Soon the lamps were out and everyone was sound asleep. Artorius lay on his bunk thinking of all that transpired over the last few days. He had made it to the legion. However, he was not, officially, a soldier yet. He hoped that his training would go fast. The sooner the training was over, the sooner they would be on campaign; and the sooner he could have his revenge.
The next morning they stood tall outside the barracks as Optio Valgus walked up and inspected each one in turn. When he got to Magnus he came unglued.
“Recruit, why in the hell have you shown up for formation with a dirty tunic?” he shouted into Magnus’ ear.
Magnus elected to wear the same tunic he had worn the day before, and it was covered in sweat and dirt.
“Did I not tell you not to come stinking up my parade field?”
“I thought since we were going to be getting dirty this morning anyway, no sense in…” His reply was cut short by a hard smack across the back from the optio’s staff.
“I don’t care if you plan on crawling through pig shit, you will come to my formations washed and with a clean tunic. Do you understand me, recruit?” He gave Magnus another blow across the back to emphasize the point.
Magnus stifled a yelp of pain. “Yes, sir!” As he stood there, shaken, Valgus stuck his face next to his ear.
“So what are you waiting for?” he whispered. “Get out of here and into a fresh tunic. Move!”
Artorius was amazed to see how quickly Magnus was able to run back into the barracks and change into one of his clean tunics. It didn’t seem like even a minute passed before his friend was standing tall before the optio again, albeit looking a little sheepish. Valgus acted as if the whole incident had never happened.
The first week of training consisted of physical training and classes on the principles of Roman warfare. Classroom study was one thing; it would be a different matter to have to execute it first hand. For that, they needed to learn individual weapons drill.
Sergeant Vitruvius was an imposing figure to say the least. He was slightly taller than average and completely bald. His muscles were even bigger than Artorius’, and they looked carved out of stone. Unlike most veterans, his body was conspicuously devoid of any noticeable scars, and he had a voice that could carry over long distances without having to yell. He was a complete professional, taking his assigned duty as chief weapons instructor very seriously. Rome taught her soldiers to fight in lines of battle as a team. It was Vitruvius’ job to make certain that every soldier on that line was an unstoppable killing machine. He possessed a reputation for being extremely strong, incredibly fast with the gladius, and he never missed with the javelin. Every stroke with his weapon was deliberate and precise. In short, he was the perfect killer, and none was better suited to teach men how to kill each other.
“Everyone needs to grab a training shield and gladius from the cart and follow me,” he said to the recruits, pointing out the equipment cart to them.
It was early in the morning, and the sun was just beginning to warm the cold earth.
Artorius picked up the wicker shield and wooden sword and was somewhat surprised. Even with his superior strength, they still felt unusually heavy. He shrugged and followed the instructor to where numerous six-foot poles were sticking out of the ground. They had lines painted horizontally on them at the neck and hip level, and all looked beaten and worn.
“First thing you need to do is assume a good fighting stance,” Vitruvius started. “It must allow for maximum mobility, balance, and power, while at the same time it must be comfortable. Take your shield in your left hand and your gladius in your right. Place your feet about shoulder width apart with your right leg slightly back.” He demonstrated and everyone followed his lead.
“Now, on a service shield there is a metal boss right in the center. Can anyone tell me what that is for?”
“Is it to protect the hand?” Antoninus asked.
“That’s part of it,” Vitruvius answered, “but can anyone tell me its primary use?”
“To smash the enemy in the face,” Artorius said.
“Absolutely right,” Vitruvius replied. “When you make contact with your opponent, the first thing you want to do is throw him off balance. In order to do that, you smack him with the boss on your shield. Now remember, when you punch somebody, you do not want to just use your arm. No matter how strong you are, you’re not going to get maximum effect.” He punched the pole hard to demonstrate. It hardly budged.
“The real source of power,” he continued, “lies in the hips. When you punch, turn your hips into it and draw your power from there. Like this.” With that he slammed his shield into the pole. It rocked violently back and forth, and the recruits thought he might uproot it. “Now you try it.”
The recruits all smacked their shields into the poles. Some found it awkward at first. Vitruvius would check each recruit in turn and make corrections as necessary. For Artorius, it seemed to come naturally. He felt the pole move underneath the force of his blows. He tried to think it was a Germanic warrior; perhaps even the one who killed his brother. He became incensed as he slammed it repeatedly; sweat breaking out on his forehead as he concentrated. He did not even notice Vitruvius was standing next to him until the Sergeant grabbed his shield and almost pulled him down.
“Good power, good intensity. Need to be quicker on the retraction,” Vitruvius told him. He then addressed the group, “Make sure that when you strike, either with the shield or the gladius, you pull back quickly. Your first shot may not throw your opponent off balance right away. If he has an axe or some kind of hooked weapon, he can snag your shield and yank it out of your hand. Or worse, he can pull you off the line completely.”
They continued to practice slamming their shields into their wooden opponents until Vitruvius was satisfied. All the recruits were panting, out of breath. Artorius was breathing heavy, but the exertion felt good. After a few strikes, he let his shield bottom rest on the ground as he caught his breath. He had no sooner set his shield down when he felt a hard sharp pain as he was struck across the back.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” Centurion Macro screamed into his ear, his vine stick held high for another blow.
“Sorry, sir, I just got tired and thought…” Artorius began. Before he could continue, the centurion smacked him across the back of the legs. Pain shot through them and he almost fell to his knees.
“You thought what? That it would be all right if you decide to take a break while a barbarian skewers you like a wild boar? Get your shield back up and strike your target.”
Artorius immediately brought his shield back up and started punching at the stake again. His arm ached, and he was dripping with sweat, yet he dared not set his shield down, lest he incur the centurion’s wrath again. He heard a hard slap and a yelp as he caught another recruit committing the same crime. Their instructor seemed to take the centurion’s beating of recruits as a matter of course.
“Alright, now that you’ve knocked your opponent off balance with a blow from the shield, the next step is to move in and kill the bastard as quickly as possible,” Vitruvius explained. “If you look, you’ll see that the gladius has a sharp point to it and a short blade. That is because it is designed for close combat, and it is primarily used for stabbing. Most barbarians that have swords, like to heft them in an overhead slash. Such fighting styles are practically useless. Anyone know why?”
“Because it shows your intent and gives the enemy time to defend against it,” Magnus answered.
“It is slow and less likely to hit,” Gavius responded.