Three days later he had secretly visited Persis Albitane. He had intended to lie about being called back to Stone, following a family bereavement. Instead he had found himself blurting out all his fears. In his shame he had begun to weep. He had always held fat Persis in faint contempt, but on this day he found the man to be more than considerate. Persis had risen from his seat behind the desk, walked round and patted him on the shoulder. ‘You are a good man, Kail,’ he said, ‘and a brave one. You proved your courage in the arena. Now calm yourself. It is no disgrace to know one’s limitations.’ Persis poured him a goblet of wine, then perched himself on the edge of the desk. ‘I do have a plan. I believe the young man, Bane, would like to fight. I shall ask him today. If he agrees I shall tell Rage that you are being replaced. I will not tell him you requested it. No-one need know of our conversation.’
The relief had been total.
But now, sitting in the Armour Tent, Kail felt wretched. The other gladiators were putting on their armour, ready to share the Warriors’ Cup, and several of them had approached him, commiserating with him, telling him how they believed Persis had treated him unfairly, striking him from the team.
Kail sat in the corner, nursing his shame. He saw Rage buckle on his breastplate, and strap his scabbard to his hip. Rage glanced across at him, his face expressionless. Kail looked away. Rage was an old man, and tomorrow he was going to die. But he had not walked away. Even when he had learned he was to face Vorkas. Kail shivered.
He had seen Vorkas a few moments ago, walking with other gladiators from Palantes. The man looked like a lion among wolves. Palantes had said they were bringing no Names – no fighters listed for next season’s Championship. Technically this might be true, but there was still a month to go before registration was needed, and there was no question that Vorkas would be among those listed. Seven successful death bouts, each of them apparently won with ease. People were speaking of him as a new Voltan.
Kail stared down at his hands. ‘Walk with me,’ said Rage. Kail jerked, for he had not heard the big man approach. He rose and followed Rage out into the weak sunlight. Crowds were everywhere and Rage led him to the rear of the tent. ‘You want to talk?’ asked Rage, tying his red silk scarf around his head.
‘What about?’
‘About what is troubling you, Kail.’
Kail closed his eyes. ‘I wish I was more like you,’ he said. ‘But I’m not. Never was, never could be.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘But I do not like to deceive my friends. Everyone’s been telling me how sorry they are that I have been so badly treated. I wasn’t badly treated, Rage. I went to Persis and told him I was too frightened to fight. There! It is said!’
‘Aye,’ whispered Rage. ‘It is said. You think yourself a coward?’
‘I am a coward. Have I not proved it?’
‘You listen to me, Kail, and be sure you understand what I am saying: you are not a coward. If I were beset by foes I would be more than relieved to know you were by my side. And you would be by my side, Kail. For you are a man of honour – a man to be relied upon. But this . . . this farce is not about honour. It is about money. Palantes want their young lions to taste blood – to taste it without too much risk. They have spent huge sums promoting these warriors, and they expect to make – eventually – a hundred times their outlay as a result. Now stop punishing yourself. You hear me?’
Kail nodded. At that moment the young barbarian, Bane, strolled round to the rear of the tent. ‘Persis is asking for you,’ he told Rage. The old gladiator swung on his heel and walked away. Kail looked at the tribesman, noting his new armour. It looked expensive. Kail had never been able to afford such a breastplate and helm.