Now Sophia was deeply angry with herself. She had already decided that
what had happened to Rachel should not be blamed on Tilia. And she was
trying--or should be trying--to comfort her. Her cruel Greek tongue had
got the better of her.
Sophia was about to apologize when a shout from outside stopped her.
"The mistress of the whores' house is in this cart. I saw her get into
it."
"Now she sees how God punishes fornicators."
"We should never have let her move into our street."
"Let her get her house and all of her filth out of here."
Sophia shrank back into the cart, her heart quaking. She had seen mobs
tear people to pieces.
She said, "Tilia, that crowd frightens me, and the podesta's men may not
be much protection. Let us get out of here, please."
"I will show you what I think of that crowd," said Tilia. She pushed her
way to the front of the cart and stood beside Riccardo with her hands on
her hips. Sophia could see people gathered, white faces in the
moonlight, red faces in the torchlight.
"Ignoranti!" Tilia shouted. "Fannulloni! My house is the best on your
street. The rest is one big, foul quintana. Where were you idlers when
my men were murdered and my women were raped by a gang of foreigners?
Home pissing in your pants, eh? Brave Orvietans you are. Get out of my
way."
Sophia heard a muttering from the crowd, but no one tried to answer
Tilia. Sophia shook her head.
_If I live to be a hundred, I don't think I could ever face down a mob
like that._
Tilia turned to Riccardo, whose broad shoulders beside her had lent
force to her words. "Drive on."
The cart rolled forward, and the people fell back, squeezing against the
housefronts to let it by. Sophia, devastated, sagged back against a
great earthenware olive oil jar. She was too worn out even to cry
anymore.