Oranus, and took the other upstairs. Oranus sat quietly in the kitchen eating his breakfast. The eggs were good, and he cut two slices of bread, smearing them thickly with butter.
He felt different today. He had half expected the good feeling he had experienced upon waking to drift away like a dream once the day began, but it was quite the reverse. I feel strong again, he thought. Casting his mind back to the horrors of Cogden Field he found he could view the memories without terror.
Axa returned with an empty plate, and sat at the table opposite him. 'I am sorry, Captain,' she said. 'I feel I was a little harsh earlier. I will do my duty and remain with Bane until he is well.' He glanced at her, saw that her face was flushed.
That is good of you,' he said.
The cleaning women had completed their task as he returned to the bedroom. Bane was asleep again, but he woke as Oranus entered.
'I feel weak as a newborn foal,' said the Rigante.
'Your strength will grow day by day,' said Oranus.
Bane smiled. 'I thank you for your kindness. Do you know what happened to my friend?'
'Friend?'
'I was staying here with Banouin. He's another Rigante. We were travelling to Stone together.'
'No, I have not seen him. I will make enquiries.'
'Tell me, what is a gladiator?'
'A man who fights to entertain the crowds at stadiums. Some are former soldiers, some are criminals. They train daily to hone their skills. They can become very wealthy – if they survive. Most don't.'
'And it was this training that made Voltan so deadly?'
'I think he was probably deadly before it. But, yes, the training would have sharpened his skills.'
'How does one become a gladiator?' asked Bane.
A cold wind blew across the arena floor, causing snow to flurry over the sand. Persis Albitane heaved his ample frame from his seat high in the Owner's Enclosure and watched the meagre crowd snaking towards the exits. Less than four hundred people had paid the entrance fee, which meant that, with only two event-days to come, Circus Orises would make a loss for the second year in a row.
Persis was not in a good mood. Debts were mounting, and his own shrinking capital would barely be able to meet them. As the last of the crowd left, the fat man strolled up the main aisle to the small office, unlocked the door, took one look at the huge pile of debt papers on the desk, pulled shut the door, and walked along the corridor to a second, larger room, boasting four couches, six deep hide-filled chairs, and an oak cabinet. A badly painted fresco adorned the walls, showing scenes of racing horses, wrestling bouts and gladiatorial duels. Persis hated the fresco. The artist must have been drunk, he thought. The horses looked like pigs on stilts. He sighed. The fire was not lit, and a west-facing window was banging in the wind, allowing snow to drift across the sill. Persis moved to the window. Down in the harbour of Goriasa he saw three fishing boats heading out into the iron grey of the sea. Better them than me, he thought. In the far distance he could see the white cliffs of the land across the water. Two of his uncles had died there, officers serving Valanus. Another uncle had survived, but he had never been the same man again. His eyes had a haunted, frightened look.
Persis tried to shut the window, but the catch was broken and the wind prised it open once more. Several old wooden gambling tickets were strewn upon the floor. Stooping, Persis plucked one and used it to wedge the window shut. Then he went to a poorly made cabinet by the far wall. Inside were four small jugs. One by one he shook them. The first three were empty, but the fourth contained a little uisge, which he poured into a copper cup. The hospitality room was cold, but the uisge warmed him briefly. He sank down into a chair, stretched out his legs and tried to relax.
'Happy birthday,' he told himself, raising the cup. He swore softly, then chuckled. Persis had always believed that by twenty-five he would be fat, rich, and happily settled in a villa on a Turgon hillside, perhaps overlooking a bay. And he might have been, save for this money-sucking enterprise. At eighteen, with the ten gold coins his father had given him, he had invested in a shipment of silk from the east. That doubled his money, and he had bought five shares in a merchant vessel. By the age of twenty he owned three ships outright, and had purchased two warehouses, and a dressmaking operation in Stone. Two years later he had amassed enough coin to buy a small vineyard in Turgony.
Moneylending increased his fortune still further. That is, until he met old Gradine, owner of the Circus Orises in Goriasa. He had loaned the man money, and when he failed to pay Persis had taken a half interest in the stadium and the circus. When Gradine died of a stroke a year later Persis became sole owner. He chuckled to himself. Sole owner of a rundown circus with a mountain of debts and only two assets, the little slave Norwin and the ageing gladiator Rage.
I should have closed it down, he thought.
Instead, in his arrogance, he had travelled from Stone to the Keltoi port city of Goriasa, believing he could make Circus Orises into the gold mine Gradine always prayed it would be: a venture to rival the mighty Circus Palantes.
He had known the enterprise was doomed virtually from the beginning, but he carried on, injecting capital, acquiring new acts, paying for repairs to the creaking timber-built stadium. One by one he sold his other profitable interests to finance the project. First to go was the vineyard, then the warehouses, then the ships.
'You are an idiot,' he told himself. Fat and rich by twenty-five! He smiled suddenly and patted his stomach. 'Halfway there,' he said.
A bitterly cold draught was seeping under the door. Rising, Persis emptied the last of the uisge into his cup and walked out into the open.
A team of Gath workers was moving through the stadium, clearing away the litter left by the Stone spectators. A small boy was working close by. Persis saw he was wearing only a thin cotton tunic, and his arms and face were blue with cold. 'Boy!' he called. 'Come here!'
The lad walked shyly towards him. 'Where is your coat?' asked Persis. 'It is too cold to be dressed like this.'
'No coat,' said the boy, his teeth chattering.
'Go below and find my man, Norwin. Tell him Persis says to give you a coat. Understand?'
'Yes, lord.'
Persis watched the boy move away, then returned to his office, where at least a fire was blazing. Sitting at the desk he gazed balefully at the debt papers. There was enough coin left to pay most of the debts, and two reasonably good event-days would see to the rest. But next season was another matter. Persis spent some time going through the papers, organizing them into neat piles. They seemed less threatening stacked in this way.
The door opened and his slave Norwin entered. Just over five feet tall, his grey hair thinning, Norwin shivered with the cold, despite the heavy sheepskin coat he wore.
'Please let this be good news,' said Persis.
The little man grinned. 'The horse-riding acrobats have quit,' he said. 'Circus Palantes have offered them a two-season contract.'
'One day you must explain to me your definition of good news,' said Persis.
'Kalder has a pulled hamstring, and will not be ready to fight for six weeks. By the way, the surgeon says you have not paid his bill, and unless he receives his money in full by tomorrow he will not be available any longer.'
'I've known plagues that were better company than you,' grumbled Persis.
'Oh, and it's good to know we are now in the happy position of being able to give away coats. By tomorrow every beggar and his brother will be at the door. Perhaps we should set up a stall?'
'Tell me,' said Persis, 'did you ever act like a slave? Yes sir, no sir, whatever you desire, sir… that sort of thing?'
'No. I have one year left,' said Norwin, 'and then I shall be free of this indenture, my debts paid. And you will have to offer me a salary. That is if the circus is still operating by then. You know Rage is approaching fifty? How long do you think he will still pull crowds for exhibition fights?'
'Oh, you are a joy today.'
Norwin sighed. 'I am sorry, my friend,' he said. 'We took less than ninety silvers today, and without the horse acrobats we'll take less in future. Have you thought about the Palantes offer?'