus suddenly appeared from behind the shield, jabbing up and into the dummy’s midriff. Sand spilled from the burst bag.
    Brutus turned, grinning at Pavo. He always wore that trademark evil grin at the training sessions. ‘Also notice that you’re exhausted, and now imagine I’m the next ugly whoreson in an enemy army of thousands, all queuing up to gut
you
. You simply don’t have the energy left to resist me. On your guard!’
    Pavo’s limbs roared in protest, but Brutus was poised and ready — no backing out. He sighed, got into a combat stance, and waited.
    The two men began to circle each other. Brutus’ eyes bulged, fixed on him, anvil jaw set like a carving. Pavo locked onto a slight