Neither of them said anything for some time.

“What are you going to do now?”

“I’ll head for Memphis in the morning. If I make it, I’ll send someone.”

“And then?”

“I’ll take my friends and go somewhere the soldiers aren’t mad and stupid. I didn’t think it was possible to lose a battle from such a position. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it.”

“We won’t make the same mistake again.”

“What makes you think you’ll get the chance? Princeps won’t hang around at Silbury admiring himself in the mirror; he’ll be kicking your arse all the way to the gates of Memphis.”

“We’ll regroup.”

“With what? Three out of every four Materazzi are dead already.” Conn could say nothing in reply, but lay back miserably and closed his eyes.

“I wish I were dead,” he said at last.

Cale laughed. “You need to make up your mind-that’s not what you said this morning.”

Conn looked, if such a thing were possible, even more dispirited. “I’m not ungrateful,” he muttered.

“Not ungrateful?” said Cale. “Does that mean you’re grateful?”

“Yes, I’m grateful.” Conn closed his eyes again. “All my friends, all my relatives, my father, every one of them is dead.”

“Probably.”

“Certainly.”

This was probably true, so Cale could think of nothing to say.

“You should sleep. There’s nothing else you can do anyway but get better and pay the Redeemers back in whatever way you can. Remember: revenge is the best revenge.”

And on this wise note he left Conn to his miserable thoughts.

The next morning at first light he left, riding the horse and having decided there was no need to say good-bye to Conn. He had, he thought, done more than enough for him and was now somewhat ashamed of having risked his life for someone who, by his own admission, would not have done the same for him. He remembered a remark made by IdrisPukke when they had been smoking together one night under the moonlight at Treetops: “Always resist your first impulses. They are often generous.” At the time Cale thought this was just another of IdrisPukke’s black jokes. Now he realized what he’d been driving at.

Despite his anxiety to get back to Memphis to be sure Arbell Swan-Neck was safe, Cale started out heading northeast in a wide arc away from the city. There were going to be too many Redeemers and Materazzi wandering about in the confusion, and none of them too particular about who they killed. He avoided towns and villages and bought food only from such isolated farms as he came across. Even so, news of a great battle had reached all of them; though some talked of a great victory others spoke of a great defeat. He said that he knew nothing about it and moved on quickly.

On the third day he turned west and headed for Memphis. Eventually he hit the Agger Road that ran from Somkheti to the capital. It was deserted. He waited in the trees above the road for an hour and, when nothing passed by, decided to risk using the road directly. This turned out to be his third mistake in four days. A strange unease had grown over him the closer he got to Memphis. Within ten minutes a Materazzi patrol came around a sharp corner and he had no opportunity to avoid them. At least they weren’t Redeemers, and he was relieved, if surprised, to see that the man leading them was Captain Albin. Though what the head of the Materazzi intelligence service was doing out here puzzled him. But puzzlement turned to alarm as the twenty men with Albin drew their weapons. Four of them were archers on horseback, their arrows pointing directly at Cale’s chest.

“What’s the problem?” said Cale.

“Look, it’s out of our hands, but you’re under arrest,” said Albin. “Don’t cause a fuss, there’s a good boy. We’re going to tie your hands.”

Cale had no choice but to do as he was told. Probably, he thought, the Marshal was angry about his having left Arbell with Kleist and Vague Henri. An alarming thought struck him.

“Is Arbell Materazzi all right?”

“She’s fine,” said Albin, “though perhaps you should have thought more about that before you buggered off to wherever it was you buggered off to.”

“I was looking for Simon Materazzi.”

“Well, it’s nothing to do with me. Now we’re going to blindfold you. Don’t be a pain about it.”

“What for?”

“Because I said so.”

In fact it was a sack, heavy and smelling of hops, the hessian so thick that it cut out almost as much sound as light.

Five hours later and he could sense the horse under him straining as the going suddenly became steep. Then through the sacking he could hear the hollow sound of horseshoes on wood. They were going through one of the three gates into Memphis. Despite the sacking, he expected to hear much more noise now that they were in the city, but though there were occasional muffled shouts, only the continued sense of going uphill indicated that they were heading for the keep. His anxiety over Arbell began to form a knot in his stomach.

At last they came to a halt.

“Take him down,” said Albin. Two men reached up on his left side and pulled him over, gently enough, then stood him on his feet.

“Albin,” said Cale from under the sacking, “take this off.”

“Sorry.”

The two men took him by either arm and pushed him forward. He heard a door open, then he sensed he was inside. He was led along what sounded like a corridor. Another door creaked open and again he was carefully pulled along. Within a few yards he was stopped. There was a pause and then the sack was pulled off his head.

A mixture of dirt in his eyes and having been in complete darkness for so many hours meant that he could not see at first. With his bound hands he rubbed his eyes free of the specks of hop dust and looked at the only two men in the hall. One he could tell immediately was IdrisPukke, gagged and with his hands tied-but as he recognized the other man standing beside him, a terrible surge of fear and anger made his heart miss a beat. It was the Lord Militant Redeemer Bosco.

After the first few seconds of shock and hatred, Cale felt like sinking to his knees and weeping like a child. And would have done but for the fact that hatred rescued him.

“And so, Cale,” said Bosco, “God’s will brings us back to where we began. Think about that while you gawp at me like a bad-tempered dog. What have all your anger and divagations brought you?”

“What’s happened to Arbell Materazzi?”

“Oh, she’s quite safe.”

Cale was unsure for all his deep shock whether to ask about Vague Henri and Kleist. He said nothing.

“Not concerned about your friends?” asked Bosco. “Redeemer,” he called out loudly as a door opened at the far end of the room and Vague Henri and Kleist, gagged and with hands tied, were led into the room.

There wasn’t a mark on them, although they were clearly terrified.

“There are a number of things I am about to tell you, Cale, and I would like to waste as little time as possible with conventional expressions of disbelief. Have I ever lied to you?” he asked.

He had beaten him savagely every week of his life and made him kill on five occasions, but now that he had been asked the question, he had to admit that Bosco had, as far as he was aware, never told him an ordinary lie.

“No.”

“Remember that as you listen to what I’m about to tell you. You must be sure that the importance of what I’m going to say lies far beyond such kinds of pettiness. And to make my good faith clear to you I am going to let your friends go, all three of them.”

“Prove it,” said Cale.

Bosco laughed. “In the past such a tone of voice would have proved painful.”

He held out his hand, and Redeemer Stape Roy handed him a thick leather-bound book. “This is the Testament of the Hanged Redeemer. ” Cale had never seen one before. Bosco placed the palm of his hand on the cover.