"Tilia is well, Cardinal," Sophia said quickly. "Luckily for her, she
was here when it happened." She wondered how much Daoud knew about what
had happened, and how he felt about it. Her heart still ached for poor
Rachel. Where was the child now, right at this moment? Somewhere on the
road to Perugia. Being abused, perhaps, by that beast of a Tartar.
"When _what_ happened?" Ugolini cried. "In the name of Christ and the
Virgin, speak out!"
Sophia told the cardinal and Daoud how she and Tilia had gone to Tilia's
house, and of the death and destruction they had found there. It hurt
her to see the anguish in their eyes. Especially Daoud's. He _must_ feel
a terrible guilt about having sent Rachel there in the first place. Now
he had to suffer that, along with pain d'Ucello had inflicted on him.
"The Tartars and de Verceuil!" Ugolini shouted, shaking clenched fists.
"May God send a flood to drown them on the road to Orvieto! May all the
devils in hell roast them!" He paced the floor furiously, his red robes
rustling. "I must go to Tilia at once," he cried.
"No," said Daoud. "Too many people would see you."
"But she has no one to protect her."
"She has hired guards," said Sophia. "And those who ruined her house are
gone."
Daoud's head fell back against the pillow, and his eyelids closed. His
face looked masklike to Sophia, almost as if he were dead. She realized,
with sudden anxiety, that he might be suffering terribly, without
complaint. That would be like him. And she and Ugolini stood here
talking. She must see to Daoud's hurts at once. He might have injuries
within, injuries from which he could not recover.
"Send some of your trusted men-at-arms to protect Tilia," said Daoud
without opening his eyes, his voice faint. "Riccardo and some others. Do
not go yourself."
"Of course," said Ugolini, looking abashed. "Even though you have been
tortured, your head is sounder than mine. But, you understand, _I_ am
tortured by the thought of what has happened to Tilia."
"I, too," said Daoud. "And to her people. And to Rachel."
"Tomorrow you can tell me what happened to you," said Ugolini at the
door. "I will let you rest now." He drew a breath, hesitated, bit his
lip. Sophia wished he would go.
Daoud raised his head and opened his eyes. "You want to ask something.
What is it?"
"Did you--did d'Ucello--learn anything?"
"God willed that he learn nothing from me," said Daoud, sinking back
again.
"_Your_ will had something to do with that," said Sophia.
_He held out against them. What a magnificent man._
But what price had he paid for his strength?
"God's will is my will," Daoud whispered.
"God be with you, then," said Ugolini, and left, pulling the door shut
behind him.
Daoud's eyes opened. The sight of his eyes woke a warmth in her breast
as if a small sun had risen inside her.
"Do you want to sleep?" she asked him.
"Yes, with you beside me."
Joy blazed up inside her at those words. She had been so afraid that
torture would somehow destroy his caring for her.
"Oh, yes," she said. "Nothing would make me happier."
"But first I need you to wash and dress my wounds."
Daoud gritted his teeth and winced as first she lifted off the purple
cloak that covered him, then inch by inch drew the yellow tunic up from
his body and over his head. He groaned aloud when, with her propping up
his heavy body, he raised his arms.
"O Kriste!" she whispered. She wept anew as her eyes traveled over the
golden body she loved and saw huge, broken blisters and patches of red
skin; swollen black bruises the size of hen's eggs; long, deep
lacerations filled with crusted blood; the many little black scabs of
puncture wounds.
"When Lorenzo and the Ghibellini get here, we will have d'Ucello and his
torturers torn to pieces," she raged. She went to the table, folded a
linen cloth, and dipped it in the water.
"I do not hate d'Ucello," said Daoud as she began, very carefully, to
clean his wounds. "He has his work and I have mine. As for his
torturer--Erculio is his name--d'Ucello does not know it, but his
torturer is one of us."
Sophia's hand, moving the cloth lightly over a long, shallow cut that
ran across the smooth, almost hairless skin of his chest, paused. Was he
delirious?
"One of _us_? The torturer?"
Daoud looked amused. "I do not know where Erculio comes from, but he is
a good servant of the God of Islam and of the sultan, who placed him
there for my protection."
"For your protection? You mean he would have killed you."
Her body turned to ice as she faced the reality of how close she had
come to losing him.
"Yes," said Daoud. "I thought I would never see you again." He reached
out his arms, grimacing with pain. She put down the cloth and let him
hold her. Her heart swelled up in her throat and tears burned her eyes.
And suddenly, as if a curtain were lifted, she saw that life with this
man would always be this way. Whenever she was with him, there would
always be a yesterday in which some miracle of good fortune kept him
alive. There would always be a tomorrow in which he must face death yet
again.
Her head rested on his chest for a moment; then she wiped her face and
went back to cleaning and covering his wounds. Never mind her pain.
Whatever he was feeling must be much worse.
He told her how to make poultices for his burns using wet cloths and
powdered medicinal herbs Ugolini had prepared. It was like what she had
done for his arrow wound, only now there were many more hurts to treat.
Silently, in Greek, she cursed d'Ucello and cursed the torturer. She did
not care whether Daoud forgave them. She would never forgive what they
had done to her man.
When he was in the cellar of the Palazzo del Podesta being tortured, had
he grieved at the thought of losing her, as she had sorrowed for him?
She worked her way down his body from head to foot, tying the poultices
in place with strips of cloth. Thank God, they had done nothing to his
manly part. That was often the first place a torturer went for. When
would they make love again, she wondered. That depended on how long it
took him to recover. Perhaps weeks, perhaps even months.
When she was finished with his front, he turned over with her help.
Again she could not hold back her tears. Pain, not bodily, but real just
the same, struck her at the sight of his tormented flesh. For a moment
her eyes were covered with darkness. The skin of his back and buttocks
had been whipped away in large red slashes. She shook her head
violently, spoke a few more curses in her mind, and went to work. Daoud,
who had endured most of her healing efforts in silence, cried out when
she put a wet cloth on a torn spot.
"What more can you tell me about Rachel?" he asked. She suspected he
wanted to take his mind off the pain.
She repeated everything Tilia's women had reported, ending that looking
out the windows they had seen Rachel riding off in a cart with the old
Franciscan who interpreted for the Tartars.
"I am glad to hear that old priest still lives," said Daoud, sighing.
"Ah, Sophia, Rachel is a slave to that Tartar only because she had the
ill luck to cross my path. I have brought destruction to many, many
people."
Slowly, painfully, he turned on his back again, with Sophia helping.
Lovingly she stroked the few patches of his skin that were not torn or
burned or bruised.
When he was settled, he looked up at her and smiled in what she thought
was a strange way. She did not see the cause of his smile at first,
until he looked down at himself, and she followed his eyes. She saw that
his key of life had begun to raise itself.
"Daoud! After all you have been through?"
"I want you, Sophia, _because_ of what I have been through. Because of
what I nearly lost. I will tell you more tomorrow about what, God be
thanked, did not happen. For now"--he reached out a hand to her--"come
to me."
She understood. He must feel like a man who had come back from the dead.
Life was more precious to him than ever--and love. Tired and pain-racked
though he was, he wanted this moment of being with her again, which must
seem to him like a gift from God. And, indeed, perhaps that was exactly
what it was.
He lay back on the bed, his tortured body naked except for the cloth
wrappings tied over the worst of his wounds. His beautiful circumcised
phallos pulsed as it grew larger. She wanted to be naked with him, and
she threw off her outer tunic, unbelted her red silk gown, and pulled it
over her head. Her shift followed. Then she stepped out of the purple
felt slippers and stood before him, her arms held away from her body, to
let him see her.
She felt the warmth of her own desire for him spread through her.
He said, "You are a spring that gushes out of barren rock. I thirst for
you."
Carefully she climbed on the bed, straddling him. Slowly, so as not to
hurt him, she lowered herself over him, guiding him into her with gentle
fingers. A long sigh escaped him. She moved for both of them.
The instant after he groaned and reached his peak of love and pleasure,
he fell asleep, still lying on his back. He had just enough strength to
couple with me, she thought.
She rose from him and blew out the candles on the bedside table. The
night was cool, and she closed the casement windows of his room.
There was space between Daoud and the wall for her to lie beside him.
She stretched out there and stayed awake only long enough to kiss his
bare shoulder.
* * * * *
Forcing himself to wake up seemed as much torture for Daoud as anything
Erculio had done to him. He could only lie there and struggle against
the agony he felt in every part of his body. His head ached. His tongue
felt like a lump of dried camel dung. His throbbing muscles and bones
begged him to sink back into unconsciousness. How long had he slept?
Only an hour or two, he was sure.
The yellow glow of a lighted candle filled the room. Lorenzo was
standing near the bed holding the candle, glowering at Daoud from under
thick, dark brows as if he were angry at him.
_Lorenzo._
Daoud wanted to laugh and leap out of bed and throw his arms around
Lorenzo. He managed only to sit up, too quickly. Fires shot from his
joints into his neck to coalesce in a burst of agony in the back of his
head. He did not want to cry out in front of Lorenzo, but a groan forced
itself through his cracked lips.
Sophia, wearing her red silk gown and standing by the bed--_How did she
get out of bed and dressed before Lorenzo got in here?_--took Daoud's
shoulders gently and lowered him back to the bed.
Lorenzo set the candle on the table beside Daoud and sat beside him.
"What the devil did those bastards do to you?"
Daoud saw the rage in the penetrating dark eyes, and it delighted him,
because Lorenzo was furious for his sake.
"Nothing that I will not recover from. More quickly, now that I see your
infidel face. Have you come here to parley with the podesta?"
"Yes, Duke Rinaldo has sent his son, Lapo, and me to meet with d'Ucello
here at Ugolini's."
Lorenzo had accomplished everything Daoud asked of him, and more. His
timely arrival had saved Daoud's life. To think that Daoud had once
wanted to be rid of him. Except for Sophia, he had never in his life
felt so happy to see anyone as this grizzled Sicilian.
Sophia said, "I have tended your wounds enough for tonight, David. I
leave you in Lorenzo's care." She smiled at Lorenzo and put her hand
briefly on his shoulder.
As she went to the door, Lorenzo scooped something from the floor,
jumped up, and handed it to her. "I believe this is yours, Madonna." He
held out her red leather belt.
Sophia swept it from his hand. "Thank you, Messere," she said coolly.
"Good night, Sophia," said Daoud with a smile. "You have brought me
great comfort tonight."
"Good night, David," she said, and shot him a burning look that he hoped
Lorenzo did not see.
After the door closed behind her, Lorenzo chuckled softly as he sat down
again. "Tending your wounds with her gown off, was she? And no light in
the room till I brought this candle in? You and she are not as discreet
as you were before I left."
_We could never fool Lorenzo_, thought Daoud ruefully.
"The pope is gone, the Tartars are gone, the French are gone," said
Daoud. "There is no one left in Orvieto that we need deceive. Find some
soft cloths on the table to bind my feet." Creating the barrier between
his mind and the pain, Daoud swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
Lorenzo stared at him, his mouth falling open.
"What in the name of hell are you doing? You cannot get up! What wounds
are under those bandages?"
"I do not mind the pain," said Daoud. "I want to meet this duke's son.
Where is your army camped?"
Lorenzo's grin stretched his thick black mustache. "In the valley to
the north. You should see it. After I climbed up to the main gate of
Orvieto I looked down and saw the hundreds of campfires twinkling. It
was as if the world had turned over, and I was looking down into the
starry sky."
Daoud wished he could go to the city walls to see what Lorenzo had
described. But he had barely strength enough to walk from his room to
Ugolini's cabinet.
* * * * *
Four men--Daoud, Lorenzo, Ugolini, and Lapo di Stefano--sat around
Ugolini's worktable discussing the fate of Orvieto. The servants had
moved the table to the center of the cabinet and had replaced the
cardinal's usual clutter of philosophical instruments with platters of
meat, loaves of bread baked fresh in the cardinal's kitchen, and trays
of steaming pastries. Daoud had no appetite and was in too much pain to
eat.
"When does your King Manfred intend to come up from the south?" Lapo
asked Daoud. He twisted the carcass of a roasted pigeon between thick,
juice-stained fingers. His nose had been broken in some accident or
fight; air whistled in and out of the flattened nostrils. Daoud judged
him to be about twenty, the same age as Simon de Gobignon.
As far as Lapo knew, Daoud was an agent of the king of southern Italy
and Sicily. It might have shocked him to discover that he was dealing
with a Muslim from Egypt.
Daoud had to evade Lapo's question. He had no idea what plans Manfred
had, if any. He could only hope that when he met with Manfred at Lucera
he would be able to persuade him to invade the Papal States.
"King Manfred would come from the south much more quickly," Daoud said,
"if he could count on being recognized by the cities of the north as
king of a united Italy."
"That must be between my father and him," said Lapo, and his breath
wheezed through his nostrils as he bit into the pigeon's breast. "After
all, no such title exists. There has never been a king of Italy."
And yet there easily could be, thought Daoud, seeing the shape of the
peninsula in his mind. And if that single ruler were a man like Manfred,
what a strong barrier Italy could be between the Abode of Islam and the
barbaric kingdoms of Christian Europe.
But in fact, thought Daoud, for all that Lapo di Stefano wore the
Ghibellino symbol, the black, two-headed Hohenstaufen eagle, on the
breast of his red silk surcoat, he and his father might still prefer
that Manfred stay where he was. As long as Manfred remained cut off
from the northern cities like Siena by the band of the Papal States
running across the center of Italy, the Ghibellini of the north could do
as they pleased.
"When the French invade," said Daoud, "a united Italy can keep them out.
If the cities of the north are divided, the French will take them over
one by one."
"How do you know the French will invade?" Lapo asked. "We have heard
that King Louis has no desire to wage war in Italy."
Daoud was beginning to feel a strong dislike for this coarse young
nobleman who seemed both very sure of himself and very ignorant. He was
about to reply when a man-at-arms entered and whispered to Ugolini.
"D'Ucello is here," Ugolini said.
"Have him wait below until we send for him," said Daoud quickly. He
turned back to Lapo.
"I do not wish d'Ucello harmed."