Chapter Five
A light snow was falling as Bane walked up the hill. He paused at the crest to gaze down on the L‑shaped white farmhouse below. The young Rigante was nervous and on edge. Persis Albitane had told him to report to Rage just after dawn today, and that the old gladiator would assess whether Bane could join Circus Crises. It had not occurred to Bane that he would have to prove himself. He was a fighter, and had killed men in combat. Surely, he had thought, that was all that was needed. But no. After their meeting Persis had walked with him through the city centre and back to Stadium Crises, explaining that Rage would make the final decision.
‘The man does not like me,’ said Bane, as they sat in the fat man’s small office.
‘Rage does not like anyone,’ put in Persis brightly. ‘Do not let that concern you.’
‘I need to learn the skills of a gladiator,’ said Bane. ‘It is important to me.’
‘Rage will test you fairly, young man. I can assure you of that. Go to his farm early tomorrow – soon after dawn. He will assess your strength, your speed, your endurance, and your fighting skills. If he is satisfied that you have the talent, then we will make an agreement.’
Now, in the early chill of a winter morning, Bane trudged down the slope towards the farmhouse. He did not feel confident. As he approached the building he saw the gladiator emerge from a doorway. Rage was wearing a sleeveless black shirt, a loose pair of black woollen leggings, and thin leather moccasins. The bitter weather did not seem to affect him at all. Just looking at him made Bane feel colder.
Rage offered no greeting. His face was expressionless as he approached the younger man. Gesturing Bane to follow him he strolled to the back of the farmhouse and onto a stretch of snow-covered open land, upon which had been erected a number of curious wooden frames. ‘Do you understand the nature of discipline?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Discipline? I believe so. In war some will be officers and some will be fighting men. It is important for the fighting men to carry out the orders of the officers.’
‘I meant self-discipline,’ said Rage.
‘Giving orders to oneself? I’m not sure what you—’ At that moment Rage struck him, open-handed, in the face. Bane was knocked sideways. For an instant he was paralysed with shock, then fury swept through his system. He hurled himself at Rage, who side-stepped, tripping him to the ground. Bane rolled, and came up fast, his hand reaching for the knife in his belt. Rage stepped in, grabbed his arm and threw him again. Bane hit hard, but rose once more – to see Rage sitting calmly on a wooden bench.
‘Heart and head,’ said Rage softly. ‘It is a difficult balance to find. Without heart and passion a warrior cannot function at his best, but without the head he will not survive. You know why they first called me Rage?’
Bane took a deep breath, fighting to control himself. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to kill this arrogant whoreson. ‘No,’ he said, his hand still hovering over the knife hilt.
‘Because I never get angry. It was a joke, you see. I hold it all in here,’ he said, tapping his broad chest. ‘I stay smooth on the outside, allowing my body to accomplish what it is trained to do.’
‘Good for you,’ said Bane, still trembling with suppressed emotion.
‘Calm down, boy. That’s why I asked about self-discipline,’ said Rage. ‘Without it you’ll fail. I am forty-eight years old, and I just downed you twice. The first time because you were taken unawares, the second time because you reacted with heart but no brain. I know you’ve got nerve. I saw that in Garshon’s hall. I saw also that you have speed and good co-ordination.’ Rage rose to his feet, removed a red silk cloth from the pocket of his black shirt and tied it over his shaved head.
‘I thank you for your compliments,’ said Bane coldly. ‘But I’d like to see you best me now I’m prepared.’