Rage’s eyes narrowed, the only hint of the anger he felt. When he spoke his voice was still even. ‘Of course. They will pitch their best new talent against me, and then they can proclaim him as the man who killed Rage. So much for old loyalties. Does Absicus still own Palantes?’
‘Yes.’
‘He is the man who told me he would value me always. He said I had helped to make Palantes rich, and he was pleased I had survived to retirement. He wished me well – though he offered me no financial support when the games authority stripped me of all savings. Now, for the sake of a few extra coins, he wants to send a young man to kill me.’
‘You are still the best,’ said Persis.
‘Do not speak like an idiot!’ said Rage. ‘I am two years from fifty. I was the best, now I am merely good. In another five years I will be an embarrassment. No man can hold back time, Persis. It eats away at you like a cancer.’
The sound of a scuffle broke out some distance away. Persis swung to see the cause of the commotion. A young, blond tribesman was being attacked by three men. The first of the attackers was felled by a savage right hook, the second grabbed the tribesman, but was thrown by a rolling hip lock. The third smashed a straight left to the tribesman’s face, sending him staggering back. As the attacker moved in to finish him the tribesman leapt forward, taking two more hard blows, but grabbing his attacker’s tunic and hauling him into a sickening head butt. The third man’s knees buckled. At that moment Persis saw the second of the attackers rise from the floor behind the tribesman, a shining dagger in his hand. The circus owner was about to cry out a warning when he saw Rage rise to his feet, a wooden platter in his hand. His arm swept forward. The platter sliced through the air and slammed into the temple of the knifeman, who dropped like a stone.
The blond tribesman knelt by the first of the men and retrieved a pouch. Then he rose and walked across to Rage.
‘Good throw,’ he said. ‘Never thought to see a bread plate used as a weapon.’
‘Now you have,’ said Rage, turning his back on him and returning to his seat. Persis was watching the young man, and saw his face grow pale with anger.
‘I am Persis Albitane,’ he said, rising, and offering his hand. The tribesman hesitated for a moment, then turned towards him, accepting the handshake. Persis saw that his eyes were different colours, one green, the other tawny gold. ‘You fought well.’
‘He fought like an idiot,’ said Rage. ‘Now can we conclude our conversation?’
‘I am beginning to dislike you,’ said the tribesman, turning his attention to Rage.
‘Be still my terrified heart,’ said Rage.
‘Perhaps you would like to step outside, you old bastard, and I’ll show you what terror is,’ said the young man. Persis moved round the table to step between them.
‘Now, now,’ he said. ‘Let us not forget that my friend saved your life. A brawl between the two of you would be unseemly.’
‘Aye, but judging from what I’ve seen it would be short,’ said Rage.
One of the downed men climbed to his feet and rushed at the tribesman, who turned and delivered a bone-crunching left that sent his attacker skidding back across the sawdust-strewn floor. He did not rise.
‘That, at least, showed a little skill,’ said Rage. ‘Nicely timed, the weight coming from the feet, with good follow-through.’
‘So glad you approved,’ muttered the tribesman.
‘It’s not about approval or disapproval, boy. It’s about survival. You just faced three men. You took them out well at first, but the man you threw over your hip was not stunned. You momentarily forgot about him. In a fist fight that could be considered careless. But he had a dagger, and that carries it far beyond carelessness, straight into the realm of stupidity. Now that is an end to the lessons for today.’
The tribesman grinned suddenly. ‘It was a good lesson – and I thank you for it.’ He swung to Persis. ‘My name is Bane,’ he said. ‘I came here looking for you. I have a letter from your uncle, Oranus. He said you would help me to become a gladiator.’