‘I did not like the man,’ said Bane. ‘Yet his offer takes me closer to my . . . quest.’
‘Aye, it does that,’ said Rage. ‘They are a disciplined circus, with good trainers and fine facilities: their own bathhouses, masseurs, surgeons. They even have a whorehouse purely for the gladiators and owners. They will rent you a house, and pay for up to four servants and a personal trainer.’
‘You make it sound very tempting,’ said Bane. ‘Now tell me why I should refuse them.’
‘No reason I can think of, boy. You dream of revenge. This will help you to prepare for that day. Either that or you’ll die on the sand.’
‘Circus Palantes wanted you dead,’ Bane reminded him.
‘Aye, they did. But there was no malice in it. No passion whatsoever. Merely a cold desire to make money. Such people do not warrant hate, merely contempt. Were I young again I would not fight for them. We are not, however, talking about me, but about you. You have no reason to despise Palantes. They do what they do. That is their nature.’ Rage moved towards the doorway. ‘Now I need to bathe and get ready to take Cara into the city. You think about what I have said. Discuss it with Persis. I don’t doubt he’ll be here within the hour.’
Two hours later, as Bane returned from a run over the hills, he saw two horses tethered outside the farmhouse. He slowed to a jog and stood for a while, stretching, allowing the cold winter wind to chill the sweat on his skin. Salt from the sweat was stinging the stitched wound in his shoulder, but his headache had cleared. The events of the night before kept returning to haunt him. Why had the Morrigu appeared to him? What was her purpose? But above it all he felt a great sadness for Rage. In the weeks he had known the ageing gladiator Bane had come to regard him highly, had seen him – despite the occasional flashes of bitterness – as a contented man. Now he knew Rage carried an enormous sorrow.
He shivered as the cold cut into his cooling skin and stepped into the kitchen. Girta was there, preparing food for the evening meal.
She gave him a smile and nodded towards the main room. ‘You have two visitors,’ she said. ‘How popular you have become.’ Bane went upstairs, removed his clothes and towelled himself down. Pulling on a fresh pair of leggings and a clean shirt, he tugged on his boots and returned to the ground floor.
Persis Albitane rose as he entered, his fat face beaming. Striding forward he shook hands with Bane. ‘You are looking well, my friend,’ said Persis. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Horath, who is here representing Circus Occian. He was at the stadium yesterday.’
The man was in his early twenties, slim and dark-haired, his brown eyes deep-set. His clothes were expensive: a shirt of heavy grey silk that shone like silver, and black leggings of good wool, edged with glistening leather. At his hip he wore a jewel-encrusted dagger with a golden pommel. Bane accepted the man’s handshake, which was firm and brief, then moved to a chair by the fire. ‘Horath came to see me this morning,’ said Persis. ‘He was enquiring as to your contract with Circus Crises.’
‘I am much in demand, it seems,’ said Bane.
‘Indeed you are, Bane,’ said Horath, returning to his seat. ‘The crowds in Stone would flock to see a Rigante warrior.’
‘What are you offering?’
Horath smiled, and there was genuine humour in it. ‘Whatever Jain offered, plus one gold piece,’ he said.
‘And I suppose Circus Occian will value me highly and treat me like an honoured son?’
This time Horath laughed aloud. ‘There will be those who will tell you exactly that,’ he said. ‘The reality, as I am sure you are aware, is that you will be a valuable commodity and treated as such. When you win you will be lauded and admired, and Circus Occian will become richer. When you lose your body will be cast into a pauper’s pit and you will be forgotten within days. I will then be despatched to find another fighter to replace you.’