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finger where I wore the imperial signet ring. Was that what this battle was about?
    ‘Give me the ring,’ Pakrad repeated. He reached out his left hand, while with his right he pulled one of the knives from his belt. The blade was dull in the dim light as he slapped it impatiently against the flat of his hand.
    ‘Give me it.’
    Instinctively, I tried to make a fist, but Pakrad was faster and had pressed his blade into my palm so that I couldnot close my fingers without cutting myself. He lifted the knife, so that I had no choice but to raise my hand. With a grunt of satisfaction, he twisted the ring off my finger and jammed it on his own.
    ‘Is that all you wanted?’ I asked in astonishment. A little ring – a ring I would gladly have thrown into the dust at the roadside to be free of my obligation to the emperor. Why had it brought me here?
    Pakrad sheathed his knife and stared at the ring on his hand, admiring his trophy. I saw that he winced whenever he moved his shoulder, and I took a small measure of satisfaction from that.
    ‘We need a doctor,’ I said again.
    He looked up. ‘Do you know what dogs do when one of their pack goes lame? They tear him apart and eat him. There is no doctor here.’ He paused, savouring my misery. ‘But I will do what I can for your friend. He will be worth less injured, and nothing at all if he dies.’
    ‘Worth less to whom?’
    But Pakrad only laughed, and left us in our prison.
    None of us spoke. A wave of desolation broke over me; I no longer even had the hope to pray. I had abandoned Anna and forsaken Sigurd, the two people I loved best in the world after my children – and all so that a treacherous bandit could steal a worthless ring. I wished he had stolen the ring from my campfire, or even cut it from my finger at Antioch, rather than luring me to die in this remote monastery. Not to die , a voice whispered – if he’d wantedme dead he could have had me impaled on the end of a spear hours ago. But I feared there was little kindness in his mercy.
    If I kept thinking those thoughts I would have dashed out my brains on the wall behind me by morning. With a great effort of will, I forced myself to concentrate on my surroundings. It must be night outside: I could hear the tramp of guards on the walls, muttered watchwords and spears clattering against stone; water dripping on the floor and a horse whinnying near by. Around me, the Varangians muttered prayers, though whether for themselves, their captain or their fallen companions I could not tell. I wondered which god they prayed to.
    My shoulders were beginning to go numb. I wriggled in my bonds to try and work some feeling into my limbs, and as I did so I noticed something in the corner of my eye. To my right, a small spot glowed silver in the dark wall. I twisted around, trying not to make a noise. There was a hole in the wall, no larger than a walnut, but big enough that if I put my eye to it I could see through into the room on the far side.
    It was the basilica, the church where we had fought and lost our battle, now washed in moonlight. I could see the stone I had pulled away on the altar dais still lying where I had left it, and the pile of armour taken from the Varangians. Most of the blood had been cleaned away by the rain, though dark splashes still stained some of the walls. Otherwise, the room was empty.
    I rolled away and settled myself in the least uncomfortable position I could manage. Then, God knows how, I slept.
    When I opened my eyes, bright light poured through the holes in the thatch, and I could see my surroundings clearly at last. Immediately, I looked across the room to Sigurd. He lay still under his blanket, eyes closed, the only sign of life the shallow rising and falling of his chest beneath it. Thankfully, he did not seem to be bleeding.
    Later in the morning, our guards brought breakfast: a cold corn-meal gruel that they slopped into our mouths. At least it seemed they meant to keep us alive –