Not now. Not when Sophia had just come to tell her they were going to
take her south with them. South to Manfred's kingdom, where Jews were
treated like everyone else. Where she might yet find a place for herself
and forget that she had sold her body.
John and the woman advanced down the corridor, their guards with them.
Some of the swarthy men pushed open the doors of the rooms they passed
and looked in. The doors could not be barred from the inside. Tilia had
always insisted on that, so no client could lock himself in with a woman
and harm her. The men with the daggers grinned at one another and talked
in a strange language.
"No, I don't want to go!" Rachel screamed. She darted into her room and
slammed the door. Frantically, she looked around for something to hold
it shut.
The door started to open, and she threw herself against it. It closed
for a moment. Then she was hurled away from it as it swung inward, John
behind it. She screamed in fear.
The Tartar, who was not much taller than Rachel, strode into the room.
He walked with what appeared to be a swagger because he was slightly
bowlegged. He was talking rapidly in his language, advancing on Rachel
and smiling. He held out his arms. The stout woman stood in the doorway,
watching without expression.
Rachel backed away from them, her body rigid.
"You must come with him now. He is in a great hurry. An army of the
pope's enemies is less that a day from Orvieto, and they want to take
Signore John and Signore Philip prisoner."
"Then let him escape," Rachel cried. "I do not want to go with him." She
was standing before her bed now. The woman spoke to John and he answered
quickly, still smiling.
"He says you are precious to him and he cannot leave you," she said
tonelessly.
She had to get away now, or be John's prisoner for the rest of her life.
Panting more from fury than from exertion, Rachel made a sudden jump to
her right, and when John stepped in that direction to grab her, she
darted to the left and ran out the door. John's translator made no
effort to stop her.
_That would not have fooled him, except that he was not expecting me to
do anything_, she thought as she ran down the corridor.
She held one thought in her mind--she must get out of this building. She
heard screams and sounds of struggle from the rooms of the other women.
She saw Francesca fighting with a helmeted man, and her eyes met
Francesca's over the man's brown-cloaked shoulder. Only one of the
dagger-wielding men was in the corridor now, and she had surprised him.
He shouted at her and ran after her.
Gathering up the skirt of her robe, she raced down the stairs, taking
the last four in a leap. The dark man with the dagger was right behind
her, and behind him she could hear John's shout. There was anger in the
Tartar's voice now. That terrified her even more.
_He did not think I would get away from him this easily._
The dark man grabbed her flying robe, and she felt the silk tear. She
had nothing on underneath the robe. She would not let that stop her from
running. She must not let anything stop her.
She heard the man behind her calling as she ran down the stairs to the
first floor. She was in the corridor now, and she saw that it was
swarming with men in helmets and mail, struggling with Tilia's women.
Some of the men had their breeches down.
She saw tall, beautiful Maiga striking out with her fists at the
helmeted men. But they were wrestling with her and forcing her onto her
back. Agonized pity for Maiga blazed up within her, but she ran on.
One of Tilia's black African servants was lying on the floor across the
corridor. His eyes were open and he was not moving. Again she felt a
surge of pity.
But then terror gripped her.
_They are killing people here! My God, what are they doing, what are
they doing?_
Instead of going on down the stairs from the first floor gallery to the
ground floor, she leapt over the body of the black man and ran into the
crowd of men and women struggling in the hall.
_I am small and I am quick_, she thought, and that gave her the courage
to keep running. The men in the hall were not interested in her, and she
slithered past them while John and his bodyguard stumbled along behind.
The bodyguard's voice sounded far away. Other men were shouting at him.
"Catch her yourself, you damned Armenian ape!" These men were speaking
in Italian. "We've already got ours."
Rachel reached the stairs at the other end of the corridor. They led
down to the same place as did the main stairs, the reception room on the
ground floor. But her pursuers would not know that. Sure enough, they
were following her through this first-floor corridor. She glanced back
and saw that the crowd of Italian men had gotten in their way, so that
half the corridor was between them.
_Run, Rachel!_
Frantically she ran down to the first floor. There, horror greeted her.
More of Tilia's black men--she could not count--were sprawled around the
reception hall.
She saw blood spattered over the frescoes. She saw a black arm lying by
itself. One body had no head. She heard a scream of horror and knew it
was her own voice. Why were they doing this? What devils drove them?
There was blood all over the floor. Puddles of it. She had to dart
around them, over them.
Terror streaked through her as a tall man blocked her path. His hood was
thrown back and his cloak was open, and a jeweled cross glittered on his
chest--like the one Tilia wore, only three times bigger. Their eyes met;
his were staring and full of rage. His nose was big, and his mouth was
small and cruel. He pointed a long finger at her, a fortune in jeweled
rings glittering on his gloved hand.
"You! The one we came for! Stop!"
She stood paralyzed as a recollection of the dread face before her
flashed into her mind. Dinners for John and Philip--Tilia had given
elegant dinners, three or four of them--with musicians and the
companionship of her ladies, Rachel included.
And this was how they repaid her courtesy.
This man had been a guest at those dinners. He was a man of very high
rank, a cardinal in the Christian Church. He was French, she remembered.
His Italian words were heavily accented.
_What will they do to me if I don't obey him? Will they burn me for
being a Jew?_
And there was the other Tartar, Philip, standing beside the French
churchman. He looked like John--round head, brown skin, slitted
eyes--except that his beard and mustache were black. He was carrying a
bow in one hand and had a quiver full of arrows slung over one shoulder.
Rachel froze, like a rabbit trapped by two wolves.
The tall Frenchman reached for Rachel--but another figure appeared
between them, one of Tilia's black men. He blocked the tall man with the
cross, giving Rachel a chance to jump for the door.
Out of the corner of her eye Rachel saw Philip, strong white teeth
gleaming in a brown face, raise his bow. She heard the thrum of the
string, and then a piercing scream. Anguish for the black man welled up
in her.
Her torn robe was flapping as she ran out the door. She almost fell as
someone seized the back of her robe and yanked on it. She twisted out of
the robe and ran on, naked.
She heard John's shrill voice. He had reached the ground floor.
She was out of the house. In an instant her bare body was rain-wet from
head to toe.
A group of big men holding horses stood across the street, under the
overhang of the house opposite Tilia's. They were wearing swords and
purple surcoats over mail shirts. They looked at her gloomily and made
no move to stop her.
She had no idea where to go, but downhill was the easiest direction.
Maybe hide in an alley. Knock on a door and beg for help. Try to get
across town to Sophia.
Anywhere, if only she could get away from John.
Many times she had nightmares of running from something that was trying
to kill her. Sometimes a monster or a demon. Sometimes from crowds of
roaring people carrying torches. Always in those dreams she could not
make her legs move. It was like trying to run through water. Always she
tried to scream for help and no sound would come from her throat but a
whisper.
Now she was able to run full speed away from that house where death and
destruction were running riot. And running as fast as she could was not
enough! It would not get her away fast enough from John and his armed
men and that horrible cardinal. She was able to scream at the top of her
lungs, but to no avail. Nobody would come to rescue her. Nobody would
help her.
She had also had nightmares about running through the street naked, with
hundreds of people watching. In those dreams she had been horribly
embarrassed. Now she was really doing it, and she did not care about her
nakedness.
She darted past the carts and the horses and mules and their drivers
that filled the street from side to side. She was running naked and
barefoot over the cobblestones.
She ran past the red and yellow cart at the head of the line of wagons
and saw sitting beside the driver a man with a full white beard. He was
looking down at her. For a moment she thought he was a rabbi. Then she
saw his shaven scalp and brown robe. One of those Christian begging
monks. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but she was past him
already.
She heard hoofbeats behind her, and gooseflesh broke out all over her
naked body.
_Dear God, is he chasing me on horseback?_
But she could dart into a quintana, the space between two houses. It
would be too narrow for a man on horseback to follow her. She saw an
opening on her left and made for it, begging God to help her run faster.
She felt something whip around her body, tearing her skin. She was
jerked off her feet. She fell on her back on the wet cobblestones. She
lay helpless, stunned and gasping for air. A rope was cutting into her
chest just below her breasts, pinning her arms above the elbows to her
sides. The rope burned her. Her back felt scraped and bruised. She saw a
horse's legs beside her. John was grinning down at her, holding the
other end of the rope. The rain pouring down in her face stung her eyes.
Now that she knew she was caught and helpless, her terror was transmuted
into rage. What right had he to treat her this way?
"May God strike you dead!" she spat. He might not know the words, but
she was sure he could hear the hatred in her voice.
He tugged on the rope to make her climb to her feet. She felt she would
rather lie there and make him drag her, if he wanted her so badly, but
she realized that would only hurt her worse.
She took a grip on the rope to haul herself up. The cold rain beat down,
plastering her hair to her head. She wanted to wipe her face, but her
arms were pinioned. Her back felt as if it were on fire.
She looked at Tilia's house and saw that a man's body was swinging,
sodden and limp, above the door.
Her stomach turning at the sight, she recognized Cassio's features in
the swollen, blackened face. They had hanged him from Tilia's
crenellated balcony. And she had always thought he was such a big, tough
man. She felt a stab of pity for him, even though he had never been
especially nice to her.
Her heart grew heavier and colder in her chest as the horror sank in.
These men had destroyed Tilia's house, killed the men and raped the
women with the gleeful cruelty of small boys stoning a bird's nest.
Another jerk on the rope started her walking back up the street. She
kept her eyes down to avoid the sight of Cassio's body.
As they passed the yellow cart, a voice called out to the Tartar, and he
answered briefly in what seemed to be his own language. Again the voice,
and there was command in the tone. John reined his horse to a stop.
Apprehension filled her. What new indignity would she have to suffer?
Very slowly, the brown-robed Christian priest climbed down from the
cart. He pulled his hood up against the rain. Rachel put one hand
between her legs and tried to cover her breasts with her forearm, lest
he be offended. Fear and the cold rain beating down on her naked flesh
made her shiver violently. She could not hope for kindness from this
white-bearded man. After all, as a priest he must condemn her as a
harlot. And if he found out she was a Jew, he would despise her all the
more.
The priest reached up into the cart and took down a long walking staff
and a gray blanket. Leaning on the staff, he approached her slowly.
Looking at her very sadly, unconcerned about the rain soaking his robe,
he draped the blanket over her head and shoulders. She gripped the edges
of the blanket and pulled it across her. As long as John's rope stayed
slack, the blanket would cover her, although it was already cold and
heavy with rainwater.
The kindness in the seamed, bearded face warmed Rachel, and she dropped
to her knees before him.
"Help me, Father," she begged. "Do not let him take me away from here."
"Get up, child." Leaning heavily on the staff with one hand, he used the
other to help her to her feet, and she saw how stiffly he moved and
heard him give a little groan of pain.
"You are hurt, Father."
"Just a few old broken bones," he said. "It has been months, and they
are mending well enough."
He reached under the blanket that covered her, and she shrank away from
his hand.
"Forgive me," he said. "I mean no harm." Without looking at her, and
hardly touching her, he managed to loosen the rope around her chest so
that it fell to the ground. She stepped out of the loop, and it slid
away from her. She looked up and saw John coil the rope and tie it to
his saddle. His face was reddened and his mouth compressed with anger.
"It is useless to try to outrun a Tartar on horseback," said the priest.
"They are like centaurs. What is your name, child?"
As she told him, Rachel felt a glimmering of hope. The priest had spoken
to John in his own language, and the Tartar seemed to have some respect
for him. At least he was no longer trying to drag her away.
"I am Friar Mathieu d'Alcon," said the white-bearded priest. "What does
this man want with you?"
Rachel felt a blush burn her face.
"He has lain with me, and he paid money to me and Madama Tilia," Rachel
said, barely able to choke out the admission of her shame. "Now he is
leaving Orvieto, and he wants to take me with him."
Friar Mathieu sighed and shook his head. "And so young. Jesus, be
merciful." He turned to John and spoke to him in a soft, reasonable
voice. Rachel sensed that the priest was chiding the Tartar gently.
John's answer was a series of short phrases, shrill with anger. He
finished by slicing the air with his hand in a gesture of flat refusal.
Rachel's heart grew heavy with despair.
"He will not listen to me," said the friar. "He thinks he has a right to
take you. His customs are not ours."
"But you are a priest. Does he not have to do what you tell him?"
"Sometimes he does what I tell him to, because he _is_ a Christian, and
I have been his companion and confessor for some years. But he is more
Tartar than Christian, and Tartars keep many women."