He glanced at Grassin, watching the man move through a series of loosening exercises. He had to hold back his smile then. Others might believe Grassin was merely stretching tight muscles, but Borcha could read fear in the man’s movements. He focused on the other fighters, staring at them. Few looked his way, and those who did cast fleeting glances, avoiding his eyes.
Losers, all of them, he thought.
He took a deep breath, filling his massive lungs. The air was hot and damp. Signalling to one of his aides, Borcha told the man to open the wide windows at either end of the warehouse. A second aide approached him, ‘There is a yokel who wants to try a turn of the glass with you, Borcha.’ The fighter was irritated and he surreptitiously studied the crowd. All eyes were on him. So the word was already out! He threw back his head and forced a laugh,
‘Who is this man?’
‘A stranger from the mountains. Youngster – around twenty, I’d say.’
‘That explains his stupidity,’ hissed Borcha. No man who had ever seen him fight would relish the prospect of four minutes in the sand circle with the champion of Mashrapur. But still he was annoyed.
Winning involved far more skills than with fists and feet, he knew. It was a complex mix of courage and heart, allied to the planting of the seeds of doubt in the minds of opponents. A man who believed his enemy was invincible had already lost, and Borcha had spent years building such a reputation.
No one in two years had dared to risk a turn of the glass with the champion.
Until now. Which threw up a second problem. Arena fights were without rules: a fighter could legitimately gouge out an opponent’s eyes or, after downing him, stamp upon his neck. Deaths were rare, but not unknown, and many fighters were crippled for life. But Borcha would not be able to use his more deadly array of skills against an unknown youngster. It would suggest he feared the boy.
They’re offering fifteen to one against him surviving,’ whispered the aide.
‘Who is negotiating for him?’
‘Old Thorn.’
‘How much has he wagered?’
‘I’ll find out.’ The man moved away into the crowd.
The tournament organiser, a huge, obese merchant named Bilse, stepped into the sand circle. ‘My friends,’ he bellowed, his fat chins wobbling, ‘welcome to the Blind Corsair. Tonight you will be privileged to witness the finest fist fighters in Mashrapur.’
Borcha closed his mind to the man’s droning voice. He had heard it all before. Five years ago his mood had been different. His wife and son sick from dysentery, the young Borcha had finished his work on the docks and had run all the way to the Corsair to win ten silver pieces in a warm-up contest. To his surprise he had beaten his opponent, and had taken his place in the tournament. That night, after hammering six fighters to defeat, he had taken home sixty golden raq. He had arrived at their rooms triumphant, only to find his son dead and his wife comatose. The best doctor in Mashrapur was summoned. He had insisted Caria be removed to a hospital in the rich northern district – but only after Borcha had parted with all his hard-won gold. There Caria rallied for a while, only to be struck down with consumption.
The treatment over the next two years cost three hundred raq.
And still she died, her body ravaged by sickness.
Borcha’s bitterness was colossal, and he unleashed it in every fight, focusing his hatred and his fury on the men who faced him.
He heard his name called and raised his right arm. The crowd cheered and clapped.
Now he had a house in the northern quarter, built of marble and the finest timber, with terracotta tiles on the roof. Twenty slaves were on hand to do his bidding, and his investments in slaves and silks brought him an income to rival any of the senior merchants. Yet still he fought, the demons of the past driving him on.
Bilse announced that the warm-up contest would begin and Borcha watched as Grassin stepped into the circle to take on a burly dock-worker. The bout lasted barely a few seconds, Grassin lifting the man from his feet with an uppercut. Borcha’s aide approached him. ‘They have wagered around nine silver pieces. Is it important?’
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