"I did consider," Megalos murmurs, "a duel between us. It would be enjoyable on a personal level. I am still very angry with you, Constantine. But your weapon of choice is your mind. You are a very cerebral fellow. It would be a slaughter, without passion or drama. A butchery has no scale. No grandeur." He rolls his shoulders, and gestures to two wooden racks along the bottom wall of the circle. When I first saw this place earlier, with Stella, I thought they were market stalls, folded up for the off days, but now they are open I see rows of glittering edges and hard corners: weapons. All manner of ugly slices of mayhem with suitably traditional flavours: hook knives, swords, clubs and spears, even a trident. I think of Megalos coming at me with a trident, and how unlikely I would be to avoid disembowelling, and feel momentarily glad at that past tense. Yes. Butchery, and nothing he does can be so functional. He needs myth. Good.