The rats scavenged in the garbage and the cats hunted the rats. And cats and rats scurried out of the way of the two menwho staggered beneath a waning moon through the streets of Orvieto.
"I was truly drunk," said Daoud. "But only my body was drunk. It is still drunk." He walked with one arm thrown over Lorenzo's shoulder to steady his steps. It must have rained during the evening. The streets were slippery, and the clean, vaporous scent of drying rain was stronger than the usual odor of rotting rubbish piled between the houses in the spaces the Orvietans called quintane.
"You feign the extremity of drunkenness quite well," said Lorenzo. They had met by prearrangement on the street outside the Monaldeschi palace. Sophia and Cardinal Ugolini left earlier and separately, carried in sedan chairs and escorted by the cardinal's guards.
"What hour is it?" Daoud asked.
"Past the third nocturn. Do you know what that means?"
"It was explained to me once, but now my memory seems to be drunk."
"Simply, dawn is not far off," said Celino. "The third nocturn is between midnight and dawn. The contessa's reception began at the first nocturn, between sunset and midnight. Tell me, did you never experience wine in Egypt?"
Daoud decided that, much as he liked Lorenzo, he did not want to confide any of Saadi's most secret teachings to an atheist.
"Many times we stayed up all night, drinking kaviyeh, talking and watching the dancers. But we do not drink wine."
"Really?" said Lorenzo, glancing at him. "Permit me to be skeptical. I know many Muslims who drink wine."
Daoud shook his head. "Most Mamelukes do not drink wine. When Baibars became sultan, he closed all the wine shops in El Kahira." He also decided not to tell Lorenzo that in private Baibars enjoyed the Tartar drink kumiss, made from the fermented milk of mares.
Lorenzo grunted. "Then you Mamelukes are stricter in your observance than many others who were born to Islam."
They passed the cathedral of San Giovenale. It was lit within, and the narrow stained glass windows glowed red, yellow, blue, and white.
You go into a Christian church during the day, and the windows are all alight with colors. At night the windows are black if you are inside the church but brightly lit if you are outside. As if the church is calling to those outside in the darkness.
"So beautiful," Daoud said, "even if the images were idolatrous."
"You should see some of the new cathedrals up near Paris. The windows are much bigger, and the figures are more lifelike."
"Do you admire the Christian churches?" Daoud asked.
"I admire beauty wherever I find it. On Sicily, there are beautiful stained glass windows in many synagogues."
"We are building a mosque in El Kahira that will be the wonder of the world. But when were you in Paris?"
"Four years ago, on a mission for King Manfred."
Four years ago I was battling Tartars in Palestine.
As they passed the open front doors of the cathedral, Daoud looked up the steps. He saw the bright yellow light of massed candles and heard a chorus of male voices raised in song. The voices seemed thin and high, as if reaching up into the night sky. He had heard such singing before—a long time before. He felt a catch in his throat.
"Why are the priests singing so late at night?"
"Those are the priests of the cathedral chapter. It is the beginning of day for them. They are chanting lauds, the dawn prayer of the Church."
Listening to the voices, Daoud felt hot tears running down his face.
Lorenzo glanced at him and chuckled. "I see you are not so impervious to the attractions of Christianity."
Daoud was embarrassed, but he could not stop the flow of tears. "It is the wine."
He was remembering high mass in the chapel of the castle, with his father's hand on his shoulder as they knelt and the chief priest in dazzling white and gold cope raised the white wafer toward heaven. His father whispered, "Jesus is come down among us," and then his strong tenor voice joined in "Veni Creator Spiritus."
I weep now for my father because I had no chance to weep for him when he was killed.
"Suppose he is in some Christian heaven looking down at me. What would he think?"
Daoud started at the sound of his own words.
I must be drunk. I would never speak so in front of Lorenzo—or anyone—otherwise.
"Who is looking down at you?" Lorenzo asked. His shoulders were hard and broad under Daoud's arm, and he seemed to bearDaoud's weight without the least difficulty. They were past the cathedral now, following a straight, fairly wide street that gently sloped downward. Broken clouds drifted away from the half moon. Like a watchman's lantern it hung over the center of the street, between the overhanging second stories of the houses.
"My father," said Daoud, and a sob bubbled up in his throat as he softly spoke the word, albeit in the unfamiliar tongue of Italy. "How he must hate me and curse me for fighting for Islam."
Lorenzo halted his stride and lifted his head. Then he started walking again. He raised his hand and gripped the wrist Daoud was resting on his shoulder.
In a very low voice he said, "Someone is following us."
Now Daoud stopped, tensing. He called on the power of his mind to resist the wine. His tears dried on the instant.
"Walk on," said Lorenzo in a low voice. "Keep your arm over my shoulder. Keep talking to me." In a louder voice he said, "I do not believe people's souls go to a heaven of any sort."
"Can they hear us?" Daoud said softly. De Verceuil, he thought. He must have decided to have me killed. His body felt cold. His journey from Egypt and all his work, despite tonight's triumph, might end here on a rain-wet street. And what would happen to Sophia if he were killed?
"They cannot hear what we say. But careful, they might be able to tell from the tone of our voices whether we are aware of them. Can you fight?"
"Not well. Not well at all." The Scorpion, the small crossbow hidden in his cloak, he thought, might account for one or two of them, if he could see well enough to aim it. He blinked his eyes. He saw two moons hanging over the street, blinked again, and saw one.
"Do not Jews believe in an immortal soul?" he asked in a normal voice, keeping up the pretense of conversation.
He cursed his lack of foresight. Why had he not thought to arrange for some of their bravos to meet them and escort them back to Ugolini's palace? Because he did not want himself connected with the fighting men Lorenzo had brought to Orvieto. That it had been a sensible precaution did not ease his anguish now.
"Maimonides writes that men and women live on after they die only in the memory of others," said Lorenzo. "Of course, orthodox rabbis say that Maimonides was a heretic."
"If the dead live on only in memory, then my father is trulydead, because I have done nothing for his memory, and I fight against all that he fought for."
Daoud realized that his wine-numbed mind was hardly working. He was relying on Lorenzo to think of some way to get them through this. He hated having his life depend on another man's cleverness. He tried to free his thoughts from the poisonous grip of al-koahl. It had been easier earlier this evening, but he was very tired now.
"I prefer to believe that people become more broadminded after they die," said Lorenzo. "They come face-to-face with the truth, whatever it is, and they see how each of us, Turk and Jew and Christian, has been struggling to uphold a dimly glimpsed version of what they see plainly. If they do not feel sorry for us, then probably they laugh at us.
"And now, this way. Move as silently as you can."
Abruptly, holding tight to Daoud's wrist, Lorenzo made a sharp left turn into an alley so narrow it was almost invisible. It was scarcely more than a quintana, a tunnel rather than an alley; the overhanging second stories of the houses on either side actually had a wall in common.
Lorenzo pulling him, Daoud broke into a trot. All around them was a hot blackness reeking of decay. Daoud could hear creatures scrabbling out of his way. Ahead was a bluish oblong—the end of the tunnel and the moonlit space beyond it.
They stopped abruptly. Lorenzo swung Daoud's arm down and stepped away from him, gripping him briefly by the shoulders to brace him.
"Now you must clear your head, Messer David. I hear them coming. I think they saw us duck in here. Get out your sword or your dagger, whatever suits you best, and get ready to fight."
Daoud heard the sound of running boots. He tried to guess how many pursuers there were, but his head was not clear enough of wine fumes for that. He fell against the rough plaster wall. Could he and Lorenzo break through a doorway into a house and hide there? No, the people within would probably give them away.
He heard the slithering sound of Lorenzo's sword being drawn. He decided not to use the Scorpion. It would take too long to load and cock it, and if he fumbled, he would be cut down without a second chance.
His mind was fairly clear of the toxic power of al-koahl, but his body, still in its grip, felt half dead to him.
How can I fight, as dizzy as I am? Thou hast said it, O God, wine is an abomination. Forgive me for drinking it, and help me now.
He reached for his sword, the handsome new one he had bought in Orvieto. He drew it out slowly, as quietly as he could, and hefted it in his hand. A bit late now to wonder how it would stand up in a fight.
The running footsteps stopped suddenly. Looking at the end of the alley, Daoud saw figures silhouetted by the moonlight. He heard voices murmuring. Then the figures seemed to fill the rectangular mouth of the alley. There seemed to be six of them. They moved slowly, cautiously.
"Capons," whispered Lorenzo. "Afraid to charge us. Let us move to where there is light to fight by."
He pulled Daoud after him. Daoud felt his head clearing. He could hear better and, despite the darkness, see better. But he staggered as they ran out of the alley.
They found themselves in a campiello, a courtyard surrounded by houses. In the center, on a small pedestal, was a statue, one of their saint idols, with arms outstretched. Daoud looked quickly around him. There seemed to be no way out but the alleyway they had entered through.
He heard a loud thump to his right. A dark figure suddenly stood there. Another thump on the left, and another in front. Men were jumping down from the rooftops.
In a moment, four men in a rough semicircle faced Lorenzo and Daoud. Blades gleamed silvery in the moonlight.
The six others who had been pursuing them rushed out of the alley.
Filled with a despairing rage, Daoud clenched his teeth and raised his sword.
Rachel's body felt cold. She knew the night outside was warm despite the lateness of the hour, and the room was stifling, with all its candles and the heavy silk draperies that held in the heat. But her feet and hands were icy. It was fear that chilled her so as she sat half listening to Tilia. She huddled in a corner of the big bed, her feet tucked under her, her hands clenched in her lap. She wanted to jump out the window.
Only, she was here of her own free will. And anyway the window was barred.
"We will be watching through spy holes in the walls," said Tilia. "There will be at least three of us. If he hurts you in any way, we will be here in a trice to rescue you."
Tilia Caballo had a face like a frog, Rachel thought. The fat old woman was trying to be reassuring, but just now Rachel hated her. She could not believe Tilia would interfere with a wealthy client's pleasure no matter how badly a girl of hers was being hurt.
The skepticism must have shown in her face, because Tilia had said, "I know this man. He has been here five times. He is not the kind that likes to hurt women. I do have patrons of that sort. For them I supply women like Olivia. Sometime when you are not so frightened I may tell you what Olivia likes men to do to her. Of course, she pretends not to like it. Her clients would get no pleasure if they knew Oliviawantedthem to do what they do. But no matter how I gain my livelihood, I am still a woman of honor." She glowered fiercely at Rachel, jowls quivering slightly. "I do not allow certain things to take place in my house. I do not allow my women to be mistreated."
"I know," said Rachel. "That is why I have not run away."
"You need not speak of running away," said Tilia loftily. "The door will be open for you whenever you wish to walk through it." Rachel believed that, just as she had believed gruff Lorenzo Celinowhen he told her she did not have to go to Tilia's house. But she also knew that if she had not come here, or if she chose now to walk out that door, these people would do nothing more for her.
Staying, much as she might hate what would happen to her, was better than wandering alone on the roads of Italy.
She looked up at the canopy over the bed. It was peach-colored, as were the bed curtains. The walls of the small room were hung with yellow silk drapes framing frescoes showing nude, smiling women fleeing from creatures that were half man and half goat, with things that stuck out before them like spears.
"Real men do not have pizzles as big as that," Tilia had said when she first showed Rachel the room, pointing with a grin at a bright red organ. "Although it may look that big to you the first time you see one in all its glory." Tilia had stopped joking then, and had carefully told her exactly what would happen on this night.
I am better prepared, Rachel thought,than many a woman is on her wedding night.
Indeed, her own mother, months before she died, had already explained much of this to Rachel. But the thought of her mother fairly broke her heart now. Her mother would cut her own throat if she could see Rachel in this place, about to let a man do this thing to her for money.
Her body shrank with dread.
She would rather, far rather, be the ignorant bride of a carpenter or a traveling merchant like her poor Angelo, who had been her husband in name only, or even the wife of a butcher, than to lie here in this gorgeously decorated room and give her most precious gift to a stranger who had bought the right to deflower her.
She found herself wishing poor old Angelo had asserted his right as her husband so that she could not now let her virginity be defiled.
Thank God Angelo is not alive to see this! But if he had lived, I would not be doing this.
God will never forgive me.
But if God does not want me to do what I am doing, why did He let this happen to me?
Tilia sat beside the bed in a big chair with a curved bottom. The jeweled cross she wore—which reminded Rachel that she was among Christians here and therefore not safe—rested on her bosom, half covered by the gold lace bordering the neckline of her gown. The cross quivered minutely with Tilia's heartbeat.
"You are probably wondering, child, whether you are doing the right thing."
"Yes." Rachel was so choked with fear that she could only whisper the word.
"Well, I can tell you there are thousands of women who would give anything to be in your place."
"In my place? To become a putana?"
Tilia laughed. "You think most women are contentedly married, with husbands to take care of them, with children who love them and neighbors who respect them—while only a few like me and the women who work for me are putane, whom the rest look down on. Well, listen to me, little one, other womenenvyus. A married woman sells herself, body and soul, to be some man's slave for life. And she gets damned little in return. We rent out this little part of our anatomy"—she patted her lap—"for a moment, and we keep the profit for ourselves. If we are clever, as I have been, we learn how to keep and increase our money. So when we no longer have youth and beauty to sell, we can take care of ourselves. And I tell you that a woman in her later years is likely to be a better friend to herself than any husband."
She speaks with conviction. But I cannot trust her, either. I have not had a true friend in this world since Angelo was killed.
Rachel sighed. "It is just that after tonight there is no turning back. This is for the rest of my life."
"That is right," said Tilia. "You will give up something that you can lose only once. When you have a commodity as unique as that, my child, you owe it to yourself to get the most you can for it." Her eyes hardened. "Every man wants to be the first to pierce a woman and hear her cry out and make her bleed. But what woman gets anything worth having in return? She gives it away on a dark night to some furfante with a smooth tongue and a handsome leg, or else the tonto she married takes it from her and then tells her to go wash the bed linen." She turned to stare at Rachel. "Do you know what I got for my virginity?" Her cheeks were red with anger.
"What did you get, Signora?" The heat with which Tilia spoke reassured Rachel. This was what the woman really felt. She was not just talking to lead Rachel astray.
"Blows and slavery." Tilia thrust her face close to Rachel's to underline her words. "Blows and slavery. The Genoese, may leprosy devour their limbs and may their prickles fall off in their hands,raided Otranto. They raped me—that was how I lostmyvirginity. They sold me to the Turks."
"You were a slave to the Turks?" Rachel gasped. "Where?" And how did she escape them and come to Orvieto and grow so rich and fat?
Tilia looked away. "Never mind. It would take too long to tell you." Rachel sensed that there was something here Tilia did not want to talk about. But she resolved to pry the story out of her one day.
Tilia's head swung back to face her. "Have I told you what you are getting this night for giving this man this proud moment of possessing a virgin?"
"I—I do not remember." Tilia had named a figure, but it had been so outrageous and Rachel had been so frightened by the prospect that she had promptly forgotten it.
"By the five wounds of Jesus, you truly are a child, not to remember something so important! Well, fix it in your mind this time, and think of it when you are wondering whether you are doing right. Five hundred golden florins. Five hundred, newly minted in Florence. That is your share. That is half of what he is paying. The other half is mine, as is only just. Think of it. He pays the price of a palazzo for you because you are a very young, beautiful virgin, and that is what he most desperately desires. Compare that with what most women get when they let a man have them for the first time."
That is far more money than Angelo ever saw in his whole life. Who is this man who will pay so much to have me?Rachel supposed Tilia would tell her who the man was if she asked, but she had decided it was better not to know anything about him ahead of time. That way she could imagine that he would be someone kind and gentle.
"I do not know what I will do with all that money," Rachel said softly.
If I lose it, all this will have been for nothing.
Tilia's wide mouth stretched even wider in a grin. "I will show you how to plant it."
"Plant it?"
"Yes, and then watch it grow. There are many, many fields in which to plant money. You can place it with the Templars or certain Lombards or men I know among your own Jews, and they use it, and when they give it back to you there is more. Miracolo! Or youcan buy beautiful and valuable things with it, whose worth increases as they get older. Or you can buy shares in a ship of Venice or Pisa, or even"—she spat—"Genoa, or a German caravan, and when the caravan or the ship comes back, if it comes back, you get your money back tenfold. That is risky, but it is the quickest way to great wealth."
Rachel felt a momentary excitement. Then she remembered how she was going to get the money. Her body felt colder than ever, cold as death. This, she thought, must be the way that poor man they killed last week felt when he was waiting for the torturers to come for him. She shuddered and hugged her knees tight against her chest under the gauzy gown Tilia had given her to wear.
Tilia must have seen the sudden darkening of her mood. She moved over to the bed and sat down beside Rachel, making the frame of the bed groan alarmingly. She put a hand lightly on Rachel's arm.
"Listen, Rachel. I was raped. I will not be party to the rape of another. You do not have to do this. Just tell me that you do not want to."
A sudden heat rushed through Rachel's body. She was no longer cold. She burned with anger.
"Stop saying that!" she screamed. "Will you leave me alone?" Being reminded over and over again that she was doing this of her own free will was an even worse torture than imagining what the man would do to her.
Oh, God, I am going to cry and make myself ugly, and he will not want me and I will not get the five hundred florins.
She pressed her hands against her face, trying to stop tears.
"I was asking you to think, not carry on," said Tilia reprovingly. "If you want to walk well in life, you had better learn not to burst into tears when you have an important decision to make."
Rachel took deep breaths to calm herself.
"I decided days ago that I could not do any better for myself than this, Signora Tilia. But I am so afraid. Perhaps the man will not want me when he sees how afraid I am."
Tilia grinned broadly. "Nonsense. The more innocent and timid you appear, the more you will delight him."
Rachel heard a light tapping at the door, and her heart beat so hard she thought it would burst.
Tilia rose, brushing down her green satin gown. "The signal that he has arrived. I thought he would never get here. It's almost morning.I must go down and greet him, child. But remember, I will be watching everything."
I do not really like that.
Tilia winked and pushed on what looked like a plaster panel between two gold-painted beams in the wall. It swung away from her and she squeezed through.
Rachel sat in the bed, drawn up into the corner of it that was farthest from the door, and waited. She played nervously with fingers that felt like icicles.
A short time later she caught a glimpse of Tilia pushing open the door, but her eyes fixed on the man standing in the doorway.
She drew in a deep, gasping breath. She wanted to scream.
The man standing in the doorway was short and broad. He wore a long, brightly colored silk robe. His skin was brown, his eyes little black slits. A white mustache drooped below his flat nose. A thin white beard like a goat's hung from his chin.
She had seen this man once before, when she watched from the window of Sophia's room at Cardinal Ugolini's, the day he arrived in Orvieto in a great procession.
Rachel's breath, so long held, burst out of her in a moan.
The man who had come to take her virginity was a Tartar.
"It was as much by my choice as the cardinal's that I did not attend the contessa's reception," said Friar Mathieu, yawning. "How could a Little Brother of San Francesco stay up till all hours with people stuffing themselves with rich food and drinking wine? And gambling, and kissing each other in dark corners?"
The old Franciscan's eyes were watery with sleepiness, but the corners of his mouth quirked with humor under his white mustache. He sat on the edge of the cot, which, as he had insisted when he moved into the Palazzo Monaldeschi, was the only piece of furniture in the room. Simon paced the floor, unable to stand still.
Simon felt the barb in the mention of kissing, but he did not mind it. When he routed Friar Mathieu out of his narrow bed in a remote corner of the palace, he admitted at once that he had been in the atrium with Ugolini's niece, Sophia, while David of Trebizond was so disastrously baiting the Tartars.
"I was wrong to pay court to the cardinal's niece." He could still feel her lips under his, still taste them, and his body tingled at the remembrance. "I am as much at fault as de Verceuil. But it was he who found that ignorant woman to replace you as interpreter,and then he went off to gamble—with David's servant, of all people—and left the Tartars alone and unprotected."
Friar Mathieu shook his head. "Yes, and drinking that wine of Montefiascone. I wonder why God chose to make those particular grapes so irresistible."
Simon pounded his fist into his palm. "We must confront de Verceuil, Friar Mathieu."
A deep crease appeared between the thick white eyebrows. "At this hour?"
Simon saw the fatigue in Mathieu's wrinkled face and felt guilty. "I am most heartily sorry for awakening you at this ungodly time of night. It was just—"
"Just that you could not sleep yourself." The friar laughed. "But it is a most Godly time of night. The fact is, I would have had to get up soon to say the first part of my office. Were I living with my brother Franciscans—as I wish I were—I would be up chanting lauds with them. But I fear the cardinal will be neither willing nor able to talk to us if we go to him now."
"So much damage has been done, Friar Mathieu. The contessa is furious. I could not begin to reason with her. She went on and on, talking about murderers of babies. I would not be surprised if tomorrow morning she ordered us to leave her palazzo."
The old man raised a hand. "Pope Urban would not let her do that. It would be an insult to the ambassadors."
"Cardinal le Gros told me the pope looked pale and shaken when he left. He might not care whether the ambassadors are insulted. We can have no more of de Verceuil's blundering."
Or mine.
Friar Mathieu shook a finger at him. "What happened tonight is not the cardinal's doing. None of this is accidental. What happened tonight shows that Ugolini will do everything in his power to block this alliance."
"But Ugolini did nothing tonight. It was all that man from Trebizond."
"That is like saying that the axe chops the tree down, and not the woodsman wielding it. Ugolini brought David to the contessa's reception. He brought David's servant, an accomplished gambler as well as a recruiter of brigosi. And he brought his niece, Sophia."
At the mention of Sophia a sharp pain went through Simon's chest.
Sophia cannot be part of it. Not when I have just found her.
Was it possible that the passion she had showed in their time together in the atrium was a sham? That would be too cruel. And yet, how could he prove that she was innocent?
"It is just a coincidence that Sophia is here in Orvieto now," he said. "She is as undecided about this matter of the Tartars as the pope himself is."
But is the pope still undecided, Simon wondered as he spoke.
The wrinkles around Friar Mathieu's faded blue eyes deepened a little. "Well, I would not expect you to say otherwise. A knight does not doubt the honor of a lady he has kissed."
Simon sensed Friar Mathieu's skepticism, but he could not bring himself to believe that Sophia had knowingly been the cardinal's agent. This woman had made Italy a place of enchantment for him.
Friar Mathieu went on. "We both agree, do we not, that the luring of Cardinal de Verceuil by David's man, Giancarlo, was planned by Ugolini?"
Glad to be on safer ground, Simon nodded vigorously. "We agree on that, to be sure."
"But we cannot simply go to de Verceuil, as you proposed, and denounce him for having left the room with Giancarlo. Not when he can at once point out that you also left the room—with Sophia."
Simon turned his back on Friar Mathieu and stared out, almost unseeing, toward the window. It had neither glass nor shutters nor parchment, only a gauze curtain to discourage insects, iron bars to keep out larger intruders. He felt furious with himself.
The mention of Giancarlo reminded him that he had heard nothing from Sordello. By now the old mercenary should have insinuated himself into the band Giancarlo was gathering. Perhaps through Sordello Simon could prove Sophia's innocence.
He noticed now that some light was coming through the curtain, and he thought he heard birds singing. He had been up all night.
"Then you think it pointless for us to confront de Verceuil? I suppose you do not think I should write to Count Charles, either."
"I think it very unlikely that Count Charles would give the cardinal's responsibilities in this to someone else. I think it very likely that Cardinal de Verceuil has his intriguers around the count who would learn of your message and might set themselves to do you harm. No, I do not think we can rid ourselves of the cardinal. But I agree that we should meet with him."
Simon was bewildered. "To do what?"
Friar Mathieu shrugged. "No man is beyond redemption. Hemust realize that because of his blundering tonight—our blundering—the mission is perilously close to failing. Perhaps we can convince him that in the future we must work together. Otherwise there will be no glory for him to steal from us."
The old friar had been sleeping only in a robe of gray frieze. He pulled a sleeveless brown mantle over his head and tied a white cord around his waist, and he was dressed for the day. Simon envied him the simplicity of his apparel. It took him a good deal longer to dress himself in the morning, and he knew noblemen who spent hours in their wardrobes, with servants to help them, before they felt ready to face the world.
"We will go now, then?" he asked.
"Well, you are up. If the cardinal is as upset about this disaster as you are, he may well have spent a sleepless night, too. Let us go and see."
They walked side by side down dim corridors cluttered with battered old chairs and tables, past walls covered with tattered hangings, dented shields, and rusty coats of mail. The Monaldeschi family, it seemed, never threw away anything. The rooms set aside for the cardinal and his entourage were on the third floor of the palazzo, where the windows were larger and set with white glass. A man wrapped in a blanket lay on a sack of straw outside the door to the cardinal's rooms. The top of his head, shaved in a tonsure, gleamed dully in the light of the one fat candle that illuminated the corridor. A cleric in minor orders, no doubt. Simon shook him.
"No, Your Signory," the cleric said, yawning and stretching as he stood up to bow properly to the count. "The cardinal is not sleeping, but neither is he here. After the contessa's reception he and the Tartars and their guards all went out. His Eminence did not choose to tell me where they were bound."
Simon felt the wind knocked out of him, as if he had been running full tilt and tripped. He looked at Friar Mathieu, who wore a pained, even sad expression.
After everything else that had gone wrong, how could de Verceuil take the Tartars into the streets late at night? They might run afoul of bravos or some of the wild young men of Orvieto's feuding families. Why would de Verceuil take such a risk?
Then Simon understood the reason for Friar Mathieu's look of sadness. Men would leave the Palazzo Monaldeschi at this hour for only one reason—loose women.
Simon had heard that in the darkest hours a corrupt, secret worldglowed brightly in Orvieto, hidden behind discreet walls. Rumor told of high-ranking churchmen who ventured behind those walls; indeed, it was said that the secret world existed because of the patronage of such men. Of course de Verceuil would be a patron of that sinful night world. And of course he would draw the Tartars into it. Barbarians that they were, they no doubt expected the attentions of harlots as their due.
That I am surprised only proves, I suppose, what a bumpkin I am, thought Simon, annoyed at himself and disgusted with de Verceuil.
He must pray, he thought with a chill, that the Tartars' guards were well armed and alert.
Swords drawn, Daoud and Lorenzo stood back-to-back in the shadowy courtyard. Lorenzo faced the six men who had emerged from the end of the alley and were now fanning out to surround them. Daoud confronted the four who had jumped down into the campiello.
A shutter opened on the overhanging second floor of a house, and Daoud glanced up to see a face. The shutter slammed with a finality that declared the householder wanted nothing to do with what was going on below.
It was too dark to see the faces of the men before him. They wore dark capes, and two of them carried long daggers in one hand and swords in the other. One shadowy figure stepped forward now, and Daoud wondered if they were going to challenge him.
"Messere, let us speak quickly. You are David of Trebizond, are you not?"
The man had asked the question in an urgent but respectful tone.
Feeling a bit more hopeful, Daoud answered, "Yes, I am David."
"Who the devil areyou?" called a voice from behind Daoud.
The man addressed his answer to Daoud. "I am Andrea Sordello of Rimini, Messer David. These three men are my comrades. It would honor us if you would accept our service."
"Accept his service," Lorenzo said at once from behind Daoud. "We have nothing to lose."
Daoud made himself decide at once. "If you are willing to help me, I am grateful."
"Be off with you, Messer Sordello," called one of the original pursuers. "This is no quarrel of yours."
"And what isyourquarrel with these men?" Sordello replied.
"That is no affair of yours, Messere!" It was the voice of a very young man, intense, passionate.
Daoud turned to face the young voice. At once Sordello moved to take a position at his side.
Daoud realized that he could see better; the first hint of dawn. And not only was there more light, but his head was clearer as well. The heat of his body, aroused to fight, was burning away the intoxicating spirits in his blood.
The men opposite were spread far apart. The one who spoke for them was slender and wore a cap that fell over one ear. A silver badge glittered on the cap.
Sordello spoke again. "Since you will not say, Messere, I will tellyouwhat your affair is. You are of the famiglia Filippeschi. You saw these gentlemen leaving the Palazzo Monaldeschi and decided that any guest of the Monaldeschi must be an enemy of yours. And so you decided to hunt down and kill these good gentlemen, who have done you no harm and are not even citizens of Orvieto, for the offense of having enjoyed the hospitality of your rivals."
Filippeschi. Daoud had been wanting to make contact with them ever since his arrival in Orvieto. Now he had met them, and—accursed luck—they wanted to kill him.
"Lorenzo, they are Filippeschi," he muttered. "Talk to them."
"There is no talking tothem, Messer David," said Sordello. "They are out for your blood."
"Be still," said Daoud. The man had offered his services. Let him confine himself to serving, then.
Lorenzo stepped out in front of Daoud, his sword still out before him, but angled toward the ground.
"Messeres, at least you should know who it is that you have set out to kill. I am Giancarlo of Naples, and this is my master, David. He is a merchant from Trebizond, which is very far away. Muchtoo far for him to have any connection with the quarrels of Orvieto."
One of the Filippeschi bravos, a short man standing to the left of the slender leader, said, "You spin a tale to try to fool us. Anyone can see your master is a Frenchman. Too many damned French in Italy. The Monaldeschi are toadies of the French. Death to the Monaldeschi, and death to the French!"
What a bitter fate it would be, Daoud thought, if his Frankish looks, which caused him to be sent here, earned him his death in a stupid street fight.
"There are six of you," said Lorenzo. "But now that these four men have joined us, there are six of us. Bad odds for you, because no matter how much you harm us, you will certainly come out of this quarrel worse off than you went into it." Lowering his sword even more, he stepped closer to the young man with the silver badge on his cap. "Signore. Which of these men are you willing to lose, to pay for the privilege of hurting us?" With his free hand he pointed from man to man in the circle of six. "That man? That one? That one? Yourself?"
"We will start with you!" the short man shouted.
He lunged at Lorenzo, his sword thrusting straight for Lorenzo's chest.
Lorenzo's sword was up in an instant, parrying the short man's attack. At the same moment, out of the corner of his eye Daoud saw Sordello's arm flash up, then down.
The short man gave a cry and stumbled. He staggered a few steps, then collapsed in a heap at the feet of one of the other Filippeschi bravos.
Lorenzo stepped back so that he and Sordello flanked Daoud. Sordello's three men moved up beside them, one to the left, two to the right.
"You may see to the man who is hurt," said Lorenzo. "Unless you want to continue."
"If he is only hurt, I should retire to a monastery." Sordello laughed. Indeed, Daoud saw that the man on the ground was not moving.
I do not like this Sordello, Daoud thought.He comes out of nowhere wanting to work for me. He kills in haste and boasts about it.
The young man with the silver badge on his cap knelt by thefallen bravo and felt under his cape. "Morte," he said harshly, and stood again.
"Well, Messeres," said Lorenzo, "we are now six to five. We did not choose to quarrel. We still do not wish to fight. In fact, we ourselves are at odds with the Monaldeschi."
"How might that be?" said the young man.
"Are we done fighting? I wish to make a proposal to you."
The Filippeschi spokesman glanced at his fellows. "What say you?"
"Alfredo was my cousin," said a tall bravo in a rust-colored cape. "But I cannot avenge him alone."
"Alfredo was impetuous," said the young man. "He acted before I gave an order."
"You are no leader, Marco, if you will not undertake the vendetta for one of your men."
The vendetta. These Italians are like the desert tribesmen. Kill one of them, and you have his family to deal with.
"I will show you what kind of a leader I am if you speak that way to me again," said Marco.
"Enough, enough," said one of the other bravos, and the man in the rust-colored cape shrugged.
It was now almost daylight, and Daoud studied the face of the young man called Marco. He could not be more than seventeen, Daoud thought, looking at his smooth cheeks and downy black mustache.
Marco!He had heard that the head of the Filippeschi family was a young Conte Marco di Filippeschi.
"What do you propose, Messere?" said Marco.
"Meet me in front of the Church of Sant' Agnes," Lorenzo said. "This evening at Compline. Come alone, as I will. There are things we can discuss, I think, to our mutual profit."
Marco bowed to Lorenzo. "I shall expect you, Messere." He gestured, and the man in the reddish cape and one other picked up the body of Alfredo.
"Momento, Messeres," said Sordello, moving to the body in three quick strides. He bent down, reached under the body, and with a jerk of his hand pulled free a long, thin throwing knife, which he wiped on his cape.
"I can ill afford to lose so well-balanced a knife as this."
Alfredo's cousin, holding the body by the shoulders, said, "Iknow your name, Andrea Sordello, and your face. You will not need that knife much longer."
Sordello made a mock bow. "Be assured, Messere, this knife will not missyou, if we should meet again."
A moment later the Filippeschi and their burden had disappeared into the alley.
Daoud studied the dark irregular stain where the fallen man had bled on the rain-damp paving stones of the campiello. It was dawn, already past Fajr, the time for morning prayer.
God is great. In the name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful. All praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds.
"I advise you not to have any dealings with the Filippeschi, Messeres," Sordello said suddenly. "They'll betray you."
Even though he had given no outward sign that he was praying, Daoud was angered at being interrupted. He eyed Sordello. The man was shorter than he, about fifty years of age, Daoud judged. His hair was a good deal grayer than Lorenzo's, and it hung lankly down to his jawline under a shabby maroon cap. The bones of Sordello's nose and brows were thickened and flattened, as if they had been broken many times. It was the face of an old fighter, the sort of face that usually commanded Daoud's respect, be it borne by Christian or Muslim. But when Daoud looked at him, Sordello stared back fixedly, unnaturally, as if it were an effort to look Daoud in the eye.
"Was your advice asked, Messere?" Lorenzo growled.
He feels about the man as I do, Daoud thought. Now, Daoud thought, Sordello would bluster about saving their lives, and he would ask for employment.
"Forgive me," Sordello said. "I presumed too much." He pulled off his cap and bowed to the surprised Daoud. Either he was a better man than he seemed at first glance, or he was much more devious.
"Forgiveus," Daoud said, bowing back, though not as deeply, and drawing a disapproving grunt from Lorenzo. "We owe you our deepest gratitude. How came you leaping down from the housetops when we needed help so badly?"
"I have been looking for a chance to meet Messer Giancarlo. Tonight I waited outside the Monaldeschi palace, hoping that you would emerge from the reception in a good mood. While I and my fellows were hanging about the palace, we chanced to see those brigosi lurking in the shadows nearby. When you came out, it wasyou they chose to follow, so we followed them. When you went down this alley, we took to the rooftops, the better to surprise your enemies."
"Why were you looking for me?" Lorenzo asked gruffly.
"I heard that you pay well for men who are adept with sword and dagger and who ask no questions about what they might be hired for."
"I also like a man who does not talk much," said Lorenzo. "You talk a great deal."
"Yes, Messer Giancarlo." Sordello lowered his eyes. Again, that disarming humility.
The man was resourceful and quick-thinking. He was arrogant one moment, humble the next.
"How did you come to Orvieto, Sordello?" Daoud asked him.
"I served Sigismundo Malatesta, governor of Rimini, until his death," said Sordello. "Since then I have not found a suitable master. I was traveling south, thinking perhaps of offering my sword to King Manfred, when I heard of you, Messer Giancarlo, while passing through Viterbo."
Daoud felt uneasy, hearing that Lorenzo's recruiting expeditions were being gossiped of in the cities around here. And how easily Sordello had been able to make the connection between Giancarlo and David of Trebizond. Just as Tilia had said, it was impossible to hire men without attracting attention.
He realized Lorenzo was waiting for him to speak.
"You may walk with us to Cardinal Ugolini's mansion," Daoud said.
When they emerged from the alley, there was no sign of the Filippeschi. Two of Sordello's men walked in front of Daoud and Lorenzo, and Sordello and the other man followed behind them. The wine had worn off altogether, but Daoud felt a throbbing pain behind his eyes and a great need to sleep.
"Well?" Lorenzo said, keeping his voice low. "The man wants us to hire him."
"We need more men, and we want clever street fighters," said Daoud. "He is that."
"Yes, but he is the type of man I detest," said Lorenzo. "I did not need him to kill that Filippeschi bravo for me. He acts before he thinks."
"After tonight we may not have to attack the French directly," Daoud said. "On the other hand, we are sure to have further needof bodyguards, and I think Sordello and his three companions would suit. Let us give ourselves time to think. Tell him you will meet him and give him our answer in two days."
It could not be worse, Rachel thought. She could not be more degraded. An old man, and a Tartar. Were the Tartars even human, she wondered, or was she about to commit the further abominable sin of mating with an animal?
The door had closed behind him with a terribly final sound, and he was standing in front of it, showing his teeth, large and strong and very white, in a broad grin.
She wondered if he could see her knees and hands trembling. If only she had accepted Signora Tilia's offer to release her from this. Was it too late? Could she rush past the Tartar to the door and pull it open and run away? If she did that now, doubtless the Tartar would be insulted. From what she knew about these creatures, it would be very dangerous to make him angry.
I will pretend to be sick. When he is not looking, I will stick my finger down my throat and throw up. That will disgust him so, he will leave me alone.
Or it might antagonize him enough to kill her. Her body broke out in a cold sweat. Her eyes were shut, but she heard the monster coming closer. She thought of what he would do to her, and her stomach heaved—she would throw up even without trying to. She hoped hewouldkill her. Better that than his animal's thing inside her.
She opened her eyes, to see that he had stopped halfway between the closed door and the bed.
Actually, he was not so hideous. He had a round brown face and bright black eyes, and his beard was white, as Angelo's had been.
Ah, Rachel, Rachel, the joy of my old age, Angelo would say.My beard was white before you were born.
He would not rejoice in his old age if he could see me now.
The Tartar's beard and mustache were not full and flowing, as Angelo's had been, but stringy. The beard almost seemed like a false beard, pasted on that small, sharp chin.
He said, "Buona sera, berra feeria." He had learned some Italian. But it was not evening. It was almost morning. And what was he trying to say—"bella figlia?" Beautiful daughter? He had probably asked someone what he should say, and they had told him the wrong things.
"Buona sera, Mio Signore," she answered, inclining her head slightly. Her voice was a terrified whisper. When she heard how frightened she sounded, she became more frightened still and huddled into the farthest corner of the bed, wishing she could squeeze through a crack in the wall beside her and disappear.
The Tartar tapped his chest, smiling and nodding. "John." He wore a crimson silk tunic that fell to his knees, and over it a pale green gown, open in front, with wide sleeves. When she had stood by a window in the cardinal's palazzo and watched the Tartars' arrival in Orvieto, he and the other Tartar had worn foreign-looking silk robes, blood red, covered with blue birds with long golden tails. Now he was dressed like an Italian.
He was still nodding at her, with a questioning look on his face. He wanted her to say her name.
"Rachel," she said, touching her chest. How small her breasts were, she thought. He could not possibly want a girl with such small breasts. He certainly would not want to devour them. She felt sick to her stomach again.
"Reicho. Buona sera, Reicho." He could not pronounce the letterl.
"Buona sera, John," she answered. She was about to smile, but she checked herself. If she seemed to be encouraging him, he would come at her. Cold sweat broke out over her skin.
He is going to come at me anyway.
A silver pitcher of wine with two silver goblets stood on a small marble-topped table beside the bed. Wine might make this easier for her. Except that too much wine would make her sick. Well, was that not what she wanted? She stretched a trembling hand toward it.
"Will you take some wine, Messer John?"Where on earth did he get a name like John?
She poured the wine, carefully filling the goblets only two-thirds full so her trembling hands would not spill their contents.
The Tartar crossed the room and sat in the round-bottomed chair Tilia had occupied a short while earlier. Rachel held out a goblet to him, and her hand shook so badly she almost dropped it. He did not seem to notice. Maybe he was used to being waited on by trembling women. He smiled and nodded.
Tilia was watching all this, Rachel remembered. She drained her cup quickly, the silver giving the wine a slightly metallic taste. She poured a second cup for herself, and looked at him. He barely sipped from his goblet before setting it on the table, holding his hand palm down over it. Too bad, she thought. She had heard that men who drank too much could not get stiff enough to go into women.
John started talking to her in his own tongue. He spoke for a long time with many gestures, some toward himself, some toward her. She tried desperately to guess what he was saying. She did not want to respond the wrong way and anger him.
He seemed quite at ease, and he laughed occasionally, as if he were telling her funny stories that amused him as well. She saw webs of fine wrinkles in the brown skin around his eyes and thought,He could be older than Angelo.
He began to make a strange sound, a long-drawn-out moan. Perhaps he was in pain. Perhapshewas going to be sick. Her heart leapt hopefully. Then the moan changed pitch, and his mouth began to shape words. They must be Tartar words. He was singing to her. It was unmistakably a song, but it was strange and shrill to her ears. She almost burst out laughing, but immediately felt terror at the thought of offending him.
It began to dawn on her, though, that John was not behaving like a brute, as she had feared he would when she first saw him in the doorway. If she looked behind the black slits that were his eyes, under the tanned-leather skin, he seemed a pleasant old man. His language might be gibberish to her, but it was clear that he was trying to entertain her, even woo her.
But she hated the thought of what he was trying to woo herfor.
He ended his song by clapping his hands rhythmically—she counted nine handclaps. He followed that with more eager smiles and nods. He actually wanted to know whether she liked his song. She relaxed a bit.
She smiled and nodded back. "Yes. Very good, John. Chebello!" Perhaps she could get him to sing more, and put off the moment she dreaded.
But he stood up with a look on his face that froze her heart in her chest. There was nothing ferocious or cruel in it or even lustful. There was neither kindness nor pity in it, nor anything that recognized her as a person. It was the satisfied smile of a man looking upon a possession.
He slipped off the wide-sleeved gown and unbuckled his belt. She began to tremble uncontrollably.
Daoud sat slumped with exhaustion on the carpeted floor of Ugolini's cabinet. The long night just past had drained him of all his energy. He wanted to sleep, but first he must see to it that Ugolini made good use of the advantage they had gained at the contessa's reception.
A strong, rich, familiar smell filtered into his nostrils, and his head lifted, as if a powerful hand had gripped it. The door opened, and a servant carried in a tray laden with six small porcelain cups, one each for Ugolini, Daoud, Sophia, and Lorenzo and two extra, as well as two pitchers. Ugolini pushed aside a pile of parchment on his work table, and the servant set the tray down.
As the door closed behind the servant, Daoud drew a deep breath to identify the smell and felt a glow of surprised pleasure.
"Is it possible?" he said to Ugolini. "You have found kaviyeh?"
Ugolini, sitting in the big chair behind his work table, just his head and shoulders showing, smiled benignly. "You may hate the Tartars for invading the Islamic lands, my friend, but it means that we Christians can now trade with that part of the world. The Venetians have been importing the beans from the uplands of Persia in small—and very expensive—quantities. I was saving this for a special occasion. This morning, after your triumph over the Tartars and your narrow escape from death, seemed appropriate."
Daoud found the strength to stand up and pour the steaming black liquid from the pitcher into a cup. He held the cup to his face with both hands and sniffed deeply. He felt happier than he had in a long time.
Sophia, sitting on a padded bench against the wall opposite Ugolini's table, said, "What is that?" Daoud heard shrill alarm in her voice.
She must suspect it was some sort of drug, thought Daoud with amusement.
The cardinal chuckled amiably. "Only a beverage, my dear. Long used in the Orient by sages and poets. It produces a heightened state of alertness and vigor."
Daoud sipped the hot liquid. The taste was wondrously bracing after months of deprivation, but it was not quite strong enough.
"This is very good, and I am your grateful slave forever," he said. "But you should tell your servants to boil it longer."
Having sensed that Sophia feared his pleasure, he wanted to share it with her that she might see how harmless it was. He went to her and held out his cup.
"Try this. Be careful, the cup is hot."
She took the cup from him, her fingers brushing his. He felt a tingle in his arm. She raised the cup, sniffed suspiciously and grimaced, but took a small sip.
He was disappointed to see her mouth pucker. She did not like it. Well, he could not expect her to take to it at once. He had been drinking it ever since he was a child. Even his crusader family had drunk kaviyeh.
"A very interesting taste," she said, handing back the cup. A Byzantine comment, he thought. He heard Lorenzo chuckle.
A pang of jealousy shot through him. He could not expect her to like kaviyeh any more than he could expect her to love him. Especially not after she had been alone in the Monaldeschi atrium with that damned French count.
His longing for Sophia made his heart ache. If only he could have her for himself, and not be forced to throw her at Simon de Gobignon. But she was no more his than that emerald Baibars had entrusted to him.
Resignedly he told himself he must find out what she had accomplished.
"How did you deal with the Frankish count?"
"As you wished me to."
He walked back to the cardinal's table and turned to face her. Her amber eyes were fixed on him. She must have been watching him cross the room.
"Does he want to see you again?" David demanded.
She shrugged. "He did when I left him. But by now he and Cardinal de Verceuil will have talked together and may well realize my part in what we did to them."
"Well," said Ugolini, rubbing his hands together. "There will be no more need for you to pursue Count Simon, my dear, or forMesser Lorenzo to play backgammon with the French cardinal. And no need for our illustrious David to risk further verbal jousting with the Tartars."
Daoud felt a stab of exasperation. Just as he had feared, Ugolini wanted to believe that with last night's triumph over the Tartars, their work was done. Would he be able to persuade the cardinal to realize this was only the beginning of a long struggle—one in which he, Ugolini, must play the chief part?
"De Verceuil is a clever but sloppy player," Lorenzo interjected. "He kept leaving blots less than six points away from me. But I managed to lose eighty florins to him. That kept him interested. Once he decided I was not a skillful player, he kept doubling the stakes and pressing me to do the same when the choice was mine." He went over to Ugolini's work table and poured himself a cup of kaviyeh.
Ugolini laughed. "He must now think his winnings eighty costly florins indeed." He filled a cup from another pitcher, sprang up, and carried the cup across the room to Sophia.
"You will enjoy this spiced milk more than the Muslim kaviyeh. It is my favorite morning drink."
"You think it is all over, then, Cardinal?" Daoud growled. "I can go away and leave you in peace—and richer?"
From the suddenly outraged face Ugolini turned toward him, Daoud thought the cardinal might well be wishing the Filippeschi had finished him off.
"Was last night not a victory?" the cardinal asked in a choked voice.
"Do you know the difference between winning a battle and winning a war?"
"What more can the French do?" said Ugolini.
"We must talk about that," said Daoud. "Even though, in spite of this good kaviyeh, my body screams for rest." He drained the cup, put it down, and stretched his arms. With difficulty he brought his anger under control. He must win Ugolini, not turn him into an enemy.
Ugolini had sat down in the high-backed chair behind his work table. His slender fingers restlessly polished the dome of the skull with the diagram painted on its cranium that lay before him. He looked as gloomy as if he were contemplating the day when he himself would be reduced to bones. Lorenzo quietly got up and poured himself another cup of kaviyeh.
Daoud turned to Sophia. "How do you think de Gobignon feelstoward you?" He hated to ask the question. He watched her face closely. What he really wanted to know was howshefelt about de Gobignon.
Her eyes were heavy-lidded. Even with Hashishiyya-trained senses, he could not guess what was behind that damnably unrevealing mask.
"I think I persuaded him that the cardinal's niece neither knows nor cares anything about alliances and crusades. I—believe he could come to love me."
Rage throbbed in his temples. What, in his sheltered existence, could the young count have learned of love?
"Love you? Unlikely," Daoud challenged her.
He saw with quick regret that he had hurt her feelings. She recoiled as if struck.
"Do you not think me worthy of a nobleman's love?"
Daoud crossed the room in three quick steps and stood over her. "Such pampered creatures as he are not capable of love."
The mask was back. She shrugged.
"Love or lust, he is drawn to me. Do you mean to make some use of it?"
"Send him a note by one of the cardinal's servants asking him to meet with you in a few days' time." Daoud turned and walked to the celestial globe beside Ugolini's table and spun it absently as he studied Sophia. "Let him pick the place, so he feels secure."
Again he had a glimpse through the mask. Her eyes widened in fear. She thought he meant to kill de Gobignon. That angered him. Did she care so much for the Frenchman, then, that his possible death made her lose her composure?
To Daoud's surprise, Ugolini jumped from his chair and advanced on him, shaking his finger and crying, "All of France will be down on us like an avalanche if you harm that boy."
Daoud checked an impulse to laugh. Ugolini was such a comical figure in the flapping white robe he had donned on returning to his mansion.
To Daoud, who had lived most of his life among men for whom death was as common as fear was rare, the little man's tendency to panic seemed contemptible. But, anew, he reminded himself that he needed Ugolini and must treat him with respect.
"Please, Your Eminence," he said. "If I meant to have de Gobignon killed, I would not involve Sophia. I want her to tell himwhat we are supposedly doing. I hope to create conflict among the supporters of the alliance."
"But Sophia takes a great risk meeting with him," said Ugolini. "What if de Gobignon attempts to force the truth out of her?"
The thought of de Gobignon laying violent hands on Sophia angered Daoud, and he spoke impulsively.
"ThenI will kill him."
"God help us!" Ugolini went back to his work table and sat down behind it, his hands over his face.
At once Daoud regretted what he had said. But was there no way to instill courage into this man?
"There is much work for you to do, Cardinal," he said. "You must not falter now."
"Then let there be no more talk of killing," said Ugolini fiercely, taking his hands from his face.
Daoud poured himself another cup of kaviyeh and stood looking down at Ugolini.
"With so much at stake, surely you know I would not do anything rash."
"You need not think ofdoing anything," Ugolini said, a plea in his eyes. "As long as the pope delays his decision about the Tartars, your people are safe."
True enough, Daoud thought. Delay was a large part of his mission. But, despite what Ugolini might think, it was not enough. For the safety of Islam, an alliance between Tartars and Christians must be made impossible.
"Your Eminence, will it please you to visit the cardinals who heard the Tartars condemn themselves last night?" He tried not to make it sound like an order.
"I see no need for that," said Ugolini.
Of course, Daoud thought. The little cardinal's mind was so full of fear that he could not see at all.
"But I am hoping that you can organize a delegation of cardinals to go to the pope and urge him to give up the idea of an alliance with the Tartars. After all, you are the cardinal camerlengo. Your word has weight."
Ugolini made a bridge of his interlaced fingers and rested his forehead against them, as if his head ached.
"I have attacked the Tartars at the pope's council." He spoke down at his table, barely loud enough for Daoud to hear him. "I have introduced you into the highest circles in Orvieto. I have letyou recruit criminals and instigate riots while you live in my mansion. I hear you plotting murder." He looked up suddenly, wild-eyed. "Basta! Enough!"
Despair made Daoud feel weak. He knew this sick feeling came partly from being awake all night, poisoning himself with al-koahl, and nearly getting himself murdered. He told himself it did not matter how he felt. He was Sufi-trained, and could control his feelings. He was a Mameluke, and must remain on the attack.
But he chose not to meet Ugolini's refusal directly.
"I also hope that you will be able to persuade Fra Tomasso d'Aquino to write an open letter, to the pope or to the King of France, denouncing the Tartars. Copies of the letter can be circulated to men of influence throughout Christendom."
Ugolini shook his head, whiskers fluttering. "Fra Tomasso is neutral and wants to stay that way."
But if I can, I intend to push Fra Tomasso away from his neutrality.
"Surely he could not have failed to be moved by what he heard last night," said Daoud. "I could see that he was."
"It will take more than one incident to move Fra Tomasso," said Ugolini.
Now I have him!Daoud glanced at Lorenzo, who nodded encouragingly.
Daoud leaned forward, pressing both hands on the table. "There! You yourself have said the very thing I have been trying to tell you. Last night was just one incident. It was not enough to move Fra Tomassoorthe cardinalsorthe pope. We must do more. You can accomplish everything we want by persuasion and cunning and subterfuge. If you do, I will never have to put my hand to my dagger, and you will have nothing to fear." He shook his open hand at Ugolini. "Take the lead yourself."