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the land itself rises and falls like the sea, we cannot deny that his words were true. Even our bodies are only temporary habitations. The soul moves from one to another until it is perfected.”
    But bodies are precious, too
,
thought Kyria, acutely conscious of the warm weight of the child in her arms.
I do not care who Empedocles was before, or who he will be. I know only that the body he wears now came from my own, and I will give my last drop of blood to preserve it.
If her child never spoke a word, the bright spirit that burned within him could still bring light to the world.
    â€œIs the fishers’ village far?” whispered Lysander in the silence that followed.
    â€œWe could reach it by dawn,” said Nicolaus, “but some of the nobles that Aristodemus banished live there.”
    â€œThe rebels will still be in the city,” said Kyria. “If the villagers will not help us, we can buy food and continue on.”
    â€œFisherfolk live all along the bay,” her father said calmly. “We will find another village.”
    â€œBut not until we have light,” said Kyria. “We should eat something now, and get whatever rest we can.”
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    Dawn brought a smoke-dimmed sky and a muggy heat, as if summer were already here. From the knob of ocher stone where the citadel still smoldered, a land scored by canyons and craters stretched westward. Men called them the fields of fire, though except for the places where sulfurous vapors burst from the earth, there was rich soil.
    The track they followed wound south, crossing a hillside where a few goats grazed and buttercups glowed in the ripening grass. Farther off, tall cypresses stood like green columns for a roofless temple, framing a glimpse of sparkling blue bay. It would have been a lovely day for a walk if not for the smoke in the air, but as the sun rose, the wind shifted, bringing the scent of the sea.
    Empedocles wriggled until Kyria set him down. She untied the cord that bound her peplos below her breasts to make a leash for him. Though her mother frowned, he had run off too many times to go free. His tongue might lag, but there was nothing wrong with his legs.
    The day grew warmer. Kyria settled into a mindless progress, retaining just enough focus to keep hold of Empedocles’ leash, when Lysander pulled on her sleeve.
    â€œI hear hoofbeats!”
    Nico knelt and laid his ear to the earth. “Horses! More than one. They must have gotten them from the citadel.”
    Kyria cast a quick look around. The pines edging the road could give no cover. They were widely spaced, their branches bushing out like a sunshade well over the height of a man. Where the slope fell away beyond them, brush covered the hill.
    â€œDown there!” she cried, grabbing the child. Stiff twigs tore at skin and gown as they slid down the bank, but when the first of the horsemen rounded the bend, all of the fugitives were out of sight, nursing their scratches as they crouched among the leathery leaves.
    The horsemen laughed and passed a wineskin back and forth. They wore odd bits of looted finery, and ambling behind them was a laden mule.
    â€œWe’re too late,” wailed Eudocia when they had gone.
    â€œNo,” said her husband. “We are saved. If we had made it to the village, we would be there now, waiting as the fisherman got his boat ready for sea.”
    â€œIf we had found someone willing to take us at all,” added Picus grimly.
    â€œThe gods are watching over us!” exclaimed Lysander. “We would have fallen right into their hands.”
    â€œBut if we cannot go to the village, what will we do?” Eudocia’s voice wavered, but she was not weeping. Indeed, she was holding up better than Kyria had expected.
    â€œGo back to the fork,” Archilaus replied. “That road follows the shore.”
    Kyria shaded her eyes with her hand. Before them lay a rolling countryside