In memory she heard a voice say, _Italy was ours not so long ago and might be ours again_. So Michael Paleologos, the Basileus, Emperor of Constantinople, had introduced the suggestion that she go to Italy, and at just such a moment as this, when they were in bed together in his hunting lodge outside Nicaea. She had felt no distress at the idea of being parted from Michael. He was a scrawny man with a long gray beard, and though she counted herself enormously lucky to have attracted his attention, she felt no love for him. She had come to Lucera acting as Michael's agent and personal emissary to Manfred--and resenting Michael's use of her but feeling she had no choice. She was a present from one monarch to another. She ought to be flattered, she supposed. She had walked into Manfred's court in the embroidered jeweled mantle Michael had given her, her hair bound up in silver netting. Lorenzo Celino had conducted her to the throne, and she bowed and looked up. And it was like gazing upon the sun. Manfred von Hohenstaufen's smile was brilliant, his hair white-gold, his eyes sapphires. He stepped down from his throne, took her hand, and led her to his eight-sided garden. First she gave him Michael's messages--news that a Tartar army had stormed the crusader city of Sidon, leveled it, and ridden off again--a warning that Pope Urban had secretly offered the crown of Naples and Sicily, Manfred's crown, to Prince Edward, heir apparent to the throne of England. "Your royal master is kind, but the pope's secret is no secret," Manfred had said, laughing and unconcerned. "The nobility of England have flatly told Prince Edward that they will supply neither money nor men for an adventure in Italy. The pope must find another robber baron to steal my crown." And then he asked her about herself, and they talked about her and about him. She had thought all westerners were savages, but Manfred amazed her with his cultivation. He knew more than many Byzantines, for whom Constantinople--which they always called "the Polis," the City, as if it were the only one--was the whole world. In the short time she and Manfred strolled together that day, he spoke to her in Greek, Latin, and Italian, and she later found out that he knew French, German, and Arabic as well. He sang a song to her in a tongue she did not recognize, and he told her it was Provencal, the language of the troubadours. He undid the clasp of her mantle and let it fall to the gravel. He kissed her in the bright sunlight, and she forgot Michael Paleologos. She belonged altogether to Manfred von Hohenstaufen. * * * * * Now, with a chill, she remembered that she did indeed _belong_ to Manfred. She was not his mate but his servant. His fingertips stroked her nipple lightly, but she ignored the tingle of pleasure. She waited for him to say what he had to say. He said, "Remember the fair-haired Muslim who came to the court today?"