"Yes. I loved him more because he knew me as I was, and loved me as I was. You loved me, and it broke my heart to see how much you loved me. But you loved the woman I was pretending to be. Now that you really know me, you hate me." "Should I not? How can you tell me all this without shame?" "I am not ashamed. I am sorry. More sorry than I can ever say. But what have I to be ashamed of? I am a woman of Byzantium. I was fighting for my people. Surely you know what your Franks did to Constantinople. Look and listen to what Anjou's army is doing tonight to Benevento." "Daoud spoke that way as he lay dying," Simon said slowly. A sob convulsed Sophia. It was a moment before she could speak again. "I hope, at least, you understand us--Daoud and me--a little better," said Sophia. "Kill me now, or hang me or burn me tomorrow. As I feel now, death would be a relief." "I know how you feel," said Simon. "I, too, have lost the one I loved." "Oh, Simon." She felt herself starting to weep again, for Simon and Daoud both. "What do you want to do?" he asked. "What does it matter? I am your prisoner. And Rachel. And Tilia and Ugolini. All of us." She remembered the hope she had been harboring these past few weeks. If she died now, would another life within her die? If she lived, how would she care for that life? He sighed. "For me this is all over. If I hurt you, what good would that do me now? It would be just one more unbearable memory to carry with me through life. One more reason to hate myself. I want to know, if you were free to do as you wish, what would you do?" Her mind, numbed with sorrow, was a blank. With Daoud dead, the remainder of her life seemed worthless to her. Even the thought that she might be carrying Daoud's child seemed only added reason for sorrow. "Now that all of Italy is in the hands of Manfred's enemies, I suppose I would go back to Constantinople," she said. The thought of returning home to the city she loved was a faint light in the blackness of her despair. "For my part, I would not stop you from going," he said. The weary sadness in his voice stung her. If he meant it--and he seemed to--she should be relieved. Overjoyed, even. But all she felt was the weight of her grief, pressing pain into the very marrow of her bones. "What do you mean to do about Tilia Caballo and Ugolini?" she asked. "I am sure King Charles wants them, but I do not care to be the one who dooms them by turning them over to him." _King Charles._ The title sounded so strange. That was how the ones who supported him must speak of him, of course. And her heart wept a little for Manfred, whom she had not thought of in her agony over Daoud's death. She heard the note of disdain toward Charles in Simon's voice and wondered at it. "You will not deliver Charles's enemies to him? After coming here and helping him win his war? Have you turned against him?"