Make me to die submissive unto Thee and join me to the righteous. I bear witness that there is no god but God and I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and Messenger. Amin!
He could not hold the pain back. He could escape it only in sleep. He could not see Friar Mathieu or Simon de Gobignon or Rachel. His eyes were closing. He would dream of Sophia.
Rachel clutched the leather capsule desperately, as if by holding it tightly enough she could keep Daoud alive. She felt her sorrowcrushing her as if it were a great stone pillar pressing down from the sky. She touched his cheek with her fingertips, and his face felt still as stone, and she knew the life had gone out of him.
She sat back and tied the Muslim amulet around her neck, as she had seen it tied around his. Then she dug the fingers of both hands into the silk of her gown, near the collar, and pulled at it until it tore.
She put her hands over her face and let darkness sweep over her mind as sobs shook her and her tears fell.
Terror filled the little room like a pool of icy water. Soon, Sophia thought, terror would drown them.
The worst for her was not knowing whether Daoud was alive or dead.
Before dawn I had him here in this bed. Now after sunset I have no idea where he is.
Sophia lay back on the bed, while Tilia sat on cushions laid over Sophia's traveling chest. Ugolini sat in an armchair reading—trying to read, Sophia suspected—a leather-bound book by the light of a candle in a brass holder standing on the arm of the chair. Only the yellow gleam of the candle and the reddish light of a low fire on the hearth illuminated the room. From the shadows along the wall, the icon of Saint Simon stared at her.
She wondered whether she should have spoken to Daoud of what she had come to suspect. Her time of the month, regular as the moon itself since she was a girl, was over six weeks late. It seemed the brew of myrrh, juniper berries, and powdered rhubarb Tilia had concocted for her, and which she had drunk faithfully every morning for six months, might have finally done its work.
She wanted Daoud to know, though she was not sure whether he would be pleased. He had never said that he had any children. She wanted to be sure she was truly carrying his child before she told him. Tilia had advised her to wait until at least twelve weeks had gone by without an issue of blood.
But now it hurt her that she had not told him. It would have been another parting gift she could have given him.
Darkness had fallen. The foreboding quiet of Benevento was broken by shouts in the distance, growing louder as they came closer.
She heard a scream from the street. A woman's voice, shrill with fear. She shut her eyes and shuddered. Another scream, this time a man's voice and full of agony.
Sophia's body grew colder. She looked at Ugolini and saw that he was trembling.
It was not just terror that was making her cold. The fire was burning too low. She got up and laid two more split logs on it.
Back on the bed, she reached into the neck of her gown and pulled on the long silver chain, drawing out the locket Daoud had given her. She twisted the screw and opened it and stared for a moment at the engraved, interlocking arabesque pattern.
Then Daoud's face superimposed itself, and the pattern disappeared. It was not a picture of him; itwasDaoud, as if she were seeing him through an open window. It was magic, and it frightened her. She had never before encountered magic. His face was alive, though it did not move. His blue eyes seemed to look right at her. She never quite caught him blinking, but it seemed as if he might have, just a moment ago. He appeared about to speak to her. Just as the fresh logs on the fire made the room warmer, so her terror subsided at the sight of him.
"What is that?" Tilia asked.
"A keepsake Daoud gave me." She closed the hammered silver case and slid it back inside the top of her gown.
"We cannot just sit here," Tilia said. "We are like mice waiting for the cat to come and eat us."
"I don't like depending on someone else to save me any more than you, Tilia," Sophia said, "but all we can do is wait. Someone will come for us. Daoud or Lorenzo. Someone."
"We should have left long ago, when the men-at-arms ran away," said Ugolini. "Then we would have had horses." He looked reproachfully at Sophia. Sophia felt he had a right to. She had persuaded them to stay here. How could she have been so sure that the news that the battle was lost, which had thrown the men-at-arms into a panic, was merely a baseless rumor? It was her faith in Daoud, she thought, her certainty that no matter what happened on the battlefield he would come for her and take her to safety.
"Adelberto, you cannot ride very well," said Tilia. "And I cannotride a horse at all. You may be sure those poltroons would not have carried us on litters. We could not have left then."
"You could ride if your life depended on it," said Sophia. "You may still have to."
"My life depends onnevergetting on a horse," said Tilia. "I would surely break my neck."
There were more anguished shrieks from somewhere nearby, and they looked at each other and the pool of terror rose higher.
Sophia heard hoofbeats and men's voices, loud, in the street outside. She went to the door that led out to the balcony and pushed it open a crack. With a clattering of hooves on cobblestones, three mounted men rode down the street, looking up at buildings. They carried no torches, but their drawn swords gave off pale glints. There was no way she could tell who they were or which side they were on.
The man in the lead pointed with his sword at the house where Sophia was. She leaned farther out, her heart pounding at her ribs, to see the trio dismount and tie their horses.
She turned away from the doorway to the balcony and pointed silently downward. Ugolini closed his book with shaking hands. Tilia fingered her pectoral cross that Daoud had long ago told Sophia contained a poisoned blade. And Sophia loosened the mouth of the leather bag tied to her belt that held the tiny crossbow Daoud had given her.
Would she be able to use it? She had shot a longbow for sport a few times in her life, with indifferent accuracy. But she had never fired even a normal-size crossbow. Still, if the darts were poisoned, she need not hit a man in a vital spot to stop him.
Sophia heard Scipio barking in the room below, Tilia and Ugolini's room, where they had tied him. There was, she knew, no one in the house except the three of them. The house belonged to a Guelfo merchant who had fled town when Manfred's army arrived. But she did not hear anyone moving about downstairs, as they would if they were looting the place. Instead, heavy footsteps came up the stairs and a voice called, "Madonna Sophia! Madonna Sophia, are you up there?"
Her heart leapt with relief. It was not yet Daoud, but it must be someone he had sent. They were rescued.
She was about to explain the good news to the others when the door to the room swung open. There, grinning triumphantly at her, sword in hand, stood Sordello.
He strode across the room, the floorboards squeaking under his boots, and stood facing her. The hound's barking boomed up frombelow. Her heart sank. She had never trusted this man. Her flesh crawled whenever he looked at her.
"Thank God I have found you, Madonna."
Two men followed him in, dressed in the padded body armor and bowl-shaped helmets of crossbowmen. As he did, they carried shortswords.
"Howdidyou find me, Sordello, and for whom are you fighting?"
His back was to the two men who had followed him. He frowned at her and shook his head slightly, as if trying to tell her not to say too much. But the little signal did not allay her suspicion of him, and her fear.
"Why, I am here in the service of Charles d'Anjou, rightful King of Sicily by decree of the pope," Sordello trumpeted. "And I serve His Signory, Count Simon de Gobignon." Gloved fists on his hips, he turned slowly to gaze around the room.
At his words, the pool of fear became a flood of terror that threatened to sweep her from her feet. She swayed dizzily. This meant the battle was surely lost.
Dear God, what has happened to Daoud?
With a life of their own, her trembling hands pressed against her stomach.
"And look who we have here," Sordello said. "His magical Eminence, the vanishing Cardinal Ugolini. And Tilia Caballo, Orvieto's most distinguished brothel keeper, of whose establishment I have such happy memories. Are you two now reduced to being Manfred's camp followers?"
Tilia stared with wide-eyed hatred at Sordello. Ugolini's face was as blank as if he had been clubbed. What Tilia had said earlier about cat and mouse was apt, thought Sophia. Sordello was tormenting his prey.
But he could have learned where I am only from Daoud.
If Daoud had told him where to find her, it must be that Sordello was still secretly Daoud's man, as he had been in Orvieto. That must be what the frown and the headshake meant.
"You need not glare at me like that, Madama Tilia," Sordello said. "You are very lucky to be under my protection tonight."
"What will your protection cost us?" Tilia's voice was heavy with scorn.
Sordello spread his hands. "Why, whatever your lives are worth to you. You have had much practice putting a price on that which is precious."
"The battle—King Manfred?" Sophia pressed him.
Sordello's grin broadened, showing more stumpy, crooked teeth. "We—Anjou's men—are here in Benevento, are we not? Manfred von Hohenstaufen is dead. With my own eyes I saw him fall."
Sophia felt sick to her stomach. Blindly, she staggered to the bed and sat down heavily.
A long, high-pitched wail came from Ugolini. He threw his book to the floor and rocked back and forth with his face in his hands. Tilia rushed to him and held him.
Manfred, dead.
Sophia's cry of grief was as heart-tearing as Ugolini's, but she kept it inside herself. She had loved Manfred once, and even after that was over, she had delighted in attending his court and had marveled at the felicity of his kingdom.
Gone in a day! What a loss, what a waste!
"Manfred died in a most chivalrous manner," said Sordello, showing no sympathy for the anguish he was causing. "He fought to the end, a few faithful followers beside him, surrounded by enemies. Cardinal de Verceuil killed him. I think I will write a poem about it."
"De Verceuil!" Ugolini cried. "That pestilence in red robes! If only I had had him poisoned."
Had Daoud been one of the faithful who fought beside Manfred?
Sophia's throat almost closed with fear as she asked the question. "What of—David of Trebizond?"
Again that little frown and shake of the head, aimed at her alone. "More of him later." There must be things he did not want to say in front of the two Venetians.
But she persisted. "Is he alive? Is he unhurt?"
Sordello nodded gravely, his yellowish eyes holding hers. "He was alive when I last saw him, Madonna."
She let out a long breath. The ache of fear in her stomach eased. Even if the battle were lost, Daoud would manage to live through it and get back to her. Perhaps Sordello was his messenger.
She felt safer on her feet. She pushed herself up and moved slowly toward the door leading to the balcony outside. Downstairs, Scipio started barking again.
"Capitano," said one of the archers. "Are we to stand here talking all night? There is a whole town for the taking here, and we are missing our chance."
"Hush, Juliano," said Sordello. "You see before you two very important and wealthy followers of the late King Manfred. What they can offer us by way of ransom will be far more than the trinkets you could pick up raiding some merchant's home."
"Ransom?" Tilia spat. "What right does a furfante like you have to demand ransom of me?"
"Why, Madama, is that not exactly what scoundrels do?" Sordello laughed.
He sat down in the spot Sophia had just vacated on the bed, laying his glistening sword ostentatiously across his lap. Sophia saw that he carried a long dagger in a sheath hung on his right side. He surveyed them all, grinning.
God, this is torture! If only I could find out what has happened to Daoud.
"You have three choices, Madama Tilia," Sordello said. "You may leave here. Outside this house you can take your chances with the victorious warriors of Charles d'Anjou, who have fallen upon Benevento like ravening wolves. Can you hear the screams? Or you can stay here under my protection, and it will not cost you even one denaro. And in the morning I will present you, all legally and properly, to King Charles, who will be most grateful to me for the service. He is exceedingly eager to round up all of Manfred's principal servants. Some he is beheading, some he is hanging. You, former Eminence, will probably pay at the stake for your heresy and witchcraft. As for you, Madama Tilia, if a rope stout enough to hang you cannot be found, you may spend the rest of your life shedding your excess flesh in a dungeon."
Ugolini sat hugging himself and shuddering. Tilia opened her wide mouth to speak, seemed to think better of it, closed it again. But red coals sparkled in her eyes.
That's better, Tilia. Keep the anger hidden until you can use it.
But Sophia's fear for Daoud grew again at the thought that he might be Charles's captive, awaiting execution. Why would Sordello tell her nothing?
"Has David been captured?" she ventured, turning from the doorway to the balcony.
Sordello smiled at her, just as Scipio downstairs broke into another burst of furious barks. In the candlelight, Sordello's face turned a deep orange with sudden anger.
"Find that damned dog and kill it!"
"Wait!" said Tilia. "That is Giancarlo's hound, Scipio. We put him down in our room to guard our belongings."
"Just what I thought," said Sordello. "That is why I wish him killed."
"But he is a thoroughbred boarhound," Tilia went on, "and since it appears Giancarlo has lost him, let him be part of our ransom. He is easily worth several hundred florins."
"I have always loathed that dog," said Sordello. "I would gladly kill it just to avenge myself on Giancarlo for killing the Tartars."
In the midst of her terror Sophia felt a stab of surprise. "The Tartars? Dead? Giancarlo killed them?" Did that mean Rachel was free?
"Yes," growled Sordello. "And if I find him, I will personally repay him by cutting him to bits, starting at his toes. For that and for the many other injuries he has done me. But Madama Tilia is right. The hound is doubtless worth too much money to kill. I will take it, then." He gestured to his two men. "Have these two display their possessions for you. Do not harm the dog. Or them, for that matter. I want them back here intact when you are done, so I know I am getting an honest inventory."
"I do not know whether we can satisfy you," said Tilia. "We did not bring everything we own with us. If you would help us get to Lucera, we could make you princely rich."
Sordello leaned back and crossed his legs. "But Lucera is far from here, and there may not be time for us to collect what you have there. In a few days King Charles will unleash his locusts and scorpions far and wide throughout this land—his bailiffs and judges and clerks and tax collectors and men-at-arms—to lay hold of every speck of gold and chip of precious stone. For now, please help my men collect what you have with you. I am sure you have plenty. That cross on your handsome bosom, for instance. I suspect a man might buy himself a small castle with that." He reached out, and Tilia stepped back, but into the grip of one of the archers.
Tears sprang from her eyes and trickled down her painted cheeks. "Please let me keep it just a little longer. If I must part with it, in the end I will, but it is very dear to me."
Sordello waved grandly. "For now, then. Go now with these fellows. And mind you, hold nothing back. They are Venetians. You can't hide anything valuable from a Venetian."
Indeed, thought Sophia, remembering tales of how the Venetians had looted her beloved Constantinople years ago. As she watched the shuffling Ugolini and the dauntless Tilia leave with Sordello's two men, she felt her knees trembling so hard under her gown that she could barely stand.
She would be alone with Sordello.
"Be wary of the dog," Sordello called after his archers. "But be careful not to hurt it."
"Sì, capitano." The door closed with a thump.
"And now, Sophia," said Sordello, lifting the sword from his lap and laying it carefully on the bed, "we settle accounts."
"I do not know what you mean by accounts," said Sophia, making her voice as cold and forbidding as she could. "But before anything else, the truth, if you can manage it. I have seen you serving Simon, and I have seen you serving David, and now you say you are on the side of Charles d'Anjou. Who do you truly serve?"
Sordello stretched his booted legs and crossed them, leaning back in the chair. "Myself, Andrea Sordello, of course. Men may command part of me, but only I own all of me. In the beginning I was to serve Simon, reporting secretly to Anjou. In Orvieto David was my master. He offered me—a rich reward. But then he threatened to kill me. I fled Orvieto, following Simon. After that I was mostly Simon's man. A little bit David's man. I sent him information from Perugia and Viterbo, and he sent me money. But first, last, and always, my own man."
"Why are you here, then?" Sophia let her hand rest on the door handle as if she might rush out on the balcony and call for help. She hoped Sordello would expect her to do that rather than try to use a weapon on him.
Sordello stood up, smiling. "Madonna, you are not aware how I have suffered because of you. Suffered with longing. You owe me much for that." He strolled over to the fire, picked up a big log from the pile next to the hearth, and set it on the burning wood.
Oh, may God shrivel his phallos!Sophia felt her stomach burn at the idea of this repulsive man lusting after her. She turned quickly, facing the balcony door, so that he could not see her grope in the bag at her belt for the tiny crossbow and the box of darts Daoud had given her. How quickly, she asked herself, could she take the crossbow out, get a poisoned dart from the box without scratching herself, load it, draw the bow, aim and shoot?
He could be across the room and tearing the thing out of my hands before I got all that done.
Helplessness made her tremble.
Having made sure of the location of crossbow and darts, she turned to him again, gripping the skirt of her gown to hide the shaking of her hands. "If you find me attractive, I am flattered, of course, but it is no fault of mine."
"You do not wish to escape from Benevento? You wish to be turned over to King Charles's judges?"
"I have nothing to fear from them."
He bared his broken teeth. "Do you think they will have trouble finding something to accuse you of? Not if I tell them what I know." Then he raised a finger. "It was David of Trebizond who told mewhere to find you. And you keep asking about him. I always suspected, when I was serving David at Cardinal Ugolini's, that there must be something between you two."
"If there is any spark of mercy in you at all, do not play with me like this. Tell me if he is alive."
She wanted to seize him by the arm, but she was afraid to get too close to him.
The light of the one candle in the room cast shadows like black blots on Sordello's grinning face. "Play with you? Ah, but if there is a spark of mercy inyou, then you will play with me.ThenI will tell you everything you want to know. Being alone with you like this, I burn so with desire, I would do anything, good or evil, to possess you."
Scipio's thunderous barks, bursting out suddenly, made her jump. She heard male voices cry out, alarmed, then Scipio's rumbling snarls. Then silence.
Sordello glowered at the floor. "God's beard! I almost hope they did kill that brute."
To distract him a little longer from herself, Sophia said, "You had better hope Scipio does not hurtthem."
"What do I care if they suffer a few bites? The dog is worth more than they are." He looked up at her. "Do you know anything about journeys to paradise?"
"I do not know what you are talking about." Was that a name for some carnal pleasure he wanted to have with her?
"Come away from that balcony door," Sordello said.
"The air is fresher here." From the street she heard swords clanging, men screaming and cursing, and hooves pounding. There was fighting nearby.
"Our French friends, quarreling over their loot," said Sordello. "Do you stand by the balcony door because you fancy being rescued frommebythem? They are animals, like that dog downstairs. What I feel for you is far more profound than the desire to rape some conquered woman. I am a trovatore, after all. I will prove it to you. Just let me see you unclothed. Like Mother Eve. I will not touch you. Undress yourself, and I will tell you what you want to know about the man called David."
She wanted to spit in his face. She was desperate to know what he could tell her, but even if he did tell her about Daoud, how could she put any trust in him? If Daoud was alive he would find his way to her, or she to him. She had nothing to gain by cooperating with Sordello.
"You disgust me!" she cried. "I wish you were not even able tosee my face, let alone the rest of me." And she turned away from him, her hand dipping into the leather bag.
She heard his heavy footsteps thudding on the wooden floor. And another outburst of barking from below.
"I wanted you to give yourself to me willingly," Sordello said. "But if you refuse me, I will take you. And while I am doing it, I will tell you about the man David."
Terror seized her and shook her as if she were a rag doll. The way that filthy pig said that—it must mean something bad had happened to Daoud. She felt paralyzed by fear and grief.
Then, sudden rage made her want to strike out at this man who was hurting her so. She had the box of darts open now. She must be very careful of the poisoned tips.
The door to the room crashed open.
"Sophia!"
She dropped a loose dart back into the bag and turned.
Simon de Gobignon stood in the doorway, staring at her. The firelight made his dirt-streaked face glow. His surcoat was ripped, showing the mail underneath, and she saw dark stains on the purple and gold. He was splashed with blood, she thought, her stomach churning. His head was bare, his mail hood thrown back and his mail collar open. He held his helmet, adorned with the figure of a winged heraldic beast, under his arm.
At first sight of him she felt a glow of joy. Simon lived. And she was safe from Sordello. Triumphantly she glanced over at the bravo and felt even better at the sight of his scarlet color, his clenched jaw, the swollen veins throbbing in his temples.
Then suddenly it came back to her that Simon was an enemy too.
It has always been too easy for me to forget that.
She would have to face his questions, his accusations, his pain, his rage. She felt like a bird in flight suddenly struck by an arrow and plummeting to earth.
And a worse thought struck her, piercing her heart like a sword.What was it that Sordello would have told her about Daoud? In God's name, what terrible thing had happened to him?
Simon's being here meant he, too, must have learned where she was from Daoud. Where, then, was Daoud?
She saw figures in the shadows outside the door, one white-haired and white-bearded, the other a small woman wearing a mantle over her head.
Simon took a few steps into the room, his mail clinking. She could tell by his movements that he was exhausted. She felt a surge of pity for him, at what he must have done and suffered. She reminded herself he had been fighting against Manfred and Daoud, on the side of Anjou. Still, she felt sorry for him.
"What the devil are you doing here?" Simon said, glaring at Sordello, his voice crackling with anger.
Why so much hatred, Sophia wondered.
"You wanted me to be gone, Your Signory, and it seemed most useful for me to come here. It occurred to me that important followers of the infidel Manfred might be here. And, indeed, on the floor below you will find his agents Tilia Caballo and ex-Cardinal Ugolini, being questioned by my men."
"And you werequestioningthis lady. Before God, I do not know what keeps me from running you through." His mailed hand reached across his waist to grip the hilt of his sword.
"Easy, Simon," said the white-haired man. He came into the room now, and Sophia recognized Friar Mathieu, the Tartars' Franciscan companion.
She looked past the elderly priest and saw who was with him.
"Rachel!"
In the midst of her fear and sorrow, Sophia felt an instant of miraculous happiness, as if the sun had come out at midnight.
She rushed across the room holding out her arms, and the girl flew into them.
"Rachel, what a joy to see you!"
"Oh, Sophia! Sophia!"
Rachel was crying, but not for joy. She was sobbing heartbrokenly. What had happened to her?
"How do you come to be with Count Simon?" Sophia asked, hoping that answering would calm Rachel.
But Rachel went on weeping into Sophia's shoulder, and Friar Mathieu spoke for her. "Rachel and I fell in with Count Simon, and we thought it safest to stay with him. And he chose to come here."
"It's all right now," Sophia said, patting Rachel's back as she held her in her arms. "Everything will be all right."
"No, Sophia, no." Rachel, it seemed, could not stop crying. Bewildered, Sophia looked up. Friar Mathieu and Simon were standing side by side in the center of the room. Sordello, his face working with barely controlled fury, had moved to a far corner. His sword still lay on the bed, Sophia noticed, but his hand was on the hilt of his dagger.
Simon and the Franciscan were looking, not at Rachel, but at Sophia.
"David told you I was here," Sophia said. "He must have."
In an instant, she understood why Daoud had told Simon where to find her. And why Rachel kept weeping and weeping.
"Is he dead?" she asked.
They answered her with silence.
A wave of dizziness came over her. She reeled, and Rachel was holding her up. Friar Mathieu took her arm, and they lowered her into the armchair. She knocked the candle to the floor, putting it out. Now the only light in the room was the red glow of the fire.
She felt empty inside.
I am mortally wounded, she thought.I feel now only a shock, a numbness. The pain will come.
The only reason Daoud would tell Simon where to find her had to be that he was dying and wanted Simon to protect her. Daoud truly must be dead.
Simon's anguished look, as if he were begging for something, confirmed it. But to be sure, she had to hear it.
"Has David been killed?"
Simon nodded slowly, his eyes huge with pain. "I was with him when he died. I even know now that he is not David but—Daoud." He hesitated, pronouncing the unfamiliar name.
I was with him when he died.
Daoud!
She wanted to scream, but she hurt so much inside that she could not even scream. She could not make a sound.
Daoud wasgone. She had seen him, she had spoken to him, she had loved him for the last time.
But shehadto see him again. Her cold hand fumbled at her neck, pulled the locket up from her bosom by its silver chain. She turned the screw that opened it and stared at the spirals and squares.
Nothing happened. The pattern, to her eyes a jumble of shapes representing nothing, remained inert.
Even his likeness was gone.
How had he died? She looked up at Simon to ask him.
And then she did scream.
Sordello crouched in the semidark behind Simon, his two-edged dagger, reflecting red firelight, poised horizontally to slash Simon's unprotected throat. His eyes glittered. His mouth shaped a slack-lipped smile, as if he were drunk, baring his gleaming, broken teeth.
Sordello seemed not even to notice her scream. Without a sound, unseen by the other three, who were all staring at Sophia, he raised his left arm to seize Simon and his right hand to strike with the dagger.
Sophia's hand dove into the bag at her waist. The loose dart could scratch her, and a scratch might be enough to kill her, but that did not matter. Her fingers found the dart. She wrapped her fist around it and flung herself out of the chair, straight at Simon.
Simon tried to fend her off, but she darted under his hands, twisted around him, and drove the dart into Sordello's throat. Blood spurted over her hand.
Sordello seemed neither to see her nor to feel the dart. His eyes stayed fixed on Simon's neck. He slashed at Simon. But Sophia's lunge had pushed the two men apart. Sordello's blade scratched Simon's neck just under his right ear. Then it fell from the bravo's fingers.
Sordello, the dart still hanging from his throat, staggered backward, his knees buckling. His body folded, and he lay sideways on the floor.
The four living people in the room were as still as the dead one. Then Simon touched his fingertips to his neck and winced. Sophia saw a rivulet of blood running down into his mail collar.
Friar Mathieu tore away a piece of the bedsheet and dabbed Simon's wound with it. He took Simon's hand as if he were a puppet and pressed his fingers against the rag to hold it in place. Then he knelt over Sordello's body and whispered in Latin.
Whimpering, Sophia stumbled back to the armchair where she had been sitting. A sob forced itself up from her chest into her throat. She felt Rachel's gentle hands helping her to sit down. Another sob came up, shaking her body. Another followed it, and another. She lost touch with everything around her for a time, buried in a black pit where neither sight nor sound nor even thought could penetrate. She was lost in wordless, mindless grief.
Then, gradually, she began to hear murmurings, voices.
Friar Mathieu said, "She saved your life."
Simon said, "I know. David—Daoud—told me not to take Sordellowith me if I went looking for Sophia. As if he knew this might happen. How could that be?"
Rachel was sitting on the arm of the chair, gently stroking Sophia's shoulder.
Friar Mathieu said, "Why would Sordello try to kill you? Because he was about to rape Sophia when you interrupted? Or because he was afraid you would punish him for killing—Daoud?"
Amazement jolted Sophia's body. She opened her eyes and stared at Friar Mathieu.
"Sordellokilled Daoud?"
Simon answered her. "I will tell you how he died. I must talk to you. I have waited more than a year, you know, to see you again."
Sobs still shook her, but she nodded and wiped her face with the sleeve of her gown. He reached down. She took his arm, and he helped her up. She saw that he had a bloodstained strip of linen tied around his neck.
"The balcony," she said.
"Good."
As she went to her chest to get her cloak, Sophia looked at the icon of the saint of the pillar and thought how much, even though it had Simon's name, the expression looked like Daoud's.
Simon held the door to the balcony for her. The night was cold and moonless. The bitter smell of burning floated on the freezing air. The shouts of frenzied soldiers and the agonized screams of men and women seemed to come from everywhere. Fires blazed in all parts of the town, their glow and smoke turning the night sky a cloudy reddish-gray. On the plain to the north, campfires twinkled. Somewhere out there Daoud lay dead.
She looked up at Simon. Darkness hid his face. The ruddy glow of burning Benevento haloed his head. In a quiet, even voice he told Sophia how he came upon Daoud fighting side by side with Manfred, and how he fought with Daoud after Manfred was killed. How he lay helpless with Daoud's sword pointed at his face.
"He did not move for a long time," Simon said. "It was growing dark, but I saw the look on his face. A gentle look. He did not want to kill me. I am sure of it."
And then without any warning had come the treacherous crossbow bolt out of the circle around them, and Daoud had fallen.
"It was Sordello. He could not understand my rage at him. He kept protesting that he had saved my life. He had not."
Sophia thought of Sordello's attempt to seduce her. She clutched the wooden railing, choking bile rising in her throat.
"I am glad I killed him," she whispered. "I have never killed anyone before tonight. That I killed him was a gift from God."
Simon did not answer at once.
Then he said, "Tonight, before Daoud died, he told me that you were innocently drawn into his conspiracy against the alliance. He said he took advantage of my love for you, and that you and he were never close. But now that you've heard he is dead, you are like a woman who has lost a husband or a lover."
He stopped. He needed to say no more. She knew what he was asking.
The enormous aching void inside her made it almost impossible to think. Daoud, even as he lay dying, had tried to protect her. Simon might have suspicions, but about who she was or what she had done, he knew nothing. Manfred was dead. Tilia, Ugolini and Lorenzo—wherever they might be now—would say nothing.
She could, if she chose, become the person Simon thought she was—the person who had given herself to Simon in love at the lake outside Perugia. She need only seize the chance Daoud had given her.
In all Italy there was no place for her now. Once again she belonged nowhere and to no one. And she could be a wife to this good young man. She could be the Countess de Gobignon, with a station in life, with power to accomplish things, to change the world.
"You want to know what Daoud meant to me," she said. "Did you tell him what I meant to you?" She was amazed at how level her voice sounded.
"I think he knew," Simon spoke just above a whisper. "I did not feel I had to tell him anything."
Then Daoud had died not knowing that she and Simon had for a moment been lovers. Did it matter? If Daoud had known, perhaps he would have killed Simon instead of just standing over him with his sword.
His not knowing had not hurt Daoud. But it was hurting her.
There was a part of myself I withheld from him. And that was my loss, because much as he loved me, he did not know me fully.
But if she regretted not telling Daoud the truth about that single moment, how could she ever bear to hide from Simon the truth about her whole life?
Could she pretend, forevermore, to be Sophia Orfali, the naive Sicilian girl, the cardinal's niece, with whom Simon had fallen in love? Could she pour all of herself into a mask? Could she live with Simon, enjoying the love and the wealth and power he offered her, knowing that it was all founded on a lie?
No, never. Impossible.
The pain of Daoud's death was nearly unbearable, but it washerpain, true pain. Ever since that night of death in Constantinople—a night much like this—she had not felt at home in the world. Now she saw her place. All she owned in the world was the person shereallywas, and what shereallyhad done. If she deceived Simon, she would have to deny her very existence.
And I would have to deny the greatest happiness I have ever known, my love for Daoud.
If she lied to Simon, it would be as if Daoud had never been. It would be like killing him a second time. Her heart, screaming even now with her longing for Daoud, would scream forever in silence. Buried alive.
Simon must already suspect the truth. He might try to believe whatever she told him about herself. Still, some awareness of his self-deception would remain with him, even if he refused to think about it. It would fester inside him, slowly poisoning him.
Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could see the suffering in Simon's long, narrow face as he waited for her answer. Starlight twinkled on the jeweled handle of the sword at his belt. What she told him might make him hate her so much that he would kill her.
I have never been more willing to die.
"Simon, I promised you that when I saw you again I would tell you why I could not marry you. I hoped I never would have to tell you."
He said, "I had not wanted to fight in this war of Charles against Manfred, or to bring the men of Gobignon with me. When I found that you had fled to Manfred's kingdom, I changed my mind."
Her pain had been like a pile of rocks heaped upon her, and what he said was the final boulder crushing her. Her ribs seemed to splinter; her lungs labored for breath.
So I must bear the guilt for Simon's coming to the war. How many men died today because of me?
She could hardly feel more sorrow, but the night around her seemed to grow blacker. Perhaps it would be best if he did kill her. She would tell him everything straight out, without trying to protect herself from his anger.
"My name is Sophia Karaiannides. I worked as a spy in Constantinople for Michael Paleologos and helped him overthrow the Frankish usurper. I was Michael's concubine for a time. Then he sent me to be his private messenger to Manfred's court here in Italy. Manfred chose to make me his mistress. But that became difficultfor him and dangerous for me. When Daoud came to Manfred asking for help in thwarting the Tartar alliance, Manfred sent me along to Orvieto to help him. I fell in love with Daoud."
Simon leaned his long body against the outer wall of the house. Having to hear this all at once must be overwhelming.
"So you went from one to bed to the next as you went from one country to the next."
It hurt her to hear his words, his voice tight with pain, but she had expected this.
"Daoud and I did not come together as man and woman at first," she said. "He did not want to be close to me."
He staggered back to the edge of the balcony as if she had struck him, and she was afraid he might fall.
He whispered, "Not at first! But you did—"
"Yes, we did," she said, thinking,Now he is going to draw that scimitar and kill me.
But the only movement he made was a slight wave of his hand, telling her to go on.
"I must tell you, Simon, that it was I who first fell in love with Daoud. There were moments when I hated him—when he killed your friend, for instance—but as I got to know him better and better I could not help loving him. I had been loved by an emperor and a king, but I had never met a man like Daoud. He had begun as a slave, and he became warrior, philosopher, poet, even a kind of priest, all in one magnificent person. You probably have no idea what I am talking about. You knew him only as the merchant David of Trebizond."
"I knew you only as Sophia Orfali."
"You may despise me now that you have learned so much about me, but the more you knew of him, the more you would have had to admire him."
"How insignificant I must have seemed to you beside such grandeur." She could hear him breathing heavily in the darkness, sounding like a man struggling under a weight he could not bear.
"I did love you, Simon. That was why I cried when you said you wanted to marry me. The word love has many meanings. And your French troubadours may call it blasphemy, but itispossible for a woman to love more than one man."
"Not blasphemy. Trahison. Treachery."
"As you wish. But in that moment you and I shared by the lake near Perugia, I was altogether yours. That, too, is why I fled from you. I could not stand being torn in two."
"Why torn in two, if you find you can love more than one man?"The hate in his voice made her want to throw herself from the balcony, but she told herself it would ease his suffering for him to feel that way.
"I said it was possible. I did not say it was easy. Especially when the two men are at war with each other."
"And did Daoud know about me? Did you tell him what you and I did that day?"
"No," she said, finding it almost impossible to force the words through her constricted throat. "I could never tell him."
"So you could not admit to thismagnificentman, this philosopher, this priest, that you had betrayed him with me."
"No," she whispered. "He was jealous, as you are. At first he wanted me to seduce you. But as he came to love me—I saw it happening and I saw him fighting it—he came to hate the idea of letting you make love to me. He came to hate you, because of that, and because he envied you."
"Envied me?"
"Yes. He saw you as one who had all that he never had—a home, a family."
Simon stepped forward and brought his face close to hers. "Did you tell him about my parentage?"
"No, never."
"Why not?" His voice was bitter. "Was that not the sort of thing you were expected to find out? Could he not have found a way to use it? Were you not betraying your war against us—what do you Byzantines call us, Franks?—by withholding it?"
"I told you that loving you both was tearing me apart," she said helplessly.
"But you loved him more—that is clear."
"Yes. I loved him more because he knew me as I was, and loved me as I was. You loved me, and it broke my heart to see how much you loved me. But you loved the woman I was pretending to be. Now that you really know me, you hate me."
"Should I not? How can you tell me all this without shame?"
"I am not ashamed. I am sorry. More sorry than I can ever say. But what have I to be ashamed of? I am a woman of Byzantium. I was fighting for my people. Surely you know what your Franks did to Constantinople. Look and listen to what Anjou's army is doing tonight to Benevento."
"Daoud spoke that way as he lay dying," Simon said slowly.
A sob convulsed Sophia. It was a moment before she could speak again.
"I hope, at least, you understand us—Daoud and me—a littlebetter," said Sophia. "Kill me now, or hang me or burn me tomorrow. As I feel now, death would be a relief."
"I know how you feel," said Simon. "I, too, have lost the one I loved."
"Oh, Simon." She felt herself starting to weep again, for Simon and Daoud both.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
"What does it matter? I am your prisoner. And Rachel. And Tilia and Ugolini. All of us."
She remembered the hope she had been harboring these past few weeks. If she died now, would another life within her die? If she lived, how would she care for that life?
He sighed. "For me this is all over. If I hurt you, what good would that do me now? It would be just one more unbearable memory to carry with me through life. One more reason to hate myself. I want to know, if you were free to do as you wish, what would you do?"
Her mind, numbed with sorrow, was a blank. With Daoud dead, the remainder of her life seemed worthless to her. Even the thought that she might be carrying Daoud's child seemed only added reason for sorrow.
"Now that all of Italy is in the hands of Manfred's enemies, I suppose I would go back to Constantinople," she said. The thought of returning home to the city she loved was a faint light in the blackness of her despair.
"For my part, I would not stop you from going," he said. The weary sadness in his voice stung her.
If he meant it—and he seemed to—she should be relieved. Overjoyed, even. But all she felt was the weight of her grief, pressing pain into the very marrow of her bones.
"What do you mean to do about Tilia Caballo and Ugolini?" she asked.
"I am sure King Charles wants them, but I do not care to be the one who dooms them by turning them over to him."
King Charles.The title sounded so strange. That was how the ones who supported him must speak of him, of course. And her heart wept a little for Manfred, whom she had not thought of in her agony over Daoud's death.
She heard the note of disdain toward Charles in Simon's voice and wondered at it.
"You will not deliver Charles's enemies to him? After coming here and helping him win his war? Have you turned against him?"
"Gradually—too gradually, I am sorry to say—I have come tosee that Charles d'Anjou was not the great man I once thought him to be. When I learned that John and Philip were killed, that killed any remaining feeling I have for Charles. So I will help you if I can. But where can you all go? All of southern Italy and Sicily will be overrun with Anjou's men. I cannot keep you, and you cannot safely leave me."
"Let us go back to the others," said Sophia. "It will be best if we talk together about this."
She could hardly believe he was serious about letting her escape. Her pain-wracked mind was unable to come to grips with what was happening to her. How she needed Daoud! He would know what to do. As she entered the firelit room her eyes blurred with tears.
But she saw at once that there were more people in the room than when she had gone out on the balcony with Simon.
One of them was holding a crossbow leveled at Simon. Her heart stopped. Then she recognized him, and she let her breath out in relief. Black and white curly hair, graying mustache, broad shoulders. Lorenzo.
She heard a growling. Scipio stood there, held tightly on a leash by Tilia. Ugolini was beside her.
Rachel hurried to Sophia and took her hand. "I'm glad you are back. I was frightened for you."
"Simon wants to help us," said Sophia, taking Rachel's hand. She could not give up in despair, she thought, while she had Rachel to care for.
"You took long enough to come in off that balcony, Count," Lorenzo said.
"Put down your crossbow," Sophia said. "Count Simon has decided to be a friend to us."
"I would not regret giving our new friend just whatmyfriend Daoud got today from his man Sordello," Lorenzo said.
Tilia said, "Do you—know, Sophia? About Daoud?"
Holding herself rigid against this fresh reminder of her grief, Sophia said only, "Yes."
Friar Mathieu said, "Lorenzo, the man who killed Daoud lies there—on the floor. No need to talk about revenge." He pointed to a corner of the room where Sordello's body lay.
Needing a moment's relief from her pain, Sophia said, "Lorenzo, how did you ever get here?"
Still holding the crossbow pointed at Simon, Lorenzo spoke without looking at her.
"After I got Rachel and Friar Mathieu out of the French camp,I saw this fellow's army charging down from the hills to attack Daoud and his Falcons." Lorenzo shook the crossbow.
Sophia prayed that he would put the crossbow down. What if by accident he unleashed a bolt at Simon? If Simon were to die before her eyes, that would surely be more than she could bear.
"I had to try to warn Daoud," Lorenzo said. "I left Rachel and the friar there and rode off. I never did reach Daoud." He hesitated a moment, eyeing Simon, then smiled, a hard smile without warmth or mirth.
"I got your precious Tartars, though, Count Simon."
Simon nodded, his eyes bitter. "Sordello told me it was you who killed them." He took a step toward Lorenzo, who shook the crossbow at him again.
Put it down!Sophia wanted to scream.
"Yes. That worm-eaten spy of yours told you, eh?" Lorenzo jerked his head in the direction of Sordello's body. "He was trying to guard them at the time. He did a bad job of it."
"Mère de Dieu!" was all Simon said. Anger reddened his face, but he was looking off into space, not at Lorenzo.
"After that," Lorenzo went on, "I found the wagon, but Rachel and Friar Mathieu were gone. I found another riderless horse and hitched it up, and I drove the wagon into the forest west of here. Rachel, I buried your chest. I hope I remember where.
"By then it was nightfall. I used my forged safe conduct to get me back into Benevento. Then I had to dodge the mobs of drunken Frenchmen running wild all over town. I knew where you were staying, Sophia, but it took me all night to get into this house past Count Simon's guards. I spent hours in hiding and scrambling about on rooftops."
"I thought I would die of fright," said Tilia, "when Lorenzo came through our window."
Thank God for Lorenzo! How I love him. Nothing can stop him. Nothing can kill him.
"What were you planning to do with these people when you came here, Count?" Lorenzo said. "Turn them over to your master, Anjou?"
Sophia turned to look at Simon. He stood composed, his empty hands at his sides, his face, pink in the glow from the fire, calm as a statue's.
"Yourmaster—Daoud the Mameluke—asked me to come here," Simon said.
"Pleaseput your crossbow down, Lorenzo," Sophia said again.
"Are you sure, Sophia? This crossbow might be the only thingthat keeps us from getting dragged off to be hanged. This high-horse bastard has fifty men outside."
Greek Fire blazed in Sophia's brain.
She screamed, "Do not call him a bastard!"
"Sophia!" said Simon wonderingly. "Thank you!"
She stood trembling, but almost as soon as the words flew from her mouth, the fit of rage passed.
I must be going mad.
But she had done no harm. She seemed to have made things better.
"Forgive me, Count." Lorenzo laid the crossbow on the bed. "It was rude to call you that. But you did ruin our hope of victory today. Daoud had the battle won. He almost had his hands on your bloody Charles d'Anjou, when you charged out of the hills with your damned army. And now the king I served for twenty years and my good friend are both dead." He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. "That was hard, Count. Very hard."
So it was Simon's charge that turned the battle, Sophia thought.And it was because of me that he entered this war.Her grief grew heavier still.
"You may hold those things against me," said Simon, "and I might hold against you the deaths of John and Philip, whom I dedicated my life to protecting."
Listening to that grave, quiet voice, Sophia realized that Simon no longer seemed young to her. It was as if he had aged many years since she had seen him last.
As long as she had known him, she had thought of him as a boy. And yet, from what she was hearing, if Charles d'Anjou was now king of southern Italy and Sicily, it was to Simon that he owed the crown.
"But I know who really killed the Tartars," Simon went on. "It was Charles, Count Charles, now King Charles, who no more wants to make war on Islam than your friend Daoud did. Charles kept the Tartars with himself and away from King Louis, and he let them go out on the field while the battle was raging, no doubt hoping they would die."
Lorenzo frowned. "You mean Charles used me to get rid of the Tartars?"
Simon nodded. "He could not have known it would be you, but he made sure they would be in harm's way. Charles is very good at using people. My mother warned me about him long before I let him persuade me to come to Italy to guard the Tartars, but I didnot listen. But now, how are we going to get all of you safely out of Benevento?"
He kept coming back to that, Sophia thought. He seemed determined to save them from Charles d'Anjou's vengeance.
"We may still have the wagon I hid out in the forest," Lorenzo said. "And if you truly mean to help us, you might appropriate a horse or two. There are many horses hereabouts whose owners will never need them again."
"I can write you a genuine safe-conduct that will get you past Charles's officials and agents," Simon said. "If you travel quickly enough, you may get ahead of them into territory still friendly to you. There may be no army left to oppose Charles, but it will take him some time to get control of all the territory he has won. Where might you go?"
Sophia took Rachel's hand again, and they sat on the bed. Remembering that she and Daoud had shared this bed last night, Sophia felt the heaped stones of sorrow weigh heavier still.
I will never hold him again.
To distract herself from her pain, she tried to listen to what people around her were saying.
"To Palermo first," said Lorenzo decisively. "At a time like this, with the king gone, every family must fend for itself. I want to get to mine at once." He turned to Rachel, and his mustache stretched in one of the smiles Sophia had seen all too rarely. "My wife, Fiorela, and I would be honored to have you as a member of our family, Rachel."
Rachel gave a little gasp. "Truly?"
"Truly. I have been wanting to propose it for a long time."
Again Sophia thanked God for Lorenzo. She almost wished he would offer to take her into his family too.
Simon stared at Lorenzo. "You are—were—an official at Manfred's court, and your wife's name is Fiorela?"
Lorenzo frowned. "Yes, Count. What of it?"
Simon's interest puzzled Sophia. Could there be some connection between him and Lorenzo?
"We must speak more about her later." Simon flexed his mail-clad arms. "It will not be safe for you to try to leave Benevento until morning. I will see to it that my men guard this house from the looters till then. They will not, of course, know who is in here with me. Meanwhile, you all had better sleep, if you can."
Weary and broken by sorrow though she was, Sophia knew that to try to lie down in the dark would mean nothing but hours of suffering. She would sleep only when she fainted from exhaustion.And she dreaded the agony she would feel when she woke again and remembered what had happened this day.
Tilia cleared her throat politely. "Your Signory, it will be hard to sleep in the same room with dead bodies."
Simon frowned. "Dead bodies?"
"Well—I hope you will not hold it against myself and the cardinal—but besides Sordello here, there are two of his henchmen in the room we have been occupying."
"Also dead?"
"Also dead. They were trying to rob us."
Now Sophia remembered that Sordello had brought two Venetians with him, and she remembered the barks and growls that had come up through the floorboards while she was alone with Sordello. What had happened down there between Ugolini and Tilia and Sordello's men? And Scipio?
Sophia looked at Tilia and noticed that she wore a small smile of satisfaction and was fingering her jeweled pectoral cross.
I need not worry about Tilia, she thought grimly.
Simon sighed. "There must be a basement in this house, a root cellar, something of the kind. Lorenzo, you and I will find a place to take the bodies."
The room grew cold with Sophia and Rachel alone in it, and Sophia put more logs on the fire, thankful that the merchant who had hurriedly vacated this place had left plenty of wood. She lay down in the big bed beside Rachel.
Hesitantly, Rachel told Sophia that she, with Friar Mathieu, had been present at Daoud's death. She showed Sophia the little leather capsule, and Sophia, remembering the many times she had seen it around Daoud's neck, broke into a fresh storm of weeping.
Rachel held it out to her. "I think perhaps you should be the one to have it."
"No. He gave it to you." Sophia wiped her eyes, drew out the locket and opened it, looked sadly at the meaningless tracery of lines on its rock-crystal surface, barely visible in the light from the low fire.
"This locket is what he gave me. It seems the magic in it died with him, but it is a precious keepsake." She remembered that she had been looking at the locket when Sordello tried to kill Simon. Why had he tried to do that? It made no sense, but because of it she had killed Sordello, and of that she was glad. She had avenged Daoud.
Desperately needing to know every detail of Daoud's death, Sophiaquestioned Rachel until, in the middle of a sentence, the girl fell asleep.
Sophia lay wide awake in the dark, crying silently. Lying there was hell, as she had expected it would be. After what seemed like hours, the fire on the hearth died. She got up and piled three bed carpets over Rachel.
She wrapped herself in her winter cloak and slipped out of the room. Going, she knew not where, but unable to remain still. Wanting only to distract herself from her pain with a little movement.
She went down the stairs, passing the silent second-floor room were Ugolini and Tilia lay. She heard men's voices from a room on the ground floor.
The cabinet of the merchant who owned this house was just inside the front door. There Sophia found Simon and Lorenzo seated facing each other at a long black table. Scipio, lying on the floor near the doorway, opened one eye, twitched an ear at her, and went back to sleep. With a quill Simon was writing out a document, while Lorenzo used a candle flame to melt sealing wax in a small brass pitcher on a tripod.
Simon gave her a brief, sad smile. He had taken off his mail, and wore only his quilted white under-tunic.
Lorenzo stood up, went to a sideboard, and poured a cup of wine. Silent, he handed it to Sophia. It was sweeter than she liked, but it warmed her.
She took a chair at the end of the table. The two men sat there so companionably that it was hard to believe that for more than two years they had been enemies. She recalled with a pang how Daoud had said he no longer hated Simon. If only he could be here to be part of this.
"One cannot predict these things," Lorenzo said, continuing the conversation that had begun before Sophia arrived, "and I certainly do not believe in trying to make them happen, but my son, Orlando, is at a good age for marriage. And so is Rachel."
Simon looked up from his writing. "You would let your son marry a woman who had spent over a year in a brothel?"
Lorenzo gave Simon a level look. "Yes. Do you disapprove?"
Simon shook his head. "From what I know of Rachel, not at all. But there are many who would."
Knowing Lorenzo Celino, Sophia thought warmly, she was not surprised that he did not feel as many other people would.
"Rachel is brave, intelligent, and beautiful," said Lorenzo. "What happened to her was not her fault. And now she knows infinitely more of the world than most women. If she should takean interest in Orlando, he would be lucky to have her. And then Rachel will be your cousin, Count Simon. She will surely be the only Jewish girl in all Europe who is related—if only by marriage—to a great baron of France."
Sophia frowned at Lorenzo. Cousin? What was the man talking about?
Raising his head from his scroll, Simon saw her look and smiled. "I have just discovered, Sophia, that Lorenzo Celino here is my uncle."
Sophia felt somewhat irritated. Were the two of them playing a sort of joke on her?
"No, it's true, Sophia," said Lorenzo. "My wife came from Languedoc years ago as a refugee from the war that was being fought there at the time. Her maiden name was Fiorela de Vency. And her older brother, Roland de Vency, went back to France and eventually married Simon's mother, making him Simon's stepfather. So you see, I am Simon's uncle by marriage."
Simon smiled broadly. "Roland told me long ago that he had a sister Fiorela who was married to a high official of Manfred's. I would far, far rather have you for an uncle, Lorenzo, than Charles d'Anjou, whom I have often called Uncle." He gave Sophia a meaningful look.
She understood. Simon might like Lorenzo, but not well enough to tell him that Roland de Vency was more than a stepfather to him, and therefore Lorenzo's wife more than an aunt by marriage.
Only his mother and father and his confessor know that, he once said.
And I.
Weighed down with grief though she was, she managed to smile back.
Simon put down his quill, closed the lid on the ink pot, and blew on the parchment to dry it. He poured red wax at the bottom of the sheet, took a heavy ring off his finger, and pressed it into the blob. He handed the document to Lorenzo to read.
"You have been well educated," said Lorenzo. "You write as handsomely as a monk."
"Charles will have his men out looking for you, as one of Manfred's ministers," said Simon. "I advise you not to wait for them to catch up with you in Palermo. Of course, Charles may offer you a chance to work for him. The help of men acquainted with Manfred's regime will make it much easier for him to take over."
Lorenzo's mustache twitched as he smiled sourly. "Work for him? I know you do not know me well, but I hope you jest. OtherwiseI would have to consider myself insulted. Manfred and his father, Emperor Frederic, built a fair and civilized land here. Learning and the arts of peace flourished, unchecked by superstition. Charles will doubtless destroy all that. I propose to make it very hard for him to hold on to what he has conquered this day. Anjou will not thank you if he learns it was you who turned me loose."
"See that he does not learn it, then."
Lorenzo frowned. "You won the battle for Charles. Now you seem willing to do him all sorts of mischief." He leaned across the table and fixed Simon with his piercing, dark eyes. "Why?"
Sophia leaned forward, too, eager to hear Simon's answer.
Simon sighed and smiled. "Because today at last I saw through Charles's double-dealing with me in the matter of the Tartars." His smile was a very sad one. "And I want to help you, out of what I still feel for Sophia."
Sophia felt the tide of sorrow rise again within her. Her mouth trembled and her eyes burned. Simon was looking down at the table now, to her relief, and did not see her response to his words. He might have been looking away, she thought, to hide the tears in his own eyes.
Lorenzo stood up briskly. "I am going to try to find an empty bed or a soft carpet for a few hours' sleep. Tomorrow we leave early, and we travel far."
After he and Scipio had gone, Simon said, "I loved you. At least, I loved a woman who had your face and form, but did not really exist. Against my will, I have asked myself, since I saw you again tonight, if there is any way that dream of mine could be salvaged. Have you thought about that?"
Sophia shook her head. In her heart there was room for nothing but pain.
She said, "Just as you wish you had not been the cause of Daoud's death, so I wish I had not hurt you so. But that is all I can say. Simon, a dream may be very beautiful, but it is still only a dream."
"I suppose we are lucky that we can sit here and talk about it, you and I, and that we are not trying to kill each other."