On a dais high above Simon, on a gilded throne under a cloth-of-gold
canopy, Charles d'Anjou sat, wearing the crown studded with rubies,
emeralds, and sapphires placed on his head by Cardinal Paulus de
Verceuil, as legate for Pope Clement, a few hours ago. Simon stood below
him in a half-circle of Roman nobles and Charles's commanders. The
Tartars and Friar Mathieu were beside Simon.
Behind them, the great hall of the Palazzo Laterano, Roman residence of
the pope, was packed with French seigneurs and knights and the popolo
grosso of Rome. The hall was stifling, and Simon felt sweat trickling
inside his tunic. Even in early May Rome was already too hot to live in.
He wondered how Anjou and his army would manage to survive the summer
here.
Anjou beckoned to Gautier du Mont, who swept his cap from his
bowl-shaped head of hair and hurried up the dozen steps, a sword that
reached to his ankle swinging at his side.
Simon felt a hollow in his stomach large enough to hold all of Rome.
Soon Charles would call him up to the throne, and he would have to give
him an answer. A month ago in Viterbo he had been determined to bring
the Gobignon army to Italy. In the intervening days, doubts had
unsettled him. Did he really dare to commit the fighting men of his
domain to the war? Each time he tried to decide, his mind gave a
different answer, like dice endlessly tossed. His head ached and his
eyes burned from lying awake all last night after his arrival in Rome
just in time for the coronation.
Over and over again he heard what Friar Mathieu had said: _Not so long
ago you even doubted your right to be Count de Gobignon. And are you now
ready to lead the men of Gobignon to bloodshed and--for many of
them--death?_
Du Mont had finished his conversation with Charles and, with repeated
bows, was descending from the dais with his face toward the throne and
his hindquarters to the gathering. Now that Anjou was a king, one did
not turn one's back on him. A far cry from du Mont's behavior toward
Charles of only a few months earlier, and another mark of Charles's
increased stature since his arrival at the gates of Rome. Still, he had
been required to compromise on his coronation. He had been crowned in
Rome as he wanted, but not by the pope. Only de Verceuil, who felt
himself exalted by the occasion, was perfectly happy with that
arrangement.
As du Mont rejoined the crowd at the base of the throne, Simon's eye was
drawn to the red silk cross sewn on his blue tunic. After the
coronation, the pope's proclamation of a crusade against Manfred had
been read. Charles's men must have had their crosses sewn on in
anticipation.
Men like du Mont, von Regensburg, and FitzTrinian were now holy
warriors, all of whose past sins were forgiven. If any of Charles's
followers should die in battle, they would go straight to heaven.
Having seen those cutthroats in action, Simon thought their new state of
holiness absurd. But now that Pope Clement had declared the war against
Manfred a crusade, it would be so much easier to recruit an army from
Gobignon.
Simon wore no cross, an outward sign of his indecision.
An equerry in red and black whispered to Friar Mathieu, who turned and
spoke to the Tartars. John and Philip ceremoniously unbuckled their
jeweled belts and draped them over their necks. As the bowlegged little
men started up the steps, Simon heard snickers from among Charles's
officers at this Tartar gesture of submission. The more fools they, he
thought, to laugh at the customs of men who had conquered half the
earth. Friar Mathieu followed the Tartars, holding the equerry's arm.
Innumerable conversations, echoing against the vaulted ceiling of the
great Lateran hall, battered on Simon's ears. To his right he heard
Cardinal de Verceuil's deep booming. Unwillingly, he turned, and saw the
cardinal's wide-brimmed red hat, its heavy tassels swinging, rising
above the crowd as did the voice coming from beneath it. De Verceuil was
happy to dress like a cardinal today, since he was taking the place of
the pope. Simon knew he would soon be trading his scarlet regalia for
mail. Eager to share in the spoils of Manfred's kingdom, he was going
back to France to raise an army from his fiefs and benefices scattered
around the country.
Simon saw several other cardinals' hats here and there in the crowd. He
wondered if any of the Italian cardinals supported Charles's adventure.
None of them disapproved openly, that was certain. Only Ugolini had
protested, and his form of protest had been flight. Enough to cost him
his red hat. By papal decree Adelberto Ugolini was no longer
cardinal-bishop of Palermo. Simon had sought out priests and merchants
traveling from southern Italy, asking them what had become of Ugolini.
But news from the south was sparse these days, and news of Ugolini
nonexistent.
Simon had spoken in Viterbo to a pair of Dominican friars recently come
from Palermo. They had known Ugolini before he became a cardinal, but
did not remember that he had any sisters, much less a niece. They had
never heard of a Siracusa family called Orfali. Simon raged at his
inability to learn anything at all about Sophia. It was as if she had
fallen into a black pit.
John and Philip were kneeling before Charles at the top of the steps.
Friar Mathieu stood beside the Tartars, interpreting for them and for
King Charles. Charles was talking loudly enough for Simon to hear. Like
many men, he tended to raise his voice when addressing those who did not
speak his language.
"You must tell the great Abagha Khan that it is customary for rulers to
send gifts to newly made kings. Tell him we look forward with delight to
the wonderful things he will send us from the Orient."
More useful, in Simon's opinion, would be a detailed proposal from the
late Hulagu Khan's son on how and when Christians and Tartars should
launch their war on the Saracens. Stories had come from the East that
Hulagu Khan's frustration over his failure to conquer the Mamelukes had
hastened his death.
As he waited to climb the stairs and kneel before the new king, Simon
reminded himself that he could still refuse to join Charles's war on
Manfred.
He became aware of the dull pain around his heart that had been with him
ever since he discovered that Sophia had vanished. Even when he forgot
the suffering, it weighed down his footsteps and bowed his shoulders.
_And the worst of it is that I would rather live perpetually with this
misery than stop loving Sophia._
But how could he go on loving her if she had been his enemy all along?
Was there any such person as Sophia Orfali? All the time he was courting
her, she could have been working against the alliance. She might even
have known the man in black who had nearly killed him.
That thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. For a moment, he was
blind to the sights around him, deaf to the sounds.
_No! It cannot be!_
If she really had been that evil, it could be only because she had been
corrupted by living in Manfred's kingdom. He remembered the words of de
Verceuil's sermon this morning at Count Charles's coronation.
_The Hohenstaufens, that brood of vipers, have too long vexed Holy
Church, persecuting pope after pope. May it please God that the bastard
Manfred be the last of them. May we see the destruction of that family
of blasphemers and infidels, secretly in league with the Saracens. We
declare Manfred von Hohenstaufen anathema and outlaw. Blessed be the
hand that strikes him down._
If it was Manfred who had turned Sophia into a tool of the infidels,
then how right that Simon's hand be the one to strike Manfred down.
Now, bowing, the Tartars were carefully backing down from the royal
presence. Friar Mathieu turned and teetered precariously at the top of
the steps. Charles, seeming not to understand the Franciscan's
infirmity, stared at him without moving from his seat. The equerry who
had helped him climb made a move toward him, but Simon was already up
the steps and gripping the old Franciscan's arm.
"Thank you, Simon." Friar Mathieu turned to Charles. "Sire, I hope you
will forgive the sight of this old man's back. I am afraid my legs lack
the power to climb downstairs backward."
"To be sure, Father, to be sure." Charles waved a hand in dismissal.
If King Louis were on that throne, Simon thought, he would probably have
lifted Friar Mathieu in his own arms and carried him down. Simon so
wished it were Louis, rather than Charles, he was serving. But perhaps
by serving Charles he was serving Louis.
Perhaps.
Simon and Friar Mathieu descended a step at a time. Friar Mathieu was
leaning on Simon, but he seemed to weigh nothing.
"Count Simon," Charles called when Simon reached the bottom. "I would
speak with you next."
When Simon mounted the dais, Charles ordered his herald in red and black
to call for silence.
"All honor to Simon, Count de Gobignon!" Charles called from the throne
when he had the attention of the assembly. "For nearly two years he has
guarded the ambassadors from Tartary. He has risked his very life in
battle for them. His sagacity and bravery have brought new glory to his
ancient name."
Simon felt dizzy with exaltation. He had not expected this, from the
newly crowned king. His face burned. At a gesture from Charles, he
turned to face the crowd. The gathering in the great hall of the Lateran
was a multicolored, murmuring blur. The dais on which he stood seemed
suddenly turned into a mountaintop.
"Now," Charles went on, "Count Simon and his vassals join us as allies
in battle against the godless Manfred. May the deeds he has yet to do
bring even more renown to the house of Gobignon. I guarantee you,
Messeigneurs, the day will come when Simon de Gobignon will be known as
one of Christendom's greatest knights."
Simon's bedazzlement at Charles's tribute to him turned in an instant to
anger. By publicly announcing a decision Simon had not yet made, Charles
was trying to force him to commit himself to the crusade. For a moment
Simon was tempted to tell Charles that he would crusade at his side when
the Middle Sea froze over.
But as he stood looking down at Charles's barons and the nobles of Rome,
half turned toward Charles, half turned toward the assembly, the
clapping and cheering were overwhelming him. His eye was drawn by a red
hat above the rest of the crowd, and he was delighted to see that de
Verceuil's face seemed a deeper red than his vestments.
Simon's anger at Charles faded as the moment lifted him up in spite of
himself.
He who had dwelt in the shadow of treason all his life, who had hidden
himself, when in great assemblies, for fear he would be noticed and
treated with scorn, now honored by this multitude in the capital of
Christendom in the age-old palace of the popes!
Was it not to achieve this that he had come to Italy?
_If only Sophia could see._
He did what he felt was required, and knelt before Charles, taking the
new king's extended hand and kissing a huge ruby ring.
In a low voice Charles said, "I have prayed that I would have your help,
Simon. Can you not tell me that my prayer has been answered?"
If he refused Charles and went back to Gobignon, he would never see
Sophia again. And he would probably never again know a moment like this,
when he felt so _right_ as the Count de Gobignon.
But he was still offended by Charles's claiming a commitment that Simon
had not given him.
"It seems you already know your prayer has been answered, Sire."
Charles frowned for a moment, then smiled and patted Simon on the
shoulder. "Forgive me. I want so much for you to join me that I spoke as
if it were already true. Will you make it true?"
He looked up into Charles's large, compelling eyes and nodded slowly.
"I will come after the harvest is in, Sire. I will come with my army."
* * * * *
Rachel slid from the bed, trying to shake it as little as possible so as
not to wake John. Letting her robe of yellow silk flutter loosely about
her nude body, she hurried behind the screen that hid her commode and
opened the chest that held her most private belongings. She took out the
device of bladder and tubing Tilia had given her long ago, and with a
pitcherful of lukewarm water washed John's seed out of herself quickly.
Over the year and more that she had been with John, she had never let
him see her using the thing. Men such as John, she knew, took pride in
their power to get a woman with child.
She was fourteen now, and her breasts were filling out. Many women had
babies at fourteen. She would have to be more careful than ever. She
stretched her mouth in a grimace at the thought of a baby that looked
like John.
As usual, she had endured, not enjoyed, the Tartar's mating. Another
change she had noticed in herself, though, was that she had begun to
understand how women could feel pleasure with a man. Several times since
last spring a yellow-haired man had appeared naked before her in her
dreams, and had lain with her. When she woke she could not remember the
man's face, but she still felt the exquisite sensations his body gave
her, and she sometimes had to caress herself until a surge of pleasure
relieved the yearning stirred up by her dream.
Other times, when John came to her late at night and she was very
sleepy, she closed her eyes and was able to imagine that the
yellow-haired man was with her, and then she actually enjoyed John's
attentions, which pleased him very much.
She tied the robe's sash and went to the window. The breeze from the
west was strong and salt-smelling, and she was thankful that she was
here, in a villa by the sea, and not in Rome. August, they said, killed
one out of every three people in Rome. She sat on the wide sill and
looked out. She did not lean out too far; she was four stories up,
overlooking jagged boulders piled along the shore.
Afternoon sunlight sparkled on the Tyrrhenean Sea, and a flash of sun on
the helmet of a guard patrolling the beach caught her eye. One of
Sordello's Venetians, she thought, judging by his bowl-shaped helmet and
the crossbow he carried. The men-at-arms of the Orsini family, who had
lent this villa to the French party, wore helmets shaped to the head,
with crests on top.
She heard the bed creaking behind her, and the Tartar groaned.
"Pour me another cup of wine, Reicho," he called.
"You have had three cups already, Usun," she said, but obediently went
to the table and poured red wine from a flagon into his silver cup.
He had taught her his original Tartar name, Usun, and he liked to hear
her say it. With the help of Friar Mathieu and Ana the Bulgarian, she
had learned to understand and speak his language fairly well. She knew
now that "Tartar" was merely a European word for his people, that they
called themselves "Mongols."
He pulled his silk trousers up and knotted the drawstring. His belly had
been flat when she first met him. Now it was swollen as if _he_ were
having a baby, and excess flesh sagged on his shoulders and chest. His
decline was partly from too much wine and partly from too little
activity. She rarely saw John without a wine cup in his hand, and by
evening he was often surly or in a stupor. He talked to her less, and
was less often able to couple with her. If he spent many more months
like this, he would sicken and die like a wild bird kept in a cage.
"I had _six_ cups this morning before I came to you," he boasted. "Wine
makes me strong." He drank off half his cup and set it on the marble
table.
She sat beside him on the rumpled bed. "You need to get out, Usun. Go
riding."
He shrugged. "Too hot." He grinned, stroking his white beard. "But next
year we will ride to war."
"Next year?"
"King Charr has promised to let me and Nikpai--Philip--ride to war with
him when he attacks Manfred."
In her anxiety she seized John's arm--she rarely touched him--and said,
"You must insist that your guardians let you go out riding regularly.
And you must stop drinking so much wine. Otherwise you will be very
sick."
His black eyes were wider and moister than usual. "You worry about me,
Reicho?"
She took her hand from his arm. "I don't want to see you die," she said.
She did not know why she felt that way. After all, he had enslaved her,
and every time he possessed her body it was virtually rape. And if he
died, she might be free. But, she supposed, she had gotten to know him
so well that she felt sorry for him.
She did not like to hear about this war against King Manfred. Friar
Mathieu had told her gently that her lost friends, Sophia, David, and
the others, were very likely all spies for Manfred. If Sophia were in
King Manfred's employ, that made no difference to Rachel. From all she
had heard, Jews were better treated in Manfred's kingdom than anywhere
else in Italy. The French, on the other hand, were often cruel to Jews.
It would bring sorrow and suffering to many people if Charles d'Anjou
conquered southern Italy and Sicily.
She wished she could be with Sophia. But Sophia was probably in Sicily,
and how could Rachel, all alone, cross half of Italy to find her?
The locked box she kept under the bed, which held all the gold and
jewelry Usun had given her, was far too big and heavy for her to carry.
And even if she could escape and take it away with her, she could not
protect herself from robbery. But it would be the worst sort of
stupidity to leave without it. It was all she had from these awful
years. It was less like a treasure, though, than like a block of stone
to which she was chained.
If she were ever to escape, she would first have to get away from the
guards, the Armenians and the Venetians, all of whom had orders to watch
her and make sure she did not run away. That Sordello, the capitano of
the Venetians, seemed to have his eyes on her whenever she went out of
her room.
She was alone in the world. Nowhere to go. There were moments when she
felt so lost and unhappy she wanted to climb out the open window of her
room and throw herself down to the rocks.
"Maybe next year, when King Charr goes to war, I will not be here," Usun
said suddenly.
"You must wish you could be back with your own people," she said.
_If I am lonely, think how he must feel. Except for Philip, there is no
one like him anywhere in this part of the world. Only a few people speak
his language. Everything looks strange to him._
"We are waiting for orders from our new master, Abagha Khan," said Usun.
"Another letter must come soon. It is now six months since his father
died."
Rachel felt her heart fluttering with anxiety. "And when Abagha Khan's
message comes, what do you think it will say?"
"He will order us either to go to the king of the Franks or to go back
to Persia." He took a swallow of wine. Rachel saw that his white beard
was stained pink from all the red wine he had spilled on it.
"Then you might go home again?" said Rachel. "Would you like that?" Her
hands trembled, and she twined her fingers together in her lap to still
them.
Usun laughed and drank. "Not home, Reicho. My home is farther away from
Persia than Persia is from here. It is so far away and there are so many
enemies in between that I may never see it again. But I do not care. My
people have a fine domain in Persia."
He drank, and held out his empty cup. She filled it with a shaking hand.
If he went back to Persia, she might be free of him. Unless her worst
fears turned out to be true.
"So, you may soon say good-bye to me." She dared not let him see how
eager she was for him to be gone.
He looked up at her, and the light from outside etched the thousand tiny
criss-crossed wrinkles around his eyes. "No, Reicho. If I go back, you
must come with me."
Her heart turned to ice, just as if he had told her he was going to kill
her. She had suspected this and had prayed it would not be so.
Everything he said and did, from the day he took her from Tilia's house,
showed that he meant never to let her go. She was to be his prisoner for
life.
"Usun," she said, trying to keep her voice calm, "I do not want to go
with you."
He stared at her, his brown face wooden.
"You are afraid," he said. "But you must not be. When you come with me,
you will be a very great lady. I am a baghadur. I am as great a lord as
King Charr is here. I know that people of your religion are treated
badly by the Christians. Among my people all religions are equal. The
Ulang-Yassa, the law of Genghis Khan, commands it." When he spoke the
name "Genghis Khan" there was a reverence in his voice, like a Christian
speaking of Jesus.
She was reminded of Tilia, telling her why it was better to be a harlot
than a wife. She wanted to weep with frustration, as if she had been
pounding her fists against a stone wall. How could a man who seemed
content to have left his own homeland behind forever understand how
_she_ felt?
"Usun, it does not matter to me that I am lowly here and might be great
there. This land is where I was born and grew up, and no matter how much
I suffer here, it is my home. I do not want to live among Tartars and
Persians. I would be so terribly alone. I beg you, do not try to uproot
me from this land."
"You would not be alone," he said in a low, sad voice. "You would have
me."
"I could never be happy with you." It was a terrible thing to say, but
only the truth might make him change his mind.
He did not look at her. He drained his cup and thrust it at her as if
striking a blow.
"The flagon is empty," she said.
"I will go." He stood up and pulled his tunic on over his head. He was
no taller than she was, but as she sat on the bed and stared up at him,
he seemed to loom over her like a giant. His black gaze was empty of
feeling as stone.
"It does not matter whether you are happy. You are mine and you will
come with me."
She shrank away from him, terrified. The face he showed her was the face
of the man who had dragged her naked through that Orvieto street.
She threw herself full length on the bed, sobbing. Her heart felt ready
to burst with anguish.
_Oh, God, only You can help me. Send someone to deliver me, or I will
die._