Fiallach's heart sank as they entered the maze once more, but this time Jasaray moved swiftly through it, emerging from an entrance to the west. Here there were many large cages, containing animals from all over the empire, a giant black bear, two lions, three sleek panthers, and, set apart from the others, another lion, but this one bearing the most curious markings. Its tawny body was covered in dark stripes. Fiallach could not understand why anyone should wish to paint a lion in such a way, and said this to Jasaray.

'It is not paint, or dye,' said the emperor. 'It is a tiger, and these are its natural markings. Bigger and faster than a lion, it has prodigious strength. One blow from the paw can crush an ox skull. One bite would sever a man's leg.'

'Why do you have them here?' asked Bran.

'Once the war in the east is won I shall donate them to one of the circuses, and the crowds will watch them being hunted and slain.'

'How far has this creature travelled?' asked Bran.

'Over two thousand miles. It was quite a feat, keeping it alive.'

'I can imagine,' said Bran. 'The cost of getting it here alone must have been enormous.'

'Indeed it was.'

'And all so that people can watch it being killed? Now that seems wasteful, Majesty.'

'Perhaps,' agreed Jasaray. Then he smiled. 'But it would be an unwise ruler who did not spend a little money to keep his subjects happy. A contented people rarely see the need to overthrow their emperors.'

Regrets, Voltan would often say, were only for the weak. This was, he believed, an unarguable truth. Strong men achieved, lesser men failed, and in failing would blame external forces for their failure. Luck was against them, or they were the victims of malicious sabotage from those envious of their skills. Weaklings, all of them! Yet despite this iron belief Voltan had never been able to break free of the one great regret of his life.

Dressed now in a simple hooded toga and sandals he moved through the late-afternoon shadows to the entrance of the catacombs, and the rock tunnels that snaked under Agra, the Fourth Hill of the city. A young man was standing at the entrance, watching him as he approached.

'Good evening, friend,' said the man.

'Good evening to you,' said Voltan, drawing his hands together and making the sign of the Tree.

'Enter and be blessed,' said the man.

Voltan moved inside the darkness of the tunnel. Ahead he could see torches in rough-made brackets on the wall, as the tunnel widened into a high, arched chamber. It was cool here, and Voltan made his way past a series of jagged stalagmites, jutting up from the ground, to join the crowd waiting patiently in the torchlight.