"Will you fight Simon?"
He felt his blood go hot. That she should think at all of de Gobignon at this moment rather than of herself—or of him—made him so angry he forgot for a moment his own guilt and fear for her life.
"The young count will probably be leading the fight on the battlements." Daoud tasted the venom in what he was about to say, but he could not help himself. "It will be quite a shock when he finds the Tartars dead and realizes how he has failed."
Sophia stood breathing hard, her eyes glistening with tears. "If only you were not—"
Daoud was already wishing he had not spoken so to her. "Not what?"
"Not blind!" she cried.
She turned swiftly and reached for the door handle. But Daoudcould not let her go. He was there before her, and he faced her and seized her hand.
"I am not blind," he rasped. "I see that pretending to be what you are not is tearing you apart. I wish we could be our true selves with each other—"
"We cannot," she said bitterly. "And to speak of it only makes it hurt more. Let me go."
He relaxed his grip on her hand, and she was gone.
Some day, he thought.Some day, Sophia.
Looking at the closed door, Daoud felt an almost unbearable inner pain. He had thrust her at Simon. He had lashed out at her, hurt her unjustly. Having done that to her, he was about to put her in far worse danger.
How could he claim, even in the secrecy of his own heart, that he loved her?
Daoud could barely see Marco di Filippeschi in the darkness. Moonlight touched the gold medallion that hung from Marco's neck and on the silver badge in his cap. For the rest he was a figure carved out of shadow. Despite the full moon, this narrow alleyway between a stone house and the city wall was almost as black as the bottom of a well.
Daoud's Hashishiyya-trained senses needed no light to see by. He had learned to see with his ears as well as with his sense of smell. He could sense what weapons Marco di Filippeschi was wearing—a shortsword and two daggers at his belt, and, from the difference in footfalls, a third dagger in a sheath in his right boot. He knew the position of Marco's hands, and he knew that Marco had told the truth when he said he had come to this rendezvous alone.
Lorenzo had assured him that Marco would leap like a hungry wolf at any chance to avenge himself on the Monaldeschi. But Daoud wondered, would the volatile young clan chieftain really be willing to undertake an attack on the Monaldeschi that had more chance of failing than succeeding?
"I can offer you over two hundred lusty bravos collected by one who is known to you," Daoud said. Hoping to make Marco a little less certain about who his ultimate benefactor was, he avoided naming Giancarlo. Marco could destroy Daoud and all his comrades by revealing the identity of the man who had incited his attack on theMonaldeschi. If he were captured and tortured, strong and fierce though he might be, it was likely he would tell everything.
Daoud reached into the purse at his belt, where he had earlier put two emeralds. He held them out in his open palm so that the moonlight glistened on their polished surfaces.
"Please accept these as a gift," he said. "If you decide to assault the Palazzo Monaldeschi, your preparations will be costly."
The jewels must be called a gift. The capo della famiglia Filippeschi was not a man you paid to do your work for you.
Marco's hand closed around the emeralds, and his other hand seized Daoud's forearm.
"I shall spend this on weapons," he said. "Crossbows to kill more Monaldeschi. Stone guns to batter down their walls. I care not what price I must pay."
That is good, thought Daoud,because the price may be very high.
"I will need until spring," Marco continued. "It will take that long to buy the weapons. I must work slowly and quietly so the old vulture does not get wind of what I am doing."
"The Monaldeschi are collaborating with this French pope and his French cardinals," Daoud said to spur Marco on. "And the French party is about to invite an army under Charles of Anjou into Italy."
"Damn the French!" said Marco. "And damn that putana and her family for working with them."
"Also, as everyone knows," Daoud said, "the pope has not long to live. Strike a blow now for Italy, and you will frighten the cardinals at a time when they will soon be choosing the next pope. So your attack had better come no later than spring."
"We Filippeschi are as loyal to the papacy as the Monaldeschi. Perhaps more."
"My master, whom I prefer not to name," said Daoud, knowing that Marco would think he meant King Manfred, "does not wish to see the pope in league with the French."
"This war of Guelfi and Ghibellini leaves us prey to every French and German ladrone who wants to come down and loot our country," said Marco. Obviously he had no great love for the Hohenstaufens, either.
"How will you start the fighting?" Daoud asked him.
"Two or three of my cousins will take a walk in the piazza before the Palazzo Monaldeschi on a Friday evening, when everybodystrolls," Marco said. "If their mere presence in that part of the city does not cause an incident, they will step on a few toes."
"It will take some courage to go into the lion's den," Daoud remarked.
The young Filippeschi chieftain laughed ruefully. "We possess more of courage than we do of anything else."
If they did not also possess some prudence and the ability to keep a secret, Daoud thought, everything was lost.
The stained glass in the cathedral's deeply recessed rear windows broke the sunlight of the April morning into blue, yellow, and red beams. Walking slowly through the nave, Simon wondered why Sordello had insisted this time on meeting him in person in the cathedral rather than sending his news through Ana. The departure from their routine gave Simon an uneasy feeling that some disaster was about to befall him.
The miraculous altar cloth with the dark spots in its center was mounted in a gilded frame above the altar. On each side of it a tall white candle burned. At the foot of the altar two priests in black cassocks and white surplices knelt on benches, their heads resting on their folded arms so that it was impossible to tell whether they were sleeping or praying. In the four months since the cloth had been brought to Orvieto, it had never been left unattended. The pope had decreed that priests in hourly shifts would watch day and night before the blood of the Savior.
Simon suspected reverence was not the only motive for this vigil. He knew several tales of famous relics being stolen, not only from pious zeal, but because relics attracted pilgrims and their money. And the people of Bolsena might still be jealous.
Hearing footsteps behind him, Simon approached the altar, genuflected, and walked into the shadows on the left side of the cathedral. He paused by a fluted pillar that rose like a tree trunk.Approaching him was a beggar in a tattered gray cloak that hung to his ankles. A deep hood hid his face. The man gripped Simon's arm. The face of Sordello looked out of the shadows under the hood. Simon pulled his arm free.
"I have something important to tell Your Signory, but it is not about Cardinal Ugolini and his circle." Sordello spoke in a hoarse whisper. "The Filippeschi are going to make a surprise attack on the Palazzo Monaldeschi."
The news hit Simon like a kick in the belly.
The Tartars—and he and his men—would be caught in the middle. He thought back to Alain's murder. Even since then he had felt that Orvieto could be a death trap for him and all his men.
Simon leaned forward to peer into Sordello's pinkish eyes. "When will the attack come?"
"Tonight, after vespers."
Tonight!Now Simon's blood froze.No time! No time!a voice shrieked inside him. He wanted to run back to the palace shouting warnings all the way. It took all his strength to keep him standing with Sordello, to force his mind, galloping like a runaway horse, to slow down and frame questions.
"How did you find out?"
"Tavern talk. Some of Giancarlo's hired bravos were drinking with Filippeschi men."
Sweat that felt like a cold rain broke out all over Simon's body. The Tartars—he must get them out of the Monaldeschi palace. But the contessa had been his hostess for many months. He himself had no quarrel with the Filippeschi, but he had an obligation to defend the contessa.
"How long have you known this?"
"I just learned it last night, but they must have been preparing for months."
"Whynow?"
Sordello's eyes met his. "The Filippeschi think the Monaldeschi are betraying Italy to you French."
If the Filippeschi were attacking now because he was at the Palazzo Monaldeschi, then indeed he had a quarrel with them, whether or not he wanted one. And it was his fault, in a sense, that the contessa was in danger.
"Betraying Italy to the French? What does that mean?"
Sordello ticked off points on his fingers. "The pope is French. He asks the contessa to take the Tartars into her house. Then youand Cardinal de Verceuil come with the Tartars. And now everyone has heard that the pope wants Charles d'Anjou to come in and take Sicily and southern Italy from King Manfred. The Filippeschi want to turn the tide now, they say, before the French own all of Italy."
The face of Uncle Charles flashed vividly before Simon's mind, the big nose, the staring eyes. When they had talked of this mission over a year ago at the Louvre, he had said nothing of Sicily, had spoken only of the liberation of Jerusalem and the destruction of Islam. Was Sicily what he really wanted—or perhaps even all of Italy?
What should he do? It struck Simon with frightening force that there was no one but he to take the responsibility. He was in command. He must make the plans and the decisions. His heart thudded frantically, and he prayed that Sordello could not see the consternation that filled him.
"What forces do they have, what weapons?"
Sordello shook his head. "As to that, Your Signory, I know very little. I have been at Cardinal Ugolini's mansion, not among the Filippeschi. I would guess they must have at least five hundred men and siege weapons. They would be mad to start this thing with less."
"Five hundred men and siege weapons!"
Simon pictured the Monaldeschi palace with its great tower crumbling under a bombardment of boulders. He saw men swarming over it like ants. He saw the defenders lying dead in the ruins—de Puys, Thierry, the Armenians, the Venetians—himself. He saw the Tartars with their throats cut.
Again he felt the urge to run back to the palace to prepare at once. Again he suppressed the urge so he could ask more questions.
"Where did they get such forces?"
Sordello shrugged. "They are a big family. They have relatives in the outlying towns."
Simon bent down to look deep into Sordello's bloodshot eyes. "Are you sure Ugolini and David of Trebizond and the rest are not involved? If we French and the Tartars are the provocation, Ugolini must be behind this."
Sordello tapped his cheek just under his right eye. "Your Signory, I watch them as closely as those priests watch the miraculous altar cloth. Ugolini has been in despair all winter, since Fra Tomasso changed sides. He buries himself in his cabinet with hismagical instruments. David has lost interest in the Tartars and thinks only about trade. He talks to Giancarlo of making up a caravan to go back to Trebizond. The two of them left for Perugia on business yesterday."
"What about Giancarlo's bravos?"
"Altogether, Giancarlo has hired only a dozen such men, including myself. We guard David's goods and escort his caravans." Sordello waved a hand in dismissal.
"And what of the cardinal's niece?" said Simon, trying not to sound especially interested.
Sordello shrugged. "That lovely lady stays apart. She goes to church, she reads, she paints."
Worried though he was about the impending Filippeschi attack, Simon's heart felt lightened by joy. Sophia was innocent. His love for her was vindicated. After this was over he would come to her and broach marriage.
"You must watch Madonna Sophia for me," Simon said. "Stay close to her. Do not let her go out tonight."
"Stay close to her." Sordello grinned. "That will not be hard, Your Signory."
Simon seized the front of Sordello's tunic. "Never speak that way of her."
Sordello jerked away from Simon and brushed his tunic. "I am a man, Your Signory. Do not treat me like a slave." The coarse face was pale with outraged pride.
He forgets his place so easily. But there is no one else to guard Sophia for me.
"I want you to be thinking about her safety, and that alone," he said in a calmer voice.
Sordello bowed. "I understand, Your Signory." But resentment still burned in his narrowed eyes.
In the midst of his fear, like a single candle glowing in a pitch-black cathedral, Simon felt a tingle of anticipation. There was something in him, deeply buried but powerful, that keenly looked forward to taking command in battle.
"If you learn any more, try to get word to me," he told Sordello.
He turned and hurried through the nave of the cathedral to the front doors, still holding in check the urge to run.
"For them to attack is pazzia," said the contessa. "We have twice the men-at-arms they do. Yet I pray God this rumor is true.By tomorrow morning Marco di Filippeschi will be hanging from our battlements." The cords in her neck stood out, her nose was thrust forward like a falcon's beak, and her eyes glittered.
Simon said, "With respect, Contessa, they must have more men than you do. I was told they might have five hundred. And siege machines."
They were seated in the small council room of the Monaldeschi palace—Simon, the contessa, de Verceuil, Sire Henri de Puys, and Friar Mathieu—around a circular table of warm brown wood.
"But surely we have better men," said Henri de Puys in French. "What sort of fighters could these Philippe-whatever-they-are muster? Routiers, highwaymen?"
Friar Mathieu turned to de Verceuil. "Might I suggest that Your Eminence use your influence with Pope Urban. Perhaps his holiness can stop this battle."
"Yes," said de Verceuil. "I will try to speak to him. But he is sick, and pays little attention to anything."
Probably de Verceuil is annoyed because he did not think first of going to the pope.
"I should think it would endanger his health even more if a war broke out in Orvieto," said Friar Mathieu.
"I willseehim," said de Verceuil. "But I will also arm myself and my men to help defend this place."
Simon expected de Verceuil to next propose himself as commander of the defense, but, to his delight, the cardinal had nothing more to say. Then the suspicion crossed his mind that de Verceuil did not want to have to take the blame in case of defeat.
"Grazie, Your Eminence," said the contessa.
Simon said, "I must go to Signore d'Ucello. Surely the podesta will not let civil war break out in the city he governs."
The contessa laughed, a knowing cackle. "Go to him if you like, but you waste your time. He cannot—will not—stop the Filippeschi. He has Filippeschi relatives, you know. But he could not stop me, either, if I chose to attack them."
Friar Mathieu said, "Perhaps we should take the ambassadors to the papal palace. That would get them out of harm's way until this is over."
Simon's body went rigid. The Tartars were his responsibility. He would never give them up to the pope's men-at-arms.
"No!" he said. "The duty of guarding them is mine, and I will surrender it to no one."
De Puys struck the table with his open palm. "Bravely spoken, Monseigneur."
Friar Mathieu sighed.
De Verceuil pointed a finger at Simon. "Count, you have no right to risk the ambassadors' lives just for your own glory."
Simon looked around the table. He was the youngest person here, and they were treating him like a child. He remembered the Doge Zeno's threat to have him thrown into the water of Venice's San Marco Canal. He remembered the many times de Verceuil had been overbearing with him. To thinkthatman would accuse anyone else of being too concerned with his own glory.
He was about to shout defiance when he thought of royal councils he had attended as a page to King Louis. Those close to the king often disagreed with him, but they usually ended up doing what he wanted. Louis was perhaps the strongest man, in his gentle way, Simon had ever met, but he had never heard him raise his voice.
Instead of defying de Verceuil and the others, he tried to speak with dignity, even humility, as King Louis himself might.
"His Majesty's brother, Count Charles, entrusted this task to me. Shall I give it up at the first threat? Shall I turn over the ambassadors' protection to men unknown to me, some of whom may be moved by the same hatred of us French that moves the Filippeschi? I have a duty not to let the ambassadors go beyond the walls I guard."
When he finished there was silence.
Friar Mathieu said, "Count Simon makes an excellent point. John and Philip may well be safer guarded by our men, even under attack."
Now that they had agreed, Simon's heart sank. If the Tartars were killed in the coming battle because he had insisted on keeping them in the palace, he would bear the guilt. Instead of restoring his name, he would end by plunging it deeper into the mire.
De Puys looked from Simon to the cardinal and said, "Perhaps our knights and crossbowmen could go with the Tartars to the Pope's palace."
"No!" cried the contessa. "Now, when I am attacked because I opened my home to the Tartars and the French, will you all abandon me? All the men of my family are dead but the boy Vittorio." She turned to Simon and seized his wrist with her clawlike hand. "You must stay and defend me. You must be my cavaliere."
Simon pressed her hand in both of his and saw tears running down her withered cheeks.
"I would not think of leaving you, Contessa."
"But, Contessa," said Friar Mathieu, "if the Tartars were to leave your palace, the Filippeschi might not attack you."
"No, no." The contessa shook her head. "If they think they are strong enough to attack me, they will. They have long sought to kill me and Vittorio. Canaglia! May God send that little bastard Marco and all the Filippeschi straight to hell!"
Friar Mathieu winced and made the sign of the cross.
Inwardly Simon winced, too, as he always did at the word bastard. But, bastard or not, he was about to command a palace under siege. He felt his chest swelling at the thought.
The candlelit audience chamber of the podesta was hung with somber maroon drapes drawn against the night air. On the wall behind d'Ucello, a tapestry depicted Jesus and Barabbas being offered to the crowd in Jerusalem while Pilate washed his hands. Simon had never seen such a large scene with such finely embroidered figures, and he admired it aloud.
"I keep it here as a reminder that a judge who heeds the popular clamor may make a grave error," said the small man behind the large table. "How may I serve you, Count?"
As Simon told the podesta what he knew of the planned Filippeschi assault on the contessa's palace, d'Ucello leaned back in a tall chair that seemed too big for him, his eyes distant, the corners of his mouth turned down under his thin mustache.
When Simon finished, d'Ucello asked, "Are Cardinal Ugolini or any of his guests involved in this?"
The very question I asked Sordello. Interesting that the podesta shares my suspicions.
"The person who warned me said they were not."
D'Ucello peered at him. "And who warned you?"
"I would rather not say. I have an informant in Cardinal Ugolini's household."
"Really? Good for you." The podesta gave him a look of amused respect that kindled a warm glow of pride in him. "Well, Your Signory, if there is a battle between the Monaldeschi and the Filippeschi, I can do nothing about it."
Simon was swept by strange mixed feelings. He was ready to do almost anything to prevent the coming battle. But in the midst ofhis despair at d'Ucello's refusal to help, he kept seeing himself in armor rallying his men on the Monaldeschi battlements.
But he had to try to persuade d'Ucello to help. He could not leave without having done his best.
"Is it not your duty to keep the peace in Orvieto?"
"All my watchmen together are not a tenth of the number of armed men the Monaldeschi and the Filippeschi can put into the streets. I assure you that if the watch did try to stop the fight, the Monaldeschi and the Filippeschi would join forces and annihilate my men before they went on to tear each other to pieces. Look, Your Signory, mine is a lifetime appointment, which means that how long I live depends on how well I please those who appointed me. The families wish me to prevent or punish fraud, theft, rape, and murder. But when the families have quarrels that can be settled only by bloodshed, they want no interference. Did the contessa send you here to appeal for my help?"
"No, she told me you could not stop the Filippeschi," said Simon, appalled at this glimpse of the chaos that lay under the pretty surface of this town.
D'Ucello nodded with a look of satisfaction. "Of course. No doubt she sees this as her chance to kill off Marco di Filippeschi, something she has longed to do for years. I cannot do what you ask. I know the limits of my power."
Power, thought Simon. Brute strength. That was what would decide this clash, and all he could do was make sure his side was stronger. He felt a resolve, at once grim and gleeful, growing inside him.
He stood up and inclined his head. The stout little man rose and bowed back.
"Then I cannot rely on you?" Simon said.
D'Ucello shrugged. "I am still trying to discover the murderer of your companion. I have learned that neither David of Trebizond nor his servant, Giancarlo, were in Cardinal Ugolini's palace when your friend was killed. I think tonight while the Monaldeschi and the Filippeschi are at each other's throats, the best place for me would be at Ugolini's, asking those two worthies where they were that night. If I cannot find out, perhaps your informant in that household could help. Why not ask her?"
He thinks I was talking about Sophia.
Simon wished he could go to Sophia. What if he were killedtonight and never saw her again? He wished there was at least time to send her a poem.
D'Ucello had probably guessed that Simon was visiting Sophia when Alain was murdered. Simon felt his face grow hot with chagrin. He had failed to keep his secret—his and Sophia's.
He remembered Sordello telling him that David and Giancarlo had gone to Perugia. Simon could save d'Ucello from a waste of time by telling him that.
But why bother? He's been no help to me.
Angry with the podesta and with himself, and unwilling to yield any more information to the little man, Simon took his leave.
With two of his knights, the Sires de Borione and de Vilbiz, flanking him, Simon hurried back from the podesta's palace to the Palazzo Monaldeschi. They looked over their shoulders so often as they strode through the darkening street that Simon began to feel they were looking backward as much as forward. But no bravos sprang at them from ambush, no arrows flew from housetops. Indeed, the streets were unusually quiet and empty for late Saturday afternoon, with the clink of the knights' spurs and the tramp of their heels on the cobbles the loudest sounds of all.
Windows were shuttered, doors closed tight. The whole neighborhood, thought Simon, must be aware of what was about to happen.
They turned a corner into the square before the Monaldeschi palace and heard the sound of hammers. Simon had ordered de Puys to supervise the building of slanting wooden screens above the battlements to be covered with wet blankets to protect the roof from fire arrows. The job was almost done, and Simon reminded himself to compliment de Puys when he saw him.
His first task here at the palace was to insure the safety of the Tartars. He had already decided that the safest place in the palace was the spice pantry in the cellar.
And what if the palace were overwhelmed and the Tartars were trapped and killed in the spice pantry? Simon made up his mind that he himself would not surrender. The Filippeschi would have to kill him to get to the Tartars.
Friar Mathieu answered Simon's knock. Simon had never seen the Tartars' chambers before, and he was shocked. Mattresses covered with blankets lay along the walls. Rugs and cushions were scattered about, but there was no bed, table, or chair to be seen.An overpowering smell of burnt meat filled the first room Simon entered. In the center of the wooden floor an area about three feet across was covered with blackened flagstones, and atop the stones was a heap of charred wood. Beside this crude hearth was a pile of broken animal bones, melon rinds, and other refuse. An open wine barrel added its sweetish smell to the general odor of smoke and decay.
Simon wondered whether the contessa had seen this squalor. She had shown the Tartars special favor, giving them three rooms in the northwest corner of the third floor. In most palaces a single room was the most even a very distinguished visitor could expect. If she thought they were savages after David of Trebizond had baited them at her reception, what would she think after seeing this pigsty?
John and Philip rose at Simon's entrance and bowed, smiling broadly. They seemed not the least embarrassed by the foul condition of their chambers. Simon bowed back, trying also to smile.
"If Cardinal Ugolini were to show these rooms to the Sacred College, many of the cardinals would join him in detesting the Tartars," Simon said to Friar Mathieu. "A wonder the smoke has not smothered them."
With a wry smile Friar Mathieu pointed at the ceiling. An irregular hole had been broken through above the Tartars' hearth.
"Fortunately for everyone, they are on the top floor of the palace," the Franciscan said. "All they have tried to do is reproduce the kind of home they are used to living in, even to the smoke hole in the roof."
The white-bearded John said something in the Tartar tongue to Friar Mathieu.
"They have heard of the coming fight," the Franciscan said. "They want weapons and a place on the battlements. They say it is their duty as guests to defend their hostess, the contessa."
Simon tensed himself for trouble. He had feared this. He chose his words carefully.
"I am sure the contessa will be overwhelmed with gratitude when I tell her of such a gracious offer. But we would not want to have to answer to the mighty Hulagu Khan if something happened to them or to their noble mission. Tell them that, and that it isourduty to keepthemsafe. There is a stone storeroom underneath the kitchen, a spice pantry. I have explored the palace, and that is the securest place. They must go there the moment the Filippeschi attack. They should take the Armenians with them."
The Tartars looked angry and shouted vigorous staccato protests when Friar Mathieu translated this. Philip, the younger, black-haired one, especially addressed himself to Simon. Philip seized the oblong gold tablet of office that hung around his neck and shook it at Simon.
"He reminds you that his title is Baghadur, which means Valiant. He says you insult him by asking him to hide in the cellar. Among his people nobody hides. Even the women and children fight."
Simon felt his assurance collapsing. What if the Tartars simply refused to seek safety? He could not put them in chains.
Earnestly he said, "Tell them it is their duty to their khan to stay alive and continue negotiations. Be as courteous as you have the power to be in their language."
"Oh, I am being very polite. One always is, with them."
After another exchange Friar Mathieu said, "They say Hulagu Khan would expect them to fight."
Simon had a sudden inspiration. "Tell them that if they were to fight and if anything happened to them, even the slightest injury, the King of France would cut my head off."
There was a particle of truth in that, Simon thought as Friar Mathieu translated. Kindly as King Louis was, decapitation would be preferable to facing his reproach if Simon's weakness caused the Tartars' death.
John shrugged and answered Friar Mathieu quietly. Simon held his breath, praying that this last effort would work.
Friar Mathieu said, "John says that you are a brave young warrior, and it would be a shame to have your head cut off when you have a lifetime of battles ahead of you. For your sake they will forgo the pleasure of this fight. But they insist on taking only two guards with them. They insist that the rest of their men fight beside yours."
Relief washed over Simon. He hoped he would be able to think as quickly in the coming battle as he had just then.
"I can use their other men. Have whatever the ambassadors need for their comfort carried to the spice pantry." He looked again at the pile of garbage. "Tell them they will be next to the kitchen. They should like that."
"Count Simon!" Simon recognized the crackling voice of the contessa.
She was wearing a floor-length gown of deep purple velvet. She held up a disk-shaped bronze medallion on a silver chain.
"Please take this, my young paladino. Wear it into battle for me."
Simon went to her, his steel-shod feet echoing in the hallway. All his movements felt slow and clumsy in the mail shirt that hung to his thighs and the mail breeches that protected him from waist to ankle.
Embossed on the medallion was a mounted knight driving his lance into a coiling bat-winged dragon baring huge fangs in rage. Where the lance pierced the scales was set a tiny, teardrop-shaped ruby.
"Thank you, Donna Elvira," he breathed, full of admiration for the workmanship. "It is most beautiful."
She reached up and put it around his neck. He could feel its weight through his mail shirt.
"San Giorgio. It was my husband's, and I have kept it locked away in my jewel casket since the day the puzzolenti Filippeschi murdered him. It is yours now. San Giorgio will give you victory." She raised her thin body on tiptoe and he felt her dry lips press against his cheek.
"I will never forget this moment, Madonna." He touched her yellow cheeks with his fingertips to brush away her tears.
He did not want her to know that this was his first—his very first—battle.
Climbing the spiral stairs to the tower, his legs ached as he pushed his mailed weight upward, and his neck felt strained under his mail hood and steel helmet. It had been weeks since he had worn hismail, days since he had practiced his sword drill. He swore at himself.
He emerged through a trapdoor onto a square platform paved with flagstone. Three helmeted heads turned to him: De Puys, his head covered with tight-laced mail leaving only a circle for his eyes, nose, and mustached mouth; Teodoro, capitano of Simon's Venetian crossbowmen, wearing a bowl-shaped helmet; and de Verceuil, whose tall helmet was painted bright red and shaped like a cardinal's mitre covering his entire face with the stem of a gold cross running up the center and the arms of the cross spread over the eyeholes.
Dressed for war, de Verceuil looked more like a cardinal than he usually did, Simon thought ironically.
Of the four men on the tower platform, de Verceuil wore the most elaborate armor with steel plates over his mail at his shoulders, knees, and shins. Hanging from a broad belt at his side was a mace, an iron ball on the end of a steel handle a foot long. This was, Simon knew, the proper weapon for a clergyman, who was not supposed to shed blood.
Over his mail shirt de Verceuil wore a long crimson surcoat sewn with cloth-of-gold Maltese crosses. De Puys, like Simon, wore a purple surcoat on which the three gold crowns of Gobignon were embroidered over and over again. Teodoro's simple breastplate of hardened leather was reinforced with steel plates.
Leaning into a crenel between two square merlons, Simon took a deep breath of the mild spring air. It would be a pleasant evening, did he not know that many men were going to die.
He watched the last wagons bringing in casks of water and wine, loads of hay and sacks of grain and beans—supplies in case the fighting dragged on—over the drawbridge through the rear gate. Water, especially, was in short supply in the city on the rock. The palace had its own spring, but it did not produce enough water to supply the whole establishment. Simon remembered Sophia drinking from his hands in the garden.
He stopped short at the thought of her to whisper a little prayer for her safety. But she was in no danger. No one was threatening Cardinal Ugolini.
Simon had ordered that every cask of water available in Orvieto be bought and every vessel filled. The attackers would surely use fire as a weapon. He had also sent for a supply of rocks from aquarry outside the city, extra ammunition for the stone casters mounted on the roof.
He recalled that Sordello had said the Filippeschi intended a surprise attack. They were certain to learn of these preparations and realize that the Monaldeschi had discovered their plan. What if they did not come at all?
If the fact that the Monaldeschi were ready was enough to prevent the attack, that would be the best possible outcome. But Simon realized with a pang that if the Filippeschi did not come, he would be terribly disappointed.
He shook his head at his own madness.
Sunset reddened the tile roofs surrounding the Monaldeschi palace. From up there Simon could see the tall campaniles of Orvieto's five churches and the towers of the other palaces—all battlements square, because this was a Guelfo city. A green flag, too small from this distance to make out the device on it, flew over a tower on the southwest side of the city, the palace of the Filippeschi.
He went to the other side of the tower to look at the city wall. Orange and green Monaldeschi banners flew there. He had assigned twenty Monaldeschi archers, all he dared subtract from the defenders of the palace, to secure the nearest section of the wall. He had wanted to station men in the houses near the palace as well, but de Puys persuaded him that such outposts would surely be overrun and the men speedily lost. Better to concentrate his forces in the palace itself.
He could not make out Cardinal Ugolini's house, somewhere to the southeast of him. It had no tower to distinguish it. But he thought again of Sophia. How lovely it would be to be with her sitting and chatting instead of up in this tower awaiting a deadly onslaught. How wonderful if his only worry were whether or not she would accept his marriage proposal.
He stared out over the city and thought, somewhere out there was another enemy. Even if, as Sordello reported, Cardinal Ugolini were not behind this attack, there might be someone behind both the Filippeschi and Cardinal Ugolini. Ever since he had come to Orvieto, Simon had sensed the presence in this city of a hidden enemy. An enemy who knew him and watched him, but whom he did not know. The one—Simon was sure of it—who had killed Alain.
I am waiting for you, he said, gripping the red bricks of the battlements.
Every old soldier Simon had ever talked to had said that war consisted more of waiting than of fighting. Simon found the combination of boredom and fear well nigh unbearable.
De Puys sat with his back against the battlements and dozed like a large cat. De Verceuil also sat, his helmet on the tower floor beside him, reading from a small leather-bound book, whispering the Latin words. Simon supposed it must be his office, the prayers every priest was required to say every day. The cardinal would have to get today's office read quickly; the light was fading fast.
Capitano Teodoro preferred to be busy. He kept shuttling back and forth between the tower and rooftop two stories below, where his men were deployed. Teodoro would make a circuit of the tower battlements, frowning down at his company of archers. Then he would go down and order six or so men to change position. He would inspect everyone's weapons. He inspected the bows of even the eight Armenians, in their bright red surcoats, who would fight beside the Venetians. The friction between the Armenians and the Venetians, Simon had noticed, had lessened considerably after he promoted Teodoro. He was a good leader. At the contessa's request Teodoro inspected the Monaldeschi men-at-arms, who were mostly stationed at the two gates and in the hallways and apartment windows.
After each inspection tour, Teodoro would come back up, study the situation, then go down and rearrange the men, likely as not returning them to their earlier positions.
But staying busy made sense. It kept everyone alert.
Simon left the tower once to visit his four knights on the rooftop, each one stationed, with six men-at-arms, by a stone caster at a corner of the roof. So that their missiles would clear the screening he had built over the battlements, the long-armed machines were set well back from the edge of the roof. The knights did not like supervising the stone casters. They wanted, they told him, a chance to charge the enemy during the attack. Simon tried to be good-humored about insisting that they remain within the palace, but it was hard giving orders to men who were older than himself and combat veterans. He missed Alain, realizing only now how much he had relied on his young friend as a go-between for himself and the other knights.
Returning to the tower roof, Simon kept pacing from one corner to the other. He fingered the jeweled hilt of his scimitar. He triedto divert himself by thinking of Sophia, by imagining how he would phrase his marriage proposal to her. He dreaded the fighting, but wished it would start.
Like a rising tide the shadows spread and deepened, swallowing up the hills beyond the city, then the city walls, then the towers. The four men stood in darkness, no torchlight up here to make them an easy target. The only light on the roof below was the shimmer of charcoals burning in four braziers for fire arrows.
An orange glow appeared over the hills to the east, the moon starting to rise.
Simon heard distant shouting. Battle cries.
"Filippeschi!" It was Teodoro's voice.
Simon saw flickering red light dancing on house walls coming toward them, converging from front, sides, and rear. The streets were too narrow to permit sight of the advancing bravos and their torches.
So, even though they know we are ready for them, they have come.
From the street directly opposite the main entrance to the palace a long, dark shape emerged, like a gigantic tortoise. Similar shapes issued from other streets opening on the piazza. The tortoises were big enough to shelter at least a dozen men. There were six of them, crawling across the open space.
"Use the fire arrows!" Simon shouted. Teodoro repeated the order to his men. On the roof below, men raced from the battlements to the braziers and back again, and streaks of light arced from the rooftop at the tortoise shapes.
Simon could hear the burning arrows sizzle on the wet wooden frameworks and wet hides. The hides did not burn, but the light from the arrows made it easier for the crossbowmen shooting from the battlements to see their targets. Teodoro was down on the roof directing their fire. The archers volleyed at the closest tortoise. The steel bolts tore right through the skins, piercing the men beneath. Simon heard the thump of thirty bolts striking a tortoise at once, then screams. The framework stopped moving, and Simon saw men crawling from under it. Some ran frantically back to the shelter of the side streets; others crept a few paces and collapsed.
Something whizzed past Simon's head and struck the brick merlon beside him. A shower of chips clattered on his mail. One stung his cheek.
"Shooting back," said Teodoro. "From the sides."
Torchlight flickered from behind wooden mantlets at the mouths of the streets approaching the palace from the north and south. The rectangles of wood filled the street from side to side. From this height Simon could see the crowds of men behind each mantlet.
Fire arrows from mantlets and tortoises hissed overhead and fell, trailing sparks, into the atrium of the palace. Simon heard splashes as servants threw water on the trees.
"Put more of your men on the sides," he said to Teodoro, who hurried down the stairs inside the tower.
The moon was now a red oval low in the eastern sky. The light would help the Filippeschi target the defenders on the rooftop, but it would not expose them in the streets.
A loud crash startled Simon, and he felt the tower floor shake. Another crash and another. Stone casters. The stones were coming from all directions, and Simon could hear screams.
He turned to de Puys. "Fire our stone casters."
With de Puys gone, only Simon and the cardinal were left in the tower. They had nothing to say to each other. The cardinal had donned his miter-shaped helmet at the first sign of the Filippeschi, and Simon could not see his face. Simon longed for Teodoro to come back.
It was Simon's equerry, Thierry, who pushed open the trapdoor. "Capitano Teodoro is hit."
"Blood of God!" Simon pushed past de Puys to hurry down the tower's inner staircase.
Teodoro lay near the entrance to the tower, surrounded by a crowd of men-at-arms. His breathing came in hoarse gasps, alternating with grunts of pain. It was too dark for Simon to see him well. He knelt beside Teodoro, and a vile smell of excrement choked him. Someone beside Simon was sobbing. Teodoro had been much liked among the Venetians.
Carefully Simon felt down the capitano's body. The hard leather cuirass he wore was cracked down the center. Just below his chest Simon's hand met the huge rock. It was wet, probably with Teodoro's blood.
"It caught him right in the middle," said an archer standing over Simon. "Broke him in two. Crushed his belly and his spine. Only the part of him above the stone is alive."
A gurgling sound rose in Teodoro's throat. He was vomiting, and warm liquid gushed over Simon's hand. His own stomach writhed, and bile burned his throat. He stood up suddenly, and instantlyregretted it, because he had wanted to comfort Teodoro in his dying. But the gasping had stopped.
Teodoro had probably never known he was there.
Simon's hands and knees were trembling.
So this is what it is like to be killed in battle.
He wiped his hand on his surcoat. Careful to make his voice firm, he ordered the archers back to their positions. The weight of his mail almost unbearable, he stumbled back to the doorway to the tower.
He felt his arm gripped and heard Friar Mathieu's voice. "Simon, I heard you lost your capitano of archers."
"This is much worse than I ever thought it would be, Father," he whispered, almost as if confessing.
The hand on his arm squeezed through his mail. "Trust yourself, Simon. You will do what you must do."
By the light of a fire arrow burning itself out in the overhead screen, Simon saw the contessa, her purple gown tied up to her knees so she could move more quickly. She called Friar Mathieu to see to a wounded man, then greeted Simon.
She thinks I am a hero. If only she knew the horror I feel.
Who was Teodoro's second-in-command? Yes, Peppino. Peppino was the one who had fought with the Armenians at Alain's funeral, but a new capitano must be appointed immediately. There was no time to balance considerations.
He managed to find Peppino and appointed him to lead the Venetians. Then on shaking legs he pushed himself back up to the roof of the tower.
"They are bombarding the rear gatehouse with mangonels," de Puys said. Simon heard rocks thudding against the drawbridge at the rear of the palace, the entrance for horses and wagons. By moonlight he was able to make out, across the street from the rear of the palace, four mangonels, stone guns shaped like giant crossbows.
"Where did the Filippeschi get so many men and machines?" Simon wondered aloud.
"One would suppose you could answer that," said de Verceuil, his voice muffled by his helmet. "Are you not our military expert?"
Simon was still too gripped by horror to be angry. But a part of his mind somehow kept trying to think about what the Filippeschi intended.
He became lost in thought as he gnawed at the problem, and all but forgot the battle raging around him. Numerous as they seemed, the Filippeschi had just a chance, no more than that, of overwhelming the Monaldeschi palace, especially having lost the advantage of surprise. Was their hatred of the Monaldeschi so deep that such an uncertain chance was reason enough for them to make this effort?
If I could but capture Marco di Filippeschi and force him to tell me why he is doing this ...
What if this attack were a diversion, a cover for the real blow, to be struck by stealth?
Simon's body went cold.
"I must see to the Tartar ambassadors," he said. He turned toward the trapdoor in the tower roof.
"Monseigneur—look—the Filippeschi are attacking again," de Puys protested. Simon turned back, looked over the edge, and saw the tortoise shapes moving forward again over the piazza while stones from mangonels slammed into the second-story gatehouse.
No, he thought.Even if they break down the door, they could never get up the stairs. This attack is a feint.
"I believe the ambassadors are in danger," he said.
"By God's robe!" de Verceuil boomed from under his helmet. "You are quitting the battle?"
"The battle is where the ambassadors are," Simon said. "The whole purpose of this attack is to get at them."
"The whole purpose of your saying that is to get out of danger," de Verceuil retorted.
Simon quivered with rage. De Verceuil's eyes glittered coldly at him in the moonlight through holes cut in the blood-red helmet. Simon wished he could draw his sword and swing it at the damned cardinal's head. But he felt as if he were suddenly wrapped in chains. With de Verceuil accusing him of cowardice, how could he leave the tower?
De Puys put a steadying hand on his arm. "Monseigneur, no one can get at the ambassadors. Not as long as we hold fast here."
In the florid face with its drooping mustaches Simon saw pity, but also a trace of contempt. The old warrior, too, thought his young seigneur wanted to run away. If Simon left the tower now, he would have to bear his vassal's scorn. Nor was it likely that de Puys would keep silent about this. The tale would spread throughout the Gobignon domain.
But I know I am not a coward.
Searching his heart, he knew that though he was afraid of the flying crossbow bolts and stones, he could direct the battle from the tower all night if need be. Even after Teodoro's death, and the blood still sticky on the mailed glove that hung from his right wrist, he felt strong enough to go on fighting.
If he went to the ambassadors and no one struck at them, he would have been mistaken, but his leaving here would not affect the outcome of the battle. What was happening out here was a simple matter of force against force. If he remained here and the Tartars were attacked and murdered, all would be lost.
If I do not do what I believe I should because I am afraid of what these men think, then truly I am a coward.
He tried to make the other two understand. "The safety of the ambassadors is my first obligation. Enemies could be in the palace now."
De Verceuil brought his steel-masked face close to Simon's. "It is known that there is tainted blood in your family."
Simon's face went as hot as if a torch had suddenly been thrust at him. It was a moment before he could speak.
"If you were not a man of the Church, I would kill you for saying that." His voice trembled.
"Really? I doubt you would dare." De Verceuil turned away.
"Monseigneur!" de Puys cried, his face redder than ever. "Do not make me ashamed to wear the purple and gold."
That hurt even more than what de Verceuil had said. It hurt so much Simon wanted to weep with anger and frustration.
Instead, he bent forward and lifted the trapdoor and hurried down the steps. He heard de Verceuil say something to de Puys, but he could not hear what it was. Fortunately.
He stopped on the roof to look for Friar Mathieu. Groups of crossbowmen were running from one side to the other. Friar Mathieu was making the sign of the cross over a fallen man.
"I think the Tartars may be in danger, Friar Mathieu," Simon said. "I want you to come with me so that I can talk to them."
To Simon's relief the old Franciscan did not object. "Let us take two of the Armenians with us," he said. "If there is danger, you should not go alone."
Now that he was away from de Verceuil and de Puys, Simon could reflect that he might, indeed, be mistaken. But he had to act, even though he doubted himself.
Simon, Friar Mathieu, and two Armenian warriors named Stefanand Grigor hurried down the tower's inner staircase to the ground floor. Single candles, burning low, lit the corridor at long intervals. Here were storerooms and cubbyholes where servants worked and lived. The relentless pounding of rocks reverberated in the stone walls, punctuated by occasional screams penetrating through the arrow slits.
Monaldeschi men-at-arms standing at the embrasures with crossbows kept their backs turned to Simon as he hurried past. An odor of damp stone pervaded the still air. Simon noted that as he had ordered, buckets of water had been placed along the corridor to douse fires.
The kitchen was on the north side of the building. It was dark as a cave. The cooking fire in the great fireplace, big enough for a man to walk into it, had been put out. They passed empty cauldrons, piles of full sacks, rows of barrels, all barely visible in the light of a half-consumed taper in a candlestick on a table. A large water cask surrounded by buckets and pots stood in the center of the kitchen.
Attackers could be hiding here. But Simon knew he did not have enough men to search. He must get to the Tartars and stay with them.
The pantry where the contessa kept her costly stock of spices imported from the East was below ground. Stefan lifted a heavy trapdoor, and one by one they climbed down a narrow flight of wooden steps without a banister. Grigor, bringing up the rear, held a candle to light their way.
A door of rough oaken planks bound together with iron straps stood before him. He felt his stomach knot as he walked up to it. What if he were too late?
Simon had ordered that the square black iron lock set in the door be left unlocked in the case the Tartars should have to escape. He pulled on the handle. The door was bolted from the inside, of course, with a bolt he had only that afternoon ordered the Monaldeschi carpenter to install. From the other side a voice asked a half-audible question.
"It is Count Simon," he said. "Let us in." Friar Mathieu added a few words in the Tartar tongue.
The bolt slid back and the door opened inward. Simon stepped forward to see how his charges had fared.
The storeroom was dimly lit by a small oil lantern. The two Armenians within had risen from chairs. They had their bows intheir hands, arrows nocked. They stood in front of the Tartars. John, the white-haired Tartar, and Philip, the black-haired one, sat on cushions on the floor, leaning back against the shelves of spice jars that covered three walls of the room. Their bows were on the table and their curving swords, in scabbards, lay in their laps.
Simon was pleased to see that they looked alert. It must be maddening to sit down here in semidarkness and do nothing while a battle raged above.
He reminded himself that if no one attacked the Tartars while the Filippeschi besieged the palace, his reputation would be ruined. He felt a momentary pang of anguish, and found himself actually hoping that the enemy would come here. Quickly he stifled the feeling.
Do not call on the devil. He may hear you and come.
Hidden in the cellar behind a rack of wine barrels, Daoud watched the Frankish count, the old priest, and the two Armenians as they paused before the door of the spice pantry.
He thought:Man can plan and plan, but God will surprise and surprise.
He had been just about to try to trick the Tartars into letting him into the spice pantry when de Gobignon and the others came down the stairs. He suppressed his fury and forced himself to stay calm.
The spice pantry door opened for de Gobignon and those with him. From his hiding place Daoud caught just a glimpse of the Tartars, both sitting with sheathed swords in their laps, their two guards standing in front of them. Their refuge appeared to be lit by a single lantern.
Daoud was perhaps only twelve paces from the doorway, but the cellar was mostly in darkness, and he was dressed entirely in black, his head covered with a tight black hood, his face masked. For easeand silence of movement he wore no mail. The garb of a fedawi, a Hashishiyya fighter.
With gestures de Gobignon ordered his two Armenians to stand guard outside the door. One set a candle in a sconce high in the cellar wall. Then they unslung their bows and nocked arrows and stood on either side of the door, which closed behind Gobignon and the old priest. Daoud heard a bolt slide shut with a clank.
Baffled, he bit his lower lip. What demon had inspired de Gobignon to come down from the battlements and join the Tartars just at this moment? Now he could not get to the pantry door without being seen and having to fight the two Armenians outside. That would alert those inside, and the door was bolted from within. He took deep breaths to clear his head of frustration.
He would have to change his plan of attack.
To get into the Monaldeschi palace he had used a peasant's cloak and high boots like those he had worn last summer when he'd landed at Manfredonia. It had been an easy matter paying a few silver denari to a farmer and then helping with the loading and unloading of sacks of rice being delivered to the Monaldeschi. Once inside the palace courtyard it had been the work of a moment to slip away from the carts and hide himself in the maze of dark rooms on the ground floor of the palace. There he had shed the peasant costume, leaving his black Hashishiyya garb, and he'd pulled the hood and mask over his head.
But the very thing that made it easy for him to get into the palace with that cartload of rice left him shocked and uneasy. The Monaldeschi were preparing for a siege. He had seen screens against fire arrows being set up on the roof and householders in the neighborhood locking their doors and fleeing.
Someone had warned the Monaldeschi. When the Filippeschi came tonight, their hereditary enemies would be ready for them.
Heart pounding, he pondered. What if the Filippeschi called off the attack? He tried to tell himself that it would not matter. Even the expectation of a siege would so distract the Tartars' protectors that he would be able to get at them.
And, he promised himself, if he came out alive, he would search out and repay whoever had betrayed him.
He had rechecked his weapons—the strangling cord, the Scorpion, the tiny vessel of Greek fire in its padded pouch, the disk of Hindustan and a dagger, its blade painted black. After nightfall hewould seek out the Tartars' apartment, which he knew was on the third floor of the palace, where the best rooms were. In the meantime, he had hidden in a corner of the kitchen behind a large water cask. He had squatted there and waited, taut as a bowstring, to find out whether the Filippeschi would attack.
When he heard the first battle shouts through the narrow embrasures on the ground floor, he let out a little sigh of relief. Of course Marco di Filippeschi would go through with the attack. Even without surprise, he was doubtless better prepared tonight to fight the Monaldeschi than ever before in his life. And Marco was not the sort of man who, once committed to a course, would turn back.
Even as these thoughts passed through his mind, Daoud had been surprised to see the two Tartars with two of their Armenian guards stride past him.
Of course, he thought, de Gobignon must have realized that the Tartars might be a target, and he was moving them to a safer place.
For a moment the Tartars had been abreast of him. Two poisoned darts from the Scorpion would do it.
But, just then, a dozen or so Monaldeschi archers, crossbows loaded and cranked back, had trotted into the kitchen and nearby rooms and taken up stations by the embrasures. Daoud, his body aquiver with excitement, the little crossbow already in his hands, had sunk back into hiding. If he shot the Tartars, he might have been able to escape the two Armenians, but so many men-at-arms would certainly kill or, worse, capture him. And once they discovered who he was, Sophia, Ugolini, all those working with him, would swiftly be in the hands of the Franks.
Seething with frustration, he had watched an Armenian open a cellar trapdoor. The two Tartars and the two Armenian guards descended out of sight.
Daoud, still crouched behind the water cask, then decided that God had been kind to him. Even if he had been denied this opportunity to kill them, at least he had seen where the Tartars were.
He had sat in his hiding place, relaxed but alert, listening to the Monaldeschi bowmen shout encouragement to one another as they fired on the Filippeschi trying to cross the piazza. The arrow slits were cut through the thick walls in angled pairs so that two archers side by side would have a full field of fire. After a while Daoud began to despair of ever getting into the cellar.
Several times servants came running to fill buckets from the cask to put out fires in the atrium. Crouched in the darkness behind thecask, Daoud saw, grouped around it, buckets, pots, and kettles, all sorts of vessels, already filled with water for immediate use.
Long after the battle began, a pageboy came running down the stairs to the ground floor with an order for the archers to come up to the roof.
They left only one man to watch through the arrow slots. His back, sheathed in a shiny brown leather cuirass, was turned toward Daoud. The noise of fighting from outside was loud enough, Daoud thought, to mask any sound he might make.
He slipped from behind the cask and picked up a wooden bucket full of water. Carrying the bucket he stepped, silent on his soft-soled boots, to the cellar trapdoor. Keeping his eyes on the crossbowman, he put the bucket down and, holding his breath, grasped the handle of the trapdoor and lifted it. The archer moved as Daoud crouched by the open trapdoor. Daoud froze. But the man's back remained turned. He was only shifting from one arrow slot to the one beside it, to get a view of the piazza from a different angle.
When the archer was settled in his new position, Daoud crept down the cellar stairs, bucket in one hand, and lowered the door over his head. He watched the archer until the slab of wood cut off his view. He was in a pitch-black cellar smelling of wine.
He saw a crack of light from under a door and heard voices. He was about to go and knock, pretending to be a man-at-arms with a message. When the two Armenians within opened the door, he would douse their lantern with the water he was carrying, and then move in on the Tartars in the dark.
Just then the trapdoor above had opened. He hid behind the wine barrels as de Gobignon, the friar, and two more Armenians came down to join their Tartar charges.
Stones were slamming into the walls in such rapid succession that the building was continually shaking. This must be the climax of the Filippeschi attack. Next would come a rush of all the fighting men. They would storm the palace and either break through or be driven off. Probably, Daoud thought, the attack would fail. But even so, it would give him the opportunity he needed.
The two Armenian guards held their bows laxly, resting their backs against the wall by the door. The candle in the sconce was six paces away from the guards. Silently he lifted the bucket of water he had brought down with him and moved it out in front ofthe wine barrel rack so that later he could quickly reach it. Then he loaded the Scorpion, drawing back its string.
He stepped out from behind the barrels, aiming for the eye of the nearest guard, and fired. The steel dowels snapped forward, propelling the bolt through the eyeball and into the skull. The man collapsed without an outcry. His body, clad in leather and steel, hit the stone floor with a crash.
The other Armenian gave a shrill shout in his native tongue. He stared in horror at Daoud, and his heavy compound bow was up, the iron arrowhead pointing at Daoud's chest.
Daoud had already taken the disk of Hindustan out of the flat pouch on the left side of his belt. Dropping the Scorpion into its pocket, he transferred the disk to his right hand. The disk was heavy; by Frankish weight it would probably be half a pound. Its center was of strong, flexible steel; bonded to its edges was a more brittle steel that would take an edge sharp enough to slice a hair lengthwise.
Daoud scaled the disk at the candle that rested in the sconce at the door to the pantry. It sliced through the candle's tip, just below the wick. The flame went out, plunging the cellar into total darkness. The disk rang against the stone wall, then clanged to the floor. Daoud's trained hearing registered the place where it fell. The Armenian's bolt whistled past him and hit the wall with a sharp crack.
Voices from inside the spice pantry shouted questions. That must be the two Armenians who had first gone in there with the Tartars. The man outside answered, and Daoud could hear fear in his voice. De Gobignon would not want to open the door to help the Armenian, for fear of endangering the Tartars.
Somehow, he had to be made to open the door.
Daoud stood still, listening to the guard's rapid, heavy breathing, the scraping of his boot soles on the stone floor.
After a moment he tiptoed to the side of the chamber, retrieved his disk, and dropped it into its pouch in his tunic.
Silently picking up the water bucket in front of the wine barrel rack, he drifted closer to the guard, thinking of smoke, as the Hashishiyya had taught him, to make himself move even more quietly.
He heard the Armenian sling his bow over his shoulder, and the slithering of his sword coming out of his scabbard.
Daoud set the water down and crept close to the guard, utterly silent, listening for the many small noises that would tell him wherethe man was and how he was standing—breathing, swallowing and the licking of lips, the creak of leather armor, the rustle of cloth, the clink of steel. Slowly and very carefully Daoud reached out toward the guard's throat, then with a sudden movement seized it, his thumb and fingers gripping like a falcon's talons.
His action had the desired effect. The Armenian screamed, forcing air through his constricted throat again and again.
He tried to slash at Daoud's arm but missed.
With his free hand Daoud grabbed the guard's wrist and gave it a sharp turn. He let go of his opponent's throat and used both hands to force his sword arm down. He straightened the arm out and brought his knee down hard on the elbow, throwing all his weight on it.
The guard screamed with pain, and his sword clattered to the floor. Daoud kicked it off into the darkness, then danced away. The Armenian fell back against the spice pantry door, groaning in pain and fear.
Daoud heard muffled cries from the other side of the door. They demanded to know what was happening. They begged to know what was happening.