is voice was bitter. "Was that not the sort of thing you
were expected to find out? Could he not have found a way to use it? Were
you not betraying your war against us--what do you Byzantines call us,
Franks?--by withholding it?"

"I told you that loving you both was tearing me apart," she said
helplessly.

"But you loved him more--that is clear."

"Yes. I loved him more because he knew me as I was, and loved me as I
was. You loved me, and it broke my heart to see how much you loved me.
But you loved the woman I was pretending to be. Now that you really know
me, you hate me."

"Should I not? How can you tell me all this without shame?"

"I am not ashamed. I am sorry. More sorry than I can ever say. But what
have I to be ashamed of? I am a woman of Byzantium. I was fighting for
my people. Surely you know what your Franks did to Constantinople. Look
and listen to what Anjou's army is doing tonight to Benevento."

"Daoud spoke that way as he lay dying," Simon said slowly.

A sob convulsed Sophia. It was a moment before she could speak again.

"I hope, at least, you understand us--Daoud and me--a little better,"
said Sophia. "Kill me now, or hang me or burn me tomorrow. As I feel
now, death would be a relief."

"I know how you feel," said Simon. "I, too, have lost the one I loved."

"Oh, Simon." She felt herself starting to weep again, for Simon and
Daoud both.

"What do you want to do?" he asked.

"What does it matter? I am your prisoner. And Rachel. And Tilia and
Ugolini. All of us."

She remembered the hope she had been harboring these past few weeks. If
she died now, would another life within her die? If she lived, how would
she care for that life?

He sighed. "For me this is all over. If I hurt you, what good would that
do me now? It would be just one more unbearable memory to carry with me
through life. One more reason to hate myself. I want to know, if you
were free to do as you wish, what would you do?"

Her mind, numbed with sorrow, was a blank. With Daoud dead, the
remainder of her life seemed worthless to her. Even the thought that she
might be carrying Daoud's child seemed only added reason for sorrow.

"Now that all of Italy is in the hands of Manfred's enemies, I suppose I
would go back to Constantinople," she said. The thought of returning
home to the city she loved was a faint light in the blackness of her
despair.

"For my part, I would not stop you from going," he said. The weary
sadn