“As you are,” Pandaras said firmly. “And I am your squire, master.”
Pandaras still attended to Yama’s needs, even though they were both prisoners. Each morning and evening, he intercepted the soldiers who brought Yama’s food and carried in the tray himself. Fruit and sweet white wine, raw fish in sauces of chili and hot radish, onion bread and poppy seed rolls, flat breads stuffed with olives and yellow bean curd and watercress leaves, bowls of sour yogurt, bowls of tea, beakers of cool sherbet. Yama ate very little and drank only water. Each night, Pandaras helped him undress, and each morning laid out fresh clothes for him and drew his bath.
“I am not a soldier,” Yama said. “And that is the problem.”
“But they think that you are a soldier, master. And they will surely kill you for it if you stay here.”
“They think that I am an army, Pandaras. Or a mage, or a kind of machine. A thing to be used, a thing whose ownership is in dispute. They see only what I can do, not what I am. Where in this world can I find peace?” He shook his head and smiled. “Do not worry. They will not kill you. You are my servant, no more and no less. You are not guilty of my crimes. You could walk out of here now if you wanted to.”
“I have already seen something of the cities of the heretics. I didn’t much like them and I doubt that I’ll like this one much either.”
“There are the ruins of the temple,” Yama said. “And there are still orchards and fishing boats, and the shrines on the far shore, by the great falls at the end of the river…”
Yama fell silent. Spots of sunlight filtered by the leaves of the jacaranda tree danced on his white shirt and his long black hair. It would need cutting again, Pandaras thought. And realized that when he cut it, it would be for the last time.
Yama saw his distressed look and said, “Beyond the edge of the world there are floating islands that hang within the falling spray of the river. They are grown over with strange mosses and ferns and bromeliads that thrive in the permanent rainfall. Telmon found a book in the library about them: they are called the Isles of Plenty. Fish with legs live on them, and lizards bigger than a man glide from island to island on membranes spread between their legs.” He gripped Pandaras’s hand and whispered, “The people of the indigenous tribes which inhabit the snowy tundra at the head of the river sometimes find such creatures frozen in the ice flows.” He winked. “The indigenous peoples know much about the secrets of the world because they have not changed since it was created. They learn nothing new, but they forget nothing.”
Pandaras feared Yama at times like this. Something had happened to him when he had been connected to the thing in the pit. It had jangled his brain. All that he knew was still there, but it had been muddled up, as looters might sweep ordered rows of books from the shelves of a library and leave them in heaps on the floor. Pandaras asked the chirurgeons who checked Yama’s health each day to give him some potion or simple that would soothe his mind, but they were interested only in his body. They did not want him to die before he was killed, but they did not care if he was mad.
When Pandaras carried in the tray of food the next morning, setting it down on the floating slab of stone which served as a table, Yama was already awake and sitting by the window. Two soldiers stood outside. The leaves of the jacaranda tree rustled in the sultry breeze. It was an hour past dawn, and already hot. Yama’s shirt was open to the waist, and he was streaming with sweat.
Pandaras mopped his master’s face with a cloth, delicately dabbing around islands and troughs of tight pink scar tissue. He would have to burn the cloth. Presumably in front of Usabio, who had asked Pandaras to collect Yama’s sweat and hair and nail clippings so that they could be sold as souvenirs.
“A few drops of blood could be diluted in a gallon of ox blood,” the warden explained, “and sold a minim at a time. Perspiration can be diluted in water. Let his perspiration be your inspiration. I can arrange it, Pandaras, and make us both rich.”
Pandaras said angrily, “Perhaps we could sell his piss, or his shit.”
Usabio considered this. He said, “No. It is not a question of hygiene, but of myth. Heroes should not be seen to have the functions of ordinary men.”
Yes, Pandaras thought now, he would burn the cloth right under the snake’s nostril slits.
“Enobarbus came to see me,” Yama said. “It seems that they have decided upon a compromise.”
Pandaras leaned out of the window and told the soldiers to take their stink elsewhere. They both laughed, and the younger one said, “Going to plan your escape, eh? Don’t worry. We won’t listen. It would spoil the fun.”
“We’ll go and get some tea,” his companion said. “Might take a few minutes.”
As they sauntered off, the younger soldier turned and called out, “If you’re going to climb over the roof, watch out. The tiles are loose.”
Laughter as both men went down the stairs.
“No one takes me seriously,” Pandaras said. “I have killed men. I could kill those two easily.”
“Then their companions in arms would kill you. I do not want that. There are machines listening to us in any case, and more machines guarding us. The soldiers are bored. They know that they are here only for show.”
“Dismiss the machines. Destroy them.”
“I am done with that, Pandaras. Enobarbus told me that he is still pleading for my life. He wants me to fight alongside him. I refused to help him, of course.”
“It took your power from you, didn’t it? I’m a fool not to have seen it before. Well, I’ve been in worse places than this. I’ll get us out.”
“They will let you go free after the execution. You are here only because you are my servant, as a courtesy to me.”
Pandaras threw over the breakfast tray. It made a loud crash. Mango and pomegranate juice mingled and spread on the glazed blue tiles of the floor. He said, “I will die with you, master.”
“I am not ready to die, Pandaras. But I am ready to move on. You must stay behind. There is something I want you to do. It is a heavy burden, but I know that you are capable of carrying it.”
“I am ready, master.”
“I want you to remember me. I want you to go amongst the indigenous peoples, and tell them about me.”
“I will do it. And I will kill as many of these snakes as I can before they kill you. I will tear down this vile place…”
Pandaras was crying, breathing in great gulps as tears ran down his cheeks and dripped from the point of his chin. A wet patch spread across the front of his gray silk tunic.
“No. Hush. Listen.” Yama dropped his voice; Pandaras had to kneel beside him to hear his words. Yama stroked his small, sleek head, and at last the boy stopped crying. “Listen,” Yama said again. “I want you to live. You can do miracles now, although you do not know it. You kissed the blood from my eyes, and the machines in my blood have changed the machines in yours. I told you about the little machines in all of us, the breath of the Preservers. Those in my blood have been changed, as have those in yours. Just a drop of your blood, Pandaras. In water or in wine. One drop in enough liquid for a hundred people to each take a sip.”
“Usabio wants to sell your blood, master. Perhaps we should allow it.”
“We could not guarantee that it would be drunk,” Yama said seriously. “Do you remember the baby of the mirror people?”