body snapped taut like a scrap of rag. The whip cracked again as the pit guard lashed the horses to their work.
There came a hideous popping sound from Cadoc's body as the very bones and sinews gave way. Hearing this, the tall guard swung his axe up over his head and down again in one swift motion. The blow was ill-placed, however, for the blade bit deep into the good bishop's side just above the hip, opening a terrible gash. Out spewed blood and entrails.
Cadoc cried out. The whip cracked again, and the horses stretched him further. 'Kyrie!' he screamed, his great voice crying not in pain but victory. 'Kyrie eleison!'
Unable to look away, I stared in horror as the curved blade slashed again, this time catching Cadoc in the small of the back. The bones severed with a snap and the horses stumbled forward. I saw a gush of bright, bright red, brilliant in the sunlight, as the bishop's body split in half.
Cadoc gave a last cry as the fore-half of his severed trunk, suddenly free, slewed forward. 'Kyrie!' he gasped as the breath of life fled his lungs.
The Arab onlookers raised a shout-a word that sounded like 'Bismillah'-calling over and over again. The slaves, ranged opposite the cheering crowd, fell into a sullen silence as the two halves of the good bishop's corpse were loosed from the horses and dragged off to one side, leaving a dark trail in the dust. My mouth filled with bitter bile and my stomach heaved, but there was nothing in my gut to throw up. I gagged instead.
Reeling, I felt my hands caught up and quickly lashed together with a strong leather thong. Numb horror stole over me; I raised my eyes to meet the triumphant, mocking sneer of the pit guard, and the truth broke over me: Cadoc's sacrifice was meaningless and I was next to die.
The chief overseer had no intention of showing mercy; he killed an old man who had outlived his usefulness as a slave and, just as surely, he would now kill us. The bishop's gesture, so grand and selfless, an expression of ultimate compassion, was shown to be the act of a blundering old fool. That was the truth, brutal as the Sarazen sun beating down upon the white dust square, blighting all beneath its unrelenting gaze.
My mind squirmed with dread. I was to die like Cadoc, hacked in half like a meatbone, my inward parts spilled out onto the dusty ground. 'Bastard!' I spat at the chief overseer, rage flaring through me with the intensity of the white-hot sun above. 'Satan take you all!'
The smug Arab only laughed, and gestured his men to tie my feet. They pushed me to the ground, and took hold of my legs. I tried to kick at them, but my legs were bruised and stiff from the torture I had endured, it was all I could do to bend them, and the next thing I knew, I was slung up into the air and placed upon the blood-stained block.
I heard Gunnar shout something, meaning to instill bravery, I think, but I could not hear what it was. All I could hear was the sound of my own heart wildly pounding in my ears. I felt the ropes being passed between my wrists and ankles, and made secure. All I could think was that this was not my fate; my death was otherwise ordained. That I should leave life so miserably was a monumental injustice.
The ropes snapped tight.
My arms and legs stretched taut. In a moment the horses would be driven forth and the wicked blade would slice into my side.
Images cascaded through my mind in a mad, meaningless rush. I glimpsed the green hills of Eire, and the faces of my brother monks going up to the chapel. I saw Dugal striding across the pasture, carrying a lamb, and laughing. I saw Eparch Nicephorus peeling an orange with his long fingers. I saw Gunnar's son Ulf, running with his fishing pole down the path to the pond, and Ylva feeding geese on meal held in her apron. I glimpsed Harald Bull- Roar standing beneath the handsome prow of his dragon ship, and the purple hills of Byzantium misty in the distance. Lastly, I saw my own hand working over a leaf of close-copied vellum at my desk in the scriptorium, pen quivering in the candlelight.
The crack of the pit guard's whip brought me to myself once more, and to the sudden, searing ache in my shoulders and back. I felt the sinews in my sides stretch. The ropes groaned as the horses pulled the harder.
I heard the whip crack again, and liquid fire spurted into my veins. Instantly, every muscle and bone was aflame. I cried out, and my voice sounded strange in my ears-like the hoarse blat of a ram's horn when it is blown. The sound came again and I thought, How strange to make such an undignified noise at the moment of death.
Another voice wormed its way into my consciousness-Gunnar or Harald, I could not tell which-was shouting for all he was worth. The words were odd, though, and I could not make out what he was saying. A thick black cloud descended over me then, and I took a deep breath, and another, greedily, knowing it would be my last.
I felt the axe-blade strike my back. Oddly, it did not hurt. Indeed, it seemed a relief, for the terrible straining tension went out of the ropes.
Ah! I thought, this is how it ends. The pain simply stops and then you die. Perhaps I am dead even now. If so, why do I still hear the shouting?
47
I felt my body lifted up and lowered to the ground. The mist cleared from my eyes and I saw that I was now sitting on the blood-soaked ground with my back against the block; a stranger stood over me, brown-skinned, dressed in a long blue robe and cloak, and white turban.
My mind was beclouded; I could make nothing of what was happening around me. I heard someone speaking rapidly and looked around to see a man sitting on a fine white horse, spear in hand, his face hard and angry. With him were four mounted warriors in blue turbans, holding spears and long blue-painted shields.
It came to me that this was the same man I had seen the previous day. Apparently, he had returned and was not well pleased with what he saw; he sat on his horse, berating the chief overseer in a loud voice. They were arguing in Arabic so that I did not know what they said, but the chief overseer was shouting and shaking his fists at the stranger on the horse.
The white-turbaned stranger, grim-faced, eyes narrowed, turned in the saddle and gestured to the warrior standing over me. At once the warrior began untying my wrists and ankles. He was quickly joined by another warrior and together they raised me between them. I could not stand, so they were forced to bear me up.
Livid with rage, the chief overseer started towards the two warriors supporting me. He took a quick step, and I saw the glint of a blade in his hand. Another few steps and he would reach us. There was nothing I could do to prevent the attack. Indeed, I had not the strength or wit to so much as cry out to warn my protectors.
Then a curious thing happened: as the chief overseer drew back his arm to strike, a sharp-angled metal point appeared in the centre of his chest. He shuddered forward a step or two, and then stopped to look down as a bright red bloom of blood spread from the protruding point. The knife fell from his hand, and he clawed at the thing in his chest, raking his fingers against it.
The chief overseer staggered forward one more step and then crashed to his knees. Staring at me, he gave a choked cry and pitched forward face-down in the dust. The long shaft of a spear stood upright in the centre of his back. The slaves began shouting as one, ecstatic that their tormentor had been struck down.
The white-turbaned man moved his mount to where the fallen overseer lay and retrieved his spear without so much as rising from his saddle. Spear in hand, he called in a warning voice to the guards and slave drivers who stood looking on, and then motioned for the two warriors holding me to follow. They carried me to a horse and hoisted me onto it. I could not sit upright, but slumped on the animal's neck and clung on with the last of my strength. Soon we were racing headlong down through the narrow streets of the mining settlement towards the gate-one warrior leading my horse, and another riding alongside, keeping me in the saddle. The flight was almost as painful as any of my beatings and I cried out with every jolting step.
I do not know how far we fled-once beyond the gate, I swooned and cannot remember anything more until I awoke in a dusky twilight. The stranger in the white turban was kneeling beside me, pressing a wet cloth to my forehead. When he saw that I had wakened, he held a cup to my lips and gave me water to drink.
'Allah, Most Merciful, be praised,' he said, 'you awake in the land of the living.'
I gazed at the man's face as he spoke, and I remembered where I had seen him before-with the amir, in Trebizond. 'I know you,' I told him, my voice a rasping whisper in my ears.
'I know you, too. I am Faysal,' he replied. 'I have been looking for you.'
'Why?' I asked.
