1

The Ravine

“Guilty!” Yash looked slowly round at the eleven raised hands. “As I expected, the verdict of the Majlis is unanimous.”

Cyrus was surprised by his friend’s confidence. It was as if he had been Emir of Alba for months, not just a day or so.

“Thank you,” Yash continued. “You may put your hands down.” He turned to face the prisoner. “Konnel Padmar, you are a traitor. For that crime, as you know, there is only one punishment.

“As a traitor you broke the golden rule of our community – you failed to do your duty. Without duty our way of life – the Constant way – can’t survive. But you didn’t just neglect your duty, Padmar, did you? You committed a far worse crime. You betrayed me and all Constants, in Alba and everywhere else.

“Konnel,” Yash went on, advancing slowly towards his former colleague, “you were a woman in whom we all placed absolute trust, and yet you betrayed us in a way that, even now, we find hard to imagine. You betrayed us to a Zed.”

Yash was now staring straight at the short, round-faced woman standing motionless before him. “Padmar, you attempted to hand Alba over to Timur, the foulest Zed of all. For that you will be killed today, at sunhigh.”

The sentence, delivered with matter-of-fact bluntness, was no shock. The only sound that greeted its announcement was a satisfied grunt from Bahm, the fallen leader’s fiercest opponent. When no human being lived beyond their nineteenth year, death was an everyday occurrence. It was unpleasant but unavoidable, like the bouts of dysentery that swept through the mountainside community from time to time.

Two archers escorted Padmar out of the Ghasar, the wooden assembly hall where the trial had taken place, and into the square outside. The Konnels followed in twos and threes, expressing their agreement at the way things had turned out. They left Cyrus standing alone in the corner furthest from the door. He had been too young to join the ruling Majlis back home and the meeting had fascinated him. Now it was over, he thought again about his decision to lead the vital mission from Della Tallis to Alba, and how it had changed his life. On that long and perilous journey he had learned the basics of reading and writing. His literacy, now the Soterion vault was open, gave him awesome power and importance. It was why Yash had invited him to the trial – the Emir didn’t want to fall out with the only person able to reveal the Soterion’s secrets. Not yet, anyway.

Padmar had admitted everything. Yes, she confessed with painful honesty, she had indeed fallen for Timur, the fiendishly clever Malik of the Grozny Zeds who had wheedled his way into their community. Glancing briefly towards Cyrus, she acknowledged that her folly had come close to destroying Alba and its precious Soterion. In the process, she had been indirectly responsible not only for the murder of Chima, the previous Emir of Alba, but also of Cyrus’ Tallin colleagues, Navid and Taja. Roxanne, the inspiration behind the Soterion Mission, Cyrus’ teacher and the noblest, dearest woman he had ever met, had also perished as a result of Padmar’s folly.

Cyrus took a deep breath and rubbed his hands over his face. Roxanne’s death had left him shouldering an iron yoke of responsibility. Only he had the skills and knowledge to finish the mission. Her exhortation, almost the last thing she had said to him, was carved in his mind as clearly and ineradicably as the inscription on the steel door of the Soterion vault itself: “For my sake and for the sake of everyone, you must go on.”

And he would, whatever it took. In a private half-whisper, he repeated the promise he had made as she lay dying. “Yes, Roxy. For everyone, but for you above all – ”

“Hey, Cyrus!” Yash’s cry echoed through the empty barn. “Come on! Don’t stand there muttering to yourself. People will think you’re into your Death Month already!”

Cyrus shook his head. “I hope not, Yash. Too much to do before I go! We haven’t really started the important bit of the mission yet, have we?”

The newly elected Emir of Alba hurried over and threw an arm round Cyrus’ shoulder. “All that can wait, Cy. I need you at my side during the execution. I’m the Emir, but you’re the hero! I can’t do anything without you.”

As the two men left the Ghasar and walked side by side into the sunlit Square of the Lion, Cyrus wondered why Yash’s loud self-assurance made him feel uncomfortable. He had never doubted his own abilities, but he had always tried not to make a show of them. The smaller the dog, his friend Navid used to say, the bigger it tries to make itself. He hoped it didn’t apply to Yash.

Executions were rare in Alba, not because of moral objection or squeamishness – after their eighth winter, every Alban, male and female, was taught to fight, and few passed away before they had shed at least some Zed blood. No, their reluctance to take the life of one of their own was purely practical: they needed every able-bodied person alive and fit to help with the vital fighting, farming and breeding that kept the community going.

Officially, the crimes of disobeying a Konnel’s orders, cowardice and betrayal all carried the death penalty. In practice, those found guilty of the first two were simply thrown out of Alba and forbidden to return until a full winter had passed. If they survived in Zed-infested territory for twelve moons, they were said to have proved their worth and were allowed to return. But very occasionally – no more than once in every lifetime – a traitor was uncovered. For them there was no alternative but immediate death. The rarity and hideousness of the crime explained the buzz of expectation that shivered through the ranks of the assembled Albans as Yash and Cyrus emerged into the sunlit square.

Konnel Bahm and a pair of archers, anticipating a normal execution, had prepared the communal well standing in the middle of the square. They had unfastened the bucket from the rope and in its place tied a broad noose. The well was preferred to a tree for a very practical reason. If the hanging failed, as sometimes happened, the prisoner was lowered into the water to drown. When this happened, the next ten buckets of well water were thrown away for fear of pollution.

Padmar stood impassive as the archers knotted cords around her hands and feet. Dressed in a simple tunic of grey wool, with her long dark hair tied back and fastened with a wooden stick in the customary Alban manner, she had shed all her former power and majesty. She was just a plump woman with a pale brown face and a small, hawk-like nose. The eyes that not long ago had gleamed black as broken coal were dimmed and unseeing.

Looking her over with a cool detachment, Yash noticed a rust-coloured stain on the ground near her feet. It was Roxanne’s blood. It had fallen onto the cobbles two days previously when Timur, realising he was trapped, had thrust a knife into her chest.

Yash paused, looked at the stain and, with narrowing eyes, looked again at the convict. He shook his head. “No, it will not be a well execution, Padmar. I think you should die as your Zed copemate died. By arrows.”

It took Cyrus a moment to grasp the Emir’s meaning. The Tallin word for an intimate partner was ‘wedun’ – ‘copemate’ was new to him. Yash was referring to Padmar’s brief but fatal infatuation with Timur, Malik of the Grozny Zeds.

Obeying their Emir’s orders, Bahm and his helpers tied Padmar to one of the posts that held the winding handle over the well. With surprising respect, they adjusted her clothing lest its thickness act as a shield. Meanwhile, Yash had assembled a firing squad of fifteen archers and moved the spectators to one side in case an arrow missed its target and flew off into the crowd.

When all was ready, he reminded his audience, especially the younger ones lined up to his left, why the execution was taking place. “No single person,” he said, “not even an Emir, is more important than the community. To betray the community is to betray every one of us, our lives and the principles we have kept alive since the days of the Long Dead. Death is the only possible punishment for someone who has committed such a foul crime.”

Later, remembering these noble words, Cyrus would shiver at their dreadful irony.

Yash asked Padmar if she had anything to say. At first she shook her head, apparently reluctant to speak; then, after staring hard at Yash for a moment, she changed her mind. “Yes, Emir, I would like to say a few words,” she began in a voice so thin that those standing at the back found it difficult to hear.

“I am sorry for my weakness, and truly sorry for the pain and suffering I’ve caused. I was seduced, but not so much by a man as by the dream of power. That Soterion, full of the secrets of the Long Dead, is a wonderful, magical thing. We all dream, as our ancestors dreamed, of being able to bring back the marvels of the lost world.”

Yash glanced up at the sun and, reckoning it to be at its highest point, raised a hand for Padmar to stop.

“No, please,” she begged, her voice louder now, less tremulous, “let me finish. I have something important to say. Listen, Yash, Konnels and all other Albans! Yes, the Soterion is truly amazing – but beware its power! Cyrus and Roxanne have unlocked a force greater than any of you realise. Take care! Please take care!”

Cyrus glanced around him. The majority of the crowd looked puzzled by what they had heard. The discovery and opening of the Soterion was a dream come true, bringing a real opportunity of better, longer lives for everyone. What possible danger could there be in that?

Nevertheless, on one or two older faces Cyrus noticed looks of concern. Bahm in particular seemed agitated, frowning and twisting his large, gnarled hands. Yes, thought Cyrus, he understands. He’s worried by the darker side of what has been discovered: the knowledge and skills waiting to be unlocked will bring enormous power to whoever controls access to them. The despicable Timur saw this and it lured him to his death. Falling under the same spell, Padmar betrayed all she had held most precious. And what now?

Cyrus looked across at Yash. His friend was tutting and shaking his head. “Nonsense!” he said with a dismissive wave. “Too late for excuses, Padmar. Let’s get on with it!”

His weasel-faced copemate Sakamir, standing just behind him, nodded in thoughtful agreement.

The execution was quickly done. Yash stepped back, called for silence, raised a hand and, when the archers had steadied their aim, brought it sharply down. All fifteen arrows struck their bare-chested target. A surprised look lit Padmar’s eyes and she opened her mouth as if to speak. But no sound came. Her head slumped forward and her hair dropped like a curtain to hide her shame. Moments later she was dead.

The events of the morning left Cyrus feeling wretched. In an effort to clear his thoughts, he took himself off on a solitary walk through the terraced farmland that rose step by step above the settlement. He had not been gone long when he saw a familiar figure bounding down the slope towards him. It was Sammy, the lean and tousle-headed young man the mission had rescued from the Children of Gova on the way to Alba.

“Mister Cyrus, do you reckon I’d make an archer if I got myself trained up?” the lad asked after they had exchanged greetings.

Cyrus smiled. “Of course, Sammy. You’d be a great warrior. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but the Emir, he’s gone and rejected me.”

“You mean Yash?”

“Yeah.” Sammy put out a hand to stroke the enormous dog that had been following a few paces behind him. After the death of Navid, his previous master, Corby had transferred his allegiance unhesitatingly to the young refugee and the pair were already inseparable.

“That’s strange,” replied Cyrus. “Did he give a reason?”

“Reason?”

“You know, did he say why you couldn’t be an archer?”

Sammy pointed to his left eye. The inflammation he had picked up in the desert had gone, but his sight had not returned. “’Cos of this,” he said, his lip quivering. “He said you can’t ‘ave no squinty warrior.” He knelt and hugged the dog close to hide his tears.

“He called you ‘squinty’?”

“Yeah. An’ the others heard it and started calling me that too. It hurt me, that did.”

“Come on,” said Cyrus, cloaking his anger, “there’s no point in moping, not if you want to be an archer. I’ll have a word with Yash for you.”

Sammy stood up and wiped his face on the sleeve of his tunic. “Thank you, Mister Cyrus. You always was good to me, wasn’t you?”

Cyrus laughed. “Don’t you start, Sammy. I’ve already been flattered more than’s good for me. Let’s go and find Yash and see if we can get him to change his mind. I’m sure he will.”

As long as Emir Yash is the same as the archer we first met, Cyrus thought. I really hope he is.

The bodies of dead Constants were burned, a custom from the time of the Long Dead. The reason was no longer clearly understood, but common sense dictated that it was both unhealthy and unpleasant to leave rotting human flesh lying around for long. The only exceptions were the bodies of criminals and Zeds. These were carried outside the walls and thrown into a ravine for wild animals to feed on noisily at night.

If normal custom had been followed, the corpses of both Padmar and Timur would have ended up in the ravine. But Sakamir argued otherwise.

“Padmar was our acting Emir,” she said calmly, as if stating the obvious. “And we should treat the body of one of our leaders, whatever they’ve done, with respect. The murder of Emir Chima and Padmar’s business with Timur undermined the position of Emir, weakened it. We need to build it up again, starting now. Make sure the Emir of Alba’s respected and obeyed, like they always used to be.”

She leaned towards her copemate and ran a hand through his unruly red hair. “You need all the power and authority you can get, don’t you my dear?”

Cyrus said nothing. Though he was Yash’s chief counsellor, his friend’s relationship with his copemate was none of his business. Personally, he doubted the Emir needed further authority. His swift action at the time of the Timur crisis had made him the Majlis’ near-unanimous choice. Backed by Sakamir, he had eagerly accepted the post and his confidence was growing by the day.

“I reckon Sakamir’s right, don’t you Cyrus?” Yash said. “It’d be wrong to leave the body of an Emir to be eaten by wild beasts, even if she was only an acting one.”

Cyrus shrugged. “Your choice, Yash. But if you want my advice, I’d suggest burning Timur’s body as well.”

“What?” retorted Sakamir, arching her thin eyebrows. “A Zed beside an Alban Emir? That’d be a disgrace.”

“Agree. Bit of an odd idea, Cyrus. What’re you thinking of?”

Cyrus told them what Roxanne had said of Timur’s sinister authority. When in captivity, she had seen how his power extended beyond his own Grozny tribe. In the world of the Zeds, Malik Timur had become a legend in his own lifetime. Just the mention of his name brought other barbarians out in a cold sweat.

“So I think it might be best to burn his body,” he concluded. “Get rid of him completely. Just in case…”

“In case of what?” snapped Sakamir.

“I’m not exactly sure. It’s just I’d feel safer if there were nothing left of him. It’s to do with something else Roxanne mentioned. It’s weird, but she said the Long Dead believed well-known or important people never died, not completely. Their power carried on after death – they could still make things happen. Sometimes their bodies were somehow stopped from rotting, too.”

“Huh! There won’t be anything left of Timur’s body when the rats have had it,” said Sakamir. “Burned or eaten, he’ll be gone for ever.” Before Cyrus could reply, she added, “Agree, Yash?”

A flicker of embarrassment passed over the Emir’s face. “You don’t mind, do you Cyrus?” he asked, laying a hand on his friend’s arm. “Sakamir obviously feels strongly about this ravine business. But if you really think it’s not a good idea, maybe we could find a way …”

This was no time for argument, Cyrus decided. For the mission to succeed, it was vital they all pulled together. “Don’t worry, Yash,” he said lightly. “Sakamir’s probably right – at least, I hope she is!”

To show there were no hard feelings, he gave her a friendly smile. Her lips moved in response, but there was no friendship in those grey, deep-set eyes. Cyrus put this partly down to jealousy. Because he could unlock the secrets of the Long Dead stored in the books of the Soterion, for the time being he was more important than her Emir. She was probably suspicious of him because he was an Outsider, too. He didn’t blame her for that – Bahm mistrusted him for the same irrational reason.

Whatever happened, Cyrus told himself, he had to curb his natural impetuosity. Antagonising his hosts would get him nowhere. The Soterion was theirs, after all, and he was in Alba only at their invitation.

After Sakamir had left to arrange how the bodies of Timur and Padmar were to be disposed of, Cyrus asked Yash about Sammy being trained as an archer. To his surprise, the Emir immediately lifted his ban.

“Alright, if you think he’ll manage, I agree,” he said. His tone sounded relieved. “It wasn’t really my decision anyway… So please pass on the good news to him. He’s a good lad – a man now, really. That one eye of his is probably sharper than most people’s two! I’ll apologise to him myself about that ‘squinty’ business. It was only a joke, Cyrus.”

Cyrus thanked him and went to find Sammy. He was relieved to find he’d been wrong about Yash. The Emir was still the same good-hearted friend he had been all along. Pity his copemate was so prickly, though. Thinking over what Yash had said, he was sure it was she who had refused Sammy’s wish. He must watch her. Experience had taught him that prickliness could develop into something more than unpleasant.

Late that afternoon, after an armed patrol had carried Timur’s corpse outside the walls of Alba and cast it into a ravine some thousand paces distant, Cyrus and Sammy joined the crowd gathered to watch the bodyburn. The near-naked bodies of Navid, Taja, Roxanne and Padmar were carried to the huge fire stone near the Patrol Gate, the lower of the two entrances into Alba. A tall pyre of brushwood and logs had already been erected on top of the flat-topped rock on which corpses were incinerated.

Two ladders ran up the side of the pyre. A couple of strong archers, one at the head, the other at the feet, lifted the bodies and laid them next to each other on the top of the pyramid. When everything was ready, Yash took a flaming brand and lifted it above his head.

“Alba, courage, duty!” he yelled.

With one voice, the crowded responded. “Alba, courage, duty!”

As the sound echoed away, the Emir lowered his brand to the tinder and the summit of the rock was soon blazing like a volcano. The crowd drifted away until just two figures stood arm in arm, gazing into the flames.

“Bit special, wasn’t she, Mister Cyrus?” said the younger of the two, his eyes fixed on the fire.

Cyrus let go of Sammy and folded his arms across his chest. During his seventeen winters of life he had witnessed hundreds of fireburns. Most were just routine disposals. He had vague memories of standing sorrowfully beside the pyre on which his parents’ bodies had lain; later, he had difficulty holding back tears at the fireburn of Pari, his young wedun who had bled to death shortly after the delivery of their stillborn child.

This one was different, more troubling. Not because it marked the end of wretched Padmar, nor because it reminded him of the deaths of Navid and Taja, painful though they were, but because it brought to mind once again the awesome responsibility he bore. Roxanne’s passing had deprived him of that most rare and precious of all gifts – a fellow human being with whom he had merged in both heart and mind. Like two streams meeting, each had flowed into the other. As he watched the thick grey smoke drift up from the fire stone into the darkening sky, he heard again her dying exhortation: “For all our sakes, Cyrus, you must go on. You must go on.”

Sammy, having received no answer, said nothing for while. Then, with wisdom remarkable for a young man, he said carefully, “I’m still ‘ere, Mister Cyrus. You ain’t all alone, you know. There’s two of us what’s going to carry on the mission.”

Cyrus looked at him and smiled. “Thanks, Sammy. Yes, two of us. I almost forgot. It’ll be much easier with two.”

Four thousand paces away, on the other side of the valley that ran along the sunrise boundary of Alban territory, two Zed minds were also contemplating the future with uncertainty.

“Malik not come back,” grunted Jamshid, scratching angrily at his lice-infested groin.

Giv, the younger and brighter of the two Zeds, shook his head. “Timur come back. He tell Giv wait.”

His weasel-faced partner snorted and picked at a rabbit bone, all that remained of the day’s kill. He cracked it open with his teeth and sucked at the bloody marrow. They had no means to light a fire, and had subsisted on wild fruits and raw meat ever since Timur’s departure. A full lunar cycle having elapsed since he had left them on his foray into Alba, they were hungry and bored.

When he had extracted the last of the marrow and wiped the blood dribbling down his stubbled chin, Captain Jamshid stood up. “Jamshid going back to Grozny,” he announced.

A look of horror passed across Giv’s face. “No, Jamshid, no!” he shouted, leaping to his feet. “Malik come back and …” He left the sentence unfinished, unable to imagine what terrible things Timur would do if he found they had abandoned him.

Giv’s terror reminded his colleague of their leader’s unquenchable thirst for inflicting pain. Jamshid had seen and heard its victims too often not to catch the younger man’s fear. He scratched himself again, more thoughtfully this time.

“Stay here, soon Constants find us and we die,” he mused. “Go back and Malik come, we also die. Worse. Big screaming.” He sat down again.

Giv resumed his seat and the two men sat without uttering a word until the shadows lengthened into twilight and the first stars shimmered through the canopy of trees overhead.

“What they?” asked Giv, lying back and pointing up at the pinpoints of light dotting the night sky.

Jamshid looked blank. “What what?”

“Little suns,” explained Giv.

“Malik call, er, slars,” Jumshid replied, unsure whether he had remembered the word correctly.

“Slars, slars, slars,” repeated Giv.

After he had said the word perhaps fifty times, he suddenly stopped. “Slars’ light,” he muttered slowly. “Giv see in night.”

Jamshid looked at him and frowned. “Malik say you ratbrain.”

“No, not ratbrain!” Giv got to his feet. “No Constants in night. Giv see in night with slars’ light.”

“You still ratbrain.”

Giv ignored him. “Jamshid stay. Giv go find Malik Timur in night.”

Without another word, the young man bounded off into the darkness, leaving Jamshid staring after him in disbelief. “Ratbrain,” he muttered as the sound of his partner’s footsteps died away. Shortly afterwards he fell asleep and dreamed of Giv with two gleaming slars where his eyes should have been.

Jamshid had the instincts of a wild animal. No matter how tired he was, he woke at the slightest noise. The first light of dawn was breaking through the trees when a rustling in the bushes to his left had him sitting bolt upright and reaching for his rusty gut-ripper. He relaxed and lowered the weapon as the grey shape of Giv emerged out of the thicket.

“Giv back,” the young man announced in a hushed, almost wondrous voice.

Jamshid snorted. “Giv back but no Malik. Where is Malik?”

“Malik here,” said Giv in the same reverential tones.

The Captain grabbed his gut-ripper and leaped to his feet. “Jamshid still here, Malik,” he cried, looking wildly around him. “Jamshid wait for…”

His voice trailed off into a horrified silence. In his left hand Giv was holding something strange. Swinging gently from side to side, it looked like a massive white club. But it wasn’t a club, it was –

“Malik!” howled Jamshid, raising his gut-ripper and charging at Giv. “Giv kill Malik!”

Had the vicious weapon struck home, the blow would have slain Giv in an instant. But the younger man was too agile. Seeing the blow coming, he skipped to one side and swung the object he was carrying hard at his assailant’s head. Skull met skull with a loud crack and Jamshid staggered back.

“Listen!” screamed Giv, jumping up and down before his dazed companion. “Giv find Malik body. Constants think they kill Malik. Giv say no.”

Jamshid stared in disbelief. “You loony man,” he said quietly. “Tell Jamshid – or he kill you.”

Slowly, in broken sentences and simple words, Giv told his story. He had followed Timur’s path towards Alba and, after walking for a short while, he noticed what appeared to be a fire in the distance. He advanced cautiously towards it until he found himself gazing up at the walls of Alba standing tall and pale in the moonlight. The fire was blazing on the other side and although he couldn’t see what was happening, the smell told him immediately what was being burned. All Grozny Zeds recognised the aroma of charred flesh, but for different reasons from Constants.

Giv had blundered around in the dark for a bit, trying to find a way to enter the citadel. He finally gave up and headed back roughly in the direction he had come. Finding a steep-sided ravine in his path, he chose to cross it rather than find a way round. He had scrambled noisily down the steep side and was making his way across the rocky floor when he tripped over something soft and fleshy.

The bottom of the ravine was in shadow and at first Giv couldn’t believe his eyes. Undeterred by the stench of putrefaction, he knelt and examined the corpse more closely. The same pearly skin scarred with a Z tattoo on the forehead, the same long white hair… He gingerly pushed open a slimy eyelid. Yes, despite the work of an early maggot, the same red eyes. It was his Malik.

Giv sat back on his heels in disbelief. No, he said to himself. Not happen. What Giv do? What Grozny do? Malik not die, Malik not die, Malik not… The young man’s shock and fear were interrupted by a flash of instinctive inspiration. He, the humble Giv, would bring Timur the Terrible back to his people. Not all of him – the corpse was too heavy to carry or drag on his own – just the important bit. Kneeling again, he took out his knife and began the grizzly business of decapitating his master.

When Giv had finished his story, Jamshid sat quietly for a while before saying, “You right, Giv. Timur not dead – Jamshid and Giv have Malik head. Timur Malik live in his head.”

Giv considered this for a moment. “Head not speak,” he frowned.

“Jamshid will speak Timur words,” grinned the Captain.

Giv did not like the implications of this. “No, Giv speak Timur words.”

Jamshid reached for his weapon and growled, “Jamshid has gut-ripper.”

Giv cradled the stinking trophy to his chest. “Giv have Malik head,” he retorted.

There was another long silence. In the end, they agreed both would act as Timur’s voice when the head was safely back with the tribe. The plan was ridiculously optimistic and would certainly have led to bitter squabbles between the two men, and probably to the death of one. Its effectiveness was never put to the test. Long before they reached the Grozny, both Jamshid and Giv and their rotting symbol of authority were taken prisoner. Their captor, had the two ever met, would have been more than a match even for the mighty Timur.

The blow fell early one drizzly evening as they were passing through a patch of scrubby woodland. The path was narrow. Jamshid went first, his gut-ripper hanging idly at his side. Giv, holding Timur’s head by its long white hair, followed three paces behind.

Giv, blessed with sharper hearing than the older man, heard it first. To begin with, he thought the noise must be a snake and he checked to see where he was putting his bare feet. There was nothing. The sinister hissing grew louder. Jamshid had now stopped and was peering into the trees. The sound seemed to be coming from every side.

All of a sudden, it ceased. Two dozen figures slipped silently into view and spread out around the startled Grozny. Each gripped a long, metal-tipped spear and was pointing it directly at them.

Giv stared around in open-mouthed amazement. The tattooed warriors surrounding them were clearly Zeds – the same bare feet, scarred, half-naked bodies, unkempt hair and cruel, stupid faces as the men he had been brought up with. But there was one crucial, astounding difference: among their captors there was not a man to be seen.