'No,' said Persis.
'Perhaps you should. Crowds love to see blood.'
'I know. It is one of the reasons I despise people – myself included. But the Palantes offer would ruin us. We have fifteen gladiators – all of them veterans. Palantes has more than fifty, all of them young and ambitious. Can you imagine what would happen to our old men if we were to pit them against the highly trained young killers of Palantes?'
'The majority of our men would die,' said Norwin coldly. 'Against that we could draw maybe three thousand people, clear all debts, and leave this stadium with enough coin to invest in a truly profitable business.'
'Are you truly that callous, Norwin? Would you sacrifice our people for money?'
The little slave peeled off his sheepskin coat and stood by the fire. 'They are gladiators because they choose to be. Fighting is what they live for, what they know. As matters stand we will not be able to pay any of them winter wages, which means that for the next three months they will be begging work at the docks or the timber yards.'
Persis stared down at the debt papers and sighed. 'I do not want my people killed,' he said.
'They are not your people, Persis. They are performers who work for you.'
'I know that. I also know Rage says he will never take part in another death bout. I don't blame him. He had ten years of it.'
Norwin added several chunks of wood to the fire. 'Rage is getting old, and he wants a pension. This could be his chance. He has money saved. He would bet it all on himself. If he won he could retire.'
'If he won,' said Persis.
'If he didn't, he wouldn't have to worry about a pension,' observed Norwin.
'You are a hard man, but, rightly or wrongly, I care about the people of Crises and their lives.'
'As I said before, they are lives they chose to lead,' pointed out the little man.
'That was true – in the past. But they joined Circus Crises because we do not engage in death bouts.'
Norwin stepped to the table and lifted the first pile of debt papers. 'In Baggia last month,' he said, 'Circus Palantes drew eighteen thousand – and charged double the entrance fee. Everyone wanted to see the fight between Jaxin and Brakus.'
'I know that.'
'Well, at least think about it,' advised Norwin. 'Put it to the gladiators. Let them make the choice.'
'I'll talk to Rage,' said Persis.
Persis Albitane eased his large bulk into the seat and gazed around the vast wooden building. He had never liked visiting Garshon's establishment. It was a haunt, he believed, of robbers and cutthroats. Few Stone citizens gathered here. At the far end of the building a horse auction was being held in a circle of sand, surrounded by tiered wooden seats. Close by several whores were trying to interest newcomers. Their perfume hung in the air, mixing in with the smell of horses, damp straw, and sweat.
The odour was far weaker here in the eating section where several open windows allowed the sea breeze to filter through, and Persis found the aroma of cooking meats more than compensated for the occasional noxious scent from the main hall. There were more than fifty bench tables in the eating section and most were full – a testament to the quality of fare served here. A serving wench approached him, but Persis told her he was waiting for a guest, then sat with his gaze fixed on the double doors.
When Rage arrived he was immediately surrounded by well-wishers, who clapped him on the back as he moved through the throng. Rare to see a man of Stone popular among the Gath, thought Persis. He smiled. Rage, despite his grim features, was a charismatic figure still, with the trademark red silk scarf tied over his shaved dome, his muscular upper frame clothed in a tight-fitting shirt of black satin, beneath a heavy cloak of black wool. He still looked every inch the warrior who had fought eighty duels, thirty-three of them death bouts. Persis had seen the last. It was exactly twelve years ago, and his father, as a birthday treat, had taken him to the Giant Stadium, where, after the horse races, and the tableau, the great gladiator, Rage, was to fight the unbeaten warrior, Jorax. Both men represented the finest circuses of the day, Palantes and Occian. Huge amounts of coin were placed in bets, and the crowd were utterly silent as the two men stepped out into the arena. Persis shivered with pleasure at the memory. Rage had been garbed in the armour of Palantes, bright bronze, his helm embossed with a black eagle. Jorax's helm was iron, polished like silver. Since this was a death bout neither man wore a breastplate. At the centre of the arena slaves had dug out a pit, thirty feet long and twenty wide, which was filled with hot coals. Ten feet above it was a narrow platform on which the men would fight.
They each climbed the steps to the platform, then drew their short swords, and saluted the Lord of the Games. Persis couldn't remember who it was that day, but it might have been Jasaray. The swords were lowered, and trumpets blared out. Both men advanced along the platform and the fight began. The crowd erupted, cheering on their chosen favourite, and Persis was not able to hear the clashing of the weapons, but he saw the bright swords licking out, lunging, parrying, slashing, cutting.
It went on for some minutes, then Jorax slipped and fell to the coals. He rolled across them, the skin of his arms, back and legs blistering badly. Then he scrambled clear. Rage leapt from the platform, clearing the coals. He charged at the stricken man. Jorax defended brilliantly for a little while, then Rage's gladius slipped under his guard, cutting through his right bicep. Jorax dropped his sword, tried to retrieve it with his left hand, but was then punched in the jaw. He fell heavily. Rage's sword touched the base of his opponent's throat, and Jorax lay very still.
The crowd began to bay for the finish, including Persis. 'Death, death, death!' they cried.
Rage had stood for a moment, then he plunged his sword into the sand and strode across the arena.
The crowd erupted in fury, hurling seat cushions at the departing gladiator. He had made a mockery of the fight! The stadium authorities had withheld his purse – six thousand in gold – and all bets were cancelled, while an inquiry was launched. The inquiry found that Rage had besmirched the integrity of gladiatorial combat, and he was fined ten thousand in gold. He paid the fine and announced his retirement from Circus Palantes and the arena.
A year later Jorax was proclaimed Gladiator One, a title he held for three years, before being cut to pieces and killed by Voltan. Rage was offered fabulous sums to return to the arena, and fight the new champion, but he declined them all.
But Rage had returned to the arena several years later, to fight in what were termed Exhibitions of Swordplay and Martial Skills, and for a number of years pulled in good crowds for Circus Crises. Even now several hundred would turn up, just to glimpse Rage in full battle armour.
Persis waved as Rage approached. The tall warrior removed his cloak and eased himself into the seat opposite. Persis looked into his night-dark eyes. 'How are you feeling after your bout? No pulled muscles, I hope?'
'No. No problems.' Rage's voice was deep, and almost musical.
The serving wench returned, bringing a platter of bread and a slab of salted butter. Persis ordered the game platter: wood pigeon, duck and goose, prepared with a raspberry sauce. Rage asked for a rare steak, accompanied by uncooked vegetables.
'What was it you wanted to discuss?' asked Rage, as the girl moved away.
'We have had an offer from Circus Palantes.'
'No death bouts,' said Rage.
Persis fell silent for a moment. 'Circus Crises is almost bankrupt,' he said. 'I do not like the idea of death bouts myself, but I thought I would at least put it to you. You have a one-fifth stake in the circus, and if we do not find a way to draw the crowds that stake will be worthless. How is your farm prospering?'
'It has been a bad year,' said Rage.
'One big crowd – say five thousand or more – and we would clear all debts and make a strong profit. Then I could buy out your stake for a reasonable sum.'
'Some of the others might be interested,' said Rage.
Persis looked away. They could not draw the crowds as well as you.' Steeling himself he looked again into the dark eyes. 'I understand your moral objections to killing, but-'
'You do not understand me at all,' said Rage, without a hint of anger. 'And I do not need your understanding. What have Palantes offered?'
'Five thousand in gold as an agreement fee, but they receive two-thirds of all receipts from the crowd.'
'And the named gladiators?'
'They say they will use only new fighters, no Names – and none of the bouts to figure in the
