Voltan stood alone now, sword in his hand. 'Clever, clever Scholar,' he said. 'I underestimated you.'
'Most men do,' said Jasaray. 'Put down your sword.'
'Perhaps I would prefer to die fighting,' said Voltan.
'Of course you would,' said Jasaray. 'And I will arrange it - if you give me evidence against Nalademus. I will let you die, sword in hand, in the arena, before the crowds. Otherwise I will order my men to take you alive. Your legs and arms will be hacked off, and you will be released, to end your days begging for food as a cripple in the streets. Make your choice!'
'I could just kill you and be done with it,' said Voltan, his pale eyes gleaming.
'You could,' said Jasaray, 'but my order would still stand. Can you see yourself begging for crumbs?'
Voltan stood very still for a moment, then tossed his sword to the floor. Soldiers ran forward, pinning his arms and leading him away.
'Wait!' he said, as they came alongside Rage. 'I need to speak to this man.' The guards glanced back at the emperor, who nodded permission.
'What do you want?' asked Rage.
'Orders have been given to arrest Cultists. Hunt teams will set out at dawn. Get Cara away from the villa.'
'Cara?'
'She is one of them. She was with the Veiled Lady yesterday.'
'Thank you,' said Rage softly.
The guards led Voltan away. Jasaray summoned an officer. 'Secure the palace. Relieve all guards and send them to their barracks. Let no-one know what has happened here tonight. And find me a scribe. I need to send several messages.'
'Yes, Majesty,' replied the man.
'And fetch a surgeon for my young friend here.'
The officer saluted and moved away. Jasaray pushed open the door to his apartments and gestured for Rage and Bane to follow him inside. The emperor seated himself on an elegant couch, beautifully yet simply made, and covered with polished black leather. He leaned back against an embroidered cushion and closed his eyes.
'You must be tired, Majesty,' said Rage. 'Perhaps we should let you rest.'
Jasaray gave a thin smile. 'Not a night for rest. Come, seat yourselves.' He glanced at Bane. 'There are towels in the rear chamber. Cover your wounds. I do not want to get blood on my furniture.'
'Might I ask a question?' enquired Rage, as Bane went off in search of towels.
'Of course, my friend.'
'If you suspected Nalademus of treachery, why did you allow him such power?'
Jasaray thought about the question. 'The answer will be difficult for you to comprehend. You are an honourable man. You do not seek high office or power. Men who do are ruthlessly ambitious. They have great belief in themselves. This is what makes them so effective. Men like that are necessary. No empire can grow without them. They mirror nature, my friend. In the wolf pack there can be only one leader, but around that leader are a score of other males seeking to replace him. I do not blame Nalademus for his treachery. What condemns him is that he failed. Now he will suffer the consequences. However, the man I choose to succeed him will also be utterly ambitious. He too will one day seek to overthrow me. It is the ambition of such men that gives Stone its vitality, and purpose.'
'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.
The prisoners had been herded to stand before the Crimson Priest, and told of their crimes against the state. One man tried to speak, but a Knight cuffed him on the ear, splitting the skin. 'Silence!' roared the Crimson Priest. 'This court has no wish to hear the filthy words of traitors.'
'Why then is it called a court?' came a voice from the gallery. The words hung in the air. Norwin had glanced up at the priest, and seen the shock on his face.
'Who spoke?' he shouted.
'Persis Albitane,' came the response. Norwin was stunned. He looked back to see fat Persis rise from his seat. 'I am a citizen of Stone,' said Persis, 'with full rights and privileges. I see before you at least seven people I know. All are citizens. How dare you suborn the law! In the earliest articles of the city it was laid down that every citizen would have the right to speak in his own defence, and to have others speak for him. You make a mockery of Stone justice.'
The sil
ence in the courtroom was almost palpable. Norwin looked back at the priest. At first it seemed his anger would explode, but then his eyes narrowed and he leaned back in his chair. 'Step forward, Persis Albitane,' he said. 'Step forward and speak on behalf of these traitors.'
Persis did so, easing his large frame past the silent spectators, and moving to stand before the Chair of Judgement.
'I do not know all the defendants,' he began. 'But those I do know have been good citizens, and have never spoken against the emperor, and never sought to bring ills upon the empire. This man', he said, pointing to Norwin, 'is my former slave. He is as good a man as any I have met. I have never known him to lie or to steal, or to show malice against anyone. His crime, as I understand it, is that he and others chose to walk quietly into a wood for the purposes of praying together. To call this a crime is a travesty of justice.'
'It is not called a crime. It is a crime,' said the priest. 'Cultists have been named as traitors by the Stone elder himself, and these views have been enshrined in law. Merely to be a Cultist ensures the sentence of death. Are you a Cultist, Persis Albitane?'
Persis stood very still, and Norwin saw him draw in a deep breath. 'Had you asked me that question a few moments ago I would have told you - with all honesty - that I have never been a Cultist, that I have never attended any of their meetings. But as I look at you and the evil you represent I realize I was wrong to avoid them. I was not a Cultist. But you have convinced me that I should be. And I thank you for it, priest.'
'Condemned out of your own mouth!' shouted the priest. 'And you will die with these other traitors.' Surging to his feet, his face almost as crimson as his beard, he gazed malevolently at the public gallery. 'Does anyone else here wish to speak on behalf of these enemies of Stone?'
No-one had, and the prisoners, including Persis, were herded back to their cells. They were held for three days, then transported in chains to Stone. Norwin and Persis had been separated for most of the journey, and had only been reunited that day, being transported from the dungeons under the Stone Temple to this place beneath the arena of Circus Palantes. One of the guards had taken great delight in telling them of their fate. 'Your teachings say you are to be a light to the world,' he told them, with a wide grin. 'And tomorrow you will be. You will be dressed in oil-soaked rags and nailed by your arms and legs to tall posts set around the arena. Then you will be set afire, my dears. And you will scream and burn.'
'You are a sad man,' Persis had told him. 'And I pity you with all my heart.'
The guard swore and ran at Persis, punching his face and knocking him to the ground. Savagely he kicked the fallen man, then turned and strode from the dungeon. Norwin had helped Persis to sit upright. 'Oh, my friend, what have you done to yourself? You shouldn't be here.'
'No-one should be here, Norwin.'
'Why did you speak up for us? Did you hear the voice of the Source?'
'I heard no voice,' said Persis.
'Then why?'
Persis leaned his head back against the cold rock. 'I have no idea - save that I felt ashamed when I saw what was happening.' He forced a smile. 'Anyway, you would have missed me.'
'Aye, I would have,' said Norwin sadly. 'You are a good man, Persis. A better one than you know.'
Slow hours had passed. The prisoners did not talk to one another, but sat listlessly, each lost in his or her own thoughts. Then the door opened and a young woman was hurled into the dungeon. She landed heavily, striking her head on the floor. Persis and Norwin moved to her side as she struggled to sit. She was young and dark-haired, her face bruised and swollen. Long streaks of blood had stained the back of her dress, and Norwin saw the marks of a whiplash across the top of her shoulders.
'Don't look so holy now, does she?' sneered the guard. 'Without her veil she's just another doxy. Should have heard her scream as the lash fell.'
Persis cradled the woman to him, careful to avoid touching her mutilated back. She lapsed into unconsciousness, her head resting on his chest. There was no water within the dungeon to clean her wounds, no bandages to bind them. But Persis held her to him, and whispered soothing words to her. She curled up against him like a child, and he stroked her hair.
After a while she opened her eyes. 'Who are you?' she whispered.
'Persis Albitane. Rest now.'
'I will rest soon.' He helped her sit, and she slumped against him, her strength all but gone. 'I do not know you, Persis Albitane,' she said.
'Nor I you. It doesn't matter now.'
She fell asleep again. Norwin sat gazing at her in the torchlight. 'She is so young,' he said. 'Little more than a child.'
In the far corner a man began to chant a prayer. One by one the others joined in. When it had finished there was silence in the dungeon once more, but a sense of calm had settled upon them.
'I wish I had time to learn about the Cult,' said Persis. 'It would be nice to know what I was dying for.'
'You'll have plenty of time to learn, my friend,' said Norwin. 'After the burning.'
Nalademus had not slept. He had stalked his apartments throughout the night, his mood alternating between ecstasy and fear. Now the dawn light was bathing the city, and he was tired and irritable. Where was Voltan? Why had he not brought news of Jasaray's death?
Pushing open the doors to his balcony Nalademus stepped outside. The air was sweet and cool, the city stretching out before him, pale and beautiful. This was his day, a day of glory and cleansing. Sixteen months of planning, and the collection of thousands of names. Today would see the Cultists utterly destroyed, and with them the increasingly feeble Jasaray.
His Knights were marching from the barracks, hundreds of them. He watched with pleasure as they moved out into the city, column after column, the officers carrying lists naming traitors. They would be hauled from their beds and dragged back to the Temple. There would be too many for the dungeons, so they would be herded into the Barracks Square, before being transported to the various circus arenas for execution. More and more of his Knights filed out of the barracks. Nalademus watched them with pride. From tomorrow the people of Stone would march towards destiny.
But where was Voltan?
Nalademus stared out along the deserted avenue, hoping to see the Lord of the Stone Knights riding towards the Temple. He swore
loudly, and moved back inside the apartment. One of the lanterns began to gutter, and oily black smoke sputtered from the wick. Nalademus blew it out. On the table were the remains of last night's meal, and an empty jug of wine. He picked up a piece of bread. It was stale now and he hurled it to the floor. His huge stomach rumbled. Calling one of the guards he sent the man to fetch him some food, then slumped down in a wide leather chair, his anger growing. Voltan had been growing increasingly arrogant of late. Soon it would be time to dispense with his services. Not yet, though. With Jasaray's death there was still the risk of civil war.
The guard returned with a plate of cold meats and a fresh jug of wine. 'Send Banouin to me,' said Nalademus, taking the plate, and stuffing a handful of ham into his mouth. Moments later there was a rap at the door, and the slim, dark-haired Rigante entered.
'My heart is pounding,' said Nalademus. 'Prepare me a tisane.'
'The emperor is alive,' said Banouin, his voice soft, almost sorrowful. Nalademus jerked, his great head coming up, his eyes peering at the younger man.
'What do you know of this?'
'Everything, lord. I am a seer. Among my people I would have become a druid. Last night I had a vision. It was one I first had several years ago. My friend Bane was moving through strange corridors, the walls alive and rustling. A beast was stalking him. There was an older man with him - a man I did not know. Now I do. His name is Rage. Last night a group of killers tried to murder the emperor, by releasing a wild beast into the maze in his garden. A huge creature - a striped lion. It had been starved for some time. One of the assassins felled the emperor with a blow to the head, then smeared him with blood, and left him for the lion.
Fortunately for Jasaray my friend Bane, and his comrade, Rage, entered the maze and killed the beast. Then Jasaray summoned his loyal guards and Voltan was arrested.'
Nalademus sat stunned, his mind struggling to grasp what the boy was saying. 'If this happened last night,' he said, 'why have the emperor's guards not come for me?'
Banouin walked past him and stared out over the balcony, where the last of the Knights were marching out into the city. Nalademus heard the sounds of marching feet, and his heart stuttered. Jasaray knew of today's cull. He was waiting for the Temple to empty.
Nalademus stumbled out onto the balcony and shouted at the departing troops. 'Come back!' he yelled. They did not hear him. He stood for a moment, his thick fingers gripping the stone of the balcony rim, his knuckles white. Then he looked into the calm face of the young man beside him. 'What can I do, Banouin?'
Banouin sighed. 'I am going home, lord. Back to my people. I should never have come here.'
'Help me!'
'No-one can help you.' Banouin turned away and moved towards the door. Nalademus lunged out, grabbing Banouin's arm.
'It was you!' screamed Nalademus. 'You betrayed me!' Banouin lifted his hand and touched Nalademus lightly on the chest. The Stone elder's restraining hand spasmed open and Banouin continued to walk towards the door. Nalademus took a deep breath, ready to shout to the guards to kill the boy, to cut him down before his eyes. Banouin looked at him, and Nalademus found his throat constricting. Then the Rigante was gone.
Nalademus, his heart beating wildly, lumbered out onto the balcony. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Out on the avenue he saw a unit of foot soldiers marching towards the barracks, the morning sunlight shining on their silver armour and their white plumes. They were Jasaray's Royal Guards.
Nalademus stepped back, trod on his crimson robe and fell to the floor. He scrambled to his knees then ran to the dining table. Picking up a knife he sawed at his fat wrist. But the blade was too blunt. The Royal Guards came through the gate. Nalademus tore open the door to the outer corridor. There were two of his guards there. 'Give me your sword,' he ordered the first. 'My sword?'