‘You were on an island?’

‘Yes.’ I look at him unblinking. ‘I survived.’

‘Tell me about this island.’

I contain my irritation at the changing of the subject and decide to humour him. ‘My calculations told me I was on the very edge of our territories as agreed with Axum. Any further and I would have been in violation of the Treaty and you could have been back at war. Banished by the town I saved, for carrying out what was necessary to save them, only to initiate war as a result of my banishment. You did not think of that possibility when you gave me a raft and a few provisions.’

‘I gave you a raft?’

I make a point of maintaining my patience. ‘Not you personally, though I’m sure you had some role in the whole proceeding. Not you but your office, specifically the man who occupied that seat before you, Marshal Abel.’

‘Abel?’

‘Yes, Abel. You are not going to tell me you have forgotten him as well.’

The Marshal smiles and looks down at his desk. ‘So, tell me about the island.’

Again I feel this is a waste of time but it is dawning on me that my people have lost a sense of urgency. Things have slowed down. I begin:

‘The island is a dead place or to be accurate, a dying place. It is like a body lying face down in a pool of muddy water, slowly sinking, slowly drowning.’ I stop myself.

‘The island I have documented well. I have brought my notes with me.’ I tap the bag that I hold. ‘My intention was to hand over the notes to the town’ s geographer. Though the island is disappearing there is knowledge there and since we have lost such a lot, a little is valuable.’

The Marshal holds up his hand to stop me opening the bag. ‘That can wait,’ he says.

I fix him with a stare. ‘You are right. There is little of interest on the island. The island is not the story here, or at least not the main story. What is of interest is Andalus and what is to be done with him.’

‘Still, humour me. How long were you on the island and how did you come to return to us?’

‘Ten years. I arrived there about three weeks after being sent away from here. It was the first dry land I had seen. Relatively dry at least.

I set up camp. I found water. I caught fish. I made fire from peat and from wood found in a small forest. I harvested grains and tubers. I caught seagulls every now and then. They were mostly dead already. I worked out how long the island would last, how quickly it was slipping into the water. I noted the rates at which food stocks dwindled – the fish, the birds – and worked out how long my fuel sources would last. I made annotations on the types of fish I caught, the varieties of grains I found, the earth, the rocks. I did not plant more because I did not need more. My life I realised would run out with the island’s. That was how it was for all the time I was there.

‘One day Andalus washed ashore. There he was, a large white being stranded on my shore. It took me a while to recognise him but eventually I did. He showed no signs of recognising me. In fact he showed no signs of noticing what was around him at all.

‘I began to realise what his presence might mean and decided I should do what was right and face death by bringing him to your attention. And here I am.’

‘And here you are.’ He pauses, then asks, ‘And how long do you plan to stay?’

I shake my head. ‘There are still questions, things to be done.’ I lean in towards the Marshal. ‘What have you done with Marshal Abel?

What have you done with his lover, Tora?’

‘Tora?’

‘My lover, before I left.’

‘You think I should know you?’

‘If you don’t, you are a simpleton.’

His expression changes. ‘You are a guest in this town. Do not forget.’

‘A guest you don’t know what to do with. You have choices: give him the best room, or, try to ignore him in the hope that he will go away, or, take him outside into the orange groves, set on him, slit his throat, bury him so no one can see.’

‘We will not kill you. We are a good people, a forward-looking people.’ With that the Marshal leans back in his chair, folds his arms behind his head and looks up at the ceiling. He speaks again. ‘You were here last night.’

This throws me slightly. ‘How did you know it was me?’

‘Your footprints were all over the place.’

‘How did you know they were mine?’

The Marshal shrugs. ‘Who else?’

‘The door was open.’

He says nothing.

‘I walked into the hall. I have seen what you’ve done.’

‘What have I done?’

‘You have erased my name from the wall of names.’

‘Erased, you say?’

‘Erased. Perhaps a joke. Perhaps some ill-advised conception of public good.’

‘Explain?’

‘Someone, you, the real Marshal, someone, not liking what we did, chose to eliminate traces of the person most closely associated with the error. Error, as they saw it.’

‘What error is that?’

I hesitate, wondering if he is being deliberately obtuse, or is admitting that he too sees the merits of what we did. ‘The error, as some like to call it, of eliminating the weak, of following the policy that killed some yet saved so many. The policy designed to fix our world, broken in an original sin. The policy that some called a cull.’

The Marshal stares at me for a few moments. ‘Why were you here?’

‘Why was I here? I was passing. The door was open. I was curious.

I wanted to see my old rooms again. I wanted to see my name on the list.’

‘And you were disappointed when you did not see your name?’

‘Of course. You do not erase history simply because you do not ap prove, simply because you wish you had another and this is clearly what has happened here.’

‘By removing names from a wall?’

‘It’s emblematic. The removal of the names stands in the stead of something greater, something darker.’

‘You think we should keep telling ourselves the stories that frighten us?’

I think I might be on the verge of extracting a confession from the Marshal.

‘Why should you be afraid of it? The past has as much power over you as you allow it. Punish if you like. Crucify if you must. Burn the guilty and throw their ashes to the wind, blacken their names and cast out their families. Do not sweep under the carpet. Avenge guilt and move on. Even the guilty deserve to be remembered, deserve the status of being guilty.’ Too much, I tell myself.

The Marshal betrays no emotion. After a while he looks down at the table and says, ‘Let’s go down to the hall then. Let’s see if what you’re saying has merit.’ I want to remark that what I say has merit regardless of what is on the wall but I hold my tongue.

We do not talk again until we are in the Great Hall. I am about to point out the error when the Marshal says, ‘Madara, Abel. Not a long line yet, though an auspicious one.’

I am surprised to say the least. ‘The first is not the right name. You must know that. And you have an Abel there but no end date to his rule. Tell me, where is he, what has become of him? And why is your name not there? Are you not proud to be Marshal?

He snaps at me. ‘I have more important things to do than write my name on a wall. It will get done soon enough.’

‘Regardless, Madara is still wrong.’

‘What should be written on the wall?’

‘I think you know the answer to that but I will indulge you,’ I say. ‘The first Marshal of Bran was Bran. Me, the man named for the settlement. The second Marshal was Abel, my second-in-command.

He became Marshal when I was banished. You may very well be the third Marshal but I cannot say for sure.’

‘You cannot say.’

‘Cannot say whether you’re the third, the fourth, the fifth. You know very well what I mean. The names on that list, if there are three, should be Bran, Abel, Jura. That is the error. The wrong names, the wrong number.’

The Marshal walks up to the wall, stands with his nose almost touching it, looking at the names. He puts his hand to them and rubs his fingertips over the gold lettering. ‘You asked if I was proud. I am very proud to be Marshal of Bran and to follow such men. Madara then Abel, a man even greater than the first.’ He pauses. ‘On wood such as this you would have to be extremely careful sanding it if your alterations were not to stand out. Extremely careful. It has such a soft texture, is so finely grained that only an expert craftsman would be able to remove paint and then repaint without leaving any traces of his work. Come and have a look.’