‘Yes, sir.’ The trainee winced as he hauled himself upright and staggered down the training ground, his muscles sagging under the load of the marching yoke, shield and armour. But the fact he had addressed Macro as ‘sir’ told the optio he was getting somewhere with his young charge. Pavo was finally channelling his aggression into the training. Macro nodded to himself in satisfaction as Pavo set off on another lap, a grimly determined look stitched into his features.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of sweat and aggression for Pavo. After twenty laps of the training ground the optio got him to perform a set of nausea-inducing strength exercises beneath the unrelenting sun. Pavo carried out a hundred abdominal crunches and a series of hanging leg raises from wooden posts mounted at head-height at the porticoes on the west side of the training ground. He then practised lumbering two pigs’ bladders loaded with sand, one in each hand, from one end of the training ground to the other. Pavo could hardly move by the end of the session. His muscles were sore and stiff, his veins stretched out like tense rope. Life as a military tribune had been relatively soft on his body compared to the hardships the enlisted soldiers had to endure, and it had been a long time since Pavo had trained with such intensity. But with every drop of sweat and strain of sinew, he began to relish the challenge in front of him. News of Appius had refocused Pavo. Now he vowed to redouble his efforts. If he could not set himself free, he could at least see to it that his infant son avoided the same fate he had endured.

For his part Macro was impressed and a little surprised by the determination and drive of his young charge. He’d never seen a man born into privilege throw himself so hungrily into his labours. The only concern picking away at the back of Macro’s head was Pavo’s damaged hand. The injury had deprived the officer of the chance to size up his charge’s skills at the palus and his natural ability with a sword. With a sigh he realised he’d have to take Murena’s word for it.

‘I swear to the gods, I’ll make a champion of him yet,’ Macro mumbled to himself.