“Free the prisoners!” he screamed.

For a moment there was nothing; then the multitude of Fiore stood on their feet, roaring hysterically. Kobinski saw concealed weapons appear from under robes, here, there, all over the arena. Others brandished their staffs, yelling. One group near the arena floor vaulted over the balustrade to face the startled guards.

“Yosef!” Aharon cried behind him.

As he turned his head toward the Jew, Kobinski felt a great burst of trembling joy. He felt as though the door of some horrible cell in which he’d been imprisoned had finally swung open, revealing light and warmth. And then he caught a glimpse of a stone blade swinging toward him from the left, heard the whoosh, felt the sharp and devastating impact as it cleaved his neck. His head was turning over and over through the air, over and over, and he could feel the movement of the wind against his hair, against his severed throat. The sound of Aharon screaming his name came through the screaming of all the Fiore and then both faded into the void.

The head landed on the arena floor, a few feet from Argeh’s dead body. On impact the mask that had belonged to the king of Gehenna dislodged and spun away, revealing the human face of Yosef Kobinski, eyes closed, expression peaceful.

The arena was in utter chaos. Aharon had watched in disbelief as Kobinski murdered Argeh. He’d watched Sevace, intimidated and stunned at first, recover and draw his terrible blade.

If Aharon had moved, if he’d had a weapon, if he’d been fast enough… But he hadn’t.

He was still staring in horror at Kobinski’s headless corpse as Tevach shoved him.

“Go! Get out!” Tevach yelled. The massively built servant had a blade of his own in one hand. He gave Aharon another shove, then gave up on him, throwing himself over the side of the box and pushing through the milling crowd toward the arena floor.

Aharon stood, dazed. Sevace took one step toward him, bloody sword in hand, then paused, suddenly fearful. He changed his mind, leaving Aharon and following Tevach down to join the melee, yelling a cry of pure rage. And still Aharon stood.

Blood ran down the steps behind him and soaked over the edges of his sandals—this made him move at last. He put up the hood on his cloak to hide his face and pulled his weight up the heavy steps by leveraging the backs of stone chairs. He made it out the rear door of the box.

The roaring from the arena intensified now that he was outside. A long, narrow flight of stone stairs led down to the street below. No railing guarded the edge. He saw a few Fiore running from the arena in terror, but none of them looked in his direction. He couldn’t take these stairs alone; it wasn’t possible. He would plunge over the edge and kill himself. But he took one step, then another, clinging to the smooth stone wall to his left. Somehow he made it to the bottom.

My Lord’s carriage was waiting. The driver stood anxiously, alarmed by the sounds of the crowd. He spoke to Aharon, and Aharon realized he couldn’t understand or be understood. He wavered uncertainly, with no idea how to proceed; then he remembered what Kobinski had told him.

“Chebia,” he said to the driver. He took the parchment from his pocket and showed the driver the map. He looked confused. He glanced again up the stairs toward the box.

Aharon lowered the hood to expose his face. “Chebia,” he demanded as the driver drew back in fear. Aharon motioned to the coach, opened the door, and got in.

The sounds from the arena were clearly battle sounds now. Dying screams rent the air. The driver had the look of a dog torn between sticking by its master and fleeing a dangerous situation. Aharon was his excuse to flee. He climbed up to the top of the carriage and, once rolling, moved at top speed. The arena fell away behind them.

Chebia was in the middle of nowhere, a few shacks in a barren wasteland. The community of twenty accepted Aharon without question. Within days, he was working in the field next to Tevach’s father, coaxing rocks from the thin, dusty soil.

His new life was a hard one, bitter as gall. He felt like a Jew from ancient times toiling in some distant land—Egypt, perhaps—lost to his people, sold for a slave. But the physical labor freed his mind to reflect on many things, and he was glad to be away from the City. Now he was only a man, a man doing penance, and that… well, that was perhaps as it should be.

It was three weeks before any carriage approached the village. The carriage brought Tevach. His family stopped their work to greet him, milling about him with tender-eyed pawing. Tevach seemed glad to see him, coming up and smelling him, rubbing his face against Aharon’s arm.

“I thank Adonai that you are safe,” Tevach said.

Aharon was startled at the use of the Hebrew name. He nodded. “And I you, Tevach. I see you survived the fight at the Festival.”

Tevach’s nose twitched with excitement. “Argeh’s guards won a bloody battle and Ahtdeh is in hiding, but he lives! And there are many followers of Ahtdeh now. All will be well.”

Aharon had the feeling that was hopelessly optimistic for Fiori, but he wished it would be so.

Later, after a scanty meal, Tevach took him aside to say good-bye. He handed Aharon the manuscript. “I took it from My Lord’s room. It is for you.”

Aharon ran his hand over the cover, thinking of Kobinski. He briefly considered giving the work to the little mouse, to Fiori. But with all the trouble it had caused on Earth, he guessed it would be more of a curse than a blessing in the long run. Besides, Tevach and Ahtdeh already understood the heart of it.

“Thank you,” he said, swallowing a lump in his throat. He tucked it into his belt.

“My mind thinks often on My Lord,” Tevach said, his small face sincere. “He helped free Ahtdeh—did you see?”

“Yes, Tevach. I saw.”

“When I thought he would do nothing, he helped us. He showed us God cares, even for the Fiore.” Tevach placed his cheek on Aharon’s sleeve again, holding it there for a brief moment. When he pulled away, he looked sad. “You stay here?”

Aharon nodded. “I think that’s best.”

“How long?” Tevach’s eyes were bright and curious, curious, still, about where Aharon had come from and where he might go.

Aharon looked over Tevach’s head, at the cold wasteland of the farm. He sighed. “That, Tevach, is in God’s hands.”