Midnight Falcon

by David Gemmell

  'I dreamt it,' whispered Bane. He fell silent, and Oranus saw that he was sleeping.

  Oranus quietly left the bedside, walked downstairs, paid the stretcher-bearers, and ordered one of them to go to the field hospital and have the surgeon Ralis and a nurse sent to the house. The second man he handed a silver piece and told him to run to the market and buy bread, cheese, milk and fruit. Then he walked out into the garden and stood beneath the awning, staring at the mass of blood on the ground. Bane had been stabbed three times by a master swordsman. One terrible strike had pierced his lung. Of that there was no doubt. The wound in his back should have speared a kidney. And yet Bane was alive, his wounds healing.

  Oranus had heard of the skills of the Keltoi witch women, but had dismissed some of the wilder stories as fantasies. Now he knew differently.

  Returning to the house he walked through to the kitchen. Milk was curdling in a jug, but in the larder there were several eggs. He was about to light the cookfire when he heard people moving around in the hallway. There were four women, all carrying mops and buckets. Oranus remembered ordering the house cleaned and wandered out to them. They were all Cenii women, and they stood staring silently at the blood on the walls, floor and rugs.

  They curtsied as he entered. There is more blood on the upstairs landing,' he said, 'and in the far bedroom.'

  The women stood together, gazing nervously around. 'What is wrong?' asked Oranus. 'It is only blood. It will not harm you.'

  'Is the Old Woman still here, sir?' one of them asked.

  'No, she has gone.'

  'Is she coming back?'

  'I don't know. Who is she?'

  The women remained silent, exchanging glances. The oldest of them, a woman of around fifty, stepped forward. 'The soldiers said a crow was with her. It sat on the wall when she walked into the garden. Is this true, sir?'

  'Aye, there was a crow. Death always brings them.' The women began speaking in Keltoi, a tongue Oranus had never been able to fully master. 'What is the matter with you?' snapped the officer. 'She was a Cenii witch woman, and she saved the young man. Nothing more than that.'

  'Yes, sir,' said the older woman. 'We'll work now.'

  Oranus left them to it and returned to the garden, where he sat awaiting Ralis and the nurse. After a little while he heard a wagon draw up. A young army doctor and a slender, dark-haired young woman entered the gate.

  Oranus stood. 'Where is Ralis?' he asked.

  'He had urgent matters to attend,' said the young man, saluting. 'He has remained at his home today. Where is the dying man?'

  'He's not dying,' said Oranus. 'A witch woman healed him.'

  The young man laughed scornfully. 'Then his wounds could not have been as severe as was thought.'

  'I saw him,' said Oranus, an edge of anger in his voice. 'He was choking on his blood.' He pointed to the bloodsoaked paving. 'That is where he lay.'

  'Yes, sir,' replied the doctor, but Oranus could see the man retained his scepticism.

  'He is upstairs. Examine his wounds.' Turning to the nurse he told her to prepare some food for the injured man.

  'You wish me to stay with him, sir?' she asked stiffly. Her pretty face held a look of cold disdain.

  'Yes I do.'

  'He is a tribesman, is he not?'

  'He is.'

  'I am a citizen of Stone, and should not be required to tend savages. I will stay with him today, but I expect a Cenii woman to be recruited from tomorrow.'

  Oranus knew the young woman. She had been expelled from Stone for illegal prostitution and extortion. Since arriving in Accia, however, she had been a model citizen, attending Temple and working voluntarily in the field hospital. 'It will be as you say,' he told her. 'I am grateful for your assistance. He is a brave young man, who fought to save two citizens of Stone.'

  'Two traitors,' she pointed out.

  'Yes, but he didn't know that. There are some eggs in the kitchen, and some bread. I would be grateful if you could prepare a breakfast for me also.'

  'Of course, Captain,' she said, and walked away.

  The young doctor returned some minutes later. 'As you say, Captain, he is not dying, though he has lost a great deal of blood.' The man chuckled suddenly. 'I heard the cleaning women talking. They believe a Seidh goddess healed him. The Morrigu, they called her. That's obviously the answer, then.' He laughed again. 'I must be getting back.'

  'Thank you for your time, Doctor.'

  'See that he drinks plenty of water, and eats red meat. He should start regaining his strength in a week or so.'

  'I shall.'

  The young man returned to the waiting wagon and Oranus walked back into the house and through to the kitchen. The nurse, Axa, had scrambled some eggs. She served them onto two wooden plates, handed one to Oranus, and took the other upstairs. Oranus sat quietly in the kitchen eating his breakfast. The eggs were good, and he cut two slices of bread, smearing them thickly with butter.

  He felt different today. He had half expected the good feeling he had experienced upon waking to drift away like a dream once the day began, but it was quite the reverse. I feel strong again, he thought. Casting his mind back to the horrors of Cogden Field he found he could view the memories without terror.

  Axa returned with an empty plate, and sat at the table opposite him. 'I am sorry, Captain,' she said. 'I feel I was a little harsh earlier. I will do my duty and remain with Bane until he is well.' He glanced at her, saw that her face was flushed.

  That is good of you,' he said.

  The cleaning women had completed their task as he returned to the bedroom. Bane was asleep again, but he woke as Oranus entered.

  'I feel weak as a newborn foal,' said the Rigante.

  'Your strength will grow day by day,' said Oranus.

  Bane smiled. 'I thank you for your kindness. Do you know what happened to my friend?'

  'Friend?'

  'I was staying here with Banouin. He's another Rigante. We were travelling to Stone together.'

  'No, I have not seen him. I will make enquiries.'

  'Tell me, what is a gladiator?'

  'A man who fights to entertain the crowds at stadiums. Some are former soldiers, some are criminals. They train daily to hone their skills. They can become very wealthy - if they survive. Most don't.'

  'And it was this training that made Voltan so deadly?'

  'I think he was probably deadly before it. But, yes, the training would have sharpened his skills.'

  'How does one become a gladiator?' asked Bane.

  A cold wind blew across the arena floor, causing snow to flurry over the sand. Persis Albitane heaved his ample frame from his seat high in the Owner's Enclosure and watched the meagre crowd snaking towards the exits. Less than four hundred people had paid the entrance fee, which meant that, with only two event-days to come, Circus Orises would make a loss for the second year in a row.

  Persis was not in a good mood. Debts were mounting, and his own shrinking capital would barely be able to meet them. As the last of the crowd left, the fat man strolled up the main aisle to the small office, unlocked the door, took one look at the huge pile of debt papers on the desk, pulled shut the door, and walked along the corridor to a second, larger room, boasting four couches, six deep hide-filled chairs, and an oak cabinet. A badly painted fresco

  adorned the walls, showing scenes of racing horses, wrestling bouts and gladiatorial duels. Persis hated the fresco. The artist must have been drunk, he thought. The horses looked like pigs on stilts. He sighed. The fire was not lit, and a west-facing window was banging in the wind, allowing snow to drift across the sill. Persis moved to the window. Down in the harbour of Goriasa he saw three fishing boats heading out into the iron grey of the sea. Better them than me, he thought. In the far distance he could see the white cliffs of the land across the water. Two of his uncles had died there, officers serving Valanus. Another uncle had survived, but he had never been the same man again. His eyes had a haunted, frightened look.
/>   Persis tried to shut the window, but the catch was broken and the wind prised it open once more. Several old wooden gambling tickets were strewn upon the floor. Stooping, Persis plucked one and used it to wedge the window shut. Then he went to a poorly made cabinet by the far wall. Inside were four small jugs. One by one he shook them. The first three were empty, but the fourth contained a little uisge, which he poured into a copper cup. The hospitality room was cold, but the uisge warmed him briefly. He sank down into a chair, stretched out his legs and tried to relax.

  'Happy birthday,' he told himself, raising the cup. He swore softly, then chuckled. Persis had always believed that by twenty-five he would be fat, rich, and happily settled in a villa on a Turgon hillside, perhaps overlooking a bay. And he might have been, save for this money-sucking enterprise. At eighteen, with the ten gold coins his father had given him, he had invested in a shipment of silk from the east. That doubled his money, and he had bought five shares in a merchant vessel. By the age of twenty he owned three ships outright, and had purchased two warehouses, and a dressmaking operation in Stone. Two years later he had amassed enough coin to buy a small vineyard in Turgony.

  Moneylending increased his fortune still further. That is, until he met old Gradine, owner of the Circus Orises in Goriasa. He had loaned the man money, and when he failed to pay Persis had taken a half interest in the stadium and the circus. When Gradine died of a stroke a year later Persis became sole owner. He chuckled to himself. Sole owner of a rundown circus with a mountain of debts and only two assets, the little slave Norwin and the ageing gladiator Rage.

  I should have closed it down, he thought.

  Instead, in his arrogance, he had travelled from Stone to the Keltoi port city of Goriasa, believing he could make Circus Orises into the gold mine Gradine always prayed it would be: a venture to rival the mighty Circus Palantes.

  He had known the enterprise was doomed virtually from the beginning, but he carried on, injecting capital, acquiring new acts, paying for repairs to the creaking timber-built stadium. One by one he sold his other profitable interests to finance the project. First to go was the vineyard, then the warehouses, then the ships.

  'You are an idiot,' he told himself. Fat and rich by twenty-five! He smiled suddenly and patted his stomach. 'Halfway there,' he said.

  A bitterly cold draught was seeping under the door. Rising, Persis emptied the last of the uisge into his cup and walked out into the open.

  A team of Gath workers was moving through the stadium, clearing away the litter left by the Stone spectators. A small boy was working close by. Persis saw he was wearing only a thin cotton tunic, and his arms and face were blue with cold. 'Boy!' he called. 'Come here!'

  The lad walked shyly towards him. 'Where is your coat?' asked Persis. 'It is too cold to be dressed like this.'

  'No coat,' said the boy, his teeth chattering.

  'Go below and find my man, Norwin. Tell him Persis says to give you a coat. Understand?'

  'Yes, lord.'

  Persis watched the boy move away, then returned to his office, where at least a fire was blazing. Sitting at the desk he gazed balefully at the debt papers. There was enough coin left to pay most of the debts, and two reasonably good event-days would see to the rest. But next season was another matter. Persis spent some time going through the papers, organizing them into neat piles. They seemed less threatening stacked in this way.

  The door opened and his slave Norwin entered. Just over five feet tall, his grey hair thinning, Norwin shivered with the cold, despite the heavy sheepskin coat he wore.

  'Please let this be good news,' said Persis.

  The little man grinned. 'The horse-riding acrobats have quit,' he said. 'Circus Palantes have offered them a two-season contract.'

  'One day you must explain to me your definition of good news,' said Persis.

  'Kalder has a pulled hamstring, and will not be ready to fight for six weeks. By the way, the surgeon says you have not paid his bill, and unless he receives his money in full by tomorrow he will not be available any longer.'

  'I've known plagues that were better company than you,' grumbled Persis.

  'Oh, and it's good to know we are now in the happy position of being able to give away coats. By tomorrow every beggar and his brother will be at the door. Perhaps we should set up a stall?'

  'Tell me,' said Persis, 'did you ever act like a slave? Yes sir, no sir, whatever you desire, sir ... that sort of thing?'

  'No. I have one year left,' said Norwin, 'and then I shall be free of this indenture, my debts paid. And you will have to offer me a salary. That is if the circus is still operating by then. You know Rage is approaching fifty? How long do you think he will still pull crowds for exhibition fights?'

  'Oh, you are a joy today.'

  Norwin sighed. 'I am sorry, my friend,' he said. 'We took less than ninety silvers today, and without the horse acrobats we'll take less in future. Have you thought about the Palantes offer?'

  'No,' said Persis.

  'Perhaps you should. Crowds love to see blood.'

  'I know. It is one of the reasons I despise people - myself included. But the Palantes offer would ruin us. We have fifteen gladiators - all of them veterans. Palantes has more than fifty, all of them young and ambitious. Can you imagine what would happen to our old men if we were to pit them against the highly trained young killers of Palantes?'

  'The majority of our men would die,' said Norwin coldly. 'Against that we could draw maybe three thousand people, clear all debts, and leave this stadium with enough coin to invest in a truly profitable business.'

  'Are you truly that callous, Norwin? Would you sacrifice our people for money?'

  The little slave peeled off his sheepskin coat and stood by the fire. 'They are gladiators because they choose to be. Fighting is what they live for, what they know. As matters stand we will not be able to pay any of them winter wages, which means that for the next three months they will be begging work at the docks or the timber yards.'

  Persis stared down at the debt papers and sighed. 'I do not want my people killed,' he said.

  'They are not your people, Persis. They are performers who work for you.'

  'I know that. I also know Rage says he will never take part in another death bout. I don't blame him. He had ten years of it.'

  Norwin added several chunks of wood to the fire. 'Rage is getting old, and he wants a pension. This could be his chance. He has money saved. He would bet it all on himself. If he won he could retire.'

  'If he won,' said Persis.

  'If he didn't, he wouldn't have to worry about a pension,' observed Norwin.

  'You are a hard man, but, rightly or wrongly, I care about the people of Crises and their lives.'

  'As I said before, they are lives they chose to lead,' pointed out the little man.

  'That was true - in the past. But they joined Circus Crises because we do not engage in death bouts.'

  Norwin stepped to the table and lifted the first pile of debt papers. 'In Baggia last month,' he said, 'Circus Palantes drew eighteen thousand - and charged double the entrance fee. Everyone wanted to see the fight between Jaxin and Brakus.'

  'I know that.'

  'Well, at least think about it,' advised Norwin. 'Put it to the gladiators. Let them make the choice.'

  'I'll talk to Rage,' said Persis.

  Persis Albitane eased his large bulk into the seat and gazed around the vast wooden building. He had never liked visiting Garshon's establishment. It was a haunt, he believed, of robbers and cutthroats. Few Stone citizens gathered here. At the far end of the building a horse auction was being held in a circle of sand, surrounded by tiered wooden seats. Close by several whores were trying to interest newcomers. Their perfume hung in the air, mixing in with the smell of horses, damp straw, and sweat.

  The odour was far weaker here in the eating section where several open windows allowed the sea breeze to filter through, and Persis found the aroma of cooking meats more than co
mpensated for the occasional noxious scent from the main hall. There were more than fifty bench tables in the eating section and most were full - a testament to the quality of fare served here. A serving wench approached him, but Persis told her he was waiting for a guest, then sat with his gaze fixed on the double doors.

  When Rage arrived he was immediately surrounded by well-wishers, who clapped him on the back as he moved through the throng. Rare to see a man of Stone popular among the Gath, thought Persis. He smiled. Rage, despite his grim features, was a charismatic figure still, with the trademark red silk scarf tied over his shaved dome, his muscular upper frame clothed in a tight-fitting shirt of black satin, beneath a heavy cloak of black wool. He still looked every inch the warrior who had fought eighty duels, thirty-three of them death bouts. Persis had seen the last. It was exactly twelve years ago, and his father, as a birthday treat, had taken him to the Giant Stadium, where, after the horse races, and the tableau, the great gladiator, Rage, was to fight the unbeaten warrior, Jorax. Both men represented the finest circuses of the day, Palantes and Occian. Huge amounts of coin were placed in bets, and the crowd were utterly silent as the two men stepped out into the arena. Persis shivered with pleasure at the memory. Rage had been garbed in the armour of Palantes, bright bronze, his helm embossed with a black eagle. Jorax's helm was iron, polished like silver. Since this was a death bout neither man wore a breastplate. At the centre of the arena slaves had dug out a pit, thirty feet long and twenty wide, which was filled with hot coals. Ten feet above it was a narrow platform on which the men would fight.

  They each climbed the steps to the platform, then drew their short swords, and saluted the Lord of the Games. Persis couldn't remember who it was that day, but it might have been Jasaray. The swords were lowered, and trumpets blared out. Both men advanced along the platform and the fight began. The crowd erupted, cheering on their chosen favourite, and Persis was not able to hear the clashing of the weapons, but he saw the bright swords licking out, lunging, parrying, slashing, cutting.

  It went on for some minutes, then Jorax slipped and fell to the coals. He rolled across them, the skin of his arms, back and legs blistering badly. Then he scrambled clear. Rage leapt from the platform, clearing the coals. He charged at the stricken man. Jorax defended brilliantly for a little while, then Rage's gladius slipped under his guard, cutting through his right bicep. Jorax dropped his sword, tried to retrieve it with his left hand, but was then punched in the jaw. He fell heavily. Rage's sword touched the base of his opponent's throat, and Jorax lay very still.