‘Keep them back!’ Kai said, and once more he was obeyed. No weapons in hand, but no need for them either – they looked foreboding enough, almost a circle of the dead as they surrounded him, their palms open towards the surging mob. And the crowd beyond seemed to withdraw, the madness passing.
They were moving then, carrying Bahadur away as they might have taken a slain king from the battle, wishing to deny an enemy the prize of the body. Past the emptied bowls of wine and meat, the marked ground of the wrestlers and the feathered targets of the archers, until they came to the tented wagons. Bahadur screamed at the sight of them – some memory, perhaps, of confinement and darkness, that sent him twisting and clawing away. But Arite was the stronger, and she forced him within.
Those white-marked riders there once more at his side, waiting for their orders. And Kai felt for the very first time the weariness of command, when one had no good order to give. When one longed to be told what to do oneself.
‘This man must rest,’ he said. ‘If any of you have wine or honey to give, spare it if you can. Otherwise, go and rest yourselves. Whatever omen he brings, you shall need your sleep to answer it.’
They were gone, and under the light of the moon Kai could see the unpainted faces of those who remained. Then there were shadows moving in the darkness, a pack of men pushing through the crowd. At their head Kai could see Gaevani, the white of the scar across his scalp like a victor’s crown. Beyond him, a figure towered above the rest, the moonlight glittering upon iron and gold, and upon something else, too – a great cape of hair and skin. Zanticus, chieftain of the Wolves of the Steppe, bearing his cloak of scalps.
‘I will speak with this man Bahadur,’ the chieftain said shortly.
‘He speaks to no one tonight,’ said Kai. ‘He may still die before the morning. A chance in a thousand, for him to ride through the land alone so early in the season.’
‘I have always heard him to be a fortunate man.’
‘Does he look lucky to you now?’ Kai snapped.
‘No, he does not.’ The clink of iron, as Zanticus put one hand under his cloak. ‘He has come from the Romans. His words will not wait.’
‘How do you know of that?’
‘You have just told me, of course.’ Zanticus shrugged. ‘But surely it can be guessed. Where else would he have been all winter? Living in a cave like a bear?’
Another scream broke out from the tented wagon behind them, and Gaevani stepped to his chieftain’s side. ‘We shall get no sense from him tonight. I shall ensure we hear his words tomorrow.’
Zanticus grunted. ‘See that you do.’ And he strode away, his bodyguards flocking behind him.
Gaevani lingered behind a moment longer, and for a moment the mocking smile seemed to slip from his lips. ‘You had best get him speaking tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Zanticus will not be patient.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Kai. ‘I will think on it. Now get out of here.’ And one by one, they all wandered away, until Kai was alone.
Everywhere, the fires flickered out, the great bonfire at the heart of the camp gone to embers entirely, the seething pile like a sleeping dragon. And at every shadow that passed the fire, every set of footfalls, his eyes danced up to see who it was that approached. He saw lovers wandering back towards their tents, their arms draped about one another. A weeping mother passed by, a trace of white paint on her cheek, marked there by a last embrace.
He thought to remain there all night, a watchful sentry. But again a keening rose from the tented wagon – not the sound of mourning, the greeting to the dead, but a cry of loss, of the broken. He could not tell if it was Bahadur or his wife, or both. Even when he was kneeling upon the ground, hands to his ears like a child, the sound would not stop.
Running once more, his bowed horseman’s knees aching in pain, tripping and stumbling in the darkness until he found the place where the children slept. They were gathered together around their own little fire, nothing but embers now, wrapped in each other’s arms. All asleep it seemed, save for one – the Roman, bound to the wheels of the cart, once more guarded by children, shivering away from the embers.
The knife was in Kai’s hand before he knew it, as he walked towards the bound man. And the words seemed to fall from his lips of their own accord – softly spoken, for he did not wish to wake the children. ‘I have heard it said that you Romans think of yourselves as one people. That an insult to one is an insult to all. An injury to one is an injury to all. Is it so?’
Lucius nodded. ‘It is so.’
‘If I were to hurt you, it would be to hurt Rome?’
‘It would.’
‘I would like that very much.’
The Roman did not speak – no scratching at the ground with his feet, no worrying at the knotted leather thongs with his teeth, no screaming for help that would not come. He remained quite still, and his eyes alone made a proud answer.
‘You shall not beg?’ said Kai.
‘No.’
‘Never?’
A pause. ‘Never for myself.’
‘Yes. That is as it should be.’
Kai leaned down – even then, when he had almost decided, he was still testing with the quickness of the blade. Perhaps he would have cut that throat if the Roman had flinched or screamed. But instead, the only sound the sharp parting of leather as the bindings fell away.
‘Come closer to the fire,’ he said. ‘Warm enough there, but cold back here.’
Kai did not wait to see what the Roman would do. He picked his way through that rough carpet of sleeping children, until he found a place beside his daughter. He sat down then, one hand upon his sleeping child. He placed the other across his knees and leaned against it, and let the tears come at last.
A moment later, a touch and a weight. A hand upon his shoulder, and with his head down, Kai could pretend it was one of the children who held him close in the darkness.
It was worse to see Bahadur in the daylight.
In the darkness, Kai’s mind had played tricks, shown him what he wanted to see, like a child painting from memory. But there was no hiding the truth of things under the spring light.
The marks of the body were bad enough – the dry, sallow skin, the birdlike bones almost exposed beneath the flesh. Worse was the blankness of the eyes, the way Bahadur would keep pausing during a simple movement. The hand that wandered to a wine cup would stop part of the way there as though he had forgotten what it was he was supposed to be doing, or a hand would scratch ceaselessly at the scalp until it drew blood.
They sat together cross-legged upon the ground, a woven rug laid beneath them – the charred and half-burned one that Kai had taken from their village. And on it were placed the gifts that Kai’s warband had brought like offerings to a king. Clay jars of honey and bowls of blood, scraps of meat and skins of wine. Bahadur ate and drank like one discovering food for the first time, while Kai, Arite, and Lucius waited in silence for him to speak. For that was all Bahadur had said that morning, once he had learned they had a prisoner amongst them. That he wanted the Roman there.
At last, it seemed, Bahadur could eat no more. He closed his eyes, and let the spring sun wash over him. And with his eyes still shut, he said: ‘Those white-faced riders. The ones from many different clans, who brought these gifts. Why do they answer to you?’