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honorable death still lay within his reach? He had only to dive overboard and swim until he sank. No one would stop him. Or he could live as a slave. If he took oath to demons, he could join the pirates. But how? Even if the empire were ruled by a usurper, Marric could not ally with its enemies. And if it were beneath Horus-on-Earth to ally with pirates, then the honorable death they offered was no honor at all. This very dawn Marric had prayed for freedom to his gods and to his father Alexander who ruled as Osiris beyond the Horizon. Never had he dreamed that the path of honor lay in renouncing it.
    The ship wallowed heavily now. "Will you wait until the ship sinks?" risked the Arab. He made no move to leave, either, unwilling to be bested by a wounded slave. Letting himself sink with the ship was only suicide by default, Marric thought.
    "I will take my place again among the slaves."
    "The other slaves." The pirate stressed the word.
    "Yes. I will rejoin the other slaves." Marric felt only a great weariness.
    "That is your loss. Akbar, Auda, take him and bind him!"
    The two men hustled Marric off the ship. He clung to whatever dignity he had left and to a fragile hope that as long as he lived, he could hope to escape and, at least, take vengeance for himself and his sister. But the blood was flowing from his wounds, and he felt as heartsick as if he had fought a losing battle, and then knelt beneath the yoke of his worst enemy.
     
    Sea water stung in Marric's wounds. His skin felt too tight from fever. Despite the heat below decks, the water on his skin made him start to shiver again. Nicephorus tried to steady him and offered him drink.
    "Easy, Mor. Come back to us." Marric heard chanting, thought he saw soft lights. He slept fitfully after that. In his dreams he fled from black clouds, from an accusing figure who wore a crown and stood in judgment above a dead girl. Then he saw a face that drew him—and opened his eyes.
    The gloom of the hold hurt to look at. A face, pale and fine-featured, but not the face he dreamt of, hovered over him.
    "Nico . . .  ."
    "Quiet, Mor." The scholar eased Marric's head against his shoulder. To Marric's surprise, when he smoothed his hair back, none of the slaves hooted.
    "How long . . . "
    "Two days, I think. Fine scholar I am, losing track of the time."
    "On board the . . . other ship, there . . . that man had fever . . . and they flung him over." Marric's tongue was thick.
    "Yes. The Greeks drowned him. But these pirates have decided that you will fetch a good price, should you live. So they have given you the chance to try—and all the water you need." The arm steadying Marric tightened. Not for a moment did he believe Nicephorus about the water.
    "No . . . need now."
    "You are still weak. But at least, praise Isis, you no longer rave."
    "What . . . ?" Oh gods, what had he betrayed?
    "Mor, you enlivened our days and our nights here by claiming all kinds of outrageous things." Nicephorus laughed tolerantly. "Even after your voice gave out, you still whispered! Be at peace: who ever listens to a wounded man's ravings? And among these, who has the will to care?"
    Marric looked at Nicephorus, then at the other slaves. Most were apathetic or asleep. A few watched him with the rough-and-ready sympathy unfortunates sometimes have for people in even worse plights. Nicephorus was right. Truly, none of them cared. He could have claimed to be Osiris in Glory (and perhaps he had), and no one would have listened. That was a humbling development. Just as well: the Arabs would have murdered a prince of Byzantium. Marric sighed and sank back into Nicephorus' arms.
    "I . . . my thanks," he began. "And anything I can ever—"
    "Be well," said Nicephorus. "Just be well. The rest is in the hands of the gods. If you do not pay me, you will pay another. And if not in this life, then in some other. Now, Mor, rest quiet."
    But Marric had one last question before he surrendered to the