The Great Slave Escape

Three weeks after leaving the Black Sea, the survivors stand inside Tbilisi’s palace gate. Makeda’s palm is still wrapped in cloth, though the journey has healed the rest of her wounds.

Queen Mariam Dadiani waits beneath an arched portico in her rose-red, gold-trimmed gown. Beside her stands a lean, middle-aged official with a trimmed beard, dark robes, and a wax tablet.

Julia steps forward, pale and slender but steady, while Sofia, Angela, Daria, Petar, and the others remain behind her. Guards watch the group without drawing weapons.

The official lowers his stylus and studies Makeda, lingering on her dark skin and the guarded distance the court has left around her. Queen Mariam’s gaze remains direct and unreadable.

Her account crosses the portico without faltering. The guards remain still, but several lower their eyes when she describes the abandoned ship and the drowned captives.

Makeda bows, careful and sincere, but the gesture is slightly too deep for the court’s custom. Her wrapped palm remains visible against her cloak, marking hardship rather than rank.

King Rostom's official turns his wax tablet and indicates a blank space beneath the account. The court has not granted permanent asylum, yet Makeda now sees the useful opening: her testimony can be entered separately.

The words settle beneath the portico. Makeda keeps her injured palm against her cloak and meets the queen’s gaze without lowering her eyes.

He presses the stylus into the wax and writes Makeda’s name beneath the refugees’ account. The gesture grants her a separate voice, while making her credibility part of the court’s record.

Makeda shifts her weight carefully and performs the court’s approved bow: neither abasement nor defiance, her head lowered while her injured palm remains hidden against her cloak.

Makeda straightens. The gesture earns the queen’s approval, but its public precision also places Makeda visibly within Mariam’s protection, making her testimony a matter of courtly responsibility.

The official adds the clause to the wax tablet. Several guards glance toward Makeda, no longer seeing merely a rescued slave, but a protected claimant whose words may affect the court.

A palace guard gestures toward the inner court, and Makeda follows without hesitation. She keeps her pace measured, neither hurrying nor lagging behind the escort.

The portico gives way to shadowed corridors of stone and painted plaster. Servants pause beside the walls as the protected claimant passes, then lower their eyes.

Makeda crosses a small courtyard where a fountain murmurs beneath carved arches. The guard leads her through another doorway into a quiet receiving room furnished with cushions, a low table, and a covered water jar.

Julia, Sofia, Angela, Daria, and Petar are directed onward by separate attendants, their voices fading along the corridor. No one bars Makeda’s passage or takes her from the queen’s protection.

The guard indicates a place beside the water and withdraws to the doorway. Makeda arrives safely at the assigned lodging, with her wrapped palm protected and the council’s hearing set for morning.

A servant brings Makeda a simple supper of bread, lentils, olives, and watered wine, setting it on the low table before withdrawing.

Makeda eats everything offered, slowly at first, then with the practical attention of someone accustomed to measuring food against tomorrow’s demands.

The covered jar provides fresh water. Her wrapped palm remains undisturbed as she drinks, then places the empty cup beside the untouched lamp.

The palace guard closes the door from outside, leaving Makeda alone in the quiet receiving room. Beyond the walls, the palace settles into evening.

Makeda lies down on the prepared bedding, keeping her bandaged palm above the coverlet. Weariness carries her into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

Night passes quietly around the receiving room. The lamp burns low, palace footsteps fade, and Makeda remains undisturbed beneath the coverlet, her bandaged palm resting clear of the bedding.

Before dawn, servants begin moving through distant corridors. A muted bell sounds beyond the walls, followed by the first murmurs of morning prayers.

Gray light gathers through the shutters. Makeda wakes rested, with the wrapped cut unchanged and the supper tray cleared away.

A knock comes at the door. The palace guard waits outside with another attendant, a young adult woman with a slim build, warm brown skin, dark braided hair, and a muted blue-gray robe, allowing Makeda time to rise and prepare without haste.

Makeda rises, secures her clothing, and follows the palace guard into the corridor. As she passes through the narrow doorway, her shoulder catches the stone jamb, leaving a sharp scrape beneath her sleeve.

The young attendant walks beside her, carrying no weapon and keeping a respectful distance. Makeda matches the escort’s pace despite the sting in her shoulder.

They cross the quiet courtyard beneath fading gray light. Servants move along the covered walkways, while distant prayers conclude behind carved wooden doors.

The guard opens a tall door, and Makeda enters the council antechamber. Benches line the walls; beyond an inner arch, voices and the scrape of styluses announce the waiting officials.

She has arrived before the council as summoned, with the queen’s protection still over her and the fresh scrape burning quietly beneath her sleeve.

Makeda takes the nearest bench in the council antechamber and waits without fidgeting. Her wrapped palm rests lightly against her cloak, protected from the hard stone.

The palace guard returns to the doorway. The young attendant stands beside the inner arch, while muted voices continue beyond it and styluses scratch steadily across wax.

Morning light strengthens through the high windows, laying pale bars across the floor. Servants pass quietly along the walls, giving Makeda respectful space.

Time passes without disturbance. Makeda remains seated, conserving her strength and listening as the chamber’s formal murmurs rise and fall beyond the closed arch.

At last, the inner door opens. A clerk appears and gestures toward Makeda, while the guard steps aside to clear her passage into the council chamber.

Makeda crosses the threshold into the council chamber. Her bandaged palm remains protected against her cloak as she walks with measured, confident steps.

The chamber is broad and austere, with painted beams, high windows, and a long table crowded by wax tablets. King Rostom's official sits at its center.

Beside him sits an elderly Armenian man in a dark wool robe, his silver beard neatly combed, and a young Georgian woman in a crimson veil, poised over a tablet.

The clerk closes the door behind her. The officials turn their attention fully upon Makeda, while two unarmed guards remain beside the walls and the styluses fall silent.

A space waits before the council table. Makeda has entered safely, and the chamber is ready to receive her testimony.

Makeda’s account carries clearly through the chamber, but her accusation against the Turks draws a guarded exchange of glances. The the clerk writes rapidly, then pauses over several phrases.

The judgment falls short of full acceptance, yet the clerk continues writing. No guard moves toward Makeda, and her status under Queen Mariam’s protection remains untouched.

A narrow door opens before her: the council will preserve her account while seeking testimony from the Christian network that sheltered the fugitives. The styluses resume their measured scratching.

Win formal sanctuary for the survivors