"The man from Egypt? You had him killed?"
"I changed my mind," Manfred said.
She felt relief. She was surprised at herself. She had wanted the man to
live. She remembered her astonishment when, with a gesture like a
performing magician's, Manfred threw open the doors of his audience hall
and the entire court saw the blond man with his dagger at Celino's
throat.
She had been surprised when Manfred told her that this man, dressed in a
drab tunic and hose like a less-than-prosperous Italian merchant, was
the awaited Saracen from the Sultan of Egypt.
The sight of him as he passed through the audience hall had left her
momentarily breathless. He looked like one of those blond men of western
Europe the people of Constantinople called Franks and had learned to
hate at sight. His hair was not as light as Manfred's; it was darker,
more the color of brass than of gold. Manfred's lips were full and red,
but this man's mouth was a down-curving line, the mouth of a man who had
endured cruelty without complaint and could himself be cruel. She
wondered what he had seen and done.
As he had passed her, his eyes caught hers. Strange eyes, she could not
tell what color they were. There was a fixity in them akin to madness.
The face was expressionless, rocklike. This, she was sure, was no
ordinary man, to be disposed of as an inconvenience. She was not
surprised Manfred had decided to let him live.
"Why did you change your mind?"
"I think this Mameluke can help me," Manfred said. "Therefore I am going
to help him. He is going to Orvieto on a mission for his sultan. I am
sending Lorenzo with him."
"What did you call him?"
"A Mameluke. A slave warrior. The Turks who rule in Muslim lands take
very young boys as slaves and raise them in barracks to be soldiers.
They forget their parents and are trained with the utmost rigor. They
are said to be the finest warriors in the world."
_What does a life like that do to a man? It must either destroy him or
make him invincible._
"The man looks like a Frank," she said.
"He comes of English stock," said Manfred. "You Byzantines lump all of
us together, English and French and Germans, as Franks, do you not? So
you can call him a Frank if you like. But whatever he looks like, he is
a Turk at heart. I've learned that from talking to him. It's really
quite amazing."
They were plunged into deep shadow as the arched golden shape on the bed
curtain disappeared, a cloud having passed over the sun. Despite the
summer's heat she felt cold, and even though she did not trust Manfred
she reached for him, wanting him close.
But Manfred drew away from her, preoccupied. She pulled a crimson
cushion from behind him and hugged it against her breasts.
_How alone the Mameluke must feel. Even here, where Muslims are
tolerated, they have tried to kill him. And when he is in the pope's
territory, every man will be his enemy._
She remembered the harsh face with its prominent cheekbones and gray
eyes and thought, Perhaps being alone holds no terror for him.
_After all, I am alone, and I have made the best of it._
"What is his mission in Orvieto?" she asked.
She listened intently as Manfred told her a tale of trying to prevent
the great powers of East and West from joining together to crush Islam
between them.
Manfred continued, "David hopes to influence the pope's counselors to
turn against the Tartars, that they may sway the pope himself."
"How can one man attempt such a huge undertaking?"
"He brought me an exceedingly valuable stone, an emerald, which I will
trade for jewels he can carry to Orvieto and exchange for coins. It
pleases me greatly that the sultan would entrust me with such a gem.
That helped to change my mind about this David. The Saracens are men of
honor in their way." He smiled at her, looking pleased with the
situation and pleased with himself. But she was quiet, unmoving, waiting
for him to say the thing she feared to hear.
"But you are right," Manfred went on. "He cannot do it alone."
Warm yellow light once more filled their curtained cubicle. The cloud
had passed away from the sun. But her heart froze.
"I have decided I must entrust my own most precious jewel to David." He
put his hand on hers.
_Oh, no!_ she thought, anguish tearing at her heart as his words
confirmed her guess. She felt a terrible pain, as if he had run her
through with a spear. She wanted to clutch at him, hold him in spite of
himself. She had not felt so lost since her mother and father and the
boy she loved were killed by the Franks.
She studied his face to memorize it, because soon she would leave him
and probably never see him again. It would do her no good to let him see
how she felt. She must decide what face to show him.
_I am a woman of Constantinople, alone in a country of strangers. And we
are an ancient people, wise and subtle, and we bide our time._
She sat up in the bed, hugging her knees, thinking.
"How will my going with him help you?"
He grunted softly, and she looked at him. He appeared relieved. She was
making it easy for him. She felt the beginning of dislike for him
stirring within her.
"I thought you would be perfect for this. And you are."
His words puzzled her, and she almost let her growing anger show. "I do
not see what you see, Sire."
"We are in bed. You may call me Manfred."
_But I do not want to call you Manfred._
"What is it you think I would be so good at?"
"You can mask your feelings," he said with a smile. "You are doing it
now. You are very good at it."
"Thank you, Sire."
He shook his head, sat up beside her, and put an arm around her
shoulders. "I meant it when I said you are precious to me. But you must
go with this man. I cannot tell you all my reasons, but it is for your
own safety as well."
No doubt he was being honest with her, though he was not telling her
everything. Just the other day one of Manfred's servants, whom she had
cultivated with gifts, warned her that Manfred's queen, Helene of
Cyprus, was demanding that Manfred break with Sophia. Of course, Manfred
would never be willing to admit that his wife could force him to do such
a thing.
She wanted to get off by herself and think this out, and cry, let tears
release some of the pain she felt. This curtained bed confined her like
a dungeon cell. She found her white shift amid the rumpled bedclothes.
Getting up on her knees, she raised the shift over her head and
struggled into it.
"Where are you going?" Manfred asked.
She crawled around the bed to look for her gown and her belt. "I have
arrangements to make. Packing to do."
"I have not dismissed you," he said a bit sullenly.
"Yes, you have," she said, deliberately making her voice so low that it
would be hard for him to hear.
"You have not heard everything." He took her arm. She wanted to pull
away, but she let him hold her.
"I need your help," he went on. "You see, if David fails, in a year or
two I may be dead."
He let go of her. She picked up the blue gown she had so eagerly thrown
off an hour ago. Her fingers crushed the silk. She wanted to be alone,
but she needed to learn more. She paused, kneeling beside him.
"God forbid, Sire! Why should you be dead?"
"This time the pope is offering my crown to the French."
Sitting down, laying the gown in her lap, she sighed and turned all her
attention to him.
"Why can you not make peace with the pope? Why is he so determined to
dethrone you?"
"Like all storied feuds, it goes back so far that no one can remember
what started it," said Manfred, smiling with his lips but not his eyes.
"At present the pope refuses to recognize me because my father promised
to give up the crown of Sicily."
He paused a moment, and fixed her with a strangely intent stare. "And
because my father did not marry my mother. Even though he loved her
only, and never loved any of his three empresses."
_He is trying to tell me something_, Sophia thought.
But before she could reply, he went on with his tale of the
Hohenstaufens and the popes. "As the popes see it, to have a
Hohenstaufen ruling southern Italy and Sicily is like having a knife at
their throats. This pope, Urban, is a Frenchman, and he is trying to get
the French to help him drive us out."
The French. It was the French who, over fifty years ago, had stormed
Constantinople, looted it, and ruled over it until driven out by Michael
Paleologos.
And now the French threatened Manfred.
From his island of Sicily, how easy to launch another invasion of
Constantinople.
In memory she saw Alexis, the boy she loved, fall as the French crossbow
bolt hit him. She heard him cry out to her.
_Go, Sophia, go!_
_Why was I saved that night if not that I might help to stop the French
from conquering Constantinople again?_
"I cannot send an army to Orvieto to stop the pope's intrigues against
me," Manfred said. "That would turn all Christendom against me. But I
can send my two best people, my brave and clever Lorenzo and my
beautiful and clever Sophia. Together with David, you two perhaps can
turn my enemies against each other. You may be gone six months or a
year. And afterward you can come back."
He did not take his eyes from hers as he said it, but there was a
flickering in their depths that told her he was not being honest with
her.
"When will I meet this--Mameluke?"
"Tomorrow we go falconing. The forest is a good place to talk freely."
He paused and grinned at her. "But do not dress just yet. This may be my
last chance to enjoy your lovely body."
She looked away. She felt no desire for him. She was sick of being
enjoyed.
"Forgive me, Sire, I have much to do," she said. Before he could object,
she had slipped through the curtains around the bed and was pulling her
blue gown over her head. She had left half her clothes behind with
Manfred, but that did not matter. Her own quarters were near, and later
she could send a servant for her things.
As she hurried out the door, she pretended not to hear Manfred's angry
cry, muffled by the bed's thick curtains.
* * * * *
Sophia wrapped in white linen the satin mantle in which she had been
presented at Manfred's court. She laid it in her traveling chest, then
brought her jewel box from the table on which it had stood since she'd
arrived here, and laid it on the mantle.
Manfred would gladly have ordered servants to do this packing for her,
but it was easier to preserve her privacy when she did for herself.
She looked down at the polished ebony box with the double-headed eagle
of Constantinople in mother-of-pearl inlay. A gift from the Basileus
when he sent her to Sicily. The eagle of Constantinople, tradition said,
was the inspiration for the two-headed Hohenstaufen eagle.
She folded a green woolen tunic and laid it over the jewel box. As she
stood with her hands pressed on the tunic, sorrow welled up within her.
_Was there ever a woman more alone in the world than I am?_
In one night made hideous by the flames of the burning city and the
screams of the dying, she had lost her father, Demetrios Karaiannides,
the silversmith, and her mother, Danuta, and her two sisters, Euphemia
and Eirene. The people of the Polis had risen against the Franks, and
the Franks had retaliated by killing everyone they could lay hands upon.
The boy she was going to marry, the boy she loved, had fled with her to
the Marmara waterfront. There they found a small boat, and then the
crossbow bolt had torn through his back. Dying, he cast her adrift.
_Go, Sophia, go!_
From then on she was alone.
_What am I? What is a woman alone?_
Not a queen or an empress, not a wife or a mother, not a daughter, not a
nun. Not mistress, now that Michael and Manfred had each sent her away.
Not courtesan or even harlot.
Crossing the Bosporus to Asia Minor, she had survived. She did not care
to remember the means by which she survived. Of all of them, the least
dishonorable was theft.
She let herself be used, and she could be very useful. She found her way
to the Byzantine general Michael Paleologos, who wanted to take
Constantinople back from the Franks.
Her help had been important to Michael, and he had rewarded her after he
reconquered the Polis and made himself its Basileus by keeping her as
his favorite for a time. And she had rejoiced to see Constantinople
liberated from the barbarians, even though no one she loved was left
alive in it.
Then Michael had made her leave the one place she loved, sending her to
Manfred in Italy.
And now, just when she had begun to lose the feeling of not belonging
anywhere, just when she felt she had found safe harbor with Manfred, she
was cut loose again.
She felt the tears coming, and fought them. She turned her mind away
from the questions that plagued her and thought about her packing.
_Saint Simon should go into the chest next._
In the center, where clothing above and below would protect him.
She went to the table by the window, where the small icon stood between
two candles in tall brass candlesticks. She picked up the saint and
reverently kissed his forehead, then held the icon out at arm's length
to look at it. The eyes dominated the portrait, transfixing her with a
blue stare.
She had painted it herself a few years before, copying another, larger
icon that belonged to the Basileus Michael. Simon's cheeks were hollow,
his mouth a tight line, his chin sharp. His hair hung brown and lank to
his shoulders, framing his face.
She had used real gold dust in the paint for the halo. Michael was
generous to her, and he laughed when she told him that she spent some of
the money he gave her on expensive paint for an icon. The idea of a
woman who painted amused him, like the bear that danced in the
Hippodrome.
Beyond the gold of the halo was the ocher of the desert and, standing
lonely over the saint's right shoulder, the pillar on which he had lived
in penance for fifteen years, the pillar that had given him his
name--Simon Stylites.
_Why do I reverence this saint? Because he knew how to endure alone, and
that is what is most important._
_Rest well, dear saint_, she prayed as she lowered the icon into the
cedar chest. She closed the gilded wooden doors that protected the
painting, breaking the grip of Simon's staring blue eyes.
She next opened a small box of dark, polished wood, its lid inlaid with
bits of mother-of-pearl forming a bird with swirling wings. A dozen
small porcelain jars lay in velvet-lined recesses shaped to hold them.
Each jar was ornamented with the same floral pattern in a different
color, each color that of the powdered pigment the tightly corked jar
contained. Take a pinch of the powder, add water and the clear liquid
from a raw egg, and you had a jewel-bright paint. Wrapped in linen at
one end of the box were her quill pens, brushes, and charcoal sticks.
As always, the sight of her materials made her want to stop what she was
doing and paint. She closed the lid gently, stroking its cover,
remembering the merchant from Soldaia in the Crimea who had sold her the
box outside the Church of Saint John in Stoudion, telling her it came
from a land far to the east called Cathay.
_The Cathayans must be as civilized as we are to make such a thing_, she
thought as she put the box in her chest.
This blond Saracen--this Mameluke--whom she had seen briefly and would
meet again tomorrow, would not be a civilized man. He was both Turk and
Frank--barbarity coupled with barbarity.
"Kriste eleison!" she whispered. "Christ have mercy." Until this moment
she had been able to stave off her fear of the danger she was going
into. Now it struck her full force, leaving her paralyzed over her
traveling chest, her trembling hand still resting on her box of paints
as if it were a talisman that could protect her.
She was going among the worst enemies her people had on earth, more to
be feared than the Saracens--the Latin Christians of the West. The floor
seemed to shake under her, and her body went cold and then hot as she
thought of what she must face. If they found out that she was a woman of
Constantinople, they would tear the flesh from her bones.
_A woman of Constantinople helping a Saracen to plot against the pope!_
Fear was like a cold, black ocean, and she was drowning in it. She dared
not even let herself imagine the horrors, the torments that would end
her life if those people in Orvieto found her out.
She did not have to go through with it. Once she and Lorenzo and this
David--this Mameluke--were on the road, she could slip away. Manfred had
said they would be carrying jewels. Perhaps she could take some, use
them to buy passage for herself.
_Passage to where?_
There was no place in the world she belonged but Constantinople. And her
place in the Polis was dependent on the basileus, Michael. If she
angered Manfred, she could not dare go back to Michael.
To be forever exiled from Constantinople would be a living death.
In her mind she saw the Polis, glowing golden at the edge of the sea.
She saw the great gray walls that had protected Constantinople against
barbarian invaders from East and West for a thousand years. She saw the
gorgeous pink marble of the Blachernae Palace of the Basileus, the
statue of Justinian astride his horse, his hand raised toward the East,
the great dome of Hagia Sophia, her namesake saint, that seemed to float
over the city, held in place by an army of angels. She heard the roar of
the crowd watching chariots race in the Hippodrome and the cries of the
merchants from their shops along the arcaded Mese. The Polis was the hub
of the world, the fulfillment of all desires.
The vision sent strength and purpose surging through her body, and she
straightened up, took her hand from the paint box, and began moving
around the room again, collecting her possessions.
She would go with Lorenzo and the Mameluke and do, as she had always
done, whatever was necessary. She would see this thing through. With the
help of God, she might prevail.
_And after that?_
What future for a woman as alone as Sophia Karaiannides?
She shrugged. Time enough to think about the future after she had been
to Orvieto and lived through it.
Of one thing she was already sure. She would not come back to Manfred.
She went back to her table. From a reading stand at its side she picked
up her leather-bound book of parchment sheets and opened it to a page
marked by a ribbon. She studied the portrait of Manfred she had begun
only two days before. Most of it was still rough charcoal strokes, but
she had colored his beard in a mixture of yellow and white paints,
because it was the most important color and she wanted to get it down
first so it could control her choice of the other colors. The eyes would
be last, because when she painted in the eyes the picture would, in a
sense, come to life.
Even with the eyes blank the portrait seemed to smile at her, and she
felt a ripple of remembered pleasure. Grief followed almost at once.
_Shall I try to finish this tonight and give it to him as a parting
gift?_
After a moment's thought her fingers clawed at the parchment and tore it
free of the stitches that held it in the book. She rolled it up and held
an end to a candle flame.
V
Keeping his face severe, Simon de Gobignon walked slowly past the six
knights lined up on the wharf. The men's faces were scarlet and
glistening with sweat under their conical steel helmets. Simon felt
rivulets running down his own back, under his padded cotton undershirt,
mail hauberk, and surcoat.
Gulls screamed overhead, and the smell of the salt sea and of rotting
fish hung heavy in the warm air.
Venice in July, Simon thought, was no place to be dressed in full battle
gear.
The two banners held by men-at-arms at the end of the line hung limply:
the royal standard of France, gold fleurs-de-lis on an azure ground, and
that of Gobignon, gold crowns on purple.
Simon reproached himself. He had brought his company down to the
waterfront too early, as soon as he had word that the galley bearing the
Tartar ambassadors from Cyprus was in the harbor. It was there, sure
enough; he could see it, a long, dark shape a few hundred feet from
shore. But it rode at anchor while officials of the Most Serene Republic
inspected it for diseases and registered its cargo, a task that had
already taken hours while Simon and his men sweltered onshore.
Behind the knights stood a lance of archers, forty men in four rows.
They were talking and laughing among themselves in the Venetian dialect,
which Simon could barely understand. While growing up he had learned the
speech of Sicily, but that was nearly a different language.
The crossbowmen should not be chattering, Simon thought. It was
unmilitary. Besides, it irritated him and added to the tension of this
endless waiting.
He took a step back and shouted, "Silencio!" The archers looked up, and
he saw more surprise and annoyance than respect in their faces. Some
eyed him expectantly, as if they thought him about to make a speech. He
glared at the archers for what he felt was a suitable interval, then
turned away and walked out to the edge of the jetty, his thumbs hooked
in his sword belt. He ignored the muttering that arose the moment he
turned his back.
"Scusi, Your Signory," said a rasping voice at his elbow. Simon turned.
Andrea Sordello, capitano of the archers, smiled broadly at him,
revealing a gap where one of his eye teeth should have been. The bridge
of his nose was smashed flat.
"What is it, Sordello?" The capitano had met him in Venice with a letter
of recommendation from Count Charles d'Anjou, brother of King Louis of
France, but a not-quite-hidden insolence in the manner of this bravo
made Simon uneasy.
"If Your Signory wishes to command the crossbowmen, perhaps it would be
better to transmit your orders through me. The men do not understand why
you silenced them just now. They are not used to being told to stand
like statues for no reason."
_And you would like to make yourself popular with them by disputing my
order, would you not?_
"Tell them they have entered the service of the kingdom of France," he
told Sordello. "It is customary for French soldiers to maintain a
military bearing and discipline."
"Forgive me, Your Signory, but that may offend them."
"It is not my duty to tell them what they want to hear but what they
_must_ hear," said Simon. _Rather well put_, he thought to himself.
"Sì, Your Signory." Sordello walked away. He had a slight limp, Simon
noticed. The man had certainly been battered. Even so, Uncle Charles's
letter said he was a fine troubadour. Or trovatore, as they called them
in Italy.
"Monseigneur!" A shout broke in on his thoughts. Alain de Pirenne, his
closest friend among the six Gobignon knights he had brought with him,
was pointing out at the harbor. The two rows of oars on either side of
the long-delayed galley were in motion. Even at this distance Simon
could hear the drumbeat and the overseer calling count. Simon had heard
songs comparing the oars of galleys to the wings of birds, and he could
see the resemblance as the rows of oars, looking delicate as feathers
from this distance, rose and fell over the water in unison.
"Thank heaven," said Simon.
"Indeed," said Alain. "I am starting to feel more like a baked pigeon
than a man."
As the galley swung in to the wharf, ropes flying through the air to
make her fast to shore, Simon heard a sudden outcry behind him and
jerked his head around.
"Make way for the most serene! Make way for the doge!" runners shouted.
Musicians blowing oliphants, cranking hurdy-gurdies, and pounding on
drums led a bright procession along the wharves. Two men in knee-length
scarlet tunics stiff with gold braid held poles between which swung a
huge banner. On the banner a winged lion in gold strode across a green
background. Simon saw rows of gleaming helmets and naked swords held
upright, followed by ranks of men in glittering brocaded robes, emerald
and silver, maroon and gold. Towering over all was a huge sedan chair
with a gilded roof and cloth of gold curtains, followed by a troop of
men with tall spears. A crowd of men and women in bright silk tunics and
satin gowns, laughing and chattering, brought up the rear.
A man in an ankle-length gown, his cap heavy with gold thread,
confronted Simon. He was, Simon recalled, a camerlengo who had been
present two weeks before when he had his brief audience with the doge
and presented his charter from King Louis.
"Count, your troops are occupying the place needed by the doge, that he
may properly greet our guests. Move them, if you please." The "if you
please" was uttered in a tone so perfunctory as to be almost insulting.
Simon's face burned and his muscles tensed, but when the ruler of Venice
demanded that he give way, he was in no position to quarrel. He bowed
curtly and turned to order his men to vacate the wharf.
And so, after waiting for hours, Simon suddenly found himself watching
the arrival of the ambassadors from behind ranks of Venetian archers far
more smartly turned out than his own mercenaries.
Why, Simon wondered, had the doge not made a place for him in this
welcoming ceremony? The slight made him feel angry at himself as much as
at the doge.
_It is me. Uncle Charles should have sent an older man, more able to
command respect._
First to come down the boarding ramp of the galley from Cyprus was a
friar in a brown robe with a white cord wrapped around his waist. The
crown of his scalp was shaved, and his beard was long and white. He
threw himself on the ground and kissed it with a loud smacking sound. He
rose and bowed to the doge's sedan chair.
The doge of Venice, Rainerio Zeno, emerged through curtains held for him
by two equerries in purple. Zeno was a very old, toothless man whose
black eyes glittered like a raven's. His bald head was covered by a
white cap bordered with pearls. His gold-embroidered mantle looked stiff
and hard as the shell of a beetle. Pages stood on either side of him,
and he leaned heavily on their shoulders, using them as crutches. The
friar bent and kissed Zeno's ring.
Simon could not hear what the doge and the friar said to each other. The
friar gestured toward the ship. Armed men--Simon counted ten of
them--tramped down the boarding ramp and formed two lines leading to the
doge. They were short and swarthy, wearing red and black breastplates of
lacquered leather and round steel helmets polished to a dazzling finish,
topped with spikes. Bows were slung crosswise over their shoulders, and
long, curved swords hung from their belts. Were these Tartars, he
wondered.
Their swords looked very much like the one Simon wore. Simon's was an
Egyptian scimitar, one of his most precious possessions, not because of
its jeweled hilt--a pearl set just behind the guard, a ruby at the end
of the hilt, and a row of smaller precious stones all along the
grip--but because of the one who had given it to him. And yet, much as
he prized it, the scimitar hurt him each time he looked at it, reminding
him of his darkest secret, a secret known to only three living people.
Simon's whole life, the scimitar reminded him, was built on a lie.
And he had accepted this mission, in part, to expiate the shame he felt
when he remembered that.
Now Simon, feeling very much out of his depth, touched the hilt of his
scimitar for reassurance. But as he recalled that the sword had once
belonged to a Saracen ruler, his heart leapt in fear.
_One never knows when or how the Saracens may strike_, Count Charles
d'Anjou--Uncle Charles--had warned him. _The arrow from ambush ... the
dagger that cuts the throat of a sleeping victim ... poison. When they
cannot kill they try to corrupt, with gold and lies. And they have
allies in Italy--the Pope's enemy, Manfred von Hohenstaufen, and his
supporters, the Ghibellini. You must be on guard every moment._
Simon's eyes swept the row of stone palaces that overlooked this part of
the waterfront, their battlements offering hundreds of fine hiding
places for killers. An enemy had only to gain surreptitious entrance to
one of those great houses--not hard to do when everyone's attention was
turned toward the galley bringing the Tartars.
_What should I do? The doge's men-at-arms outnumber mine, and look to be
better soldiers. And it seems the Tartars have brought their own
warriors. Perhaps I am not needed now._
The thought brought him momentary relief. But then Simon realized that
he was yielding to the temptation that had assailed him throughout his
life, the urge to conceal himself.
_But did I not undertake this task to uphold my family's good name and
my right to bear it? And besides, it is not only my dignity that must be
upheld here, but the honor of King Louis. If anything happens to the
Tartars now that they are on Christian soil, I will have failed my
king._
Simon was about to push forward to demand room for his men when the
friar who had just disembarked raised his arm. Simon's gaze followed the
direction of the gesture, and came to rest at the head of the boarding
ramp.
There stood two of the strangest-looking men Simon had ever seen. Their
faces were the deep brown of well-tanned leather. The eyebrows were
little black banners flying above black, slitted eyes that peered out
over the battlements of jutting cheekbones. Their mustaches were thin
and hung down in long strands below small chins adorned with sparse
beards. One man's beard was white, the other's black. But even the
black-bearded man was not young; there were deep creases in his face.
Both men wore cylindrical caps, each topped with a polished, spherical
red stone. Their ankle-length robes were of maroon silk, brocaded with
gold thread, and they wore short jackets with flowing sleeves. From the
neck of each man hung a rectangular tablet on a gold chain.
Simon's wonder turned to fear as he realized what perfect targets the
Tartar ambassadors were making of themselves.
He threw his weight against the men and women in front of him, forcing
his way through the crowd--and found himself facing one of the doge's
archers. The man raised his crossbow threateningly, but Simon saw
immediately that it was not loaded. Fine protection for the emissaries.
"De Pirenne! De Puys!" Simon called to the two French knights nearest
him. "Follow me." He turned back to the Venetian crossbowman and
shouted, "Stand aside!" in his loudest voice. "I am the Count de
Gobignon."
As he had hoped, the sound of his command carried to Doge Zeno, whose
face, wrinkled as a yellow raisin, turned in Simon's direction.
"Serenity!" Simon called, using the customary form of address for the
doge. "It is my duty to guard these ambassadors."
Sordello, at Simon's elbow, said in a low voice, "You are a great lord
in your own land, Your Signory, but it would be best if you did not
arouse the wrath of the doge of Venice."
"Be still," Simon snapped.
Helmeted archers moved in on Simon from all sides, but Simon saw the
doge give an abrupt hand signal to their capitano. At a shouted order
from the capitano, the men-at-arms fell back, letting Simon through.
"Why do you disturb our ceremonies, young count?" The doge's voice was a
hoarse whisper. He smiled faintly, but his eyes were cold as winter.
Simon felt painfully embarrassed. The ruler of the mightiest city on the
Middle Sea was, after all, as puissant as any king on earth.
Simon fell to one knee before the doge. "Forgive me, Serenity. I only
wish to aid you in protecting the emissaries from Tartary, as my king
has commanded me." His knees trembled, and he felt as if his heart were
hammering hard enough to break his ribs.
The smile faded and the aged eyes grew icier. "Does the Frankish count
think Venice too feeble to protect her distinguished visitors?"
"Not at all, Serenity," said Simon hastily. "Only let me add my strength
to yours."
"Say no more," said the doge in a voice as sharp as a dagger.
By now the two Tartars had descended the ramp and were standing before
the doge. For a moment Simon's eyes met those of the white-bearded
Tartar, and he felt a new, inexplicable, and powerful fear. He took a
step backward, almost as if he had been struck a physical blow, and he
gripped his sword hilt for reassurance.
The Tartar turned his gaze to the doge, and Simon's fear faded, leaving
him to wonder what there was in this little brown-skinned man to inspire
it. What he had seen in those eyes? A hardness, a gaze as empty of
concern for Simon de Gobignon as the cloudless blue sky overhead.
The friar said, "Serenity, this is John Chagan Noyon," indicating the
older Tartar. "A noyon among the Tartars is equal in rank to a prince in
our lands. The Khan Hulagu sends you a prince to show how earnestly he
wishes to ally himself with Christendom to destroy our mutual enemies,
the Muslims. This other gentleman is Philip Uzbek Baghadur. 'Baghadur'
means valiant, and he is a tuman-bashi, a commander of ten thousand. He
holds high place in the councils of Hulagu Khan." Each Tartar clasped
his hands before him and bowed low to the doge as his name was spoken.
"How is it that they have Christian names?" asked the doge.
The Franciscan friar smiled. "John Chagan comes of an old Christian
family, formerly subject to the great Christian King of Asia, Prester
John. And Philip Uzbek was baptized in his youth by the Bishop of
Karakorum."
The doge waved his bony hands, making his heavy garments rustle.
"Christian Tartars! Prester John! The Bishop of _Karakorum_? This is too
much for an old man to grasp all at once. But surely I can learn much
from you and these noble gentlemen that will be good for Venice. Tell
them that I invite them to bear me company to my palace, where we will
dine together tonight and I will learn more of the marvels of the empire
of Tartary."
Simon knew that the doge's palace was more than half a mile down the
avenue along this bank of the Grand Canal, and the prospect of the
ambassadors parading that distance alarmed him again. His fear of
disaster came back full force, driving him once again, against all
courtesy, to speak out.
"Serenity! I beg the privilege of joining forces with you to escort the
ambassadors to your palace."
Anger blazed in the gaze the doge turned upon him this time. "Young man,
if you speak out of turn once more, I will have you thrown into the
canal."
Simon had no doubt that the doge would enjoy making good on his threat.
But would the ruler of Venice allow an undignified scuffle on the
waterfront in the presence of two ambassadors? Simon doubted it, and
decided to stand his ground.
"Forgive me, Serenity," he said, inclining his head. "It is my concern
for these precious lives that urges me to speak out."
The doge took a deep breath. Then his small mouth twitched in a smile.
"Very well, Count. You may follow after us."
While the doge presented the assembled Venetian dignitaries to the
Tartars, Simon ordered Henri de Puys and Alain de Pirenne to draw up the
knights and Sordello to form up the archers and be ready to follow the
ambassadors' train.
Bearers brought a sedan chair for the Tartars, who climbed into it with
bows and smiles. To Simon's distress, the conveyance was open, naturally
enough, since the Tartars would want to see Venice and the Venetians
would want to see them. But it meant still more danger.
The Franciscan friar came over and put his hand on Simon's arm. "You are
very brave, young man, to speak up to the ruler of Venice as you did.
And who might you be?"
Simon introduced himself, and the friar bowed and addressed him in
French. "How good to speak the language of my homeland again. I am
Mathieu d'Alcon of the Little Brothers of San Francesco, and I was born
near Limoges, which is not far from your estate, Count. Of course, no
place in France is far from Gobignon lands." His broad smile told Simon
the remark was meant in friendly jest. "It was our good King Louis who
sent me to the Tartars years ago. I am glad we will be in French hands
after we leave Venice." He gave Simon's arm a squeeze and returned to
the doge's procession.
Simon had begun to think the whole world had turned against him, and
Friar Mathieu's friendly words cheered him immensely. He watched the
white-bearded friar with a warm feeling as he shook his head at the
attendants who held a sedan chair for him. As befitted a good
Franciscan, sworn to poverty and dedicated to simplicity, the friar
would allow no one to carry him but insisted on walking on his own
sandaled feet behind the Tartars' chair.
Simon and his men followed the last contingent of the doge's foot
soldiers along the waterfront. Ahead, a stone bridge arched over one of
the many Venetian canals.
The procession was moving slowly now. After crossing the bridge, Simon
saw the ambassadors' sedan chair swing around a corner, and his pulse
quickened because those he was to protect were out of his sight.
He wanted to hurry to the corner, but the street narrowed here, with the
windowless white ground floor of a palazzo on one side and an iron
railing on the other. There was no room to bypass those ahead. Simon
hurried his pace until he was all but treading on the leather-shod heels
of the spearman in front of him.
He turned the corner into the small square in front of the doge's
palace. He saw the doge's sedan chair and that of the Tartars pass
through the gateway between the palace and the great basilica of San
Marco.
Then he stopped short, feeling as if he had crashed headfirst into a
wall. The tall gates leading into the palace swung shut, and facing him
was a triple line of men-at-arms of the Most Serene Republic, in green
and gold tunics and armed with long spears.
"Mère de Dieu!" he whispered.
He could not force his way into the palace. If he even tried, he would
only look ridiculous. Indeed, he doubted that his men would fight. The
ill-disciplined mercenaries were Venetians, too, and why would they obey
the command of a French seigneur, who had hired them only yesterday, to
fight their own countrymen?
"It appears we are not welcome at the palace, Your Signory," said a
voice at his side. Simon turned and glared at Sordello, whose
weather-beaten face seemed to mask amusement.
Simon tried to think of a way to rescue his dignity. "Find the leader of
the palace guards and tell him I want to speak to him."