“How would he know?” Bruce asked.

“He was the prison doctor,” the other prisoner revealed. “A morphine addict who incurred the displeasure of powerful people. Including your masked friend.”

“How?”

The prisoner sighed, perhaps realizing that Bruce would only keep asking. Or maybe he simply hoped to distract Bruce with a story. In any event, the European spoke softly, his voice hushed and doleful.

“Many years ago, during a time of plague, Bane was attacked by the other prisoners. The doctor’s fumbling attempts to repair the damage left him in perpetual agony. The mask delivers a gas that holds his pain at bay.”

Good to know, Bruce thought. “Is Bane the child you spoke of? Was he born here?”

The prisoner nodded.

“The legend is that there was a mercenary working for the local warlord, who fell in love with his daughter. They married in secret.” He retrieved a rope from the hall and tied it under Bruce’s arms. “When the warlord found out, he condemned the mercenary to this pit. But then exiled him instead, dropping him at the side of a barren road.

“The mercenary understood that the warlord’s daughter had secured his release, but he couldn’t know the true price of his freedom. She had taken his place in the pit.”

Bruce shuddered at the thought of a woman in this awful place. So far all the prisoners he’d seen had been men. There did not appear to be any guards. Apparently, they weren’t needed. The prisoners had been left to police themselves.

“And she was with child,” the European continued. “The mercenary’s child.” He gestured toward the blind man in his cell. “The doctor delivered the child, back when his eyes were still young and could see the light. But one day, years later, he forgot to lock the cell behind him.”

* * *

Years ago:

A Madonna in hell, the mother wore a native shawl over her slender shoulders. She backed against an unyielding stone wall as a crew of lustful prisoners, seizing the opportunity, barged into her cell. Muslin masks concealed the men’s faces.

She reached for the child, wanting to protect her offspring.

But instead the child charged at the invaders, knife in hand. The blade slashed at the men, drawing blood…

“Innocence cannot flower underground,” the European said. “It was to be stamped out. But the child had a friend. A protector.”

A sinewy figure, his face also veiled by muslin, came to the child’s rescue. Threadbare garments hung on his frame. Deflecting a knife blow with his arm, he pulled the furious child away from the invaders. A snarling inmate, his face sporting a bloody gash, grabbed for the child, but the protector intercepted the man’s arm and, with a deft move, broke it at the elbow.

Bone snapped loudly. The man dropped to his knees, clutching his arm in agony.

The other prisoners lunged at the woman. Making a brutal choice, the masked man held onto the frantic child and dragged the youngster into the shadows, away from the attackers, who fell upon the woman like a pack of ravening wolves.