‘To show them how honour and discipline can bring peace to the spirit and joy to the heart,’ Pilos said softly. ‘How the loyalty of the pod, the Talon, the Melody becomes the new tribe, the new identity.’ Atu nodded, bright with the warmth of it. ‘Me too.’

They stared at one another for a long second and then Pilos cleared his throat and tapped his fingers on his cup. ‘Get some rest,’ he said again.

Atu touched belly and throat and inclined his head. ‘Under the song, High Feather,’ he said softly, and left. Pilos watched the door and then gusted a sigh. A good man, that Atu, he thought wistfully. A good, married man.

The slaves had done well, with fewer than fifty refusing to fight. Those ones had been marked as failed and put back in a pit, to be offered to the holy Setatmeh in the river outside the fortress. They’d be given one by one in return for the gods’ blessing. Their fate would terrify them, the agony of waiting, and so the warriors incarcerated around them would be more likely to swear when their turn came. It was crude, but it was proven to be effective, too.

The rest had fought, and some had died or been damaged beyond repair. The latter would be used in the kitchens or fields, or sent as scribes if they could no longer walk. A few had chosen it as a way to kill themselves, and Pilos admired their resolve even as he was disgusted they would abandon their families in such a way. The survivors were all his, blooded and sworn into the ranks of the Melody’s slave warriors and moved to the barracks of the Seventh Talon, where there was soap and water for washing, fresh clothes, fresh food, and clean sleeping mats. Small luxuries that would mean everything after so long beneath the ground, bathed in the sweat and shit and blood of others.

A second army of flesh-merchants had emerged to take the names and descriptions of their families, the locations where they’d been taken captive and when, or their descriptions if they so far remained free. They’d be identified and their details entered next to the slave warriors’ in the central records. Wherever they ended up serving, their fates were tied together.

Though some had probably not expected it to be true, Pilos hadn’t lied: their families would be kept safe where possible and, as long as they didn’t break any rules or attempt to flee or kill their owners, they’d be looked after. If they did rebel, they would of course be offered to the holy Setatmeh for their crimes. If their slave-warrior relative survived to become a dog, they would be told then of their family’s disloyalty and a year would be added to their service. By that time, most were more loyal to the Melody than to their kin anyway.