'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.