The overseer gaped, unable to decide if I was in earnest; he opened his mouth to protest, then decided to save his breath, and hastened away to begin the task of summoning and assembling the slaves. While Faysal and one of the rafiq accompanied the overseer, I dismounted, secured my horse to the whipping post and went into the overseer's house to await his return.

The interior was dim, the low wide windholes shuttered against the sun. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw a room of clutter and filth. The powder-fine red-brown dust, which was everywhere in the mines, blew in on the breeze and was never swept out again; it clung to everything, and was hard caked in the places he habitually walked.

The dwelling reeked of bitter smoke; the stink clung to the carpets and cushions on the floor. "Hashish," muttered one of the warriors scornfully, and pointed to a small iron brazier filled with ash which stood beside a large greasy leather cushion. Here then, the chief overseer spent his nights, inhaling the potent vapours of the stupefying plant. I did not like to sit down in this hovel, so I stood, and the rafiq stood with me, contemptuous of a man whose life could be read in this slovenly mess.

My thoughts turned to my friends, and I wondered what they would say when they saw that I had returned to free them. Did they think I had forgotten them? Did they imagine I had abandoned them? Or was hope yet alive in their hearts? When this day dawned and they rose to take up the tools of their torment once again, did they realize how close was their liberation? Did they sense the nearness of their freedom even now?

From somewhere high on the hill the sounding iron clanged, and after a time the first slaves began streaming down the hill paths to their accustomed places along the boundary of the sun-baked square outside the overseer's house. I watched them as they arrived, searching among the ranks for any familiar face, but saw none. The distressing thought flitted through my mind: what if they are dead? What if I have tarried too long and they have all succumbed to cruel labour and the lash? What if none now survived for me to set free? This was something I had never considered, but I did so now; and, had I imagined it would have done any good, I would have prayed that God had sustained them and kept them to this day.

I waited. More and more slaves were coming to the square. They saw the horses tethered to the post in the yard-where on such occasions someone among them provided an exemplary sacrifice-and wondered what new torture was at hand.

The slave throng slowly gathered. I stood in the doorway, searching the crowd, and had begun to fear I would not find anyone I knew, when I saw Jarl Harald. He stood a head or more taller than anyone around him, which should have made him easier to find. But then I realized why I had not seen him sooner: he had changed. His fine mane of flame-red hair and beard were now a matted, moth-eaten mass; his broad shoulders were bowed and he stood with a slump, his body twisted to one side, as if favouring a crippled limb. Grey-faced, the once proud lord gazed down at the ground, never raising his eyes.

With awful dread, I searched the ranks and found, to my horror, others I should have recognized before. One after another-and each more wretched than the last-I identified them. I could not bear to look at them, and turned away in a sudden panic of doubt, thinking, It was a mistake to come. I should have left them to their fate. There can be no salvation; liberation has come too late.

Finally, the chief overseer returned to stand uncertainly in the centre of the yard. Faysal left him in the company of the warrior named Nadr, and proceeded to the house. "The slaves are assembled," Faysal reported.

I thanked him and said, "I wish I could free them all. Would the khalifa's generosity stretch so far, do you think?"

"They are waiting," he said.

I nodded. "They will wait no longer. Captivity has ended for a fortunate few."

Stepping from the overseer's house into the full brightness of the sun, it was a moment before I could see properly. The sun scorched through the thin cloth of my robe, and my heart went out to those standing naked beneath the burning rays. At least the mines were dark and cool. Now I was making them burn in the blast furnace of the day's heat.

Faysal regarded me out of the corner of a narrowed eye, but I shook off his concern. "Let us be done with this," I murmured, striding forward once more.

Not knowing where else to begin, I went first to the place where Harald stood and pointed to him. The barbarian did not so much as glance in my direction. "Bring him here," I ordered the nearest guard, who seized Harald roughly by the arm and jerked him from his place. "Gently!" I told the guard sternly. "He is a king."

The Dane shuffled forth, his leg chains rattling on the ground; he came to stand before me, never once looking up. "I have returned," I told him. "I have come for you."

At these words, he raised his head for the first time. With pale, watery eyes he looked at me, but without recognition. My heart fell.

"Jarl Harald," I said, "it is Aidan. Do you not remember me?"

Into his dull gaze flickered a light I had never seen before-beyond mere recognition, or realization; beyond common hope, or joy. A light which was nothing less than life itself reawakening in a human soul. Awareness at its most profound and pure kindled in that spark of light and blazed in the smile that slowly spread across Harald BullRoar's face.

"Aidan God-speaker," he breathed. And then could say no more for the tears that choked his voice. He raised a trembling hand to me, as if he would stroke my face. I seized the hand and grasped it tight.

"Stand easy, brother," I told him. "We are soon leaving this place." Turning my eyes once more to the throng, I asked, "How many of the others still live?"

"All of them, I think," he replied nodding.

"Where are they? I do not see them."

By way of reply, the wily Dane raised his hands to his mouth, drew breath and gave out a bellowing roar. It was, I remembered, the sea marauder's war cry, now weakened and strained. He gave it again, and then cried, "Heya! Aidan has returned! Come, men, we are going home!"

The echo of Harald's shout died away to silence. I watched the gathered ranks as out from among the dead-eyed slaves came the wasted remnant of the Sea Wolf pack. My spirit writhed within me to see them shambling forth-some in pairs still, others by themselves, but all dragging their irons. Off to one side, one poor wretch hobbled towards me, his eagerness made pathetic by his lurching gait. His last steps were ill-judged and he tottered headlong to the dust. I reached down to raise him and found myself looking into Gunnar's haggard face.

"Aeddan," he said, tears streaming from his eyes. "Aeddan, thank God, you have come at last. I knew you would return. I knew you would not leave us to die in this place."

I helped him to his feet and clasped him to me. "Gunnar," I said, "forgive me, brother. I should have come sooner, forgive me."

"How should I forgive you?" Wonder made his features childlike. "You have returned. I knew you would. I never doubted."

I looked at the other slaves slowly making their way to where we stood. "Where is Dugal?" I said. "I do not see him." Once more, panic assailed me. Have I come too late? Dugal! Where are you, brother? "Where are the Britons?"

In the same instant, I heard a cry from across the yard. I turned and saw, stumbling forward through the press, the hulking figure of my dearest friend and brother. Vastly changed, he was-still, I knew him as I would have known my own self. "Dugal!" I cried, and hastened to meet him.

Seeing me, he half-turned and gestured to someone behind him, and then came on. We met in the centre of the yard before the whipping post where we had last seen one another, and where Bishop Cadoc had gone to death in my place. "Dugal!" I cried, my own eyes filling with tears. "Are you alive, Dugal?"