Arena by Simon Scarrow

could see that he had the bulbous nose and cauliflower ears of a man who had been in his fair share of brawls. He towered over Pavo, his eyes glinting. The recruit was dimly aware of three more veterans behind Amadocus. The Thracian stood his ground while the other men slowly circled Pavo, breathing heavily through their nostrils.
    ‘Let me through,’ Pavo said.
    Amadocus stood his ground. Pavo could hear the three other men at his back. ‘Son of a legate, they say. Military tribune. Pah!’ He flicked his eyes up at Pavo. ‘I fucking hate Romans. And if there’s one thing I hate more than Romans, it’s Roman soldiers.’
    Pavo looked around. The canteen was empty. The rest of the gladiators and the servants had left. There was no one to help him.
    ‘I saw you at the palus today, Roman. And I tell you, there’s only one thing worse than a Roman soldier. Any idea what that is?’
    ‘No.’ Pavo shrugged. He saw that Amadocus had balled his right hand into a fist. He took a step back from Pavo and grinned at the other three men.
    ‘He doesn’t know, lads,’ Amadocus said as his accomplices steered back behind the enlarged shoulders of the veteran. They laughed meanly and glared at Pavo, and the recruit craned his neck past Amadocus as he tried to catch sight of the guards. They had disappeared, and Pavo had an awful feeling that they had abandoned their post on purpose.
    ‘A Roman soldier who’s a show-off, that’s what,’ Amadocus went on, staring viciously at Pavo. ‘Just because you can hit a bit of wood, don’t go around thinking you’re a gladiator. You have to earn this in blood.’ The veteran raised his left wrist to reveal a reddish ‘G’, representing the house of Gurges, branded on his flesh. Pavo had noticed that all of the veteran gladiators sported the same brand. He had overheard another recruit explain that to receive a branding was an honour bestowed only when a trainee gladiator triumphed in the arena and became a veteran.
    The recruit said nothing. Amadocus chuckled as he cupped his hand to his ear and turned it towards Pavo.
    ‘What’s that, Roman? Something to say?’
    Pavo still said nothing.
    ‘That’s what I thought.’ Amadocus clucked as he stepped closer. Pavo could smell the foul breath coming off him. ‘A fucking coward. Just like your old man.’
    A hot rage burst inside Pavo. He spat into Amadocus’s face, the thick globule catching him on the forehead, sliding down between his eyes and on to his nose. For a moment the veteran was stunned. He took a step back, his muscles palpitating with anger as he wiped the spit away from his face and studied it in the palm of his hand. His eyes were wide and his brow furrowed, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
    Then he punched Pavo in the stomach. The recruit doubled up in pain and fell forward. Amadocus grabbed him by the nape of his tunic and smashed a knee into his face, the dome of the bone slamming into the bridge of his nose. Agony shot through Pavo’s skull, and he lost his balance abruptly. He dropped to the ground, and a flurry of hard feet to his chest and abdomen winded him further. He rolled on to his front, curling up into a tight ball to shield himself from the repeated wave of blows. Each time he tried scrabbling to his feet, another hit thudded down on the small of his back and struck him like a hammer. His face was smeared with the foul hay that had been raked across the canteen floor. His nostrils were violated by the thick stench of sweat and piss.
    ‘Spit on me, will you!’ Amadocus fumed above the pounding between his temples. ‘I’ll teach you some manners, you little prick!’
    Pavo tried crawling away from Amadocus and the other veterans, his face and hands tarnished with dirt, the salty taste of blood in his mouth. He clawed his way towards the far end of the canteen, towards the trestle tables and the cooking pots filled with gruel. Then a boot plummeted down on to his hand, and