“That is a death sentence,” said Martina, when she had finished reading out this passage.  “I have seen several such sent in my day, when I was Irene’s confidential lady.  It is the common form.  We shall never reach Byzantium, Olaf, or, if we do, we shall never leave it more.”

I nodded, for I knew that this was so.  Then, at some whispered word from Martina, Heliodore spoke.

“Husband,” she said, “foreseeing this issue, Martina, Jodd, and most of the Northmen and I have made a plan which we now submit to you, praying that for our sakes, if not for yours, you will not thrust it aside.  We have bought two good ships, armed them and furnished them with all things needful.  Moreover, during the past two months we have sold much of our property, turning it into gold.  This is our plan—­that we pretend to obey the order of the Emperor, but instead of heading for Byzantium, sail away north to the land in which you were born, where, having rank and possessions, you may still become a mighty chief.  If we go at once we shall miss the Imperial fleet, and I think that none will follow us.”

Now I bowed my head for a while and thought.  Then I lifted it and said,

“So let it be.  No other road is open.”

For my own sake I would not have stirred an inch.  I would have gone to the Court of the Emperor at Byzantium and there argued out the thing in a gambler’s spirit, prepared to win or prepared to lose.  There at least I should have had all the image-worshippers who adored Irene, that is, the full half of the Empire, upon my side, and if I perished, I should perish as a saint.  But a wife and children are the most terrible gifts of God, if the most blessed, for they turn our hearts to water.  So, for the first time in my life, I grew afraid, and, for their sakes, fled.

As might be expected, having Martina’s brains, Heliodore’s love, and the Northmen’s loyalty at the back of it, our plan went well.  A letter was sent to the Emperor saying that we would await the arrival of the fleet to obey his commands, having some private matters to arrange before we left Lesbos.  Then, on a certain evening, we embarked on two great ships, about four hundred souls in all.

Before we went I bade farewell to Irene.  She was seated outside the house that had been given to her, employed in spinning, for it was her fancy to earn the bread she ate by the labour of her hands.  Round her were playing Jodd’s children and my own, whom, in order to escape suspicion, we had sent thither till the time came for us to embark, since the people of Lesbos only knew of our scheme by rumour.

“Whither do you go, Olaf?” she asked.

“Back to the North, whence I came, Madam,” I answered, “to save the lives of these,” and I waved my hand towards the children.  “If I bide here all must die.  We have been sent for to Byzantium, as I think you were wont to send for officers who had ceased to please you.”