‘A man who fights to entertain the crowds at stadiums. Some are former soldiers, some are criminals. They train daily to hone their skills. They can become very wealthy – if they survive. Most don’t.’
‘And it was this training that made Voltan so deadly?’
‘I think he was probably deadly before it. But, yes, the training would have sharpened his skills.’
‘How does one become a gladiator?’ asked Bane.
A cold wind blew across the arena floor, causing snow to flurry over the sand. Persis Albitane heaved his ample frame from his seat high in the Owner’s Enclosure and watched the meagre crowd snaking towards the exits. Less than four hundred people had paid the entrance fee, which meant that, with only two event-days to come, Circus Orises would make a loss for the second year in a row.
Persis was not in a good mood. Debts were mounting, and his own shrinking capital would barely be able to meet them. As the last of the crowd left, the fat man strolled up the main aisle to the small office, unlocked the door, took one look at the huge pile of debt papers on the desk, pulled shut the door, and walked along the corridor to a second, larger room, boasting four couches, six deep hide-filled chairs, and an oak cabinet. A badly painted fresco adorned the walls, showing scenes of racing horses, wrestling bouts and gladiatorial duels. Persis hated the fresco. The artist must have been drunk, he thought. The horses looked like pigs on stilts. He sighed. The fire was not lit, and a west-facing window was banging in the wind, allowing snow to drift across the sill. Persis moved to the window. Down in the harbour of Goriasa he saw three fishing boats heading out into the iron grey of the sea. Better them than me, he thought. In the far distance he could see the white cliffs of the land across the water. Two of his uncles had died there, officers serving Valanus. Another uncle had survived, but he had never been the same man again. His eyes had a haunted, frightened look.
Persis tried to shut the window, but the catch was broken and the wind prised it open once more. Several old wooden gambling tickets were strewn upon the floor. Stooping, Persis plucked one and used it to wedge the window shut. Then he went to a poorly made cabinet by the far wall. Inside were four small jugs. One by one he shook them. The first three were empty, but the fourth contained a little uisge, which he poured into a copper cup. The hospitality room was cold, but the uisge warmed him briefly. He sank down into a chair, stretched out his legs and tried to relax.
‘Happy birthday,’ he told himself, raising the cup. He swore softly, then chuckled. Persis had always believed that by twenty-five he would be fat, rich, and happily settled in a villa on a Turgon hillside, perhaps overlooking a bay. And he might have been, save for this money-sucking enterprise. At eighteen, with the ten gold coins his father had given him, he had invested in a shipment of silk from the east. That doubled his money, and he had bought five shares in a merchant vessel. By the age of twenty he owned three ships outright, and had purchased two warehouses, and a dressmaking operation in Stone. Two years later he had amassed enough coin to buy a small vineyard in Turgony.
Moneylending increased his fortune still further. That is, until he met old Gradine, owner of the Circus Orises in Goriasa. He had loaned the man money, and when he failed to pay Persis had taken a half interest in the stadium and the circus. When Gradine died of a stroke a year later Persis became sole owner. He chuckled to himself. Sole owner of a rundown circus with a mountain of debts and only two assets, the little slave Norwin and the ageing gladiator Rage.
I should have closed it down, he thought.
Instead, in his arrogance, he had travelled from Stone to the Keltoi port city of Goriasa, believing he could make Circus Orises into the gold mine Gradine always prayed it would be: a venture to rival the mighty Circus Palantes.