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.
The crowd erupted. Falco attacked. For a single heartbeat Bane did not react, then he parried wildly, spinning away from the ferocious onslaught. Their blades met, again and again. As Rage had predicted, fighting a left-hander was more than difficult, and Bane felt clumsy and uncoordinated.
Screening out the baying of the crowd he focused on his opponent. Falco moved well, always in balance. He was fast, and confident, and Bane was hard pressed to hold him at bay. A part of his mind was filled with gratitude for the training Rage had put him through, for, without it, he would have been dead in moments.
They fought furiously for some while. Neither drew blood in the opening exchanges, as they sought to read each other's moves. Rage had told Bane, over and over again, that a duel was like a dance. It had its own rhythms. Falco dropped his right shoulder and lunged. Bane parried. Falco's right foot lashed out, hooking behind Bane's heel and tripping him. Bane hit the ground hard. Falco rushed in. Bane rolled, his opponent's gladius striking the sand. Bane scrambled to his feet. Blocking another thrust Bane's fist lashed out, striking Falco full in the face and hurling him back. Bane charged – and almost died. Falco, recovering quickly, stabbed out. Bane swayed to his right, slashing his own sword swiftly downwards. The blade clanged against Falco's bronze wrist guard. Falco threw a punch into Bane's belly, and the two men backed away from each other and began to circle.
Bane leapt in, sending a vicious cut towards Falco's throat. Falco swayed away, his gladius licking out and cutting the top of Bane's shoulder. Blood sprayed from the wound, and once more the crowd erupted.
'The beginning of the end,' said Falco. 'I have played with you long enough, savage.'
The Stone gladiator now attacked with renewed frenzy, his sword-work dazzling. Bane stayed cool, blocking every attack, waiting for his moment. Falco's right shoulder dropped. Bane brought his hands together, transferring his gladius to his left. Falco lunged. Bane parried it with his wrist guard. In that fraction of a heartbeat Falco registered the move that would kill him. His eyes widened in terror. The gladius now in Bane's left hand plunged into Falco's unprotected belly, and up through his heart. Falco sagged against his killer. Bane pushed him away, dragging his gladius clear.
Even as Falco hit the sand slaves came running to remove the body and clear away the blood.
Bane raised his bloody sword in the air, and drank in the roars from the mainly Gath crowd. They were delirious with joy. Bane stood for some moments, elation surging through him. Then he cleaned his sword on the sand. The wound on his shoulder was shallow, and Bane had no desire to return to the gloom of the Sword Room. He strode across the arena, the sound of applause in his ears, and climbed to the stands. Men surrounded him, clapping him on the back. Then he turned to see Rage walking across the sand.
All elation drained away from him. He had known the man only a short while, but had come to regard him highly. Now he felt a sense of sick dread. He had not thanked him, nor said good-bye. Nor even wished him good luck.
Rage moved across the arena, his sword sheathed, his helm tucked under his arm, his red scarf bright as blood in the sunlight. From the other side of the arena came Vorkas. Bane stood, hands gripping the front rail, and watched as the two men came together before Persis and his guests. They saluted and drew back.
Rage donned his helm and took up his position. Vorkas faced him. The trumpets sounded.
A heartbeat later Vorkas lay dead upon the sand.
Rage sheathed his sword and walked back to the Sword Room.
The crowd was silent. They stared at the fallen Vorkas, saw the blood pumping from his throat. Bane stood in shock. Even he had not seen the death blow. He replayed the move in his mind. Vorkas had lunged high, Rage had parried. Then the shock of realization struck Bane. Rage had killed Vorkas before the parry. As Vorkas's sword lanced forward Rage had stepped in and slashed through his opponent's throat, the blade continuing its sweep to block the lunge. It was a desperately dangerous manoeuvre.
Some of the Stone citizens in the crowd began to shout their displeasure at the lack of spectacle. Others merely sat, trying to make sense of what they had seen. Bane vaulted down to the arena and ran across the sand. Inside the Sword Room, Rage was removing his wrist guards.
'You were magnificent,' said Bane.
Rage said nothing. Unbuckling his sword belt he dropped it alongside his wrist guards and greaves. Then he loosened his leather kilt and threw it to a nearby seat. 'Are you all right?' asked Bane.
Rage turned to him, his face tight with suppressed emotion. 'Five of my friends are dead, boy.'
'But you are not,' said Bane softly.
'No, I am not.'
'You had that move planned from the beginning, didn't you? You said to yourself that Vorkas would want to extend the fight. He would not open with a lethal attack. So you risked everything on that one strategy.'
'Risk is what we are paid for, Bane. Did you use the switch from right to left?'
'Aye, I did. He saw it too late.'
'Get that cut on your shoulder seen to. Don't let Landis clean it. The blood flow will have done that.'
Telors came into the room, his wounds stitched. The black-bearded warrior gave a weary smile. 'Good to see you alive, my friend,' he told Rage, and the two men gripped hands once more. 'Did you wager on yourself?' asked Rage.
