Twenty-one
As the two soldiers descended, the prisoners in the stepwell got to their feet. Yemi quickly moved among the jurors with small slips of wrinkled paper and a nub of a pencil, instructing them to write down their verdicts.
"Hurry," Yemi ordered. "We must finish this before they arrive."
Bane knew the rules as well as any other prisoner: if trial proceedings were interrupted for any length of time, the accused would have to be retried by a new jury. Allowing any time to lapse between hearing testimony and a verdict being reached opened the door to jury tampering. Watching the soldiers' approach, Bane laced his fingers together to keep them from shaking, willing the soldiers to slow their descent, for he did not want to endure a second trial.
As the jurors scrawled their verdicts, the spectators moved toward the corridors, but most tarried along the fringes of the shaft, for they wanted to hear the ruling before they were banished from the stepwell—a normal precaution demanded by their jailers while supplies were lowered into the pit to avoid a mob scene. Others did not wait but retreated to the darkness of the corridors or their cells, for anyone who defied the soldiers and remained in the stepwell risked a bullet.
Once the slips were collected, Yemi read each aloud.
"Guilty… Not guilty…. Not guilty…" Each pronouncement brought murmurs of approval or disapproval from those left in the stepwell. Bane held his breath as Yemi continued. "Not guilty… Guilty." Yemi's attention shot upward to check the soldiers' progress for an instant before he looked back to the papers. "Not guilty."
Bane breathed a sigh of relief. The final slip was read: "Not guilty."
Yemi nodded to him, a half-hidden smile escaping the African's lips. "Go," he said to the jurors with another glance up the shaft. Bane doubted his strength to stand, so he hesitated a moment longer. As if understanding, Yemi stepped over and slipped one hand under his arm to help him stand. With his other hand he returned Bane's knife.
Close to his ear Yemi said, "A new prisoner is being sent down after the supplies."
"Hans told me about him. Said it's a British mercenary."
"It would appear things have changed since Hans told you that."
"What do you mean?"
"You will see soon enough."
Yemi, Hans, and the doctor were the only men allowed in the stepwell whenever supplies were lowered into the pit. They in turn were responsible for distribution among the population, a process that involved allotments being assigned to different cellblocks and collected by one man elected from each block, someone less corruptible than others; in the case of Bane's cellblock, this was Doctor Assad. The cellblock captain also bartered on behalf of his mates for any additional items the soldiers brought with them to illicitly sell. In addition the soldiers also received payment for the delivery of any specific goods that a prisoner may have requested during the previous resupply. That was how Bane's mother had acquired Osito.
As Bane made his way back to his cell, he passed the doctor. Assad's smile reflected Bane's own relief over the verdict.
When he entered his cell, he noticed that the Vulture's meager belongings had been removed from the adjacent cell. Those items, according to the pit's custom, would be auctioned off to the other inmates. In the meantime they were no doubt secured in Doctor Assad's cell.
The realization dawned on Bane that perhaps the new prisoner would be occupying the Vulture's space. The cells that were located closest to the shaft were much coveted by most of the prisoners who dwelled in the corridors. Those who were fortunate enough to live near the shaft had paid dearly for those cells upon their arrival in the pit, one of many methods of extortion used by their mysterious jailers. Bane had not known if his mother had been given the privilege of this cell due to consideration for her sex or if money had indeed changed hands upon her arrival. Of course, his continued residency after her death irritated men like Greyson who felt the cell should be given to those who could either pay for it or who had been jailed the longest. Many of the latter, however, had either lost most of their senses and no longer concerned themselves with such luxuries or now preferred the accustomed dimness of the corridors to the filtered, torturously tempting light of the shaft.
"I heard the verdict," Abrams voice drew Bane's attention. The man was once again mending his clothes, but he paused long enough to glance at Bane and say, "I appreciate you not dragging me into that."
Bane gave him a tight smile and nodded. Not wanting to expound upon the subject of the trial, he changed the topic. "A new prisoner is arriving today."
"So I heard."
When Abrams said nothing more, Bane busied himself with cleaning the knife. Though pleased and relieved with the verdict of his trial, it made the task of removing the Vulture's blood no less unpleasant. The effort required water from his pitcher and the scraping power of his fingernails which in turn became clogged with the dark matter. He would go to the pool later and try to wash off as much of the dried blood from his shirt as possible. Perhaps there would be some clothing among the supplies today.
As he worked, he tried not to think about last night, tried not to feel the Vulture's hands upon him or remember the man's desperate plea as he died. Bane wondered about Osito's fate and figured the bear had already served as fuel for Greyson's brazier along with the chess set. Greyson could not openly sell the set, for anything that belonged to the Vulture would rightfully be auctioned, so no doubt he had burned it as soon as possible last night.
Bane paid little attention to the activities in the shaft with the lowering of crates and large sacks, of the comings and goings of the cellblock captains. Often he was allowed to help with the allocation and given an extra day's ration of rice for his efforts, but no doubt Doctor Assad felt he was still too weak for such work today or perhaps too vulnerable after the events of the past twenty-four hours. Either way Bane was content to remain in his cell until the long process was finally over.
The soldiers, however, did not leave immediately after all business was transacted. To Bane's surprise two more soldiers joined the pair already in the shaft. With their arrival accentuated by a decidedly menacing wave of their weapons, Hans, Yemi, and the other prisoners still in the shaft dispersed. Only Doctor Assad remained, and his eyes were now fixed upward. The soldiers stationed themselves at the top four corners of the stepwell, guns aimed toward the corridors. Curious about their strange vigilance, Bane stood at the door of his cell and looked as far up the shaft as he could. Why would a new prisoner require such caution from the soldiers?
He strained to see movement through the harsh glare of sunlight bouncing off the far wall of the shaft. Squinting and using one hand to deflect the light, he at last caught sight of the prisoner being gradually lowered. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, for surely they were playing tricks on him. The outline of the prisoner was unusual. What was he wearing? If that was a shemagh, it did not appear to drape around the prisoner but instead flowed downward, longer than most and almost stiff as if made of a rich cloth, then its edges blended with the rest of the attire. Most prisoners arrived stripped of their regular garments and instead clothed in the same type of ragged tunic and pants that Bane wore. This newcomer, however, was different. Why would such a deviation be allowed?
Then, as the prisoner came ever closer to the stepwell, Bane realized exactly what he was seeing.
This prisoner was no mercenary.