The Gladiator

'What now?' Macro bent over the man, hands on hips, as he continued to shout. 'Asleep on my parade ground! You 'orrible little man. Who do you think I am, your bleeding mother come to wake you in the morning?' He kicked him in the ribs.' On your feet!'

Macro snapped upright and continued down the length of the century, which had just returned to the parade ground after he had taken them for a run twice round the city. Having witnessed the fate of the first man in the line, the others hurriedly shuffled to attention, chests heaving as they held their javelins and shields tightly to their bodies and stared straight ahead. Macro, in the chainmail vest, greaves and helmet he had taken from the stores of the Twelfth Hispania, was in far better shape than the men, and breathed easily as he strode down the first line, inspecting the Macedonians with a contemptuous expression. The only man amongst them with the kind of spirit he wanted to see was Atticus, who had turned out to be one of the best recruits Macro had ever encountered: tough, and with a natural talent with weapons. Macro had already earmarked the Greek for promotion to optio.

'I've seen a sewing circle of old women who looked more warlike than you lot! You are pathetic. How in Hades can you look so clapped out after a nice little trot like that? Right then, after javelin practice we'll do it again, and if any man falls out, or fails to stand properly to attention when we get back here, I will kick his arse so hard he'll be coughing his balls up. So help me.'

Macro reached the end of the line, pivoted round and pointed out the ten straw figures fastened to stakes thirty paces away. 'There's your target, one section to each. If you can't hit a still target like that on a nice neat parade ground then you are going to be no fucking use to me on a battlefield soaked in blood and covered in bodies. You will throw your javelins until every man has scored five direct hits. I don't care how long it takes, because I am a patient man and nothing makes me happier than the prospect of spending all evening at javelin practice. Form section lines!'

The men hurriedly shuffled into position. Most sections had fewer than eight men, as some had been lost in the earthquake and others were sick or injured.

'First man!' Macro bellowed.' Make ready your javelin!'

The leading man in each line stepped forward, grasping the javelin in an overhead grip and swinging the throwing arm back. They were using light javelins, more slender than the standard weapon that sometimes doubled as a spear. Macro waited until every man was ready and had had a brief chance to take aim.

'Loose javelins!'

With a grunt each man stepped forward and hurled his javelin.

They arced through the air towards the targets. There was a brief explosion of straw on two of the dummies; three went wide and five failed to make it even as far as the targets.

Macro folded his arms and glared at the men who stood empty-handed. He took a deep, calming breath before he called out,

'That was the most miserable display I have ever seen! Your best chance of survival on the battlefield would be to make the enemy die laughing at your utterly shit efforts. To the back of the line, ladies. Next rank!'

As the practice session wore on, the men failed to improve to anything close to the standard that Macro required of them, much to his exasperation. It was one thing to threaten to keep them at it until they got it right; quite another to have to endure it alongside them.

Some of the men were adept with the javelin, most could hit the target half of the time and a handful were so hopeless that Macro feared they would have missed the dummies even if they stood within spitting distance.

At length he saw Cato making his way out of the nearest city gate and heading towards the parade ground. They exchanged a salute as Cato joined his friend. As another wave of missiles mostly missed their targets, Cato clicked his tongue.

'Glad to see you haven't lost your touch as an instructor.'

'Ha fucking ha,' Macro grumbled. 'What are you here for? Assume you didn't come out here just to take the piss.'

'As if

'Anyway, you're no bloody good with a javelin. Seem to recall that you nearly skewered me that time in Germany '

'I was just a raw recruit then,' Cato responded defensively. 'I've mastered it now, of course.'

'Really?' Macro's eyes twinkled. He turned towards his men.

'Ladies! I am delighted to announce that we have a proper soldier here who is only too happy to show you the art of javelin throwing.'

'Macro...' Cato growled.

'You there!' Macro pointed to the nearest man.' Hand your javelin to Centurion Cato!'

'Macro, I really haven't got time.'

'Bollocks. Let's see who has lost their touch, shall we?' Macro waved a hand invitingly towards the javelin the soldier was holding out.' Be my guest.'