‘I am against it, Toris. But if seven are willing I will be the eighth. One fact needs to be made clear: Circus Orises has made another loss this season, and there will be no moneys to pay winter wages. Now some of you obtained employment at the docks last year, others with the timber men in the high country. This year, with the crop failures, there are some six thousand extra workers seeking employment in the city. Work will not be so easy to find. If the Palantes offer is accepted, every man will be on half wages until the new spring season.’
‘I want no part of it,’ said the thin-faced Goren. ‘I quit the major arenas ten years ago. I knew then that I was no longer as fast or as strong. I would not have lasted another season. Now I’m ten years older, and certainly no faster. I have no wish to die on the sand.’
‘I understand that view,’ said Rage, ‘and I share it. It is eminent good sense. We are none of us here young men . . .’
‘He looks young to me,’ said Polon, pointing to Bane.
‘He’s not ready,’ said Rage, ‘and has no vote in this. You should all, I believe, consider the words of Goren. We are past our best, and Palantes would not have made this offer without first sending scouts to watch us. It is my belief that – should we go ahead with this venture – few will survive to claim the gold. Now let us have a show of hands. How many believe this death bout should be refused?’ He raised his own hand, the move echoed by Goren. All the others sat very still. Bane thought they looked uneasy. Rage lowered his arm. ‘Those for?’ he asked. The thirteen others raised their hands.
‘Very well. Now the question is, who will compete?’
No-one moved. Rage shook his head and smiled. The gesture shamed the fighters.
‘I’ll fight,’ said Polon. ‘The gods know I need the money.’
‘And I,’ said Telors.
Five others raised their hands, including the flat-nosed Toris. ‘I don’t relish begging for winter work again,’ he said.
There was a brief moment of silence, then Telors looked at Rage. ‘Why are you fighting, my brother?’ he asked. ‘The farm may not shower you with gold, but it does keep you fed.’
Rage shrugged. ‘Palantes have a new man they are seeking to promote. They think killing me will enhance his reputation.’
‘Is it pride, then?’ asked Goren. ‘Or do you think you are immortal?’
‘I expect to find out,’ Rage told him.
The conversations went on for a little while, but then Rage dismissed the men and they filed out. Telors was the last to leave. He approached Rage and they shook hands. ‘Not a good day, brother,’ said Telors sadly.
‘Poverty makes fools of us all,’ replied Rage.
When they had gone Rage sat down in a wide chair and drank some cold tisane. Then he glanced at Bane. ‘That’s the reality, boy,’ he said. ‘Menial labour on the docks, or an agonizing death in the arena.’
‘Then why do it?’ asked Bane.
‘It is all they know.’
‘I meant you.’
Rage took a deep breath. ‘Without me there would be no contest. I am still a Name. The man who kills me will become one.’ He leaned back in the chair. ‘Palantes is the largest – and richest – of the circuses. For seventeen of the last twenty years they have owned Gladiator One – the greatest of fighters. I was with Palantes, as was Voltan, and now Brakus. But in order to stay at the top Palantes must acquire new fighters, fit, strong young men. Brakus is close to thirty now, and it is said he was cut badly in his last fight. So, they need to blood young fighters – prepare them for the noise and the crowds, the tension and the fear. What better way than to bring them to border cities and towns, pitting them against old and tired men who have forgotten how to fight for their lives?’
‘You sound bitter.’
‘Aye, I am a little bitter.’ He rubbed his hand across his face, and pulled clear the red silk scarf. He looked older without it, thought Bane. ‘So,’ said Rage, ‘how did you enjoy your first morning?’