Daoud sighed. "God knows how much I wish I were with Sophia right now.
But she is the most resourceful woman I have ever known, and she has
friends with her in Benevento. And I have always known I could never
take her back to El Kahira. If I live, there is no other place I can go
but El Kahira. It is torment for me to think I will never see her again,
but whatever happens to me, Sophia and I would have to part. Perhaps it
is best that we be parted this way."
Manfred gripped Daoud's arms hard. "Stay, then, and be welcome among my
companions."
_I have brought destruction and death to so many_, Daoud thought. _Now
is the time to atone._
The company and the ground they defended grew steadily smaller as the
sun sank toward the west side of the valley. Even knowing that every
moment he fought was another infinitely precious moment of life, Daoud
felt a leaden weariness that made him wish the battle might soon end.
He struck out with his nicked and blunted saif against yet another
French knight, who seemed fresh and full of vigor while pain screamed in
his own shoulders and his legs felt ready to give way under him. But
there were no respites now. All Manfred's men still on their feet were
fighting. All their horses were fled from the field or dead.
Daoud reminded himself that when this battle ended he would be dead, and
he thrust upward with his saif to parry a longsword whose arc would have
ended in his skull.
Manfred was swinging his sword beside him. By fighting, Daoud thought,
they held off, not only their enemies, but the despair that he felt like
a dark tide within him, and that he knew Manfred must feel too.
He wondered whether Lorenzo had gotten through to the Tartars and killed
them. And if he had, would it make a difference?
A French knight with huge mustaches that disappeared under the sides of
his helmet swung a battle axe, and the Muslim warrior standing next to
Daoud was suddenly headless. A spray of blood splashed on Daoud.
He saw mounted knights pushing through the close-packed mass of shouting
Frenchmen. One on his right wore a red-painted helmet and brandished a
mace. On his left rode a knight whose helmet was adorned with some
fantastic winged animal.
"Surrender!" the knight with the beast on his helmet shouted. "You have
fought bravely. The battle is over. You will have good terms."
Daoud had just time to recognize the face under the helmet with a
strange feeling of gladness, as if meeting an old friend.
Simon de Gobignon.
"Not till I have crushed the viper!" And that, coming from the red
helmet that covered his face, was the deep voice of Cardinal Paulus de
Verceuil. All in red, he loomed over the struggle like a tower of fire.
So hard did he drive his charger through his own French knights that
some of them were knocked to the ground. Daoud even saw one fall under
the hooves of the cardinal's horse. Others scrambled out of the way.
The cardinal's war-horse reared up over Manfred, hooves flailing.
Manfred dodged back. The hooves came down, and the charger leapt
forward. Leaning out of the saddle, holding the mace in both hands, de
Verceuil brought it down on Manfred's helmet.
"No!" Daoud screamed.
He heard a metallic crash. Manfred collapsed to the ground with a jangle
of mail and lay still. Blood streaked his yellow and black surcoat and
soaked the crushed green plume.
With a cry of rage Daoud threw himself at de Verceuil to drag him off
his horse.
He was knocked aside by a great gray charger that forced its way
between himself and the cardinal. Staggering back, he looked up into the
face of Simon de Gobignon.
"No, Cardinal!" de Gobignon shouted. "You will not kill this man, too,
before he has had the chance of honorable surrender."
Amazed, Daoud let his saif drop a bit. De Gobignon had ridden in, not to
attack him, but to save him from de Verceuil.
_But all he accomplished was to save de Verceuil from me._
De Gobignon, leaning down from his gray charger, pointed his curving
sword at Daoud, but not in a threatening way. Daoud took a step
backward, his saif lifted.
The struggle around them had stopped. The fighting men had fallen
silent. The handful of Manfred's followers remaining were quietly laying
down their arms. A German knight and a Saracen crouched weeping over
Manfred's body.
Daoud's arms and legs felt as if he were pushing them through water, but
he knew that if he began to fight again he would forget this weariness.
The worst of what he felt was the terrible ache of grief in his chest,
grief for Manfred, for threatened Islam, for Sophia.
"Look at him, look at his garb," said de Verceuil. "A Saracen with the
face of a Frank. If he surrenders, he should be burned as an apostate."
"You must be blind indeed, Cardinal," said de Gobignon, "if you do not
see who this is." He turned to Daoud with a grave face. "You are David
of Trebizond."
"I am," said Daoud.
"And are you truly a Saracen? I have long thought that you were an agent
of Manfred, but I never would have guessed, to look at you, that you
were a follower of Mohammed."
"You were meant not to think that."
"This battle--this war--is over now. I give you my word that if you
surrender you will be treated honorably. There will be no burning."