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The Saracen: Land of the Infidel

by Robert Shea · English · Gutenberg #28515 · 1,056,592 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Saracen: Land of the Infidel

Author: Robert Shea


        
Release date: April 6, 2009 [eBook #28515]

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SARACEN: LAND OF THE INFIDEL ***




Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









                              THE ASSASSIN
                           AND THE LOVE SLAVE


He is Daoud ibn Abdallah. A warrior who is not afraid to go alone amid
multitudes of enemies. The servant of a very great ruler. Though young,
a wealthy and powerful man in his own land. A spy and a thief in the
lands of others.

He is the man whom Sophia Karaiannides, accomplished courtesan and
mistress to a king, is to serve without reservation.

The alliance has been struck. The adventure begins....




_Also by Robert Shea:_

ILLUMINATUS! (With Robert Anton Wilson)

SHIKE

ALL THINGS ARE LIGHT*


*Published by Ballantine Books




        THE SARACEN:
           LAND OF
         THE INFIDEL

         ROBERT SHEA


 BALLANTINE BOOKS · NEW YORK




Copyright © 1989 by Robert Shea

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine
Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in
Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 88-92191

ISBN 0-345-33588-0

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: March 1989




Transcriber's Note:

    Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Variant
    spellings remain as printed, whilst inconsistent hyphenation has
    been standardised.

    Thanks to Michael Shea for giving Project Gutenberg permission to
    distribute _The Saracen: Land of the Infidel_.




       TO MICHAEL ERIK SHEA

 _who helped me learn many things
  about the art of storytelling_




                               BOOK ONE

                               LAND OF
                             THE INFIDEL

                       _Anno Domini 1263-1264
                     Year of the Hegira 661-662_

 "Whoso fighteth in the way of God, be he slain or be he victorious, on
 him We shall bestow a vast reward."
                                             --The Koran, Surah IV

 "Nothing is true. Everything is permissible."
                                            --Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah,
                                        founder of the Hashishiyya




I


In the mist-filled plains around Lucera, cocks crowed.

Daoud ibn Abdallah pushed himself slowly to his feet. After days and
nights of walking, his legs ached abominably.

Tired as he was, he looked around carefully, studying the other
travelers who rested near him on the road, peering at the city wall a
hundred paces away with its shut gate of iron-studded oak. In his
stomach he felt the hollow ball of dread that had not left him since he
landed in Italy.

_I am alone in the land of the infidel._

Dawn gave a pink tint to the pale yellow stones of the wall, about twice
the height of a man. Above it in the distance, covering the summit of
the central hill, rose the citadel of Lucera, surrounded by its own huge
wall set with more than a dozen many-sided towers.

Daoud's feet throbbed in his knee-high boots. For three days he had
walked along the carter's track from the port of Manfredonia on the
Adriatic coast into the hills around Lucera. Yesterday at daybreak he
had been able to see, from a great distance, the outline of the fortress
emerging from the center of a rolling plain. It had taken him another
day and a night to reach its gate.

Around Daoud now were dozens of people who had gathered at the gate
during the night, mostly merchants with packs on their backs. A few
farmers, hitched to carts loaded with melons, peaches, and oranges, had
dragged their burden over the plain. The more prosperous had donkeys to
pull the wagons.

One man with a long stick drove six small sheep. And a cart near Daoud
was piled high with wooden cages full of squawking chickens.

Walking in his direction was a tiny dwarf of a man who appeared
permanently doubled over, as if his back had been broken. It seemed to
Daoud that if the man were not holding his arms out from his sides for
balance, his knuckles would almost have brushed the ground. His little
cart was piled with broken tree limbs, firewood to sell in the city.

The dwarf lifted his head and grinned at Daoud through a bushy black
mustache. Daoud smiled back, thinking, _God be kind to you, my friend_.

From within the city issued a familiar cry, in Arabic, that tore at
Daoud's heart: "Come to prayer. Come to security. God is most great." It
was the adhan, the cry of the muezzins in the minarets of Lucera's
mosques. For, though he was in a Christian land, Lucera was a city
mostly populated by Muslims.

Daoud wanted to fall to his knees, but he was pretending to be a
Christian, and could only stand and ignore the call to prayer as the
Christians around him did. He said the words of the salat, the required
prayer, in his mind.

The people near Daoud spoke to one another sleepily, softly, in the
tongue of southern Italy. Someone laughed. Someone sang a snatch of
song. When the Muslim prayer ended, they expectantly looked up at the
town wall.

Daoud saw two soldiers standing in the tower to the left of the gate.
They were accoutred in the Muslim manner, with turbans wrapped around
their helmets and scimitars at their belts. One lifted a long brass
trumpet to his lips and blew a series of notes that sent shivers along
Daoud's spine. With a few changes it could have been the call that had
awakened him every morning in the Mameluke barracks on Raudha Island in
the Nile.

Using ropes, the other soldier hoisted onto a tall pole a yellow banner
bearing a black bird with spread wings and claws, and two heads facing
in opposite directions. The double-headed eagle of King Manfred's
family, the Hohenstaufen.

With a great squealing of cables and squeaking of hinges, the tall
wooden door swung wide.

Daoud reached down and picked up the leather pack that had lain between
his feet. Leaning forward, he pushed his arms through the shoulder
straps.

He wore draped over his pack a long countryman's cloak of cheap brown
wool. His tunic and hose were of lightweight undyed cotton. Only his
high boots were expensive. He needed good ones for the long walk from
the coast to Lucera. A sword swung at his belt, short and unadorned, the
sort any man of small means might wear. He had chosen it in El Kahira
out of a stack of swords taken from Christian men-at-arms during the
last crusade.

He drew the hood of his cloak over his head. Later his blond hair and
gray eyes would guarantee that no one would suspect what he was. But
here in southern Italy, where most ordinary people were dark
complexioned, his appearance might draw unwanted attention.

Even though the sun had just risen, he felt the heat on his back. But it
was not the dry heat of Egypt that he had known most of his life. A
heaviness in the air called forth a dampness from within his flesh. His
tunic clung to him.

_If a Christian asks me what month this is, I must remember to say
July._

He brushed the dust from his clothing and fell into line behind the bent
man with his cart of firewood.

Once inside Lucera, he would find his way to the inn of al-Kharim. And
tonight the chancellor Aziz would come to him from King Manfred.

The line shuffled forward. Three guards were standing in the shadows
just inside the gateway. They were big dark men wearing long green capes
over red tunics. Red turbans were wrapped around their spike-topped
helmets. Curving swords hung from their belts. A boy in a red tunic and
turban held a sheaf of lightweight spears.

Their thick beards reminded Daoud how much he missed his own beard,
shaved off in preparation for this mission.

_My people._ Daoud felt a sudden warmth at the familiar sight of
warriors of Islam.

The feeling was nonsense, he told himself. These were not his people,
but the Saracens of Manfred von Hohenstaufen. Their Arab ancestors had
once ruled southern Italy, but the Christians had conquered them over a
century before.

No, these Muslim warriors were not Daoud's people. In truth, on this
whole earth there were no people Daoud ibn Abdallah could truly call his
own.

       *       *       *       *       *

Once he had been David Langmuir, living with his crusader father and
mother, in a castle near Ascalon by the plain of Gaza. An English
ancestor had been one of the first crusaders in the Holy Land.

Just after David's ninth birthday Geoffrey Langmuir, his father, had
ridden out to war in gleaming mail with a cross of red silk sewn on his
white surcoat. David never saw him again.

Some weeks later the Saracens appeared before the castle, and there
were days of thirst and hunger and constant fear. He remembered the
thunderous pounding at the walls and the dark men in their yellow robes
and green turbans, their crescent-shaped swords coated with blood. He
remembered his mother, Lady Evelyn, in her blue dress, running up the
spiral stairs of a tower. He heard her distant scream. When the Saracens
dragged him out of the castle, with men being cut down by swords all
around him and women thrown to the ground by laughing Turks who fell
upon them, he saw at the base of the tower a bundle of blue linen
splashed with red that must have been his mother.

On their leisurely journey back to the Nile, the Turks forced him to lie
on his belly, and they used him as men use women. He would never forget
the needle-sharp tip of a curving dagger touched to his eyeball as a
bashi with a flowing black beard demanded that Daoud use his mouth to
give him pleasure. Whenever Daoud remembered that time, his insides
knotted and his face burned with shame.

One day he stood naked on a platform in El Kahira, capital of the
sultans--the city the Christians called Cairo. A fat, laughing slave
dealer, who had raped him till he bled the night before, offered him for
sale.

A tall man with one eye a glittering blue and the other a blank white, a
scimitar in a jeweled scabbard thrust through the embroidered sash
around his waist, came forward.

A silence fell over the crowd of slave buyers, followed by whispers. The
one-eyed warrior paid the price asked in gold dinars and without
haggling. And when the slaver fondled David's loins one last time as he
covered him with a ragged tunic, the warrior seized the slaver by the
throat with one hand, forcing him to his knees, and squeezed till he
collapsed unconscious in the dust of the marketplace.

David was almost mad with terror as the one-eyed warrior took him to his
mansion beside a lake in the center of El Kahira. But the tall man spoke
kindly to him and treated him decently. Amazingly, he could speak
French, David's language, though with a strange and heavy accent. He
told David that he was called Baibars al-Bunduqdari, Baibars the
Crossbowman. He was an emir of the Bhari Mamelukes, which meant, he
said, "slaves of the river." But though the Mamelukes were slaves, they
were also great and powerful warriors.

Baibars gave David a new name--Daoud--and told him that he had selected
him to be a Mameluke. He explained in a firm but kindly way that Daoud
did have a choice but that the alternative was a life of unrelieved
wretchedness as a ghulman, a menial slave. As a Mameluke, Daoud would be
set free when his training was complete, and he could win riches and
glory and be a warrior for God and his emir.

"I have long watched for such a one as you," Baibars said, "who could
look like a Christian but have the mind and heart of a Mameluke. One
like you could be a great weapon against the enemies of the faith."

_But your faith is not my faith_, David, who was to be called Daoud,
thought, not daring to speak, _and your enemies are not my enemies_.

His longing to please this man, the first Muslim to treat him with
respect, struggled as the years passed with his memories of a Christian
childhood. Daoud underwent the training of a Mameluke, and Baibars
watched him closely. Daoud accepted Islam and took the common surname of
a convert, ibn Abdallah. He took naturally to the life of a warrior and
grew in strength and skill.

Year by year Baibars, too, became more powerful. At last he made himself
sultan of El Kahira, ruler of an empire that stretched from North Africa
to Syria. Daoud's hand had wielded the flame dagger of the Hashishiyya
that ended the previous sultan's life.

Now, having raised Daoud, trained him as a Mameluke, and educated him in
statecraft, having sent him to learn wisdom from the Sufi and terror
from the Hashishiyya, having given him a new name and a new faith,
Baibars had sent Daoud into the Christian country called Italy.

       *       *       *       *       *

The stones of the gateway seemed to be marble, unusual for a
fortification. Daoud noticed large iron rings set at intervals under the
arch. His feet crunched on fresh straw.

The space under the arch was about ten paces from outer portal to inner.
On one side a broad-shouldered official sat at a table. The man glanced
up at Daoud, looked down at a leather-bound ledger in which he was
writing, then raised his eyes again for a longer look. This time the
brown eyes met Daoud's.

The official's grizzled hair formed a cap of curls around his head,
hiding his ears. He had a thick mustache, black streaked with white. His
shirt of violet silk looked costly. On the straw beside him lay a huge
dog, doubtless bred for hunting, with short gray fur, forepaws stretched
before it like a sphinx.

_These people live with unclean animals_, Daoud thought with distaste.

When the official leaned back in his chair, Daoud saw the long, straight
dagger that hung from his belt in a scabbard decorated with crossed
bands of gold ribbon.

Fear tightened Daoud's throat.

_Will this man see through me? Will he guess what I am?_

_Come, come_, he chided himself. _You have gone among Christians before.
You have walked in the midst of crusaders in the streets of Acre and
Antioch. You have landed on the island of Cyprus. You have even gone as
Baibars's emissary to the Greeks of Constantinople. Commend yourself to
God and cast fear aside._

He visualized what the Hashishiyya called "the Face of Steel within the
Mask of Clay." What he showed this official would be his Mask of Clay,
the look and manner of the merchant he was pretending to be. Beneath it,
unseen, was his true face, a Face of Steel forged over years of bodily
and spiritual training.

The mustached man allowed most of the people in line to pass into the
city after a few quick questions.

Daoud's heartbeat quickened and he tensed when his turn came to pass.

"Come here. Lower your hood," the man said.

Walking slowly toward him, Daoud reached up and pushed back his hood.

The official raised thick black brows and beckoned to a guard. "If he
makes a move you do not like, skewer him."

"Yes, Messer Lorenzo."

Daoud felt a stiffness in his neck and a knot in his belly. King
Manfred's chancellor, Aziz, had written that Daoud would be quietly
admitted to the town.

The heavyset, black-bearded Muslim soldier took a spear from the boy
standing near him and leveled it at Daoud, his face hard.

"Now then," said Lorenzo, "give us your sword."

This overzealous guard captain, or whatever he was, was paying too much
attention to him. But to avoid more attention, he must readily
cooperate. He unbuckled his sword belt and held it out. Another Muslim
guard took it and stepped beyond Daoud's reach.

Messer Lorenzo said, "Open your pack and show me what is in it."

"Silk, Your Signory." Daoud shrugged the pack off his shoulders and laid
it on the table. He unlaced its flap and drew out a folded length of
deep blue silk and then a crimson one. The shiny cloth slid through his
long fingers.

"I am not a lord," said Lorenzo softly, reaching out to caress the silk.
"Do not insult me by addressing me incorrectly."

"Yes, Messere."

Lorenzo took the pack with both hands and shook it. A shiny circular
object a little larger than a man's hand fell out. Lorenzo picked it up
and frowned at it.

"What is this, a mirror?"

"Yes, Messere. Our Trebizond mirrors are famed in Byzantium, Persia, and
the Holy Land. I brought this as another sample of what we can offer."

"It is a good mirror," Lorenzo agreed. "It shows me my ugly face all too
well."

Daoud was relieved to see Lorenzo had not guessed the secret of the
mirror, that it contained a deadly disk of Hindustan. Thrown properly,
the sharp-edged disk would slice into an opponent like a knife.

At Lorenzo's command, two of the guards searched Daoud briskly and
efficiently. They even made him take off his boots.

The fingers of one guard found the chain around Daoud's neck and pulled
on it. The locket Daoud had hidden under his tunic came out.

"What is that?" Lorenzo growled.

A chill ran over Daoud's body. Could Lorenzo possibly guess what the
locket was?

"A locket with a holy inscription in our Greek language, Messere."

"Open it up."

With a leaden feeling in his belly Daoud turned a small screw in the
hammered silver case. Perhaps he should not have taken the locket with
him. What would Lorenzo see when he looked at it? The cover fell open,
and he glanced down at the intricate etched lines and curves on the
rock-crystal inner face of the locket. When Daoud saw beginning to
appear on the crystal the face of a dark-skinned woman with accents of
blue-black paint around her eyes, he looked away.

He leaned forward to give Lorenzo a closer look at it without taking it
from around his neck. The locket's magic should work only for the person
to whom it was given.

Daoud heard a low growl. The great hound had risen to his feet and was
staring at him with eyes as dark brown as his master's. His upper lip
curled, revealing teeth like ivory scimitars.

"Silence, Scipio," Lorenzo said. His voice was soft, but iron with
command. The dog sat down again, but kept his eyes fixed on Daoud.

Heart pounding, he waited for Lorenzo's reaction to the locket. The
official grasped it, pulling Daoud's head closer still.

"Mh. This is Greek writing, you say? It looks more like Arabic to me."

"It is very ancient, Messere, and the two alphabets are similar. I
cannot read it myself. But it has been blessed by our Christian
priests."

Lorenzo let go of the locket and glowered at him.

"What Christian priests? Where did you say you are from? What is your
name?"

With deep relief Daoud stepped back from Lorenzo, snapped the locket
shut, and dropped it back inside the collar of his tunic.

"I am David Burian, from Trebizond, Messere."

"Trebizond? I never heard of it," said the mustached man.

"It is on the eastern shore of the Black Sea."

"You have come such a great distance with only a few yards of silk and a
mirror in your pack? Would you have me believe this is how you expect to
make your fortune?"

Daoud reached deep in his lungs for breath. Now he would see whether the
Christians would believe the story he and Baibars had devised.

"Messere, my city, Trebizond, lies on the only road to the East not cut
off by the Saracens. A few brave merchants come from the land called
Cathay bearing silk and spices. The samples I have brought with me,
doubtless you can see, are of the highest quality. We can send you many
bales of such silk overland from Trebizond to Constantinople, then by
ship to your port of Manfredonia. I am here to arrange this trade."

"Arrange it with whom?"

Daoud hesitated. He had come to Lucera to meet with King Manfred. If,
through some mistake, he should fall into the wrong hands, he would try
to get word to the king that he was there.

"Your local merchants, your royal officials," he said. "Even your King
Manfred, if he wishes to talk to me."

"So, a dusty peddler comes to our city gate and wants to speak with the
king." He turned to the guard with the spear. "Take him to the
castello."

Daoud molded the Face of Clay into an expression of naive wonderment.
"The castello? Where King Manfred is?"

Lorenzo grinned without mirth. "Where King Manfred's _prison_ is, my
man. Where we hang the people sent by the pope to murder King Manfred."

Lorenzo's eyes were hard as chips of obsidian, and when he said the word
_hang_, Daoud could feel the rough rope tightening around his neck.

But he was more angry now than frightened. His jaw muscles clenched. Why
had Aziz not made sure there would be no mistake like this?

"Why are you doing this to me, Messer Lorenzo? I mean no harm."

"And I intend to see to it that you _do_ no harm in this place, Messere
of Trebizond," Lorenzo shot back. He waved to the guard. "To the
guardroom, Ahmad."

_May a thousand afrits hound this infidel to his death_, thought Daoud
angrily. "And what will you do with me, Messer Lorenzo?"

"I will examine you further at my leisure, after I have passed all these
good people into the city." One violet-sleeved arm made a flowing
gesture toward the waiting throng.

Daoud noticed that the tiny firewood seller, who had already passed by
the guards, had paused at the inner portal. He shook his head sadly and
touched forehead, shoulders, and chest in that sign Christians made to
recall the cross of Jesus, their Messiah.

_Why, I believe he is praying for me. That is kindly done._

Ahmad, the guard, pointed his spear at Daoud and jerked his head. Daoud
stood his ground.

"What of my silk? If you keep it, I will truly have no honest business
in Lucera."

Lorenzo smiled. He stuffed the lengths of silk and the mirror back into
the pack and held it out to Daoud.

"There is not enough here to be worth stealing. Take it, then."

"And my sword?"

Lorenzo laughed gruffly. "Forget your sword. Take him away, Ahmad."

They had missed the precious object hidden in a pouch tied in his groin.
And they missed the Scorpion, the miniature crossbow devised by the
Hashishiyya, its parts concealed in the hem of his cloak. Nor did they
have any idea that the tie that held his cloak at the neck could be
pulled loose to become a long strangling cord, flexible as silk and hard
as steel.

Daoud pulled his hood back over his head, shrugged into the pack under
his cloak, and began walking. Every step he took sent a jolt of anger
through his body. He would like to use his strangling cord on the man
responsible for this blunder.

The news might well travel northward that a blond merchant had been
arrested trying to enter Lucera. And if that man should later appear at
the court of the pope, there might be those who would remember hearing
of him and wonder why he had gone first to the pope's enemy, Manfred von
Hohenstaufen.

His first feelings of anger became a cold turmoil in his belly as he
thought what could happen if his mission failed--El Kahira leveled, its
people slaughtered, Islam crushed beneath the feet of barbarian
conquerors.

He must not let that happen.

The narrow street he walked on was lined with circular houses, their
brick walls a warm yellow color. The conical roofs were covered with
thin slates.

A Muslim sword maker looked up from his forge to stare at Daoud and his
guard as they passed. Veiled women with red pottery jars on their heads
stopped and looked boldly into his eyes.

Daoud lifted his gaze to the octagonal central tower of the citadel,
bright yellow-and-black flags flying from its battlements. Instead of
being squared off, the battlements were topped by forked points, like
the tails of swallows, proclaiming allegiance to the Ghibellini,
partisans of the Hohenstaufen family, enemies of the pope.

Closer to the citadel, noises of men and animals came at Daoud from all
directions. He saw many buildings, all connected with one another, their
small windows protected by iron grillwork. To his right, in a large
grassy open field, a hundred or more Muslim guards in red and green were
swinging their scimitars as an officer on a stone platform called out
the count in Arabic. Daoud and his guard passed by a second yard, where
still more Muslim soldiers were grooming their slender Arab horses.

A pungent smell of many beasts and fowl pent up close hung in the warm,
damp air. Another row of buildings echoed with the shrieks of birds.
Falconers in yellow-and-black tunics walked up and down holding wicker
cages. As he peered into a doorway, Daoud saw the golden eyes of birds
of prey gleaming at him out of the shadows.

The sun was high by the time they came to the gateway of the castello.

_Well, so far they have taken me where I wanted to go_, Daoud thought
grimly.

The entry hall of the castello was a large, vaulted room, as Daoud had
expected. He had studied the citadel of Lucera before leaving Egypt, as
he had studied many other strongholds in Italy, memorizing building
plans and talking at length with agents of the sultan who had been
there.

A strange, almost dizzying sensation came over Daoud. He recognized the
feeling, having had it several times before when, in disguise, he
entered Christian fortresses. As he gazed around the shadowy stone hall,
its gloom relieved by shafts of light streaming in through high, narrow
windows, he seemed to be seeing everything through two pairs of eyes.
One pair belonged to a Mameluke warrior, Daoud ibn Abdallah, scouting an
enemy stronghold. The other eyes were those of a boy named David
Langmuir, to whom a Christian castle had been home. And, as always on
sensing that inner division, Daoud felt a crushing sadness.

Ahmad took Daoud through a series of small, low-ceilinged rooms in the
base of the castle. He spoke briefly to an officer seated at a table,
dressed like himself in red turban and green tunic. He gestured to a
heavy-looking door reinforced with strips of iron.

"In there, Messer David."

Every muscle in Daoud's body screamed out in protest. As part of his
initiation into the Hashishiyya, he had been locked in a tiny black
chamber in the Great Pyramid for days, and, except for the deaths of his
mother and father, it was the worst memory of his life. Now he ached to
strike down Ahmad and the other Muslim soldier and flee.

Instead, he said quietly, "How long will I have to wait?"

Ahmad shrugged. "God alone knows." Ahmad's southern Italian dialect was
as heavily accented as Daoud's own.

_How surprised he would be if I were to address him in Arabic._

"Who is this man who orders me imprisoned?" Daoud demanded.

Ahmad and the other guard shrugged at the question. "He is Messer
Lorenzo Celino of Sicily. He serves King Manfred."

"What does he do for King Manfred?"

"Whatever the king tells him to." Ahmad smiled at Daoud and gestured
again at the ironbound door. "Thank you for making the work of guarding
you easy. May God be kind to you."

Daoud bowed in thanks. Remembering the proper Christian farewell, he
said, "Addio."

The other soldier unlocked the door with a large iron key, and Daoud
walked reluctantly into a shadowy room. The door slammed shut behind
him, and again he went rigid with his hatred of confinement.

The walls had recently been whitewashed, but the little room stank
abominably. The odor, Daoud saw, came from a privy hole in one corner,
where large black flies circled in a humming swarm. Half-light came in
through a window covered with a black iron grill whose openings were
barely wide enough to push a finger through. Noticing what appeared to
be a bundle of bedding against a wall, Daoud approached it and squatted
down for a closer look. He prodded it, feeling straw under a stained
cotton sheet. At his probing, black dots, almost too small to see, began
moving about rapidly over the sheet.

Daoud crossed the room, unslung his pack from his back, and dropped it
to the floor. He sat down on the flagstones, as far from the bedding and
the privy opening as he could get, his back against the wall, his knees
drawn up, like a Bedouin in his tent.

_I am helpless_, Daoud thought, and terror and rage rose up in him like
two djinns released from their jars, threatening to overwhelm him. He
sat perfectly still. To bring himself under control, he began the
contemplative exercise his Sufi teacher, Sheikh Saadi, called the
Presence of God.

"God is everywhere, and most of all in man's heart," Saadi had said, his
old eyes twinkling. "He cannot be seen or heard or touched or smelled or
tasted. Therefore, make your mind as empty as the Great Desert, and you
may converse with God, Whose name be praised."

Daoud touched the farewell present Saadi had given him when he left El
Kahira to begin the journey to Italy. It was a leather case tied around
his neck, and it contained a piece of paper called a tawidh, an
invocation whose words were represented by Arabic numerals.

Like the locket, it would arouse curiosity if someone searching him
found it. But it could be simply explained as one of those curious
objects a traveler from distant places might have about his person.
And, like the locket, it was simply too precious _not_ to be worn.

Saadi said the tawidh would help wounds heal faster. Daoud refused to
let himself think about wounds. He tried to make his mind a blank, and
in the effort he forgot for a time where he was.




II


Messer Lorenzo Celino of Sicily strode into the cell. He held in his
hands a large round slice of bread heaped with steaming slivers of meat
that gave off an unfamiliar but succulent smell.

Daoud slowly climbed to his feet. The hound Scipio, trailing Celino,
watched him, standing in the doorway, as if unwilling to enter the
vile-smelling chamber.

Daoud measured Celino. The top of the Sicilian's head would come to
Daoud's chin, but the shoulders under his violet tunic were broad and
straight, and he moved with menacing grace. Daoud judged that, though
Celino must be close to fifty, he would be quick and deadly with hands
and feet, and a good swordsman as well.

"God's beard, man, I didn't mean to keep you sitting in this room all
day without food or drink," Celino said. "The damned farmers and traders
kept coming and coming. But you cannot eat in this stinking place. Come
out."

Daoud emerged into the next room, and Lorenzo motioned him to sit at the
guards' table. Even though Daoud felt deep relief at being out of the
cell, he sensed he was in greater danger than before. His mouth went dry
and the palms of his hands turned cold as his eyes scanned the room for
weapons or an escape route.

Lorenzo set the trencher and its burden of meat down before Daoud.

"Just butchered. Here, eat in good health. And here is a beaker of our
good red wine of Monte Vultura." Daoud heard a false note in Celino's
present heartiness and liked it even less than his earlier gruff
suspicion.

Wine. An abomination forbidden by the Prophet. As Celino set a pitcher
and two cups down on the table, Daoud recalled the nights he had spent
with Sheikh Saadi learning to master wine and other drugs.

_God prohibits the drinking of wine and the eating of unclean foods, not
for His good, for nothing can harm Him, but for our good. Therefore,
when a man goes among the infidel as a spy, God permits him to eat and
drink the forbidden things lest he be discovered and put to death. You
must learn to separate your mind from your body so that what harms your
body will not affect your mind._

Daoud raised the cup, wondering if he would have as much power over wine
drunk in the land of the infidel as he did when he drank it with his
teacher. He sipped. The red liquid was thick and bitter and burned his
mouth, but he made himself smile, sigh appreciatively, and sip again. He
kept God at the center of his thoughts.

Celino was watching him closely. Raising his cup in salute, he also
drank.

"Good, good. Now eat. Fresh roasted. Pork."

Daoud's fingers, poised over the meat, stopped short. Already made ill
by hunger, by the vile odor of the room in which he had been confined,
and by the wine that made his stomach churn, he felt himself on the
point of vomiting. For nearly twenty years the prohibition against
eating the flesh of pigs had been impressed upon him until the very
thought of pork made him sick. He knew he should have prepared himself
by eating it before he left El Kahira, but he had never found time for
that. So now, a prisoner of the enemy, he faced for the first time the
test of pork.

Celino was watching him with a half smile.

_He would not test me with wine and pig's meat unless he suspected I am
a Muslim._

Daoud's fingers grasped a slice of the hot meat. He tore it in half,
using both his clean right hand and his unclean left as a non-Muslim
would.

He stuffed a slice of pork into his mouth. It had smelled good until he
found out what it was. Now it seemed slimy and tasteless. His stomach
clenched, but he held himself rigid, expressionless. He started to chew,
and found that his mouth was dry. His life might depend on his giving a
convincing imitation of pleasure. He chewed the meat to fragments and,
as though savoring it, swallowed the abomination crumb by crumb.

He realized he was still holding the other scrap of pork in his left
hand. To give himself a respite, he tossed it to the flagstone floor
before Lorenzo's hound.

Unclean to the unclean, he thought.

Scipio looked at Daoud with an almost human look of surprise, then bent
to devour the meat.

"Friday, Scipio," said Celino sharply. "You are forbidden meat."

The dog looked sadly up at Celino, licked its chops, and sat back on its
haunches, leaving the meat untouched. In spite of his predicament, Daoud
laughed.

"You see?" said Celino. "Even a dog can learn to obey the commandments."

Celino gestured to the dog. "All right, Scipio, the bishop of Palermo
gives you a dispensation."

The dog stood and struck at the meat with his long muzzle. It vanished
to the accompaniment of loud gulping sounds.

"He likes it better than you do," Celino said. "You do not act very
hungry for a man who has not eaten all day. Come on, man, fill your
belly."

Realizing that the pork would taste worse as it cooled, Daoud braced
himself and stuffed piece after piece into his mouth, chewing and
swallowing as rapidly as he could.

"And," said Celino, watching him with narrowed eyes, "a dog can be
trained to break the commandments when permitted."

From time to time Daoud threw a scrap to Scipio, grateful for the
hound's help. But as he ate, Daoud noticed that the meat began to taste
better to him, and the juices of his mouth began to flow. The familiar
feeling of sorrow came over him, and he looked around at the white walls
and ceiling, the wooden beams overhead painted blue. In his mind's eye
he saw in their place yellow stone walls and a vaulted ceiling, and
remembered that he had last tasted the flesh of pig at table with his
father and mother.

He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and sat back. "Thank you. I feel
better now."

Celino stood up, took the stale disk of bread, and dropped it to the
floor. Scipio picked it up in his mouth.

"Then have the goodness to accompany me to the Hall of Mars, Messer
David," he said, and turned.

_He shows me that he is not afraid to turn his back_, Daoud thought,
picking up his pack and following Celino. The Hall of Mars, he
remembered, was an indoor exercise hall for Manfred's troops. They
climbed stairs and walked through rooms in which Muslim soldiers were
cleaning and polishing helmets, coats of mail, and weapons. In one room,
men were painting shields. All the shields were yellow and bore the
black two-headed eagle of the Hohenstaufens.

Daoud followed Lorenzo into a very large, bare room with a floor of
polished hardwood. Ropes and chains hung from the walls and the beamed
ceiling. Tall windows cut high up in smooth walls--too high to jump
to--let in afternoon sunlight and fresh air that did not quite dispel a
heavy odor of sweat. Opposite the doorway through which they passed was
another and larger entrance, with double doors. The room was not square;
the walls were of differing lengths and set at angles. Daoud recalled
the octagonal shape of Castello Lucera's central tower.

He reviewed the plan of the castle he had committed to memory in El
Kahira. He was sure that behind the double doors was the great royal
audience hall. The wide doorway would allow troops assembled in the Hall
of Mars to march into the audience chamber for a review.

Daoud noticed a group of Muslim guards lounging in one corner. At
Lorenzo's entrance they touched their hands to their turbans in salute.
Lorenzo responded with the same gesture. Scipio carried the trencher in
his mouth to a corner of the room, where he lay down and began pushing
the hard bread around with his forepaws and, working at it with his
formidable teeth, making loud crunching noises.

Celino led Daoud to the center of the room. He turned suddenly on Daoud.

"Now, spy, you will tell me exactly who you are and exactly where you
come from," he said rapidly. "You will tell me the truth, or you will
die here and now."

Daoud came within a breath of answering, then realized Lorenzo had
spoken in Arabic. Relieved laughter bubbled up toward his throat--he had
not been caught. He choked it down and assumed a puzzled expression.

"I do not understand," Daoud said in Italian. "What tongue are you
speaking, Messer Lorenzo?"

"Liar," said Lorenzo, still in Arabic, his eyes narrowing.

"I understand Italian, Greek, and, of course, the speech of Scythia,"
said Daoud. "If you would question me, speak in one of those tongues."
Daoud sensed that the Sicilian's sudden shifts of mood were calculated.
While his mouth uttered accusations, Celino's eyes watched him with a
calm intelligence that reminded Daoud of an emir examining a
fine-looking horse for hidden flaws.

Daoud saw, at the edge of his vision, that the guards who had been
lounging in the corner of the hall were now in motion. He glanced
quickly left and right. Three men, about fifty paces away, were coming
at him, curved swords drawn. The dog, Scipio, had abandoned the trencher
and risen to his feet, and he, too, was advancing on Daoud, fangs bared.

Lorenzo stepped away from Daoud, still pointing at him.

"Spegni! Kill!"

Tension crackled across Daoud's stomach like a lash. Three swords, and a
dog that looked capable of killing a man. None of the weapons he had
hidden on him would do for this. He slung his pack toward the wall
behind him, leaving both hands free.

He half turned, to keep Lorenzo in sight while watching the advancing
men. The Sicilian had a long dagger in a scabbard hung by his right
side, but he did not draw it.

Facing the three swords, Daoud had not yet raised his hands. But his
legs tensed. He bent at the knees, shifted his weight to the balls of
his feet.

He whirled and sprang at Lorenzo. The Sicilian jumped backward, and
Daoud could hear behind him the pounding of booted feet on the wooden
floor. The dog barked furiously.

Daoud grappled with Lorenzo. The Sicilian grabbed his forearms, trying
to hold him at a distance, and his strength was almost a match for
Daoud's. But Daoud twisted his arms free, drove in, and caught Celino's
neck in the bend of his left arm. He swung him around so that the
Sicilian's body was between himself and the three attacking soldiers.
While Lorenzo stumbled, Daoud plucked the man's dagger out of its
scabbard. It had two sharp edges and came to a diamond-bright point.

Scipio leapt at him, but Daoud shifted Lorenzo between himself and the
hound, and Scipio fell back. His enraged barking was deafening, like the
roar of a lion. His fangs were a row of bone spear-points. He danced
right and left, seeking a way to get past Lorenzo to Daoud.

The joy of battle, the weapon in his hand, made Daoud feel the power
coursing through his arms. But that damned dog had to be stopped. His
teeth were as dangerous to Daoud as the curving blades of the three
Muslim soldiers. Those fangs could rip through his boots, tear the
muscles of his legs, and cripple him. He would prefer death.

Releasing Lorenzo's neck, Daoud gripped Lorenzo's wrist and twisted,
hard and fast. Biting his lip, Lorenzo resisted, but he had to turn and
bend, or the pressure on his arm would break it. Daoud laid the edge of
Lorenzo's dagger against his throat.

"Call off your dog or I cut your throat." Daoud glanced over his
shoulder to make sure no one was behind him.

"By all means cut my throat," Lorenzo flung back at him. "And Scipio
will tear _your_ throat out."

"If the dog jumps at me, I will gut him."

"The devil roast your balls," Lorenzo growled. "Scipio, sit!"

The hound stopped barking and stared at Lorenzo.

"Down, Scipio!" Lorenzo said. "He will not hurt me." To Daoud he said,
"If you do hurt me, you will suffer such things that you will beg us to
kill you."

Scipio reluctantly crouched, murder in his brown eyes and a steady, low
growling issuing from his throat. The three Muslim guards were still
moving forward, far more warily.

Daoud felt strong and able now to deal with these four men, but he could
almost feel the weight of the overwhelming trap he was in. The thick
walls. The thousands of soldiers. It was hopeless. He could fight on
only until he died. And that was not what he had come here for at all.

Daoud stepped back toward the farther doorway, pulling Lorenzo with him.
He glanced over his shoulder to be sure no one was behind him.

"For my part," said Daoud, "I will hurt you till you beg _them_ to put
down their swords. I will start by breaking your arm." He gave the
twisted arm a vicious upward push till he could almost feel the agony of
the tendons. Lorenzo grunted, and Scipio barked angrily. Most men, Daoud
thought, would have screamed aloud at that.

"No matter what you do to me, it will not help you," said Lorenzo.

Three more turbaned Muslim soldiers joined those coming at Daoud. They
spread out in a wide circle, some of them trying to slip around to his
rear.

"Stand where you are, or I'll kill him," Daoud shouted. To show he meant
it, he pressed the knife edge hard against Celino's throat and sliced
with it just enough to draw blood.

"I hope you will enjoy the taste of your own intestines," Lorenzo said.
He dug his boot heels into the wooden floor, trying to slow down Daoud's
effort to drag him to the door. Daoud pushed up harder on his arm to
make him move faster.

Daoud felt no fear of death, and he would not let them take him prisoner
to torture him. He would die fighting. And go straight to paradise.

But how foolish all this was. A waste of his own life and the lives he
would take with him. And many of those he would kill were Muslims, like
himself.

"You must know that you will be the first to die here," he said. "And
believe me I will take many of your men with me. I may even manage to
kill your precious dog. I did not come here to fight with King Manfred's
men. Why are you doing this?"

Celino, who had been struggling against Daoud, now relaxed and turned
his head. "You are too dangerous to live."

"Dangerous to whom?"

"To me," said a deep voice behind Daoud.




III


Daoud turned, dragging Celino. A blond man stood, hands on hips, eyeing
him with a faint smile. One of the big doors leading into the royal
audience chamber was slightly ajar. Daoud was angry at himself for
letting someone slip up behind him unnoticed.

"Sire, get back!" Lorenzo shouted.

_Sire._ Daoud knew at once who this was. The same height as Lorenzo, as
Daoud now saw, the man had the very broad shoulders Christian knights
developed from wielding their huge two-handed swords. Daoud guessed his
age at a little over thirty. His hair, so blond it was almost silver,
hung in soft waves below his ears, curling at the ends. His silver-blond
mustache was carefully trimmed. His eyelids crinkled with amusement. He
wore a tunic of lime-colored silk under a short forest-green cloak
trimmed with white fur. His hose and boots were also shades of green.
From a chain around his neck hung a five-pointed silver star with a
spherical ruby in its center. In every point he fit the description
Daoud had been given.

The despair Daoud had been feeling a moment before gave way to a
profound relief. It had seemed that everything stood in the way of his
meeting this man, and now at last they were face-to-face.

"Sire," Daoud said in Italian, "I know who you are, and you must know
who I am."

"I do indeed," said Manfred von Hohenstaufen, still smiling. "Please
release Messer Lorenzo."

Daoud hesitated only a moment. But if Manfred allowed Lorenzo to hurt
him now, the mission was a failure anyway. Tensed for attack, he let go
of Lorenzo, who sprang away.

In an instant the Sicilian had taken a curving Islamic sword from a
soldier.

"Sire, at least move back from him," Lorenzo said. "You know what we are
dealing with here."

"Quiet, Lorenzo," snapped Manfred. "What we are dealing with is a
peddler from some misty land beyond the Black Sea who happens to be
infernally nimble. That is all."

Daoud was pleased to hear Manfred go along with his disguise. He relaxed
a bit and eyed the king of southern Italy and Sicily. A splendid-looking
man with a charm that Daoud felt after only a moment's acquaintance.

"Will the peddler be so kind as to return my dagger?" Lorenzo asked with
heavy irony. "This side of the Black Sea it is considered discourteous
to stand in the king's presence holding a naked weapon."

"Of course," said Daoud, holding the dagger by its guard and handing it
hilt-first to Lorenzo, who in turn gave the Saracen soldier back his
sword.

Daoud was glad he had not had to kill Lorenzo. The Sicilian, like his
master, Manfred, was clearly a man above the common run. His behavior
toward Daoud so far had been a series of clever pretenses. Indeed, Daoud
was sure he had not gotten to the bottom of Lorenzo yet.

"I thank you for entertaining us with this display of your fighting
skills, Messer David," said King Manfred. "Now let us talk of the silk
trade. Join us, Lorenzo."

Manfred led the way into the audience chamber beyond the Hall of Mars.
Walking beside Daoud, Celino snapped his fingers at Scipio. The big gray
hound rose and followed, casting a hostile look at Daoud.

_Why did they try to kill me?_

In the audience hall, marble pillars supported a vaulted ceiling pierced
by circular glazed windows. A dozen or more men and women stood around,
staring at Daoud. His glance quickly took in the feathered caps of the
men, the pale rose and violet gowns of the women, and the gilded nets
that held their hair.

He tried not to stare at the women, whose faces were bare in the manner
of unbelievers. But they were all, he noted, beautiful in varying
degrees. Several had striking blond hair and blue eyes. Though it was
his own coloring, he was not used to seeing fair women, and his
heartbeat quickened.

But the gaze of a darker woman met his. Her amber-colored eyes seemed to
burn. Her nose was small, the nostrils flaring, her lips full and dark
red. The face was carefully without expression, revealing as little as
if it were indeed covered with a veil.

The dark woman's black hair was coiled on top of her head in braids
intertwined with ropes of pearls. Her scarlet gown was decorated with
long strips of satin embroidered in floral designs. Over her narrow
shoulders she wore a shawl of flame-colored silk. Having been to
Constantinople, Daoud recognized her style of dress as Byzantine. She
made the other women of Manfred's court look like barbarians.

She held his gaze steadily. He bowed his head courteously, and she
responded with a faint nod. Then he was past her.

Standing on a dais at the end of the hall was a large chair of black
wood with painted panels; to the left of the dais sat a small group of
purple-robed men holding string and wind instruments. On the right was a
small doorway. A servant leapt to fling open the door for Manfred, who
strode briskly toward it, tossing pleasantries to his courtiers.

The door led through a series of rooms where clerks wrote busily, and
Daoud noticed with surprise that they went right on scribbling as their
king walked through. Obviously Manfred preferred their work to their
homage.

Daoud sensed that their path was taking them on a circuit of the great
eight-sided structure. They passed through a small kitchen where bakers
were preparing fruit pastries. Manfred plucked a freshly baked cherry
tart from a tray, bit into it, and nodded to the bowing cook.

To his surprise, Daoud noticed a small figure in one corner, the little
bent man who had earlier looked on him with pity. The dwarf lay curled
up on his side with closed eyes on his empty firewood cart. Not a bad
occupation, Daoud thought, supplying firewood to the king's pastry
kitchen.

Beyond the kitchen the three men entered another great hall, so brightly
lit that Daoud's eyes hurt for a moment. The afternoon sun streamed
through arched windows of white glass set, as in the Hall of Mars, high
in the walls. The walls were lined with shelves loaded with books and
compartments filled with scrolls. Walkways at three levels ran around
the walls, and ladders were spaced along them. Men in long gray tunics
browsed at the shelves or sat at tables in the center of the room
reading books and scrolls and making notes on parchment.

A servant opened a wrought-iron grill in the shortest wall of the
library, and the three men stepped out under the sky into an octagonal
space filled with trees and plants, enclosed on all sides by a
colonnaded gallery. In the center of the garden a small fountain played,
topped by a small bronze statue of a naked woman straddling a dolphin,
the water spurting from the dolphin's mouth. Daoud was momentarily
shocked. The most powerful and corrupt emir in Egypt would not dare to
have such a statue where strangers might see it.

Manfred beckoned, and Daoud followed him down a pebble path to the basin
of the fountain. Small dark green fish flickered through the water. The
king seated himself on a marble bench, and the two men stood before him.
At a gesture from Lorenzo, Scipio lay down in the sun beside a bush
bearing dozens of dark-red roses.

The sun gleamed on Manfred's pale hair. "What does your sultan want of
me?" he asked.

"I am ordered to speak openly only to you and your secretary Aziz," said
Daoud, his glance shifting to Lorenzo.

"Ah, you did not know, then, that Aziz is the name Lorenzo Celino uses
when he writes to the Sultan of Cairo for me?"

Lorenzo Celino--Aziz? Daoud turned to Celino and laughed with delighted
surprise.

"You write excellent Arabic. I would never have guessed that you were
not one of us."

Lorenzo accepted Daoud's compliment with a small bow.

"One of _us_?" said Manfred. "And what are you, then, Messere? I see
before me a strapping man, blond enough to be one of my Swabian knights,
yet who claims to come from the Sultan of Cairo. You are no Arab or
Turk."

"Indeed not, Sire," said Daoud. "I am a Mameluke."

"A blond Mameluke." Manfred nodded. "Where are you from, then, Russia or
Circassia?"

Without emotion Daoud told the king of his descent from crusaders and
his capture by the Muslims.

"What a strange world this is," said Manfred. "And when did this happen
to you?"

"Twenty years ago, Sire. For most of those years I have served my lord
Baibars al-Bunduqdari, who is now Sultan of Cairo."

"And you are a Muslim?"

"Of course, Sire."

Manfred stood up and came close to him. "Of course? You say that so
firmly. Do you not remember the Christian teachings of your childhood?"

The question made Daoud angry. _My soul is undivided. King or not, how
dare this infidel question that!_

"God willed that I find the truth, Sire," he said simply.

Manfred shrugged. "It is all the same to me. I have lived among Muslims
all my life."

"May I know, Sire, why your secretary, to whom my master sent me in good
faith, tried to kill me?" Daoud asked.

Manfred turned his back on Daoud and strolled a short distance down the
pebble path. "Lorenzo is neither my secretary nor does he normally
command my gate guards. He performs for me _unusual_ tasks that require
a man of uncommon courage, loyalty, and wit. Such as testing you--first,
by taking you prisoner, then by giving you pork and wine and speaking to
you in Arabic, finally by trying to kill you."

"But I might have killed him."

"I did not realize how much of a risk I was taking," said Lorenzo.

"We did not think Baibars could find anywhere in his empire a man who
could go to the papal court undetected. We hoped to show him his error
and send you back. But you are quite a remarkable man, David."

_Show Baibars his error!_ Manfred might be a brilliant man, but he
evidently underestimated Baibars. Daoud sensed himself feeling a bit
superior and warned himself not to make the same mistake and
underestimate Manfred.

"Perhaps now that you have tested my ability, Sire, you might be more
inclined to help me."

"Help you to do what?" There was a note of irritation in Manfred's
voice. "Your Sultan Baibars has asked me only to help you carry out a
mission in the Papal States. What is your mission?"

Daoud said, "Sire, my master chose not to entrust his plan to writing,
but sent me to tell it to you instead. I am here for one purpose, to
prevent the forming of an alliance between Christians and Tartars."

Manfred looked surprised, and stared intently at Daoud. "Tartars? Those
barbarians who invaded Europe--how long ago, Lorenzo?"

Lorenzo frowned. "Over twenty years, Sire."

Daoud said, "Fifty years ago they were nothing. A scattering of
herdsmen, like the Bedouin. Now they are the most powerful people on
earth."

Manfred nodded. "Yes, I remember now. When they rode into Poland and
Hungary I was just a boy. Everyone was in terror of them. Their emperor
sent letters to all the monarchs of Europe demanding that they
surrender. He contemptuously offered them positions in his court." He
grinned at Daoud. "My father showed me the letter he was sending back.
If Tartar emperor succeeded in conquering Europe, my father said, he
would be well qualified to serve as his falconer."

Daoud inclined his head. "Your family's love of falconry is well known
to your admirers in the lands of Islam. My lord the sultan considers you
an old friend and hopes that you will see fit to help him in his time of
need."

Manfred held out his hands, palms up. "If I can."

"Now the Tartars have fallen upon the lands of Islam," Daoud said. "They
have conquered Persia. They have a hundred thousand mounted warriors in
the field, and allies and auxiliaries. They have leveled our holy city
of Baghdad, destroyed it utterly, and killed every man, woman, and child
who lived there, even the Commander of the Faithful, our caliph himself.
These are no fanciful tales, Sire. I have fought against the Tartars. I
have seen with my own eyes the ashes of Baghdad and the heaps of its
dead."

The scene of desolation arose in his mind as it had so many times
before, the gray plain where a city had been, the unbelievable sight of
a landscape strewn with rotting, headless corpses as far as the eye
could see. To put it out of his mind, he hurried on with what he had to
say.

"Now their armies advance through Syria, threatening the realm of my
lord, the Sultan of Cairo. We have had word that Hulagu Khan, commander
of the Tartar armies in Persia, has sent two high-ranking emissaries to
the pope. They are sailing across the Middle Sea now, from the island of
Cyprus to Venice. Hulagu Khan wants to form an alliance with the
Christian rulers of Europe to attack us from both directions at once,
east and west. Our whole people, our whole Muslim faith, could be
utterly wiped out."

Manfred nodded grimly. "And all of Christian Europe would rejoice at
your destruction. Not I, certainly, but the rest of them. What do you
propose to do about these Tartar emissaries to the pope?"

"For that I will need your help, Sire. I, too, will go to the pope's
court. I understand that he resides at Orvieto, a small town north of
Rome."

"Yes," Lorenzo put in, "and there he will stay. He has not set foot in
Rome since he galloped in to be crowned at Saint Peter's and galloped
out again. He is terrified of the Roman mob. As well he should be, since
most of their leaders are in our pay."

"Trade secrets, Celino," said Manfred, raising a cautioning finger. "So,
you will go to Orvieto. And then?"

"I will present myself at the pope's court as I have here, as David, a
merchant of Trebizond. I will take up residence with--friends--who can
help me reach the ears of men of influence. I will spread stories
throughout Orvieto--true stories--of the horrors the Tartars have
perpetrated everywhere they have gone, of their determination to conquer
the entire world."

Manfred shook his head. "What you plan to do is very dangerous. You've
proven to us that you are a skilled and resourceful man, but still, what
if you are discovered?" He shook his head. "Have you any idea of how
your people are _hated_ in Europe, David? If it were known that I helped
a Muslim spy to steal into the court of the pope, all the kingdoms of
Christendom would turn against me. The pope need but snap his fingers
and I and my little realm would be swept away. No, David. You ask me to
risk too much."

Daoud was momentarily surprised, then angry. He had expected that
Manfred would cooperate with him. If the young king vacillated, Daoud
might have journeyed from Egypt to Italy for nothing.

And then a ripple of fear crept up his spine. If he failed to persuade
Manfred, the Tartars might destroy the world he had come to love and
believe in.

_God, help me to stop them. I must not go back to El Kahira a failure._

He must choose his words with care. He was dealing here with a king, and
one did not argue with kings. Better to ask questions than offer
arguments.

"Does not the pope wish even now to take your throne from you, Sire?" he
said. "How can matters between you and him be any worse?"

Manfred nodded. "True, Pope Urban keeps offering my crown to this prince
and that, claiming that I had no right to inherit it from my father. And
that he had no right to have it in the first place." Manfred bit his
lip, and the light pink of his cheeks reddened. "But only the French are
powerful enough to take it from me. And King Louis of France is kindly
disposed to me and will not permit any of his great barons to make war
on me. I rely on Louis's continued goodwill."

"But the man who wants to join with the Tartars to annihilate Islam is
that same King Louis of France," Daoud said. "France, as you said, is
the only kingdom with the power to help the pope dethrone you. Should
the pope decide against allying with the Tartars, King Louis will
continue to prohibit his subjects from joining the pope's war against
you. Help me, and you come between King Louis and the pope."

"Intrigue requires gold," said Manfred. "Does your master expect me to
pay for your activities?"

"What I have brought with me will pay for all," Daoud replied. He
unbuckled his belt and undid the laces that held his hose tight around
his waist. Celino moved closer, tense, ready in case Daoud should reach
for a weapon. Daoud slipped his fingers into the breeches he wore under
his hose and found the bag tied to the drawstring.

"What is the man doing?" said Manfred with a wondering smile. Celino
shook his head.

Daoud pulled out a bag of heavy red silk, full and round with what it
held. He felt a childlike delight in mystifying the two men.

"Pay me from your royal treasury what this is worth," said Daoud, "and I
shall have gold enough for all I need to do." He pulled apart the mouth
of the silk bag and drew out of it a globe of green fire. He held it out
to Manfred. Celino gasped.

Daoud was gratified at their wonderment.

"Are you not afraid I will steal this from you and dump you in an
unmarked grave?" said Manfred with a bright grin.

"The Hohenstaufen family have been friends of the sultans of Egypt since
your father's day," said Daoud. "We have learned to trust you."

"Just listen to that, Lorenzo," said Manfred. "The Saracens think better
of me than the pope does."

Besides, Daoud thought, Manfred knew that Baibars's arm was long.
Manfred, Daoud was sure, knew that Baibars would not permit anyone, even
a distant head of state, to betray him so flagrantly.

His eyes wide, Manfred extended his palm, and Daoud unhesitatingly
placed the emerald in it. Manfred raised it close to his face, peering
through the dark depths into its glowing heart. The jewel, irregular in
shape but nearly spherical, reflected little spots of pale green light
on his cheeks. He shook his head.

"Green, the color I love best in all the world. The color of hope." He
encircled it with thumb and forefinger. "Look, Lorenzo, I cannot get my
fingers around it. I am amazed that your master is willing to part with
such a wonder. How did he come by it?"

"It has been through many hands, Sire," said Daoud. "It once belonged to
Emir Fakr ad-Din, who commanded the army of Egypt when King Louis
invaded our land."

"To think Baibars let you take this emerald from him, and you came all
this way from Alexandria with it and delivered it to me. And Baibars
trusted you."

"As he trusts you, Sire," Daoud put in quickly.

"_You_ are like a falcon, are you not?" said Manfred, smiling into
Daoud's eyes. "Released to fly far afield for your sultan."

Manfred strode to Daoud suddenly and clapped him on the shoulder. "Let
it be done as your master wishes, then. The trader from Trebizond will
go to Orvieto with my help."

A surge of joy sprang up within Daoud and almost burst past his lips. He
bowed, his heart pounding.

_God be thanked!_

Manfred said, "We must see about turning this jewel of yours into gold
coins. Or smaller jewels. They would be easier to carry than gold."
Manfred looked lovingly at the emerald again, then carefully dropped it
into his belt pouch and smiled at Daoud.

"You should not go alone into the Papal States, David. You may have
studied Europe from afar, but you do not know Italy firsthand. Lorenzo
here shall go with you. I trust Lorenzo to travel far and secretly in my
service, even as your master trusts you."

Celino sighed. Daoud and Celino eyed each other.

Daoud began searching for ways to dissuade Manfred. A short while
earlier he and Celino had been trying to kill each other. And Celino
would be putting Manfred's interests first, not those of Islam.

Obviously aware of his hesitation, Manfred took his arm. "Listen to me,
Mameluke. You will be wise to accept every bit of help that is offered
to you. I have powerful allies in northern Italy, in Florence, Pisa,
Siena, and other cities. But you do not know them and they do not know
you. Lorenzo speaks for me. He knows who the key Ghibellini are in the
north, and they know him. Do not object to taking him with you."

Manfred would not let him go, Daoud realized, unless Celino went with
him. And the argument that Celino could put him in touch with the
Ghibellini of the north was a strong one.

_Lorenzo is perhaps twenty years older than I, but he is quick-witted
and quick on his feet. And, yes, I would rather not go alone. I could
easily make a mistake from ignorance. I am better off with a man like
this to guide me._

A tentative smile played under Celino's grizzled mustache. "My royal
master is determined in this. What do you say?"

Daoud bowed. "I accept. With gratitude. We shall travel this road
together."

"Whatever happens to the two of you," Manfred said, "no one must ever
know that I am involved."

"I guarantee that, Sire," said Celino.

Manfred rubbed the palms of his hands together. "There is one other
person I propose to send with you. She can be a great help to you."

Celino turned quickly to Manfred. "I do not advise it, Sire."

"Why not?" said Manfred. "She will be perfect."

"Because she will not want to go." There was censure in Celino's dark
stare--and a boyish defiance in Manfred's answering look.

"Do not question me," said Manfred. "I have no choice. For her good and
for my own, she must leave here. And she _will_ be useful to you."

Instead of replying, Celino only sighed again.

"A woman?" Daoud was thunderstruck. In El Kahira women left their homes
only to visit other women. He felt anxiety claw at his belly. Any
mistake in planning might wreck the mission and doom him, and Celino, to
a horrible death. And to send a woman to the court of the pope on such a
venture seemed not just a mistake, but utter madness.

"A very beautiful woman," said Manfred, a grin stretching his blond
mustache. "One who has had a lifetime's schooling in intrigue. She is
from Constantinople, and her name is Sophia, which means wisdom in
Greek."

_There are no more treacherous people on this earth than the
Byzantines_, Daoud thought, _and they have ever been enemies of Islam_.

Argument surged up in him, but he saw a hardness in Manfred's eyes that
told him nothing he might say would sway the king. He looked at Celino,
and saw in the dark, mustached face the same reluctant acceptance he had
heard in the sigh.

Whoever this Sophia might be, he would have to take her with him.




IV


Sophia pressed her head back against the pillow and screamed with
pleasure. Her loins dissolved into rippling liquid gold. Her fingers dug
into the man's back and her legs clenched around his hips, trying to
crush him against her.

"Oh--oh--oh--" she moaned. The warmth spread to her toes, her
fingertips, her scalp, filling her with joy. She was so happy that she
wanted to cry.

As the blaze of ekstasia died down, she felt Manfred driving deep inside
her. She felt his hardness, his separateness, as she could not feel it a
moment ago when she was at her peak and they seemed to melt together,
one being.

His rhythm was insistent, inexorable, like a heartbeat. His hands under
her back were tense. He was fighting for his climax.

She delighted in the sight of his massive shoulders overshadowing her.
It was almost like being loved by a god.

Manfred's face was pressed against her shoulder, his open mouth on her
collarbone. She turned toward him and saw the light in his white-gold
hair. She slid one hand up to his hair and stroked it, while with the
other she rubbed his back in a circular motion.

She felt the muscles in his body tighten against her. He drew in a
shuddering breath.

"Yes--yes--good," she whispered, still stroking his hair, still
caressing his back.

He relaxed, panting heavily.

_He never makes much noise. Nothing like my outcries._

They lay without moving, she pleased by the warm weight of him lying
upon her, as if it protected her from floating away. The feel of him
still inside her sent wavelets of pleasure through her.

Still adrift on sensations of delight, she opened her eyes to stare up
into the shadows of the canopy overhead. On the heavy bed curtains to
her left, the late afternoon sun cast an oblong of yellow light with a
pointed arch at the top, the shape of an open window nearby. She knew
well the play of light in this unoccupied bedchamber in an upper part of
the castle. Manfred and she had met here many times.

They rolled together so that they lay side by side in a nest of red and
purple cushions. The down-filled silk bolster under them whispered as
they shifted their weight, and the rope netting that held it creaked.
Manfred propped his head up with one arm. His free hand toyed with the
ringlets of her unbound hair. She slid her palm over his chest.

She remembered an ancient sculpture she had seen in a home outside
Athens. The torso of a man, head missing, arms broken off at the
shoulders, legs gone below the knees, the magnificent body had survived
barbarian invasions, the coming of Christianity, the iconoclasts, the
Frankish conquest, to stand now on a plain pedestal in a room with
purple walls, the yellowish marble gleaming in the light of many
candles. Her host showed it only to his most trusted guests.

"Which god is this?" she had asked.

"I think it is just an athlete," said her host. "The old Greeks made
gods of their athletes."

Manfred's naked torso, pale as marble, seemed as beautiful. And was
alive.

She sighed happily. "How lucky I am that there was time for love in my
king's life this afternoon." She spoke in the Sicilian dialect,
Manfred's favorite of all his languages.

How lucky, she thought, that after all her years of wandering she had at
last found a place in the world where she was loved and needed.

His lips stretched in a smile, but his blue eyes were empty. Uneasiness
took hold of her. She sensed from the look on his face that he was about
to tell her something she did not want to hear.

       *       *       *       *       *

In memory she heard a voice say, _Italy was ours not so long ago and
might be ours again_. So Michael Paleologos, the Basileus, Emperor of
Constantinople, had introduced the suggestion that she go to Italy, and
at just such a moment as this, when they were in bed together in his
hunting lodge outside Nicaea.

She had felt no distress at the idea of being parted from Michael. He
was a scrawny man with a long gray beard, and though she counted herself
enormously lucky to have attracted his attention, she felt no love for
him.

She had come to Lucera acting as Michael's agent and personal emissary
to Manfred--and resenting Michael's use of her but feeling she had no
choice. She was a present from one monarch to another. She ought to be
flattered, she supposed.

She had walked into Manfred's court in the embroidered jeweled mantle
Michael had given her, her hair bound up in silver netting. Lorenzo
Celino had conducted her to the throne, and she bowed and looked up. And
it was like gazing upon the sun.

Manfred von Hohenstaufen's smile was brilliant, his hair white-gold, his
eyes sapphires.

He stepped down from his throne, took her hand, and led her to his
eight-sided garden. First she gave him Michael's messages--news that a
Tartar army had stormed the crusader city of Sidon, leveled it, and
ridden off again--a warning that Pope Urban had secretly offered the
crown of Naples and Sicily, Manfred's crown, to Prince Edward, heir
apparent to the throne of England.

"Your royal master is kind, but the pope's secret is no secret," Manfred
had said, laughing and unconcerned. "The nobility of England have flatly
told Prince Edward that they will supply neither money nor men for an
adventure in Italy. The pope must find another robber baron to steal my
crown." And then he asked her about herself, and they talked about her
and about him.

She had thought all westerners were savages, but Manfred amazed her with
his cultivation. He knew more than many Byzantines, for whom
Constantinople--which they always called "the Polis," the City, as if it
were the only one--was the whole world. In the short time she and
Manfred strolled together that day, he spoke to her in Greek, Latin, and
Italian, and she later found out that he knew French, German, and Arabic
as well.

He sang a song to her in a tongue she did not recognize, and he told her
it was Provençal, the language of the troubadours.

He undid the clasp of her mantle and let it fall to the gravel. He
kissed her in the bright sunlight, and she forgot Michael Paleologos.
She belonged altogether to Manfred von Hohenstaufen.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now, with a chill, she remembered that she did indeed _belong_ to
Manfred. She was not his mate but his servant.

His fingertips stroked her nipple lightly, but she ignored the tingle of
pleasure. She waited for him to say what he had to say.

He said, "Remember the fair-haired Muslim who came to the court today?"

"The man from Egypt? You had him killed?"

"I changed my mind," Manfred said.

She felt relief. She was surprised at herself. She had wanted the man to
live. She remembered her astonishment when, with a gesture like a
performing magician's, Manfred threw open the doors of his audience hall
and the entire court saw the blond man with his dagger at Celino's
throat.

She had been surprised when Manfred told her that this man, dressed in a
drab tunic and hose like a less-than-prosperous Italian merchant, was
the awaited Saracen from the Sultan of Egypt.

The sight of him as he passed through the audience hall had left her
momentarily breathless. He looked like one of those blond men of western
Europe the people of Constantinople called Franks and had learned to
hate at sight. His hair was not as light as Manfred's; it was darker,
more the color of brass than of gold. Manfred's lips were full and red,
but this man's mouth was a down-curving line, the mouth of a man who had
endured cruelty without complaint and could himself be cruel. She
wondered what he had seen and done.

As he had passed her, his eyes caught hers. Strange eyes, she could not
tell what color they were. There was a fixity in them akin to madness.
The face was expressionless, rocklike. This, she was sure, was no
ordinary man, to be disposed of as an inconvenience. She was not
surprised Manfred had decided to let him live.

"Why did you change your mind?"

"I think this Mameluke can help me," Manfred said. "Therefore I am going
to help him. He is going to Orvieto on a mission for his sultan. I am
sending Lorenzo with him."

"What did you call him?"

"A Mameluke. A slave warrior. The Turks who rule in Muslim lands take
very young boys as slaves and raise them in barracks to be soldiers.
They forget their parents and are trained with the utmost rigor. They
are said to be the finest warriors in the world."

_What does a life like that do to a man? It must either destroy him or
make him invincible._

"The man looks like a Frank," she said.

"He comes of English stock," said Manfred. "You Byzantines lump all of
us together, English and French and Germans, as Franks, do you not? So
you can call him a Frank if you like. But whatever he looks like, he is
a Turk at heart. I've learned that from talking to him. It's really
quite amazing."

They were plunged into deep shadow as the arched golden shape on the bed
curtain disappeared, a cloud having passed over the sun. Despite the
summer's heat she felt cold, and even though she did not trust Manfred
she reached for him, wanting him close.

But Manfred drew away from her, preoccupied. She pulled a crimson
cushion from behind him and hugged it against her breasts.

_How alone the Mameluke must feel. Even here, where Muslims are
tolerated, they have tried to kill him. And when he is in the pope's
territory, every man will be his enemy._

She remembered the harsh face with its prominent cheekbones and gray
eyes and thought, Perhaps being alone holds no terror for him.

_After all, I am alone, and I have made the best of it._

"What is his mission in Orvieto?" she asked.

She listened intently as Manfred told her a tale of trying to prevent
the great powers of East and West from joining together to crush Islam
between them.

Manfred continued, "David hopes to influence the pope's counselors to
turn against the Tartars, that they may sway the pope himself."

"How can one man attempt such a huge undertaking?"

"He brought me an exceedingly valuable stone, an emerald, which I will
trade for jewels he can carry to Orvieto and exchange for coins. It
pleases me greatly that the sultan would entrust me with such a gem.
That helped to change my mind about this David. The Saracens are men of
honor in their way." He smiled at her, looking pleased with the
situation and pleased with himself. But she was quiet, unmoving, waiting
for him to say the thing she feared to hear.

"But you are right," Manfred went on. "He cannot do it alone."

Warm yellow light once more filled their curtained cubicle. The cloud
had passed away from the sun. But her heart froze.

"I have decided I must entrust my own most precious jewel to David." He
put his hand on hers.

_Oh, no!_ she thought, anguish tearing at her heart as his words
confirmed her guess. She felt a terrible pain, as if he had run her
through with a spear. She wanted to clutch at him, hold him in spite of
himself. She had not felt so lost since her mother and father and the
boy she loved were killed by the Franks.

She studied his face to memorize it, because soon she would leave him
and probably never see him again. It would do her no good to let him see
how she felt. She must decide what face to show him.

_I am a woman of Constantinople, alone in a country of strangers. And we
are an ancient people, wise and subtle, and we bide our time._

She sat up in the bed, hugging her knees, thinking.

"How will my going with him help you?"

He grunted softly, and she looked at him. He appeared relieved. She was
making it easy for him. She felt the beginning of dislike for him
stirring within her.

"I thought you would be perfect for this. And you are."

His words puzzled her, and she almost let her growing anger show. "I do
not see what you see, Sire."

"We are in bed. You may call me Manfred."

_But I do not want to call you Manfred._

"What is it you think I would be so good at?"

"You can mask your feelings," he said with a smile. "You are doing it
now. You are very good at it."

"Thank you, Sire."

He shook his head, sat up beside her, and put an arm around her
shoulders. "I meant it when I said you are precious to me. But you must
go with this man. I cannot tell you all my reasons, but it is for your
own safety as well."

No doubt he was being honest with her, though he was not telling her
everything. Just the other day one of Manfred's servants, whom she had
cultivated with gifts, warned her that Manfred's queen, Helene of
Cyprus, was demanding that Manfred break with Sophia. Of course, Manfred
would never be willing to admit that his wife could force him to do such
a thing.

She wanted to get off by herself and think this out, and cry, let tears
release some of the pain she felt. This curtained bed confined her like
a dungeon cell. She found her white shift amid the rumpled bedclothes.
Getting up on her knees, she raised the shift over her head and
struggled into it.

"Where are you going?" Manfred asked.

She crawled around the bed to look for her gown and her belt. "I have
arrangements to make. Packing to do."

"I have not dismissed you," he said a bit sullenly.

"Yes, you have," she said, deliberately making her voice so low that it
would be hard for him to hear.

"You have not heard everything." He took her arm. She wanted to pull
away, but she let him hold her.

"I need your help," he went on. "You see, if David fails, in a year or
two I may be dead."

He let go of her. She picked up the blue gown she had so eagerly thrown
off an hour ago. Her fingers crushed the silk. She wanted to be alone,
but she needed to learn more. She paused, kneeling beside him.

"God forbid, Sire! Why should you be dead?"

"This time the pope is offering my crown to the French."

Sitting down, laying the gown in her lap, she sighed and turned all her
attention to him.

"Why can you not make peace with the pope? Why is he so determined to
dethrone you?"

"Like all storied feuds, it goes back so far that no one can remember
what started it," said Manfred, smiling with his lips but not his eyes.
"At present the pope refuses to recognize me because my father promised
to give up the crown of Sicily."

He paused a moment, and fixed her with a strangely intent stare. "And
because my father did not marry my mother. Even though he loved her
only, and never loved any of his three empresses."

_He is trying to tell me something_, Sophia thought.

But before she could reply, he went on with his tale of the
Hohenstaufens and the popes. "As the popes see it, to have a
Hohenstaufen ruling southern Italy and Sicily is like having a knife at
their throats. This pope, Urban, is a Frenchman, and he is trying to get
the French to help him drive us out."

The French. It was the French who, over fifty years ago, had stormed
Constantinople, looted it, and ruled over it until driven out by Michael
Paleologos.

And now the French threatened Manfred.

From his island of Sicily, how easy to launch another invasion of
Constantinople.

In memory she saw Alexis, the boy she loved, fall as the French crossbow
bolt hit him. She heard him cry out to her.

_Go, Sophia, go!_

_Why was I saved that night if not that I might help to stop the French
from conquering Constantinople again?_

"I cannot send an army to Orvieto to stop the pope's intrigues against
me," Manfred said. "That would turn all Christendom against me. But I
can send my two best people, my brave and clever Lorenzo and my
beautiful and clever Sophia. Together with David, you two perhaps can
turn my enemies against each other. You may be gone six months or a
year. And afterward you can come back."

He did not take his eyes from hers as he said it, but there was a
flickering in their depths that told her he was not being honest with
her.

"When will I meet this--Mameluke?"

"Tomorrow we go falconing. The forest is a good place to talk freely."
He paused and grinned at her. "But do not dress just yet. This may be my
last chance to enjoy your lovely body."

She looked away. She felt no desire for him. She was sick of being
enjoyed.

"Forgive me, Sire, I have much to do," she said. Before he could object,
she had slipped through the curtains around the bed and was pulling her
blue gown over her head. She had left half her clothes behind with
Manfred, but that did not matter. Her own quarters were near, and later
she could send a servant for her things.

As she hurried out the door, she pretended not to hear Manfred's angry
cry, muffled by the bed's thick curtains.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sophia wrapped in white linen the satin mantle in which she had been
presented at Manfred's court. She laid it in her traveling chest, then
brought her jewel box from the table on which it had stood since she'd
arrived here, and laid it on the mantle.

Manfred would gladly have ordered servants to do this packing for her,
but it was easier to preserve her privacy when she did for herself.

She looked down at the polished ebony box with the double-headed eagle
of Constantinople in mother-of-pearl inlay. A gift from the Basileus
when he sent her to Sicily. The eagle of Constantinople, tradition said,
was the inspiration for the two-headed Hohenstaufen eagle.

She folded a green woolen tunic and laid it over the jewel box. As she
stood with her hands pressed on the tunic, sorrow welled up within her.

_Was there ever a woman more alone in the world than I am?_

In one night made hideous by the flames of the burning city and the
screams of the dying, she had lost her father, Demetrios Karaiannides,
the silversmith, and her mother, Danuta, and her two sisters, Euphemia
and Eirene. The people of the Polis had risen against the Franks, and
the Franks had retaliated by killing everyone they could lay hands upon.

The boy she was going to marry, the boy she loved, had fled with her to
the Marmara waterfront. There they found a small boat, and then the
crossbow bolt had torn through his back. Dying, he cast her adrift.

_Go, Sophia, go!_

From then on she was alone.

_What am I? What is a woman alone?_

Not a queen or an empress, not a wife or a mother, not a daughter, not a
nun. Not mistress, now that Michael and Manfred had each sent her away.
Not courtesan or even harlot.

Crossing the Bosporus to Asia Minor, she had survived. She did not care
to remember the means by which she survived. Of all of them, the least
dishonorable was theft.

She let herself be used, and she could be very useful. She found her way
to the Byzantine general Michael Paleologos, who wanted to take
Constantinople back from the Franks.

Her help had been important to Michael, and he had rewarded her after he
reconquered the Polis and made himself its Basileus by keeping her as
his favorite for a time. And she had rejoiced to see Constantinople
liberated from the barbarians, even though no one she loved was left
alive in it.

Then Michael had made her leave the one place she loved, sending her to
Manfred in Italy.

And now, just when she had begun to lose the feeling of not belonging
anywhere, just when she felt she had found safe harbor with Manfred, she
was cut loose again.

She felt the tears coming, and fought them. She turned her mind away
from the questions that plagued her and thought about her packing.

_Saint Simon should go into the chest next._

In the center, where clothing above and below would protect him.

She went to the table by the window, where the small icon stood between
two candles in tall brass candlesticks. She picked up the saint and
reverently kissed his forehead, then held the icon out at arm's length
to look at it. The eyes dominated the portrait, transfixing her with a
blue stare.

She had painted it herself a few years before, copying another, larger
icon that belonged to the Basileus Michael. Simon's cheeks were hollow,
his mouth a tight line, his chin sharp. His hair hung brown and lank to
his shoulders, framing his face.

She had used real gold dust in the paint for the halo. Michael was
generous to her, and he laughed when she told him that she spent some of
the money he gave her on expensive paint for an icon. The idea of a
woman who painted amused him, like the bear that danced in the
Hippodrome.

Beyond the gold of the halo was the ocher of the desert and, standing
lonely over the saint's right shoulder, the pillar on which he had lived
in penance for fifteen years, the pillar that had given him his
name--Simon Stylites.

_Why do I reverence this saint? Because he knew how to endure alone, and
that is what is most important._

_Rest well, dear saint_, she prayed as she lowered the icon into the
cedar chest. She closed the gilded wooden doors that protected the
painting, breaking the grip of Simon's staring blue eyes.

She next opened a small box of dark, polished wood, its lid inlaid with
bits of mother-of-pearl forming a bird with swirling wings. A dozen
small porcelain jars lay in velvet-lined recesses shaped to hold them.
Each jar was ornamented with the same floral pattern in a different
color, each color that of the powdered pigment the tightly corked jar
contained. Take a pinch of the powder, add water and the clear liquid
from a raw egg, and you had a jewel-bright paint. Wrapped in linen at
one end of the box were her quill pens, brushes, and charcoal sticks.

As always, the sight of her materials made her want to stop what she was
doing and paint. She closed the lid gently, stroking its cover,
remembering the merchant from Soldaia in the Crimea who had sold her the
box outside the Church of Saint John in Stoudion, telling her it came
from a land far to the east called Cathay.

_The Cathayans must be as civilized as we are to make such a thing_, she
thought as she put the box in her chest.

This blond Saracen--this Mameluke--whom she had seen briefly and would
meet again tomorrow, would not be a civilized man. He was both Turk and
Frank--barbarity coupled with barbarity.

"Kriste eleison!" she whispered. "Christ have mercy." Until this moment
she had been able to stave off her fear of the danger she was going
into. Now it struck her full force, leaving her paralyzed over her
traveling chest, her trembling hand still resting on her box of paints
as if it were a talisman that could protect her.

She was going among the worst enemies her people had on earth, more to
be feared than the Saracens--the Latin Christians of the West. The floor
seemed to shake under her, and her body went cold and then hot as she
thought of what she must face. If they found out that she was a woman of
Constantinople, they would tear the flesh from her bones.

_A woman of Constantinople helping a Saracen to plot against the pope!_

Fear was like a cold, black ocean, and she was drowning in it. She dared
not even let herself imagine the horrors, the torments that would end
her life if those people in Orvieto found her out.

She did not have to go through with it. Once she and Lorenzo and this
David--this Mameluke--were on the road, she could slip away. Manfred had
said they would be carrying jewels. Perhaps she could take some, use
them to buy passage for herself.

_Passage to where?_

There was no place in the world she belonged but Constantinople. And her
place in the Polis was dependent on the basileus, Michael. If she
angered Manfred, she could not dare go back to Michael.

To be forever exiled from Constantinople would be a living death.

In her mind she saw the Polis, glowing golden at the edge of the sea.
She saw the great gray walls that had protected Constantinople against
barbarian invaders from East and West for a thousand years. She saw the
gorgeous pink marble of the Blachernae Palace of the Basileus, the
statue of Justinian astride his horse, his hand raised toward the East,
the great dome of Hagia Sophia, her namesake saint, that seemed to float
over the city, held in place by an army of angels. She heard the roar of
the crowd watching chariots race in the Hippodrome and the cries of the
merchants from their shops along the arcaded Mese. The Polis was the hub
of the world, the fulfillment of all desires.

The vision sent strength and purpose surging through her body, and she
straightened up, took her hand from the paint box, and began moving
around the room again, collecting her possessions.

She would go with Lorenzo and the Mameluke and do, as she had always
done, whatever was necessary. She would see this thing through. With the
help of God, she might prevail.

_And after that?_

What future for a woman as alone as Sophia Karaiannides?

She shrugged. Time enough to think about the future after she had been
to Orvieto and lived through it.

Of one thing she was already sure. She would not come back to Manfred.

She went back to her table. From a reading stand at its side she picked
up her leather-bound book of parchment sheets and opened it to a page
marked by a ribbon. She studied the portrait of Manfred she had begun
only two days before. Most of it was still rough charcoal strokes, but
she had colored his beard in a mixture of yellow and white paints,
because it was the most important color and she wanted to get it down
first so it could control her choice of the other colors. The eyes would
be last, because when she painted in the eyes the picture would, in a
sense, come to life.

Even with the eyes blank the portrait seemed to smile at her, and she
felt a ripple of remembered pleasure. Grief followed almost at once.

_Shall I try to finish this tonight and give it to him as a parting
gift?_

After a moment's thought her fingers clawed at the parchment and tore it
free of the stitches that held it in the book. She rolled it up and held
an end to a candle flame.




V


Keeping his face severe, Simon de Gobignon walked slowly past the six
knights lined up on the wharf. The men's faces were scarlet and
glistening with sweat under their conical steel helmets. Simon felt
rivulets running down his own back, under his padded cotton undershirt,
mail hauberk, and surcoat.

Gulls screamed overhead, and the smell of the salt sea and of rotting
fish hung heavy in the warm air.

Venice in July, Simon thought, was no place to be dressed in full battle
gear.

The two banners held by men-at-arms at the end of the line hung limply:
the royal standard of France, gold fleurs-de-lis on an azure ground, and
that of Gobignon, gold crowns on purple.

Simon reproached himself. He had brought his company down to the
waterfront too early, as soon as he had word that the galley bearing the
Tartar ambassadors from Cyprus was in the harbor. It was there, sure
enough; he could see it, a long, dark shape a few hundred feet from
shore. But it rode at anchor while officials of the Most Serene Republic
inspected it for diseases and registered its cargo, a task that had
already taken hours while Simon and his men sweltered onshore.

Behind the knights stood a lance of archers, forty men in four rows.
They were talking and laughing among themselves in the Venetian dialect,
which Simon could barely understand. While growing up he had learned the
speech of Sicily, but that was nearly a different language.

The crossbowmen should not be chattering, Simon thought. It was
unmilitary. Besides, it irritated him and added to the tension of this
endless waiting.

He took a step back and shouted, "Silencio!" The archers looked up, and
he saw more surprise and annoyance than respect in their faces. Some
eyed him expectantly, as if they thought him about to make a speech. He
glared at the archers for what he felt was a suitable interval, then
turned away and walked out to the edge of the jetty, his thumbs hooked
in his sword belt. He ignored the muttering that arose the moment he
turned his back.

"Scusi, Your Signory," said a rasping voice at his elbow. Simon turned.

Andrea Sordello, capitano of the archers, smiled broadly at him,
revealing a gap where one of his eye teeth should have been. The bridge
of his nose was smashed flat.

"What is it, Sordello?" The capitano had met him in Venice with a letter
of recommendation from Count Charles d'Anjou, brother of King Louis of
France, but a not-quite-hidden insolence in the manner of this bravo
made Simon uneasy.

"If Your Signory wishes to command the crossbowmen, perhaps it would be
better to transmit your orders through me. The men do not understand why
you silenced them just now. They are not used to being told to stand
like statues for no reason."

_And you would like to make yourself popular with them by disputing my
order, would you not?_

"Tell them they have entered the service of the kingdom of France," he
told Sordello. "It is customary for French soldiers to maintain a
military bearing and discipline."

"Forgive me, Your Signory, but that may offend them."

"It is not my duty to tell them what they want to hear but what they
_must_ hear," said Simon. _Rather well put_, he thought to himself.

"Sì, Your Signory." Sordello walked away. He had a slight limp, Simon
noticed. The man had certainly been battered. Even so, Uncle Charles's
letter said he was a fine troubadour. Or trovatore, as they called them
in Italy.

"Monseigneur!" A shout broke in on his thoughts. Alain de Pirenne, his
closest friend among the six Gobignon knights he had brought with him,
was pointing out at the harbor. The two rows of oars on either side of
the long-delayed galley were in motion. Even at this distance Simon
could hear the drumbeat and the overseer calling count. Simon had heard
songs comparing the oars of galleys to the wings of birds, and he could
see the resemblance as the rows of oars, looking delicate as feathers
from this distance, rose and fell over the water in unison.

"Thank heaven," said Simon.

"Indeed," said Alain. "I am starting to feel more like a baked pigeon
than a man."

As the galley swung in to the wharf, ropes flying through the air to
make her fast to shore, Simon heard a sudden outcry behind him and
jerked his head around.

"Make way for the most serene! Make way for the doge!" runners shouted.
Musicians blowing oliphants, cranking hurdy-gurdies, and pounding on
drums led a bright procession along the wharves. Two men in knee-length
scarlet tunics stiff with gold braid held poles between which swung a
huge banner. On the banner a winged lion in gold strode across a green
background. Simon saw rows of gleaming helmets and naked swords held
upright, followed by ranks of men in glittering brocaded robes, emerald
and silver, maroon and gold. Towering over all was a huge sedan chair
with a gilded roof and cloth of gold curtains, followed by a troop of
men with tall spears. A crowd of men and women in bright silk tunics and
satin gowns, laughing and chattering, brought up the rear.

A man in an ankle-length gown, his cap heavy with gold thread,
confronted Simon. He was, Simon recalled, a camerlengo who had been
present two weeks before when he had his brief audience with the doge
and presented his charter from King Louis.

"Count, your troops are occupying the place needed by the doge, that he
may properly greet our guests. Move them, if you please." The "if you
please" was uttered in a tone so perfunctory as to be almost insulting.
Simon's face burned and his muscles tensed, but when the ruler of Venice
demanded that he give way, he was in no position to quarrel. He bowed
curtly and turned to order his men to vacate the wharf.

And so, after waiting for hours, Simon suddenly found himself watching
the arrival of the ambassadors from behind ranks of Venetian archers far
more smartly turned out than his own mercenaries.

Why, Simon wondered, had the doge not made a place for him in this
welcoming ceremony? The slight made him feel angry at himself as much as
at the doge.

_It is me. Uncle Charles should have sent an older man, more able to
command respect._

First to come down the boarding ramp of the galley from Cyprus was a
friar in a brown robe with a white cord wrapped around his waist. The
crown of his scalp was shaved, and his beard was long and white. He
threw himself on the ground and kissed it with a loud smacking sound. He
rose and bowed to the doge's sedan chair.

The doge of Venice, Rainerio Zeno, emerged through curtains held for him
by two equerries in purple. Zeno was a very old, toothless man whose
black eyes glittered like a raven's. His bald head was covered by a
white cap bordered with pearls. His gold-embroidered mantle looked stiff
and hard as the shell of a beetle. Pages stood on either side of him,
and he leaned heavily on their shoulders, using them as crutches. The
friar bent and kissed Zeno's ring.

Simon could not hear what the doge and the friar said to each other. The
friar gestured toward the ship. Armed men--Simon counted ten of
them--tramped down the boarding ramp and formed two lines leading to the
doge. They were short and swarthy, wearing red and black breastplates of
lacquered leather and round steel helmets polished to a dazzling finish,
topped with spikes. Bows were slung crosswise over their shoulders, and
long, curved swords hung from their belts. Were these Tartars, he
wondered.

Their swords looked very much like the one Simon wore. Simon's was an
Egyptian scimitar, one of his most precious possessions, not because of
its jeweled hilt--a pearl set just behind the guard, a ruby at the end
of the hilt, and a row of smaller precious stones all along the
grip--but because of the one who had given it to him. And yet, much as
he prized it, the scimitar hurt him each time he looked at it, reminding
him of his darkest secret, a secret known to only three living people.
Simon's whole life, the scimitar reminded him, was built on a lie.

And he had accepted this mission, in part, to expiate the shame he felt
when he remembered that.

Now Simon, feeling very much out of his depth, touched the hilt of his
scimitar for reassurance. But as he recalled that the sword had once
belonged to a Saracen ruler, his heart leapt in fear.

_One never knows when or how the Saracens may strike_, Count Charles
d'Anjou--Uncle Charles--had warned him. _The arrow from ambush ... the
dagger that cuts the throat of a sleeping victim ... poison. When they
cannot kill they try to corrupt, with gold and lies. And they have
allies in Italy--the Pope's enemy, Manfred von Hohenstaufen, and his
supporters, the Ghibellini. You must be on guard every moment._

Simon's eyes swept the row of stone palaces that overlooked this part of
the waterfront, their battlements offering hundreds of fine hiding
places for killers. An enemy had only to gain surreptitious entrance to
one of those great houses--not hard to do when everyone's attention was
turned toward the galley bringing the Tartars.

_What should I do? The doge's men-at-arms outnumber mine, and look to be
better soldiers. And it seems the Tartars have brought their own
warriors. Perhaps I am not needed now._

The thought brought him momentary relief. But then Simon realized that
he was yielding to the temptation that had assailed him throughout his
life, the urge to conceal himself.

_But did I not undertake this task to uphold my family's good name and
my right to bear it? And besides, it is not only my dignity that must be
upheld here, but the honor of King Louis. If anything happens to the
Tartars now that they are on Christian soil, I will have failed my
king._

Simon was about to push forward to demand room for his men when the
friar who had just disembarked raised his arm. Simon's gaze followed the
direction of the gesture, and came to rest at the head of the boarding
ramp.

There stood two of the strangest-looking men Simon had ever seen. Their
faces were the deep brown of well-tanned leather. The eyebrows were
little black banners flying above black, slitted eyes that peered out
over the battlements of jutting cheekbones. Their mustaches were thin
and hung down in long strands below small chins adorned with sparse
beards. One man's beard was white, the other's black. But even the
black-bearded man was not young; there were deep creases in his face.
Both men wore cylindrical caps, each topped with a polished, spherical
red stone. Their ankle-length robes were of maroon silk, brocaded with
gold thread, and they wore short jackets with flowing sleeves. From the
neck of each man hung a rectangular tablet on a gold chain.

Simon's wonder turned to fear as he realized what perfect targets the
Tartar ambassadors were making of themselves.

He threw his weight against the men and women in front of him, forcing
his way through the crowd--and found himself facing one of the doge's
archers. The man raised his crossbow threateningly, but Simon saw
immediately that it was not loaded. Fine protection for the emissaries.

"De Pirenne! De Puys!" Simon called to the two French knights nearest
him. "Follow me." He turned back to the Venetian crossbowman and
shouted, "Stand aside!" in his loudest voice. "I am the Count de
Gobignon."

As he had hoped, the sound of his command carried to Doge Zeno, whose
face, wrinkled as a yellow raisin, turned in Simon's direction.

"Serenity!" Simon called, using the customary form of address for the
doge. "It is my duty to guard these ambassadors."

Sordello, at Simon's elbow, said in a low voice, "You are a great lord
in your own land, Your Signory, but it would be best if you did not
arouse the wrath of the doge of Venice."

"Be still," Simon snapped.

Helmeted archers moved in on Simon from all sides, but Simon saw the
doge give an abrupt hand signal to their capitano. At a shouted order
from the capitano, the men-at-arms fell back, letting Simon through.

"Why do you disturb our ceremonies, young count?" The doge's voice was a
hoarse whisper. He smiled faintly, but his eyes were cold as winter.
Simon felt painfully embarrassed. The ruler of the mightiest city on the
Middle Sea was, after all, as puissant as any king on earth.

Simon fell to one knee before the doge. "Forgive me, Serenity. I only
wish to aid you in protecting the emissaries from Tartary, as my king
has commanded me." His knees trembled, and he felt as if his heart were
hammering hard enough to break his ribs.

The smile faded and the aged eyes grew icier. "Does the Frankish count
think Venice too feeble to protect her distinguished visitors?"

"Not at all, Serenity," said Simon hastily. "Only let me add my strength
to yours."

"Say no more," said the doge in a voice as sharp as a dagger.

By now the two Tartars had descended the ramp and were standing before
the doge. For a moment Simon's eyes met those of the white-bearded
Tartar, and he felt a new, inexplicable, and powerful fear. He took a
step backward, almost as if he had been struck a physical blow, and he
gripped his sword hilt for reassurance.

The Tartar turned his gaze to the doge, and Simon's fear faded, leaving
him to wonder what there was in this little brown-skinned man to inspire
it. What he had seen in those eyes? A hardness, a gaze as empty of
concern for Simon de Gobignon as the cloudless blue sky overhead.

The friar said, "Serenity, this is John Chagan Noyon," indicating the
older Tartar. "A noyon among the Tartars is equal in rank to a prince in
our lands. The Khan Hulagu sends you a prince to show how earnestly he
wishes to ally himself with Christendom to destroy our mutual enemies,
the Muslims. This other gentleman is Philip Uzbek Baghadur. 'Baghadur'
means valiant, and he is a tuman-bashi, a commander of ten thousand. He
holds high place in the councils of Hulagu Khan." Each Tartar clasped
his hands before him and bowed low to the doge as his name was spoken.

"How is it that they have Christian names?" asked the doge.

The Franciscan friar smiled. "John Chagan comes of an old Christian
family, formerly subject to the great Christian King of Asia, Prester
John. And Philip Uzbek was baptized in his youth by the Bishop of
Karakorum."

The doge waved his bony hands, making his heavy garments rustle.
"Christian Tartars! Prester John! The Bishop of _Karakorum_? This is too
much for an old man to grasp all at once. But surely I can learn much
from you and these noble gentlemen that will be good for Venice. Tell
them that I invite them to bear me company to my palace, where we will
dine together tonight and I will learn more of the marvels of the empire
of Tartary."

Simon knew that the doge's palace was more than half a mile down the
avenue along this bank of the Grand Canal, and the prospect of the
ambassadors parading that distance alarmed him again. His fear of
disaster came back full force, driving him once again, against all
courtesy, to speak out.

"Serenity! I beg the privilege of joining forces with you to escort the
ambassadors to your palace."

Anger blazed in the gaze the doge turned upon him this time. "Young man,
if you speak out of turn once more, I will have you thrown into the
canal."

Simon had no doubt that the doge would enjoy making good on his threat.
But would the ruler of Venice allow an undignified scuffle on the
waterfront in the presence of two ambassadors? Simon doubted it, and
decided to stand his ground.

"Forgive me, Serenity," he said, inclining his head. "It is my concern
for these precious lives that urges me to speak out."

The doge took a deep breath. Then his small mouth twitched in a smile.

"Very well, Count. You may follow after us."

While the doge presented the assembled Venetian dignitaries to the
Tartars, Simon ordered Henri de Puys and Alain de Pirenne to draw up the
knights and Sordello to form up the archers and be ready to follow the
ambassadors' train.

Bearers brought a sedan chair for the Tartars, who climbed into it with
bows and smiles. To Simon's distress, the conveyance was open, naturally
enough, since the Tartars would want to see Venice and the Venetians
would want to see them. But it meant still more danger.

The Franciscan friar came over and put his hand on Simon's arm. "You are
very brave, young man, to speak up to the ruler of Venice as you did.
And who might you be?"

Simon introduced himself, and the friar bowed and addressed him in
French. "How good to speak the language of my homeland again. I am
Mathieu d'Alcon of the Little Brothers of San Francesco, and I was born
near Limoges, which is not far from your estate, Count. Of course, no
place in France is far from Gobignon lands." His broad smile told Simon
the remark was meant in friendly jest. "It was our good King Louis who
sent me to the Tartars years ago. I am glad we will be in French hands
after we leave Venice." He gave Simon's arm a squeeze and returned to
the doge's procession.

Simon had begun to think the whole world had turned against him, and
Friar Mathieu's friendly words cheered him immensely. He watched the
white-bearded friar with a warm feeling as he shook his head at the
attendants who held a sedan chair for him. As befitted a good
Franciscan, sworn to poverty and dedicated to simplicity, the friar
would allow no one to carry him but insisted on walking on his own
sandaled feet behind the Tartars' chair.

Simon and his men followed the last contingent of the doge's foot
soldiers along the waterfront. Ahead, a stone bridge arched over one of
the many Venetian canals.

The procession was moving slowly now. After crossing the bridge, Simon
saw the ambassadors' sedan chair swing around a corner, and his pulse
quickened because those he was to protect were out of his sight.

He wanted to hurry to the corner, but the street narrowed here, with the
windowless white ground floor of a palazzo on one side and an iron
railing on the other. There was no room to bypass those ahead. Simon
hurried his pace until he was all but treading on the leather-shod heels
of the spearman in front of him.

He turned the corner into the small square in front of the doge's
palace. He saw the doge's sedan chair and that of the Tartars pass
through the gateway between the palace and the great basilica of San
Marco.

Then he stopped short, feeling as if he had crashed headfirst into a
wall. The tall gates leading into the palace swung shut, and facing him
was a triple line of men-at-arms of the Most Serene Republic, in green
and gold tunics and armed with long spears.

"Mère de Dieu!" he whispered.

He could not force his way into the palace. If he even tried, he would
only look ridiculous. Indeed, he doubted that his men would fight. The
ill-disciplined mercenaries were Venetians, too, and why would they obey
the command of a French seigneur, who had hired them only yesterday, to
fight their own countrymen?

"It appears we are not welcome at the palace, Your Signory," said a
voice at his side. Simon turned and glared at Sordello, whose
weather-beaten face seemed to mask amusement.

Simon tried to think of a way to rescue his dignity. "Find the leader of
the palace guards and tell him I want to speak to him."

Sordello shrugged. "As you wish, Your Signory."

Alain de Pirenne, his gauntleted fist clenched on the hilt of his sword,
blustered out, "Damned Italian discourtesy! It would serve them right if
somebody did slip a dagger into those Tartars while we stand out here."

_God forbid!_ thought Simon.

Sordello came back with a Venetian man-at-arms, who touched the brim of
his polished kettle-helmet respectfully.

"This sergente has a message for you from His Serenity, the doge, Your
Signory."

"Let him tell it."

Simon's command of the Venetian dialect was not good enough to follow
what the man in the kettle-helmet said, and to make it harder, he spoke
in what appeared to be an embarrassed mumble.

"What did he say, Sordello?"

"Forgive me, Your Signory," said Sordello. "The message may offend you.
I will repeat it only if you wish it."

"What did he say?" said Simon again in a tight voice.

"The doge says you are to wait in quarters of your own choosing until
the ambassadors from Tartary are ready to travel. At that time he will
place them in your keeping. Until then you are to trouble him no more,
unless you are a very good swimmer."

Simon felt rage boil up within him. He clenched his fists and fought it
down.

"Tell him I thank His Serenity for his courtesy and will forever honor
him for it."

Sordello nodded, and there was a look of respect in his craggy face.

As Sordello repeated Simon's words to the sergente of the doge's guards,
Simon wheeled and strode back the way he had come, to stare out to sea.
Tears of frustrated fury burned his eyes. He could feel hot blood
beating in his temples. The doge had treated him like a small boy. That
old gargoyle had insulted him, had insulted the house of Gobignon, had
insulted King Louis.

And there was nothing Simon could do about it. He felt furious and
miserable. A failure, at the very start of his task.




VI


Crushed, Simon decided that at least he would quarter his French knights
and the Venetian archers as near to the doge's palace as possible. The
doge alone would be protecting the Tartars for the time being, and Simon
had no choice about it.

With Sordello's help he found lodgings for his men at the outrageous
price of two deniers a night per man--not all the thieves were on the
highways--at the nearest inn to the Piazza San Marco, just a short
distance down a side street. How much of what he paid the innkeeper, he
wondered, would end up in Sordello's purse?

Then, accompanied by Alain de Pirenne, he walked back to the entrance
gate to the doge's palace, a long three-story building that stretched
from the waterfront to the basilica. He sent a message in by way of a
guard, asking Friar Mathieu to meet him in the piazza. The kindly
Franciscan was, he suspected, the most important person in the Tartars'
entourage.

Simon and Alain had taken off their mail and were more comfortably
dressed in silk tunics, short capes, and velvet caps. Each still wore
his weapons belt, with longsword hung on the left and dagger on the
right. The leather heels of their point-toed boots rang on the stones of
the piazza as they paced, waiting to see if Friar Mathieu would come
out.

Alain was still indignant.

"They have no idea who you are, Simon. Why, you could take this whole
city and set it in one corner of the Gobignon domain and it would never
be noticed." Normally ruddy, Alain was even redder with anger. His blond
mustache bristled.

_As much as Paris goes unnoticed in the midst of the Île de France_,
Simon thought with a smile.

Now that his armor was off and an hour or more had passed, Simon felt
more at ease and was inclined to accept the situation. After all, if he
could not get into the doge's palace, he might reasonably hope that
neither could anyone who would want to harm the Tartars.

"It is wealth and ships that make this city great, Alain, not its size."

"That is all these Venetians care about--money." Like any proper knight,
Alain despised money and those who loved it. In the course of learning
to manage his estate, Simon had acquired more respect for money.

"Even Paris has no beauty to rival this," said Simon, feeling a shade
disloyal even as he said so. "Look at those horses." He pointed to the
façade above the central doorway of the cathedral of San Marco, where
four gilded bronze horses pranced, so proud and energetic as to seem
almost in motion.

Alain whistled in appreciation. "What wizard wrought them, I wonder."

Simon, who had been asking questions in the week they had been there,
said, "They come from Constantinople. About sixty years ago the
Venetians paid an army of French crusaders--our forefathers--to turn
aside from the Holy Land and conquer Constantinople instead. The
Venetians took those horses and set them here to proclaim their
triumph."

"Diverting a crusade is surely a great sin," said Alain. "And theft is
theft. But none of my forefathers had anything to do with the foul deed
you tell of."

"No, nor mine," said Simon. "The French knights who conquered
Constantinople were our forefathers only in a manner of speaking."

_But my predecessor, Count Amalric de Gobignon, did fouler things by
far. As Alain well knows, though he is too good a friend to mention
it._

"Still, the good taste of the Venetians is admirable," Simon said aloud,
still gazing at the horses.

"For all I know, this could be the richest city in the world," said
Alain, missing the point. "But what matter, Simon, if its riches are
stolen goods?"

"Venice is by no means the richest city in the world, Messire," someone
beside them said.

Startled, Simon turned to see Friar Mathieu, who had fallen into step
with them, his eyes warm and friendly. Simon wanted to throw his arms
around the old man and hug him.

"There are cities in the Far East so big and so rich they make Venice
look like a fishing village," Friar Mathieu went on, his long white
beard blowing gently in the breeze from the waterfront.

"People love to tell wild stories about the East," said Alain
skeptically. "I've heard of cities of solid gold, birds as big as an
elephant, and so on and on."

_But this man has been there!_ Simon wanted to shout. Much though he
liked Alain, Simon was discovering in his friend a narrowness that made
him a frustrating traveling companion. With Alain here, the conversation
with Friar Mathieu would plod, and Simon wanted it to gallop.

"Sire Alain," he said, "I fear our hired men-at-arms may get into
trouble drinking, fighting, and wenching unless someone keeps a sharp
eye on them. Will you see to them, please?"

De Pirenne held up a broad hand. "I will slap them down for you, if need
be, Monseigneur." Now that a third party was present, he addressed Simon
formally.

"Travel is said to open a man's mind," said Friar Mathieu when de
Pirenne was gone. "But some minds are like country châteaus. Let
anything strange approach, and the doors and windows slam shut."

He took Simon's arm and steered him over the flagstones of the piazza
toward the cathedral. The many-columned façade of pink, white, and green
marble, sculptures, and mosaics filling the spaces between them took
Simon's breath away. There was an opulence to the five great domes that
seemed to Simon to speak of the storied wealth of the East. They were so
different from the pointed spires of the cathedrals newly built in
France.

"I am very grateful to you, Simon, for trying so hard to protect us
today," Friar Mathieu said. "The doge's discourtesy to you was the
worst kind of rudeness, the rudeness of one who thinks himself more
refined than all others."

Simon felt better, but he wondered if the friar was speaking so only out
of kindness to him.

"It is good of you to reassure me," he said, "but the doge seems to be
guarding the ambassadors well enough."

"All show," said Friar Mathieu. "The Venetians are not alert enough. The
doge has no idea that we are in any danger. Nor does he seem to care. I
believe he has not decided whether he has anything to gain from an
alliance between Christians and Tartars. After all, the Venetians trade
quite happily with the Muslims these days."

Simon was shocked. "Is that not a sin?"

"Against God, perhaps, but not against profit. And the common heading on
your Venetian merchant's account book is 'For God and Profit.' Young
Seigneur de Gobignon, you do not know how happy I am to talk to a
Frenchman again after so many years."

"How long have you been among the Tartars, Friar Mathieu?"

The old Franciscan sighed. "Long enough to learn the Eastern peoples'
way of counting the years in twelve-year cycles. They give each year the
name of a certain animal."

"A strange system."

"A sensible system. It is easier to remember beasts than numbers. Let me
see, this year, Anno Domini 1263, they call the Year of the Sheep, and
when I first entered the camp of Hulagu Khan the Tartars told me it was
the Year of the Dragon. From Dragon to Sheep there are"--he counted on
his fingers while muttering the names of beasts under his breath--"seven
animals. So, seven years since our good King Louis sent me to bear his
messages to the Tartars."

"Then you went in 1256?"

"Anno Domini 1256. That is right."

Simon wanted very much to know more about life among the Tartars. But he
and the old friar could have long talks on the road to Orvieto. For now
there were more pressing questions.

Just as he was about to speak, the friar pointed to the gateway between
the basilica and the doge's palace. "There go the Armenians."

Simon saw six of the swarthy men crossing the piazza in a line.
Short-statured though they were, there was a swagger in the way they
walked. They had doffed their leather armor and wore tunics of white
silk with billowing red trousers over short black boots. Their tunics
were cinched at the waist with black leather belts, and in each belt was
thrust a curving saber in a jeweled scabbard. Their bows were slung
across their backs, along with black leather quivers.

"Four of them stayed behind to guard the Tartars," Friar Mathieu said.

Simon had been wondering just how his knights and archers would share
with the Armenian guards the responsibility of protecting the Tartars.

"Why did the ambassadors bring Armenians, and not their own Tartar
warriors?" he asked Friar Mathieu.

"Because the Armenians are Christians and are more like Europeans than
themselves. The Armenians are allies, not subjects of the Tartars. These
ten who travel with us are great men among the Armenian people. One of
them, Hethum, is in line to be King of Armenia some day. One feels
safer, traveling with such men."

Simon watched the half-dozen Armenians disappear down a narrow side
street leading off the piazza. He felt a twinge of worry, seeing that
they were heading toward the street in which his own men were quartered.
He wanted to follow after the men from the East, but he did not want to
interrupt his conversation with Friar Mathieu. Feeling pulled in two
directions, he held himself to the friar's slow, thoughtful pace as they
approached the cathedral.

"Even some Tartars are Christians, I have heard," Simon said.

"There are many religions among the Tartars." They had reached the front
of San Marco, and Friar Mathieu, still holding Simon's arm, wheeled them
around and started them walking back toward the doge's palace. "Hulagu
Khan's wife, the Khatun, is a Christian, although he is a pagan. But
what all Tartars really worship is strength. In their own language they
call themselves 'Mongols,' which means strong." Simon looked at the
friar and saw a faraway, awe-struck look in those old eyes. "One wonders
why God created them. To punish us for our sins? Or to rule the world
and to bring order to all mankind?"

"Rule the world?" said Simon. He thought about the two slit-eyed men in
silk robes he had seen disembarking from the galley a few hours before.
He remembered the look the older Tartar had given him, so unfeeling, as
if looking down upon him from a vast distance.

"They think it is their destiny to rule the world," said Friar Mathieu.
"And it is not a foolish dream. They have already conquered much of it.
You might sneer at me as your skeptical knight did, Monseigneur, if I
told you how vast the Tartar empire is. Take France, England, and the
Holy Roman Empire together, and they would be swallowed up in the lands
ruled by the Tartars."

"Please call me Simon, Father, if you will. It embarrasses me to be
addressed as monseigneur by one such as you."

Friar Mathieu patted Simon's hand. "Very well, Simon. That is kindly
spoken. It will be good for us to be friends, because we have a very
difficult and doubtful mission."

"Why doubtful?"

"We cannot be sure we are doing the right thing. These two men, John and
Philip, command great armies in the Tartar empire. Watch them, Simon.
Notice how they observe fortifications and weapons. The same monks who
made Christians of them also taught them how to write. Many times at
day's end in Syria and on Cyprus I have seen them talking together,
making notes, drawing maps. Whether they form this alliance or not, they
will have much useful knowledge to bring back to their khan."

_Then might it not be better for all of us if I fail to protect the
Tartars, and some enemy of Christendom succeeds in killing them?_

Simon felt an aching tightness in his forehead. He desperately wanted
the alliance to succeed, and thereby show the nobility of France that
neither he nor his family any longer deserved their scorn. If the
alliance failed, he failed, and the house of Gobignon would sink deeper
into dishonor.

Let others worry, he decided, about whether it was right or wrong to
protect the Tartars.

"Monseigneur!"

There was urgency in the voice that hailed Simon from across the square,
and a feeling of dread came over him. He turned to see his equerry,
Thierry d'Hauteville, his wavy black hair uncovered, running across the
piazza.

"They are fighting, Monseigneur!" Thierry panted. "Our Venetian archers
and those men from Tartary. You'd best come at once."

"Jesus, save us!" Simon heard Friar Mathieu whisper beside him.

Staring into Thierry's anxious eyes, Simon felt himself getting angry.
Six knights he had brought with him. Any knight worthy of his spurs
should be able to stop any pack of commoners from fighting. And if they
could not, he thought with a sudden shift from anger to anxiety, what
more could he do?

There was no time to think. "Father, will you come, please?" he said to
Mathieu, and without waiting for a reply struck Thierry on the shoulder
and began to run with him.

"I follow, as quickly as I can, my son," he heard from behind him.

"Could you not stop them?" he demanded of Thierry as they headed down a
narrow cobblestoned street at a dead run.

Dread made his legs heavy. De Puys, a veteran of the last crusade, de
Pirenne, a strong and well-trained knight--_they_ had sent for _him_.
For Simon de Gobignon, twenty years of age, who had never in his life
been in a battle.

Breath of God, what did they expect of him?

"There was nothing we could do without killing the Tartars' bodyguard,"
said Thierry. "You will see how it is when you get there."

The inn was a stone building with houses on either side. The lower half
of the divided door was shut, but the upper half was open, and Simon
heard shouts from within. Thierry, ahead of him, yanked the door open
for him.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the large room.
Shadowy figures jostled him as he pushed his way through. A little light
came from the grilled windows and from a single huge yellow candle
burning in a candlestick on a table. The room reeked of sweaty bodies
and old wine.

"Make way for Monseigneur le Comte!" Thierry called uselessly as the
Venetian mercenaries jabbered angrily in Italian.

Simon pushed his way into the corner of the room lit by the candle and
found himself facing a scowling, dark-skinned man pointing a gleaming
sword at him. Five of the Armenians, sabers out, had formed a protective
ring.

Within the ring, the sixth Armenian had a man bent forward over a table.
The man's arms flailed feebly and his eyes bulged. Even in the poor
light Simon could see that his face, turned on its side toward him, was
purple. The Armenian was holding his bow behind the man's neck and was
turning it slowly. Now Simon saw the string cutting into the neck.

It hurt Simon to look at what was happening. He felt his own breath cut
off, his heart pounding as if he were laboring for air. He wanted to
turn away and knew he could not. He must somehow stop this before that
Venetian died.

"Blood of God!" he whispered. He recognized the darkened, distorted
face.

Sordello.

All around Simon the Venetians were edging closer to the Armenians,
their daggers gleaming in the candlelight. But none of the foot soldiers
wanted to be the first to brave those sabers.

That meant, Simon thought, heart pounding, that he would have to face
them.

_Where the devil are my knights?_

Looking to the right and left Simon saw Alain, Henri de Puys, and the
four others, swords out but--like himself--unarmored, standing
irresolutely between the Venetians and the Armenians. Against one wall
he saw a huddle of women, their bare bosoms gleaming in the dim light.
Standing protectively in front of the women was a man Simon recognized
as the innkeeper. For the price Simon was paying, why could not this man
keep order in his own house?

"Aha, now we have the stinking figlii di cagne!" a man behind Simon
cried. Simon turned and saw a crossbow leveled at shoulder height. He
had ordered that the Venetians' weapons be kept under lock and key.
Evidently someone had broken them out. Once the rest of the Venetians
armed themselves with their bows, the Armenians would be slaughtered.

Simon's body grew hot with anger. He would like to kill the fool who
helped the Venetians to their arms.

But the Armenians had their bows, too, and one by one they started to
unsling them. Simon heard the ominous squeaking as the Venetians wound
back their crossbow strings. The Armenians would never be able to get
their arrows nocked and their bows drawn before the crossbow bolts began
to fly.

Simon's actions followed instantly on his thoughts. "Cessi!" he shouted,
hoping the Venetians would understand him.

Now all eyes were turned toward him. The muscles of his belly tightened
as he cast about in his mind for the right thing to do.

The hands of the Venetians hesitated on their crossbows as they
recognized their master.

"De Pirenne, de Puys, the rest of you. Make our men put down their
crossbows."

But just as Simon spoke, the Armenian strangling Sordello gave another
turn to his bow, and the old bravo gagged and gasped.

Simon realized that if he drew his scimitar, the room would be a charnel
house in moments. He approached the Armenian nearest him, spreading his
hands to show their emptiness. He prayed that the man, whose bow and
arrow was aimed at his chest, would not see how those outstretched hands
were trembling.

In his strongest voice he said, "Hold your arrow!" hoping the man would
understand his tone. As he spoke, he firmly grasped the arrow near its
head and pushed it aside. His heart thudded, and he could almost feel
that steel tip stabbing into his chest. And how bare was his back to the
crossbow quarrels!

The Armenian took a step to the side and let Simon pass. Simon let out a
deep breath of relief. As he stepped forward, the soles of his boots
slid a little. The floor, he realized, must be slippery with spilled
wine.

Now he was facing the man who was murdering Sordello. A vagrant thought
struck Simon: _I do not like Sordello. I would not mind if the Armenian
killed him. Why risk my life for him?_

_Because a good seigneur is loyal to his men_, the answer came at once.

He spoke commandingly but softly. "Stop. This is my man and you must not
kill him. Let him go." He put his hand firmly on the forearm of the
Armenian, who was a good deal shorter than he was. The man's dark brows
drew together in a puzzled frown. He was studying Simon's face. Simon
could feel a faint tremor in the muscles under his hand.

Any man would be frightened at a moment like this, no matter how brave,
how hardened, Simon thought. But he saw that the Armenian's face was
unlined, his eyes clear. His black mustache was small and fine.

_He must be about my age. Maybe even younger._

Simon felt a warmth toward the young Armenian, and hoped he could win
him over. But how could such a pleasant-looking fellow bring himself to
strangle a man with a bowstring? Perhaps Sordello had done something
truly evil.

"Come now," Simon said, giving the young man's arm a gentle shake. "Do
let him go." He essayed a smile, hoping it would look friendly.

The Armenian let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes. Then he released
his grip on the bow. He slapped it with one hand to make it twirl. Simon
heard a faint choking sound from Sordello, and then the Italian slid to
the stone floor.

A woman, her henna-dyed hair gleaming red-gold in the candlelight,
rushed to the young Armenian and held his arm, talking soothingly in
Italian. He stiffened at first, then smiled at her.

"Thank you," said Simon to the Armenian, shaky with relief.

He smiled and patted the dark man's free arm, feeling foolish about his
simple words of gratitude. If only Friar Mathieu would get here so that
he could talk to these men from the East.

A cool feeling of relief bathed Simon. So far all had gone amazingly
well. But, he reminded himself, this was not over yet. He must continue
to think quickly.

"De Puys, clear the Venetians out of here. Assemble them outside. Then
march them away from this street altogether. And collect their crossbows
and get them locked up again. You should never have let them get at
those weapons. De Pirenne, you stay here and tell me what happened."

"Well, this is how it was, Monseigneur," said Alain, looking abashed.
"Our men were drinking quietly, and this redheaded woman was sitting
with Sordello. Then these men from Tartary came in. They made no
trouble, just sat down in their own corner. But the woman, she took a
fancy to that man you saw trying to kill Sordello. She served him wine
and sat down with him. Sordello went over and tried to get her back.
There were words. They didn't understand each other, but the meaning was
clear. Sordello went for the other with a knife. And then the other man
_kicked_ it out of his hand--rather a surprise, that was--to Sordello,
too, I think. And the next thing I know he was strangling Sordello and
his companions would not let anyone stop it. Sordello had the key to the
storeroom where the crossbows were kept. After the Armenian seized him,
he threw it to one of the Venetians."

A typical muddle, Simon thought, like most of the cases brought to him
for justice since he had become Seigneur of Gobignon. He felt disgusted
with all these fools. No saying who was at fault. Most likely the damned
woman. Thank the Virgin he did not have to fix blame, just put a stop to
the fighting.

Sordello, who had been lying curled up on the floor, suddenly lashed out
with a booted foot.

The woman screamed. As Simon stared, the young Armenian fell heavily to
the wine-wet floor. Sordello sprang upon him, and a dagger flashed. He
was striking at the Armenian's chest.

Simon had no time to feel the panic that flooded through him. He grabbed
for Sordello's arm, too late to stop the dagger but pulling it back so
that it drove upward through the muscles of the chest instead of
plunging deep. The Armenian bellowed in pain. With all his strength,
Simon yanked Sordello off the Armenian and threw him backward. De
Pirenne caught him and held him.

Shouting in their own language and brandishing their swords, the other
Armenians rushed at Sordello.

A familiar voice cried out a sentence in a strange tongue. Friar Mathieu
rushed into the circle of candlelight, his white beard flying, his arms
upraised. At his sudden appearance the Armenians, who were ready to make
mincemeat of Sordello--and perhaps de Pirenne with him--hesitated.

_Oh, thank God!_ The weight of struggling to control this dreadful
situation was no longer Simon's alone to bear.

Friar Mathieu spoke several sentences to the Armenians. Simon could not
tell from his tone whether he was scolding them or trying to placate
them. There were in the room five angry men who looked to be formidable
fighters, armed with swords and bows and arrows. And, Simon realized, he
had just sent away all but one of his knights and all of his
crossbowmen.

Simon cursed himself for letting Sordello wound the young man.

_Alain said Sordello dropped a dagger. Why did I not think to look for
it?_

He felt himself growing hot and cold as he realized this incident might
wreck everything--for Christendom, for Louis, and for the honor of the
House of Gobignon.

Now Friar Mathieu fell to his knees beside the young Armenian, whose
white tunic was splashed deep scarlet with blood. He spoke comforting
words to him and then turned an agonized face to Simon.

"This is Prince Hethum," said the friar. "The Tartars will be furious
when they learn what has happened. This may destroy any chance of an
alliance. At the very least, they will demand satisfaction."

_I am to protect these emissaries, and one of my own men has stabbed a
prince of Armenia._

Despair was an ache in Simon's chest.

"What sort of satisfaction?"

"I fear they will require that man's life," said Friar Mathieu sadly.

"By God's beard, I have done no wrong!" Sordello rasped. His voice was a
croak.

"Be silent!" Simon snapped, his rage against himself turning to fury at
Sordello. "You are a fool, but being a fool will not save you."

"Your Signory!" Sordello cried. "How could I let him take the woman from
me? My honor--"

"_Your_ honor!" Simon raged. "What is your wandering blackguard's honor
compared to the honor of France? The woman chose him over you. Look at
her."

Sordello glared at Simon, but was silent. The red-haired woman crouched
over the fallen Prince Hethum, crooning softly in Italian.

_And yet, Uncle Charles would not want me to sacrifice Sordello. And the
Armenian did try to kill him. My knights and men-at-arms will lose all
respect for me if I let the Tartars have their way with Sordello._

_But if he goes unpunished, if the Armenian prince goes unrevenged,
there will be no alliance at all._

And it would be his fault. The little honor that was left to the House
of Gobignon would be lost.

A wave of anger at himself swept over him. Had he dedicated himself to
the alliance only so that he might free himself from the agony of his
guilty secret and his house from dishonor? He thought of King Louis and
how pure was his desire to win back for Christendom the places where
Christ had lived. How impure were Simon's own motives!

As long as he put his own needs first, he would continue to deserve the
burdens of guilt and shame.




VII


    In the Name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful.
    All praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds.
    Master of the Day of Judgment.

Daoud stood perfectly still, looking into the violet sky, reciting in
his mind the salat, the prayer required of a Muslim five times daily.
This was Mughrab, the moment when the last light of sunset had drained
away. An evening breeze cooled his face, welcome after a day of
traveling under the summer sky of Italy. Oriented by a bright crescent
moon just rising, he faced southeast, toward Mecca. His back was to the
stone wall of the inn called the Capo di Bue, the Ox's Head, where he
and Sophia and Celino had decided to spend the night. On the other side
of the wall, loud voices contended for attention, the sound of travelers
in the common room settling down to supper.

Praying in the dusk reminded Daoud that he was alone. What would it be
like now in El Kahira, the Guarded One? He would be praying with
hundreds of fellow Muslimin, standing shoulder to shoulder, all equal
before God, in the Gray Mosque, all listening to the call of the blind
muezzins from the minarets--"Come to the house of praise. God is
Almighty. There is no god but God."--all facing the Prophet's birthplace
together in holy submission. Daoud's prayer might be the only one going
up to God tonight from anywhere near Rome.

All around him towered ruins. The silhouettes of broken columns rose
against the darkening sky, and across the Appian Way the ragged shape of
what had once been a wall. Pines stood tall and black where, according
to Lorenzo, some wealthy woman of ancient Rome had her tomb.

He tried to forget his surroundings and to think only of the salat. It
was hard to concentrate when he could not assume the proper positions
for prayer--raise his hands, kneel, strike his forehead on the ground.
He fixed his mind on the infinity of God.

"Do not try to see Him," Abu Hamid al-Din Saadi had told him. "If you
see Him in your mind, you are looking at an idol."

Daoud did not try to see God, but as he prayed, a Muslim all alone in
the heart of Christendom, he could not help but see Sheikh Saadi, the
Sufi master who had brought him to Islam.

       *       *       *       *       *

The face was very dark, the rich black of a cup of kaviyeh. Out of the
blackness peered eyes that _saw_--saw into the very souls of his
students.

Often as he sat listening to Sheikh Saadi read from the Koran, the Book
to be Read, and explain its meaning, voices from the past reproached
him. The voice of Father Adrian, the chaplain of their castle, rang in
his mind. The quiet voice of his mother, teaching him the Lord's Prayer
and the Hail Mary, whispered to him. Like thunder his father spoke of
war and of what it was to be a knight.

He could escape the torment of these voices only by listening closely to
the Sufi sheikh. Saadi was trying to teach him how to be good, and that
was the same thing his mother and father had wanted for him. So they
would not mind if he learned from Saadi.

Sheikh Saadi, wearing the white woolen robe of a Sufi, sat on a
many-colored carpet of Mosul, an open copy of the Koran resting on an
ornately carved lectern before him. His hand, as dark as the mahogany of
the stand, caressed the page as he read aloud.

"'Such as persevere in seeking their Lord's countenance and are regular
in prayer and spend of that which We bestow upon them secretly and
openly, and overcome evil with good: Theirs will be the Heavenly Home.'"

_Mohammedan dogs!_ Daoud remembered Father Adrian in his black and white
robes shouting in the chapel at Château Langmuir. _Satan is the author
of that vile book they call the Koran._

By the age of eleven Daoud had already known cruelty and evil at the
hands of the Turks who had captured him, kindness with Baibars, and
goodness with Sheikh Saadi. The Sufi sheikh had never made any claim,
but Daoud had no doubt that he often walked and talked with God.

"Secretly and openly are we to give," the old man was saying. "God has
been generous to us, and we must be generous in turn. When you are kind
to a bird or a donkey, or even to an unclean animal like a pig or a dog,
He loves you for it. He loves you more when you are kind to a slave or
to a woman or to one of the unfortunate, like a cripple or an
unbeliever."

"Daoud is both a slave and unbeliever," said Gamal ibn Nasir with a
faint sneer. "Must I be kind to him?" Daoud stared at Gamal, burning
with hatred, all the more because what he said was true.

Gamal was a slender, olive-skinned boy whom no one dared cross, because
he was a grandson of the reigning Sultan of Egypt, Al Salih Ayub. Most
of Saadi's students were boys of noble family, and Daoud knew that he
was permitted to enter this circle only because all men feared and
respected Baibars. And even though he studied Islam with them because it
was Baibars's wish, Daoud remained fil-kharij, an outsider, because he
was an unbeliever.

The boys sat in a semicircle, their rectangles of carpet spread over the
blue and white tiles of the inner courtyard of the Gray Mosque, where
Saadi had been teaching since long before these students were born. The
old black man sat with his back to the gray stones of the western wall,
the stones that gave the mosque its name. He taught in the late
afternoon, when he and the boys could sit in the shade.

"God is compassion itself, Gamal," Sheikh Saadi said with a smile, "but
even He may find it hard to love a mean spirit." The sultan's grandson
blushed angrily, and his eyes fell.

Thinking about the compassion of God, Daoud opened his eyes wide as a
startling idea occurred to him. But after the insult from Gamal his
tongue felt thick in his throat and the palms of his hands went cold at
the thought of speaking. He still stumbled over the Arabic tongue in
which Sheikh Saadi conducted his lessons.

Saadi looked warmly upon him. "Daoud has a question?"

Daoud stared down at his hands, which seemed very large as they lay in
his lap. "Yes, master." Those kindly velvet-black eyes seemed to draw
speech out of him. "If God loves the compassionate, how can he look with
favor upon the warrior, who wounds and kills?"

Saadi's turbaned head lifted. His grizzled beard thrust forward, and his
eyes grew round and serious. He looked, Daoud thought, like a
thoroughbred steed pricking up his ears to a trumpet call.

"I say to you, Daoud, and to Gamal and to all of you--the work of a
warrior is a holy calling. When the Prophet Muhammad, may God bless and
salute him, began to teach, he did not want the believers to be men of
the sword. But the pagans beat those who went to hear him, and they
would not let him teach. And so he learned that a true man of God must
go forth with the Book in one hand and the sword in the other."

Daoud felt a warm pride in his chest. He was not a despicable slave. He
would one day be a warrior, in a way a holy man, like Saadi, who helped
spread the teachings of God.

_But I am an unbeliever._

He listened for the Frankish voices in his mind crying out against the
Saracens, against the devilish religion of the one they called Mahound.
But the voices were silent.

A pale boy with a grave face asked, "If God made man, how can He love
one who butchers His creatures?"

Sheikh Saadi raised an admonishing finger. "The Warrior of God is no
butcher. He strikes with sorrow and compassion. He hates evil, but he
loves his fellow men, even the one he fights against. The Warrior of God
is known, not by his willingness to kill, but by his willingness to die.
He is a man who would give his life for his friends."

Saadi went on to speak of other things, but Daoud's mind remained fixed
on the words "Warrior of God."

Ever since the day the Saracens carried him off, he had lived without a
home. He had drunk from gold cups in the palace of Baibars, had seen
that a Mameluke might rise to earthly glory. But such rewards fell to
only one in a thousand. For the rank and file, the life of a Mameluke
was a hard one, often ending in early death.

Lately Baibars had sent him to live with the other Mameluke boys in
training on the island of Raudha in the Bhar al-Nil, the river Nile.
Every morning, when he woke to the rapping of the drill master's stick
on the wooden wall of his sleeping shed, his first feeling was anguish.
Sometimes he prayed before sleeping that he might not wake up again.
Only when he journeyed twice a week, by boat and on foot, to sit at the
feet of Saadi, did he feel any peace.

But what if God had chosen him to be a Mameluke? Then it was a blessed
life, a holy calling, as Saadi had said. There was a world beyond this
one, a place the Koran called a "Heavenly Home." All men, Christian and
Muslim, believed that. As a warrior he could hope that his hardship
would be turned to joy in that Heavenly Home. In that world, not one in
ten thousand, but every good man, would dwell in a palace.

Absorbed in his own thoughts, he heard the soft, deep voice of Saadi as
one hears the constant murmur of the windblown sand in the desert. The
boys around him and the men who came and went in the Gray Mosque--all
were believers. As a warrior of God he could be part of that, and not
the least part. He would no longer be fil-kharij, a stranger in this
world. He would be fil-dakhil, at home.

The lesson was over. The boys stood with Saadi and bowed their heads in
prayer. After the prayers they bowed again to their teacher and, alone
or in pairs, pattered out of the courtyard of the Gray Mosque.

When they were all gone, Daoud stood alone facing Saadi.

"What does Daoud have to say to me?"

In a rush of love for his master, Daoud threw himself to his knees and
struck his forehead on Saadi's red carpet, bumping his head hard enough
to be slightly stunned.

"What is it, Daoud?" Saadi's voice was a comforting rumble.

Daoud sat back and looked up. The figure of the Sufi towered over him.
But Saadi bent his head, and looking into the dark face, Daoud felt as
if someone huge and powerful had taken him into his arms.

"Master, I want to embrace Islam."

       *       *       *       *       *

Daoud was mentally repeating the salat for the third time when he heard
footsteps and the click of hooves coming up the road. He shut his eyes
to resist the distraction.

A voice interrupted the fourth repetition. "Peace be unto you, Signore.
Can you tell me if there is room at the sign of the Capo di Bue for my
son and me and our donkey?"

Daoud was annoyed at having to stop his prayers, but he had to reply or
call unwanted attention to himself. He opened his eyes and saw in the
shadows before him a short man with a full white beard holding the reins
of a donkey that breathed heavily and shifted its feet nervously on the
great black paving stones of the Appian Way. A second figure, obscure in
the darkness, sat on the donkey. The two seemed heavily dressed for
summer. The bearded man wore a round black hat with a narrow brim, of a
type Daoud had never seen before.

"It is not overly full," he said impatiently.

But the man with the black hat still stood before him. "Are you sure
that we will be welcome, Signore?"

"You can pay for a place in the common bed, can you not?" said Daoud,
eager to finish the prayer.

"Oh, we do not require a bed, Signore," said the old man. "We will sleep
in the stable, or sit up"--he chuckled--"or even sleep standing up, as
our donkey does. It is just that we cannot go farther tonight. Rome has
more robbers than a dog has fleas."

Why in the name of God was the man so hesitant? Daoud, seeing no need to
continue the conversation, remained silent.

The old man sighed. "Peace be to you, Signore," he said again. "Come, my
son."

The man's son climbed down, and the two travelers pulled the donkey
through the inn's gate. Leather packs hung from either side of the
donkey, and Daoud wondered what was in them. Probably nothing of value,
but robbers would attack anyone who looked vulnerable, and the old man's
fear was doubtless justified.

Daoud thought of the precious stones he and Celino carried between
them. He felt the cold breath of danger on the back of his neck.

_Here in this inn they may all be honest men, but if they knew what
wealth we had, even honest men would try to cut our throats._

He turned his mind again to his prayers. By the time he finished and
turned to go through the gate leading to the courtyard, he sensed a
change in the noises from within. Shrill, angry voices had replaced the
cheerful murmur of general conversation.

The donkey and the boy who had ridden it huddled in the corner where the
stables met the main building.

Daoud stood listening in the center of the inn yard, his hand resting
lightly on the dagger at his belt. He faced the two-story main building,
the dining hall at ground level, the beds that slept six or more
upstairs. Access to the sleeping room was by way of a flight of outside
wooden stairs leading to a platform and an upper door. The doors and the
window shutters on both levels were open to let in the cool night air.
Stables secured with half doors on his left, a storage shed on his
right.

As Daoud strode past the old man's son, he caught a glimpse of bright
black eyes reflecting the light from oil lanterns hung on wooden pegs
set high on either side of the inn door.

Daoud moved to the doorway, and as he looked into the smoky, candlelit
hall, his heart sank.

The crowd of men and women in the room were turned toward Lorenzo
Celino. He stood against the far wall, the long blade of his sword
gleaming in the candlelight, facing six naked daggers.

Beside Celino, the hound Scipio stood stiff-legged, tail whipping from
side to side, fangs bared, growling softly. Fear of that dog was keeping
Celino's opponents back as much as fear of his sword, thought Daoud.

The bearded old man who had spoken to Daoud was standing to Celino's
left and a little behind him. Celino's eyes flicked toward Daoud for an
instant, and then quickly away before anyone might notice that he had
looked toward the doorway.

Daoud scanned the room for Sophia. She was standing in the shadows,
almost invisible in a long, hooded cloak. No one was threatening her.

One of the men facing Celino, Daoud recognized, was the innkeeper
himself. He was a huge man with broad, rounded shoulders and a shock of
thick black hair cut off at the same length all the way around, so it
looked like a bowl. The dagger he held was a long, murderous blade, but
his big hand made it look like a toy.

"Give us the Jew," the innkeeper said to Celino. "We have no quarrel
with you."

The old man was a Jew? How was it, Daoud demanded of himself, that these
people had known that and he had not?

"You do have a quarrel with me," said Celino, "because I do not care to
see you torment and rob this old man."

Daoud swore to himself. Was this the kind of madman Manfred had yoked
him with? Sworn to the utmost secrecy, carrying a fortune in jewels, and
now he brings a whole inn down around his ears by defending some dusty
old man?

_But does not God love the compassionate?_

_Give us the Jew_, the innkeeper had said. Daoud knew that Christians
took delight in mistreating Jews.

_And I told the old man to go in there. But I did not know he was a Jew.
Or that these people would harm him._

Whether Celino was a madman or not, Daoud would have to get him out of
this, because he was carrying half of their supply of precious stones.
When they left Lucera, Daoud and Celino had divided the twenty-four
jewels Manfred had traded for the great emerald. Each carried half of
the precious stones in a pouch hidden under his tunic.

Daoud studied the room. There must be a good thirty people there, most
of them men. Aside from the six surrounding Celino, few of them seemed
menacing. But if someone jumped in to help Celino, more might join the
other side.

_What do I have to help me? That boy who came with the old man. Sophia.
And Celino and the dog._

If only, he thought, he had the Scorpion. But that was in the dining
hall there, with all their other baggage, which Celino--the fool!--was
supposed to be guarding.

He backed out into the small courtyard and bumped into the boy, who had
followed him to the door. "You. Your father is in danger in there. And
my friend has gotten into trouble trying to help him. We must get them
out, you and I."

"Why should Christians help us?" The bitter voice was high. The boy must
be very young. He was wrapped up like a Bedouin. His head and face were
swathed in a dark cloth, his body cloaked. Only those sparkling eyes
showed.

"I must help my friend," Daoud said. "If he lives, you can ask him why
he chose to defend your father. Are you just going to cower here?"

"What should I do?"

What would make those men leave Celino alone long enough to give him a
chance to escape? Standing outside the doorway with the boy, Daoud's
eyes searched the courtyard again as his mind tried to fit what he saw
into a plan.

Daoud looked up at the lanterns again. Fire was sure to take men's minds
off a fight.

"Take the lanterns and run up those stairs. Throw them into the bedding
and get a good fire going. Make sure the floor is burning. Then come
back down to me."

Daoud took the two lanterns down from their pegs and handed them to the
boy, who raced up the stairs that clung to the outer wall of the inn.
Daoud went to the stable and opened the doors of the stalls that held
their four horses. He dragged out the saddles and bridles and threw them
over the horses' backs. Trained with horses since boyhood, he worked
with practiced speed. By the time the boy was beside him again, he had
two of the horses saddled.

He looked up and saw bright yellow flames flickering in the upper
windows.

"You did that well," he said. "You know how to saddle horses?"

"Yes, Messere."

"Get these two ready, then. Do it right; you will be riding one. And
hold them here with your donkey."

Daoud turned and shouted, "Fire!"

He ran to the doorway, looked in long enough to see the darkened spot
with its glowing center in the wooden ceiling of the dining hall, and
gestured toward it as he again shouted, "Fire!" Then he stepped back to
let the crowd tumble out past him.

The burly innkeeper was among the first to exit, jamming his dagger back
into its scabbard and shouting for help. "Take water from the horse
trough. Get buckets, pots, anything!" Waving his long arms, he towered
over the men milling around him like a giant commanding an army of
dwarves.

When the first rush had pushed through the doorway, Daoud ran into the
dining hall. He could see the blackening circle spreading in the ceiling
and flames licking around its edges.

Celino and the old Jew were still standing together by the far wall.
Only three men faced them now.

"Come on!" Daoud shouted. He strode to the table where they had been
sitting and grabbed up their packs.

"Stay where you are!" a woman's voice cried. It was the innkeeper's
wife, a gaunt woman nearly as tall as her husband, with bulging eyes and
a face as sharp as the carving knife she brandished.

An earthenware jug crashed down on her head. Her eyes rolled up till
only the whites showed. As she slumped to the floor, Daoud saw Sophia
behind her.

_Well done, Byzantine woman._

"Scipio! Spegni!" Celino shouted. With a roar like a lion's, Scipio
leapt at the central figure among the three men confronting his master.
Scipio's prey screamed, then stumbled over a bench and fell to the floor
on his back. The hound sprang onto his chest, snarls of rage all but
drowning out his victim's shrieks. The other two men, their mouths
gaping, their eyes fixed on nothing, ran past Daoud without seeing him.

"Stop your dog," Daoud called to Celino. "I want no killing." Smoke
spreading from above was searing his nostrils.

Daoud, Celino, and Sophia, followed by the old man and the dog, made
their way to the door.

Daoud threw saddlebags to Celino and Sophia. Men were dragging their
panic-stricken, rearing horses out of the stables and through the gate.
The giant innkeeper and other men were racing up and down the outside
stairs, which had also begun to burn, dumping buckets of water on the
fire. Men were fighting their way through smoke and flame into the
bedroom, trying to rescue belongings they had left there.

The boy stood by their horses, exactly where Daoud had left him. Bravely
done, Daoud thought. Hastily tying his packs down, Daoud unlaced one.
There were two weapons inside--a Scorpion, the miniature crossbow of the
Hashishiyya, and a full-size crossbow. Daoud chose the bigger one, a
Genoese arbalest drawn by crank, a present from King Manfred. The
quarrels were loaded by spring from a chamber within the stock that
could hold six at a time, so that the bowman could fire it as quickly as
he could draw it.

Holding the arbalest with one hand, Daoud vaulted into the saddle.
Celino and Sophia were already up. The old man had clambered onto their
spare horse, and his son was on the donkey.

_I should leave that old man behind_, Daoud thought angrily. _Were it
not for him, I would be sleeping comfortably right now._

"_They_ started the fire!" It was the innkeeper's wife in the doorway,
her tall body and long arms silhouetted by leaping flames. She pointed
an accusing hand at Daoud's party. "Stop them!"

The men who had been trying to put out the fire were giving up, and they
turned and started for Daoud and his companions.

"Throw them into the fire!" shrieked the woman in the doorway.

Motioning the others toward the gate, Daoud turned his horse sideways
and swung the crossbow in an arc to cover the attackers. The men stopped
their rush, but the tall woman pushed her way through them, screaming
curses.

Her hulking husband joined her, his long arms reaching for Daoud. He
looked able to knock a horse to the ground.

Daoud used both hands to aim the crossbow at him, gripping the horse
with his knees. He hoped the threat would be enough to stop the man. He
did not want to shoot the innkeeper. If anyone were killed, the deed
could follow them to Orvieto.

As he hesitated, the huge man drew back his arm and threw the dagger
with the force of a catapult. Daoud heard a thump and a groan behind
him. Daoud's thumb pressed the crossbow's release, and the string
snapped forward with a reverberating bang. The innkeeper bellowed with
pain, the cry dying away as he collapsed. The bolt probably went right
through him, thought Daoud.

As the man's dying groan faded, his wife's scream rose. She fell on her
knees beside him, and the other men crowded around them.

"Blood of Jesus! Pandolfo!" the innkeeper's wife wailed.

Jerking the reins with his left hand, Daoud wheeled the horse out the
gate.

_God help us, now they will be after us._

Which one of his people had been hurt?

He found himself, in his anger, hoping it was Celino.

The three other horses and the donkey were bunched together outside the
gate, on the dirt path that led through trees to the Appian Way. Some of
the men from the inn were out there, too, but when Daoud swung the
crossbow in their direction, they backed into the inn yard.

"Leave me here," the old man gasped. "I am dying." So it was he the
dagger had hit. They would have to leave him, Daoud thought, and his son
would insist on staying with him. And the vengeful crowd from the inn
would tear the two of them to pieces. All this fighting would have been
for nothing.

Celino spurred his horse over to where the old man swayed in the saddle
clutching his stomach. "Sorry to hurt you, but we are not leaving you,"
he said. He pulled the groaning wounded man across to his own horse and
swung one of his legs over so that he was riding astride.

Daoud saw blood, black in the faint light of the crescent moon, running
out of the old man's mouth, staining his white beard.

"Can you ride a horse?" Celino barked at the son.

"Yes," the boy sobbed.

"Get up on this one." Celino indicated the horse from which he had just
dragged the old man. "Take your packs off the donkey and put them on
this horse if you want them. Quickly, quickly. Leave the donkey."

Daoud fingered the crossbow as the boy hastily transferred himself and
his goods to the horse.

_Still Celino risks our lives with his care for these strangers. Damned
infidel. I am the leader of this party._

"Here they come!" cried Sophia. Waving swords and long-handled
halberds--God knew where they had gotten them--and sticks and
pitchforks, the crowd from the inn tumbled through the gate. Some of
them were on horses.

"Ride!" shouted Daoud in the voice he used to command his Mameluke
troop.

He kicked his spurs into his horse's side and sent it galloping down the
road.

He and Celino had not talked about which way to flee, but there was
really only one direction they could go--north, toward their
destination. That, he knew, would take them straight into the heart of
Rome.

There would be a price to pay for the blood they had shed this night.

The great Salah ad-Din had said it:

_Blood never sleeps._




VIII


The clatter of four horses' hooves over the broken paving stones of the
Appian Way rang in Daoud's ears. He heard shouts behind him as the men
from the Ox's Head organized a pursuit. And beside him the old man, held
erect by Celino's powerful arm, groaned again and again as the wild ride
jolted his stomach wound. His legs dangled lifelessly on either side of
the horse.

Daoud looked over his shoulder and saw that the boy was keeping up,
riding next to Celino. His robes were hiked up and his skinny, bare legs
gleamed in the faint moonlight. Daoud could hear him sobbing loudly, in
time with his father's groans, as the horses pounded onward.

Glancing over at Sophia, on his right, he saw that she was stiff in the
saddle, like one not used to riding, and the moonlight showed her lips
tight and her jaw clenched. But she rode hard and made no complaint. She
sat astride, wearing trousers under a divided skirt. Daoud felt himself
admiring her. So far the woman had proved no burden. Celino had caused
trouble, but not she.

Glancing quickly again at her profile, outlined by moonlight, he
realized with a start that she reminded him of a face he had not seen in
many years. Nicetas. She had the same high forehead and long, straight
nose. Her mouth was fuller, but her lips had the chiseled shape of
Nicetas's lips. Nicetas. Even amid this moment's perils sorrow gripped
his heart for the one who was lost and could never be recovered.

As if she sensed him looking at her, Sophia turned her face toward him,
but this put her face in shadow, and he could not make out her
expression. He shrugged and looked away.

He rode with one hand holding the arbalest across the saddle in front of
him, the other on the reins, guiding his mount. The horses Manfred had
given them ran well, aided a little by the high crescent moon. Daoud
tried to maneuver his small party to skirt dark patches in the road
where there might be holes in the pavement that could trip them.

The cries of the pursuers were louder, and Daoud heard hoofbeats behind
them. He looked back and saw a dark cluster of horsemen rushing down the
road. Five or six men, he guessed. There could not have been many more
horses than that stabled at the inn.

He felt no fear for himself. The country might be strange to him, but
riding and fighting in darkness were not. But his stomach tensed with
worry about the four people with him. One of them was already badly
hurt. Could he get them away safely? They were in his care now, and it
was a duty.

Celino was the only one of his charges who could look out for himself.
And he, thought Daoud angrily, was the one who had least deserved to
survive.

_But he is carrying half the accursed jewels._

_If we survive this, it might be best for me to kill Celino._

As they rode on, Daoud kept glancing over his shoulder. Their pursuers
were gaining on them. Celino's horse, carrying two riders, was holding
Daoud's party back. But that meant the men from the inn would soon be
within the arbalest's short range. He had only three bolts left in the
box under the stock. He wished he had a heavy Turkish bow, the kind he
had used at the battle of the Well of Goliath. Almost as powerful as a
crossbow, it was easier to handle on horseback and would shoot much
farther.

_Now they will see how Mamelukes fight._

His eyes were now completely adjusted to the faint moonlight. The road
took them into a deep pine wood. They splashed through a puddle in a low
place, then clambered up a slope.

Down the other side. At the bottom of the next slope, Daoud twisted
around in the saddle. Letting go of the reins and guiding the horse with
his knees, he aimed the crossbow at the top of the hill. When the first
rider came over the crest, clearly visible in the moonlight, Daoud
pressed the catch with his thumb and released the bolt. An instant later
the man fell without a sound.

He told himself a warrior of God should not rejoice at the death of an
enemy, but he could not help a small surge of satisfaction at his good
shooting.

Daoud cranked the string back and another bolt snapped into place. He
hit the next man on the downslope. It was a harder shot, and this man
did not die instantly but toppled screaming out of the saddle.

After glancing forward to make sure of the road ahead, Daoud turned
again and saw that the three remaining men had stopped, their horses
milling around the fallen men. They would give up pursuit now, Daoud was
sure of it. Doubtless none of them had any real weapons, and they could
not contend with a crossbow.

He felt his lips stretch in a grin, and he sighed deeply with relief. He
had been more worried than he realized.

He and his companions topped another hill, and when he looked back again
their pursuers had disappeared below its crest.

Daoud raised his hand and called out, "Slow down to a trot. No one seems
to be following us. We can be easier on the old man and the horses."

"And on Scipio," Celino said, pointing down to a great shadow racing
with them along the side of the road. Daoud could hear the hound panting
and his claws drumming on the paving stones. He wondered how long Scipio
could keep up with galloping horses, then reminded himself that this was
a hunting dog. Scipio could probably outrun horses.

"Soon the Appian Way will take us to the old walls of Rome," said
Celino. "The watchmen there would question us. But we can go off to the
left toward the Tiber and skirt the city."

_And because Celino knows such things, I cannot kill him. But I must see
to it that he never again does anything like this to endanger us._

As they rode on, Daoud realized that the old man had stopped moaning. He
heard Celino whispering something that sounded like a prayer.

"How fares the old man?"

Celino sounded angry. "He's dead."

On the other side of Celino the boy let out a wail of anguish, and then
sobbed bitterly. Daoud felt a surge of grief. He was not sure whether it
was for the boy or for himself.

"We should leave his body behind," he said to Celino. "Going this fast,
that horse cannot carry both of you much farther." Anger at all this
useless trouble constricted his throat and made his voice husky.

The boy cried, "No!" It was almost a scream.

"I can manage," said Celino.

"I will not leave him!" the boy shouted.

Sophia whispered, "I wish we had never seen them--without our help, they
might only have been robbed. That poor boy!"

Celino clenched his fist and muttered to himself. Then he looked up and
motioned to Daoud, pointing out a road diverging westward from the
Appian Way. Daoud jerked the reins of his horse, and the hooves no
longer rang on old Roman paving stones but thudded on hard-packed dirt.
The trees closed together overhead, and they rode for a time in almost
total darkness.

Celino dropped back now, and Daoud, glancing over his shoulder a little
later, saw the boy and Celino in conversation as they rode side by side.
After they had gone a mile or so, Celino rode back to join Daoud and
Sophia. The old man's body was draped over his horse's back in front of
him.

"You have much to answer to me for," Daoud said.

"I know that," said Celino. "But as long as we are out of Rome by
morning, we are safe. The Giudecca, the Jewish quarter, is along the
Tiber on the south side of the city. We can leave the boy with them and
they will help him bury his father and take him in. It is not far from
here." Daoud could not see his face clearly in the dark, but there was a
note of pleading in his tone.

"How far?" Daoud demanded.

"We will be there long before dawn."

"But then we will have to go into the city," Daoud said. "How do we
explain to the Roman watchmen why we are carrying an old man, dead of a
knife wound? Surely they will be at least as thorough in inspecting
baggage as you were at Lucera."

Celino was silent a moment. "You two can cross a bridge that will take
you west of the city. I will take the old man's body and the boy to the
Giudecca, and I will be the only one who will have to deal with the
watch."

Sophia spoke up. "As you dealt with those ruffians at the inn? Then we
will have all of Rome hunting us."

"All of Rome?" Celino chuckled. "The Romans can agree on only one
thing--fighting among themselves. There are powerful Ghibellino families
here who will protect us if need be."

He needed this damned Lorenzo, Daoud thought, because of his connections
with the Ghibellini.

"How did the men at the inn know the old man was a Jew?" Daoud asked
Celino.

"The hat he was wearing," Celino said. "All Jews are required to wear
those round black hats in the Papal States. To make it easier for good
Christians to persecute them." Daoud shook his head. Even Christians
were treated better than that in al-Islam.

_I did not know. Somehow, out of all that I learned about the Christian
world, that detail about hats for Jews was left out. A little thing, too
trivial to be mentioned. What other deadly little omissions lie in wait
for me?_

He felt like a man in chains. He would have to keep Celino with him, and
the prospect infuriated him.

As they continued riding westward, Daoud heard the boy weeping. It made
him think of nights in the Mameluke barracks on Raudha Island when he
lay on his pallet, biting his knuckles so no one would hear him sob as
he cried for his mother and father and for himself so lost and lonely.

_I will help the boy bury his father. If it does not endanger us._

This boy, too, was lost and lonely. As Daoud had been while training to
be a Mameluke.

As Nicetas had been.

       *       *       *       *       *

It had been a chilly day, the day that Daoud and Nicetas became friends.

Huge gray clouds billowed in the east, over the Sinai desert. In the lee
of a cliff formed of giant blocks of red sandstone, a dozen small tents
clustered.

On a restless brown pony with a barrel-shaped body, Daoud waited in a
line of nearly thirty julbans, Mamelukes in training, similarly mounted.
Soon it would be his turn to ride past the wooden ring that a pair of
slaves was swinging from side to side between the legs of a scaffold. In
his hand Daoud grasped a rumh, a lightweight lance longer than a man's
body, with a tip of sharpened bone.

On a low rise of brown gravel, Mahmoud, the Circassian naqeeb in charge
of their training troop, sat astride a sleek brown Arab half blood. He
looked almost regal in his long scarlet kaftan and reddish-brown fur
cap. His beard was full and gray, and a necklace of gold coins hung down
to his waist. The boys wore round caps of undyed cotton cloth and
striped robes, and they rode scrubby ponies.

From atop a galloping horse, each boy was expected to hurl his rumh
unerringly through the ring, whose diameter was two handspans. The ring
was attached to three strong, slender ropes. One rope suspended it from
the scaffold; the other two went out to either side, where the slaves
held them. Pulling in turn on the ropes, the two slaves swung the ring
from side to side.

The boy just ahead of Daoud in line was a new member of the troop of
young Mamelukes. His face was smooth and his skin pale, his hair and
eyes very black.

He turned to Daoud and said, "What if we hit one of those slaves by
mistake?"

Daoud had once seen a slave transfixed by a wild cast of the rumh. It
hurt to remember his screams and thrashings.

"Wound a slave and you will be beaten," he said. "Kill a slave, and you
go without water for three days. In this desert that is a death
sentence."

The boy whistled and shrugged. "Hard punishments for us, but not much
comfort to the slaves, I'd say."

"It comforts them to know we have reason to be careful," Daoud answered.

After a moment, the boy smiled hesitantly and said, "I am Nicetas. From
Trebizond. Where are you from?"

Daoud rubbed his pony's neck to settle it down. "Ascalon, not far from
here. I am called Daoud." He saw the puzzlement in Nicetas's face and
added, "My parents were Franks."

"Oh," said Nicetas, and looked sympathetic, as if he had instantly
grasped what had happened to Daoud's mother and father and how he came
to be a Mameluke.

"My mother was a whore," Nicetas said without any sign of embarrassment.
"She sold me to the Turks when I was eight, and I was glad to go. She
had sold me for other things before that. This is a good life. You learn
to ride and shoot. Mamelukes wear gold, and they lord it over everybody
else."

Daoud felt a slight easing of the tension of waiting to cast the rumh.
He enjoyed talking to this new boy. There was a warmth and liveliness in
him that Daoud liked. And even though their lives had been different,
Daoud felt more of a kinship with this boy than he ever had with any of
the others in his training group.

"Mamelukes have a good life if they live," said Daoud. "Where is
Trebizond?"

Nicetas waved his left hand. "North of here. It is a Greek city on the
Black Sea. But I suppose you have never heard of the Black Sea."

"I know where the Black Sea is," said Daoud, somewhat annoyed that
Nicetas should think him totally ignorant. "How did you come to join our
orta?"

"I was enrolled in the Fakri, the Mamelukes of Emir Fakr ad-Din. The
emir was killed by the Frankish invaders last year. The older Fakri are
staying together, but the young ones have been transferred out to the
other ortas."

Daoud found himself feeling somewhat sorry for Nicetas. He knew how
lonely the Greek boy must be. His khushdashiya, his barracks comrades,
were the nearest he had to a family. And even at that he was not really
close to the other boys. He was the only Frank among them, and to talk
to them at all he had to learn their various languages--Turkish, Kurd,
Farsi, Circassian, Tartar. They would not bother to learn the Norman
French, which was still the language he heard in his dreams. Most of the
boys slept two by two in the field, but Daoud had no close friend to
share a tent with.

"Go!" shouted Mahmoud the Circassian to Nicetas.

The Greek boy stood up in the saddle, and rode down the field with a
warbling scream that was a perfect imitation of a Bedouin war cry. His
trousers billowed against his long legs. Daoud watched his handsome,
straight-nosed profile as he turned to fix his eyes on the swinging
target. The lean-muscled bare arm drew back and snapped forward. The
long black pole of the rumh whistled through the air, shot smoothly
through the ring and landed upright, quivering, in the dune beyond it.

Daoud heard murmurs of appreciation around him. At the naqeeb's next cry
of, "Go!" Daoud kicked his pony in the ribs and plunged forward to try
his own cast.

He tried to ignore the fear of missing that knotted his belly muscles,
tried not to think at all about his desperate need to make a good cast.

He guided his mount with the pressure of his knees. He squinted his eyes
against the wind of his rush and fixed them on the ring. His body moved
up and down with the action of the horse, and the ring swung back and
forth. He twisted sideways in the saddle, steadying himself with one
hand on the pony's back. Grasping the rumh at the middle so that it
balanced, he lifted it high over his head. The little horse's muscles
rippled under his palm. If he fixed his gaze and his aim on the point in
space that the ring occupied at the lowest point of its arc, and
released his rumh just as the ring reached the extremity of its swing,
the target and rumh should arrive together.

The pony had carried him opposite the ring now, and he took a deep
breath and whipped his arm forward.

His lance reached the right spot--an instant too late. He wanted to
throw himself down from his horse and weep with frustration.

He heard groans and curses from behind him. Not once this morning had
the troop had a perfect round. He rode around to the back of the
scaffold, where the two slaves were sitting until the next boy should
take his turn. The ghulmans kept their eyes down, their black faces
expressionless. Angrily he yanked his rumh out of the sand and rode back
to the end of the line.

Nicetas patted his arm reassuringly. Two more boys missed after Daoud,
and that also made him feel a bit better. It occurred to Daoud that
Nicetas was one of the few who had not once missed the ring that
morning. He was a good horseman and seemed to have a remarkably keen eye
with the rumh.

The only other boy in the troop who was that good, Daoud thought, was
Kassar, the Kipchaq Tartar. Daoud looked around for Kassar and saw him
sitting on his pony partway out of line, eyeing Nicetas sourly. Kassar's
head was round, his face flat, and he was already old enough to have
grown a small black mustache.

"From now on," the naqeeb bellowed from his hilltop, "anyone who misses
once will not eat today. Anyone who misses twice will sleep in the
desert tonight without tent or blankets."

Nicetas, who was wearing a long, sleeveless robe, grinned and shook
himself. "It will be cold out there tonight."

"What if someone misses a third time, naqeeb?" someone called out.

"He is no longer Mameluke," said Mahmoud in a soft voice that carried.
"He goes back to El Kahira. To be a ghulman for the rest of his life."

He would kill himself first, Daoud thought. He would plunge his dagger
into his own heart before he would let that happen to him.

A frozen silence fell over the troop. The only sound Daoud could hear
was the desert wind hissing past his ears. But he felt the fear all
around him just as he felt the wind.

Mahmoud's threat seemed to help the troop's marksmanship. Only one boy
missed in the next round. In that round and the one that followed,
Daoud's rumh flew true both times. The second time, he felt dizzy with
relief, and he leaned forward and hugged his horse's neck as he rode
back to his place.

One more round and they could rest. Daoud's body ached, especially his
back and his arms. He felt a clenching in his stomach, knowing that he
had to get his lance through the ring this time. His khushdashiya would
hate him, and he would hate himself, if he missed. And the more he
feared missing, the more he would be likely to miss.

"Never mind hitting a slave," said Nicetas just before his turn. "Do us
all a favor, hit the naqeeb."

Daoud laughed. Nicetas rode out and hit the target as usual. Feeling
less tense, Daoud rode out to make his third cast. He held his breath
until he saw his long lance sail smoothly through the dark-rimmed
circle.

He shouted with joy and turned his mount back toward the troop. He did
not hug his horse this time. Laughing, he rode up beside Nicetas, threw
his arms around him, and pulled the skinny body against his larger
frame. Nicetas's eyes seemed to sparkle as they looked into his when
Daoud let him go.

It turned out to be another perfect round, and Mahmoud declared they
could stop to pray and eat.

_Thank God!_ Daoud said fervently to himself.

The sun had crossed from the zenith to the western part of the sky.
Mahmoud led them in reciting the prayers, facing south toward Mecca.
Then each julban took a portion of stale bread and dry goat cheese from
a pouch hanging from his saddle, and a single draft from his water skin.
The swallow of warm water Daoud took tasted foul, but he had to fight
down the impulse to drink more. He sat down before his small tent to
eat.

"May I sit with you?" Daoud squinted up into the sun to see the Greek
boy standing over him.

"Please," said Daoud, gesturing to the sand beside him.

They ate in silence for a time. Daoud looked up from the hard bread he
was relentlessly chewing and saw Nicetas smiling at him. He smiled back.

"You were eating by yourself," Nicetas said. "Do you sleep alone, too?"
Daoud nodded.

"Would you like to have a tent mate?"

Before Daoud could answer, a shadow fell over them. Daoud looked up.
Kassar stood between them and the sun, half a dozen of his friends
around him. He glowered down at Nicetas.

"You think you are good?"

Nicetas's smile was friendly. "It is in the blood. Greeks are good at
games."

"You throw like a girl," Kassar said to Nicetas. The Kipchaq's followers
laughed dutifully.

Daoud felt his face burn with anger. He wanted to say something on
Nicetas's behalf, even though it was the rule that each boy must defend
himself.

Nicetas, still smiling pleasantly and looking quite unafraid, stood up
with lithe grace to face Kassar.

"My rumh pierces the target," he said, making a circle with thumb and
forefinger and pushing his other forefinger into it. "You have to be a
man to do that."

This time the laughter was spontaneous, but Kassar did not smile.

"I will bet with you that I can throw the rumh better than you can,"
said Kassar grimly. "I will make you a handsome bet. I will put up the
mail shirt that I took from a Frankish knight at Mansura."

Daoud felt the sting of envy. If he had only been a year or two older,
he, too, might have souvenirs of that battle.

"I possess nothing of value," said Nicetas. "What can I put up against
your mail shirt?"

Grinning, Kassar stepped closer to the Greek, bringing his face down
till Nicetas's sharp-pointed nose almost touched his flat one. "You will
spend the night in my tent whenever I want you." His thick fingers
gripped Nicetas's chin, kneading the flesh of his face.

Nicetas blushed and pulled away, rubbing his chin, but still he smiled.
"If your hand is that rough, I do not wonder you need a new tent mate."

This time the boys all roared with laughter, and Kassar's eyes narrowed
to angry slits.

Daoud had never before heard anyone speak openly of what all the boys
were aware of but only whispered about. For more than a year Daoud had
seen and felt his body changing and had been tormented by steadily
growing needs within himself. He sensed that others of his khushdashiya
were tormented by the same nearly unbearable hungers. He knew, from
listening to the talk of older men, that the answer to all these
yearnings lay in women. But julbans were forbidden the company of women.
He quickly learned how to relieve himself in solitude, and suspected
many of the others did the same. But some, he was sure, made use of each
other's bodies.

"I accept the contest," said Nicetas, staring fearlessly into Kassar's
eyes.

"We must go to the naqeeb for permission," said Kassar. "But we will not
tell him the stakes. He might get ideas about you." He grinned at
Nicetas with such frank lasciviousness that Daoud, remembering how his
captors had raped him years ago, wanted to smash his fist into the
Tartar's big white teeth.

He followed Nicetas and Kassar as they went to Mahmoud's large silk tent
and explained the contest.

"Yes," said Mahmoud, leading the way back to the practice field. "Put
the one-handspan ring on, and you will ride fifty paces from the target.
You will cast until one of you misses and the other follows with a hit.
If both of you miss, you will be beaten for disturbing my rest."

The slaves changed the two-handspan target ring for the smaller one and
began pulling on the guide ropes that swung the ring from side to side.
The naqeeb paced off the distance for Kassar and Nicetas.

At Mahmoud's command, Kassar rode down the field. He made a perfect
cast, and his friends cheered. It was Nicetas's turn, and he flew past
the target with his warbling scream, standing in the stirrups. There was
something dance-like in the way he stood swaying with the jolting
movement of his pony, left arm outstretched to balance himself, rumh
poised to throw.

_He is beautiful_, Daoud thought.

Nicetas's rumh went perfectly through the ring. The cheer for him was
lower; after all, nobody knew him.

Daoud called out, "God guides your arm, Nicetas!" Some of the other boys
stared at him, and his face grew hot.

Both contestants made successful second casts. But when Kassar made his
third throw, Daoud saw the ring wobble slightly. The rumh must have
brushed its inner edge. Nicetas's third try, once again, was flawless.

"We cannot be at this till sunset," Mahmoud grumbled. "Move out to
seventy paces." He paced off the new distance, and Kassar and Nicetas,
stone-faced, not looking at each other, rode to the spot he pointed out.

To throw the rumh accurately from that distance would take great
strength as well as a keen eye, Daoud thought. Looking at Nicetas's
slender arms and narrow shoulders, he wondered if the Greek boy could
manage it.

A wind rose, stinging Daoud's face with tiny sand particles. It was
blowing from the east, across the field where the boys rode. Nicetas
would be lucky to get his lance anywhere near the scaffold.

At Mahmoud's barking command, Kassar galloped out across the field. He
half rose as he came abreast of the target, and Daoud saw his powerful
shoulder muscles bunch under his thin robe.

There was a loud crack as Kassar's rumh hit the ring. Daoud saw black
fragments fly though the air. He gasped in surprise.

Kassar's lance had hit the side of the target ring, and the desert-dried
wood had shattered under the impact.

"Well." Mahmoud turned to Nicetas with a laugh. "The target is
destroyed."

"Let us put another ring on," said Nicetas promptly, just as Kassar rode
up.

Kassar's face was tight with fury. "The rings are different sizes. It
will not be fair if you have a bigger ring to hit."

"I want a smaller ring," said Nicetas with a faint smile.

Mahmoud sent a boy galloping to the target pullers with the order to
attach a new ring to the ropes. From where he stood, Daoud could not
even see daylight through the new ring. In the distance he saw a
whirlwind raising a cone of sand, a sand devil, spinning near the red
cliff.

"Think that there is a crusader charging at you, and you have to hit him
in the eye to stop him," Mahmoud suggested to Nicetas.

"If it were, I would not let him get close enough for me to _see_ his
eye," said Nicetas dryly.

"Go!" Mahmoud roared.

Nicetas screamed across the field. The rumh flew.

Daoud cried out in amazement as the lance, no bigger than a splinter at
this distance, shot perfectly through the ring.

Joy was a white light momentarily blinding Daoud. His heart was beating
as hard and fast as if it had been he who had made the cast.

"Nicetas! Yah, Nicetas!" he cheered.

Loud cries of admiration went up. Nicetas retrieved his rumh and waved
it over his head, standing in the stirrups as he rode back to the troop.

He jumped down from his horse, and Kassar, already dismounted, went to
meet him. Kassar's heavy walk, his clenched fists, the rage in his face,
told Daoud there was going to be trouble.

He felt hot anger surging up inside him, but he reminded himself again
that Nicetas must fight his own battles.

The boys surrounded Kassar and Nicetas, the naqeeb with his green turban
in their midst. Daoud pushed himself into the innermost circle.

"Bring me the mail shirt," said Nicetas.

"_I_ won," Kassar declared, glowering down at him. "I smashed the ring,
a thing you are too weak to do." He looked away from Nicetas and moved
his head from side to side, glaring around the circle of boys,
challenging any of them to contradict him. No one spoke. No one wanted
to quarrel with Kassar, especially on behalf of a boy no one knew.

Daoud felt angry words rushing up inside him, but he kept himself in
check. To take up Nicetas's quarrel unasked would insult Nicetas. If
things got too far out of hand, the naqeeb would intervene.

Daoud felt himself abruptly pushed to one side. He turned to protest,
and then checked himself. It was Mahmoud, leaving the circle that
surrounded Nicetas and Kassar. As Daoud watched in amazement, the
gray-bearded naqeeb walked to his red-and-white-striped tent and sat
down cross-legged on the carpet in front of it, calmly gazing at the
sandstone cliffs as if what was going on did not concern him at all.

_He should be the one to declare Nicetas the winner_, Daoud thought, as
angry now as he was astonished. _Is he, too, afraid of Kassar?_

"When you broke the ring, that was a miss," said Nicetas. "You lost. The
shirt is mine."

"You will have to take it from me," said Kassar with a grin. "Come to my
tent and you can wrestle me for it." Now he made the gesture encircling
his forefinger that Nicetas had made before.

What would Nicetas do, Daoud wondered. He was not big enough to hurt
Kassar--but if he yielded, Kassar would make a slave of him and subject
him to abominations.

"I had heard that a Tartar never goes back on his word," said Nicetas.
"I see now that at least one Tartar is a lying jackal."

_Good!_ Daoud thought fiercely. In a battle of insults, he felt sure,
the talkative Greek would have the upper hand over the dour Tartar.

Kassar reddened, and he smashed his fist into Nicetas's jaw. The Greek
boy fell to the ground, and Daoud saw that his eyes were blank, dazed.
But Nicetas shook his head and forced himself to his feet.

"Your fist can't restore your honor, Kassar. You have fucked it too many
times."

Loud laughter burst out from the watching boys, choked off as again the
Tartar swung, hitting Nicetas in the mouth. The boy was thrown back
against the onlookers, and blood ran from his nose and mouth.

Daoud felt the blood pounding his temples as his anger grew. As long as
it was just Kassar against Nicetas, he could not get into the fight. But
if Kassar's friends joined in, he promised himself he would help
Nicetas.

"Take back what you said," Kassar growled, advancing on him.

Daoud could not see Nicetas behind Kassar's bulky form. But suddenly
Kassar's head snapped back and his white cap fell off into the sand. The
Kipchaq fell back, and Daoud saw that Nicetas was on his feet, grinning
through the blood and rubbing his knuckles.

"Yah, Nicetas!" he shouted, but he was alone in cheering. He sensed
others looking at him. May they burn in the flames if they did not see
that Nicetas was the better man.

Kassar plowed into Nicetas, pummeling him with both fists. When Nicetas
collapsed under the punishment, Kassar kicked him in the head, sending
him flying backward. Kassar's friends shouted encouragement. Daoud felt
his whole body growing hot with anger.

Nicetas rolled over on his stomach, raised himself on hands and knees,
and spat blood. His eyes searched the crowd of boys watching him and
Kassar, and Daoud knew that he was looking for a friend.

"Nicetas!" Daoud cried, and the Greek boy's dazed eyes found him and his
bloody mouth stretched in a grin.

But if Nicetas did not give up, Kassar would kill him.

Suddenly Daoud turned and pushed his way through the crowd and hurried
to where Mahmoud was still sitting.

"Why do you not stop this?" he demanded. "It is your duty to keep order
among us."

"Do not tell me my duty," said Mahmoud. "Have you forgotten what my cane
feels like?"

"You would use the cane on _me_?" Daoud exclaimed, outraged. "When
Kassar is cheating?"

There were a thousand tiny wrinkles around Mahmoud's blue Circassian
eyes, from a lifetime of squinting into the sun.

"Daoud, I will tell you what my duty is. My duty is to take miserable
julbans and make Mamelukes of you. When you are a full-fledged Mameluke,
there will be no naqeeb over you to right your wrongs. Among Mamelukes,
he who is strongest rules. If Kassar is the strongest among you, you
must be ruled by him."

Daoud growled with disgust and ran back to the fight.

Nicetas had somehow gotten back on his feet, though his face was a mass
of blood and dirt and his breath was coming in gasps. His eyes were
glazed, but he managed to stagger forward and hit Kassar in the nose
with his fist. Blood began to flow from the young Tartar's wide nostrils
into his mustache.

Kassar put his fingers to his upper lip, took them away and stared at
the blood. His eyes widened in fury. His head swung right and left; then
he sidestepped to a boy in front of the circle. From the boy's sash he
pulled a dabbus, a fluted iron cylinder mounted on a wooden staff.

Swinging the dabbus so it whistled through the air, Kassar charged at
Nicetas. The boys fell back, opening the circle wider.

For the first time, Daoud saw fear in Nicetas's eyes. He ducked as
Kassar swung the mace at his head, but his movements were slow and
awkward. He had been hit too many times. He fell, stood up, and
staggered backward.

The naqeeb would not interfere. This could end only one way.

And Daoud knew that he did not want to see Nicetas die before his eyes.

He would not allow it.

Only moments ago rage had raised a great storm within him, but now his
mind was like the desert after the storm has passed, still and empty.
Like the desert, he felt himself full of a terrible power.

Without any more thought he stepped out into the ring behind Kassar and
shouted, "Kassar! Enough!"

The Tartar whirled, holding the dabbus at shoulder height.

"Stay out of this, pigshit Frank."

"Let him be, Kassar." Almost all Daoud's attention was on Kassar, but a
part of his mind was free to wonder why he felt no fear at all. Somehow,
he was not sure how, the hours with Saadi had something to do with it.

"Put that down," Daoud said, pointing at the dabbus.

"In your head!" Kassar shouted, and charged at him.

Daoud kept his eyes on Kassar's, but in the edge of his vision he saw
the ridged mass of iron, heavy enough to crack a steel helmet, rushing
toward his head--his head protected only by a cloth cap.

At the last possible moment he threw up his hand and caught Kassar's
wrist. He stepped back out of the path of the dabbus and jerked downward
on Kassar's arm. The weight of the mace helped throw Kassar off balance,
and he landed on his chest with a grunt, the air driven out of him.

Daoud stamped on Kassar's forearm and yanked the dabbus out of his
grasp. He flung himself down on Kassar and pinned him to the sand.

Though all his attention was on Kassar, there was room in his mind for a
triumphant surprise.

_Allahu akbar! God is great! I never thought I had the strength to throw
the Kipchaq._

"Nicetas won the contest. Admit it, or I'll break your skull," he
growled, holding the dabbus over Kassar's head.

Kassar remained silent. Daoud lowered the dabbus and tapped the Tartar's
round skull through his mop of straight black hair. He hit Kassar just
hard enough to let him feel the weight of the dabbus.

"Admit that Nicetas won."

"All right," Kassar grunted, his face in the sand. "He won."

"Swear by the Prophet you will leave him alone from now on."

"I swear," came the muffled voice.

"By the Prophet."

"By the Prophet."

Daoud stood up warily and handed the dabbus back to the boy Kassar had
taken it from.

Kassar rose slowly, wiping sand from his face. His eyes seemed to spark
with hatred.

_This is not finished yet_, Daoud thought.

He looked for Nicetas. The Greek boy was on his feet. He was wiping the
dirt and blood from his face with the hem of his robe. He looked at
Daoud, and there was something bright and solemn in his eyes. No one had
ever looked at Daoud like that before.

Daoud felt a great rush of gratitude to God for giving him the strength
to save Nicetas's life.

_If I had not fought Kassar, Nicetas would be dead._

That clean-lined face so full of warmth and wit would be so much
lifeless clay. Daoud felt a lightness in his heart and a smile bubbling
to his lips. He was proud of his strength. He had used it to save a
precious life. He was a warrior of God.

Smiling, he went to Nicetas and threw his arm around his shoulders.

He should force Kassar to give Nicetas the mail shirt. But he had done
enough fighting for one day. Nicetas did not need the damned shirt. Let
the Tartar keep it.

"Now then, you wretched sons of desert rats!" came Mahmoud's voice. He
pushed his way into the middle of the ring, coin necklace glittering,
eyes flashing in anger.

"Fighting, eh? Trying to kill each other? Save your fighting for the
emir's enemies. You are khushdashiya, brother Mamelukes of Emir Baibars.
If again I see one of you raise a hand against his brother, I swear I
will stake him out on the sand." He raised his right hand to heaven.
"Hear me, God!"

The naqeeb had a strange way of making Mamelukes out of them, Daoud
thought. But perhaps he knew what he was doing.

That night, without anyone's saying any more, Nicetas brought his tent
and his bedding to Daoud. They compared tents and decided that Daoud's
was the larger. They would sleep in it.

After they had tended their ponies and joined with the rest of the troop
in the final prayer of the night, they crawled into the tent and spread
their bedding side by side. Daoud felt Nicetas moving in his half of the
tent and heard a rustling, as if his new tent mate were shedding his
clothes. Why would he do that on such a cold night?

Nicetas pulled his blankets over both of them and rolled toward Daoud.
The Greek boy's skin felt warm and silk-smooth. Nicetas wriggled even
closer and stroked Daoud's chest, arousing pleasant tingles. Daoud felt,
keener than ever, the powerful longings that had been troubling him. But
then he remembered cruel Turkish laughter and rough hands, the
unbearable pain and shame of his first nights of captivity. He struggled
to free himself from Nicetas's arms.

All at once Nicetas let go of him and turned over, leaving a small space
in the tent between them.

"Sleep w

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