Charles nodded slowly. "To be exact, I will require three thousand
florins to be delivered to me tomorrow morning before I enter the city,
to compensate my men, whose pay is in arrears. I will have further
requirements, but I will not press you for all at once. Three thousand
florins will be enough for tomorrow."
Simon saw von Regensburg and FitzTrinian grinning at each other.
Orsini's mouth worked several times after Simon translated Charles's
demand for three thousand florins. "But, Your Signory, we welcome you as
our protector, not as one who comes to--to take from us."
Charles laughed and threw his arms wide. "Protectors cost money, my dear
Orsini. I am sure the great city of Rome can scrape together three
thousand florins by tomorrow. It will not be necessary for me to send my
army into the city to help you find the money, will it?"
"Not at all necessary, Your Signory," said Orsini, bowing, his face
flushed to the roots of his black beard.
These Guelfo nobles apparently had thought that the count of Anjou had
come to Rome purely out of some high-minded desire to serve the pope and
the Church, Simon thought. They were starting to learn what Simon
himself had gradually come to realize: that Count Charles did nothing
that did not first and foremost benefit himself.
As for himself, Simon's deepest wish was to get away from all this
slaughter and pillage and dishonor, and the sooner the better.
* * * * *
"Rome is an old whore who lies down for every strong man who comes
along," said Count Charles. "All we needed was to show our resolution
when that mob came at us, and Rome fell over backward."
The two men sat across from each other at a small camp table in
Charles's tent, sharing wine and succulent roast pork killed and cooked
by Anjou's equerries. Simon stared into the flames of a six-branched
candlestick standing on Charles's armor chest at the side of the tent,
and thought that he would far rather be exploring the wonders of Rome he
had heard so much about--the Colosseum, the Lateran Palace, the Forum,
the catacombs.
Simon remembered his mother's warning of years ago: _Charles d'Anjou
uses people._ How often, with Charles, had he suspected, feared, that
she was right? But those boyhood years in Charles's household, Simon's
weapons training under Charles, his feeling that King Louis was a sort
of father to him and Count Charles a sort of uncle, all made him want to
trust Charles. But it was becoming impossible to do that, especially
since Avignon, when Charles asked him to betray the king's confidence.
Even now, though he wished they could get back on their old footing, he
found himself wondering whether that old footing had been an illusion.
Perhaps all along Charles had been kind to him only the better to use
him.
He was terribly afraid that he knew what Charles wanted to talk to him
about tonight. He had seen the sorry quality of Charles's army, and he
had been impelled, almost against his will, to take the lead when the
Roman mob was attacking. If Simon were in Charles's position, he knew
what he would want.
"You did just the right thing today, Simon," Charles said. "Those three
cutthroats would never have let themselves be overrun, nor would I. But
I hadn't paid them in a while, no fault of mine, and they saw that as an
excuse to try to extract a promise from me of an additional monthly five
florins per knight and increases for the common soldiers as well. They
thought the sight of that mob would force me to yield to them."
_So their refusal to act was a pretense_, Simon thought. But he began to
feel disgusted with himself. Of all of them, he was the only one who had
been duped.
Charles went on. "They were testing my courage. They did not know me
well. They know me better now. I would have stood my ground until they
were forced to turn and defend themselves. But you settled things by
taking those archers out into the field and driving the rabble off. And
a good thing you did, because the situation _was_ risky. They might have
waited too long to attack, and we might have lost lives unnecessarily.
It was a dangerous game they were playing."
_And a dangerous game you were playing_, Simon thought. He leaned
forward, resting his elbows on the table. Charles had used him, just as
Mother had warned, and he felt angry enough to speak frankly.
"It was mutiny. In my opinion you should have hanged those men. They are
little better than routiers. But all you did was haggle with them."
Sipping from his goblet, Charles lounged back on his cot and laughed.
"Ah, Simon, I forget sometimes that you have never been in a war. This
is the way it always is. Especially at the beginning. These men--du
Mont, FitzTrinian, von Regensburg, and their followers--are hirelings,
and when one goes shopping for an army, one buys, not the best there is,
but only the best that is on the market."
Simon wanted to lean back as Charles had done, but there was no back to
the stool he sat on. Charles's furnishings were as meager as everything
else about his army.
"I fear for you, uncle, I really do. Not only are your knights
undisciplined, but you are so few in number." He instantly regretted
saying that. It would give Charles an opening to ask him for help.
Charles smiled complacently. "And you think Manfred von Hohenstaufen,
with his host of Saracens and Sicilians, will march up here and chew me
up, is that it?"
"Well--perhaps."
Charles swirled his wine cup and drank from it. "A bigger army would
have cost me far more to ship and far more to pay, feed, and quarter
while I am here. I needed this much of an army to establish myself in
Rome. I do not need more until I actually make war on Manfred, and that
may be as much as a year from now. Tomorrow I will enter Rome in
triumph, and I will have myself declared chief senator of Rome.
Eventually Guy le Gros--Pope Clement, he is calling himself--will crown
me king of southern Italy and Sicily. As my renown spreads, fighting men
will come flocking from all over to join my cause. And they will have to
come in on my terms. Then I will be ready to march south."
The whole reason Charles had first sent Simon to Italy--to engineer the
conquest of the Saracens by Christians and Tartars--was that no longer
important to him? Charles had said nothing about the Tartars since Simon
arrived in Ostia last night.
"The new Holy Father has already proclaimed his approval of the Tartar
alliance," Simon ventured.
"Excellent," said Charles, nodding. He stood up and poured more wine for
himself and Simon.
Sitting down again on his camp bed, he went on. "Your guardianship of
the Tartars, too, has been superb, Simon. You proved that I judged
wisely in picking you for that task. I am delighted."
Feeling pleased with himself, Simon took a long drink of the heavy red
Roman wine. "Then, since the pope has publicly given his approval, shall
I escort the Tartars to your brother the king, so they can plan the
crusade?"
"The crusade?" Charles lay back on his cot, propped up on one elbow, and
stared into his wine cup and said nothing further.
"Would it not be safest to conduct them to the king at once?" Simon
pressed him. "Our enemies may still try to kill them, even though the
alliance is proclaimed."
Charles shook his head. "The last attempt to kill them was many months
ago."
True, Simon thought. The stalker in black seemed to have given up or
disappeared.
"Yes, but that Sienese attack on Orvieto--"
Charles interrupted. "De Verceuil got the Tartars out of Orvieto safely.
And that attack was aimed at the pope, not the Tartars. After all, who
has been trying to kill the Tartars, and why? Manfred's agents, because
they knew that if the pope approved the Tartar alliance, my brother
would then give me permission to march against Manfred."
Simon remembered King Louis saying he wanted to be ready to launch his
crusade by 1270, now only five years away.
"But preparations for a crusade take many years," Simon said. "Should
not the Tartars go to the king now, so they can begin to plan?"
"I do not think they should visit my brother just yet," said Charles.
"His mind so easily fills up with dreams of recapturing Jerusalem."
Simon caught a faint note of mockery in Charles's voice. "The presence
of the Tartars at his court might distract him from his more immediate
responsibilities."
"Then what will we do with the Tartars?" Simon asked, nettled.
"Let them remain with le Gros's court in Viterbo. It honors the pope to
have those strange men from the unknown East at his coronation. Then,
when he comes here to present me with the crown, let them come, too, as
my guests. Indeed, they can stay with me after that. They will be safer
with me than they would be anywhere else in Italy. And it might interest
them to see how Christians make war."
_They would be safer still in France._
He could have taken Sophia and the Tartars to France together, leaving
the Tartars safe and well guarded with King Louis, and then going on
with Sophia to Gobignon. And getting away from Charles and his war.
"How many more months will I have to stay in Viterbo guarding the
Tartars?" he said with some irritation.
Charles put down his wine goblet suddenly and stood up. He seemed to
fill the tent. The candles on the chest lit his face from below, casting
ghastly shadows over his olive complexion.
"Simon, I feel I can speak more frankly to you than I ever have. It is
nearly two years since I asked you to undertake the guarding of the
Tartars. The way you acted today showed me that you've learned a great
deal in that time. You have seen the world. You have seen combat. You
have learned to lead."
_He praises me because I was so quick to mow down a hundred or so
commoners_, thought Simon.
"Thank you, uncle," he said tonelessly.
"I did not summon you from Viterbo just so you could accompany me from
Ostia to Rome, Simon. You saw what my routiers--as you called them--are
like. And when I am inside the city I will be in much greater danger
from that Roman canaille than I was in the field today. I need a good
leader with me whom I can trust. I want you to stay here in Rome with
me."
Simon's chest ached as if chains were wrapped around it.
"How long?"
"At least two months. By then Sire Adam Fourre, my chief vassal from
Anjou, will be here with seventy knights and three hundred men. A small
force, but one I can depend on. I will feel more in control of these
brigands then."
"But who will guard the Tartars while I am here?" he asked, desperately
trying to think of an excuse that would get him back to Sophia.