His hands tied now, they pulled him roughly to the ground and bound his feet. Cadoc seemed oblivious to the mistreatment. "You were well chosen, brother. Never doubt that. God will not forsake those who call upon his name. Cling to him, Aidan. He is your rock and your strength."

They lifted him to the block and lay him over it, face down, his thin shoulders and legs falling to either side. A rope was passed through the tight leather bonds joining his hands, and another between his ankles; these were then tied to the horses' harnesses.

"Always remember," he said, turning his face to me for the last time, "your life was bought with a price. Remember that when doubt overtakes you. Farewell, Aidan."

He then turned his head and closed his eyes. I heard the familiar drone of the Lord's Prayer.

The chief overseer spoke out a command, and the pit guard, whip in hand, stepped to the block, pushing me aside. I could not stand and fell to the ground where I rolled in torment on my bruised back. Another guard, a tall, well-muscled dark-skinned Sarazen, took his place on the other side of the block. He reached out his hand and received the curved axe.

At a nod from the chief overseer, the pit guard gave out a cry to the horses. His whip uncurled in the same instant and the crack echoed in the yard. The slaves all shouted at once. The horses started forth. Poor Cadoc's 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?

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.