'There is no point in adopting a fighting pose, Bane,' said Rage softly. 'You are dead. Left-handers are pure poison. They have a great advantage in that most people they fight are right-handed, so they get used to such combat. Whereas their opponents are forced to rethink all their attacking moves.'
'How do I fight him?' asked Bane, rubbing his ear.
'Generally you would attack a left-hander to his right, circling away from his sword arm. But I do not know this man's style. Attack me again.'
For another hour the two men practised. Several times Bane managed to get behind Rage's defence, and once touched the wooden blade to Rage's throat. 'That was good,' said Rage, 'but do not get too cocky. I am not a left-hander. Let us take a break, and then we'll work on a little strategy I've used twice against lefters.'
Inside the farmhouse Rage lit a fire, and the two men ate a light meal of toasted bread and cold beef, washed down with water.
'Are you worried about tomorrow?' asked Bane.
'No. You?'
'No.'
Rage smiled, which was a rare sight. 'Then we are a pair of fools. Have you placed a wager?' Bane shook his head. 'Then you should. You've been given good odds. Four to one.'
'Odds?'
'Do the Rigante not gamble?'
'Aye, we gamble.'
'But not for coin?'
'No. Not in my settlement.'
'I see,' said Rage. 'Well, here we gamble incessantly. The odds merely reflect your perceived chances of success. Four to one means that if you wager one gold coin on yourself, and you win, you'll get four back, plus your original stake. In other words you'll start with one gold coin, and end up with five.'
'What are your odds?' asked Bane.
'Ten to one.'
'Which means that you are considered to have a one in ten chance of surviving?'
'Yes. Vorkas is young and strong.'
'He is also arrogant – and I didn't like him,' said Bane.
'I was arrogant once – so I am a little more forgiving. Now let us get back to work.'
They trained for another hour, then the snow began to fall once more. Bane was tired, but he was grateful to the older warrior for the time spent. As they were finishing their exercises two riders came down the hill. Telors and Polon dismounted, led their horses into the stable, then strolled out to where Bane and Rage waited.
'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.'
Bane's mouth was dry. The door opened and he walked into the sunlight. The noise of the crowd was thunderous. Eleven thousand people were crammed into the stands. Bane halted, and scanned the crowd. He had never seen so many people in one place, and for a moment he was awed by the multitude. The Gath had come in their thousands to watch a Rigante fight a warrior from Stone. Bane drew in a deep breath. The sky above was clear and blue, and there was no breeze. Bane started to walk once more towards the elevated section containing Persis Albitane and his guests. The Gladiators' Gate at the eastern end of the arena opened and Falco stepped out. Bane did not look at him, but kept his eyes on the small group of men in the Owner's Enclosure.
Persis was sitting alongside a thin man in a purple robe, and ranged about them were their guests, the rulers of Goriasa. There were several men in full armour, and Bane took these to be the officers of the garrison. The magistrate, Hulius, was there, and several children were clustered by the front rail. Bane found their presence to be distasteful. Children should not watch while men fought and died.
Putting such thoughts from his mind he approached the Enclosure, and waited for Falco to join him.
Then the two men raised their swords in salute to the guests, and Bane spoke the words Rage had taught him. 'Those who are about to die salute you!' He turned to Falco and offered his hand. The man from Palantes shook it. Then they turned away, walked back to the centre of the arena and waited. Persis rose and signalled the trumpeters. Three notes pealed out.