‘Were you always so contemptuous of your calling?’ Bane asked him.
‘Always,’ Rage told him. ‘And it was not a calling. I went into the arena because it was the only way I could make money. I never learned to love it.’
The snow began to ease around noon, and Bane saddled the grey and followed the directions Rage gave him to the forge of Octorus. It was two miles north of Goriasa, in a small settlement of some twenty stone-built houses, constructed close to a garrison fort. Children were playing in the snow as Bane rode up, hurling snowballs at one another. One sailed close to the grey, who reacted skittishly, and almost slipped on the ice.
‘Sorry,’ yelled a boy with ginger hair. Bane grinned at him and rode the grey into a paddock beside the forge. A young man came out and took charge of the horse, asking Bane if he was staying the night. Bane told him no, then walked into the forge.
It was almost unbearably hot inside, with two charcoal fires burning, and several men beating hammers upon red metal. Bane called out for Octorus, and one of the metalworkers cocked his thumb towards a door at the back of the forge. Bane moved through the forge, sweat beading his brow, and pushed open the door.
Beyond the forge was a gallery, containing armour, helms, and weapons of all kinds, from longswords to axes, lances to pikes. At the far end sat an elderly man, carefully burnishing a handsome helm with gold-edged ear guards.
Bane approached him. The old man looked up. He was still powerfully built, with a bull neck and massive forearms. His eyes were the colour of slate, his hair still dark, his skin wrinkled and dry. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘I need some armour made.’
‘Then go back to Goriasa. There are craftsmen there more suited to your pocket.’
‘I was told you were the best.’
‘I am the best,’ said Octorus. ‘But the best costs more, and I have no time to waste with poverty-stricken tribesmen.’
Bane laughed. ‘Rage told me you were a cantankerous old bastard, but that I should make allowances, in deference to your skill.’
Octorus put aside the helm, laying it gently on a cloth. ‘If Rage sent you then you cannot be as poor as you look,’ he said. He glanced at Bane’s short sword and gave a derisive snort. ‘You don’t have much judgment, though, judging by the pig sticker you carry.’
‘It has served me well so far,’ said Bane.
‘Aye, fighting other savages who wear no body armour. Three whacks on one of my breastplates and that. . . thing would either be blunted or broken. So, what are you looking for?’
Bane told him. Octorus listened in silence. Then he walked to the western wall, beckoning Bane to follow him. For the next few minutes he pointed out various breastplates and helms, highlighting the strengths and weaknesses of each. ‘This one will withstand a thrust from a charging lancer,’ he said, ‘but it is too heavy for arena work. It would slow you down. This one is light enough for a rider, but would not withstand a prolonged assault by a fighter who knew what he was doing. Well, let’s try a few and see how they feel.’
After an hour Bane had settled on a burnished iron helm, an iron breastplate embossed with the shapes of pectoral and solar plexus muscles, a pair of bronze greaves, and an iron sword with a steel edge.
‘That will be twenty-five in gold,’ said Octorus.
‘I didn’t think I was buying the forge as well,’ muttered Bane, opening his pouch and emptying the contents into the palm of his hand.
‘Still time to change your mind,’ said Octorus.
Bane smiled. ‘I like your work. It is worth the money,’ he said, counting out the coins.
‘Persis will give you eight back,’ said the old man. ‘That’s what he normally pays, I understand. I’ll have the armour sent to you. Now we’ll have a drink to celebrate the transaction.’
Octorus took him back through the gallery, and into the house beyond, and the two men sat before a warm fire nursing goblets of uisge.