Arena by Simon Scarrow Page A

there was a sickening crunch as it crushed his fingers. Pavo winced in pain. The boot ground his fingers underfoot, as if crushing grapes in a wine vat. It rose suddenly, freeing his hand, but Pavo felt himself being lifted off the ground and thrown forward. There was a crashing din as he fell head-first into a stack of pans, pots and clay bowls. His skull jarred as he landed with a thud, and beyond the piercing sound in his ears he could faintly hear Amadocus stomping towards him. Pavo grabbed a bronze pot emptied of gruel and in the same blur of motion he rolled on to his right side and swung it at Amadocus just as the veteran reached down to grab him. Amadocus grunted as the pot clattered against the side of his skull with a hollow thud. He stumbled backwards, dazed and shocked. He shook his head clear and turned to his shocked accomplices.
    ‘Fucking get him!’
    The three other men closed in on Pavo. The middle one rushed at him, a couple of steps ahead of the other two. He had a dense beard and a thickset frame. He swung a roundhouse punch which Pavo jerked away from, and as momentum carried the blow on its trajectory above his head, Pavo lunged at the man and butted him in the middle of his chest. He grunted as the force of the blow sent him stumbling backwards. His comrades stepped out of the way as he tripped over a bench and fell to the ground amid a cacophony of shattering cups and bowls. The man to the right, a gaunt-looking figure with an angular frame and gaps in his front teeth, spun around and grabbed Pavo from behind, wrapping a bony arm around his neck and clamping his other hand to the recruit’s forehead while the third man, a bear of a figure and a head taller than the others, made to unload a punch at his guts.
    Pavo struck first, launching a high kick at the larger man, bending his leg at the knee and aiming at his chest. The man shrieked as the sole of the recruit’s foot thumped into his midriff, winding him and turning him purple in the face. Pavo jerked his shoulders to try and shake off the smaller man, who had him in a headlock, but his grip was surprisingly firm despite his bony physique. Pavo tried backtracking a few steps, building up momentum in his feet in a bid to slam his assailant into the canteen wall and wind him. He heard a crack at his back and the harsh exhalation of breath as his attacker crashed into the canteen wall. But still the man refused to relinquish his grip. Pavo felt himself going faint as the arm constricted his air passage. Ahead of him, the bear-like gang member had recovered from the brutal kick to the stomach and staggered towards him.
    ‘Now I’m going to make you fucking sorry.’
    Then Pavo saw a flicker of movement behind the man.
    ‘That’s enough!’
    Amadocus and his men spun around to see Gurges standing in the corridor, flanked by an exasperated Calamus and a third man Pavo didn’t recognise. This third man was stocky, a little shorter than the doctore, and wore a simple tunic with a pair of leather sandals and a red cloak. The clobber of an off-duty soldier, thought Pavo as he wiped blood from his mouth and eyed the lanista warily.
    ‘What’s going on here?’ Calamus demanded, baring his teeth. He locked his sunken eyes on Amadocus. ‘You. What are you doing out of your cell at this time of night? Explain yourself.’
    Amadocus lowered his eyes deferentially. ‘Sir. I am sorry.’ He twisted his neck towards Pavo. ‘This recruit was causing a disturbance.’
    ‘Is this true, Pavo?’ The doctore turned to face him.
    ‘No!’ the recruit protested. ‘I didn’t—’
    ‘Forget it,’ Gurges interrupted. He gestured to Amadocus and the three other veterans, and shot them a final withering look. ‘Calamus. See these men to their cells. I’ll deal with them later. Pavo and I have a pressing matter to discuss.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ the doctore replied. He marched the veterans through the door one by one. Amadocus was the last to leave. He flashed