MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell

Hulius looked into the fat face of Persis Albitane. Perhaps there was still a way out. ‘I would think that a loyal citizen of Stone would accede to the wishes of the venerable order of Crimson Priests,’ he said smoothly. ‘You are quite right when you say that the Rigante are not under the jurisdiction of Stone, but equally they are Keltoi, and the spirit of the law is what – I believe – concerns the brother.’ Surely Persis would understand what he was saying. No-one wanted to come under the scrutiny of the Temple. Hulius looked at the man, and saw he was sweating. Then Persis spoke.

‘With respect, Magistrate, there is no such creature as the spirit of the law,’ he said. ‘The laws of Stone are drafted by intelligent, far-seeing men – among them the senior priests of the Crimson Temple. If you believe the law to be carelessly drafted, then you should write to the Council forthwith. However, as has already been established, my request today does not break the law, and I once more submit the name of Bane.’

In that moment Hulius understood the true joys of boredom. To be bored was to be free of danger, far from perilous activities. ‘I agree,’ he said miserably. ‘We will continue with the pledge.’

The Crimson Priest said nothing more, but stalked from the room.

Hulius Marani listened to the pledge, signed the necessary document, added the wax seal of Justice, and rose from his chair.

The day had soured considerably, and he had no desire now to visit his mistress.

Stadium Orises had never looked better, thought Persis, as he strolled out across the fresh sand to the centre of the arena. For two weeks – much to Norwin’s disgust at the expense – carpenters and workmen had been labouring to repair the more run-down sections of the tiered seating areas. The stadium had been hastily constructed eleven years earlier, mostly of timber, supported on stone columns. The original owner, Gradine – a man of limitless ambition and little capital – had not been able to afford the normal embellishments – statues, fresco-decorated areas for the nobility, dining halls, and public urinals. Stadium Crises was, at best, functional. The arena floor was two hundred feet in diameter, surrounded by an eight-foot wall, beyond which were twenty rows of tiered bench seats. Many of these were warped and cracked. Shading his eyes Persis watched the carpenters at work on the last section. The new benches gleamed with linseed oil.

Norwin trudged across the sand to join his master. ‘Well, once more you have managed to battle your way to poverty,’ he said. ‘I have completed the accounts. With most debts paid, half wages for the gladiators throughout the winter, and – assuming we get around three thousand people for the games, with a further thousand in revenue – we will be coinless by the first day of spring.’

‘Spring is a long way off,’ said Persis happily. ‘Look at the stadium, Norwin. It is beginning to look very fine.’

‘Like a seventy-year-old whore, with dyed hair and fresh face paint,’ said Norwin. ‘Anyway, the carriage is here. I told the driver to wait. Are you ready?’

Persis glanced at the sky, which was clear and blue. The day was cold, but not overly so. ‘We should get a good crowd at the Field,’ he said.

‘Of course we’ll get a good crowd,’ said Norwin. ‘It is a free day, and you have spent a fortune on fire breathers, acrobats, jugglers, and food. Of course people will come. But they would have come anyway. Palantes have brought an elephant.’

‘An elephant? Ah, what it must be to have unlimited funds. Can you imagine how many people we could draw if we had an elephant?’

Norwin shook his head. Then he smiled. ‘You are a good, sweet man, Persis, and I love you like a brother. But you lack foresight. How many times does one need to see an elephant before one is bored? If we had such a beast the crowd would come once. After that we would be left with enormous feeding costs. Then there would be trainers and handlers, and special housing for it. Then, with debt collectors stalking us like rabid wolves, I would urge you to sell the creature. You would say no, because you had grown to like it.’

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