"No," said Daoud. "I am giving my life to God."
He could not help anyone now. Not Manfred, not Baibars, not Sophia.
Like Manfred, he had only one choice left to him. The manner of his
death.
"Very well, Messer David," said the young count. He swung himself down
from his charger. At his gesture one of his men pulled the horse away.
"Monseigneur!" a young man called from the circle of Frenchmen that
surrounded them. "Victory is already ours. Don't risk your life to fight
one God-accursed Saracen."
"I am the Count de Gobignon," said Simon quietly, "because I uphold the
honor of my house."
De Gobignon turned to de Verceuil, who still sat on his horse holding
his bloody mace in his hand. "Kindly clear the field, Cardinal."
"I shall see that you have the last sacraments if the infidel kills
you," said de Verceuil with a curl of his lip. He yanked his charger's
head around, drove his spurs deep, and rode off, the circle of men on
foot parting for him.
Daoud gazed at the young man before him with a feeling that was very
like love. He had once hated Simon de Gobignon. Now he felt him almost a
son, or a younger brother, or another self. If he had ever wanted to be
someone like Simon, he did not now. He had penetrated such mysteries and
known such ecstasies as de Gobignon never would. He had heard and heeded
the words of the Prophet, may God commend and salute him. He had served
Baibars al-Bunduqdari and been taught by Sheikh Saadi and Imam Fayum
al-Burz. He had fought for Manfred von Hohenstaufen and had loved Sophia
Karaiannides. And soon he would stand face-to-face with God in paradise.
"I do not challenge your honor," he said.
The Frenchman was already moving into a combat stance, a slight crouch,
an exploratory circling of the tip of his sword.
"But even so I fight for my honor," Simon said.
"It is right that you should know whom you are fighting," Daoud said,
raising his saif. "I am Emir Daoud ibn Abdallah of the Bhari Mamelukes."
"Mameluke," said de Gobignon softly. "I have heard that word."
"You shall learn what it means," said Daoud. He did not want to kill de
Gobignon, but he would if he had to, because the young man deserved
nothing less than the best fight of which he was capable.
They moved slowly around each other. Under that purple and gold surcoat
the Frenchman was wearing mail armor from his toes to his fingertips. A
tight-laced hood of mail left only his face bare, and his helmet with
its nasal bar covered part of his face.
In this kind of toe-to-toe fight the greater speed of a lightly armored
fighter was not much advantage. The weight of the mail might slow de
Gobignon down a bit, but fatigue would do the same for Daoud.
The scimitar de Gobignon wielded, that souvenir stolen from some Islamic
warrior, looked to be at least as good a blade as the one Daoud was
using.
The count sprang and slashed at Daoud's arm. Daoud stepped back easily
and parried the blow.
_He can cut my hand off and that would end the fight. And I might even
survive the loss of a hand to be taken prisoner into the bargain. I must
not let that happen._
With a shout Daoud drove the point of his saif straight at de Gobignon's
face. Christians used swords for chopping, not stabbing. With a
backhanded slash de Gobignon knocked the point aside. He punched with
his mailed free hand at Daoud's chest armor.
Daoud felt the force of the blow, but he saw de Gobignon wince. A mailed
fist could hurt flesh, but when it struck metal the fist would suffer.
Daoud slashed at de Gobignon's sword arm just above the elbow.
_Let us see if that mail can withstand my sword._
De Gobignon winced again, but the saif rebounded without cutting through
the chain links, and Daoud felt a jolt in his gauntleted hand.
_The sword is good, but so is the mail. I cannot cut it or stab through
it._
De Gobignon rushed him suddenly, swinging wildly, lips drawn back from
clenched teeth. Daoud danced away, a part of his mind pleased that he
could move so quickly when he had to, tired as he was. De Gobignon's
wild swings from side to side left his chest exposed. He was relying
entirely on his armor, Daoud saw, to protect him.
Daoud jabbed de Gobignon under the armpit, so hard that he felt the
flexible metal of his saif bend. Again the blade failed to penetrate the
tightly woven chain mail, but de Gobignon gave a gasp of pain and cut
his attack short. Daoud was gratified.
He glimpsed a familiar face in the circle of onlookers, a meaty,
weather-beaten face with a broken nose. Sordello. Had he been guarding
the Tartars on the field today?
De Gobignon attacked again, swinging his scimitar furiously at Daoud's
head. He ended the motion with his arm across his face. Daoud gripped
his own sword with both hands, and on de Gobignon's backswing raised it
over his head and brought it down with all his strength on the
Frenchman's wrist. The count's arm was moving into the blow, which gave
it even more force.
The scimitar flew from de Gobignon's hand. Daoud threw his body against
de Gobignon's and locked his foot behind his opponent's ankle. His long,
thin frame top-heavy in his mail, de Gobignon fell over backward. Daoud
stepped forward instantly. Groans and cries of horror were already going
up from the Frenchmen in the ring around them.
Daoud planted his leather-booted foot on de Gobignon's chest hard enough
to knock the wind out of him. He jabbed his saif straight at one of de
Gobignon's few vulnerable places, his right eye, stopping the point a
finger's breadth from the pupil.
Daoud and de Gobignon remained frozen that way.
_And now, O God, tell me: What will I do with him?_
A year ago he would have joyfully driven the point of the saif into
Simon de Gobignon's brain. Even now, he reminded himself that to kill de
Gobignon would relieve Islam of a most dangerous enemy. Daoud would have
won the battle for Manfred today, and Manfred would still be alive were
it not for de Gobignon's unexpected charge. For that alone, the young
count deserved to die.
De Gobignon lay motionless, his face full of anger and defiance.
_But what a waste. I will kill him, the other Franks will kill me, and
both of us will be dead. All loss. No gain._
The sun hurt his eyes. It was low in the west, almost touching the hills
that bounded the valley of Benevento.
_Even if I spare him, the Franks will not let me live. For what I have
been, for what I have done to them, they will burn me, as de Verceuil
said, or worse. Could I trade Simon's life for a decent death for
myself?_
He opened his mouth to speak.
A crushing blow to his chest jolted his body, throwing him back. He
heard the clang of metal punching through his chest armor. An instant
later a thunderbolt of pain struck just beneath his ribs and spread
through his body. He cried out in agony.
Somewhere nearby a woman's voice screamed.
He sank to his knees, dazed.
_What happened to me?_
He still had his sword in his hand. In his blurred vision he saw de
Gobignon, his mouth open in surprise, sitting up, crawling toward him.
Warningly, he raised his saif, but the terrible pain in the middle of
his body drained the strength from his hand, and the sword fell from his
fingers to the ground.
_God help me. I have been arrow-shot. I am going to die._
Fear worse than he had ever felt turned his body to ice. So total was
its power over him that the fear became a greater enemy than death
itself, and he gathered his forces to put it down. After a moment of
struggle, though he still quaked inwardly, he began to take command of
himself.
De Gobignon was looking down at him, and his face was full of shock and
grief.
Someone else was standing over him. He saw a pair of leather leggings
tucked into heavy boots, archer's dress. His head fell back, and he was
looking up at Sordello. The bravo squatted down, bringing his face close
to Daoud's.
"I am glad to see you still alive, Messer David," he said in a soft,
grating voice. "So I can tell you that this repays you for teaching me
about paradise."
The pain felt as if rats had burrowed into his chest and were eating
their way out. He wanted to scream, but he managed to smile.
"Thank you, Sordello. You are sending me to the true paradise."
There was justice in it. He had forced Sordello to undergo the
Hashishiyya initiation. He had always felt that an evil thing to do. Now
he was repaid. Just as Sordello said.
_But when I die, God will welcome me._
A hand clamped on Sordello's shoulder and jerked him away.
"You filthy, stinking, cowardly bastard! You killed the best man on this
field."
Daoud could not see Sordello, but he could picture the expression that
went with the injured tone.
"Your Signory! I save your life and you call me a bastard? The point of
his sword right at your eyeball?"
"He was not going to kill me. I could see it in his face."
There was a wild, almost frightened note in Sordello's laughter. "Can
Your Signory read men's thoughts? I warrant you, if you had till the Day
of Judgment, you could not guess what this archfiend is thinking. You
have no idea what he has done."
Daoud almost managed to laugh. The fool Sordello, as usual speaking and
acting before he thought. One word more, and he would indeed hang
himself.
"Tell the count, Sordello. Tell him what I have done."
_God, I will forgive You for making me suffer so, if You will let me see
Sordello's face just now._
And God granted Daoud's wish. Sordello crouched again over Daoud, his
color maroon, his bloodshot eyes popping. It was wonderful, and Daoud
breathed a prayer of thanks.
After a moment Sordello got control of himself enough to speak. "You
know what you have done. You killed the Tartars."
He straightened up. "Your Signory, do you not know that John and Philip
are dead? And it was this man's servant, Giancarlo, who shot them from
ambush with a crossbow on the battlefield. I shot this David of
Trebizond not only to save your life, but to avenge the Tartars."
"Killed?" De Gobignon turned away, beating his mailed fist against his
leg. "God, God, God! Two years I've kept them alive and Anjou _loses_
them!"
The count was silent for a long moment. His back remained turned, but
his shoulders heaved. He seemed to be sobbing. Daoud glanced at
Sordello, whose eyes glowed with triumphant hatred.
_So, Lorenzo finished the Tartars. At last. I pray only that it is not
too late._
He felt, not elation, but a quiet satisfaction. He thanked God for
letting him hear this news before he died.
"Did you get Giancarlo?" de Gobignon asked in a quiet, choked voice.
"No, Your Signory. The battle came between us."
Daoud thought, _Thank you, O God, for that_.
"Go away, Sordello," said de Gobignon in that same subdued tone. "Go
where I cannot see you. I will deal with you later."
"Your Signory, this man is capable of the most unbelievable treachery.
He will tell you monstrous lies. In the moments of life he has left to
him, God alone knows what evil he may do. I urge you, kill him at once.
It is the wisest thing. Here, here is my dagger. Cut his throat. Avenge
John and Philip--and yourself. Or, let me do it for you. Do not soil
your hands."
_He is terrified of what I might say about him._
In his dimming vision Daoud saw Sordello lunge at him, holding a long
dagger. Suddenly he vanished. A moment later Daoud heard a crash.
"I told you," de Gobignon said. "Get out of my sight."
For a short time Daoud could see no one. He heard movements and
murmurings around him. Then he felt a hand slide under his head and lift
it up. A fresh wave of pain swept through his body, shocking him with
its force. He thought he had already felt the worst. He cried aloud.
_Soma. In the hour when I need it most, I had almost forgotten it._
He pictured the mind-created drug collecting in his head and coursing in
a stream of glowing silver down his throat and branching out to all
parts of his body. Cooling, soothing. Building a wall around the place
down low on the right side of his chest where the crossbow bolt had
driven into him. A silver globe formed around the pain, and he was able
to think and speak. He felt that his head was lying on something soft.
Kneeling on his left side, de Gobignon said, "I am sorry I hurt you. I
folded my cloak and put it under you to try to make you more
comfortable."
"Thank you. I feel better now."
"Are you really a--Muslim? Can you talk, or is it too painful?"
"I can talk."
"I would be glad to know who and what you really are."
"And I will gladly tell you." Daoud began to feel death creeping through
his limbs. The pain was sealed off, but he sensed the lower cavities of
his body filling up with blood. The crossbow bolt should have gone right
through him, but the rear half of his breastplate must have stopped it.
Fear began to rise in him again. Fear, and a desolating sorrow. Never to
see Sophia again. Never to do even the simplest things, get up and walk,
see, breathe. It was more than he could bear.
He fought to find his balance.
_I cannot save myself from dying. But I can decide how I will use these
last moments of life._
He wanted to tell this man, who had been his greatest enemy all along,
how he had tricked him and how close he had come to thwarting their
grand design of an alliance of Christians and Tartars to destroy Islam.
It would make up, in a small way, for all today's defeats. For himself,
that was all he wanted now. Very soon now, he would go up to paradise.
But Sophia and Lorenzo, Ugolini and Tilia, would have to struggle on in
this world after he was gone. He must protect them.
"Tell me," Simon prompted.
"My father was the Sire Geoffrey Langmuir of Ascalon," he began. "My
mother was Lady Evelyn." He told de Gobignon of his capture by the army
of Egypt, his rearing as a Mameluke in a barracks on the Nile. He tried
to explain what a Mameluke was, and what code he lived by. He told of
his acceptance of Islam, his first battles.
As he spoke, his eyes wandered, and he saw the red sun half hidden by
the wooded western hills. He felt the air growing colder, and he
shivered. The chill was not in the air alone. His arms and legs were
numb, as if they were freezing.
"Give me your cloak, Valery," de Gobignon said, and in a moment a red
cloak was being spread over him.
"You were at Mansura, where my father fought," de Gobignon said.
"It was a great victory for Islam," said Daoud. "I saw only a little
fighting. I was very young." He told how Baibars had entrusted him with
more and more important tasks, even with the killing of Qutuz. And how
at last, having trained and shaped him over the years, Baibars sent him
against the powers of Europe.
"Cardinal Ugolini took a Muslim agent into his house? Introduced you to
the Holy Father? _The pope himself?_ By God's breath--"
He must be careful, and protect his onetime protector. And others. "It
was King Manfred who sent me to Ugolini." Daoud managed to laugh. "Do
you think poor Cardinal Ugolini would be mad enough to present me to the
pope if he had known that I was a Muslim--a Mameluke?"
"I suppose not," said the count. Daoud focused his wandering eyes on the
pale face with its sharp features that hovered over him. De Gobignon's
mouth was open, working. He was afraid of what Daoud might answer.
"And Sophia? How much did she know about you?"
"She knew nothing. She knows nothing even now. She was more useful to us
that way."
Sophia was probably still in Benevento, waiting for him. Charles's army
must be moving on Benevento to occupy it. There would be murder and rape
and looting there this night. If de Gobignon still believed in Sophia
and loved her, he would try to protect her.