It was almost unbearably hot inside, with two charcoal fires burning, and several men beating hammers upon red metal. Bane called out for Octorus, and one of the metalworkers cocked his thumb towards a door at the back of the forge. Bane moved through the forge, sweat beading his brow, and pushed open the door.
Beyond the forge was a gallery, containing armour, helms, and weapons of all kinds, from longswords to axes, lances to pikes. At the far end sat an elderly man, carefully burnishing a handsome helm with gold-edged ear guards.
Bane approached him. The old man looked up. He was still powerfully built, with a bull neck and massive forearms. His eyes were the colour of slate, his hair still dark, his skin wrinkled and dry. 'What do you want?' he asked.
'I need some armour made.'
'Then go back to Goriasa. There are craftsmen there more suited to your pocket.'
'I was told you were the best.'
'I am the best,' said Octorus. 'But the best costs more, and I have no time to waste with poverty-stricken tribesmen.'
Bane laughed. 'Rage told me you were a cantankerous old bastard, but that I should make allowances, in deference to your skill.'
Octorus put aside the helm, laying it gently on a cloth. 'If Rage sent you then you cannot be as poor as you look,' he said. He glanced at Bane's short sword and gave a derisive snort. 'You don't have much judgment, though, judging by the pig sticker you carry.'
'It has served me well so far,' said Bane.
'Aye, fighting other savages who wear no body armour. Three whacks on one of my breastplates and that. . . thing would either be blunted or broken. So, what are you looking for?'
Bane told him. Octorus listened in silence. Then he walked to the western wall, beckoning Bane to follow him. For the next few minutes he pointed out various breastplates and helms, highlighting the strengths and weaknesses of each. 'This one will withstand a thrust from a charging lancer,' he said, 'but it is too heavy for arena work. It would slow you down. This one is light enough for a rider, but would not withstand a prolonged assault by a fighter who knew what he was doing. Well, let's try a few and see how they feel.'
After an hour Bane had settled on a burnished iron helm, an iron breastplate embossed with the shapes of pectoral and solar plexus muscles, a pair of bronze greaves, and an iron sword with a steel edge.
'That will be twenty-five in gold,' said Octorus.
'I didn't think I was buying the forge as well,' muttered Bane, opening his pouch and emptying the contents into the palm of his hand.
'Still time to change your mind,' said Octorus.
Bane smiled. 'I like your work. It is worth the money,' he said, counting out the coins.
'Persis will give you eight back,' said the old man. 'That's what he normally pays, I understand. I'll have the armour sent to you. Now we'll have a drink to celebrate the transaction.'
Octorus took him back through the gallery, and into the house beyond, and the two men sat before a warm fire nursing goblets of uisge.
'So,' said Octorus, 'are you fighting in this crazy death bout?'
'No. Rage says I am not ready.'
Octorus shook his head. 'No-one is ever really ready,' he said. 'I fought twelve such bouts myself. Dry mouth, full bladder. When the gates open and you step out onto the sand you never feel ready.'
'You survived,' Bane pointed out.
'Aye, I survived. Barely. Bastard pierced my lung - just before I opened his throat. I was good, but not great. After that I wasn't even good. Didn't have the wind any more. Lung never really healed properly.' He drained his uisge and refilled the goblet. 'Now Rage was great. Utterly deadly. Never seen a man more focused. Crowds didn't like him at first. He was too fast. Walk out, take the salute, wait for the trumpets, then move in.' Octorus snapped his fingers. 'Then, just like that, his man was dead and Rage was marching back to the exit gate. No entertainment value, you see. Then, of course, people began to bet on just how fast Rage would win. A drummer would sound a slow beat after the trumpet blast, and when the poor bastard facing Rage died a man would call out the number of beats. Don't suppose there'll be a drummer this time.' Octorus shook his head. 'Rage is a fool to go back. You can't hold back the years. They march on, stealing a little from you with every passing season. Has it been announced who is to face him?'
'No,' said Bane.
'It'll be Vorkas.'
'Vorkas?'
'Circus Palantes took him on this season. He's a five-year veteran of the eastern wars. His first death bout was in the spring. He fought a good man - a Name. Killed him fast. Since then he's had around six - maybe seven - death bouts. But he needs a really big kill to become a crowd puller.'
'Why do you think it will be him?'
'He ordered a new gladius from me. Said not to deliver it - he'd pick it up himself. I don't think Vorkas will be coming all the way from Stone just to spectate.'
'Does Rage know this?'
'He may be old, but his mind is sharp enough. He'll have guessed.'
It was snowing heavily when Bane rode the grey from the settlement, and it was growing bitterly cold. Wrapping his cloak around him he eased his mount out onto the road. His face and hands were blue as he reached the last rise above the farmhouse. Glancing down he saw a black speck moving on the distant hillside. It was Rage, running the training route. Bane angled the grey down the hill, dismounted and led him into the stable. Unsaddling him he rubbed him down, then walked him to a stall, forked hay into the feeding trough, and moved back to the house.
Cara was sitting on the windowsill of the main room, watching the snow-covered hillside for signs of Rage. She glanced up as Bane entered. 'You should be fighting - not my grandpa,' she said, her blue eyes angry.
'He would not let me, Cara. And, anyway, without him there would be no fights at all.'
'I know,' she said. 'Circus Palantes want him dead so they can earn more money. I hate them!'
'He's very strong and tough,' said Bane, removing his cloak and hanging it on a peg by the door. 'Perhaps you shouldn't worry so much.' The words sounded lame, but he could think of nothing else to say.
'Grandpa is an old man. He's enormously old. They shouldn't do this to him.' Her face crumpled, and she began to cry. Bane grew increasingly uncomfortable.
'He is a man, and he makes his own decisions,' said Bane.
'He is a great man,' she replied, wiping her eyes, and returning her
gaze to the hills. 'And he's coming back now. I'll make him a tisane. He always has a tisane after training.' Jumping from the sill she ran from the room.
Bane walked to the window and watched as Rage ran into the yard, then slowed, and began to stretch. Stripping off his shirt and leggings he lay down and rolled in the snow, then stood and stretched out his arms. He saw Bane, nodded a greeting, pulled on his leggings and entered the house. Cara brought him a hot tisane, which he sipped in a wide chair by the fire. Cara sat on the arm of the chair, her hand on Rage's shoulder.
'I thought you said this was a rest day,' observed Bane.
'It is for you, boy. But I've been resting all week nursing you along. I needed a good run to clear my head. Did you see Octorus?'
'Yes. He took almost all my coin.'
'You won't regret it. His armour is the finest.' To Cara, he said: 'Would you fetch me something to eat, princess?' She smiled happily and left the room. Rage drained his tisane and rose.
'He said you would be fighting someone named Vorkas.'
'That's no surprise,' said Rage. 'Word has it Palantes are grooming him for next year's Championship.' Removing his red silk headscarf he walked to the window, pushing it open. Scooping some snow from the outer sill he rubbed it over his bald head.
'Is there anything I can do to help you?' asked Bane.
'Help me? In what way?'
'Well, you said I was slowing you down. Perhaps I should train alone.'
Rage was silent for a moment, then he smiled. 'Do not concern yourself, boy. It is not your problem. And I
was only half serious. You are coming along well. I saw you talking to Cara as I ran back. She looked upset.'
'Very upset - and frightened.'
'I'll talk to her.' Rage walked back to his chair and slumped down. He looked dreadfully tired, thought Bane. The young Rigante looked closely at the ageing warrior, seeing the many scars that criss-crossed his arms and upper body.
'I'd be fascinated', said Bane, 'to hear what you're going to say to her. You know you shouldn't be fighting this bout. It is madness.'
'It is all madness, Bane,' said Rage sadly. 'It always was. But I cannot change the way the world works. The farm is almost bankrupt and my stake in Crises is worthless. All I have of worth is my name. The coin I make will ensure a comfortable life for Cara - at least until she is wed. I have named Goren as her guardian, and he will take good care of her.'
'You talk as if you expect to die.'
'I will or I won't - but either way Cara will be protected.'
CHAPTER SIX
Persis Albitane always felt uncomfortable in the presence of Crimson Priests. Not that he had anything to fear, he thought hastily, but they had a knack of making a man feel he did. He glanced at the man, and was unnerved to find the priest staring at him. As with all priests, he had a shaven head and a forked beard, dyed blood red. He was wearing an ankle-length tunic of pale gold, unadorned save for a long pendant of grey stone in a setting of cold iron.
'Are you sure you wouldn't like to sit down?' asked Persis. 'They may be some time yet.'
'I am comfortable, Persis Albitane,' replied the priest. Persis shuddered inwardly at the use of his name.
'So,' he said, forcing a smile. 'Is this your first visit to Goriasa?'
'No. I came in the spring for the arrest of two traitors.'
'Yes, of course. I remember now. And how are things in Stone?'
'Things?'
Persis could feel sweat trickling down his back. 'It is a long time -almost two years - since I was last in the Great City. I was wondering . . .' What was I wondering? he thought, his mind close to panic. How many innocent people have you dragged from their beds to be burned at the stake? What new levels of horror and cruelty have you managed to achieve?
'You were wondering?' prompted the priest.
'One so misses the city,' said Persis, recovering his composure, 'the theatres and dining houses, the parties and gatherings. Time moves on, and one wonders if everything is as it was in the golden rooms of
memory. I always like to hear news from Stone. It lessens the sadness at being so far from home.'
'The city remains beautiful,' said the priest, 'but the cancer of heresy is everywhere, and must be hunted down and cut out.'
'Indeed so,' agreed Persis.
'How many of the Tree Cult thrive in Goriasa?' asked the priest.
'I don't know of any,' lied Persis.
'They are here. I can smell their vileness.'
The door opened and the little slave Norwin entered. Seeing the Priest he bowed low. Then he turned to Persis. 'The Palantes representatives are downstairs,' he said.
Relief swept over the fat circus owner. 'Bring them up,' he told him.
Norwin bowed again to the priest and backed out of the small room. All contracts over one thousand in gold now had to be witnessed by a priest, who then pocketed two per cent of the moneys.
'I understand Rage is to fight again,' said the priest.
'Yes indeed. Are you partial to the games?'
'Bravery is what makes our civilization great,' said the priest. 'It is good for our citizens to see martial courage.'
The door opened once more, and Norwin led two men inside. Both were middle-aged, and wearing expensive clothing, their cloaks edged with ermine. Seeing the priest they bowed. Persis was delighted to see they were as tense as he in the man's presence. Who wouldn't be? he thought. In ten years they had grown from a scholastic order, compiling a history of Stone, to become the most feared organization in the land.
The first of the two men, powerfully built, his long dark hair drawn back into a ponytail, produced two papyrus scrolls, which he handed to Persis. The man bowed. 'The Lord Absicus sends you his greetings. I am Jain, First Slave to Palantes. This is my colleague, Tanyan.'
Even their slaves are better dressed than I, thought Persis, noting the quality of Jain's long, blue woollen tunic, edged with gold, the chest embroidered with an eagle's head in black silk.
Persis offered them seats, then perused the scrolls. They were standard contracts, outlining the amounts payable and the conditions of the day. He read slowly through each of the clauses. Towards the end he hesitated, then looked up at Jain. 'It says here that Circus Crises shall pay the cost of travel and hospitality for the Palantes team. This was not mentioned in our earlier negotiations.'
'That must have been an oversight,' said Jain smoothly.
'The clause will be removed,' said Persis.
'I think not,' said Jain. 'You are receiving a fine sum for your part in this . . . little tourney. The Lord Absicus made it very clear to me that there was to be no change to the contract.'
'Ah well,' said Persis, 'then what can I say?' He looked into Jain's dark eyes and saw the glint of triumph, and the barely masked contempt. Glancing up at the priest Persis gave a rueful smile. 'I am so sorry for wasting your time, sir.' Pushing himself to his feet he gathered up his cloak and walked towards the door.
'Where are you going?' asked Jain.
'To the bathhouse,' said Persis. 'I shall have a long soak and then a massage. Please convey my respects to the Lord Absicus.'
'You haven't signed the contract!'
Persis paused in the doorway. 'There is no contract,' he said. Then he left.
'Wait!' wailed Jain, rising from his chair so fast he knocked it backwards. He scurried after Persis, catching him in the outer corridor. 'Come, come,' he said, 'we are reasonable men. Let us negotiate.'
There is nothing to negotiate,' said Persis. 'Either we walk back in, remove the clause and sign, or I leave.'
Jain leaned in close, and Persis could smell the perfume on his oiled hair. 'Let us be frank, sir. You are in debt and close to insolvency. This contract is a life-saver for you. You do not really want to see it fail.'
'Good-bye,' said Persis, pushing open the outer door, and stepping into the sunshine.
'I agree!' shouted Jain. 'The clause will be removed! Now let us conclude our business.'
Persis stood for a moment, then walked back inside.
Later, when all the visitors had departed, Norwin returned to the office. 'If you were as good at running a circus as you are at negotiating, we wouldn't have found ourselves in this position in the first place,' he said.
'That's teetering on the edge of being a compliment,' said Persis.
'Damn, it wasn't meant to be,' said Norwin. 'Perhaps I phrased it badly.'
Persis grinned at him. Tomorrow you will see that all our debts are paid, the longest to have interest added. We will need goodwill for next season.'
'We'll need more than goodwill,' said Norwin. 'With Rage dead there won't be a Circus Orises. What is wrong with you, Persis? You are a bright, intelligent man. You were a phenomenally successful merchant. Why can you not see that Orises is a doomed venture?'
'I can see it,' said Persis. 'But I can't help it. I love the circus, watching the crowd applaud, seeing the delight on their faces as the horses ride and the athletes compete. I get a greater thrill from this than any I ever experienced making profits. And I dream of seeing this stadium full of people - all cheering.'
Norwin pinched the bridge of his long, thin nose. 'Yes, yes,' he said, 'nice dream. But let us take a long, cool look at the reality. Goriasa is a conquered Keltoi city, inhabited largely by Gath tribesmen, who have little interest in the circus. Our people number less than three thousand. There are simply not enough Stone citizens to fill the stadium. And, as for watching the horses run, need I remind you that Palantes stole our horse-riding acrobats?'
Persis sat lost in thought. 'That's it!' he said suddenly.
'Horse acrobats?'
'No. Filling the stadium. We must put on shows for the Gath. Find something they would want to see.'
'Sheep-shagging springs to mind,' offered Norwin.
'Be serious, my friend,' chided Persis. 'The Keltoi are not the barbarians we pretend them to be. Their metalworking is exquisite, their culture older than ours.'
'I accept that,' said Norwin. 'However, think on this: they are a warrior race, but even when death bouts were common here the Gath did not come in any great numbers.'
'I know. They did not want to pay to watch men of Stone fighting one another. But would they pay to see one of their own fighting a man of Stone to the death?'
Norwin said nothing for a moment. 'Now that is something to consider,' he whispered.
Magistrate Hulius Marani was bored. Not that anyone in the court would notice, for his sharp, hooded eyes appeared to miss nothing, his heavy face holding a serious expression, as he listened - apparently intently - to every shred of evidence. His gaze only occasionally flickered towards the ornate hour-glass and its trickling sand.
He sat and pretended to concentrate on the case before him, where a young Gath farmer was arguing that his lands had been tricked from him by a Stone citizen. The case was well presented, but since the citizen had already paid a large bribe to Hulius the issue was not in doubt. The Gath was an idiot. Hulius had invited him to his home, giving him every opportunity to offer a larger bribe, but the man -like the rest of his barbarous tribe - had no understanding of the manner in which civilized people conducted disputes. He ranted on about justice and foul business practices - just as he was doing now.
Hulius waited for the man to finish his argument - which was only good manners - then found against him. The man shouted abuse, and Hulius ordered the Court Guardians to take him away, sentencing him to twenty lashes for his impertinence.
After the brief excitement boredom settled on him once more, like a shroud.
As Goriasa's First Magistrate - the recipient of one-fifth of all fines paid - Hulius Marani would already have been wealthy, even without the numerous bribes. He had ordered a shipment of fine marble from Turgony so that a suitable house could be constructed for him to the south of the port. He had a loyal wife, a beautiful Gath mistress, and was treated with respect and courtesy wherever he travelled. Which was a far cry from his days as a shipping clerk in Stone, where he had worked all day in a cramped office, earning one-quarter of a silver piece a day. Hulius had laboured for two years before discovering his route to high office and a measure of fame.