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 cut-throats. 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.