Arena by Simon Scarrow

upper chest. With his muscles screaming and the blood pounding in his ears, Pavo hefted his shield upwards. There was a nerve-jangling clang as the spear tip clattered into the centre of the shield, iron hammering into bronze. The barbarian howled a Celtic war cry. Then he unleashed a torrent of thrusts and slashes, forcing Pavo to shelter behind his shield. The force the barbarian summoned for each attack stunned Pavo. He gripped the handle for dear life and muttered a prayer to Fortuna to save him as a second thrust of the spear split through the leathered surface of the shield above the boss, showering splinters of wood at his face. Tugging back on the spear, Britomaris kicked the bottom of Pavo’s shield and wrenched his weapon free. The crowd roared in murderous expectation. Out of the corner of his eye Pavo could see the Emperor rising gawkily to his feet, his mouth agape. Pallas wrung his hands, shooting agitated glances across the Emperor to an older freedman sitting opposite.
    Pavo was conscious of the spear tip plummeting towards his chest. A hot wave of anger flushed through him. His reflex was automatic, rolling his body to the right as the spear stabbed the sand. He looked up, saw Britomaris adjusting his aim and stabbing downwards again and desperately rolled to the left, his heart in his mouth as he felt the whoosh of the spear tip skating past his neck and the dull thwack of iron on the sand.
    In the next instant Pavo arched his back up and to the left, driving his sword towards the barbarian in a whirl of motion. Britomaris was still lifting the spear out of the sand as Pavo’s blade pierced his flesh at a spot just below his elbow. The tip glanced off his lower ribs as Pavo wrenched the sword out. The spectators gasped as the barbarian let out a howl like a wolf being skinned alive before whirling towards Pavo and clattering the recruit on the head with the side of his shield. A shard of white light flashed in front of Pavo’s eyes as he dropped to his knees. Blood oozed out of his nostrils. He staggered away from Britomaris. The barbarian let out another animal roar. He cast aside his shield to staunch the blood pulsing from his own wound with his left hand. It landed with a heavy clunk. Britomaris was bleeding, but not heavily. His loincloth glistened as the crimson stain spread. Peeling his hand away from his side, he raised his blood-soaked palm to his face. The icy blue points of his eyes glowered at Pavo. He flashed his teeth at the young man and breathed heavily out of his nostrils. A tense silence hung over the spectators. Britomaris wiped his hand on his thigh and blind rage took over. Ignoring his discarded shield, holding his spear in a two-handed grip with his right hand wrapped under the throat of the oak shaft in front of his chest and his left hand gripping the base tucked close to his side, he charged at Pavo.
    The recruit watched numbly as his opponent stampeded towards him in a lumbering gait, stunned by the way he had shaken off his injury. The horse tails at the back of Britomaris’s helmet flapped wildly. His legs wobbled. He almost lost his footing and stopped. He looked around in a daze at the crowd, as if noticing them for the first time. Growling as he tried to shake his head clear, the barbarian made a renewed charge towards Pavo. He dominated Pavo’s line of vision, blocking out the arena floor and the cries from the galleries baying for blood as the spear tip rushed at him. Drawing closer to Pavo now, the barbarian raised the spear over his head parallel to his right shoulder and prepared to make a final downward thrust with the iron spike attached to the base of the shaft. But his movements had become sluggish and uncoordinated. Slow enough for Pavo to read. The menacing spike snapped Pavo out of his shock. With a drop of his left shoulder he feinted a half-step to the right and then thrust his sword upwards. A crude look of horror briefly flashed across the face of the