Rachel sat on a divan by the window in her room. She had drawn the
curtains back and pushed the shutters open so that she could see out and
feel the cool breeze. She held a small leather-bound book in her hand,
_Geography of the World_, by Yucaf ibn Faruzi, a Spanish Jew. It was one
of the small store of books Angelo had owned, written in Hebrew, that
she had kept with her to help her pass the long hours she spent alone.
Besides enjoying reading, she felt she was somehow pleasing Angelo, who
had taught her to read Hebrew.
She was reading about Egypt when the second storm of the morning struck
Orvieto and the window no longer admitted enough light to read by. A few
water droplets blew in through the open window to fall on the open
pages. She carefully blotted them up with the hem of her satin robe, but
she was afraid more rain would damage the vellum pages. So she shut the
book, and watched the lightning flash and listened to the thunder.
Tilia's house was built halfway down an incline, so Sophia could see
water foaming in the ditch that ran through the center of the street. So
heavy was the rain that waves were flowing down the cobblestones. Where
a raindrop struck the water, the splash was like a little crown.
A dark shadow appeared at the high end of the street, a hooded figure.
Another followed, and another. They rose higher and higher, until she
could see that they were riding horses. What were men doing out in a
storm like this? Were they coming here?
They were. The first men reined up their horses outside Tilia's front
door, dismounted, and moved to the shelter of the overhanging houses
across the street. More men on horses, some on mules, and many more on
foot, gathered outside the house. All wore hoods or broad-brimmed hats
to keep the rain from their heads. Rachel's heart began to thud in her
chest when she saw there were too many for her to count. She saw the
gleam of helmets under some of the hoods, the wet glitter of mail when
an arm or leg emerged from a cloak. A train of mules carrying heavy
packs came down the street and stopped.
Rachel began to tremble. These men had not come for pleasure. There were
too many of them, and their dress and manner was full of menace. She was
glad that the heavy rain forced them to keep their heads down;
otherwise, one of them might have looked up here and seen her. She drew
back a little from the window.
A line of covered carts drawn by pairs of mules pulled up behind the
crowd of armed men. The cart in the lead was bright yellow and red, and
its paint glistened wetly.
Did anyone else in the house know this crowd was out there? Perhaps no
one else was looking out a window. She ran to the door of her room, just
as she heard a pounding from below.
Then there were shouts, bangs, and crashes, the shrill shattering of
glass and porcelain, the heavy thumps of bodies falling. Rachel opened
her door. Other doors swung open along the shadowy third-floor corridor.
Someone stepped out with a candle. Frightened women's faces were white
in the candlelight. She saw Antonia, Angela, Gloria.
She did not see Tilia. She must still be with Sophia, wherever they had
gone this morning.
_Oh, if only Sophia had taken me with her as I begged her to. I knew
something terrible was going to happen._
"What is it?" the women cried to one another. "Who is down there? Wounds
of Jesus!"
Cassio emerged from Francesca's room, tying the drawstring of his hose.
He was a big man, his bare chest matted with black hair, and the sight
of him comforted Rachel until she looked into his face as he hurried
past her and saw that it was tight and pale with fear. And he was
carrying a naked shortsword.
But Cassio's appearance emboldened the women, and they left their rooms
to crowd toward the top of the stairs that led to the lower floors.
Rachel joined them.
"I saw a lot of men outside," Rachel told the others, her heart
battering against her breastbone. "Armed men, with horses and mules and
wagons."
Antonia, a round-faced woman, hair dyed red with henna, pulled her robe
around her. "Another party setting out for Perugia, I suppose. They
probably stopped by for a little farewell fun."
"Then why are they fighting downstairs?" Francesca said, anxiety
sharpening her voice.
Thunder shook the house, drowning out the clamor of the brawling two
stories below. Then Rachel heard the clang of steel and Cassio's voice
crying out angrily.
The carpeted stairs at the end of the corridor shook under heavy feet.
Women's screams, mingled with the cries of men, arose on the lower
floors. She pushed her way to the head of the stairs and looked down.
A group of men were coming up. They had thrown back the hoods of their
brown cloaks, and their pointed helmets reflected the candlelight.
Rachel backed away as she saw that the half-dozen men with helmets were
brandishing long broad-bladed daggers.
The women around her started screaming and darting back into their
rooms. Rachel bolted for her own room.
"Rei-cho!" The man's shrill cry shot an arrow of terror through her.
That was John's voice.
She turned in the doorway of her room and saw the Tartar standing at the
head of the stairs, his soft black cap hiding most of his white hair.
Beside him was a stocky, middle-aged woman, and flanking them were the
swarthy men with their daggers. John and the other men were all smiling,
as if, as Antonia had said, they had come only for a bit of pleasure.
But the tumult downstairs, shaking the house more than the thunder,
belied that.
John spoke to the woman and she called to Rachel. "Signore John must go
to Perugia." Her Italian was strangely accented. "He wishes you to come
with him. He will give you many costly gifts."