‘I don’t know,’ said Bane. ‘Luck?’
The wound in your back is also from a gladius. Were these wounds from the same fight?’
‘Yes.’
‘More than one assailant?’
‘No. Just the one.’
‘He stabbed you first in the back?’
‘No,’ said Bane. ‘Here.’ He tapped at the scar on his hip.
‘Ah, I see. You rushed him. He side-stepped and stabbed you in the back as you went past. Then you tried to turn and fight him and he finished you with a lunge to the chest. Skilled man. Very skilled.’
‘Aye, he was that,’ muttered Bane.
‘A gladiator?’
‘I have been advised to be wary when speaking of. . . my wounds,’ said Bane.
‘Good advice,’ said Rage. ‘All right, put your shirt on, and let’s get to work.’
He took Bane to one of the wooden frames. A round pole had been extended between two supports ten feet above the ground. Rage extended his arms, leapt lightly and hung on the pole. Then he drew himself up until his chin touched the wood. He repeated the move twenty times then dropped to the ground. ‘Now you,’ he said.
Bane found the exercise easy – for the first ten raises. The next five were difficult, the last five excruciating.
For the next hour Rage put him through a series of agonizing routines. Bane completed them all, until, exhausted, he sank to the cold ground.
‘Time for breakfast,’ said Rage.
‘I don’t think I could eat,’ said Bane.
Rage shrugged. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, and wandered into the farmhouse. Bane joined him, and sat quietly while Rage prepared a pan of oats and milk, which he placed on a black iron stove.
‘Why are you still fighting in the arena?’ asked Bane, as the warrior stood over the pan, stirring the contents.
‘Why would I not?’
‘Persis said you earned fabulous sums as a fighter.’
‘Indeed I did. I managed to save almost ten thousand in gold. But it was stripped from me when I quit. All I had left was this farm.’
‘Why did they take your money?’
‘I brought the noble name of gladiatorial combat into disrepute. Now you tell me why you want to become an arena warrior. Glory, riches, revenge?’ He glanced back at the blond-headed young man.
‘Aye. One of those.’
‘I thought so,’ said Rage. ‘You want to find the man who almost killed you, and prove to yourself that you are the better man.’
‘No,’ snapped Bane. ‘I want to kill the whoreson for what he took from me.’
‘Interesting,’ said Rage. ‘But your friend’s advice still remains good. Let us talk no more of it at this time.’
The door opened and a young girl entered the kitchen. Bane judged her to be around thirteen years old, very slim, with long, white-blonde hair. She was wearing a brown cotton nightdress, and she yawned as she moved to the table. ‘Good morning, Grandfather,’ she said sleepily.
‘You slept late, princess,’ said Rage. ‘Did you have nice dreams?’
‘I never remember dreams,’ she said. ‘You know that.’ Then she noticed Bane, and turned towards him. Her eyes were cornflower blue, and very large. Bane smiled at her. She did not respond.
‘Who are you?’ she asked him.
‘I am Bane of the Rigante.’
‘I am Cara,’ she told him, sitting opposite him at the table. ‘You look exhausted.’
‘Indeed I am.’ Bane found her directness both engaging and off-putting.
Rage served the thick porridge into three wooden dishes, which he placed on the table. ‘There is honey, sugar or salt, whichever is your preference,’ he told Bane.
Bane shook his head, and drew a plate towards him.
‘It will be very hot,’ said Cara. ‘Best to leave it for a while. Or add some milk. Otherwise you’ll burn your tongue.’
Bane chuckled and shook his head.
‘Why do you laugh?’ she asked him. ‘Did I say something amusing?’
‘I was just thinking how like your grandfather you are, princess,’ he said.
‘I am not a princess,’ she said sternly. That is just what Grandfather calls me. But you may call me princess, if it pleases you.’
‘Then I shall,’ said Bane. ‘Is your mother still sleeping?’