dip of Brutus’ right shoulder — he was going to hit his left. Instinctively, Pavo dived, swinging his training sword into what he expected to be Brutus’ unprotected left flank. Instead, Brutus pulled from the faint, easily parrying the wooden blade; Pavo found himself flapping in midair, with both his arms wide out to his side, his neck and chest completely exposed. Fast as lightning, Brutus brought his sword down onto the centre of his chest with little more than a gentle tap.
‘Kill,’ he calmly called as Pavo slapped onto the dust. ‘Not a drop of sweat on my brow either, you’ll notice?’ Pavo again sat up in the dust. ‘As well as by-the-book legionary tactics, you’ve got to be a bit dirty, too, eh?’ Brutus grinned. ‘Spurius and his monkeys will have you for breakfast every single time you fight if you present yourself like that.’
Pavo shuffled up to lean on his elbows at the mention of Spurius. So the sadist centurion did know what was going on.
‘I get it. Any chance of some more tuition?’ He croaked.
‘I’ve got other runts to batter into shape,’ Brutus said, ‘but I’ll teach you what I know. I can’t give you twenty years of legionary warfare experience though. That you’ll have to gain for yourself.’
Pavo pushed himself to his feet up again.
‘Where do we begin?’
‘You should begin by calling it a day. You’ve learned a good first lesson — don’t be a hero — play safe and if you can, be a dirty bugger.’ Brutus scratched his head for a moment, his eyes darting around the sand. ‘You know what I mean…er…a boot in the stones is worth two on the feet…’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pavo nodded. His skin prickled with pride and at the same time he had to suppress a laugh at the centurion’s clumsy metaphor.
‘And get back to cleaning the bogs — I want a pristine setup for my evening turd!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pavo sighed, his shoulders sagging.
Brutus nodded briskly before marching off. Pavo hesitated for a moment before calling after him.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Brutus did not turn or respond.
Pavo strolled from the training yard in the dying light, the slightest hint of support from his centurion and it felt like there was an army behind him. As he approached the latrines, he heard Festus choking — probably cleaning out a particularly fetid latrine. He smiled. Perhaps the whole world wasn’t against him after all.
Chapter 15
Gallus stared at the ornate cutlery. He felt all eyes on him in the cavernous palace hall as he eyed the array of utterly foreign implements flanking the mysterious shellfish in front of him; it seemed like the zenith of the Roman Empire waited with bated breath on his choice.
The Emperor Valens sat at the head of the table, dressed in a purple silk robe, his hair snow white and combed forward in the traditional style, dangling over austere, high arched brows and cobalt eyes. His seat was flanked rather ominously by two standing figures in white tunics, armed with spears and scabbards; the
candidati
, cream of the
palatini
and sworn to defend the emperor to the last. To the right, the aged Bishop Evagrius of Constantinople was seated beside the blubbery Senator Tarquitius. Facing the imperial and ecclesiastical lineup were, along with Gallus, the other representatives of the XI Claudia; Optio Felix, with his beard combed to two perfect points and Nerva, the jowel-faced, shaven headed tribunus, head of the legion. Unlike Gallus, Nerva had turned down the chance to wear full military decoration and instead he wore simple red robes and his usual intense expression on his face — one that always made Gallus a little nervous, given the tribunus’ firebrand reputation. One last figure made up the table; the balding, rotund and ageing dux of Moesia, Vergilius — already glassy eyed and ruddy cheeked from quaffing wine, the crimson blotches contrasting sharply with his sparse and unkempt white locks.
Gallus eyed the dux; upon stepping off the
‘Kill,’ he calmly called as Pavo slapped onto the dust. ‘Not a drop of sweat on my brow either, you’ll notice?’ Pavo again sat up in the dust. ‘As well as by-the-book legionary tactics, you’ve got to be a bit dirty, too, eh?’ Brutus grinned. ‘Spurius and his monkeys will have you for breakfast every single time you fight if you present yourself like that.’
Pavo shuffled up to lean on his elbows at the mention of Spurius. So the sadist centurion did know what was going on.
‘I get it. Any chance of some more tuition?’ He croaked.
‘I’ve got other runts to batter into shape,’ Brutus said, ‘but I’ll teach you what I know. I can’t give you twenty years of legionary warfare experience though. That you’ll have to gain for yourself.’
Pavo pushed himself to his feet up again.
‘Where do we begin?’
‘You should begin by calling it a day. You’ve learned a good first lesson — don’t be a hero — play safe and if you can, be a dirty bugger.’ Brutus scratched his head for a moment, his eyes darting around the sand. ‘You know what I mean…er…a boot in the stones is worth two on the feet…’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pavo nodded. His skin prickled with pride and at the same time he had to suppress a laugh at the centurion’s clumsy metaphor.
‘And get back to cleaning the bogs — I want a pristine setup for my evening turd!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pavo sighed, his shoulders sagging.
Brutus nodded briskly before marching off. Pavo hesitated for a moment before calling after him.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Brutus did not turn or respond.
Pavo strolled from the training yard in the dying light, the slightest hint of support from his centurion and it felt like there was an army behind him. As he approached the latrines, he heard Festus choking — probably cleaning out a particularly fetid latrine. He smiled. Perhaps the whole world wasn’t against him after all.
Chapter 15
Gallus stared at the ornate cutlery. He felt all eyes on him in the cavernous palace hall as he eyed the array of utterly foreign implements flanking the mysterious shellfish in front of him; it seemed like the zenith of the Roman Empire waited with bated breath on his choice.
The Emperor Valens sat at the head of the table, dressed in a purple silk robe, his hair snow white and combed forward in the traditional style, dangling over austere, high arched brows and cobalt eyes. His seat was flanked rather ominously by two standing figures in white tunics, armed with spears and scabbards; the
candidati
, cream of the
palatini
and sworn to defend the emperor to the last. To the right, the aged Bishop Evagrius of Constantinople was seated beside the blubbery Senator Tarquitius. Facing the imperial and ecclesiastical lineup were, along with Gallus, the other representatives of the XI Claudia; Optio Felix, with his beard combed to two perfect points and Nerva, the jowel-faced, shaven headed tribunus, head of the legion. Unlike Gallus, Nerva had turned down the chance to wear full military decoration and instead he wore simple red robes and his usual intense expression on his face — one that always made Gallus a little nervous, given the tribunus’ firebrand reputation. One last figure made up the table; the balding, rotund and ageing dux of Moesia, Vergilius — already glassy eyed and ruddy cheeked from quaffing wine, the crimson blotches contrasting sharply with his sparse and unkempt white locks.
Gallus eyed the dux; upon stepping off the
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