she had been more worried for her horses than herself. And then she saw two men dragged from their chariots and trampled, reduced to a terrible flattened smear on the cobbles, and she knew that unless she was very careful and unusually lucky, she would suffer the same fate. She had pulled the chariot to the side of the road and cut the harness. She had ridden her lead horse through the streets at a gallop, her legs holding tight and her hands holding both reins and mane in a tangle. She had been cut and bruised, but she had escaped. If Niklos had not taught her how to handle horses so well, she would have been lost.
There would be no chariot, no horse for her now. She was facing water, the one irresistible force. At least, she thought in ironic consolation, it would be night, and they would let her keep her shoes, so that she would be able to swim, at least for a little while. Eventually she would lose strength, and when the sun rose, it would sap her vitality, and she would sink, to lie in the depths, paralyzed by the water.
As she forced her mind to other thoughts, she became aware of a distant voice singing one of the chants of Saint Ambrose. She listened to the droning melody with half her attention, and then sat up, for the first time realizing what the text of the chant was: '
'I am… not dead.' The sound of her words in the little room startled her; she sounded resolute, determined. 'All right,' she said, 'until the crabs nibble my toes, I—'
The distant chant changed to one in praise of the Virgin Mary and began with the words 'Magna Mater.'
'Very well, Niklos,' Olivia said to the dim light of the little window. 'I will not succumb yet.' She stretched out on the pallet, her apprehension and fear belied by her apparent languor.
By the time Captain Vlamos returned, she had worked out a skeleton of a plan. It was so inauspicious that at another time she might have found it absurd; now she hoped that she would have enough good fortune to attempt it.
'Are you… prepared?' Captain Vlamos was more upset this time than he had been earlier.
'I hope so,' said Olivia, getting to her feet unsteadily.
Captain Vlamos reached out to her, pity in his heart. He let Olivia lean against him. 'You have courage, great lady, but there is no shame in faltering at a time like this.'
'You're very kind, Captain,' she said, stepping back to adjust the single wide sash she had tied around her waist. The little ornamental dagger she had removed from his belt was concealed as swiftly and as efficiently as she had taken it. 'Do you have the sack with you?'
'It is in the rear courtyard.' He indicated the two torches in the hall. 'You will have a full escort that far; two of my men will walk with us.'
'But you are in no danger from me,' she said pleasantly. 'I do not know my way about this place. If I escaped I would not know where to go, and most likely you would need to find someone who would help me while I was lost.' She went ahead of him into the hall. 'Tell me one thing if you can, Captain Vlamos.'
'If I can,' he agreed.
'I left writs of manumission for my slaves—have they been honored?'
'Belisarius has petitions with the magistrates. It is assumed that they will be granted. That way there will be fewer questions asked about… this.' He signaled the soldiers'to fall in, one ahead of and one behind them.
'That pleases me,' said Olivia truthfully. No matter what happened to her, she wanted to believe that she had treated her slaves the way a Roman matron ought to. Especially Zejhil, she added to herself, for her loyalty and bravery.
'Is there anything… you want me to say? To anyone?' Captain Vlamos could not look at her as he extended this offer.
'Tell Belisarius that I know he has done more than anyone could expect of him, and that I thank him for what he has done. There is no one else in… Constantinople I wish to bid farewell.' She did not try to keep track of the turns the soldiers took, nor the placement of doors and halls. No matter what happened to her, she would never return to this place.
By the time they reached the rear courtyard, Captain Vlamos was visibly distressed. 'You do not have to sew her in until just before you throw her overboard,' he told the men who waited for them. 'Let her have that at least. She is not a sack of onions.'
The naval officer, an old man with a puckered scar where most of his ear should have been, shrugged. 'If the orders don't say otherwise, it's all one to me.'
'Olivia?' Captain Vlamos said, looking at her with sadness. 'There is nothing more I can do.'
She made him a reverence. 'You have done more than you know, Captain Vlamos; this last is more generous than—'
He turned on his heel and walked away, unable to remain any longer.
The two soldiers who had served as escort exchanged looks that the pale brilliance of moonlight rendered inscrutable. 'We might as well get to it,' one said to the other.
'She goes in this cart,' the naval officer said, indicating a rickety contraption pulled by a weary donkey. 'There will be six men on the boat. She'll be over the side before the monks start to sing for the souls of the dead.' He indicated a heap of rough cloth in the cart. 'There's the sack. Do you put her in or do I?'
The Guards did the work quickly, their hands clumsy but not unkind. 'We're sorry, great lady. None of us thought it would come to this.'
'We'll say prayers for you,' the other promised.
'I will certainly need them,' said Olivia as she felt them adjust the drawstring around her neck, tightening it enough to make it uncomfortable for her to struggle or move too quickly.
'When you get to the place where you do it, loosen this and draw it tight over her head,' the taller Guard told the naval officer.
The sack fitted tightly and Olivia could not easily move her arms to discover if the little dagger was still in place. She told herself to bide her time, that she would have enough opportunity for that later, when the boat was under way. One thing encouraged her; since her head was left uncovered, it was not likely she would be left in a hold or put under a deck. So long as she was not too closely watched she would be able to get to the dagger before she was dropped into the water. Her only difficulty would be resisting the intense seasickness she invariably felt aboard a boat.
The streets were almost deserted and the donkey cart was incongruously protected by an escort of six well- armed soldiers. As the decrepit cart rattled down to the Bucolean Harbor, Olivia rolled in the back of it, unable to keep her balance or to brace herself against jolts and turns.
Another contingent of soldiers was waiting at the docks, and they unloaded Olivia from the back without speaking. Two of them carried her aboard a dorkon, its angled lanteen sail still furled.
'There she is, boatmaster,' said the shorter Guard. 'Handle her gently. She's a great Roman lady, this one, and we're sorry she came to this.'
The boatmaster hitched up one shoulder. 'They warned us she was a sorceress and that she might try to work her wiles on our boat. Some of the men were for having a last go at the lady, but I said that we'd take no chances with the likes of her.' He spat copiously and called on several Saints to protect him. 'For it is a bad business, having such a creature aboard.'
'You won't have me aboard for long, boatmaster,' Olivia reminded him, and resigned herself to rough handling.
'Take her aft,' the boatmaster ordered. 'There's some chickens in crates. We're bound for Rhodes when we've finished this job.'
The soldier obeyed promptly and none too gently. When one of them swung Olivia around so that her shoulders struck two of the crates, he only grunted and shifted his grip on her.
Olivia was starting to experience the vertigo that being on water gave her which not even the Roman earth in her shoes could entirely counteract. She struggled in her bonds to face the front of the boat, knowing the hypnotic effect the sea would have on her. She was oddly pleased to see that there were several small fishing boats out, torches in their sterns, wide nets flung across the sea like the mottled pattern of moonlight. At least, she thought, they will have to get beyond the fishermen before they drop me overboard. The notion was comforting in its silliness, and she discovered that she was almost smiling.
