"Many think I have little power in this city," said Frescobaldo
d'Ucello. He sat in a dark window recess with one foot up on the ledge
and the other dangling, his fingers tapping the raised knee. Lashed to a
chair in the center of the long, narrow chamber, Daoud had to turn his
head to look at him. Daoud's back ached from being held rigid by the
back of the chair, and the ropes bit into the muscles of his arms and
legs.
At the end of the room, a clerk with scalp shaved in the clerical
tonsure sat in the podesta's high-back chair behind a heavy black table,
writing down what was said on a scroll with a feather pen. Four tall
candles set in brass stands formed a square around Daoud, casting a
bright light on him. A row of candles burned in a wrought-iron
candelabrum beside the clerk, lighting a wall hanging behind him that
depicted some idolatrous Christian religious scene. D'Ucello sat in the
shadows that lay upon the rest of the chamber.
Daoud sensed that d'Ucello meant what he had just said as a sort of
challenge.
"All I know is that for my part I have very little power in this city,
Signore," Daoud said with a smile. "I depend altogether on those who
have befriended me." That was the way David of Trebizond should respond.
Not very frightened, because not guilty of anything. Humble,
ingratiating, but retaining some scrap of dignity.
D'Ucello stood up suddenly, strode briskly across the room to Daoud, and
stood over him.
"Do you think your friends will save you from this?" he said tonelessly.
His eyes had an unfocused look, as though they were made of glass.
"Save me from what, Signore?" Daoud put bewilderment and a shade of
anger into his voice.
D'Ucello swung his hand. Daoud felt the sting of a hard palm against his
jaw, and the crack of flesh slapping flesh made his ear ring. The blow
jolted his head to one side.
It was not very painful. It was meant to insult more than to hurt. To
test. And rage did erupt in Daoud like a fountain of fire. His muscles
tensed, the bindings cutting deeper, and the chair creaked.
D'Ucello was trying to break through the Mask of Clay. But the mask held
firm, because the Face of Steel, Daoud's spiritual armor, was beneath
it. The fury of Daoud the Mameluke, who yearned to tear d'Ucello apart,
remained hidden. It was David of Trebizond who blustered at the
indignity of being slapped without cause.
"How dare you strike me, Signore!" he protested. "I have done nothing to
deserve that, nothing to deserve being dragged here in the night and
tied up. I demand to know--what do you want of me?"
D'Ucello sighed like a chess player whose opponent had escaped check,
and went back to his seat in the window recess. Daoud saw the flickering
glow of heat lightning through the thick leaded-glass window behind the
podesta.
"I dislike intensely being made to waste time," said d'Ucello, drumming
his fingers on his knee. "Listen carefully: Every time you force me to
tell you something we both already know, I will prolong your suffering
another hour."
Daoud allowed a note of fear to creep into his voice. "Suffering? I beg
you, Signore, believe me. Even if you torture me, I still cannot tell
you anything different from what I will freely tell you. Ask me whatever
you want."
The Mask of Clay was useless with this man, Daoud saw. The podesta's
mind had pierced it. How had he been able to do that? Because he was a
man who observed much and thought much, unlike most men Daoud had met in
Orvieto, who let their passions rule them.
Yet d'Ucello had passions. He was a proud man, who must hate standing by
helplessly, holding the supreme office in Orvieto, watching the two
great families bespatter his city with blood. If he could not stop the
Filippeschi and the Monaldeschi from murdering each other, at least he
could do _something_.
D'Ucello had seen enough of Daoud's comings and goings to make him
suspicious. Like a hawk soaring above a plain, the podesta might be too
high up to know exactly what he saw below, but he knew when he sighted
prey. And perhaps d'Ucello saw that this prey, if hunted rightly, would
lead him to others.
D'Ucello leaned forward, out of the shadow of the window recess.
"There was a man in black who tried to kill the Tartars the night of the
Filippeschi uprising. What do you know about him?"
"I know little about the uprising, Signore, since I was not here. I was
in Perugia."
"Why Perugia?"
"To speak with several silk merchants."
"Are there those in Perugia who will vouch for you?"
"Certainly," said Daoud, feeling uneasily that d'Ucello was not
deceived.
"I will write to the podesta of Perugia and ask that your witnesses be
examined," said d'Ucello. "Give me their names."
Daoud had a struggle to remember the names of the witnesses. Lorenzo had
given them to him months before, members of the Ghibellino network who
were willing to perform this service for Manfred. The clerk's pen
scratched rapidly as he haltingly brought out the names of five men.
"When did you return from Perugia?"
The clerks, Daoud recalled, had been removed from the town gates at the
end of May.
"Sometime in June," Daoud said. "Forgive me, I did not think to bring my
journal with me, and I cannot tell you the exact date." He tried a weak
smile.
"Where is your man Giancarlo?"
_On his way here from Siena with an army, Insh'Allah._
"I sent him on from Perugia," Daoud said. "He travels to Rimini, then
Ravenna, eventually to Venice, looking for those who would be interested
in receiving shipments of silks and spices from Trebizond. He had not
been punctilious about writing to me, or perhaps his letters have been
lost, so I do not know exactly where he is now."
"I thought you were in competition with the Venetians."