‘What you are saying is that you surround yourself with future traitors,’ said Rage. ‘This is a perilous way of life, Majesty.’
Bane returned, a white linen towel draped over his shoulder. At that moment a scribe entered, carrying some thirty sheets of blank paper, and a small box containing pens and ink. The man bowed low. Jasaray rose and walked to his desk by the window. ‘You have done me a great service, gentlemen,’ he told Bane and Rage. ‘I shall not forget it. Come to me tomorrow, and ask of me anything. I will grant it. But for now return to your rooms. I will send the surgeon to you.’
Bane was tired as he made his way along the corridor and down the stairs to his own apartments. He had reached the door before he realized Rage was not with him. Inside several of the lanterns had guttered and gone out, but one was still gleaming brightly. There was a jug of oil in one of the closets and Bane refilled and relighted the lanterns before settling himself down on the bed. He was tired now, and the wound in his shoulder burned like fire. An army surgeon entered, followed by Rage. The surgeon, a small, balding man, peered closely at the talon wounds.
These need cleaning,’ he said. ‘The claws of big cats carry some kind of poison. I’ve seen it before on campaigns.’
‘Not the claws,’ said Bane, ‘the fangs. Rotted food clings to them and this infects wounds.’
‘Rotten food,’ said the surgeon scornfully. ‘Where do you tribesmen get such ideas?’
‘A better question might be why do we not suffer infected wounds,’ said Bane. ‘Just stitch it. The flow of blood will have cleaned it.’
‘On your head be it,’ said the surgeon.
The wounds took eleven stitches, and the surgeon also added two stitches to the torn wound in Bane’s side. ‘You need to rest for at least two weeks,’ he said. Bane thanked him and the man left. Rage sat down on the bed.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it may not be the way you planned it, but Voltan is now under sentence of death. Your quest is over.’
Bane looked into the old gladiator’s dark eyes. ‘It will be over when I walk across the arena sand and cut his heart out.’
Rage sighed, and placed his hand on Bane’s uninjured shoulder. ‘You are a fine and brave man, a brilliant swordsman and fearless in combat. But you can’t beat him. He is a freak of nature, big and yet lightning fast. I understand why you needed to see him dead. He killed someone you loved. But he is dead, Bane. Why throw away your life on someone whose fate is already decided?’
‘Because I swore I would kill him. I have lived for nothing else.’
‘I am sorry you feel that way, boy.’ He fell silent for a moment.
‘You never had a father, and I never had a son. I think, in some small way, we have filled a gap in each other’s lives. Like any father, I do not want to see my son die needlessly. Think on what I have said.’
The dungeon walls were damp, the air fetid and clammy. Built to house twenty prisoners at the most, more than fifty were wedged into the dank, airless room. Norwin sat hugging his knees in the corner. Beside him Persis Albitane sat quietly, his face and clothes filthy, a large red abscess upon his neck, his face marked with bruises, a swelling, angry lump over his right eye. Norwin reached out and gripped his friend’s arm. No words were exchanged, but Persis gave a weary smile.
The former slave closed his eyes, recalling the day he and the others had been taken while at a prayer meeting in the woods north of Goriasa. Soldiers had rushed in, carrying clubs and cudgels. Some of the thirty Cultists had tried to run, but they were caught and beaten badly. Then they were bound and hauled off to spend the night in Goriasa’s jail. The following morning they had been brought, en masse, to the Court of Magistrates, where a Crimson Priest had been sitting in the Chair of Judgment. Norwin had looked around, and seen the public gallery packed with people. Some of them he knew were Cultists like himself. Others were simply there for the dubious entertainment of seeing men and women sentenced to death.