Eric Flint - This Rough Magic

"They have leg chains. The ones who are not working have a long chain threaded through all of the leg irons."

"Ah. I see. Do we know of a good blacksmith?"

Thalia turned to Giuliano. "Who is best? There are three making arrowheads and spear-blades for us."

"Gigantes, I think." The once-plump young son of an armsman smiled. "He used to make my plows. He was always coming up with new ideas that I didn't want."

"Do you think he could make me a set of manacles? And while I'm about it, provide me with some metal-cutting files."

"If you have the gold, yes. Files are precious."

"It's a mad plan!" snapped Erik.

Benito shrugged. "Of course it is. Do you think a sane plan would succeed?"

"No. But that's not the point. A breakout of those prisoners would certainly enhance our popularity even more. It's a good idea even if I don't like the way you want to do it. But look at the rest of it. It has one big flaw: Castles and fortifications are built not to be climbed. Trust me. I know about fortification."

Benito shook his head. "Erik, I don't try to tell you about hand-to-hand combat. Please don't tell me what I can or can't climb. I promise you that there are at least seven places where an upper-story man could get into the Citadel with ease. Of course they've got guards and I've got to get there. That's why I am going as one of the prisoners."

"It won't work. Look, after moon-down is the time they'll have their sappers sneaking over. The guards on the walls will shoot at anything that moves-or worse, if you're climbing, drop boiling pitch or oil on you."

"I know. Falkenberg told me. That's why I'm going in on the seaward side, near where we came down. I should be safe enough in the water."

"I forbid it," said Erik. "You're throwing away your life, Benito."

"I'm afraid, Erik, you can't forbid me to do anything," said Benito firmly. "Knowing for certain that relief is on its way will give the those inside the kind of fortitude that is worth an extra five hundred men. Those are my orders from the Doge."

He didn't tell Erik that what Petro had actually said was: if you can let them know without killing yourself. He wasn't planning on killing himself. If he died it would definitely be by someone else's hand. "What you can do for me is keep this sword. I don't think I can manage to hide it."

Erik looked at the rapier. It was plain he recognized the hilt. He'd been there the day it had been broken, and to someone like Erik weapons were as distinct as snowflakes. "That's quite an honor. What do you want me to do with it?"

Benito shrugged again. "Marco wouldn't appreciate it much. If I don't come back, have it for a wedding present that you can give to your firstborn son." He grinned at Erik's look of embarrassment. "If I do get away with this, you and Svan'll have to put up with a silver saltcellar or something instead."

Erik squeezed his shoulder. "It's a true Viking gift," he said thickly. "And our first. But I think-much as I envy this blade-I'd rather have the saltcellar."

"I'll do my best to see you get it."

Benito had stripped down to match the slaves. The poor devils had nothing more than breeches, which mean that the Shetland knife, the three files, spare knives, and the manacle key had to be strapped to his legs. His body, face and the breeches were suitably covered in mud. His medal from the Hypatians he attached to the belt-line.

"If you're due a saltcellar, I'll have Manfred fly the Knots banner from the inner wall, north tower," whispered Benito in parting.

And then he was on his own. In what, he reluctantly admitted, were still his two favorite elements: darkness and danger.

Moving along the backs of the tent lines, once he'd dodged the initial sentries, was tricky. There were guy-ropes, and, on one occasion a soldier relieving himself. He moved silently, manacles bundled in sackcloth and on his back, closer and closer to his target.

At last he only had the palisade between him and the slaves. He lay there, trying not to shiver, and watched and waited, studying the movements of the guards. When he was satisfied at last, he took the moment and went up and over the eight-foot palisade like a chimney-rat under whom the fire has just been lit. Then he dropped, gently, from his full arms' stretch. This was the worrying part. There might be stakes or anything there.

He landed on something bony that swore at him in Greek. It was the one thing he'd learned reasonably well from Taki, Spiro and Kosti. As Spiro had explained, it wasn't that fishermen were crudely spoken. It was the fish. Fish don't understand otherwise.

"Shut up!" he hissed, in his now-passable Greek. "I've come to help you get out of here." Which was true, up to a point.

Sometime later, firmly manacled into the line, Benito lay among the huddled-together-for-warmth prisoners and pondered what he now knew. The prisoners had no idea which place they'd be working in next. There were, in toto, seven strings of twenty. The guards came and took chainfuls at a time. There were several strings out now. The prisoners-naturally-had wanted to escape immediately. Another day or night working meant a very real chance of dying. Benito had his work cut out to persuade them to let him chance getting to the Citadel wall.

His bait, however, was irresistible.

"Look-just running, you've got maybe one chance in a hundred. But the resistance fighters out there, the klepthes"-which meant bandits, but to the Greeks the two were remarkably close-"they'll be waiting for my signal from inside the fort. The night they get it, they'll do two things. First, they want to raid one of the outposts to the south. Second there'll be some, with horses and donkeys, near the ridge with the holm-oaks. You get up there, yell 'Kalimera,' and they'll try to get you away."

In the meanwhile, they took turns filing their manacle chains the better part of the way through. The new-cut metal would be plastered with dust and urine. If the opportunity arose, they'd probably be able to force them.

Morning came. Benito found himself sent to be part of a bucket-chain, passing earth out of one of the mines. His one worry now was that he was just that much stronger, better fed and less exhausted than his Corfiote companions. He hoped the bored, brutal guards wouldn't notice.

During that long, hot session one of the slaves died. The guards took him out of the chain by the simple expedient of chopping his foot off. "At least he was dead," whispered the man next to him. "Zikos was alive when they did it." And the mines were considered a lucky option.

That afternoon, Benito quietly swapped chains. "They've been in all day. They're bound to go out tonight to work on the causeway."

They did. The wrong one. He had to wait until the next night.

Benito no longer had to fake looking exhausted, hauling rocks and broken masonry to make walls for the troops to advance behind. They had hide shields to work behind, but these were poor protection against even arquebus fire. The guards stayed well back behind some sandbags. It was simplicity itself to slip his manacle and lie down when cannon fire made the guards pull their heads down. Then it was merely a quick wriggle and squirm through a gap and a scraping slide into the water. All too easy.

The water wasn't. It wasn't that cold, but it was still something of a shock. Benito began to ease his way, swimming very quietly next to the edge of the mole, so that his head, if anyone saw it, might be thought part of the stone fallen from it. The siege engineers had been using broken masonry from the town and there were any number of odd-shaped bits in the water.

Then, flipping onto his back, he began swimming away from the mole down the channel toward the sea. Oh, to be one of the merpeople! That thought put another into his mind: the creature that the merpeople said had been haunting the Adriatic. Benito decided maybe it would be a good idea to swim with his knife in hand. After all, it was dark and still here in the water.