Eleven
When Bane awoke the next morning, the prison was oddly quiet, as if every man there still slept, though the vague gray of morning trickled down into the shaft and told of a new day. The Vulture, though, was not asleep. In fact, he was not in his cell at all. As usual, his charpoy was meticulously made, the thin pillow squared just so at the head, the blanket smooth and falling evenly over the sides.
Bane sat up, his own blanket draped close around him to ward off the last of the night's bone-penetrating cold. Then he realized the chess board sat on the Vulture's low table, the pieces arranged in an orderly fashion, black arrayed like an army on one side and the natural pieces offering a mirror image on the opposite side. The finished product of his and the Vulture's artistry brought a smile to his face and warmed him from within. His fingers itched to move the pieces, to understand their individual purpose through application, not simply through the oral instruction the Vulture had bestowed while they labored upon the set.
When he headed for the stepwell, he left Osito behind, for the bear was still damp from yesterday. Last night he had removed the knife to keep it from rusting, secreting it beneath the ash in his brazier. He considered carrying the knife in his leather sheath but instead elected to leave it in the brazier, proudly remembering his insistence to the doctor that he was not afraid of those who visited the shaft.
He found the Vulture at the stepwell, one of only three others there. Far above them, the unattainable heavens glimmered hazy pink. Bane crouched at the edge of the pool, purposefully keeping away from the Vulture but not as far away as his anger of yesterday should have dictated. For a moment he felt the Vulture's attention upon him, but when Bane raised his eyes in a challenge, the man had already looked away.
It was then that Bane noticed the small, square, pale object cupped in the palm of the Vulture's left hand. The man had removed his tunic and now splashed water up his arms. The water slipped back into the pool, no longer clear but a milky color, tiny bubbles dripping from the Vulture's finger tips. A pleasant, faint scent reached Bane's nose. Soap! Where and how had the man acquired such a luxury?
Bane's question died in his throat when he saw another prisoner enter the shaft—a dark Arab with a scarred face and coal-black eyes. Ramzi. The prisoner descended with nearly silent steps. Bane was surprised to see him here so early, for Ramzi often stayed up late into the night, gambling as was his passion; he rarely lost at cards, dice, rat races, or cockroach races. He had one of the few decks of cards in the prison and charged handsomely for others to borrow it. He had once killed a man who had borrowed the deck and in turn tried to sell it to another prisoner.
Reaching the floor of the stepwell, Ramzi's hawk-like gaze took in the others at the pool. His defensive expression relaxed when he recognized no threat. Bane always avoided the man as much as possible, for Ramzi was a cruel brute who often preyed on weaker prisoners, though turned faint of heart whenever challenged by someone above him in the pit's hierarchy, a cowardliness that made Bane revile him.
Without being noticed Ramzi drifted up behind the Vulture. A crooked, crude grin glimmered from amidst his dark beard. Bane was about to warn the Vulture, but Ramzi shot him a lethal glance that strangled the words. Ramzi stopped just behind the Vulture and craned his neck to see over the smaller prisoner's shoulder. The Arab's eyes widened with avarice upon the bar of soap, and without warning he kicked the Vulture, nearly tumbling him into the pool. With the instinctive speed of one accustomed to such unexpected brutality, the Vulture got to his feet and backed away, his tunic left next to the pool.
"Give it to me," Ramzi spoke in Arabic.
The Vulture had closed his hand around the diminished cake of soap and put it behind his back. "Give you what?"
The other prisoners watched closely but remained unmoved, no doubt relieved that Ramzi's focus was upon someone other than themselves. They hurried to finish their business at the pool.
Ramzi stiff-armed the Vulture backward toward the near wall. The Vulture's frantic eyes darted toward the closest steps, but before he could make a break for them, Ramzi grabbed the man by one ear and twisted. The Vulture gasped as Ramzi held out his other hand.
"Now hand it over before I rip off both your ears, you worthless dog."
When the Vulture refused to obey, Ramzi's knee came up with lightning speed. The Vulture howled in agony and crumpled to the stone pavement, his hands against his genitals. Amazingly the bar of soap remained in his grasp. Ramzi kicked him.
"Drop it, damn you!"
Bane yelled, "Leave him alone!"
Ramzi ignored him. The kicks came in rapid succession, the Vulture balling up into a fetal position.
Flinching with the latest blow, Bane got to his feet and shouted, "Give it to him, Vulture!"
At last the man seemed to realize that he still gripped the soap, and it slowly fell from his grasp. But Ramzi kept kicking him, cursing him. When he bent to pick up the soap, he landed several blows to the Vulture's head, spitting on him.
Without thought, Bane charged, leapt onto Ramzi's back, knocked him off balance. His small fists pummeled the back of Ramzi's skull. As they tumbled together against the Vulture, Bane took hold of the Arab's shemagh and pulled it over his face, wrapping his arms around the man's neck to hold the makeshift hood in place. The Vulture struggled to free himself from beneath them, shouting frantically.
"Run!" Bane cried as he wrestled to keep Ramzi's thrashing form blindfolded.
The Vulture scrambled to his feet, staggering, dazed. Shouts echoed from above them. Ramzi's oaths blurred into a continuous guttural snarl. The Vulture and the others at the pool fled up the stairs.
Ramzi lurched to his feet, still unable to see, arms flailing in an attempt to grab Bane and pry him from his back. Gritting his teeth, Bane shifted his weight sideways, throwing Ramzi off balance again. The Arab's head struck the wall, and he stumbled back. Using the disorienting moment, Bane shoved free of the man. As his feet touched down, he noticed the bar of soap lying where Ramzi had dropped it. With one swift swipe, Bane caught it up, snatched the Vulture's tunic, and bolted for the nearest steps.
He was up the first flight before Ramzi could start after him, roaring a stream of Arabic that flew so fast Bane could never have understood it even if he had tried. Bane took the steps two at a time—as many as his small strides allowed—and just reached the level of his own cell when he heard new voices shouting in the stepwell, Hans's included. Bane did not look back but instead raced to his cell, his free hand grappling with the rawhide string around his neck that held his key.
"Hurry, boy!" the Vulture called. "In here."
The Vulture held the door to his own cell just wide enough for Bane to slither through then slammed it shut and locked it. They stood next to one another away from the bars, lungs laboring, eyes wide as they awaited their pursuer. But no footfalls came their way and Ramzi's voice remained in the shaft, all but drowned out by others, an incomprehensible, angry mix of languages. Bane could barely hear them over the rattle of his panting gasps and hammering heart.
Seconds ticked away, and Bane slowly collected his wits, still clutching the tunic and slippery disk of soap. Soon the shouting died down. Ramzi did not appear; his cell lay on a lower level, so perhaps he had returned there.
Bane exchanged a cautious glance with the Vulture. A cut above one of the man's eyes trickled thick blood, and a puffy bruise on his left cheek had already turned deep purple. His arms were wrapped around himself as if his ribs ached, which Bane figured they most certainly did. But somehow through it all the Vulture mustered up a ghastly brown grin of survival and began to laugh…a small, half-hysterical wheezing sound before he caught himself.
Bane handed him the tunic and revealed the remainder of the soap, slightly smashed by his unknowing grip. With his grin broadening, the Vulture clapped him on the back, pulling a relieved smile from Bane.
"A brave boy, you are. Brave indeed. But then I already knew that, didn't I?" The Vulture pulled the tunic over his head, smoothed his tousled crown of hair, and brushed the dirt from his pate. "And such bravery deserves a reward, don't you think?"
The man's generosity surprised Bane, especially when the Vulture split what remained of the cake of soap and returned half of it to him, smiling that awful smile of his.
"But," the Vulture raised a crooked index finger, "this is not enough, is it?"
Bane could not find the words to admit to the Vulture that he had merely reacted to a wicked injustice, not out of any affection or loyalty but simply because he hated Ramzi and all petty tyrants like him. Perhaps the words were unattainable because a part of him enjoyed the praise, having been bereft of any such thing since his mother's death. Perhaps it was the loneliness, the desire to be befriended, even if by this wretch of a man, especially after their falling out of yesterday.
"So," the Vulture continued, appearing encouraged by Bane's interested gaze, "I think it's time I taught you the game." With a grandiose sweep of one arm, which elicited a half-hidden wince, the Vulture turned to the waiting chess set. He raised inquiring eyebrows.
"You should see the doctor," Bane insisted, "get that cut taken care of."
The Vulture tsked and stepped to the back of his cell where an earthen pitcher sat. Setting aside the soap, he poured water into a wooden bowl, dabbed a rag into it, and wiped his brow. "It's nearly stopped already. Besides," he winked, "best if we lay low a while, eh? Those bars ain't so bad on days like these, are they?"
Bane did not expect to see Ramzi, especially if it had been Hans who had stopped his pursuit. No, men like Ramzi did not make any overt threat of retribution; they waited for moments like that afforded by the small, benign gathering at the pool that morning. But when next Bane stepped into the open, he would have Osito with him once again.
The Vulture brought his pillow from the charpoy and set it on the floor next to the low table where the chess set awaited. Then he folded his single blanket and sat upon it at the opposite side of the table where the black pieces were arranged. He extended a hand of invitation toward the pillow, eyes bright once again, all fear gone. Bane hesitated, tried to conjure his anger and insult from yesterday but found he had no appetite for it. Instead he felt momentarily akin to this man, having survived the morning's conflict together, feeling no small amount of pride in his accomplishment, especially when he considered the doctor's remarks about his lack of strength. Perhaps it was not merely brute strength that could see a man through this place but sharp wits that told him when to act and when to refrain.
Allowing a small grin of his own, Bane settled comfortably upon the pillow and touched the patiently waiting king.