Midnight Falcon

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.

'Do you know who you'll be fighting?' he asked.

Bane shrugged. 'They told me a name. It means nothing to me.'

'What name?'

'Someone called Falco.'

'Three fights,' said Kail. 'Never been cut.'

Bane seemed uninterested. Then he leaned in towards Kail. 'Why are we meeting them today?' he asked. 'And why are we dressed for battle?'

'Did Rage not tell you?'

'He said we were to share the Warriors' Cup. That we were to drink with our opponents. Why should we drink with people we are going to kill?'

'It is a ritual,' said Kail. 'It shows the crowds that we honour each other, and that there is no hatred in our hearts.' He smiled. 'It also helps sell tickets.'

'Ah,' said Bane. 'That I understand.'

Together the two men walked back to the tent. Out on the Field a trumpet sounded and the crowd fell silent. Two men climbed to the back of a wagon. The first man's voice boomed out, in Turgon, welcoming the citizens. The second spoke moments later, in Keltoi, repeating the message. Then they introduced the first gladiator from Circus Palantes. The warrior, in magnificent armour, strode from the Palantes tent, to stand before a long table upon which were set sixteen golden goblets, filled to the brim with watered wine. Then Polon's name was called out.

The sandy-haired warrior, holding his helm under his arm, stepped up to the table, waving to the crowd.

One by one the names were called. Kail felt a second wave of relief that he was not among them. Falco was called. Kail glanced across the field and saw a tall man stride forward. He moved well. Then came the shout: 'And his opponent, Bane of the Rigante.' A mighty roar went up from the Keltoi section of the crowd. Bane waved to them, then walked across to the table.

Then Vorkas was summoned. Kail felt a ripple of fear as he saw the man. Vorkas was impressive, broad-shouldered and well over six feet tall.

Lastly came Rage. Once again the crowd cheered, but Rage did not acknowledge them. He moved to the table, to stand opposite Vorkas, then each of the warriors raised their goblets, offering a toast to their opponents.

Kail turned away, and trudged back into the Armour Tent.

For Bane the ritual at the Field was baffling almost beyond belief. Enemies were people who sought your death. They were not men you drank a toast to, or shook hands with. He looked at the man opposite him. Falco was lithe and lean, the bones of his face flat, his mouth a thin, tight line. The eyes were light blue, and no fear showed in them. He met Bane's gaze, and seemed about to speak. Then the gladiators around him raised their goblets. 'To valour!' they shouted. Applause rippled from the crowd. Bane tasted the wine. It was sour upon the tongue.

Bane glanced to his right, and saw the mightily muscled Vorkas lean forward. 'By the Stone, you look old and tired,' he told Rage. 'I shall take no joy in killing you. It will be like killing my grandfather.' Rage smiled and said nothing. He sipped his wine, then placed his goblet back on the table. 'And I can see the fear in your eyes,' continued Vorkas.

The toast over, the gladiators moved away from the table. Bane walked alongside Rage. 'You should have broken his face,' he said.

'Why?'

'He insulted you.'

'He was trying to intimidate me. Tell me, what did you notice about your opponent?'

Bane thought about the question. 'He had blue eyes,' he said.

'He was left-handed,' snapped Rage. 'Now let's get out of this armour and go home. There is work to do.'

'I thought we were supposed to walk among the crowds, and let people see us.'

'They have seen us,' said Rage. 'And we have no time for this foolishness.'

An hour later, back at the farmhouse, Rage, carrying two wooden short swords, led Bane out into the training area. Tossing one weapon to Bane he took up a fighting position, feet well apart.

They had practised in this way for some days now, and Bane had learned many secrets. The first was – as Rage explained some days before – that all gladiators have their own rhythms and mannerisms. The longer a fight went on the more of these would be revealed to the man with a keen eye. 'Some men', Rage said, 'will narrow their eyes just before they attack, others will drop a shoulder or lick their lips. These actions are unconscious, but if you read them they will give you a heartbeat's advantage. All the best gladiators take a little time at the start of a bout to learn their opponent's moves.'

'You didn't,' said Bane. 'Octorus told me they beat a drum when you fought, and bet on how many beats it would be before your man died.'

Rage shook his head. 'I used to go to the other circuses and sit in the crowd. I watched future opponents, then I went home and wrote down what I had observed.'

'Have you seen Vorkas before?' Bane had asked.

'No – but I know how he will fight.'

'How?'

'He will seek to extend the bout, wearing me down – a nick here, a cut there. But he won't let it last too long. He won't want people to think he had to struggle against an old man, but he will milk the moment.'

'You don't sound too concerned.'

'I am concerned – but about you, boy. Have you not understood yet why, when we practise, not one of your lunges ever gets through?'

Bane smiled. 'I thought it was because you were too fast and too skilful for me.'

'It is your left hand that gives you away. The fingers flick open just before you lunge.'

'I will work on that.'

'Best to be aware of it, but to let it happen naturally. Falco will begin to read it. Then – at some point in the bout – clench your left fist, hold it closed, then attack. That one moment of misdirection could win it for you.'

Day after day they had worked, and Bane had improved rapidly.

Now Rage stood before him yet again – but this time he was holding the wooden sword in his left hand. 'Attack me,' said the older man. Bane had – or so he believed – begun to read Rage's moves. Moving in suddenly he lunged at Rage's chest. Instead of parrying the blade Rage swayed to his left, and his wooden sword smacked against Bane's right ear. He tumbled forward, righted himself then swung back to face Rage.