Only when the great warhorse fought the bit, swinging its head from side to side, did the illusion vanish.I did not even sense the men at my back.At once they had a hood over my head and powerful hands bound my wrists behind me. I was hoisted into a saddle and in a heartbeat we started off. Having no stirrups, reins, or even free hands to clutch the mane, all my efforts were concentrated simply to remain on the horse.It is impossible to imagine something such as this: clinging to a galloping horse with only my legs, bound and hooded, entirely blind in a world where little enough could be seen as it was, my heart at the base of my skull, asking myself, Why did they not kill me?I have since passed worse nights, several of them in the Stinche prison, where my hands were similarly bound behind my back, the rope attached to them thrown over a beam from which I was hoisted; as my joints popped and cracked I was instructed that I would remain in that excruciating posture until I condemned innocent men—or, failing to do so, until I was taken out to have my head chopped off.
