‘You missed some great fun,’ said the black-bearded Telors. ‘The elephant broke loose of its chains and ran into the crowd. It was last seen heading over the hills, being chased by a dozen Palantes slaves.’
‘Anyone hurt?’ asked Rage.
‘No-one dead,’ put in Polon, with a wide grin. ‘You should have seen the crowd scatter.’
‘You are in a good mood,’ said Rage to Polon.
‘Aye, I am. The man I am to fight has frightened eyes. So I’ve spent the morning wondering how to spend my gold. Telors and I are going into Garshon’s place tonight. Find a couple of whores. You want to come?’
‘No,’ said Rage.
‘It will relax you,’ said Telors.
‘I am relaxed, my friends. And I’ll feel more relaxed when I’m in my bed and sleeping like a babe.’
They stood in silence for a moment, then Telors stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘Well, once more we spit in his eye,’ he said softly.
‘Once more,’ agreed Rage, gripping his hand. Polon also shook hands, then both men returned to their horses and rode from the farm. Rage watched them go.
‘Spit in whose eye?’ asked Bane.
‘Death,’ said Rage.
Bane sat quietly in the windowless Sword Room below the stadium, two lanterns flickering on the wall. Through the doorway he could see the body of Polon. Blood no longer oozed from the gaping wounds in his chest and throat, but it still dripped from the table on which he lay, each drop making a small plopping sound as it struck the pool of dark liquid on the floor below. Polon’s head had lolled to the left, and no-one had closed his dead eyes.
His bout had lasted for some time, and the men then in the Sword Room, Bane, Rage and Telors, had all begun to think Polon might be the first to prove victorious for Circus Orises. Four Crises men had been killed already, their bodies dragged from the arena, carried through the Sword Room, and laid out of sight.
Then the door known as the Gladiators’ Gate had opened, and sunlight poured into the darkness. Two men entered, carrying Polon’s body, laying it on the table in the room beyond. Telors rose, and put on his iron helm. His chest was bare, but a coarse linen bandage had been wrapped around his belly to prevent his guts being spilled to the sand. Rage rose alongside him. The old gladiator said nothing, and the two men shook hands. Then Telors walked out into the light. The two slaves followed him, pulling shut the door, and plunging the room back into gloom.
Another figure entered the room from the rear. It was the surgeon, Landis, a stout, balding man, round-shouldered and bull-necked. He sat quietly, his canvas tool bag beside him.
First came the sound of trumpets, then the roar of the crowd filled the room, and the occasional clash of metal upon metal filtered through to the waiting men. Bane found the situation bizarre. He had fought before. Indeed he had killed before. But always there was passion. Here, in the semi-darkness, there was an unnatural calm, as he sat with the dead. He glanced at Rage, who was now tying his red scarf into place. The big gladiator moved to the far side of the room and began to stretch.
Bane took a deep breath and closed his eyes. There was a huge roar from the crowd, then silence. He became aware that the blood had stopped dripping from the table on which they had laid the dead Polon. Bane rose, put on his burnished helm, and stood quietly. His heart was beating fast, and he felt suddenly breathless.
The door opened, and Telors walked in, removing his helm and hurling it at the far wall. It clanged like a bell as it rolled to the floor. Blood was flowing from several wounds in Telors’s upper arms, and there was a cut just above his left knee. The surgeon rose as Telors entered, and beckoned him through to the back room. Telors strode after him.
Bane drew his short sword. He walked towards the door. Rage’s voice stopped him. ‘Stay focused. Put the crowd from your mind and concentrate on your opponent. Do not use the strategy too quickly.’