Saviour of Rome [Gaius Valerius Verrens 7] by Douglas Jackson Page A

of escape would be gone.
    So Cyclops must live – for now.
    That meant Serpentius would have to take risks. Cyclops might be slow, but he was strong as a bull and the Spaniard’s strength had been sapped by the weeks underground. Serpentius’s speed, his greatest asset alongside his skill at arms, would inevitably be slowed by the chains and his movement restricted by the tight confines of the shaft. All these calculations went through his head in the time it took to dance out of range, forcing the crowd of watchers who penned in the two men to back away. A push in the back told him Cyclops might not be working alone, but that would have to wait for now.
    They circled each other warily and he studied the man who faced him with increased concentration. The hammer wielder was plainly bemused at his lack of immediate success, but there was no hint of fear in his eyes. Cyclops truly was enormous, and hard with it. Iron-muscled and not an ounce of surplus flesh on that huge frame. Serpentius noticed the iron rings that decorated the other man’s knuckles and the shine that showed where they’d been deliberately roughened to do more damage.
    Serpentius had killed more opponents in the arena than he could count, but he wasn’t just a killer. Uniquely among warriors, gladiators were encouraged to entertain as they dispensed death. Serpentius killed with a style that had made him the crowd’s favourite. He could make an opponent look a fool or, if he happened to respect him, a worthy fighter who would be allowed to come within a hair’s breadth ofdisembowelling the champion right up to the moment his head rolled in the bloody sand. The hammer, clumsy as it was, presented the greatest danger. One tap on the ankle or knee and he’d be disabled and at the mercy of a killing blow. So.
    As Cyclops raised the hammer in a two-handed grip, Serpentius dropped the pick and swung his chains with all his strength so the heavy links wrapped around his enemy’s wrists. Had it been a lesser man, the brittle bones would have snapped, but Cyclops was made of stronger stuff. All the blow achieved was to numb his hands and forearms so the hammer dropped from nerveless fingers.
    Cyclops roared with frustration. ‘You will pay for that a hundredfold, little mouse.’
    The big man darted in with a flailing punch that would have near taken Serpentius’s head off had it landed, but Serpentius swayed back out of range. By now his mind operated on a level that was almost beyond what he would call ‘self’, allowing instinct to take over from consciousness. It took courage to give up command to something he didn’t truly understand, but that instinct had seen him to victory in countless arena contests.
    Now it had pinpointed a tiny scar, the legacy of an old injury or wound. Nothing was certain and Serpentius would have to get dangerously close, but it offered a definite opportunity. For the moment, though, he must stay clear of the shovel hands that could crush his ribs, tear his arms from their sockets or break his neck with a single twist of the wrist. His keen eyes ranged over the scarred arms and upper torso. He was so drawn to what he saw there that he almost fell to Cyclops’ latest rush, and only just managed to scramble away. The giant grunted in frustration, but the feral grin grew wider.
    ‘Run if you want, little mouse, but you can’t run for ever.’
    For the moment, Serpentius concentrated on staying alive. Yes, he was sure now. But it would have to wait. Patience. This was not the time to attack. Instead, he feinted left, drawing a strike from Cyclops that surprised him with its speed and connected with his upper arm with enough force to numb it.
    A ragged cheer went up from the shadows surrounding them and Serpentius was left in no doubt who the majority of the miners wanted to survive this contest. If that was the product of a glancing blow, just how much damage could Cyclops cause him? Yet something told him the other man