Bane sprinted up the hillside, hurdling a fallen tree, then slowed to an easy run as he entered the woods. The wounds on his left shoulder and side were healing fast. Rage had removed the stitches yesterday. The two men had – at first – exchanged only a few words.
‘You are still angry with me,’ said Bane, as Rage snipped the last stitch, pulling clear the thread.
‘Not angry,’ said Rage, ‘disappointed.’
‘I think you are wrong. I can beat him.’
Rage had shrugged. That is not the point. You no longer need to fight him, to risk throwing away your life. It is not about revenge now, or justice. It is just vanity. He defeated you, and now you must prove that you are the better man. Life should be worth more than that, Bane.’
The words echoed in his mind as he ran. He couldn’t explain the depth of his feelings to Rage, nor the despair he had felt through most of his young life. Lia had been the rainbow after the storm, the one great chance to change his destiny. When Voltan killed her he had planted a seed of hatred in Bane’s heart, a seed that had flowered and grown. Not a night had passed without Voltan’s face hovering in Bane’s mind as he slipped into sleep. Not a morning had broken without a thought of the merciless gladiator and the blade that had sent Lia’s soul hurtling from the world. For more than two years now the hatred had eaten away at him, and Bane believed it would only pass when he faced the warrior, eye to eye, sword to sword. It was the Rigante way.
Dipping his shoulders Bane powered up yet another hill, then onto a winding path that flowed down into a wooded valley. A low mist drifted across the bracken, and Bane slowed his run, unable to see the ground ahead. The last thing he needed now, a day before the fight, was to twist his ankle on some hidden root or stone. Ahead he saw two men hauling the trunk of a dead tree towards a slope. One was old, with only one arm, the other in his teens. They were struggling with the trunk. A broken branch had wedged itself against a buried rock. The one-armed man chopped off the branch with a hatchet, and they began to pull once more. Bane joined them, grinned at the old man, then took up the end of the rope. The trunk moved more easily now and they hauled it down the slope to a clumsily built cottage beside a stream.
‘My thanks to you,’ said the old man. ‘We would have made it, but by heavens it was quite an effort.’
‘You are Bane,’ said the slim, dark-haired youngster. ‘I saw you fight Dex.’
The older man moved in closer and peered at Bane. ‘Aye, you have the look of a swordsman,’ he said, his voice less friendly.
‘Is it true you are to fight Voltan?’ asked the youngster.
‘Aye, it is true.’
‘I hope you make him die slowly!’
‘That is enough!’ roared the old man. ‘I don’t want to see any man die slow, not even foul creatures like him. There has been more than enough killing already.’
‘How can you say that?’ asked the young man. ‘He was one of those who murdered our friends, took them for burning. He deserves a painful death.’
The older man sat down on the fallen tree, pulled clear the leather cup which covered the stump of his left wrist, and scratched at the scarred and puckered skin. He glanced up at Bane. ‘As I said, our thanks to you. Do not let us keep you from your training.’
Bane stood for a moment, then ran on, heading back up the slope, and off onto an old deer track. As he reached the higher ground he saw the city below him, glistening in the early light. His legs were tired now, his calves burning.
The bathhouse at Circus Occian was open, though the water was not yet heated, and Bane moved through to the new open-air training area, designed by Rage. Several of the younger gladiators were already there, hoisting weights under the supervision of Telors. Bane stretched out his aching muscles, then did some light work on the climbing ropes, hauling himself up to the top of the frame and down several times.