"Even the greatest barons, even kings, must put up with much they do not
like," said Sordello sententiously, "if they are to get anything done."
"As you said before, Monseigneur," said Thierry in a comforting tone, "a
man must be philosophical."
"Philosophical, yes," said Simon wearily. He could, he supposed, afford
to be philosophical. If the heretic sea captain did not manage to kill
them, in three or four days he would be in France, on his way to find
King Louis. All these unsavory doings, indignities, and discomforts
would mean nothing if his mission ended in triumph.
The thought of the King's gratitude, of Uncle Charles's respect, of the
way the tale would spread among the noblesse of France, bringing him new
honor, sent a thrill of pride through him.
At last he would have proven himself.
L
The sky was iron-gray, and a cold wind, unseasonably cold for August,
blew down from the north. Daoud stood near the entrance to the courtyard
of the Palazzo Papale, facing a row of the podesta's guards, in yellow
and blue, who held back the watching crowd. A troop of mounted lancers
clattered out under the gateway arch. Then, in mule-borne litters, came
the nine cardinals who had elected to go with the pope to Perugia. Each
had his own small procession of clergy and guards. In a sedan chair
borne by six burly men rode Fra Tomasso d'Aquino, reading a small
leather-bound book. Then came a hundred mounted archers, their conical
helmets gleaming dully under the overcast sky.
Finally, as the people threw themselves to their knees, some crying out
and stretching their arms wide, Urban himself, on a litter carried by
eight men-at-arms, with a column of priests on either side, came through
the open gate of the palace. He wore white gloves on the trembling hands
that he raised to bless the people. He was bundled up in a white wool
cloak, and his head was covered by a hood of fur so white that it made
his own hair and his beard look yellowish.
Reluctantly, but knowing it would be dangerous not to do so, Daoud
dropped to his knees as Urban passed him.
"Do not leave us, Holy Father!" a man next to him cried out.
Daoud thought of the whispers he had been hearing in his wanderings
through the streets and marketplaces. People were frightened. Some said
that terrible things would happen after Urban left. There would be new
bloodshed between the Monaldeschi and the Filippeschi. The Sienese would
besiege Orvieto and massacre its people.
Daoud himself believed d'Ucello, the podesta, would use the pope's
departure to try to increase his own power over the city.
_And that bodes ill for me._
The podesta was a clever man. Daoud felt certain d'Ucello suspected him
of the killing of the French knight and of involvement in the
Filippeschi uprising.
Daoud followed the procession along the curving street to the Porta
Maggiore, intending to watch it follow the road to the north, wishing
the Sienese army might appear suddenly in the distance and intercept it.
But at the gate a sergente in yellow and blue stepped into his path.
"I am not leaving," Daoud said, staring at the man. "I want to stand
just outside the gate."
The sergente shrugged. He was a broad-shouldered man with a square brown
face and a mustache cut straight across. As they stood talking, he
darted little glances at Daoud's hands and feet, half smiling. Daoud
sensed that he was ready for a fight, perhaps even wanted one. The
sergente thought, of course, that he was dealing with a merchant, who
would not be as skilled in combat as a professional soldier.
Daoud felt a chill along his spine. D'Ucello was still determined to
keep him prisoner in Orvieto. That confirmed Daoud's suspicions that the
podesta might soon move against him.
"You can watch the procession from the top of the wall," the podesta's
man said. "The view is better from up there anyway. You may not go
beyond the gate, Messer David."
Angered by the feeling of confinement, Daoud thought about throwing the
guard, disarming him, and walking through the gate just to teach him a
lesson. But that was hardly what a trader would do. That would only
bring more suspicion down on him. He nodded curtly and walked away.
* * * * *
The following Sunday, Daoud stood at the front of the cathedral,
reluctantly hearing Mass, bodies pressing him from all sides. Four of
Ugolini's men-at-arms, including the massive Riccardo, stood with Daoud.
The little cardinal, required by the etiquette of the Sacred College to
attend but made fearful by the rumors of fighting and killing to come,
had begged Daoud to come with him and stay near him. The noonday heat
together with the heat of packed human flesh turned the interior of the
cathedral into an oven. The reek of sweat mixed with the heavy smell of
incense rendered the air almost unbreathable.
A gilded screen standing on the altar displayed the miraculous linen
cloth of Bolsena, lighted candles massed around it. The pope, at least,
had left that to Orvieto. Ugolini was one of six red-robed cardinals,
half hidden under their huge, circular red hats, who sat in chairs in a
row before the altar. Each one had a cluster of assistants and guards
behind him. Cardinal de Verceuil was among them. Daoud recognized him
from the rear because he was the tallest of the six.
That meant the Tartars were still in Orvieto. If Lorenzo and the
Ghibellino army from Siena arrived in time, there would be a chance to
kill the Tartars before they rejoined the pope in Perugia. It was
maddening, not knowing what Lorenzo had accomplished or where he was.
This was one time he wished Christian armies could move with the speed
and decisiveness of Muslims. Or Tartars.
The elderly Cardinal Piacenza, his arms supported by priest-assistants,
held up the gold cup of wine which Christians believed, in a sense that
Daoud had never been able to understand, to be the blood of Jesus the
Messiah. The cathedral was filled with a reverent quiet.
A burst of angry men's voices from the rear of the cathedral broke the
silence. Shouts echoed against the heavy stone walls. Daoud heard thuds,
scuffling, the clash of steel. A jolt of alarm went through him, and his
hand went to his sword.
Everyone, including Piacenza, turned to stare. The last time there had
been a clash of arms in the cathedral it had been the Count de Gobignon
and that heretic preacher, Daoud thought.
Daoud was amazed that Christians would interrupt the most sacred moment
of their Mass. He tried to see over the heads of the people around him.
One voice, roaring in protest, was raised over the others. It sounded
familiar to Daoud.
People were passing word back from the middle of the nave, where the
struggle was. "It is Marco di Filippeschi," a man near Daoud cried.
"They have come to kill him."
Daoud's body went cold. Might whoever was coming after Marco attack him
too?
The fighting seemed to be moving toward the doors, and the crowd flowed
after it. Mass was forgotten as the congregation, cardinals and bishops
included, rushed to see.
Ugolini hurried to Daoud and took his arm. The two of them were carried
with the crowd toward the rear of the cathedral. Ugolini clutched at
Daoud so tightly that his fingers hurt. The servants, Daoud noticed,
managed to stay with them.
"Stay close to me," Ugolini said.
"You might be safer in the cathedral," said Daoud.
"Outside there is more room to run."
The short-legged Ugolini could not run very far, thought Daoud. He
steeled himself. If they were attacked by a large number of enemies,
they were dead men.
Daoud and Ugolini came through the main door of the cathedral together
and stood on the crowded steps.
"I cannot see!" Ugolini cried. People on the steps below him were
blocking his view.
Daoud was tall enough to see quite well. His heart, beating rapidly,
seemed to be rising from his chest to his throat. Marco di Filippeschi,
his long black hair flying as he jerked his body from side to side, was
struggling with four men who held him, while a fifth wrapped a rope
around his arms. Other men used pikes to push back the crowd, forming a
ring of space around the young Filippeschi leader and his captors.
_Marco is going to die_, Daoud thought, feeling cold sweat all over his
skin.
He looked to the edges of the piazza and the mansions that overlooked
it. He saw crossbowmen in the orange and green livery of the Monaldeschi
on rooftops and in windows, and mounted lancers in the outlets to the
square.
_The Filippeschi should have missed Mass today._
"God damn your puzzolenti souls, you bastards!" Marco roared as he
fought. "May your mothers and fathers burn in Hell!"
Some men were trying to help Marco; Daoud saw little knots of struggle
as his eyes traveled over the crowd. But no one could reach Marco
because the orange Monaldeschi tunics were everywhere.
"What is _happening_?" Ugolini demanded.
"They are killing Marco di Filippeschi," said Daoud, thinking: _He
helped me. He needs help now._ His hand gripped the hilt of his sword
tightly, and he wanted to draw it and rush down the stairs to fight
beside Marco.
But the knowledge that anyone who went to Marco's aid would die with him
held him motionless. Daoud was not free to draw his sword for Marco, not
while the Tartar ambassadors lived and the pope might yet proclaim a new
crusade.
Marco was shouting obscenities so rapidly that Daoud's Italian failed
him and he could not understand. The Filippeschi chieftain was tightly
bound and helpless, and the men around him pushed him to his knees.
_God be merciful to him_, Daoud prayed.
"Lift me up so I can see!" Ugolini cried to his men-at-arms.
"You do not want to see," said Daoud, but Riccardo obediently hoisted
him up to sit on his shoulders. The cardinal looked ridiculous, Daoud
thought, like an overdressed child being carried by his father.
A man holding a long two-handed sword stepped out of the empty space
surrounding Marco di Filippeschi. Daoud drew in a breath. The crowd
gasped. The blade flashed in the sun like a mirror as he swung it up.
Marco struggled, shouting curses, twisting and thrashing to escape the
sword. Blood splashed over the gray-black paving stones as the sword
came down. Marco cried out in agony. It took three strokes to behead
him.
As much death as Daoud had seen, this sickened him. He felt bile
flooding his stomach and rising in his throat.
After Marco's head lay apart from his still-trembling body in a rapidly
spreading pool of blood, the silence was shocking in the piazza that had
an instant before rung with his cries. As shocking as the look of the
bound body without its head.
A woman's piercing scream broke the silence. Holding a baby in her arms,
she burst out of the ring of men who had cordoned off the beheading. She
knelt, screaming and sobbing, and reached out with one hand to touch
Marco's severed head.
Another woman ran out of the crowd with a dagger in her hand. She
pounced on the mother and baby and stabbed and stabbed. A pikeman in an
orange tunic dragged the baby from its mother's arms, tossed it in the
air, and caught it on the end of his pike, spitting it. Some in the
crowd screamed with horror. Others cheered and laughed.
Daoud's stomach lurched. He pressed his hand against his middle and
hoped the mother had not lived to see what had been done to her baby.
He wanted desperately to be away from there, not just because he himself
might be in danger, but because he could not stand to watch.
He looked up at Ugolini. The little cardinal sat rigid on Riccardo's
shoulders, his face white and blank, his whiskers quivering. How foolish
he had been to want to see.
Not far away, de Verceuil's dark face under his wide-brimmed red hat
stood out above the other faces in the crowd on the steps. The little
mouth was set in a satisfied smile. Daoud wished he could slash that
smug face with his sword.
Another Monaldeschi man-at-arms set Marco di Filippeschi's head on the
end of his pike and waved it in the air for all to see. The mob in the
piazza began to boil. It was a chaos that Daoud's eyes could take in
only piecemeal. Men and women fought with swords and daggers and clubs;
masses of people shrieking with terror surged toward the streets leading
off the piazza where mounted Monaldeschi retainers slashed at them with
swords and drove lances into them; crossbowmen fired into the crowd
from balconies.
Now Daoud's heart was beating so hard that the booming of his blood in
his ears almost drowned out the noise in the piazza. This was a war
breaking out all around him.
A continuation, he reminded himself guiltily, of the war he had started.
No, he need not blame himself. He had not started this. These people had
been slaughtering one another long before he came to Orvieto.
How could the Monaldeschi tell their friends, or the innocent, from
their enemies, Daoud wondered. Perhaps, he thought, it did not matter to
them.
He now made out, on a balcony opposite the cathedral steps, the stooped
figure of the Contessa di Monaldeschi. Her cloak glittered with gold
embroidery, and on her gray hair she wore a small silver coronet. She
rested one hand on the shoulder of a boy, her grandnephew Vittorio.
_What a monster that child must be!_
Daoud heard Ugolini's choking whisper from above him: "Get me out of
here."
There was only one way to escape, back into the cathedral and out one of
the side doors. Daoud helped Ugolini down from Riccardo's back, and they
hurried through the center doorway, followed by his men-at-arms.
"Do not draw your weapons," Daoud said to Riccardo and the others. "Or
you might get pulled into the fighting. But be ready to stand and fight
if we must."
The din of the massacre in the piazza echoed within the cathedral, which
was now mostly emptied out. Cardinal Piacenza had brought his Mass to a
quick end. He was sitting in a chair near the altar, looking stricken,
and a young priest was mopping the old cardinal's forehead with a white
cloth. On one side of the nave stood the podesta, d'Ucello, surrounded
by a group of his sergentes in yellow and blue.
_There is murder in the piazza, and the keeper of public order hides in
the cathedral_, Daoud thought.
The podesta's eyes met Daoud's as Ugolini's retinue hurried past him
toward the rear doors of the cathedral. There was a menace in d'Ucello's
set face, but he said nothing as Daoud strode by.
The look in d'Ucello's eyes told Daoud that the moment when the podesta
would strike at him was not far away. Daoud felt as if a ghost had
gripped the back of his neck with an icy hand.
Ugolini, muttering to himself, led the way to the north transept. A
half-dozen men in orange and green tunics, swords drawn, barred the
door.
"Stand aside in the name of God!" Ugolini cried as he approached the
Monaldeschi men-at-arms. "Your damned bloody quarrels have nothing to do
with me."
Daoud was surprised. He had often seen Ugolini frightened, but now fear
seemed to have given him sudden strength. The men guarding the door
stepped aside. The cardinal's servants held the door for him, and in a
moment they were in the narrow street running along the north side of
the cathedral, where they joined a crowd of weeping, shouting people who
had managed to break loose from the piazza. There were splashes of
blood, Daoud saw, on the tunics of many men and the dresses of many
women. Ugolini's servants formed a wedge around him, and in stunned
silence they walked back to his mansion.
Daoud felt shaken and sick. His hands were trembling.
The Filippeschi could have been allies for Daoud against the podesta.
Now he was alone.
Ugolini's small contingent of armed retainers could not resist the town
militia. A cold feeling of helplessness settled over Daoud. If only
Lorenzo would come back.
* * * * *
Bars of afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows of Ugolini's
cabinet, giving a fiery tinge to his red rug and glistening in the eyes
of his stuffed owl. Ugolini sat behind his table, holding the painted
skull in both hands and staring intently at it, as if it held the
explanation of what had happened at the cathedral this morning. Sophia
sat in a chair on the other side of the table, and Daoud stood by the
window.
"The Monaldeschi and the Filippeschi are both Guelfo families, and the
Filippeschi have high connections with the Church," Ugolini said. "That
is why the contessa waited until the pope left before taking her
revenge."
"I have seen Christians slaughter Muslims and Muslims massacre
Christians," Daoud said. "But today Christians were killing mothers and
infants that could have been their own. Women were doing some of the
killing."
Ugolini smiled at the skull, but there was no laughter in his round
eyes. "Are not family quarrels the cruelest of all?"
Daoud noticed that Ugolini's hands, fingertips pressed against the
smooth curve of the skull's cranium, were still quivering. As for Daoud
himself, he was quite calm now.
_The last time I was really terrified was when I looked into the locket
and saw whirling blackness._
He was still angry with himself about that, knowing what a foolish thing
it had been to partake of hashish when he was already in a dark mood.
The fear he had felt a month earlier after taking the drug and looking
into the locket remained with him, clinging to his mind like some
parasitic insect. It rose to confront him now, as he looked at Sophia.
Would something horrible happen to her because of him? Blossoming Reed
had threatened just that, and so far Blossoming Reed's magic had worked
well. Since that vision, the joy he felt with Sophia had been chilled
somewhat by fear for her.
"How safe are _we_ now, with the Monaldeschi rampaging through the
streets?" Sophia asked.
Ugolini shuddered. "And the Filippeschi. Those who are left will be
striking back. This city will destroy itself, like a rat eating its own
innards. I say leave now. All of us."
_Leave?_ Daoud thought. He would be less afraid for Sophia if she were
in a safer place. But where should he go?
"Where do you want to go?" he asked Ugolini.
The little cardinal drew himself up. "I am still the cardinal
camerlengo, and will be as long as Urban is alive. I am obliged to
follow the pope as quickly as I can to Perugia. There is peace and order
in Perugia." He looked at Daoud uneasily. "What do _you_ want to do?
Stay here?"
_He is hoping to be rid of me._ Daoud considered Perugia, but there he
would have everything against him and no forces to help him.
He must go to Manfred. Once the pope and the Tartars were safely in
Perugia, only Manfred's army would be powerful enough to get at them.
Manfred might not want to go to war, but war was inevitable. Clearly the
pope was no longer neutral. He favored the Tartar-Christian alliance and
was waiting only for the right moment to announce it. When the pope came
out for the alliance, the French would come into Italy.
The time for Manfred to act was now. If he marched north and seized all
of Italy, including the person of the pope and as many cardinals as he
could capture, the French never _would_ invade, because a Ghibellino
pope would not approve a joint campaign of Christians and Tartars
against Muslims. Then, for certain, there would be no alliance.
"Now that the pope has moved to a place of safety," he said aloud, "only
King Manfred can dislodge him."
Ugolini wrung his hands. "First you incite the Filippeschi against the
Monaldeschi. Then Siena against Orvieto. Now Manfred against the Papal
States? Sometimes I think you are like one of the horsemen of the
Apocalypse, spreading war wherever you go."
All too true, Daoud thought. He turned to Sophia to see whether she
agreed with the accusation. She looked at him somberly, but did not
speak.