and death squads and Nisibisi – a witch and one named Vis.
‘Gilgamesh sat by Enkidu seven days, until a maggot fell from his nose.’ It was
the oldest legend the fighters shared, one from Enlil’s time when the Lord Storm
and Enki (Lord Earth) ruled the world, and a fighter and his friend roamed far.
Crit shrugged and ran a spread hand through feathery hair. ‘Enkidu was dead;
you’re not. Tempus has just gone ahead to prepare our way.’
Niko rolled his head, propped against the whitewashed wall, until he could see
Crit clearly: ‘He followed godsign; I know that look.’
‘Or witchsign.’ Crit squinted, though the light was good, three windows wide and
afternoon sun raying the room. ‘Are you all right – beyond the obvious, I mean?’
‘I lost two partners, too close in time. I’ll mend.’
Let’s hope, Crit thought but didn’t say, watching Niko’s expressionless eyes. ‘I
saw to your mare.’
‘My thanks. And for the bow. Janni’s bier is set for morning. Will you help me
with it? Say the words?’
Crit rose; the operator in him still couldn’t bear to officiate in public, yet
if. he didn’t, he’d never hold these men. ‘With pleasure. Life to you. Stepson.’
‘And to you. Commander.’
And that was that. His first test, passed; Niko and Tempus had shared a special
bond. .
That night, he called them out behind the barracks, ordering a feast to be
served on the training field, a wooden amphitheatre of sorts. By then Straton
had come out to join him, and Strat wasn’t bashful with the mess staff or the
hired help.
Maybe it would work out; maybe together they could make half a Tempus, which was