Bane did so. Rage looked at him closely, turning him round and examining his muscle development. 'The biceps and shoulders need work,' he said. 'But you are built for speed and strength. You came from good stock.' He paused and peered closely at the scar on Bane's chest. 'Short sword. Should have pierced the lung and killed you. How did you survive?'

'I don't know,' said Bane. 'Luck?'

'The wound in your back is also from a gladius. Were these wounds from the same fight?'

'Yes.'

'More than one assailant?'

'No. Just the one.'

'He stabbed you first in the back?'

'No,' said Bane. 'Here.' He tapped at the scar on his hip.

'Ah, I see. You rushed him. He side-stepped and stabbed you in the back as you went past. Then you tried to turn and fight him and he finished you with a lunge to the chest. Skilled man. Very skilled.'

'Aye, he was that,' muttered Bane.

'A gladiator?'

'I have been advised to be wary when speaking of . . . my wounds,' said Bane.

'Good advice,' said Rage. 'All right, put your shirt on, and let's get to work.'

He took Bane to one of the wooden frames. A round pole had been extended between two supports ten feet above the ground. Rage extended his arms, leapt lightly and hung on the pole. Then he drew himself up until his chin touched the wood. He repeated the move twenty times then dropped to the ground. 'Now you,' he said.

Bane found the exercise easy – for the first ten raises. The next five were difficult, the last five excruciating.

For the next hour Rage put him through a series of agonizing routines. Bane completed them all, until, exhausted, he sank to the cold ground.

'Time for breakfast,' said Rage.

'I don't think I could eat,' said Bane.

Rage shrugged. 'Suit yourself,' he said, and wandered into the farmhouse. Bane joined him, and sat quietly while Rage prepared a pan of oats and milk, which he placed on a black iron stove.

'Why are you still fighting in the arena?' asked Bane, as the warrior stood over the pan, stirring the contents.

'Why would I not?'

'Persis said you earned fabulous sums as a fighter.'

'Indeed I did. I managed to save almost ten thousand in gold. But it was stripped from me when I quit. All I had left was this farm.'

'Why did they take your money?'

'I brought the noble name of gladiatorial combat into disrepute. Now you tell me why you want to become an arena warrior. Glory, riches, revenge?' He glanced back at the blond-headed young man.

'Aye. One of those.'