The pain of cracked ribs drove away the cloudy haze within Noel’s mind. Behind it came clarity and renewed caution.
When he could catch enough breath to speak, he said, “I’m not dead?”
“No. God spared you. I cannot say why. A haze of unreason must have asserted itself upon your brain. Do you not know there is only one path to Mistra from this accursed mountain?”
“Seem to have forgotten that.” Noel winced and reached his hand across his side, feeling gingerly. “Damn.”
“If a few ribs are all that ail you, you are blessed indeed.” Sir Geoffrey sat back on his spurred heels. “We are losing the day. It took the devil’s own time to get down into the ravine with the horse. You must give me your word and bond that you will try no such stunts again.”
“Why should I?”
Sir Geoffrey met his gaze with open exasperation. “Is dying a better alternative than being ransomed? Our terms will not bankrupt Byzantium. You had no cause to do such a foolhardy thing.”
“Perhaps not,” said Noel.
“Can you stand?”
Sir Geoffrey helped him sit up. Noel held his side and grimaced as he was pulled to his feet. The world spun around him. He nearly swayed over, but Sir Geoffrey steadied him.
“Let me go free,” said Noel in a whisper. “Say I broke my neck in the fall and leave me here.”
Sir Geoffrey met his pleading gaze for a long moment, then slowly he shook his head. “I must obey my orders,” he said. “Elena!” he called, “help me get him on the horse.”
There was something about the posture required to sit a horse that made Noel’s side ache constantly. His head still throbbed, but that pain was almost an old friend compared to the newer discomfort in his ribs. He realized now he had used his emergency medication too soon. Now it was spent, and he would just have to grit his teeth through the rest of this ordeal.
Elena and Sir Geoffrey walked at the horse’s head, leading it down into the bottom of the ravine. Gazing up at the vast mountain rising above him, Noel saw the buzzards still circling the sky. He shivered as though a hand had touched his soul.
Eventually, they emerged in the broad river valley where once, centuries ago, the proud, ancient city of Sparta had stood. Now there were only fertile fields and groves of orange and olive trees to mark the banks of the Eurotas River. Long rays of sun slanted shafts of gold and coral into the shimmering fields of tender barley. Twilight deepened within the folds at the base of the mountains. From the city of Mistra a church bell tolled.
As though summoned by the bells, peasants headed home from their fields. The men’s tunics were grimed with dirt and sweat. Beneath the red, brimless caps that most wore, their swarthy faces shot Noel impassive glances. They kept their distance from Sir Geoffrey, with the cautious air of men who have lost their security. They looked tired; scrawny donkeys trudged behind them with heads low from fatigue.
Children carrying long staves made from the stalks of century plants ran for home, herding small flocks of goats or sheep before them. Noel listened to the rhythm of their chatter. They squealed with laughter or scolded an errant animal for trying to break away from the flock. The worries of war and revolt had not touched them.
Or perhaps it had. They did not pause to stare at Noel, perched on the horse with his hands bound in front of him. They did not trail after Sir Geoffrey in his mail and spurs, pestering him with questions. They dodged the trio and went on their way quickly, as though their parents had given them explicit instructions to avoid all strangers.
From up on the mountain came the lone cry of a wolf. The eerie, primeval howl sent prickles up Noel’s spine. He could not help glancing over his shoulder. The mountain stood black in silhouette as the sun disappeared behind it; a corona of umber and crimson shone around its peak. Mt. Taygetus was where the Spartans had exposed children who were born with imperfections. Noel himself had arrived in the world with his left foot turned in. It had straightened itself out within a few months following birth, but the Spartans with their rigid codes of life would not have given him the chance to live. He heard the wolf howl again and shivered, imagining babies lying out there a thousand years ago, shaking in the cold, crying in fear and hunger, slowly being extinguished by the impartial elements.
Perhaps he should not have specialized in the ancient world. Right now he rode by the toppled drums of old temple columns. The horse’s hooves scraped across pavement that had once been dressed marble. Now it was weathered and pitted from the years. Weeds choked the faint outlines of the temple steps. Noel saw a crumbling chunk of iron lying on the ground. The Spartans had used iron bars for currency, fearing that gold would corrupt them.
Iron money… iron bodies… iron minds. Where were the Spartans now? Not even their city still stood. At least in this century, primitive as it was, people understood the quality of mercy.
If he did not return by the end of his time loop, he must accept the fact that he was stuck here forever. Until he accepted it, he could not cope with it. If he could not cope, he could not survive.
Church bells stopped ringing. The chant of a religious order, voices smooth and controlled, lifted like smoke to God in the following quiet.
A peaceful scene spread before Noel. Sir Geoffrey led the horse across a stone bridge spanning the river. The road wound up through the walled gates of the town. A sentry called out to Sir Geoffrey from the gate tower.
Sir Geoffrey identified himself, then said, “Send word to the palace that I have come bringing Lord Theodore of Albania as my prisoner. He is injured and needs a physician ready to attend him.”
The sentry saluted and turned to dispatch a boy.
“Let them pass!” came the cry.
The horseman’s gate swung open ponderously to admit them. It was wider than the pedestrian gate where peasants and townfolk were streaming through. Noel ducked his head beneath the stone archway, although there was room for him to ride upright. The dark tunnel, though short, stank of damp stone, horse droppings, and something unpleasant that Noel could not identify.
Perhaps it was fear. He ran his fingers across the surface of his LOC, trying to draw comfort from its presence upon his wrist. As long as he had it, there was still a faint chance of getting home. He had to cling to that.
Tall, narrow cypress trees towered over rooftops of red tile. Sturdy houses of golden limestone looked prosperous and snug. Lights shone from their windows. Open doorways emitted sounds of chatter and laughter, smells of roasting goat meat and the spices of cloves and cinnamon. The town held a festive air as though Sir Magnin’s usurpation of power had benefited it. Noel could see no signs of oppressed citizenry or despair or defeat.
Those who bothered to appear on balconies and stare at his passing did so in grave silence. He could tell nothing from their faces.
Partway through the steep streets, a small contingent of knights upon horses met them.
“This is he?” said one.
“It is,” said Sir Geoffrey.
“We thought the Milengi had killed you. You’re hours overdue,” said another.
“I see no one came after me,” said Sir Geoffrey in a voice dry and cynical.
The men laughed. “Oh, we would have in a day or so, once the grape ran out, and we had nothing better to do. And who is this damsel with you? Ah, Geoffrey, have you been sampling the best treasure of these hills?”
Elena stepped back until she stood pressed against the horse, her back next to Noel’s leg. He could feel her tremble. Now, when it was too late, it seemed she believed Sir Geoffrey’s warning.
“She is the sister of Demetrius Milengus,” said Sir Geoffrey sharply. “She has brought Sir Magnin a message.”
“A message. Oh, ho, and what might that be?”
“Never mind, Sir John,” said Sir Geoffrey shortly. “Are you here to escort us up, or to block our path forever? Walking in mail has left me mortal galled, and I want my dinner. It is a damned big mountain to ride over.”
“Aye, come then, and let us escort you in style. Give him your horse, Andre-”
“Nay,” said Sir Geoffrey. “I’ll walk it.”
“Make way!” shouted a voice. “Make way for the Lady Sophia!”
The knights shifted aside for a retinue mounted on mules and dainty palfreys decked out in fine silver trappings and bright saddlecloths. Two guards in mail and red surcoats bearing the same falcon insignia as Sir
