Slaves of the Mastery (10 page)

The road wound down through green fields, past farms and villages and great estates, to the shores of the lake. A causeway reached out from the shore, carried on timber piles for half a mile or
more to an island, where there rose a walled palace, or city, that seemed to be built out of light and colour alone. There were buildings, they jostled close one against the next, but their
thousand roofs seemed to float, each one sustained by a weightless shimmering umbrella. The late afternoon sun was falling aslant into the city, and the domed roofs, seeming to drink it, were
gorged with light, and flushed rose-pink, emerald-green, blood-red.

All round the city ran walls of creamy stone, walls that rose up directly from the waters of the lake, and went on rising for thirty feet or more. Yet even this massive edifice was so
constructed that it seemed light: the upper stonework, becoming thinner as it rose, was pierced with intricately-patterned holes, so that from this distance the great walls seemed no more
substantial than a curtain of amber lace.

Marius Semeon Ortiz saw the wonder on the faces of the slaves, and felt again, as he always did on returning to the Mastery, a renewal of awe and gratitude to the Master.

‘That is the High Domain,’ he said. ‘The most beautiful city built by man.’

As the slaves marched on, Hanno looked for the prisons or fenced compounds where they were to be kept, but all he could see were farms and villages, and the glowing city on the lake. And
everywhere he looked, he saw people wending their way along paths, in cheerful bands, converging on a great gathering now visible below them. Here a large arena had been cut out of the hillside: a
great earthwork that could only have been dug by thousands of slaves. But where were the slaves now? Not these people streaming onto the grass-topped terraces, so excited, so happy, and so
free.

Mumpo plodded on with the rest, the weight of Mrs Chirish on his back forcing him to lean forward and keep his head down. Mrs Chirish, knowing he couldn’t see far ahead, supplied him with
a running commentary on the scene as it unfolded before her.

‘Oh, my! I never did see anything so – You’d never believe such a – Oh, the colours! It puts me in mind of a jar of boiled sweets, only you don’t get the pretty
ones any more – Oh, you’ll be glad of this, my Mumpy, they’re setting down – Sweets like jewels, they were, you could see right through them – Yes, I do believe
we’re to be let to rest, and about time – There’s some sort of a what do you call it, where people watch people – Not much further now, and the grass is soft, I should say
– Baskets coming out, that’ll be bread – So many people, they’ve all come to watch, though what they’re going to watch I couldn’t begin to say – Yes,
they’re setting us down, and not before time.’

Mumpo came at last to a stop, and lowered Mrs Chirish carefully to the ground. The slaves were being allowed to rest on the open land just above the arena. Mrs Chirish patted Mumpo gratefully on
the arm.

‘You’re good to your old auntie, Mumpy.’

Mumpo was staring at the crowded grass terraces. Tired though he was, he felt a shiver go through him as he sensed the crowd’s excitement. All round him he heard voices speaking of the
manaxa, and although he had never heard of it before, he soon understood that this arena was to be the setting for some form of combat.

The terraces descended to a sandy floor, where there stood a flat-topped mound, also covered with sand. This mound was some twenty yards across, its steep sides rising to the height of a man.
Evidently it was on this simple stage that the manaxa was to take place. Beyond the flat-topped mound could be seen the shadowy entrance to a tunnel, cut into the banked terraces. This tunnel
emerged a little further down the hill, nearer the lake. On the terrace directly above the tunnel’s mouth stood a crimson and gold pavilion, inside which a servant could be seen arranging
chairs.

A cheer now went up from the crowds packed onto the terraces. Mumpo looked up, and following their pointing arms, he saw that the gates in the walls of the palace-city had opened, and a
procession of men on horseback was crossing the causeway.

Ta-tara! Ta-tara! Hunting horns sounded across the water, heralding the leaders of the column, the lords of the Mastery, riding two by two. Their richly-coloured cloaks streamed behind them as
they came jogging all in time with each other, hammering over the timber causeway. After them came another double line of horsemen, who seemed from this distance to be naked. Finally came a cluster
of officials, guards, and servants surrounding a figure in a crimson cloak.

Bowman stood watching, the piece of bread he held in his hand frozen in midair. The riders were coming closer all the time; and as they came, Bowman felt a mounting fear. This was something more
than soldiers, with their stabbing spears and slashing swords. This was a power that reached into hearts and minds. The power radiated from the man in the crimson cloak.

He was big, taller and broader than those around him, and beneath his billowing cloak glinted a breastplate of golden armour. On his head he wore a golden helmet, from the sides and back of
which a curtain of gold chain fell over his neck and shoulders. Framed in this flying golden mane, glowing in the rays of the sun, he came riding high and hard on his great black horse, heralded by
horns.

‘The Master!’ cried voices on all sides. ‘The Master!’

Marius Semeon Ortiz, watching as intently as any of his captives, felt the familiar rush of heat that always came when the Master was close. Instinctively he found himself speaking the oath of
service, the beautiful words that always brought him strength and tranquillity.

‘Master, all that I do, I do for you.’

The mounted procession now passed into the far end of the tunnel, and shortly all were lost to view. Then the lords were streaming into the red and gold pavilion on foot, and the naked men came
stalking out of the tunnel mouth onto the floor of the arena. One by one they circled the mound, arms raised, and received the applause of the crowd. They were powerful-looking men, with scarred
bodies and wary eyes. Not entirely naked: now that they were close, they could be seen to be wearing tightly-bound loincloths. Their hair was long, but coiled and held in a net on the back of the
neck. These were the manacs, the men who would dance and fight: the most deadly fighting men in the world.

Mumpo watched the manacs with rapt concentration. The shiver he had felt at the first sight of the arena had grown into a trembling that shook his diaphragm and chest. He watched the way the
manacs held themselves, and the way they moved, and the way they acknowledged the cheers of the crowd, and without realising he was doing it he too spread his arms, and bowed his head very slightly
to this side and that.

When the manacs had each completed their circuit of the mound, they lined up facing the pavilion. The lords moved back, to either side. The cheering from the terraces stopped, and a strange
silence fell. Then, as if at some unheard command, the manacs went down on their knees. The lords in the pavilion went down on their knees. So did Marius Semeon Ortiz, and all the spectators in the
arena, and all the soldiers guarding the slaves. In a long rippling motion, the great crowd buckled and knelt in silence.

The Master then appeared alone from the back of the pavilion, and walked slowly to the rail at the front. He could now be seen to be an immensely large man, with a great belly and a barrel of a
chest and a huge head. He had removed his helmet, to reveal a shaggy mane of long white hair, and a short thick white beard, that framed a nut-brown face. He stood still and looked on his people
and smiled, his eyes twinkling as they roamed over the terraces. Every one over whom that benign look passed felt sure the Master had seen him and known him and sent him a special wordless sign of
approval.

He raised one gold-gloved hand, and with a long sigh of movement, the lords on either side of him, and the manacs in the arena, and the great crowd, all rose to their feet once more. The manacs
filed away down the tunnel. A seat was drawn forward for the Master. And he sat.

Bowman had never taken his eyes off the Master. While those around him saw his comfortably fat stomach and his amiable smile, Bowman felt the power within him. It was not the power of the Morah
he had felt all those years ago. It had none of the intoxicating thrill that had filled him then, or the sense of invincibility. But it was a very great power nonetheless, and in its quieter way it
now gripped the many thousands gathered to watch the manaxa.

The horns sounded again.

Ta-tara! Ta-tara! Out from the tunnel at a run came two of the manacs. To wild cheers from the crowd, they sprang up the slope to the flat surface of the mound.

They were now armed. Each man had steel casings strapped to his lower legs, from ankle to knee. At the top of the steel guards, over each knee, there projected a short blade. Similarly their
lower arms were covered, from elbow to hand, the steel casings ending in short blades over the fists. On their heads they wore close-fitting helmets, from the brow of which protruded a fifth short
blade. Apart from these armoured sections, their bodies were naked and exposed.

They presented themselves to the cheering crowd, moving from side to side, raising their arms to receive the applause of their supporters. One was bigger than the other, and from the pattern of
scars all over his torso and thighs, had survived many bouts already. The other seemed to be slighter and younger, and the cheers for him were less enthusiastic.

Mumpo, who had moved forward to join the Hath family group, felt Pinto come up and put her arms round his waist.

‘What will they do to each other, Mumpo?’

‘They’ll fight,’ he replied.

‘Will they kill each other?’

‘One lives, one dies,’ said Mumpo, hardly aware what he was saying. He was entranced by the manacs.

As he watched, the opponents retreated to opposite sides of the mound, and stood there with their heads bowed, suddenly still. The crowd fell silent. Mumpo had an odd feeling all over his body:
he felt as if he knew how the fighters would move. It would begin slowly, like cats stretching and prowling.

And so it was. The Master gave the sign. Limb by limb, the manacs reached towards each other, separated by a wide space, and they danced. There was no other word for it. Rising, swooping down,
curving their hands through the air, arching their legs, curling and twisting, they advanced towards each other as if connected by invisible threads. Both men were very strong, and it was beautiful
to see the way they could move so slowly and with such control. But what gave the keen edge of anticipation to the beauty of the dance was the knowledge that soon now those flashing limbs would
draw blood.

Pinto turned her eyes away, not wanting to see the hurting. Her father felt how his heart pounded with excitement, and was ashamed to be so affected. Bowman looked from the Master to the
fighters, and understood at once that the spirit of the manaxa was the spirit of the Master: it was he who had willed this terrible elegance. Beauty and blood, dancing and death, were joining hands
before their eyes in a few moments of perfect concentration.

The younger manac struck first, sending a fist-blade slicing towards his opponent’s throat. The big man swayed backwards, and almost in the same movement, turning his weight onto his right
foot, lifted his left knee and struck. The knee-blade gouged into the young man’s flank, and bright blood streamed out.

The crowd called out their hero’s name. ‘Dimon! Dimon!’

Suddenly the dancers were spinning at speed. The young manac was fast, very fast. Wounded though he was, he had curled away and round and back, so rapidly that his fist-blade flashed under
Dimon’s guard, and skimmed his thigh. Second blood to the newcomer. Now Dimon seemed to explode. With a flurry of flying limbs he drove his young opponent back and back, to the very edge of
the mound, knees slamming out, fists striking, parrying with his arm-guards, bounding into the air, forcing the newcomer to defend and defend, until with one last driving blow he sent him tumbling
off the mound.

A great cheer broke out. Dimon raised his arm high in victory. The defeated manac climbed back onto his feet, and stood still, panting. Dimon lowered his arm. The loser then looked up, and the
crowd rained down jeers and boos. Followed by mocking insults, he walked slowly out and into the tunnel.

Pinto was horrified.

‘He did his best. Why do they jeer at him?’

‘He lost,’ said a guard standing nearby.

Mumpo’s entire body was vibrating. He felt as if he was burning inside.

‘I could do that,’ he said.

‘What, lose?’ said the guard, laughing. ‘Oh, yes, we could all do that.’

Mumpo said no more, but that wasn’t what he meant. He meant he could dance that deadly dance, and win. His body told him so. His body had understood.

Another bout now proceeded, between two new manacs, and this too ended with one of them driven off the mound. Mumpo realised as he watched that there were a limited number of moves, and that the
skill lay in the way they were combined and countered. Because both fighters knew once a move was begun how it would unfold, much of the art of the combat lay in creating patterns of expectation
and then breaking them. The best fighters could change course even in the middle of a high-speed sequence. The most glorious moves, the ones most admired by the crowd, involved the highest
risk.

The third bout brought on the manac who was clearly the favourite of the crowd.

‘Here he comes,’ said the guard to Pinto. ‘That’s Arno. Now you’ll see what the manaxa’s all about.’

The one he called Arno was very big and very heavy. It seemed unlikely that such a mass of flesh could escape the blades of his lither opponent. But once the fight began, it was clear that Arno
was a master. Turning on the tips of the toes of one foot, bowing low and curling high, he became weightless, his moves so fast and graceful that they seemed to require no effort. Almost with
unconcern, he flicked at his opponent’s body, striping his skin with thin bloody lines. He himself had many scars on his great barrel chest, but this time his opponent was given no chance to
add to them. Disdainfully, as it seemed to the spectators, he drove his opponent to the edge of the mound, and there flicked him, almost gently, with one fist-blade: his signal to the loser that he
should now jump. Assuming that he would do so, Arno permitted his concentration to slip for one brief moment. The loser, seizing his chance, dropped and jabbed, driving his knee-blade deep into
Arno’s thigh.